by John Creasey
“Soon, now,” muttered Corinne, glancing covertly about her. “But we are being watched, m’sieu. I am afraid . . .”
“What of?” asked Timothy.
“A knife in the back,” said Corinne simply.
Then, for the first time, Timothy Arran showed her the small automatic he was holding in his right hand. It glinted blue-grey beneath the dim light of a wall-lamp, and the dancer gave a little exclamation of surprise.
“But, m’sieu! You expected trouble?”
“I always expect trouble,” said Timothy.
Certainly he was expecting it that night. The darkness was unnerving, each corner offered the possibility of sudden attack. Those few prowlers whom they had seen had disappeared. Only the quick tap-tap-tap of Corinne’s small feet and his own more deliberate footsteps broke the silence of that dangerous corner of Montmartre—a silence which seemed pregnant. The misty light from occasional wall-lamps—in those back streets there were no lamp standards—heightened the gloom rather than increased it. Shadows loomed in front, behind and all about them, vague shadows and unnerving. Timothy guessed that they had made a long detour from the cabaret house to reach the Hôtel Divante, and he sensed that Corinne was trying to shake off pursuers, who might or might not be figments of her imagination. That the dancer was afraid Timothy was a hundred per cent. sure.
The attack came out of the blue!
They turned another corner, and they were hardly round it when something glinted in front of them, silvery-white. Timothy saw it when it was a yard in front of his eyes. He ducked instinctively. The knife whistled over his head and clattered against the wall behind him. A second followed it, tearing through his loose-fitting coat as it went. Corinne stood dead still, her face livid with fear. Timothy flung his left arm round her waist and lifted her bodily round the corner, out of the range of knives, which might come again at any moment.
“Where’s this place we’re after?” he demanded. “Are we near it?”
“It is in that street, m’sieu.” Corinne’s voice was quivering with fright. “The house with the red sign.”
“Fine!” said Timothy. “Get back, Corinne, and go to the Hôtel Royale. Tell them M’sieu Timson sent you and that you are to wait for him. Can you do that?”
“Mais oui, m’sieu. But what of you?”
“I can look after myself,” said Timothy. “These bright boys won’t worry about you; they’ll stick to me. Allons, ma chèrie! I’ll be seeing you!”
He saw Corinne slip away from him, wraith-like, and he was glad, for there were some jobs made only for man, and he was very anxious that Corinne should be safe. He told himself that she would be all right, and made himself believe it. Then he stepped gingerly round the corner, automatic in hand.
The third knife came as he loomed into sight. The ambush had been cleverly placed, for there was a lamp of unusual brilliance at the corner of the street in which the Hôtel Divante was situated. It was impossible to enter the street without offering himself as a target. He swung his body on one side and the knife flashed past his head. As it clanged against the wall, he tightened his finger on the trigger of his gun. A stab of flame shot out, and there came the soft zutt! of a silencer; as the bullet winged down the street, Timothy tucked his head down and ran after it, his right hand close to his side.
His trick worked. The knowledge that their quarry had a gun and was not afraid to use it created panic in the minds of the two men who were attacking him. Timothy saw their shadows as they moved from the porch which had sheltered them. He fired to the right of the shadows, and a sudden colourful curse split the near-silence. He fired again, as a fourth knife came. The knife took him in the left shoulder, nicking the skin, but doing no real damage. It was the last throw. The Paris apache had courage of a sort, but not the sort to stand against a madman with a gun. Timothy heard the scuttling of their feet as they ran, and he sent a high-pitched, almost hysterical laugh after them. It added wings to their feet.
Timothy Arran felt relief, as if a heavy load had been taken from his chest. The tenseness of the past hour dropped away. He felt exhilarated as he hurried down the street, his eyes open for the house with the red sign—the Hôtel Divante.
As he went, he reasoned. Obviously he had been followed to Paris, and his movements had been watched closely. The reason for his disappearance from the Côte d’Or with Corinne had been guessed, and he had been followed by the brace of apaches, who had taken a short cut to the house with the red sign and had waited for him. His trailers, he reasoned with sound sense, had been employed by the same gentry as had twice tried to kill Tony Beresford, and had been chosen because a knife crime in that corner of Paris was not likely to be connected with anything but a robbery motive.
Timothy shivered suddenly. It occurred to him that the knives might easily have been bullets, and bullets travelled at a speed which could not be dodged unless one knew they were on the way. And just as Beresford had come suddenly to the conclusion that the game which had started was very much above the ordinary level, so did Timothy Arran. He realized, too, that he had made a long step forward. The Lavering mystery was connected with the Auveley Street crimes. To think otherwise was to carry the long arm of coincidence too far.
The street was a long one and wider than most through which he had crept with Corinne. Timothy turned with a bend in the road, and saw, a hundred yards in front of him, a stone balustrade and three ornate street lamps. Beyond, he could see the lights of Paris shimmering on the waters of the Seine. That meant he was away from Montmartre now, or at its boundary.
The house with the red sign was on his right, fifty yards from the boulevard and the river. It was poorly lit, but an electric sign proclaimed ‘Hôtel Divante’.
It was then that Timothy had a brain-wave. To go alone into the hotel might cause complications and create unwanted danger. He did not know how powerful the apache gang which had attacked him was in Paris, but he knew that some of the gangs rivalled the Chicago racketeers. Now that he had his bearings, he could find the hotel easily, and reach it by keeping to the main roads, or the boulevards, where the danger of attack was small. And he remembered that Corinne had said, “M’sieu Lavering is sick.”
That might have meant anything, from a knife wound to a bucket of poison, but it showed Timothy Arran a light. What more natural than he should call on his friend with a doctor? And what better doctor than a Sûreté official, several of whom Timothy numbered among his acquaintances? Beresford had said ‘no police’, but he could not have anticipated this urgent development.
Timothy saw a late cab crawling along the boulevard, and whistled it. As he jumped into it, he gave the address of the Sûreté, and the words, “Vitement! Vitement!”
He reached the Sûreté in quick time, and discovered the address of a M’sieu Picot, who in the past had been helped considerably by Timothy as a member of Department Z. Picot, night-shirted and capped, welcomed him effusively. Was there something he could do for le bon Timothee?
Timothy explained, quickly, that a friend had become mixed up in an apache brawl, a friend who wanted no scandal. He was at the Hôtel Divante, sick and ailing, and Timothy had experienced difficulty in seeing his friend. With the presence of Picot, however, everything would be smoothed out.
Picot flushed at the compliment, and promised to breathe no word of the affair officially. He dressed himself in a uniform and made, Timothy admitted, a fine figure of a man, full-chested, well-preserved, his red face creased with smiles of self-importance, his little beard and moustache perfectly trimmed. The uniform was not connected with the police, for Picot was the French equivalent of a divisional-surgeon. But the uniform was impressive, and every Frenchman liked to look his best.
But Picot’s complacency was rudely disturbed when he saw Bob Lavering—a white-faced, unshaven wreck of a man weak with pain. Timothy Arran could hardly recognize him as the spruce young American who had been in London less than a week ago.
“But this is an out
rage!” expostulated Picot, after a lengthy examination. “This is a crime, a wicked crime! Your friend is being poisoned, m’sieu, with what you call—er—arsenic, hein?”
CHAPTER VII
AND A MURDER IN PARIS
IT was just after one o’clock when Tony Beresford reached the Paris airfield, and it was half past four when he managed to get away. His forbearance where many a man would have raved, shouted or made a break impressed the Customs officials, and his insistence that he would be vouched for by the British Embassy disturbed their peace of mind. Two of them escorted him to the Embassy and were profuse in their apologies when he was acknowledged as a gentleman of the highest repute. M’sieu would fully appreciate that they had done no more than their duty? M’sieu would.
Sir Basil Marshant, the then Ambassador, had known Beresford from the knee upwards, and he looked at the big man, when the officials had gone, with a humorous gleam in his grey eyes. A tall, well-groomed, white-haired aristocrat was Sir Basil, one of the old school and one of the best.
“What the devil have you been up to now?” he demanded.
“I set a trap and got snared in it,” said Beresford ruefully. “It’ll serve to show me that I’m not so clever as I look.”
“On business?” asked Marshant. (Marshant was one of the few men who was consulted from time to time by Gordon Craigie and who knew many of Z’s agents.)
“On a nightmare,” grimaced Beresford. “Yes, something’s brewing, Sir Basil, and we’ve an idea that some of it’s brewing in France. You remember that note Craigie sent over for Odell?”
“To watch Leopold Gorman? Yes.”
“Well, Major Gulliver, darn him, didn’t. Gorman made a contact over here with someone or something, and we want to know what it is. Have you seen or heard anything?”
“No,” said Marshant. “To tell you the truth, Beresford, we’ve got more than we can handle over here, and I do nothing but send notes and receive ’em. France, Italy and Germany between ’em will pitch us into a fine mess if we’re not careful. The Balkan States aren’t helping, either. I wish I could get out of it and spend a couple of months with a line in Scotland,” added the Ambassador. “I’d go back to England to-night if I could think of an excuse.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” said Beresford. “You wouldn’t leave here until everything was signed and settled and Europe was playing ball all day long. Howso, I’ve got to be moving. Let me—or Craigie—know if you do get your teeth into anything, will you?”
“Not much chance where Gorman’s concerned,” said Marshant. “Anything else I can do to help you?”
“You can tell me where the Hôtel Divante is,” said the big man, lighting a cigarette.
Marshant looked surprised.
“That place? Your tastes are getting low, young fellow. The Divante’s on the fringe of Montmartre, just off the river. And it’s more than a brothel.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Beresford. “Barring accidents, though, I won’t be there for long.”
The accidents did not happen. The mysterious would-be assassins seemed to have shot their bolt, or else the appearance of Picot scared them. Beresford reached the house with the red sign just after six o’clock, to find an ambulance waiting outside. Timothy Arran was in the hall, skirmishing with a billowy chambermaid. He chucked her under the chin as he saw Beresford, and the girl floated towards the mysterious regions below stairs.
“You’ve taken your time, haven’t you?” complained Timothy, as they shook hands.
“I was delayed,” said Tony, without enlarging on the subject. “How’s Lavering?”
Timothy Arran looked serious.
“Not so good,” he said. “They’ve been dosing him with arsenic, slow but sure, and it’ll be touch and go. We’re moving him to a nursing-home now. Incidentally,” said Timothy, “I had to get hold of Picot, of the Sûreté. He’s promised to keep his mouth shut.”
“He’ll be all right,” said the big man. “Has Lavering talked at all?”
“A bit, but he doesn’t know much. He says that he went to a show, and then to the Côte d’Or, in the Rue des Coronnes. He must have eaten something there that disagreed with him, because he was taken ill as he started back for the Royale. He was alone, and he can just remember someone bending over him; the next thing he knew was that he was in bed at this place. A doctor told him it was ptomaine poisoning, but when Picot came along he diagnosed arsenic.”
Beresford looked grim.
“I hope to the Lord he gets over it. What’s Picot say?”
“He might pull through. We’ve had a couple of specialists here to-day, and we’re doing all we can. If you want to see him before they take him out, you’d better hurry.”
Beresford had a shock when he saw the yellow-tinged face of the young American. Lavering was sleeping under a drug, but he looked as if he would never wake up. Beresford felt sick. And, unbidden, he saw a mental picture of Adele Fayne, dancing with Leopold Gorman. How much did that couple know of the affair?
The two agents waited until Lavering had been taken from the notorious Hôtel Divante, accompanied by a doctor and two nurses vouched for by the vigilant Picot. Then they made their way towards the Royale. In a private room, Timothy related his adventures in Paris, omitting only the fact that he had been escorted by Corinne. He would introduce the snake-charmer to Beresford later, he told himself.
“I wonder,” muttered Beresford, staring at the ceiling, “whether Gorman came over here to arrange for the Lavering business.”
Timothy Arran shrugged.
“It’s possible. It’s even probable. But it isn’t likely that he’d come over here for that alone. He could have arranged to get at Lavering by sending an agent.”
“Any idea which gang’s mixed up in it?” asked Beresford, who knew as well as most people of the strength of the underworld cliques in Paris.
“Nothing definite’s come to hand,” said Arran. “I’ve paid a couple of men whom Picot recommends to try to identify the knives that were thrown last night, but they haven’t reported yet. Other than that I’ve done nothing. If we could go to the Sûreté we’d get what we want.”
Beresford shook his head.
“I don’t want to, and Craigie doesn’t want to. It’s dangerous to bring in the authorities. It’ll make Gorman alter a lot of his plans if he realizes he’s up against the Sûreté, and I’m hugging a fancy that we might get somewhere through the Paris connection. Where are you staying?”
“Here,” said Timothy Arran, grinning.
“Then why in blue Hades,” demanded Beresford, “did you take a special room when we could have used your apartment?”
“That,” said Timothy blandly, “is where I have you. I didn’t tell you, son, that it was Corinne who helped me to get at Lavering, did I?”
“No. Who’s Corinne?”
“A snake-charmer-cum-dancer,” said Arran, closing one eye, “who improves on acquaintance. She led me to the Divante, and she was in a blue funk. So was I,” Timothy added frankly.
“Get it all out,” urged Beresford.
“That’s what I am doing,” said Timothy Arran. “I sent her back here before having my shot at the boys with the knives, and she’s been here ever since. Since two o’clock this morning, that is.”
“In your apartment?”
“In my apartment,” confirmed Timothy. “I—here, what are you getting at, you lout?”
“Easy goes,” grinned Beresford. “I’ll have to tell Toby about you, and you haven’t got the excuse that it’s the friend of a cousin from America. Has she talked?”
“No.” Arran frowned. “I’ve tried to make her, but she’s scared. I don’t know what of, but I do know that she was scared when I mentioned Lavering to her, and she’s frightened of getting bumped off for leading me to him. I couldn’t,” he added defensively, “do less than give her food and shelter after she had risked her life for me. Could I?”
“You,” said Beresford absently, “have b
een talking to too many Frenchmen. What’s she like to look at?”
“Easy to the eye,” said Arran. “She is—or was—the star attraction at the Côte d’Or.”
“And she knew where Lavering was?”
“And that he was ill.”
“Then she must have a pretty good idea who put him there.”
“Bright, aren’t you?” drawled Timothy. “I know that, blocknut. She’s scared of the boys who tried to get Lavering—all right, got him if you like—but it’s the identity of those boys that’s puzzling me.”
“Have you asked her?”
“Directly, indirectly, and by inference. Money won’t make her talk, fair words won’t make her talk, romance won’t make her talk.”
“In fact, she’s dumb,” said Beresford.
“She’s not,” claimed Timothy indignantly. “She’s a cute kid and she’s got brains. But she’s dead scared. I got her to show me Lavering because she was more frightened of the Sûreté than Bob’s boy friends, but now Lavering’s safe she won’t spill a word. I say, Tony.”
“Hm-hum,” said Beresford inquisitively, and as he looked at his friend he saw that Timothy Arran’s eyes were serious, and his friend’s face was set in hard lines.
“Treat her gently, will you? I don’t want the Sûreté to start mauling her about, and some of those French she-police are vixens. I know we’ve got to get at the bottom of the business, but——”
Beresford chuckled.
“Idiot,” he said. “The police aren’t in this, I tell you, and we draw the line at forcing information, even from men. I’ll make her as happy as a kitten—but I might have to put the fear of mon Dieu into her first.”
“Just treat her gently, that’s all I ask,” said Timothy.
Beresford told himself, as he walked along the sumptuously furnished corridors of the Hôtel Royale with Timothy Arran nearly reaching his chin, that the said Timothy was smitten, perhaps not badly, but certainly a little. The Unholy Twins, Beresford knew, were not ladies’ men. Women, to them, meant marriage, and marriage did not appeal. The dancer from the Montmartre cabaret house must be unusual, Beresford told himself.