DRIS appeared suddenly, with a low word in Arabic. Solomon nodded to him, and made reply in French.
“Very well, I am coming. Tell Muhamad to pick up the General Faidherbe. She left Marseilles yesterday. As soon as he gets her, I’ll come and give him a message for M. Magnieux, who is a passenger aboard her.”
He strode off after the Arab, leaving us alone.
I gave Alice a startled glance.
“What was that?—Did you get it? He hasn’t a wireless station up his sleeve, has he?”
“He has one here, yes,” and she smiled brightly at me. “Surprise, is it? Well, John Herries, you should be ashamed of yourself! You’ve kept on driving him and urging him until the poor man must be almost beside himself!”
“He needs it,” I said.
“Nonsense! You don’t know half what goes on in that head of his,” she said eagerly. “I’ve learned a fearful lot about him in the last day or so! Just now, he’s horribly worried. Before going after you, he learned that several telegrams and messages he had sent off today had never gone at all. The messengers had disappeared, too. He got into this whole thing without realizing the enormous extent of it. He pitched into it headlong, before he had any chance to make preparations.”
“But why the devil did he want Zontroff to think we’d gone to his villa?” I demanded.
She shrugged. “Perhaps we’ll learn—”
Dris appeared again, with his cheerful grin, and said that Solomon wanted us. We rose and followed him across the courtyard, plunged into a corridor, went down a magnificent little curving stairway, and came into a room of some size.
A table held paper and pencils, a telephone, a few books. At one side, against the wall, upreared the flashing front of a wireless set, and no small one either. An Arab operator sat before it at work, and in an easy chair at his elbow sat Solomon. He held an open volume in his lap, and he was scribbling rapidly. As we entered, he beckoned to me.
“Tell ‘er to sit down and pass messages,” he said abruptly. “I’ll ‘ave to be sending a long message in code, and a werry ticklish job it is. If you’ll be so good as to take that ’ere telephone and answer all messages, sir, I’ll be werry much obliged. Write ’em out and she’ll pass ’em to me.—Don’t ask me no questions, that’s all! Use your ’ead.”
I was suddenly impressed by the man. I could sense a tremendous flood of energy that seemed to fill him; the wide blue eyes, although they were as blank as ever, none the less appeared very bright and eager. His voice was different, too; it was surcharged, vibrant, electric.
“All ready, sidi,” said the operator. “It is the boat.”
Solomon handed him a paper, and went on scribbling. I motioned Alice to a chair, and seated myself at the desk. My eyes were being opened, sure enough, to the possibilities of this pudgy little man. I was seeing him in action, and somehow there was a queer thrill to it; he fairly radiated force, though he was merely sitting quietly there, working with paper and pencil and code-book. I wondered what sort of message he was sending to Inspector Magnieux. A warning, probably.
SUDDENLY the telephone buzzed. I picked up the instrument, seized a pencil.
“Hello! M. Herries speaking,” I said.
“This is Ahmed, m’sieu’,” came the voice of the chauffeur. “Everyone has gone. Two men were wounded, none killed. Zontroff is here himself. I cannot hold them off longer. Goodbye.”
I penciled the message, handed it to Alice, and she gave it to Solomon. He merely glanced at it, nodded carelessly, and went on with his scribbling. I speculated in vain as to its meaning; the Arab had spoken without haste or excitement. Had he been at Solomon’s villa? Yet the pudgy little man was entirely absorbed in his code message, which the operator was sending as fast as Solomon laid the scribbled sheets before him.
Again the buzz. Another native voice, more excited.
“This is Hussein, sidi—from the booth of the tabac at Bouzareah. The first signals have been made; as fast as they are picked up, the watchers will bring word. Here is the first one now, sidi!” He paused, and I heard a sharp, quick Arab voice muttering to him. “’Allo! There are flames at the villa, sidi! The flash has just come from the south hill to say that our men there have gone to work. Hold the line, sidi!”
“All right,” I said, scribbling fast, and passed the paper on.
Solomon glanced at it and shoved it aside. It meant nothing that his villa—his new villa—was burning!
Suddenly light broke upon me, and with rising excitement I cursed myself for a fool. I realized now what was happening. Here I was, getting reports from those men, those Arabs of Solomon’s, who were flung out along the heights above! Some perfectly planned scheme was being reported by signal-flashes among the hills to this native in Bouzareah, who was relaying the reports on to me!
Zontroff had, as he thought, trailed us to that villa and had promptly attacked it with his gang.—And was that Solomon’s exact intent, then? So it seemed. Even as I comprehended this, the voice of Hussein came again.
“Two cars have just come through, returning from the villa, sidi. Here is a third. It is the big Minerva of Zontroff. Here is my cousin coming, too. Wait.” Another muttered interlude, then Hussein’s voice, shrill and eager. “Sidi! The villa is all in flames, and the alarm for the pompiers is being given! The second flash has come from the south hill. That means they have broken through to the house with almost no resistance. There is confusion out in the street, for the pompiers are going, and I cannot see anything.—Wait!”
Zontroff’s three cars speeding back from their short, savage raid—the villa going up in flames—the Bouzareah firemen whirling out and away in their brass and scarlet! And off to the south, I knew, lay Zontroff’s great house. Was that where our men were attacking? And with what object?
Another mutter of Arabic, then Hussein fairly yelled into the telephone—
I could almost see the excited native dancing up and down.
“Sidi! The third flash has come—they have the house; they are inside! Here comes the son of my cousin now; he is nodding to me outside the booth. The road is blocked, the trees are felled ahead of those cars.—That is all, sidi! Good-bye.”
He hung up.
I glanced at Solomon, who was calmly proceeding with his message, and my fingers shook as I jotted down the reports. More and more the realization was growing upon me. I began to see the masterly strategy of his work. Zontroff, with every man available, had raided the villa; and as he did so, Solomon’s men were closing in on Zontroff’s house. Not whites, who had to use automobiles and roads, but Arabs—natives of the district who knew every hillside trail and crevice, who could do their work and then scatter out across the maze of farm walls that would block pursuit by anyone else. And to top it all off, trees had been felled in front of Zontroff’s returning cars!
Solomon glanced over the notes that Alice handed him, wrote down a word or two more, gave the last of the messages to the operator, and rose to his feet. At this moment the telephone buzzed harshly.
I picked up the receiver; gave my name.
“This is Said. I was with you and Dris this morning, sidi. We have the house.—No luck. Are there any orders?”
“No luck,” I repeated to Solomon. “Any orders?”
His face fell in dejection, and he made a negative sign.
“Look for Inspector Santerre of the Surêté,” I said. “He was a pris—”
“He has already departed, sidi. Good-bye.”
REPLACING the instrument, I turned to Solomon. He was frowning, muttering to himself.
I could not help recalling how, all the while I had been urging action on him, this blow had been planned and going forward. But he had never mentioned it.
“No luck!” he repeated, and dropped into his chair again, fumbling for his pipe. “No luck! That means they didn’t find ’er or Boris—and Zontroff was with ’is cars at me own ’ouse. Dang it!”
He shredded tobacco into his palm, teased it out
, stuffed it into his pipe. Then he scratched a match and held it to the tobacco, puffing it alight.
The operator handed him a message, Solomon nodded and shoved it aside. Then he looked at us.
“This ’ere,” he observed, “is what comes o’ being in a ’urry! I ’ad to use only men as I could trust If I’d ’ad time to get a dozen more men—well, it don’t signify. I’ve been and give that ’ere Zontroff a werry bad turn, just like that; and ’e ’as burned me new ’ouse, and it’s a question which one of us is ’urt the worse. We’ll ’ave to wait and see what ’appened, that’s all.”
“What were you trying to do—kill Zontroff?” I asked.
Solomon gave me a sniff.
“No, o’ course not! I don’t want ’im killed, dang it! I want ’im in chains, where ’e belongs. And I wanted to get some ewidence on ’im and that ’ere female.—No luck, eh? No luck, just like that. Dang it, if I’d only ‘ad time to get enough men to work!”
“Santerre can give evidence against him,” I objected.
Solomon came to his feet.
A sudden cry of alarm broke from Alice. I saw Solomon’s face turn purple, saw him drop his pipe, saw him beat suddenly at the air. As he toppled over, I caught him in my arms.
A divan was in one corner of the room, and we laid him on this. Alice pushed me away.
“It’s his heart,” she said quickly. “I know what to do. He had an attack this morning. There are some pellets in his waistcoat pocket.”
I nodded. An aneurism of the heart, no doubt. Discovering the vial, I put one of the tiny pellets into his mouth, then another. He remained with his eyes closed, but his pulse soon became normal. After a little he opened his eyes and looked at me.
“All right,” I said. “That’s what comes of smoking a strong pipe!”
“Dang it!” he murmured faintly.
When he put out his hand, I aided him to sit up. But almost immediately another attack seized him, and he relaxed and lay quiet, with only a slight reassuring pressure of his fingers on mine.
“Nothing to do,” he said. “All right—soon.”
Time passed. He had become very pale; but gradually his face became normal, and at a gesture I gave him another pellet. My friend Dris came into the room and spoke in a low voice, and at a nod from me went out again.
After a few moments he returned, bringing Inspector Santerre with him.
CHAPTER IX - SURRENDER
A GOOD night’s sleep quite restored Solomon to himself, and I was not sorry for it myself. Santerre, who shared my room, laughed heartily over our first meeting, and did not fail to remind me that I still had the diamond ring. He was a cool one, and we got on very well. Furthermore, he had an excellent influence over me, at least from Solomon’s point of view.
Agreeing with a shrug to remain here and place himself at Solomon’s command, after seeing the document giving Solomon full authority, Santerre quite agreed that waiting was our best game. His level head was not a bit shaken by what had happened, and he made me see the wisdom of Solomon’s course.
“We need time, mon ami,” he told me, as we dressed in the morning. “Me, I can scare up a dozen honest fellows whenever M. Solomon gives the word. Until then, who knows? A house has been burned, for which the insurance people will settle. A few men have been hurt, their injuries not reported. You and I are missing. M. Zontroff knows that his place was raided; but he has missed nothing—except possibly his prisoner. Well, let us wait! With a dozen honest men of the police, we can accomplish anything.”
“Undoubtedly,” I said dryly. “What was the purpose of that raid, if Zontroff’s house was not damaged? At the time he first planned it, Solomon didn’t know you were there, so it was not to rescue you.”
“Hardly,” and Santerre laughed. “The purpose, from all I can gather, was to find documents or papers and to get hold of that chap Boris. Neither purpose succeeded. Boris and the charming madame disappeared at the first shot. I am glad to say that the three Slavs who were left on the place were very badly hurt.”
I stared at him. “Disappeared? What do you mean?”
“They were,” said Santerre, “but they came down into the cellar, where I was, and then they were gone. There was some passage out, of course—or some hiding place. Unfortunately, our men were not enough to occupy the house. For lack of men, we had to give up and run for it. A great pity!”
We descended, encountered Alice Parker beside the courtyard fountain, and breakfasted. Solomon did not appear. We had all slept late, and I was rather astounded by the utter lack of any action. However, I had learned my lesson, and I kept quiet. My friend Dris presently showed up with a morning paper, and the three of us devoured it. Then an utter stupefaction fell upon all of us.
The conflagration of the previous evening near the observatory made quite a story, but the fire was laid to the carelessness of workmen at the new villa, which had been quite destroyed. There was no hint of any private warfare, and the acting prefect had not issued any statement connecting me with the mysterious murders. That fine scheme had been nipped in the bud.
What did hit us, however, was the front-page story, received at the last moment from the General Faidherbe, the Marseilles boat due to dock that morning at ten. One of the passengers had apparently fallen overboard, shortly before midnight. Foul play was possible, but suicide was more probable, and now the whole city was again gripped by the spell of a suicide epidemic. The passenger, whose body had not been recovered, was one Inspector Magnieux, en route to Algiers from the Surêté in Paris.
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed, and looked up at Dris. “Has M. Solomon seen this paper?”
“He sent it to m’sieu’” said the Arab. “He is now at work. If you desire to join him, he says you are welcome.”
WE followed him to the same room where he had been the previous evening. The operator was just taking down a message, and Solomon quite ignored us until he had decoded and read it. Then he rose and gave his hand to Alice, and his blue eyes touched upon me.
“Good morning, sirs and miss!” he exclaimed. “I trust as ‘ow you’ve ’eard the news about that ’ere inspector from Paris? This ’ere wireless confirms it.” ” You don’t seem particularly downcast,” said Alice Parker, brightly.
Solomon sank back into his chair, picked up his clay pipe, and lighted it. I saw that he had a new pipe this morning—the old one had been smashed. He flung an order in Arabic at the operator, who left the room, then turned to us.
“There’s no denying,” he said gravely, “as ’ow the death o’ that ’ere Magnieux knocks me plans all of a ’eap, just like that!”
“Was he murdered?” I shot in.
“Well, sir, ’e was another victim of this ’ere suicide epidemic, by all accounts,” said Solomon. “That ’ere boat will be docking inside of ’alf an ’our, too. But there ain’t no manner of doubt about ’is death.”
“His papers?” put in Santerre quickly. “They said he was bringing a dossier—”
“Gone with ’im, according to this ’ere message,” said Solomon.
More than anyone else present, I knew how vitally this news affected Solomon’s whole campaign, and I had to admire his bearing, in the face of defeat.
“What’s worse,” he went on calmly, puffing at his pipe, “that ’ere chauffeur of mine, Ahmed, is in the ’ands of Zontroff. The devil got ’im last night, somehow.—Ahmed ain’t no ruddy ’ero, neither. I expect as ’ow ’e’ll tell what ’e knows.”
Santerre laughed a little. “It looks as though Zontroff is taking the tricks,” he said quietly. “I understand that M. Herries captured some extremely interesting papers yesterday.”
Solomon nodded. “Lists of Montjoy’s wictims,” he said, “with a lot o’ blackmailing letters and so forth. Most of ’is stock in trade, so to speak, with a lot of ’is money. That ’ere development company ’ad blackmailed its wictims for land too, and all the records were there. But not a blessed thing to connect Zontroff or ’is female wit
h it all.”
“And what are we waiting for now?” I demanded irritably. “For Zontroff to hit us?”
Solomon’s blank blue eyes went to me, a trifle reproachfully, I thought.
“I’ve been a-waiting all morning for a telephone call, sir,” he said, in his apologetic manner. “If I ain’t mistook, it’ll come any time.”
“You’re not going down to meet the boat?” I said.
“No, sir.” He tamped down his pipe and delivered his bomb with the greatest calm. “This ’ere ’ouse is being watched, and the streets guarded. The police is looking for us—just like that. Ten minutes ago, two of me men went out and was ’ustled away to jail.”
“But—but this is nonsense!” cried out Santerre, staring at him.
“It wouldn’t be nonsense, if you was taking orders from M. du Croissant, the prefect,” said Solomon tartly. “And if Croissant was taking orders from that ’ere Zontroff or ’is blessed female friend!—Well, there ain’t no nonsense about it, as the old gent said when ’e kissed the ’ousemaid.”
Alice regarded him with wide eyes. “But, do you mean there’s nothing we can do? Why, that’s the same as saying you’re helpless—beaten!”
“Yes, miss,” said Solomon quietly. “Just like that. I ’ave me Arab friends, but this ain’t a game as natives can play. When Zontroff got ’old of Ahmed it meant I was done for.”
“Hm!” I said. “From what I’ve learned of your methods, I’d be tempted to suspect that you purposely let Ahmed fall into their hands.”
The blank blue eyes dwelt on me for a moment, as though suspecting me of sarcasm. Before Solomon could answer, however, the telephone buzzed sharply. Like many French instruments, this had a separate receiver, intended for the speaker’s other ear. Solomon shoved it at me, and then took a third racked receiver from beneath the desk and pushed it at Alice.
“You and M. Santerre listen,” he said to her. “Don’t do no talking.”
The Terror of Algiers Page 10