Coming across from the Rue d’Isly was an open taxicab bearing a resplendent young officer whom I recognized at once. He was the same chap who had gone ashore with the Vassal woman, after pumping me. Even as I looked at him he leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur. The cab drew in to the curb opposite where I sat, and a man standing there opened the cab door and spoke rapidly to the officer. The latter turned and looked straight up at the windows where I sat.
I drew back in a hurry. No imagination about it now; those birds had trailed me here, and the shadower, catching sight of the officer, was asking for instructions.—A police job? An army matter? Some intelligence or secret service business? I did not know. Leconte had been afraid to trust any officers, I recalled. And what had the girl said about that first suicide—a retired colonel!
I was up against something deep, and no mistake.
At this moment, however, the photographer came in, bringing the film and two half-dried prints. He wrapped them up, at my insistence, putting them into an envelope which he handed over to me. I was in a fever of impatience, knowing well enough that it was now a question of moments.
“Have you a small camera and a roll of films?” I asked. “Quickly!—And, my friend, listen! If any one comes up and asks what I was doing here, say only that it was to buy the little camera. You comprehend? It is a question of a lady—and her husband.”
That got him. Convinced that a jealous husband was on my trail, he was all for me, and an extra hundred francs, over and above the price of the camera, clinched matters. I got some postage stamps from him, and skipped out in a hurry.
On the way down the stairs to the street I slapped the stamps on the envelope—enough to make it a special delivery—and addressed it to myself with pencil. I was expecting something to happen at any moment. Nothing did. I gained the street, and headed across for the imposing post office building. It was early in the afternoon, and the envelope would certainly be delivered today, for service is swift, here in Algiers.
However, I passed up the boxes outside the building and went on in. If anyone was trailing me, swift action would do it. I joined the line before the retail stamp window, and as I did so slid the envelope into one of the slots before me. Then I continued to wait in line. It was several minutes before my turn came. I bought some stamps and turned away, and as I did so a man touched me on the arm.
“Pardon! Is this M. Herries?”
He was the same man who had stopped the young officer’s cab; he was fairly well dressed, burly, and quite apparently a thug, even in his Sunday clothes. I looked at him, and two other men closed in on me.
“You know it is,” I said coolly. “You’ve been following me. What do you want?”
He gave me an impudent grin. “A word with you, m’sieu’. Will you come quietly?”
I glanced around. The place was fairly well filled with people. ”Suppose I don’t?”
He shrugged. “There is an agent of police at the door, m’sieu’. Shall I tell him that you wiped out a man on the boat in order to get an envelope which is now in your pocket? An envelope which that man got at Marseilles?” The three rascals had me boxed in. I could see in a flash that if they made such a charge against me I might well find myself in trouble—except that I no longer had the bank envelope, having abandoned it at the photographer’s place. If I showed fight, things might not be so good, but I could well afford to be amiable.
“AND suppose I go with you, m’sieu’?” I asked pleasantly. ”Where? To be slugged?”
“By no means, m’sieu’,” responded my cool rascal. “Merely to be relieved of that envelope. We know that the young lady handed it back to you. You have it. We want it.”
I broke out laughing.
“You could have it—with all my heart!—” I exclaimed, “except that I haven’t it any longer. There was nothing in it except an old film—a picture! And I threw that away as I came down the hill.”
“There’s no green in my eye, m’sieu’,” said the leader. “Come. Let us go to your hotel room, if you are in fear of being harmed. Or come with us, as you like. In any case we mean to search you.”
“You’re welcome to,” I said, with a shrug. “At least, you’re admirably frank about it, my friend. I fancy it will be better to let you discover the fact for yourself than to raise any commotion.—To my hotel room? Very well.”
“What were you doing in the photographer’s studio?” he demanded.
I held up the camera, with an air of surprise.
“Buying this. Why?”
“Come along out to our car, m’sieu.’’ We’ll go to the hotel with you. This is among gentlemen, provided you meet us halfway. If you don’t you’ll be sorry.”
“It’s a bargain,” I said.
He took my arm, relieved me of the camera, which he handed to one of his friends, and we all went out of the building like amicable companions. Turning down toward Rue Monge, we came upon an open touring car in which sat a fourth man. He got out, at sight of us, and drew the leader aside, speaking rapidly.
“That’s what he said,” returned the leader, and shrugged. “Hop in.”
Evidently the fourth chap had been questioning the photographer. My money had been well expended, I knew.
I was by this time much amused by the whole affair, and I could well afford to be amused. We drove down to my hotel, where the three alighted with me, the fourth remaining with the car. We entered together, got my key, and took the lift up to the fourth floor. All the time the three rascals remained silent; but they watched me like hawks.
Once in my room they went to work efficiently and rapidly. They searched me to the skin; no customs inspectors could have done a better job. They were quite decent about it, even joking me as they went along, but they neglected nothing. Even the camera was pried open and taken apart. The leader, I discovered from their remarks, was called Bijou.
When at length they had found absolutely nothing, I reached for my clothes again, laughing.
“Gentlemen, I told you I’d thrown the useless thing away,” I said. “Just after leaving the hotel gateway. Now you’ve found that I told you the truth, eh?—Bijou, who sent you, anyway?”
“That is not your affair,” Bijou scowled, hesitantly. “You’ve tricked us somehow.”
“Tricked you!” I exclaimed, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come! You’re a brave, my friend! I’ve met you halfway, as you proposed. I’ve nothing to conceal. Shall we descend to the cafe and have a drink?”
There was nothing better to do, and we parted good friends. After a drink all around, they took their departure, not quite knowing what to say or do. My friendly manner, my lack of resentment, seemed to puzzle them.
When they had gone, I ordered another drink and glanced at my watch. It was not yet three o’clock, so swiftly had events transpired. And now, for the first time, it occurred to me that in my rush I had not even glanced at the photographic prints.
Having nothing better to do, I got a chair and settled down in the uncomfortable little hotel entrance to wait until the postman should arrive with my letter. I was taking no chances on someone else getting hold of it.
However, I was far from through with visitors, had I but known it.
CHAPTER III - A HOUSE OF LUXURY
IN view of the bloody and terrible events which later enveloped me, I look back now at the incidents of that first afternoon in Algiers and wonder that I did not foresee something of the truth. When we look back at things in the past we usually wonder at our blindness!
I had been sitting there in the narrow entrance of the hotel for half an hour when a trim little business man with a brief-case under his arm came past me, strode up to the desk, and asked for me. The clerk pointed me out to him. I did not, of course, then associate him with the three rascals who had so recently gone their way.
He came over to me, clicked his heels together, and bowed snappily. He looked like some senior clerk in an office, and had a brisk but confidential air.
> “M. Herries?” he said. “My name is Montjoy. May I request the honor of a few minutes in private with you?” ” Impossible,” I said. “I’m awaiting a friend here. Please sit down and talk, if you like. I’ve no private business with any one.”
“Very well,” he rejoined, and took the chair beside’ me, laying the briefcase on his knees. “As you like, m’sieu. I have come to make you an offer of twenty thousand francs. I have the money with me.”
“Indeed?” I said, looking at him hard. “Have you been drinking?” ”No pleasantry, if you please!” he returned. “I offer that sum for a certain photographic film. I believe you understand perfectly. Look at this.” He unbuckled the brief-case and showed me bundles of bank notes inside.
“Well?” he asked.
“No use, my dear sir,” I told him. “I threw that film away. I didn’t know it was—”
“Come, come! Please don’t expect me to believe any such thing,” he broke in. “In fact, we do not believe it in the least.—Thirty thousand, on the spot, if you will hand it over!”
My temper slipped the leash.
“Get out!” I said. “I’ve told you once—and this makes twice—that I haven’t got the cursed film. I threw it away. Get out, and stay out!”
“And I have told you that we do not believe you,” he said, with a smirk. ”Come! Forty thousand, if you act quickly. And this is the last chance—” ” So is this,” I said, and got up.
I gave him what he needed then. I ran him to the door, gave him another kick, and sent him flying out into the street. Then, throwing his brief-case after him, I went back and sat down, while the desk clerk stood taking the name of God in vain, in horrified accents. Montjoy did not come back.
When I cooled off, it looked silly. I had been a fool to turn down forty thousand francs. Good Lord! Such a sum was incredible. And he had the money in cash to hand over!
Weil, there was just one consolation. Whoever was behind all this rascality would probably be convinced that I had really thrown away the film. They had been trailing me all the time, had watched me while I talked with Alice Parker, had seen her return the film to me. This was rather startling in its implications.
The more I reflected, the more certain I now was that poor Leconte had been murdered. And so had her father. But why? To get hold of that picture? Perhaps. Hard to say, until we knew more about it. They might have killed Parker, hoping to get hold of the safe deposit receipt. They might have killed Leconte to get the envelope which he had secured at the bank. And it would be my turn next. This was the logical and uncomfortable conclusion.
“What the devil good is that film to me or to her?” I reflected. “If I knew who was back of all this I’d be tempted—No! I’m hanged if I would! After two men have been murdered for it, I’d sooner burn it than let those devils get hold of it! Anyhow, I may learn something when I see the prints.”
TEN minutes later, who should walk into the hotel but Mr. Solomon. The same pudgy little man with the blank, expressionless face and the wide blue eyes. He came to a halt beside me, and spoke.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but might you be Mr. Herries?”
A cockney, by all that was holy! The way he said it the name sounded like ’Arris.
“No, I’m not,” I said. “My name’s Herries, and I’m getting tired of this business. I just kicked one bird out of here, and I suppose you’re after that damned film, too. You may be posing as her friend, but you’ll have to show me. What’s your game?”
I did feel a bit ashamed of flying up that way, when his blue eyes twinkled and he dropped into the chair beside me.
“Well, sir, it’s mortal ‘ard to tell you what my game is, I see. You just ain’t in no temper to be told. But if you know what’s good for you, as the old gent said when ’e kissed the ’ouse-maid, you won’t be so danged touchy. Now, I’ll just smoke me pipe a bit, and when so be as you’re cooled off, you and me will ’ave a talk.”
Getting out a knife and a plug of black tobacco, he began to whittle off some in his palm. Then that vile old clay pipe came out, and he blew it clear. I lit a cigarette in self-defense.
“You can sit there till hell freezes over!” I said.
Just then the desk clerk called me and pointed to the telephone. “A lady, m’sieu’” he said with a smile, and I picked up the instrument.
“Mr. Herries! This is Alice Parker,” came her voice, cool and clear as a spring morning. “I have something important to tell you—”
“So have I to tell you!” I broke in. “It’s awfully good to hear your voice—No, that wasn’t it. I just said that on impulse… Well, you go ahead and say your say first.”
“All right,” she returned cheerfully. “You have a frightfully busy phone at that hotel.”
“I know it,” I said. “It’s a French hotel, and only one telephone to the whole joint. Was that your important message?”
“No,” she said, laughing. “After you were here I had quite a talk with my friend, Mr. Solomon, and he’s coming down to see you. I want to ask you to be particularly nice to him.”
“Oh, Lord!” I murmured.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Go ahead. Yes, I will be nice. I’m always nice. But a lot of things have happened since I saw you, and let me warn you to watch your step. Somebody was on our trail, watching us, while we talked together. I can’t tell you about it now.—Let’s make it seven-thirty instead of eight, will you? I want to see you again before so long, if you get me.”
“All right, whenever you say.”
I hung up, turned round and walked over to Solomon, my hand out.
“Solomon, I’m darned sorry!” I said. “I didn’t know she had sent you, and I’m in a state of mind to be suspicious of everybody.”
“Werry ’andsomely said, sir,” and Solomon gave me his hand. “No ‘arm done—and werry glad I am as you didn’t land me in the street like you done that rat Mont joy.”
“Eh? Who told you his name?” I demanded.
“Well, sir, I ’as me friends,” said the queer little man. “Can you and me talk in priwate?”
“No,” I said. “We can’t leave here. I’m waiting for something to happen.” He chuckled wheezily, and reached into his pocket. Without saying a word he got out a greenish telegraph form and handed it over to me. The message was in French, and it was addressed to him; but the name of the sender had been torn off. And when I read that message, I opened my eyes.
AT TWO FIVE PRECISELY MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET COMMITTED SUICIDE. THE SHOT WAS HEARD. HE WAS FOUND ON HIS BED, SHOT THROUGH THE HEAD, A REVOLVER IN HIS HAND. FOR YOUR INFORMATION.
I WAS staggered. The Prefect of Police! A suicide! Not likely. Found in exactly the same circumstances—but who had killed him?
My mind flashed back to what Alice Parker had said. The Prefect had promised to investigate that engraved weapon, presumably belonging to her father. But no! That could hardly be the reason for killing a man in his position.
“You know about that investi—?” I began, when Solomon checked me sharply.
“Dang it! This ain’t no place to be a-talking!” he said, and rose stiffly. “I knows nothing and I says nothing—just like that. But I see as ’ow you ain’t no fool. Are we a-going to your room or not?”
“Go ahead if you want to,” I said. “I’m sitting right here until the postman shows up.”
He looked at me in a startled way.
“Where will you be ’aving dinner tonight?” he said.
“Down by the old Hotel Royale.”
“I’ll send me car for you a bit before nine, then,” he said. “The werry same car as you was so mortal curious about, too.—For you and ’er both. You can come up to me ’ouse and talk.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “What do you want to talk about?”
“About whether or not you will be alive tomorrow morning,” he said, and then stumped out before I could make any remark.
Now, this pudgy little m
an was not impressive, but something in those words—in his tone—in his look—went into me like cold steel. Before he was out the door I had the conviction that unless I did talk with him I would certainly not be alive in the morning.
How had Solomon known Mont-joy’s name? And how in the devil’s name had the news about the Prefect’s death been sent to him, apparently ahead of anyone else?
I SAT there for another half hour before the village postman showed up with his little black box of letters and pen and inkpot. Then I was at the desk before him—sure enough, along came my letter. I grabbed it from the clerk, turned to the lift, and went up to my room.
So far, I had not unpacked a thing.
With the door locked, I tore open the envelope I had addressed to myself earlier in the day, and took out the film and the two prints. Then I unpacked my bag, very thoughtfully, had a quick shower in the immense tiled bathroom, and got into fresh clothes.
I had plenty to think about, too. That hotel room was about as wide open as the sky. A balcony went clear around each floor, opening into every room, and I knew by experience that the Arab maids were likely to come walking unconcernedly in at all hours, without bothering to lock the doors. Anybody could go walking anywhere in that hotel.
As for the prints, the vague figure puzzled me no longer. The picture showed a middle-aged and rather ugly lady, and beside her, standing with a smirk on his gorilla’s face, Nick Zontroff.
Here, beyond question, was an answer to everything—that is, one sort of answer. At least, I had an inkling of who was behind the deviltry going on in Algiers. This picture was of some enormous value to Nick Zontroff. The reason was something else again. Why a snapshot of himself, in the company of a most unattractive woman, should be cause for the hottest kind of intrigue and the most dastardly sort of murder was impossible to tell. What I had seen of Bijou, the Vassal woman, and the young officer, however, linked up with this picture in running the trail directly to Zontroff. But unfortunately, not so far as the law was concerned.
The Terror of Algiers Page 3