“Within five minutes,” was the prompt response.
“We will make no use of our own guerrilla forces, I think,” Cheng reflected, as he rose to his feet and strolled up and down the room. “I will invoke the Aid of the police. What do you think of that, mademoiselle? The police, whom most of the time we are trying to outwit!”
“You and Mr. Humberstone between you pay a large subsidy for service,” Catherine reminded him. “Why not make use of them sometimes?…”
Déchanel arrived a few minutes later, very spruce but a little breathless. He was wearing a buttonhole of violets and he brought with him a waft of strong odours from the coiffeur’s. Things were going very well with Monsieur Déchanel those days.
“Listen, my friend,” Mr. Cheng began. “One of our faithful servants has been trapped in that hole I spoke about. I appeal to the police for aid.”
Déchanel twirled his moustache and smiled.
“This is a new attitude,” he remarked. “As a rule we are all looking the other way whilst the International Bureau settles these affairs for itself!”
“This time it would be better if the International Bureau did not appear. There is too much scandal being talked about us already. You have seen the magician at the Jetée Casino—the man who stops the world going round?”
“He wearied me,” Déchanel confessed, “but his performance was amazing. I do not even now understand it.”
“He is the man who is in trouble,” Cheng confided calmly. “He is in the hands of two Russians at the place we spoke of.”
“The place shall be raided in half-an-hour,” Déchanel promised. “Permit that I use your telephone? I will give orders for a squad. Myself I will undertake this matter.”
“I am flattered,” his patron murmured. “I beg, though, my friend, that you will not expose yourself to risk. These men are assassins.”
“In that case it is my duty to remain in the background. From there, however, if there is trouble I can control the affair.”
“Admirable,” Cheng exclaimed. “I may expect a report then, mon ami?”
“Of a certainty. Within an hour’s time.”
CHAPTER XVII
Table of Contents
Jonson, as he mounted the stairs of the cosy looking little hotel on the Promenade des Anglais with a gun pressed into his back, had altogether lost that cheerful smile with which he had commenced his constitutional. These two men were both killers, they were both desperate, they had a fanatical passion for the man whom it was their business to protect and they had every cause to suspect him as a traitor. The chances of his hastily scrawled appeal for help reaching the Bureau he felt were exceedingly slight, for Mademoiselle was scarcely likely to risk offending the patron of the place. Nevertheless, he kept his brain cool and clear—a chance was all he wanted.
“Take that damn’ thing away from my back,” he enjoined with a fine show of anger. “You two were never any use with firearms. The thing might go off!”
“It would only anticipate your end, Comrade Jonson,” was Krakoff’s sneering reply. “You have proved that you are no good to us alive. You will certainly be a great deal safer dead. Enter this room.”
Krakoff had reached the first landing and threw open the door of a bedchamber. It was well but garishly furnished, with many evidences of feminine occupation. There were lace curtains, a pink coverlet, window boxes full of flowers, a divan with masses of pillows.
“Un nid d’amour,” Jonson remarked, looking round with an amiable smile. “Which of you owns this apartment?”
“It is going to be a chamber of death unless we get the truth out of you,” Krakoff threatened. “Tie him to the bedpost, Hanson.”
“But what have I done?” the prisoner protested blandly. “What have you against me? Simply because we failed in London and I thought it wiser—”
“To escape and leave us to face the trouble,” Hanson grunted.
“You would have faced worse trouble if you had gone on with the plan,” Jonson assured the two men. “Half that crowd round the car were detectives. You will never get Mr. Cheng as easily as that, let me tell you. He is not like our Chief in Moscow who takes every risk. Mr. Cheng, on the contrary, takes every precaution. One of his spies must have known that he was in danger or that affair of the changed cars would never have happened.”
“You are lying, my friend,” the man who was completing the task of tying him up said calmly. “Neither Krakoff nor I have any more faith in you. We believe that you are a traitor. It is our intention to kill you.”
“Get on with it, then,” Jonson invited.
“We should like first,” Krakoff said with an evil smile, “to ask a few questions. No, it is not necessary to gag you. This hotel is ours. The proprietor is a Russian and a friend. Every servant in it knows us.”
“Well, ask your questions then,” Jonson invited resignedly. “I can only tell you that at the present moment you are in greater danger than I am.”
Hanson completed his task in scornful silence. To all appearance it was a wonderful performance. Their prisoner was bound hand and foot to the brass end of the bedstead. Krakoff approached him with a long knife in his hand.
“I might use this,” he confided, “to cut your bonds later on if you pleased us. On the other hand I might use it as the Chinese do—to cut little pieces from you when your answers annoyed.”
“You talk a great deal,” Jonson observed. “You do nothing. What are these questions you speak of? I have nothing to betray except our own cause.”
Krakoff slapped his cheek viciously.
“You are a lying dog,” he shouted. “We believe that you are in league with the man we are pledged to kill.”
“You are thick-headed enough to believe anything,” was the sneering reply. “I daresay you even believe that you are safe here on the main road in a house suspected by the police. You will find out all about that. Come on—the questions?”
“What are you doing in Nice?” Hanson demanded. “Why did you leave us with our task unaccomplished?”
“If you want to know what I am doing in Nice go and ask the patron here to tell you again. You will see my picture on all the hoardings. I perform at the Jetée Casino every evening. I get a mille note every time I go on the boards and if you want to know why I left you and came here it is because at the office in London they had no funds to pay—no funds, for our expenses. Work of any sort I am willing to pledge myself to, but I need pay. What about you two? Your bags are full of money—yes? The secretary of the Great Liberation Fund has dealt generously with you?”
“Quit this cackle,” Krakoff muttered angrily. “A little shortness of funds there may be. What does it matter? The money will come. Listen, Jonson. The man we seek is in Nice. Where is he?”
“If he is in Nice find him. I have finished working for those who do not pay, and who treat one in this fashion.”
“I see,” Krakoff exclaimed with an ugly grin. “You have transferred your services to the man with the full purse.”
“Ass!” was the scornful rejoinder. “I earn all the money I need at the Casino.”
“You have not found another master then yet?” Krakoff demanded, pressing the blade flatways against Jonson’s cheek and turning it a little towards the edge so that a thin line of blood showed itself. “Soon we shall begin business, eh? What is the name of this new master and where is he to be found? He is not connected by any chance with the International Bureau?”
Jonson laughed happily and to all appearance with sincerity. His head was a little on one side. He seemed to be listening.
“Push those curtains back, my friends,” he enjoined. “Look down onto the Promenade. You may see something.”
Both men rushed to the window. They peered out over the top of the net blind. They glanced up the fine curving road and their eyes swept the empty promenade towards the racecourse. Then Krakoff turned round, startled by a sudden exclamation from his companion. They looked straight into the barrel
of Jonson’s revolver and Jonson himself, with a rope hanging loosely from parts of his person, was standing within a few feet of them. The expression of good-humoured scorn had left his face, his teeth were set, his eyes glittering. He was a very angry man.
“Now then you two—up with them—up, I tell you!” Krakoff’s right hand had strayed for a moment but at the second exhortation it followed his companion’s.
“Flat against the wall—the palms of both your hands,” Jonson ordered. “No hesitation. I would kill either of you with pleasure. When the police see your papers and your firearms and that knife they will shake me by the hand.”
The two men obeyed. They seemed paralysed by the shock of this amazing change in the situation. Hanson in particular could not remove his eyes from the rope.
“I may be going to die,” he muttered, “but that rope—you were bound as tightly as I ever bound a human being in my life!”
“You should have stayed and played with the kids in the nursery,” Jonson scoffed, “before you came out to rub shoulders with men. Did you not know I was a music hall performer? I have only two great stunts. One is I stop the world, and the other I free myself from any rope you can wind around me. Babes, fools to lay your hands upon a conjurer!”
He paused to wipe the blood from his cheek with his left hand. The direction of the gun, however, clenched in his other fingers never faltered.
“How long are you going to keep us here?” Krakoff demanded.
“Until I can find an excuse for killing one of you,” was the prompt reply. “I can then deal single-handed with the other. Come on, why do not one of you try a rush? You, Hanson, you are not afraid to die, I am sure. I can hit glass balls at fifty yards. I will pick you off anywhere you like.”
“I have not moved,” Hanson shivered. “I shall not move.”
The saliva of fear was upon his lips, his eyes were glazed with terror. Jonson turned smiling to his companion.
“Well, what about you?” he asked. “I want an excuse for shooting one of you. A quarter of an hour ago you were planning to kill me without any excuse.”
“You do not need an excuse to kill a bloody traitor,” Krakoff spat out.
Jonson shot him deliberately between the second and third button of his waistcoat. Krakoff, who realised what was coming, made one mighty effort and threw himself upon his opponent, but Jonson’s hand never swerved. Hanson, who might even then have settled the fight under cover of Krakoff’s attack, gave one yell of horror and sank fainting to the floor. Krakoff in his last effort kicked furiously at Jonson and brought him to the ground. Whilst he was still writhing with the pain there came a loud official knocking at the door. Jonson kicked the wounded man’s revolver into a corner and struggled up with the aid of the bedpost.
“Entrez!” he shouted.
The door was pushed cautiously open.
“Au nom de la loi!” someone pronounced in a deep bass voice.
“Enter,” Jonson repeated. “They have finished the fight, these two. Enter, gentlemen. There is no longer danger.”
Monsieur Déchanel, in the rear of the bodyguard of gendarmes, stepped into the room. He looked around him fiercely.
“What has happened here?” he demanded. “Are they dead, these men?”
“The tall one is wounded,” Jonson replied. “The other is a coward. He is unhurt.”
“And you?”
“I am unhurt. It was a fight between these two men.”
Déchanel twirled his moustache imperiously. He looked hard at the speaker.
“Your name is Jonson?”
“That is true, monsieur.”
The agent of the police stood on one side. His signal was unmistakable. He pointed to the door. Jonson understood and limped out.
“Take him to my own car,” Déchanel directed. “You understand,” he added in a low tone to the sergeant, “he is to disappear. Those are my orders. It is a matter of policy. Take him where he wills to go and forget it.”
The man saluted.
“Telephone for an ambulance to pick up this fellow,” Déchanel continued. “I shall interrogate the other man as soon as he has recovered, but it will be at the Bureau. You understand?”
“Parfaitement, monsieur…”
There was a gathering crowd below but the sergeant cleared the way. With his hand resting lightly on the rescued man’s shoulder he led him quickly through the deserted bar. Outside there were further loiterers attracted by the sound of the firing, but their departure was only a matter of seconds. The sergeant understood his orders. Soon they were whirling up the Promenade des Anglais, Jonson resting his bruised leg upon the opposite seat. The former leaned towards him.
“Will you be so kind as to hand me that weapon?” he begged, pointing to where the butt end of Jonson’s revolver was showing outside his torn pocket.
Jonson passed it across without protest. The sergeant took it gingerly between his fingers and opened the breech. One cartridge was missing. He looked meaningly at his charge.
“That is not a good way to carry a gun—with one cartridge fired and one man probably dead,” he pointed out. “See?”
He emptied the breech and transferred the remaining cartridges to his own pocket.
“Clean it as soon as you reach your home,” he advised, returning the weapon. “Tell me now where you wish to be taken.”
Jonson thrust his gun back into his pocket with a murmur of thanks. They had reached the narrow streets leading down to the Avenue Laperle.
“If you will be so kind as to put me down here,” he requested, “I will find my way to my destination.”
The car was stopped. Jonson alighted and turned to speak to his guard. The car was no longer there. He could see it—a disappearing speck—in the distance.
“It is a great thing,” he muttered to himself, as he hobbled off, “to be protected…”
He called a petite voiture and drove the remainder of the distance to the Café des Oiseaux Noirs. He paused at the counter to toss off a glass of brandy, then he limped off along the entry and into the labyrinth of passages beyond. Soon he reached the guard. With very little delay he found his way to Mark’s room. The latter greeted him with a nod of welcome and motioned him to a chair. There were more people in the bureau than Jonson had ever seen there before. Mark was writing despatches with his own hand. Two or three of the dark mysterious little figures from the observatory were there collecting them. Two others were waiting for orders. Mark gave them briefly and motioned the messengers away. Then he turned to Jonson.
“So you found trouble up at that cheerful little Maison Rouge,” he observed.
“I tried a bluff and lost,” Jonson explained. “I was anxious to take my place again with those two from London. How else was I to know what they were doing down here and their exact plans?”
“Reasonable,” Mark admitted.
“That fellow Krakoff had evil in his mind concerning me,” Jonson went on. “He and Hanson seemed to have made up their minds that I was better out of the way. They were safely installed at the Maison Rouge. It is the headquarters of a Russian society. They have facilities there for ridding themselves of troublesome people. Well, they tied me up. That was foolish. Before I learnt how to stop the earth I used to go nightly upon the stage and defy anyone to secure me with any form of rope. They turned their backs for a moment and I freed myself. They were already beginning their little games of torture. That man Krakoff—he was suspicious. For some reason or other they were desperate. They wanted you as well as Mr. Cheng.”
“They knew their job,” Mark observed. “We are all up against it. It is either us or their master. I think that it will be their master.”
“They took their eyes off me for one moment,” Jonson repeated, with a beatific smile upon his face. “They turned round and they looked into my gun and I stood there a free man. I think the shock was more than they could stand. Krakoff was still the desperate bully. He watched for his moment and he tried to fling himse
lf upon me. If Hanson had backed him up I was a dead man. Well, Hanson was too frightened to back him up. Krakoff is the dead man.”
“And Hanson?”
“In the hands of the police.”
“How did you get here?”
“Monsieur Déchanel pointed to the door. He sent me back in a police car and told the sergeant to lose me.”
“Krakoff, you say, is dead.”
“I was obliged to kill him,” Jonson explained. “It was one of us and not a second to spare. I suppose I must have bungled affairs in London. All that I told them seemed plausible enough but for some reason or other Krakoff was suspicious of me. They did not wish my return. They wished my death.”
“I think I can understand that,” Mark reflected. “We sent Déchanel when your message arrived. Now listen! Only a few hours ago I received a telephone message from one of my agents in Warsaw.”
Jonson was sitting up in his chair. His eyes were fixed upon Mark’s.
“Paul Agrestein appears to have visited the aviation bureau in Warsaw. He has shown his passport and taken his ticket on the westward bound plane which arrives at Lyons on Saturday and here later in the day!”
CHAPTER XVIII
Table of Contents
A few nights later, about an hour after the arrival of the Lyons plane at Cannes, a man and a woman descended from a shabby hooded motor car in front of the Casino Municipal at Nice. They left two bags inside the car and the woman addressed the chauffeur. Her voice was husky, her French fluent, her accent execrable.
“Pierre,” she ordered, “you will take the valises of Monsieur to the villa, you will see that Lucie unpacks everything and puts warm night clothes by the fire. You will then return here for us. Be here at midnight.”
“One o’clock will be soon enough,” her companion intervened.
The woman sighed.
“One o’clock then,” she said submissively. “Do not be late, Pierre, and remember your orders. Remember this too—”
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