Irene took courage from his brave tales.
‘Wow/” she exclaimed passionately, “you find the name, and I will kill him!”
There were no truant officers to evade. Irene cooked peasoup for “Sticks” Grady until he died of acute alcoholism three years later.
Irene was sixteen, but looked twenty. She was tall, too thin, but pretty in a hard way. Her eyes were smoldering bits of repressed hate. Her cheek bones were too prominent, and her lips were thin and straight. Sticks Grady had trained her well, and Irene was ready for crime.
She experimented with shop-lifting, snatching purses, and picking pockets, then tried burglary and found it most profitable. She could move through a house with the fleet grace of a shadow. Against the hazards of capture she carried a small stiletto—a weapon essentially feminine, but with the deadly possibilities of a cobra. The blade was a scant three inches in length and came to the point of a needle. Irene meant one day to strike that point to the heart of a detective named Jean Duret, who, Sticks Grady had informed her, was the slayer of her father.
In time her life drew Irene into contact with other thieves. She was cunning and ambitious and organized a band. Irene lived with her companions in an old three-story stone building on St. Paul Street. The house was two hundred years old and ran back to an ancient cobbled street named St. Amable. The windows were few and narrow. They had originally been protected with thick iron shutters to withstand the arrows and bullets of the Iroquois. Fragments of these shutters still clung to rusted hinges.
Irene rented the two upper floors and professed to run a lodging house for sailors. For fifty years the ground floor had been occupied by a snuff manufacturer, but now that part of the building stood vacant, giving Irene’s band the run of the whole place. The cellar was a deep, dark pit that smelled foully of the river. A small section of the flagged floor of the cellar was a trapdoor that opened down into a tunnel which Irene had heard was once part of the early fortifications of the city. Irene marked that tunnel for the tomb of the detective, Jean Duret.
Her band of thieves held up ships’ officers on the dimly-lighted streets leading to the river. They occasionally lured drunken seamen to the grim, iron-shuttered house on St. Amable; robbed them, and threw their senseless bodies into deserted alleyways or abandoned warehouses. With one or two of the more skillful, Irene swept uptown on forays on the rich. She was surprisingly lucky, and the gang prospered.
It was on a night that Irene sat in her room weaving mental webs to ensnare the detective, Jean Duret, that a stranger hammered on the St. Amable Street door.
Irene’s eyes peered through the perforations in a rust-eaten iron shutter. She saw a big man, wide of shoulders, but not stout. He was dressed in a pair of cord trousers and a blue flannel shirt. She could not see his face.
A frown of perplexity crossed Irene’s forehead. It was not some fool thinking to rent a room, because the only lodging sign was an inconspicuous one on the St. Paul Street side of the house. The knocking on the door persisted. Irene was alone. She drew the stiletto from her breast and swiftly descended the foot-worn stairs.
“Who is there?” she demanded.
“It is I, Le Loup. I come from Desfarges!”
“ ‘Le Loup,’ “ Irene repeated. “I don’t know you.”
“You know Desfarges. Desfarges, of the Black Water Tavern?”
“Yes.”
“Then open this cursed door! Is it not enough that Desfarges has sent me?”
Irene opened the door doubtfully. The tall stranger entered and closed and locked the door. “My card, miss!”
Irene looked deep into the man’s eyes. Her glance dropped uncomfortably. The lines of that long, lean face were ruthlessly hard. A knife slash that began near the right ear ended at the fellow’s mouth. There was a sardonic twist to the other side of his mouth. Thick cords stood out upon his neck. His cleft chin was outthrust in swagging bravado. “My card, miss!” he repeated with a distorted grin.
Irene reached forward and accepted a sheet of folded paper. She opened the paper slowly, her eyes still more upon her curious visitor than upon what he had offered as his card.
“Read,” the man laughed.
Irene’s eyes dropped to the paper. She drew back startled, then a smile flitted across her lips. He was droll, this Apache. What he offered as his card was a police bulletin from Paris bearing his photograph, his fingerprint classification, and his Bertillon measurements. Beneath these details was the printed information that Emil Desjardins, alias Le Loup, was wanted for the savage murder of an old woman.
Irene glanced from the photograph to the man. “The scar?” she asked.
“It was acquired since that episode,” Le Loup laughed.
“And what do you want of me?” Irene demanded.
“Desfarges told me that I could trust you— else I would not have offered my card. I have placed my life in your hands. I want shelter. The police may be looking for me here; though I got clean away from France.” He leaned close to Irene. “Desfarges told me of your cellar; he told me, too, of the old tunnel that leads to the fortifications. I want shelter, protection, Miss, and a chance to escape if necessary. But I expect to earn it!”
Desfarges was the gang’s fence. Irene was under obligations to him. She dared not send this Apache away.
She took Le Loup through the house. She showed him the two-foot thickness of the stone walls. With a flashlight she guided him to the cellar and showed him the trap in the flagged floor that opened into the tunnel.
Le Loup and Irene stood silent while the Apache gazed approvingly at the closed trap. There was not a sound in the cellar but their breathing. Then from beneath their feet came the faint squeal of rats.
Le Loup grinned, but Irene drew back with a shudder. “The tunnel is alive with them,” she explained. “New wharves of cement are being built and the rats have been driven back from the waterfront. They have little chance to find food now, and Jules, one of my men, tells me they will eat each other until none but a few remain. It is not a nice place, down there, but it it better than the gallows, or the guillotine, eh! And there is small danger that you will have to use it.”
At first Irene’s band received Le Loup with suspicion. But he was a spectacular figure and his endless bragging caught the fancy of these unimaginative rouges. By day the Apache amused himself in the practice of knife-throwing in the old quarters of the snuff manufacturer. He appeared to be a careless braggart, but Irene noticed he was always careful to wipe away the particles of dust or snuff that might have clung to his knife during this sport. At night Le Loup drank enormous quantities of gin and talked. He swaggered about the hideout, voicing opinions and offering advice in a manner that alarmed Irene.
A night when he and Irene happened to be alone in the house, Le Loup threw open her door without knocking.
Irene jumped to her feet and faced the Apache. He stood on the threshold, his great body filling the doorway. His eyes glittered menace; his torn mouth was distorted in a grin.
Irene struck a hand to her breast. “Get to your quarters!” she cried.
Le Loup stepped toward her. A stiletto flashed into Irene’s hand. Her arm swept downward and struck. But Le Loup was swifter. His hand shot forward. Blood spurted from his palm, but he held Irene’s wrist. Le Loup laughed hysterically. His teeth ground in a frenzy. Irene felt an enormous pressure on her wrist. Her arm was bending at the elbow. The stiletto came up in her hand guided by the powerful arm of Le Loup. Irene’s eyes dilated with horror. Her face was a mask of fear. But she uttered no cry.
Le Loup forced her wrist backward until the stiletto was a scant inch from her throat. Irene’s left hand shot forward and her nails clawed at Le Loup’s eyes. The Apache grinned and gripped that wrist in his left hand. Irene retreated until her back was pressed hard against the wall. Still the stiletto drew nearer. She felt its sharp point graze on her flesh. Her skin was pierced, Irene screamed when she felt a short, hot flash in her throat. Le Lou
p laughed and dropped her wrist.
“Another time, my vixen, it will not be a scratch!”
He reached down and tore a great piece of silk from her dress. This he bound around his bleeding palm.
Irene stood silent, the stiletto dangling from her limp hand. Le Loup looked contemptuously from the dagger to Irene’s eyes. But Irene had forgotten the stiletto. She was looking at Le Loup with new interest. For in the Apache, Irene suddenly saw the weapon with which she would destroy Jean Duret, the killer of her father.
Two of the band entered the house and the tension was broken. Le Loup walked from her room and Irene closed and locked her door.
She could hear Le Loup and the others laughing in another room. Their talk grew boisterous and Irene knew they were drinking. A loud scraping of chairs reached Irene’s ears, then came the clump of heavy feet descending the stairs. Le Loup had gone out for the first time since his arrival.
It was hours later when Irene was awakened by a soft rap on her door.
“Who is there?” she called quietly.
“Joe.”
Irene arose and opened the door. A pale, trembling wretch slid into her room.
“Mon Dieu, Joe, what is it?”
“Le Loup,” Joe whispered hoarsely. “Godin and I drank with him. We went out at midnight. There was a lone sailor on St. Paul Street. We crept into a doorway. When he passed, I stepped out with my gun. He raised his hands and Godin emptied his pockets. Le Loup stepped forward and counted the haul. ‘Here, young fellow,’ Le Loup shouted, ‘let this be a warning to you to carry a fuller pocket in the next world!’ With that he struck the sailor to the heart. It was awful. Then as we came home, the madman boasted that he kills on every job. We must flee, Irene, or he will hang us all!”
Irene laughed softly. “You are upset, Joe. Here is money. Take Godin and go to the country for a rest. Stay away for some weeks, and when you return go to Desfarges before you come here. Where did you leave this sailor?”
“We dragged him into the passage by Dionne’s warehouse.”
Irene dressed quickly, then waited in her room until she heard Godin and Joe steal down the stairs. She slipped on a pair of kid gloves and stepped into the hall. She paused at Le Loup’s door and heard him deep in an alcoholic sleep. Irene laughed softly and went downstairs.
She paused in the old snuff factory long enough to scoop up a pinch of dust from a corner, then she stepped out into St. Amable Street. The narrow, cobbled street was silent and deserted. Irene skirted the block and came to St. Paul Street. The old stone buildings, old as the city, and once the homes of early adventurers from Old France, loomed up in great black shadows. Irene moved swiftly under the protecting shield of the darkness. Soon she came to the passage by Dionne’s warehouse. She listened for a full minute, then crept toward the victim of Le Loup’s knife.
They had placed him in a doorway and he sat with knees drawn up and head thrown forward. He looked like a drunken man asleep, but the flesh on his face was cold to the touch.
Irene bent over him and found the wound where his coat was wet. She opened his coat, then drew her stiletto and dipped its point into the pinch of dust she had taken from the snuff factory. She threw a startled glance along the passage. Her breath came in short gasps. The stiletto point sank easily into the open wound. Irene withdrew the blade and wiped it carefully on the man’s coat. Again she dipped its point in the dust in her gloved hand, and this time touched the blade lightly along the rent Le Loup’s knife had made in the sailor’s coat.
Half an hour later the dagger was washed clean, the gloves were destroyed, and Irene was back in her room.
In the morning she told her band singly of Le Loup’s killing and warned them to scatter.
It was noon when Le Loup, sullen and dishevelled, came from his room. “Where are the others?” he demanded abruptly.
“Pah!” Irene exclaimed in disgust. “The cowards have run! They are fools. This is the safest place in the city—in the country, for that matter. What detective would look for a murderer within a hundred yards of the murder?”
Le Loup winced at the word murderer. He seemed to have lost some of his bravado. “What about this detective Duret? Joe was telling me something of him.”
Irene laughed lightly. “Mon brave, you are nervous this morning. Does Le Loup fear Duret? Come have a drink!”
“I fear no one!” Le Loup blustered. “But they tell me—”
“I will tell you of Duret,” Irene said quickly. “He is gun-shy. There was an episode years ago. Duret killed an innocent. Since that day he has been gun-shy. When he gets into a tight corner, he will draw his pistol, but he will hesitate and hold his fire. I tell you Duret is not to be feared. He is ambitious. He has been on homicides for three years now. When he can, Duret will work alone to gather all the glory. And other detectives do not care about working with him because in a corner, he is uncertain. Why are you afraid? Last night you were so strong—so heroic.”
Le Loup’s face broke into a smirk. Like a mask removed, the fear was struck from his countenance.
“But come,” Irene said. “I must watch at the windows so that if Duret should come you will have time to hide.”
Irene left Le Loup with a bottle of gin and spent the afternoon moving between the windows on St. Amable and St. Paul streets.
As five o’clock drew near Irene’s vigilance increased. The body of the sailor, she knew, must have been discovered at seven o’clock when Dionne’s warehouse was opened. At nine it would have been placed in the hands of the coroner. Before that time the enterprising Duret would be engaged on the case. Duret and the coroner would discover the dust in and about the dead man’s wound. Dr. Leclaire the famous medicin-legiste, would take the dust to his laboratory. Some hours later he would pronounce the dust to be snuff.
Duret’s theory would be that the murderer was addicted to snuff. But then the clever Leclaire would point out that from the depth and width of the wound it was obvious that the weapon was too large to be a clasp knife, therefore it was improbable that the knife was carried in a pocket. Leclaire would offer the suggestion that the murder was committed in some place where there was a large quantity of snuff, and that later the body was carried to the passage where it was found. From that point it would be a matter of minutes until Duret appeared at the old snuff factory. And Irene knew that Duret would make his first investigation of the old stone house alone.
It would have been simpler for Irene to have lured Duret to the house with a telephone call notifying him of the whereabouts of Le Loup. But then Duret would have descended on the place in force.
At twenty minutes to six Irene’s heart quickened as she glimpsed the familiar figure of the man who had killed her father. The detective was on the opposite side of St. Paul Street. A shadow crossed Irene’s face as she saw Duret walk casually down the block without a side glance. In a moment he had passed beyond her vision and Irene regretted that she had not made some signal to attract him. But then he might have called for help before entering the place.
When Duret disappeared, Irene crossed the building and watched through the perforations of a rusty iron shutter on St. Amable Street.
In a few minutes the detective loomed into sight. Irene’s face glowed. Duret had stopped. A bell jangled noisily.
“Le Loup! Le Loup!” Irene called quickly,
“to the cellar and into the tunnel! Duret has come. He is alone! You can work the trap?”
“Yes,” Le Loup answered, as he stole down the stairs.
The bell rang again. Irene descended the stairs and opened the street door. Duret, tall, handsome, well-fed, stood upon the threshold. Irene’s eyes met his. She swayed uncertainly for an instant while a little room fetid with the smell of drying clothes swam before her eyes. She saw Armand her father limp into that room, his foot dripping blood. She saw this man who stood before her burst in and grapple with her father. She heard again the screams of her mother. Her ears seemed to burst with the cra
sh of gunfire. Then her nostrils were drenched with the stench of powder and the room was dark.
As though through a mist she saw Duret again. She recovered with a start.
Duret was gripping her arm; he was searching deep into her eyes. He relinquished his hold slowly. “Pardon, madame, I thought you were about to faint.”
Irene smiled weakly. “You remind me of my father!” she said.
Duret bowed gravely and said nothing.
“What do you wish. It cannot be that you want one of my rooms,” Irene said, glancing significantly at Duret’s well-fitting clothes.
“No, madame, I came to look over this factory, but the doors are locked. I thought perhaps there might be an entrance from your hall.”
“There is,” Irene admitted readily, “and it is open because I have permission to use the cellar beneath to store my lodgers’ boxes. You have seen the agent?”
“Of course, madame.”
“Then come in.”
Irene opened the door that led into the old snuff factory. Duret stepped into the large room. His eyes searched into dark corners and satisfaction glowed on his face. He turned abruptly to Irene. “I understood the place has not been used for some time, yet upon the floor I see signs of recent occupancy.”
“It is my lodgers, m’sieu. Some of them have been with me for years and they keep their boxes in the cellar. They have to pass through here to reach the cellar stairs.”
“What do your lodgers do, madame?”
“They work on the docks—that is, all but one!” Irene leaned toward Duret and her voice grew guarded. “That one is a strange fellow. I have considered mentioning the matter to the police. He has been with me only a week. He does not work and he does not leave the house— at least during the day. Today, whenever the bell rang, he went to the cellar before I had time to open the door. Do you think I should report him to the police, m’sieuV
The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps Page 155