And there, drawn up before the doorway, I saw a big Rolls car, with the figure of John Solomon just alighting from it.
Before I could see more, I was shoved violently toward the stairs, and Santerre was shoved after me. We were bustled ahead and down, a third Slav in livery appearing to help the other two.
The door swung shut behind us. We were in the cellars of the villa—stone paved, stone walled—in this country where manual labor counted for nothing in building.
THEN, of a sudden, I lost my head.
The sight of Solomon, the knowledge that he was up above and entering this house from which he would not depart alive, maddened me. I hurled myself on the three guards, struck at them with my handcuffed hands, stretched one of them out with a kick—and for my pains got the butt of a pistol over my head.
When I came to myself, I was alone with Santerre, who sat beside me. Heavy chains, made fast to staples in the wall, had been passed inside our manacled wrists, effectually holding us within a small radius of action. A candle burned dimly in a niche, and on the stones before us was a tray bearing wine and bread and cheese.
“So you’re awake!” exclaimed Santerre. He had poured a little wine between my lips and had brought me around. “I thought you’d never come to yourself, my friend.”
I sat up and put my hands to my head. Something fell from my clenched grip and tinkled on the stones. It was the little handcuff key, but I did not sense that for the moment. My head was swimming, and it ached like misery from the crack I had received.
“Did you see it?” I asked. “The car—the man? That was Solomon.
How long is it since they brought us here?”
“Half an hour; perhaps more,” said Santerre, composedly.
I uttered a groan.
“Yes, I saw the car. You say it was Solomon? Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes. That means he’s dead by this time,” I said despairingly. “They’ve learned about him. They’ll not let him out of here alive.”
He said nothing; instead, he gave me the bottle of wine. I drank a little, and felt better. And with this, I remembered the key and fumbled around until I found it.
“Hold out your hands,” I said bitterly.
He did so. I placed the key in the lock, and next moment he was free. A sharp exclamation burst from him.
“Incredible!” The man was dumbfounded. “You mean to say you kept that key—all this while? But now, what about you? Here, wait—wait! Help me! They must not suspect—”
A noise reached us, and voices. A shaft of light illumined the stairs, to one side.
Hurriedly, he placed the handcuffs upon his wrists again, the iron chain looped about them. All but closed, they appeared as before. The little key I slipped into his pocket in case of need.
Two of the guards—the surly Slavs in the black and scarlet livery—came down the stairs and held an electric flashlight on us. One of them came forward and ordered me to put out my hands. To my amazement, he unlocked my handcuffs.
“You are free,” he said gruffly. “Come with us. But if you try any tricks, we shoot.”
“But what does it mean?” I demanded. “Why am I free, and not my friend? Are you taking me out to murder me?”
They laughed at that. “No,” said one. “Come. Move! Don’t be an imbecile.”
“Au revoir,” said Santerre to me. “Remember, all is well.—Until later.”
Not believing my own senses, I went to the stairs. The two followed me, more slowly, and motioned me to go on up. I was free—actually free!
Mounting, expecting at each instant to hear a shot, to feel the thrust of a bullet, I came to the top of the stairs. In the hall, in the splendidly ornate rooms, everything was a blaze of light.
At the door, alone, stood the incredible, pudgy figure of Solomon, pipe in hand.
“If I was you, Mr. Herries,” he said calmly, “I’d move werry sharp—just like that!”
CHAPTER VIII - SIGNAL FLASHES
TO me it seemed like a dream, impossible of being true. Then, as we moved out to where the car waited, saw the huge, bulking figure of Zontroff beside the car.
Solomon went past me and addressed him in French.
“You have them?”
“Yes,” said Zontroff, scowling. “Take him and go.”
From behind us, from somewhere inside the house, I heard a shrill, passionate voice lifting in imprecations, in furious utterance. It was the voice of the Vassal woman. The wild, inhuman note of rage made me shiver again. I required no urging, but hopped into the car and had a glimpse of Ahmed, under the wheel. Solomon followed, and the door slammed. The next instant we went rolling away.
“Is this a miracle?” I demanded.
“It ain’t over yet, sir!” returned Solomon’s voice, now sharp and urgent. “Take this,” and I felt an automatic shoved into my hand. “They may ’ave a trick or two at the gates. If that danged female ’ad ’er way, we wouldn’t be let go at all.”
The gates appeared ahead, in the lights of the car. They swung open to us. We were through—free—sweeping out in the sharp descent ahead!
Then, for the first time, I recollected Santerre, and gasped out his name.
“Never ’eard of ’im!” said Solomon, in the darkness beside me. “Who is ‘e, sir?”
“We must go back for him!” I exclaimed. “We can’t leave the poor fellow—!”
“Dang it, don’t act like a pesky female!” Solomon’s voice was shrill, as I had never heard it, all vibrant with anger and contempt. “Go back? It can’t be done. There ain’t no going back now, as the old gent said when ’e kissed the ’ousemaid.”
“But how did you get me away?” I demanded, still dazed with it all. “Why did they give me up? That hellcat had planned everything with the prefect of police.”
“So she said,” uttered Solomon grimly. “She’s fair carryin’ on about it this minute, too. In ‘ysterics, she is. But that danged Zontroff ’e went and threw ’er overboard, when ’e seen it was a question of ’imself. He traded—fair and square.”
“Traded?” I exclaimed. “What?”
“I give ’im them ’ere two photographic prints for you, sir.”
“The devil you did!” I exclaimed. “I don’t know yet what they are or what they mean to him, but I know he’d give a good deal to get hold of them!”
Solomon chuckled. “And so ’e did, sir!—just like that. ’E give you up, ’e did. We’ve ’ad a battle royal, so to speak, for the past ’alf ’our, sir. That ’ere female—dang it, I’ve met some women in my time, but she fair beats ’em all! Yes, sir.—Well, you set back and don’t ’ave no more talking. I ’ave to get me thoughts in order, so to speak.”
So I did. To tell the truth, I felt mortally hurt over leaving Santerre in the hands of that she-devil, but I realized there was nothing else for it. Solomon had known nothing about the man, of course.
It was plain that these two photographic prints meant something tremendously important to Zontroff, if he would give me up to get hold of them. He had done so, and in doing it had spoiled the woman’s very clever plan to throw the murders upon my shoulders. In fact, he had spoiled her whole game, and must have done so out of sheer desperation. We had held a trump card there, and Solomon had realized it, without knowing why.
“I’ve got all your things up at me own ’ouse, sir,” said Solomon suddenly. “You’ll ’ave a bath and a shave, then we’ll sit down to dinner. Miss Parker’s there, and she wanted me to give you ’er werry best regards.”
I broke out laughing, half hysterically. The whole thing sounded so commonplace, so very ordinary, after what I had been through at the villa behind us! I made no comment. There was much to be said; I had much to tell Solomon; and I felt a sharp, keen little pang of warning, too. Both Zontroff and the woman knew that I had learned a tremendous lot about them, yet Zontroff had calmly let me go down with Solomon. Desperation, perhaps—or was it?
I said as much, and Solomon chuckled.
“No, sir. Werry sharp, that ‘ere Zontroff is, in ‘is own way. Everybody ’as their sharp points—and their blind points as well. There’s me ’ouse, sir, up on the right.”
On the high slopes above us was outlined a long structure, all ablaze with lights, of which I had a glimpse before we plunged again into a deep stretch of valley.
“But we haven’t passed through Bouzareah yet!” I exclaimed. “And your place isn’t really safe for me. The whole police force will be up there to find me—”
“Let ’em!” said Solomon, and caught my arm.
The car was slowing down.
“Now, sir!” His voice drove at me urgently, sharply. “You’ll ’ave to move quick! Out of ’ere, and ’op into the other car, and look alive!”
OUR headlights picked up another car, standing in the road, where there was a fork. We came to a halt alongside it, Solomon flung open the door by his side, and clambered out with amazing agility. I followed him. A low word, and we were getting into the other car, which had no lights. The Rolls drove on and purred away by one fork, while our new vehicle darted ahead insanely by the other fork without lights. And the chauffeur did not switch the lights on for a quarter-mile farther.
I was astonished, confused, a little angry. All this helter-skelter running around a maze of roads on the plateau looked aimless to me. I thought again of Santerre, and turned to Solomon with questions and another plea for him.
Solomon caught my arm and pressed me back on the seat, speaking as though to a petulant child.
“Now, sir, let’s ’ave no more o’ that!” he said calmly. “If I ain’t mistook, there ’ere Santerre ain’t a-going to be ’urt—more particular, if you turned ’im loose. Calm down, and take it easy, as the old gent said when ’e buried ’is third. We’ll ’ave a bit o’ talk during dinner—Dang it, don’t be so ’asty!”
This exasperated me, and I shut up gloomily.
We were going at top speed now, roaring ahead mile after mile, apparently getting nowhere. All of a sudden I found that we were plunging into the streets of a town. Then, looking out ahead, I saw the marvelous vista of the outspread lights of the city, and the shores beyond. I knew where we were now.
“Something wrong, Solomon!” I cried sharply. “We’re not heading for your place—we’re nowhere near it! That was El Biar we just passed through, and now we’re making for the city! This is the road that comes down past the Kasbah and leads into the Arab quarter!”
“Right you are, sir,” he responded, phlegmatically.
“But you said we were going to your house!”
“And so we are,” Solomon chuckled wheezily. “There ain’t nothing to prewent a man ’aving two ‘ouses, is there? We’re a-going to the ’ouse I’ve been using while me own was getting built. An Arab friend o’ mine let me ’ave it. One reason I come for you meself, Mr. Herries, was to let Zontroff trail me ’ome.”
THE swift change of cars—well, I could understand it, all of a sudden. Zontroff would have us followed, of course; he would make certain that the Rolls had gone straight to that new villa, ablaze with lights. Just why Solomon wanted this I did not see. There was a good deal I did not see, apparently.
Presently we left the car, at the edge of the Arab quarter, and walked down one of the sharp, twisting, narrow little streets, halting before a battered old doorway. This, at my knock, was opened by two natives. One was my friend of the morning, the cheerful Dris.
A miserable entryway of whitewashed bricks was disclosed, with another massive door beyond. This, however, admitted us to the house proper—such a house as was built generations ago, when any outward display of pomp and luxury meant seizure by those higher up. No wonder Solomon was no whit worried about the police finding me here!
We passed through rooms of glorious old tiling, with ceilings and arches formed of carved wood, and modeled and painted plaster that looked like the most intricate of lace-work. I knew, therefore, that it was an old house, for the secret of this plaster-work has become a lost art.
Then we emerged abruptly upon a large courtyard with a huge fountain in the center. A figure stepped forward to greet us. It was Alice Parker, looking very cool and fresh, and altogether enticing, in her simple white gown. We had time for only one quick handshake, for Solomon hurried me on, saying that dinner was already awaiting us. A dinner in Arab style, he explained; but as the servants knew no English, we might talk freely.
We came to a wing of very modern rooms, and I knew that I was in the house of some wealthy modern native who had inherited an ancient palace and had built onto it in newer style. My things were all outspread in one room, where a native servant was drawing a bath. And there Solomon left me to my own devices.
These were simple. In fifteen minutes I looked—and felt—like a new man. Then I set forth, with a native for guide. Dinner was ready indeed.
Solomon and Alice Parker were awaiting me in an alcove that opened on the fountain, and as I arrived, servants fetched in huge brass or earthen bowls and set them on a little stand, around which we sat on pillows and ate with our fingers. Alice enjoyed it hugely, and I had never dreamed that native food could taste so good.
My first question was about the loot taken in our raid.
Solomon nodded. “A werry good job it was, sir! I’ve been over it me-self, and ’ave two men a-working on it this werry minute. It’s all ship-shape, and—”
“Then why can’t you grab that gang and end it all?” I demanded impatiently.
He gave me a look from those blank blue eyes of his, and sighed wheezily. ”Dang it, sir! Just like that?—What good would it do to be dapping that ’ere Mont joy into jail—’im and ‘is outfit? We can always get them, if so be as we want ’em. I’m after the ‘ead and brains of that ’ere gang. Zontroff and Mile. Zelie Vassal and the man Boris. We ’ave nothing on ’em.”
“Nothing!” I exclaimed. “Why, they have Santerre there this very minute! You can raid that villa and gather them all in.”
“And much good would it do us!” said Solomon, with a great air of patience. “An outfit like that must be ’it first at the top—and then down. Montjoy ‘as been the screen for them others. And ’e ’as men everywhere—in the army, in the police, and all over! They work for ’im because ’e ’as a grip on them, just like that.”
“And the prefect of police is one of them, too,” I said sharply.
Solomon nodded. “I know that, sir.”
“And you know that they are going to meet Inspector Magnieux when he lands tomorrow?”
“No, sir. Werry interesting information that is.”
I WENT on, telling what information I had gathered—or rather, what had been said before me. Solomon heard me out, but he made no comment, to my sharp chagrin. I felt that we should be up and doing on the instant, and his attitude of phlegmatic calm I found maddening. The cous-cous came and went. A native woman brought a ewer of water and we washed our hands. The huge sliver samovar of mint tea came in, just as I brought my story and my urgings for action to a conclusion.
“This morning you were all for action—for getting in a hard blow—and we did it,” I said half angrily. Then I relented, thinking how much he had risked for my sake. “Sorry, old chap!” I went on. “I haven’t thanked you for my rescue—and I appreciate it no end. But if you have so much power, why don’t you use it?”
He got out his pipe and tobacco plug and knife, and began to whittle, while Alice looked from one to the other of us, not knowing what to say.
“That ’ere blow of yours, Mr. Herries,” he said at last, “give us all we needed to know. But knowing is one thing, and acting is another, so to speak.”
And unexpectedly, he laid his cards on the table, for I had pushed him to it. I saw that, for all the power given to him, he was in no pleasant position.
The documents we had seized that morning had provided a revelation. This blackmailing organization had adherents in all walks of life, and had chosen its victims with strategic skill
. At the present moment, the governor-general was in the far south, and Solomon did not know who could be trusted, here in Algiers. It seemed that Zontroff was entrenched behind circle upon circle. He had wealth; he had spies; he had covered all his own tracks thoroughly; he had powerful influence among the army chiefs. He was all but invulnerable.
Solomon, on the other hand, was practically alone. Able to command power, yes; yet none could take his place if a bullet destroyed him.
“When Magnieux gets ’ere,” he concluded, “it’ll be werry different.”
I failed to see how, and he explained that the inspector from Paris would reinforce him with fresh powers, and with full information on Zontroff, which had not yet arrived. Solomon was sparring for time. He was confident that the arrival of Magnieux would change everything, and that in the photograph of Zontroff and the unknown woman we would find the man’s vulnerable spot.
“But you went and gave it up!” I exclaimed.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, I did no such thing,” he returned, and I fancied that he gave Alice a sly wink, for she smiled suddenly. “You give ’im the film, and I give ’im the two prints—to get you back. Bless you! ’E didn’t see no trick in it! But I’d ’ad one o’ them prints copied first.”
“Oh!” I said confusedly. “So that was it! Hanged if I can fathom you, Solomon.”
He chuckled at this, as though he took it for a compliment.
“Neither can that ’ere Zontroff.”
“He doesn’t matter so much,” I said. “It’s that Vassal woman we have to fear.”
“Not a bit of it, sir!”
Solomon came to his feet, his pipe alight. I looked up, and I fancied there was a new energy in his voice, a new flash in his eye. “Don’t make no mistake. That ’ere Zontroff is a werry dangerous person!—But now I’ll ’ave to be gettin’ reports and sending out some orders—”
The Terror of Algiers Page 9