Alice left the three of us alone, and Solomon quietly showed Monsereau the documents revealing his authority, then showed him the engraved pistol.
At sight of this, Monsereau became pale as death.
“Now, m’sieu’,” went on Solomon in French, “we must know all about it. We are not the police, and so what you say will be held in strictest confidence. As you see, you have been slated for death. I must know why—all about it!”
“I was afraid of this!” exclaimed the Frenchman, dropping into a chair. “The suicide epidemic—good God! They warned me that I would go like the others.”
“Who did? Zontroff?”
“I never heard of him,” said Monsereau. “No, it was the man in the office of the Suburban Development Company. I think his name was Mont-joy. He hinted that with this suicide epidemic, things were uncertain. His voice, his eyes, spoke of more than his words. I knew it was a threat, but I dared do nothing.”
Solomon calmly tucked tobacco into his pipe, and gave me a look. I spoke up.
“So it was blackmail, then? How much have you given them?”
“All the ready money I could raise—twenty thousand francs,” said Monsereau wretchedly. “But they demanded more. They wanted land. I turned over my property in the hills, my farm. They demanded my apartment house in the city. Mon Dieu! It belongs to my wife, and I could not do it. It is all she would have left. I refused. Then they hinted, as I say. They said that if I were to die, they would get it from my widow, you understand. And it is true. She would have to—”
HE checked himself suddenly. He had gone to pieces, a nervous wreck, but he did not want to say more.
“We must know what hold they have on you,” I told him. “Come, man! None of this will become public. This talk is confidential, upon my word of honor! Nothing else can save you from death. It is very probable that we can get back something, too.—Is it some affair of a woman?”
“No,” said Monsereau, in miserable shape now. “It is our son. He is a captain in the commissary department. Two years ago he got into trouble over his accounts, falsified his papers, and so forth. I have influence; I managed to keep the matter quiet, and to make good the defalcation. No one knew of it. Now he is all right—entirely. He has even been promoted. But somehow they learned about it. That Mont-joy had the actual papers. He showed them to me, you understand. He said the company must make the matter public.—It would kill me; it would send my son into prison; and my poor wife—”
Monsereau broke down and his voice died out. Solomon leaned over and patted him on the knee. I poured him a drink. He needed it.
“You understand,” said Solomon to me in French, “that such testimony as this could not be brought into court against these men? That is why this is not an affair for the police.”
I nodded. This Monsereau, too, had never heard of Zontroff. I began to see more clearly now why Solomon, if he meant to fight the blackmail gang, had to do it in his own fashion.
“Let me advise you to go away—today,” said Solomon to the broken old man. “Take your wife and go on a journey. Come back in a week’s time, and you will be in no more danger. You need not worry about your son’s case. Mont joy will not make it public.”
He had another shot of cognac, and departed. Alice Parker rejoined us, heard what had transpired, and then we proceeded to canvass the situation. Solomon was of the opinion that a gigantic blackmail ring existed here, extending into all walks of life. The Suburban Development Company was a large concern, owning enormous tracts of land all through Algeria, and now we knew how they had obtained possession of so much land, not to mention money. Mont joy had probably been at work here for a couple of years before Zontroff came to Algeria to live. This sort of thing beat horse racing or baccarat for big and steady money.
On the other hand, there had been no question of blackmail in Parker’s case. Apparently, all that Zontroff wanted from him was that photograph. But as yet we did not know why. Alice had found nothing among her father’s effects or papers to explain the mystery. She knew that during their stay in Marseilles her father had been summoned to the bedside of some dying man—someone he had known casually in Paris—and she had thought it was some trainer from the race tracks. Her father had gone to the invalid in a petulant humor, and he had returned greatly agitated. That was all she knew.
“Good!” I said. “This chap gave your father the picture. Somehow it meant a grip on Zontroff. Your father went right to the bank, and left the thing there. Later, Zontroff learned that your father had the picture.—Well, that clears things up a bit, anyhow! And now, Solomon, just what sort of a program have you in mind against this outfit?”
The little cockney puffed at his pipe.
“And what would you do, sir, if you was a doing of it?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
I looked at my watch. It was just two o’clock.
“Me?” I repeated. “Why, I’d take about four men whom I could trust, and I’d walk into Montjoy’s office in about thirty minutes and clean it out, regardless of law or order. We’d have blackjacks and pistols—and we’d use them.”
“Well, sir, you go right ahead, then, “said Solomon calmly. “I’ll supply the four men. I can get them by telephone, ’ere and now. Take that ‘ere new car o’ mine. Ahmed will run you down to the city and he can pick them up. Then you can come back with ’im to me own ’ouse and report, just like that.”
“Are you joking?” I demanded.
“I don’t joke, sir,” he returned with a singular gravity. “Them ’ere four men will know where Montjoy’s office is, and all about it.”
“Yes?” I said sarcastically. “You’ll raise them up out of the ground, will you?”
“Are you a backing down?” he demanded, while Alice looked from one to the other of us.
“No,” I said angrily. “I’ll do it with pleasure—if you’re serious.”
“Then call that ’ere chauffeur in ’ere, sir,” he replied.
I did so. This Ahmed was a tall, fine looking young chap; his bronzed features eager. Solomon addressed him in Arabic, and he grinned and saluted.
Solomon turned to me.
“The quicker the better, sir,” he said. “There ain’t no time like the present, as the old gent said when ’e kissed the ’ousekeeper. And don’t forget to ’it ’ard—but not too ’ard.”
“Right,” I said. “Good-by, Alice; see you later. Come on, Ahmed.”
I strode out to the car. Ahmed slipped under the wheel, and I climbed up beside him. A moment later we were whirling away.
“Know where to meet the four men?” I asked in French.
He merely nodded, and I asked no more questions.
NOW, this rapid fire project was by no means so mad as it might seem. As yet, Zontroff was not organized for defense; he did not anticipate any active enemy. Zelie Vassal might tell him that I was from the Paris prefecture, if she believed as much, which I doubted. Within a few hours, at most, he would be ready for anything—and the time to get in a blow was now.
I could quite see Solomon’s point in not dragging in the police. Little could be effected that way, for we had little legal evidence, and victims like Monsereau would not come into court. Within another hour or two, Solomon expected to have full information from Paris—but there was the time element again. The first hard blow is always the one that counts the most.
My theoretical proposal had been promptly turned into cold fact by Solomon. He was a shrewd old chap, and no mistake. Any ordinary raid on Montjoy’s office would effect nothing. It had to be a sharp, swift, brutal and absolutely unscrupulous affair. Then we would have a chance of securing evidence or other information. In dealing with men outside the law, we must use extra-legal means. That was the one thing that could strike fear into reptiles like Zontroff and his gang, who were doubtless fairly well protected against the law. The other fellow must always be hit where he least expects it.
The Rolls was a unique sort of car, and was marked by a bull
et, to boot. Ahmed reached under the seat and pulled out a big checked-plaid cap, far too large for me, and a big red handkerchief. I donned the cap, pulling it down over my eyes; I tied the handkerchief around my neck, turned up my coat collar, and looked like a different man. Ahmed grinned widely at sight of me.
We circled around to the south, and presently I recognized the Algerian Bois de Boulogne; then we were shooting down into the city from Mustapha Superieur. Probably Zontroff had a good many eyes out looking for me, but no one would recognize me in this garb.
Ahmed slammed on the brakes. We squealed to a halt on the big curve, by the tram station in front of the Scottish Church. Four men, apparently well-dressed Arabs, were waiting there, one of them carrying a parcel under his arm. As we halted, they jumped forward. I got down, opened the rear door, and they followed me inside the car. Ahmed started up at once.
“Where to?” he called back through the speaking tube. One of the four, a handsome, grinning rascal, flashed me a smile and made answer in French.
“Rue Andre Gide—the little street off Rue Michelet, down the hill.”
“Where is this office?” I demanded.
“Do you know its situation?”
“But yes, m’sieu’,” said the Arab. “On the second floor of a modern building for offices. There is a large outer room where a man sits at the telephone, with chairs for waiting. Inside is a second room, smaller, into which ladies are shown when they call. Two clerks are here. The private office of M. Montjoy is beyond this.” The man with the parcel opened it, to display five automatic pistols and as many deadly little blackjacks. One of each was handed to me.
I was, for an instant, pretty well dazed by this display of magic on Solomon’s part, until I realized that we had been some time getting here from the Window of the World. However, there was no time to lose.
“Your name,” I asked the cheerful devil who was evidently leader.
“Dris, m’sieu’.”
“Very well, Dris. You stick with’ me and go straight into the private office. If the outer office holds any people, tell off two of your men to pull guns and keep them quiet until our return. If not, all three come after us. Designate one of your men to knock the telephone man in the head. There is to be no talk whatever.”
Presently we swung out of the wide Rue Michelet and into a narrow street. We circled a short block and came to rest before a building of three stories, with shops on the street front and offices above. By the “second” floor, of course, Dris had meant the third, American style. A stairway between two shops led to the floors above.
We piled out, and I led the way. At the head of the stairs our objective appeared—a door marked “Suburban Development Company.”
SHOVING open the door, I walked in, with a rapid glance around. The office was fairly large, and empty of clients. About the walls were maps of suburban tracts and building sites, and, to all appearance, the place was so exactly what it seemed that for an instant my heart misgave me.
No stopping now, however. From a telephone board at one side, behind a railing that barred clients from most of the room, rose a perfect brute of a man. He was crop-headed and scowling, a splendid example of Cerberus, in his general resemblance to a bulldog.
“Well, m’sieu’?” he growled truculently.
“An appointment with M. Montjoy,” I returned.
One of the Arabs sidled past me, took the railing with a vaulting leap, and threw himself on the fellow. A second followed. One startled cry broke from the man, and that was all. There was a clump as the loaded whalebone landed, and he collapsed.
“One man to remain here, Dris!” I exclaimed, and, passing the gate of the railing, I went to the closed door of the room beyond.
It opened, and a furtive eyed rascal in his shirt sleeves stepped out squarely in front of me. I let him have it over the ear, and he went headlong. Dris squirmed past me into the next room. I heard an oath, a sharp cry, and when I got in there the second man was sprawled out, head and shoulders over a table.
“Two men here,” I said, pointing to letters and other papers in sight. “Gather up everything and get down to the car with it. If possible, wake up one of these fellows so he can walk, and take him along as a prisoner.”
Facing me was another door, on which a brass plate announced that J. M. Montjoy was the president of this precious company. I threw open the door and walked in. Montjoy sat at a large flat-topped desk, talking over the telephone. He half turned to see who had entered, and reached out with one hand to replace the instrument on the rack. He caught sight of me, and his other hand shot to the open drawer where lay a pistol. But he was an instant too late. My crack caught him squarely between the eyes, and he went limp.
“Search him,” I said to Dris. “Take everything he has. Tell your man in the outside office to cut the telephone wires. Then give me a hand here.”
The office was somber and dingy, but interesting. On the walls were a number of fine engravings; a well-stuffed bookcase stood at one side of the window; and on the other side, close to the desk, was a large iron safe whose door stood ajar.
This was far better luck than I had hoped for.
Advancing to the safe, I went through it pretty completely, but to my disgust found very little that promised to be of any interest. A few account books, a number of large ticketed envelopes, and nothing else. There was no time now to make an examination, so I piled everything on the desk and then turned to its drawers.
These yielded more material that might be of use. Dris joined me, and together we cleaned things out very well indeed. We stuffed everything into large envelopes, then I caught up Montjoy’s briefcase from a chair near the door, and we paused to look around.
“Look, m’sieu!”
Dris pointed to a large engraving on the wall. Just what he had detected I could not tell, but he sprang to it, whipped out an enormous knife, and smashed the glass. Ripping the frame and engraving apart, he disclosed a small safe, set into the wall. I checked him and went to it. We had no rime to break in now, of course, but there was always the chance that Mont joy had been at work and had left it unlocked for easy access…
The little steel door swung open to my hand.
I SCOOPED all sorts of stuff from the small receptacle before me. Packets of banknotes, cases that seemed to hold jewelry, and an account book, followed by a dozen more of the large ticketed envelopes. Convinced that we had something worthwhile here, I got everything over to the desk, called in the Arab from the outer office, and pointed to our loot.
“Load up and get down to the car—”
A sharp rapping checked me, brought me around sharply. There was another door to this office, a door that opened out into the corridor. And now the rapping was repeated on this door, vigorously, imperatively.
“Quick!—Take everything and go!” I ordered.
They hastened to obey.
We all realized the same thing. Whoever stood outside there was not far from the head of the stairs. He must be brought in here, must be allowed to enter, before Dris and his companion could get away from the entrance door.
They stuffed envelopes, cases and banknotes into their pockets and under their coats, anywhere, scooping up the booty with miraculous rapidity. I went to the outer door, which could be opened only from the inside.
The insistent knocking came again. “All right, m’sieu’!”
Dris and the other man darted out, and the door slammed behind them. I released the catch of the outer door and swung it back. Into the room came a familiar figure. As I swung the door shut behind him, he uttered a sharp exclamation and swung around, to look into my pistol. It was the same rascal who had kidnaped me on the previous day, at the post office.
“Weil, Bijou!” I exclaimed. “Up with them, quickly!”
His hands went up. His face was a picture of dismayed astonishment.
“You, m’sieu’! Name of the devil!”
I shoved the gun under his chin and frisked him, bringi
ng to light a fat pistol, which I tossed into the wastebasket. He took in everything rapidly—the figure of Montjoy on the floor, the open safes and drawers, the confusion evident on all sides.
“A razzia?” he muttered.
“Exactly, a raid,” I said, cheerfully. “You’re out of luck, Bijou.—Come! You’re not a bad sort, and I hate to knock you on the head. I’ll give you the first chance to cough up everything you know, and I promise you’ll get off scot free. We’ve got Zontroff and most of the gang, so you might as well earn your liberty instead of being sent up with them.—Yes or no?”
He was too old a bird to fall for that sort of chaff.
“Don’t come that over me, m’sieu’,” he said amiably, and laughed at me. “I’d sooner take my chances than have Zontroff get his hands on me for treachery. Besides, you haven’t got him, because I was talking with Zelie not five minutes ago on the boulevard, and he had just dropped her there. A good bluff, m’sieu’, but it doesn’t work.”
I acknowledged my defeat with a smile.
“Anyhow, I owe you a bit of decency,” I said, “and I can’t knock you out in cold blood. So turn around and put out your wrists. Better still, sit down in that chair.”
“Right. You’re a good fellow,” he said.
Going to the desk chair, he sat down in it. He stuck his legs out under the desk and settled down.
“Hands to the rear? Right, mon capitaine.—So you’ve got Zontroff, have you? That’s a good one, that is.” Something in his impudent grin, in his volubility, in his eye, warned me. I cut him short and leaned forward. Sure enough, he was working his right foot against some sort of a lever there…
ALMOST in my face came the blast of a shot. I could actually feel the hot breath of the bullet as it passed my forehead. A gun was fastened under the desk, and by tripping a trigger with his foot, Bijou had all but got me.
As it exploded, he was on his feet, grabbing a chair from beside the desk and throwing it toward me. As I dodged he made a dive for his gun in the wastebasket at one side. I staggered but half blind as I was, I let him have it twice. He crumpled up and fell forward across the waste basket, and I can swear that he was laughing at me as he died.
The Terror of Algiers Page 6