The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “In three days, Paul, we go to Saigon, you and I—with the little cruiser!”

  “Ciel!” exclaimed the old seaman. “But—”

  “Pas un mot, Paul!” exclaimed the girl. “Not a word! And listen: you know that papa was expecting a consignment of brandies from America? We shall bring them back, as a surprise!”

  “Heaven knows,” said Paul, with the grumbling air of one who is privileged, “there is a cellar full of liquor up above now! An army could not drink it all.”

  “Bah! If it pleases Papa, why not? He says that when all the world has gone dry, this island shall be an asylum for the next thousand years! In three days, remember!”

  Paul nodded.

  Neither the old Breton nor the girl perceived a slight movement upon the crest of the cliff above, nor the imperceptible glitter of a flashing eye.

  Upon the following day, old Paul reported that one of the whaleboats had vanished from the lagoon. No one was missing from the island. The thing was inexplicable, unless the boat had been laid up too low on the shore, and had washed out with the tide. So, they concluded, it must have done.

  CHAPTER II

  Monsieur le Diable

  Saigon is a city consciously modeled, in general plan, buildings, streets and customs, upon Paris—that is to say, upon the Paris of a generation ago. One may find much in Saigon that is supposedly forgotten in Paris—even to very bad French.

  For example, there is a certain Cabaret du Chat Gris, located in the lower part of the city, convenient to the wharfs and railroad and the Arroyo Chinois. Here, for a few cents, one may drink from divers fountains of evil. Here, for a few dollars, one may disappear forever. The cents largely predominate, naturally.

  Five men were sitting about a table in the Gray Cat, fingering a greasy deck of cards and drinking execrable red wine. Le Brisetout was a huge uncouth monster of hair and flesh who worked in the nearby abattoir. L’Etoile, a fiery little devil of a man, wore a green patch over one eye; the other orb blazed like a star of green fire. Le Morpion was a human bulldog, bulging of brow and chin, a retired seaman whose hands were knotted and lumpy, and whose glittering little eyes were extremely dangerous.

  The fourth man was different. He had come of a finer strain; even in his poverty and dirt he retained a certain grace, a certain debonnaire scoundrelism. His beard was somewhat trimmed, and one conjectured that he might have been a gentleman. His weary and dissipated features held a lingering suspicion of having once been handsome. He had the peculiar skin of one who eats opium, which was not intended by the Creator to be eaten by white men.

  The fifth man was dissimilar to all these four. Like them, he was ragged, unkempt, prone to vicious words. His unshaven features were bony and rugged, his gray eyes were bloodshot. Unlike these others, he was neither French nor of mixed blood, but an American. He had drifted into Saigon, broke, and was working as a laborer at the Quai François Garnier.

  Aside from these five at the table, two other persons were in the room. One was the proprietor, who was reading a newspaper across the bar. The other was a man with a dirty bandage about his jaw. He had entered, demanding wine and “de quoi écrire,” and sat at a table in a dark corner. Here, however, he wrote only briefly. He mainly watched the five gamesters and sucked at a long cheroot hungrily, as though drinking the nicotine into his very soul after long abstinence.

  “Now, as for me,” said L’Etoile in crisp argot, “I have been at honest work for six months—Laugh, fools, laugh! But it is true. When they took M. le Diable, and sent him to Noumea, I swore that I would turn to honest work until he escaped.”

  “Bah!” said Curel, he who might once have been a gentleman. “One does not escape from Noumea!”

  “Exactly.” Le Brisetout reached out hairy paws for the cards. “One does not! I know, for I have been there, me!”

  There was a laugh. Smith, the American, looked up. “Who is this M. le Diable? I’ve heard you speak of him, but—”

  “Yes!” Le Brisetout mouthed an oath. “Who is he, you? We know him not, in Saigon.”

  L’Etoile looked at Le Morpion. Between these two men passed a glance of singular meaning. It was Le Morpion who answered, as though in that glance he had read a command.

  “Monsieur the Devil? Why, he is Monsieur the Devil—that is all! He is the king of all good rascals and honest thieves. They say that he was an artist, a man of talent, and that something happened to him. You know the crazy artists who lived on Tahiti for years? Something of the sort. At all events, one night in Shanghai—croque! And they had him. They brought him down here for trial and sent him to Noumea for life, the dogs! It was a betrayal.”

  “Yes,” said L’Etoile with a certain mournful satisfaction, “it was a betrayal. But the man who betrayed us—I mean the man who betrayed him—confound this wine, it thickens the tongue!—Well, that man died very suddenly the next day.”

  “Good enough,” put in Curel languidly. “I hope this M. le Diable escapes. I have heard of him. I would like to meet him. I think that he might break the monotony of life’s facts.”

  Le Brisetout glared at the speaker in scorn.

  “Escape? Bah!” he roared. “No one can escape from Noumea! All around in the hills are brown devils, armed with clubs shaped like—like—well, you know what, you! When one escapes, they beat him nearly to death, then drag him back. And, besides, one cannot swim a hundred miles.”

  “Ah! But M. le Diable can,” said L’Etoile with conviction.

  “Certainly he can,” said the American. “I can myself. At least, if it were a question of escape from that hell, Noumea!”

  The eyes of the bandaged man in the corner dwelt curiously on the face of Smith.

  The cards were dealt. The five men fell to their game. Presently it was over, and Curel gathered in the pack. Le Brisetout stretched out one hairy, mammoth paw.

  “A hundred miles!” he said, as though recollecting the former train of speech. “Ah! That is clearly impossible, M. Smith!”

  Curel’s voice cut in, a bit dreamily.

  “I should like to meet this M. le Diable!” he reflected aloud. “Decidedly, the monotony of life is a fearful thing. The facts of life—you apprehend! One desires to get away from facts. How pleasant to be a Bolshevik and abolish all fact!”

  L’Etoile, adjusting his green patch, laughed softly. That laugh was like the snicker of steel on steel.

  “If you ever meet M. le Diable,” he responded, “you will have no more monotony, my gentleman! As for your facts of life, I know nothing about them. You should have known our M. le Diable—a true artist! No gutter pickings for him. ’Cré nom!”

  “He was an Apache, perhaps?” queried Curel, dealing.

  “Devil take me if I know,” said L’Etoile frankly. “He spoke all tongues, had been all places. I have thought at times he might be American or English. One hardly asks him questions.”

  “I wish to hell he’d show up here, then,” said Smith roughly. “If I could get away from this cursed town, I’d sell myself to the devil, man or fiend!”

  Suddenly the voice of Le Brisetout boomed forth upon them.

  “I say it is impossible!”

  Smith looked at him. “What now, hairy ape?”

  “To swim a hundred miles is impossible!” Rage flooded into the brutish features. “The man who says so lies, and is a—”

  The epithet fell. Instantly Smith’s arm flashed across the table and his fist struck Le Brisetout a blow which would have staggered any other human being. This human gorilla, however, only mouthed a curse and flung himself forward. His two immense, hairy paws gripped Smith by the throat. The table was hurled aside in the encounter.

  Le Brisetout stood up, still gripping Smith by the throat, and shook him savagely. Then, with swift precision, the hands of the American crept upward. Each hand gripped a little finger of Le Brisetout. Smith gave a sudden heave of his shoulders and arms.

  From the hairy giant burst a hoarse cry of agony. He flung his
two hands about in the air, tried confusedly to wring them, cried out anew. Smith seized him by the shoulder and kicked him toward the door. Le Brisetout vanished in the street outside, whimpering and groaning. His two little fingers had been broken.

  The proprietor turned his uninterested gaze to his newspaper again.

  Smith rejoined his companions, laughing easily at their astonishment. Curel put forth a hand to him, with a gesture of pride. Caste, after all, does assert itself.

  “Congratulations! It was well done, that; I am glad to be rid of the brute.”

  Smith nodded, then glanced at the other two. “You are not his friends?”

  L’Etoile shrugged disdainfully, Le Morpion shook his bulging head.

  “His friends? Hardly, my American! M. Curel was dealing, I believe?”

  Smith bent to pick up the table. Suddenly L’Etoile, who was glancing at the bandaged man in the corner, turned pale as a ghost. This man had made an almost imperceptible gesture.

  The bandaged man made another gesture, this time toward the proprietor—evidently asking if the latter were to be trusted. The jaw of L’Etoile fell. His pallor deepened, but he nodded assent.

  From his seat in the corner rose the bandaged man, and stepped forward. He removed his wide hat, to uncover a shock of reddish hair. With a deft motion, he unwound the bandage from about his face. Le Morpion uttered one choking, inarticulate cry, and staggered back as from some awful apparition.

  “M’soo—m’soo—”

  “M. the Devil,” said the stranger, bowing. “Messieurs, good evening!”

  All four stood staring blankly at him. Smith glanced at the two rogues. In their stricken faces he read amazed recognition. It was impossible to doubt that the man before them was the same of whom they had been speaking.

  * * * *

  The proprietor quietly came from behind his bar, locked the door, and returned to his newspaper. He was, obviously, a discreet individual.

  The silence continued. Smith was well aware of the audacity of this appearance, here in Saigon, the very hub and headquarters of French authority! This M. le Diable would be hunted like a wild beast the instant his escape became known, the instant his presence was suspected!

  “When one swims a hundred miles,” and M. le Diable smiled at Smith as though reading his thoughts, “one is naturally given up for dead! And I think,” he added reflectively, “that it was something more than a hundred. Of course, I had assistance at first—a preserver lost from some ship. Providence must have sent it to me—or perhaps my namesake! Yes, decidedly, it must have been my namesake.”

  Curel bowed, a trifle mockingly, and spoke in cultured accents.

  “Perhaps it is desired that I withdraw? One gathers that M. Smith and I may find ourselves de trop—”

  “On the contrary,” responded the other, in equally pure French, “I should be greatly pleased to cultivate your acquaintance, gentlemen.”

  Smith picked up the table and set it on its feet.

  “The pleasure is mutual,” he said. “Suppose we sit down.”

  Le Morpion and L’Etoile dropped into their chairs, still staring at this individual who had come from the dead—or worse, from Noumea!

  M. le Diable seated himself. Under his thatch of reddish hair, glittered his black eyes. His broad, powerful features were filled with virile energy. He quite ignored his two former followers, and gave his attention to Curel and Smith. The bandage must have served him only as a disguise, for he was quite uninjured.

  He spoke in English.

  “I am glad we met. These two friends do not understand us, so speak freely,” he said. His voice was level and poised, a voice of refinement and deadly reserve strength. “You first, M. Curel. From your recent conversation, I gather that you are wearied by the monotony of facts. And yet there must be some reason for that boredom, and for your presence here—”

  Curel laughed. From his pocket he took a tiny box of opium pellets and laid it before him.

  “The reason, M. le Diable? Behold it! In the days of my youth, I was given to liquor. I learned that one who took opium, entertained an aversion to liquor. Hence, to cure myself, I began to take opium in the form of pills. True, the liquor habit was cured; yet—”

  M. le Diable threw back his head in a burst of hearty laughter.

  “Come, this is rich!” he exclaimed, in tones which would have led Smith unhesitatingly to pronounce him an American. “Devil take me, but this is rich! One overcomes absinthe in order to become an opium fiend! Well, M. Curel, I believe you. This little incident of your career is one of those things which, although perfectly true, would appear incredible to most people.

  “If I guarantee to relieve you from the monotony of facts, and place before you an adventure in which no sane man could believe, will you join me?”

  “With all my heart,” answered Curel.

  “Agreed.” Mr. Devil turned to the American. “Well, sir? How come you here?”

  Smith rolled a cigarette and surveyed his interlocutor whimsically.

  “What is this, some Arabian Nights affair? If you want any facts from me, come across with some yourself, first.”

  “This is droll!” said the other, smiling. His smile betrayed vividly white teeth, queerly pointed, not unlike the teeth of those Africans who file their incisors to sharp points. His laugh was gay and infectious. “Droll! One man shrinks from facts; the other demands them!”

  Suddenly he fell serious. “I might say that, before my somewhat enforced visit to Noumea, I instructed L’Etoile, who is a faithful soul, to await me at this place and to have with him two or three others. That you are here, is a recommendation, I assure you.”

  “Your assurance is a compliment,” said Smith politely. “Who are you?”

  Again the other smiled.

  “What, still more insistence upon facts? My dear sir, you show little toleration of the modesty which M. Curel shows in the face of these naked facts! I presume you desire a name for me. Well, it would be convenient to have a name, I admit. Therefore I take the name of Lebrun, to be in harmony with the majority. A few moments ago you declared that you would sell yourself to the devil, my Faustus junior. Have a care! Such an invocation may well become an application!”

  Curel interposed with a whimsical word.

  “This goes well, M. le Diable, I assure you! We are certainly departing from all prosaic facts. I trust you do not claim to be the devil in person?”

  “Some have thought so,” responded Lebrun. His black eyes flashed with somber fire. “Have you any doubts in the matter, M. Curel?”

  The other shrugged. “I? Ma foi, none! I am satisfied.”

  “Then, pray, do not interrupt.” Lebrun turned to Smith. “Come! Yes or no?”

  “To what?” drawled the American.

  “To an alliance.”

  “Yes, if you like.”

  “Agreed. What brought you here?”

  Smith puffed at his cigarette. “My feet in the first instance,” and he grinned. “In the second, lack of money. In the third, the interference of the police in my affairs.”

  “Ah!” Lebrun regarded him with satisfaction. “You are wanted?”

  “Very badly wanted,” said Smith.

  “Shall you have a little money now—”

  “I?” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I have plenty!”

  “The devil! But you just said the lack of money brought you here—”

  Smith grinned at him. “Sure! The lack, you see, made me obtain some; the obtaining it, made me take to my heels; taking to my heels brought me here. Once here, I found it hard to get away. So I am working on the docks until my chance comes to slip aboard a ship.”

  “The police here are seeking you?”

  “I don’t know. In Tonkin, up north, they certainly are.”

  “Very well, gentlemen.” M. le Diable assumed an air of business. “My usual custom is to take one-half the proceeds of our business, and to divide the other half among those who aid
me. There will be you four, and a fifth, a lady. No more. Is this satisfactory?”

  Both Smith and Curel indicated their assent. Lebrun turned to L’Etoile and Le Morpion, and changed his tongue to the argot they spoke.

  “Do you remember, you, the name of the excellent gentleman who sentenced me to spend the rest of my life in Noumea?”

  L’Etoile, by far the more adroit of the two rascals, made prompt reply.

  “It was Des Gachons—his approval of the papers was almost his last official act. We have often regretted that he left the country before we could interview him.”

  “It is just as well.” Lebrun smiled grimly. “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “But I do.” He rose. “Come with me. You others follow, but not too closely.”

  All five of them politely bade the proprietor good night, and issued forth into the street. Smith and Curel were the last to leave. In obedience to the orders of Lebrun, they waited in order to give the other three a slight lead.

  At this instant, the American felt his companion touch his arm significantly.

  “Damnably clever!” said Curel in English.

  “Eh?” Smith glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Only that I happen to recognize you. I remember you now.”

  Smith laughed. “So? I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

  “As you like. Only, I am very sure that I saw you two months ago, in Hué City, under somewhat different circumstances than these.”

  Smith started. “The deuce you did! Then—”

  “My dear Smith,” and Curel laughed softly, “why be alarmed? My interest in such a game as this gives me something to live for. Two hours ago, I strongly contemplated suicide. Now, I am eager, full of the joie de vivre!”

  “I congratulate you,” said Smith dryly. “None the less, I fear you are mistaken.”

  “As you prefer. But I bear by right a ‘de’ before my name. My ancestor rode to Egypt with Joinville. I think you are no longer alarmed concerning what I know?”

  “I never have been,” said Smith cheerfully. “One may be surprised, but not alarmed. Only, if you hinted it to Lebrun—”