He flew into a cold rage at that; but before he had much chance to talk, a large closed car made its appearance and drew up alongside. Three of Zontroff’s men were in it—one of them I recognized as Boris, his secretary. They made short work of me and Santerre, bundling us into their car, while Boris spoke with the two police.
“Come to the villa after us,” I heard him say. “Whether the master desires to have any arrests made, we cannot say. The reward is yours, at all events; he will talk to these two men.—Look! One of them wears the diamond ring of which I told you—stolen from the master!”
He pointed at me. Santerre broke into a torrent of furious speech, trying to tell who he was, that the ring was stolen property, that Zontroff was himself a rascal. In fact, he said so much that I saw the Slavs give one another a look and a nod. He made no impression on these two blockheads of police, however.
The next moment we were being driven rapidly away. Clenched in my hand, I still had the little key of Santerre’s handcuffs. They frisked mv clothes, but did not find it.
CHAPTER VII - M. LE PRÉFET.
TO make a long story short, we were driven to Zontroff’s splendid villa, and under the porte-cochere our Slav guards disembarked us, pistol in hand. They were taking no chances with us, and they made the fact entirely clear.
We were led into the house, through the glittering rooms, and to that same library where Zontroff had taken me. He was not there, however. In his place, and seated at the wide desk, was Zelie Vassal, talking rapidly over the telephone. I caught a flash from her eyes at sight of us, then she made a gesture which Boris quite understood. Santerre and I were taken to two chairs at one side of the room—two huge arm chairs placed there side by side—and made to sit down. A chain from the back of each chair was passed about our waists, and we were there for keeps.
The Vassal woman put down her telephone and spoke to Boris in French.
“You may go. Remain on duty. M. du Croissant will arrive at any moment, and when he comes, bring him right in.”
Boris bowed. “There are two gendarmes, madame—”
“Let them wait outside. Give them something to drink, and the promised reward. Tell them that M. du Croissant wishes to speak with them himself, a little later.”
A flash of admiration passed across Boris’s thin, sallow features, and he withdrew. We were alone with that splendid cat. She bore the marks of our morning interview, from which my own arms and shoulders were fearfully sore; but she had covered them with a gauze scarf wrapped about her neck. Taking up a cigarette, she lit it and then advanced toward us, her gaze fastened on me.
“So we are going to finish our talk of this morning, my honest American?” she said softly.
“Are you sure you want to?” I asked cheerfully. “I thought it was finished already. Didn’t you get enough?”
She smiled mockingly. At this instant Santerre struck in, with some agitation.
“Is it true? Will M. du Croissant be here?”
She looked at him and waved her cigarette.
“Be silent, dog!” she returned with contempt. “Speak when you’re addressed—So,” and her gaze came back to me, “you were very ready this morning to confess that you came from the Paris prefecture, eh? But now we know otherwise. You are a friend of that silly American girl. That is your real interest in our business, isn’t it?”
“That’s it,” I admitted, promptly.
“How does it happen that this man was found with you, handcuffed?”
“That was his bad luck,” I told her. “He arrested me, and I overpowered him. Then your agents picked us both up.”
“Well, we know him, all right,” she said, giving Santerre a slight smile.
It made me shiver, that smile, but it did not seem to affect him.
“You’ll be questioned in due—” she went on.
The telephone summoned her with sharp insistence. She darted back to the desk, picked up the instrument, and her face changed.
“Oh! Good! We have the American,” she exclaimed rapidly, and I knew she was talking with Zontroff. “And another with him. Your friend Santerre from the Surêté—Yes, quite safe. Here is a most important wire, just arrived from Paul, at Paris. It is dated three days ago, and has just been delivered. He says Inspector Magnieux has been sent to Algiers from the Surêté, there, bearing the dossier of your case. He warns you to have him met. Something is up; we can’t tell what… Why was it not delivered? How do I know? Perhaps M. du Croissant can tell us when he comes… Not yet… What?… Very well. We’ll expect you.”
She hung up again. I glanced at Santerre, and saw that perspiration was standing out on his face in beads. He seemed to know who this M. du Croissant was.
It seemed to me now that I had been slightly premature in thinking this game finished.
THERE was a knock at the door. Boris opened it, and admitted a stout, florid gentleman sumptuously attired, from silk topper to gray spats. In the lapel of his frock coat were the ribbons of decorations. He looked impressive and he was impressive. The lady advanced to meet him with outstretched hand, over which he bowed.
“Dear M. du Croissant! It was so good of you to come at once!” she exclaimed.
He straightened up, his eye fell upon us, and he started slightly at sight of Santerre.
The lady turned to us mockingly. “Undoubtedly you know M. du Croissant?” she said. “Since the unfortunate suicide of the late prefect, he is our acting prefect of police—Look at these two rascals, my dear prefect! One is the American of whom we told you.”
I knew the cause of Santerre’s agitation now, and I must confess that I shared it. This man, the acting prefect of police, was most palpably a tool of Zontroff’s gang. More likely, they had him in some blackmailing grip.
He drew himself up, trying to look pompous, but it was clear that he was ill at ease.
“So, Santerre!” he said in a rasping voice. “You were warned, and you refused to heed the warning.”
“Species of a cabbage!” spat out Santerre.
The prefect flushed red at this insult. He glared at Santerre, then turned his back on us. He accepted the chair offered him, and took a cigar from his pocket.
“We must not talk before these two,” he said.
The Vassal woman laughed gaily.
“Don’t worry about them, my friend! They are safe, I assure you—I believe you said that you had some disturbing intelligence?”
“Yes. My predecessor,” said Croissant, “left various papers, some of which I found only today. It appears that there is a man here—some sort of foreigner—who is high in favor with the Ministry. So much so that special powers have been accorded him. It appears that several days ago he requested that all cables and telegrams addressed here should be held up, and that copies supplied him—”
“Ah!” she broke in, with a start. “That explains it! The delayed message.—And who is this man? Not the American there?”
“Not at all,” said Croissant. “Personally, I do not know him. His name is Solomon, and I gather that he has recently built a villa near Bouzareah.”
The woman straightened up a little. She seemed thunderstruck at this intelligence.
“Solomon? That miserable little wretch of an Englishman?” she exclaimed. “Impossible! But I remember now—yes, yes!” Her eyes flashed. “It was his car that picked up this American only this morning. He has visited Mile. Parker frequently at her hotel.—And you say he has been given extraordinary powers?”
“Unheard of powers!” said Croissant, and moved uncomfortably. “I tell you, I do not understand it! I do not like it! There are agencies at work of which we know nothing, my dear lady, and it disquiets me!”
“You’d be decidedly more disquieted if you were against us,” she said grimly, and the man shrank a little at her words.
I knew then that my guess had been correct.
“So! It is this little shrimp of a Solomon!” she spat out. “We owe you much for this information, Croissant
.—Hm! Now let me think.”
Croissant was not the man to let her think. He was too uneasy.
“And you have already gone too far,” he went on, with a gesture. “These suicides! The whole city is in terror. You have not seen the evening paper? It is filled with talk of suicides. There is a tremendous agitation about it. Petitions and requests flood my office. People are talking of this frightful epidemic; it has taken hold of the public imagination and—”
She looked up at him. “You heard of this afternoon’s murder, M. Frontiniers?”
“Bijou? But yes!” exclaimed M. du Croissant. “Just before I left the office to come here. I know no details. This Bijou was an honest fellow, a good sort. There was some sort of a raid made upon the office of M. Mont-joy, I understand.”
“EXACTLY.” She smiled thinly. “This American made it, and he killed poor Bijou.”
She struck a bell on the desk, and Boris entered.
“Did you not say something about a pistol?” she asked him.
“Two pistols, madame,” said Boris.
“One was that of M. Santerre. The other, undoubtedly belonging to the American, had been very recently used.”
“Take good care of it, then, for M. le Préfet may want it later,” she returned, and dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
When the door closed, Croissant surveyed her and cleared his throat nervously.
“And why, my dear lady,” he asked, “would I want that pistol?”
“Because with it the American killed Bijou,” she replied. You can very easily establish that fact. We took his fingerprints last night—he was here, asleep—and they are ready for you to take to your office. You have the weapons which killed the late Préfet, the late Leconte, the late Parker, and so on. The proper fingerprints can be supplied to them—at least, to the silenced pistol which killed Leconte. The American was on that boat with him. You understand?”
“Ah, ah!” exclaimed the plump rascal, in a thoughtful voice. “Yes, excellent! Fasten the murder of Leconte upon him, and that will break the talk of a suicide epidemic. But then, what if people begin to ask questions? What if they ask questions about the other suicides? What if they think that those, also, might have been murder?”
“That must be risked,” she returned promptly.
This hellcat had brains, as I had known from the start.
“It is established that the American killed Bijou, at least,” she went on, ” and headed a mad attempt at robbery, similar to the way such things are done in America, as everyone knows. M. Montjoy, who is badly hurt, will give evidence against him, as will the others. His fingerprints found upon the pistol that killed Leconte, will be presumptive evidence of that crime, also. The murder of Bijou will be sufficient to finish him—”
“But a weapon was found under Bijou’s hand!” said the prefect. “I recall, the report said something about it—”
“Adjust it—suppress it—do what the devil you like!” exclaimed the woman, her eyes flashing. “But arrange it! Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes.” Croissant who was perspiring heavily, wilted at the imperative tone of her voice. “Yes, I will arrange it instantly—What else?”
“Get it in the morning papers, with full details,” she went on. “Proclaim that you will capture this murderer, this gunman from America. Stake your reputation upon it, stake your position—everything—upon it! Later in the day, you will receive a clue. You will head your own men, you will find him at a certain spot—you comprehend?”
It was ludicrous how the man changed beneath the spell of this woman’s dynamic words. He straightened up in his chair and became animated, as his imagination was touched. He saw himself making a grandstand play, a dramatic capture of a desperate criminal, and it literally tickled him pink. I saw him turn red, right up to his plump ears.
“Admirable!” he gasped. “Admirable! And what will M. Zontroff say to all this? He will approve?”
“Fool!” she snapped angrily. “He will say what I say, naturally.”
“Of course, of course!” babbled Croissant, appeasingly.
He still saw himself as the popular hero, and he dared not resent her language anyway. Then the woman caught my eye, as I watched them; and leaving her chair, she crossed over before me.
“So you would choke me, you brute?” She flung the words at me with a sudden intensity of passion, a vehemence. I thought she meant to hit me. “Well, you can sit there and hear what will become of you. Eh?—But you’ll not be taken alive, American imbecile! Bah!”
SHE spat in my face, then switched around and went back to the desk. I stole a glance at Santerre, like a schoolboy, and he grinned at me. She struck her bell, and when Boris entered, told him to have the pistol and the fingerprints ready for M. du Croissant to take away.
“Very well, madame,” said Boris. “The car of M. Zontroff is approaching.”
At this information, she merely nodded. Croissant, however, preened his ruffled plumage and became quite another man, pompous and authoritative now. Like most Frenchmen, he was not at all himself before a woman such as this; I imagine he was in deadly fear of her.
“Those letters, madame?” he asked quickly, nervously.
She nodded.
“Tomorrow, immediately after this affair is finished, they shall be returned to you,” she said. “My word upon it.” He rose and bowed over her hand, delighted. If the letters which he mentioned, however, represented the blackmailing grip of this gang, I did not think he would see them for many a long day. With the prefect of police, the most powerful man in Algiers in their hold, they would be fools to let loose.
A moment later Zontroff strode into the room, looking more than ever like a gorilla dressed up in the garments of a man. He flung a savage scowl at us, but turned at once to the Vassal woman and bent over her hand in greeting; then he shook hands with Croissant.
My old friend Montjoy appeared, with a bandage about his head, and came to a halt.
“Imagine!” cried Zontroff, gesturing to me. “That madman killed Bijou, assaulted Montjoy and the others and left them senseless! He cleaned out the office safe—the wall safe—everything! There were accomplices with him. We do not know who they were—natives, in any case. They cleared out with everything, and we have no idea where to find them!”
“We will soon learn,” said Zelie, throwing me a cruel smile.
“Pardon me,” put in the prefect, in his most pompous manner. “Has information been laid against this American by name?”
Montjoy exchanged a look with Zontroff, and shook his head.
“No, M. le Préfet,” he replied. “Frankly, I did not know just what I should say, so I said nothing. I said I had recognized no one. Of course, when I said this—”
“You were weak and faint and injured,” broke in Croissant, unctuously. “You must give truthful evidence, m’sieu’. The truth, above all! I must have a statement from you at once.”
Zelie Vassal made him a sign to be quiet, and at once took charge of everything. One felt the ascendancy of her character here, as even Zontroff who was bursting with rage, waited for her to speak.
“M. le Préfet, there are two gendarmes outside; the men who captured these men yonder. Suppose you speak with them, reassure them, compliment them. Suggest that the American, at least, is a dangerous character, and that you will investigate him. Say you are sending a car for him this evening, and get rid of the pair. M. Montjoy will join you immediately, and will return to the city with you, in order to amplify his statement—Boris! Kindly conduct this gentleman.”
Croissant assented instantly, bowed over her hand, and departed with the reptilian Boris. When the door closed, Zontroff looked at her and exploded.
“Worse than we thought! Everything is gone—everything! This fool Montjoy had left the wall safe open, and—”
“It is only supposed to be closed at night, m’sieu’!” exclaimed Montjoy.
Zontroff whirled upon him with upraised fists, but the woma
n calmly pushed him away.
“Never mind!—Montjoy, go and join the prefect. You recognized the murderer, of course. It was this American. You even saw the shot fired, for you were only pretending to be senseless until you could get hold of a weapon. Bijou was unarmed. You comprehend?”
“Perfectly, madame,” said the dapper Montjoy, and so took his departure.
Zontroff was alone with his secretary and his two prisoners.
HE shook his fist at me, turned to the desk, picked up and lighted a cigarette, while the woman stood watching him with a half smile. Then, suddenly, he turned to her, all his rage banished. To my amazement, he showed that he did have some brains after all.
“This—all of it—” and he waved his cigarette towards us, “amounts to nothing. The important thing is the message you gave me, my dear Zelie. This Inspector Magnieux, you comprehend? I failed to get the message in time to arrange to meet him! It is the affair of that photograph, beyond any doubt.”
“Exactly!” said the woman. “But this American has two prints from that film. I know where they are now. I know to whom this Inspector Magnieux is coming. There was no boat from Marseilles today; therefore he will not arrive until tomorrow. You understand?”
A flash of ferocious joy leaped across Zontroff’s face.
“You know all this?” he exclaimed. “Then—”
“Let us get rid of these two imbeciles,” and the woman waved a hand at us. “Let them cool their heels for a while; they make me nervous, sitting, there staring at us. And there is much to do. We have no time to waste. Eh?”
Zontroff nodded and touched the bell.
By this time it was rapidly growing dark, for the afternoon had passed insensibly into sunset and dusk. Boris appeared, switched on the lights, and Zontroff told him to take us away.
“Give them some food and wine,” he said, “but do not injure them. Make them secure in the usual manner.”
Boris called in two of his men. Our chains were unbuckled, and with a pistol stuck in our backs, we were marched away, out into the hall. To one side of us was the porte-cochere entrance, and as our two conductors halted us, opening a door ahead that showed a flight of steps going down, I glanced outside in the desperate hope of making a break for it.
The Terror of Algiers Page 8