The next instant I was out in the corridor.
At the head of the stairs, however, I came to an abrupt pause. Those shots had given the alarm. Voices were rising below, feet were pounding the floors. I turned and ducked down the corridor, knowing there must be a rear stairs. A door opened, and another, as I passed. Excited. French voices shrilled out cries after me, but I gained the dark narrow little stairs at the rear and shot down them.
At the landing I caromed into someone coming up. I sent him cursing and reeling aside, and went on. I tossed the cap behind me, got rid of the red handkerchief from around my neck, and gained the second floor corridor. There people were standing around staring or running for the front stairs, already half choked with figures. I calmly walked through them all to the front, and descended to the street. Two agents, batons in hand, went rushing past me as I came down to the sidewalk.
But the Rolls had gone. Probably Ahmed had lit out the minute those shots were heard. In its place stood a big Minerva, and, face to face with me as I cleared the last step, was Zontroff.
CHAPTER VI - TO THE SURÊTÉ
FOR an instant both of us stopped dead still. All that saved me was that he did not know what had happened, and I did. I was altogether desperate, and he must have read it in my face, as my hand shot down to the pistol in my coat pocket and covered him.
All that saved Zontroff was the fact that two more police agents were coming along at a run, shoving past me to get to the stairway. I walked up to him and then I knew I had him, for as he looked into my eyes he turned pale for an instant, and a stab of quick fear came into the bloodshot fury of his own gaze. So the gorilla could know fear, after all!
At that, I turned away and strode off down the sidewalk, toward Rue Michelet, counting on his wild desire to learn what had happened upstairs, and whether I was connected with it, to give me an opportunity to get away. And I was right. A glance backward showed that he was just disappearing up the stairway.
A queer thing, that meeting—one of those momentary, incredible things that do happen in real life. We had come face to face, and parted without a word. I had altogether too much sense to shoot him down there on the street unless he forced me to do it. He knew I had him covered, and he dared not make any move against me, either. Probably, too, he still believed me to be a police agent from Paris. It is hard to say.
As I came to the wide Rue Michelet, a down-bound tram was just plunging past. I hopped it on the fly, and though the conductor cussed me out, I smiled and flung a joke at him and it was all settled in French fashion as I paid my fare. I gave the Square Bresson as my destination. And there I was—perfectly certain that no one was on my trail, either.
At the first alarm, of course, Ahmed and the other four had simply driven away from there fast; probably they had had instructions to that effect. And quite right. Our loot was the most important thing to consider. The only trouble was that it left me out in the cold. I was a rather conspicuous figure. I had no hat, and nowhere to go. I knew about where John Solomon’s villa was located, but to get there without a car was impossible.
And so when we came into Rue de Constantine I abandoned the tram, in the busiest part of downtown Algiers, and stopped in at a clothing store to buy a hat.
I picked out a good Parisian black felt with a wide brim, and as I tried it on before a glass I noticed a faint red mark across my forehead. Bijou had come just that close to getting me once and for all.
Once under the hat brim, I sauntered forth and stopped in at the first cafe for a good stiff drink. To be honest, I needed it. If I had not noticed that weal across my forehead, I would have felt badly about doing in that fellow Bijou, for he was a cheerful rascal. Now I didn’t mind so much.
At all events, I reflected, as I sat watching the varied life of Algiers stream past, we had pulled off a neat job, and in all probability it would prove to be a big thing. It was grimly amusing to consider my own part in this tangled affair.
Why was I in it at all? For no earthly reason, except that a man on the boat had given me an envelope to keep for him—and then I had met Alice Parker.
“Mr. Herries, you’re an absolute fool,” I told myself disgustedly. ”You’re mixed up in something as deadly as a real hot Chicago gang war, and you’ve got no excuse for it. What madness keeps you here?”
Madness, indeed! I had every reason in the world to hire an automobile and go straight to Solomon’s villa, which I knew to be somewhere on the heights near the Observatory. Instead, I ordered a second drink and sat sipping it. A thousand perplexing questions tugged at me, and the answer to all of them lay in that villa on the Bouzareah Road; yet I sat here idle, gripped by some cursed spell. Probably it was the reaction from what had just happened, and I suppose some trace of the drug from the preceding evening had also laid hold on my brain.
What hurry, anyhow? We had smashed Zontroff’s machine gun nest, and Solomon could do the rest. In any case, the Vassal woman was far more poisonous than the big Bulgar; she was the brains of his whole outfit. Well, the whole thing was done, and there remained only to make a clean-up. Under one stiff blow, I thought, that gang had collapsed like a punctured balloon.
A MAN came over to my table, pulled out a chair without making the usual apology, and seated himself. He was looking hard at me. I gave him a glance, as he ordered a drink, and found him to be a stranger—a hard-eyed Frenchman with the figure of a soldier. His features were clean-cut, aggressive, positive.
“A fine day, m’sieu’,” he observed. “M’sieu’ is a stranger to our beautiful city?”
“No,” I said. “I have been here many times.”
“Ah, an American!” His brows lifted, then he produced a wallet. ”M’sieu’, I have something here to show you.”
A flash of warning came to me from his tone and manner. He drew out a card and laid it before me. It was his official card, corresponding to a badge in other countries, and proclaiming that Michel Santerre was an inspector of the first class from the Surêté—in other words, an undercover man from detective headquarters. I looked up, met his alert, intent gaze, and knew that I was in bad hands. This man was nobody’s fool.
“Well?” I asked.
“You have papers, m’sieu’? You are not a tourist?”
“A business man, M. Santerre,” I replied. “My papers are among my things at the Hotel des Strangers. But since when does one need papers in Algiers?”
He shrugged and replaced his card. “Circumstances alter cases, m’sieu’,” he rejoined pleasantly. “First, that m’sieu’ seems to carry a pistol in his coat pocket, unless I mistake. That is a contravention of the law. Second, and far more important, m’sieu’ wears a superb ring—a magnificent ring! It is, no doubt, your property?”
I glanced down at the accursed diamond which Zontroff had given me. If, as was most probable, Zontroff’s men were looking for me, they would watch my hotel. To go back there in search of my papers would be rank folly.
“To the best of my knowledge, it is,” I answered. “It was given to me yesterday by a friend.”
He threw me a skeptical look.
“Indeed? M’sieu’ is lucky—or unlucky—in his choice of friends. It so happens that this ring was part of the loot taken by robbers some three months ago, when a wealthy native, Si Mohamed ben Zenina, was murdered and his house pillaged.”
I started slightly. So that explained Zontroff’s generosity!
“The friend,” I said, watching him, “is named Zontroff.”
His gaze narrowed. “So much the worse for you, m’sieu’. I have heard of the gentleman, and have heard little good.”
“The devil!” I exclaimed. “Did you ever hear of John Solomon?”
“Never, m’sieu’,” he said, politely.
The waiter brought his drink. He tossed it off and laid down a coin, then looked at me.
“Perhaps m’sieu’ will accompany me to the Surêté without protest? It is not far, but if m’sieu’ desires that we take a taxicab,
it will avoid unpleasant publicity. And the weapon, if you please—”
I nodded, took the pistol from my pocket, and slipped it to him under the table. He held his nose down to it for an instant as he thrust it away.
“Ah! Recently used, m’sieu’? That is very bad.”
It was. Nothing could be worse. I felt an insane impulse to break out laughing, but I did not. The irony of this situation was frightful, because I had fallen into the hands of an absolutely honest man. If I told him about Solomon, he would disbelieve me. There was no chance of getting him to take me to that villa on the heights. It was now jail or nothing. He was treating me with every courtesy simply because I was an American, but the steely hardness of his eyes warned me that he meant business. And I felt convinced that if I were once clapped in jail, Zontroff’s men would know it instantly, with unhappy consequences for me. I had no desire to be ripped up by a native knife while confined in a cell.
“M’SIEU’,” I said, getting out my cigarettes and lighting one,” I have given you the pistol. I consent to accompany you, knowing that when the full explanations are made I shall not be held guilty of any fault. But let me ask whether this M. Zontroff has influence?”
He probed me with those steely eyes for a moment.
“He has,” was his response. “I regret to say that he has extraordinary influence. If it is brought to bear in your favor, I believe it will save you. But I shall do my best to fight it, I assure you. By heaven, not all of us are corrupt or afraid to move!—Come.”
He stood up, and I got out a ten-franc note to pay for my drinks. Worse and worse! This man, to whom duty was obviously paramount, would be the means of my destruction. And now he was doubly suspicious of me.
“Wait!” I exclaimed, rising. “The American consulate, perhaps? I-am known there.”
“After the Surêté, perhaps,” he said. “But that comes first. It is now imperative. Your arm, if you please. Unless you prefer bracelets.”
I shrugged and gave up, with a laugh.
“Santerre,” I said whimsically, “you should be my best friend, but you seem to be my worst enemy. Evidently I’ve talked myself into the Surêté, so let’s go.”
He nodded and hooked his arm within mine as we went out to the curb. The man had an arm like steel, and his eyes were like steel, and decidedly I was in a very bad fix. What an invaluable ally he would be, I thought, under different circumstances!
An idea burst upon me like a skyrocket, just as the rental car caught his signal and came in to the curb.
“After you, m’sieu’,” said Santerre, urging me at the open door. “To the Surêté,” he told the driver.
I got in, nerved to the job ahead, and braced myself against the far side of the car. Santerre, stooping over, got in, half turned, and reached back to close the door. As it slammed, my fist drove up and hit him squarely on the angle of his hard jaw. It was a beautiful crack, a short-arm jolt that went straight to the spot. He dropped back on the seat just as the car started, and lay limp.
I leaned forward, jerked back the glass partition behind the driver.
“My friend is drunk, mon ami,” I said. “Go on to the Avenue de la Marne, and up the hill to Bouzareah. We want to go to a villa between there and the Observatory, but I shall have to ask directions at Bouzareah.”
He nodded comprehension, and I closed the window.
Poor Santerre was knocked cold, and very lucky he was, as Solomon would have said. I frisked him rapidly, put his gun and my own on the seat, found his handcuffs, and slipped them on his wrists. Then I sat back, lit a cigarette, and with a good deal of satisfaction, devoted myself to seeing Algiers.
We might have gone back by way of Mustapha Superieur, but must then have passed somewhere within reach of Zontroff’s villa, and I wanted to take no chances. So we rolled ahead, straight through town, skirted the Arab quarter, struck into Avenue de la Marne, with the Mediterranean sparkling off to our right, then swung into the long, tortuous climb up the hillside slopes. I had a brief glimpse, high above on the right, of the marvelously situated Notre Dame d’Afrique, one of the most imposing churches in the whole world, and I knew that the Observatory must be directly above us, not half a mile distant as the crow flies. To gain it, however, we had to climb for miles.
We were past the Arab and Jewish cemeteries, the miserable little engine of the car puffing and huffing as it chugged up the grade. Out of the city now, and winding along the little valley that ever climbed toward Bouzareah; past le Beau Fraisier, which meant that we were not so far from my luncheon place, the Window of the World; and on. I looked at Santerre, and saw his lids flicker open.
“Take it coolly, mon ami,” I told him as he wakened. “Here’s a cigarette for you. Let me do the talking, and you’ll learn something of interest.”
Putting a cigarette between his lips, I held the match for him, then leaned back and began to talk. He said nothing, but watched and listened intently as I briefly sketched what had happened to me, and what I knew of Solomon. Once I had the story under way I no longer feared any action on his part, and the vivid gleam in his eyes told of his swift concentration.
SKIPPING details, I told about my raid on the office of Montjoy, and how it had ended.
A sharp exclamation broke from him.
“Bijou!” he said. “Ah! I know that rascal well—too well! He is a bad one.
I had him up three weeks ago for murdering a girl, and I would have proved it—but there was interference. He got off clean.”
“Thanks to Zontroff, eh?” I commented. “Now, Santerre, I knew there was no hope of making you believe my story, so I jumped you. I’m taking you along to Solomon himself, where you can have all the proof you want.”
“A pack of lies!” he said. “Tout à la blague! Or so I fear. At the same time, its very improbability is striking. A good liar would have thought up a more plausible yarn. Diantre! How my jaw hurts! You have a fist like iron. There is another charge against you—that of striking an agent, m’sieu’.” He grinned slightly.
“Want me to take off those handcuffs?” I asked.
He looked astonished.
“You are in earnest?”
“Of course. Give me your word of honor to go along, then tell me where the key is, and I’ll take them off. You’re honest, Santerre, and you’re a good scout—exactly the man to combine forces with us. Agreed?”
He frowned. “Hm! I’ll go with you, yes, and interview this Solomon. If he is what you say it is extraordinary. In that case, of course, I’m with you. If you’re lying, or trying some trick—” He broke off with a shrug. I pointed out that the pistols were between us on the seat and that he was welcome to his own weapon; I had no reason to try any tricks. He nodded grudging assent to this, and told me in which pocket lay the key to the handcuffs.
I fumbled for it, and had just drawn it out when the car gave a frightful lurch that flung us both off the seat in a scrambled heap on the floor. The car skidded to a halt. I half rose, and outside the window I saw a hideous skull-and-crossbones glaring at me. The sight of it stupefied me for an instant—until I realized that it was nothing more than the usual emphatic sign of a high-tension power pole, designed to keep Arabs away.
The door of the car was swung open and a curt voice ordered us out. Swinging around one of the numerous sharp curves, we had come upon two bicycle agents blocking the road—a pair of those mobile police, carbines slung over their shoulders, who keep the outskirts and suburbs of the city in order. As I got out, one of them shoved a gun into my face and uttered an exclamation.
“We have him, Pierre! This is the man.—Quick!”
The other leaped at me, and snapped bracelets on my wrists, almost before I woke up to his intent. Santerre, who still had on his own handcuffs, was jerked out of the car; the two pistols were found, and the bicycle agents curtly told our driver to turn around and beat it. He did so, with obvious relief, and without asking for his pay.
FOR the next ten minutes, while on
e of our captors shrilled at intervals on his whistle, undoubtedly a signal to someone, the air was perfectly and superbly blue around us. I said nothing, for I had no chance; but Santerre went into action like a volcano. When a Frenchman gets excited, in the ordinary course of events, he is marvelous to watch and hear; but when he really lays himself out, as Santerre did, he has a flow of language that is simply miraculous.
And those two cops just stood there and let him talk. He cursed them up and down. He told them who he was, demanded that they get out his papers, made all sorts of furious commands and pleadings, but they merely hitched up their mustaches and grinned at each other. There was no doubt that they were real agents, of course, but their whole attitude was unreal. Finally, even Santerre sensed something queer in the air, and, having cursed himself out of breath, he fell silent.
“M’sieu’,” said one of the two, “it may be as you say. We do not know you—we do not care who you are, except that you are in the company of this man. You wear handcuffs; obviously you are not from the Surêté.—We are from the gendarmerie of Bouzareah ourselves, and we must take this rascal to be identified by the persons he has robbed and injured.” ”And who,” roared Santerre, with a storm of curses, “are these persons?” ” One of the most respected proprietors of the vicinity, and his household,” was the reply. “No other, in fact, than the excellent M. Zontroff, a most amiable gentleman.”
Santerre was struck dumb, and I broke into laughter. I could not help it. The situation was exactly reversed for Santerre’s benefit; and now he knew how I had felt when he grabbed me. Zontroff had simply had the incredible audacity to put out all the country police from the hill towns to block the roads and grab me, probably offering a huge reward. To them, of course, he was the owner of a magnificent property, a wealthy and respectable person quite above reproach; they cared not a jot whether Santerre was from detective headquarters or not.—Finding him in handcuffs was something he could not readily explain.
The Terror of Algiers Page 7