The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  Smith stepped out, and found himself not so weak as he had supposed. Near at hand was a closet. He opened the door, and found his clothes hung there carefully—all intact, even to his money belt. There was but one thing missing; and this was the one thing in search of which Smith had come—his automatic.

  He turned away, his lips sternly set. With some difficulty he crossed to a dresser, near the door of a tiled bathroom. Here he paused and glanced into the mirror. A cry came to his lips at sight of the face which greeted him—bearded, gaunt, unfamiliar! Then he remembered that he had not shaved since leaving Saigon.

  Turning into the bathroom, he saw a cabinet at hand bearing all that he desired, and without hesitation he seized a shaving brush and set to work.

  Half an hour later, he staggered back to bed and crawled under the covers, exhausted but feeling like a new man. He was asleep almost on the instant, and he did not waken until, some hours later, a laugh aroused him. He looked up to see Lebrun standing beside him smiling.

  “Well, old man, you look like a gentleman!” exclaimed Lebrun. “I see you’ve been busily engaged. A cigar?” He extended an excellent cheroot, which Smith accepted gladly, and held a match.

  “How is Le Morpion?”

  “Oh, in a bad temper—nothing worse.” Lebrun waved his hand. “He’ll be walking by the morning. I tell you I’ve been working this afternoon! Real work.”

  Smith could guess what manner of work this had been, but he repressed the shiver that came upon him.

  “Yes?” he inquired calmly. “By the way, how shall you account to Mlle. des Gachons for the absence of so many people? Or shall you endeavor to account at all?”

  “But certainly!” exclaimed M. le Diable, laughing softly. “I have already prepared a letter written in the exact hand of Des Gachons himself, informing her that ptomaine poisoning is responsible for the deplorable lack of human life here; this letter was written by a dying man, you see? We arrived in time to bury everyone. It has been neatly done, I assure you. She will not suspect—at least, for some time. When the crisis comes, then we may have to use a show of force. Well, you must excuse me now; I brought a book or two from the library for you.”

  He indicated several volumes on a chair by the bed, and departed. Smith gazed after him with a frown of vain wonder; he could not understand this man in the least.

  “I don’t want to understand him, either,” he relected, taking one of the books. “Still, I’d like to know if it was he who removed my pistol!”

  The house was silent and deserted. Smith read; forced himself to read, in order that his brain might be distracted from too much contemplation. Some time later, his lids drooped and he fell asleep over his book.

  When he was aroused, the room was in darkness. He was wide awake instantly, with the uneasy sense that there was a strange presence in the room. He heard someone stumble and kick aside a chair; there came an oath in a voice that certainly was not that of either Lebrun or Le Morpion. Smith waited, silent.

  A match flamed, and a candle sprang into quick fire as though still hot from having been recently extinguished. Smith looked up to see a figure beside him bearing a tray. It was the figure of Curel.

  “You!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “Ah—then you have come!”

  “We have come,” said Curel in a mournful voice. “And here is your supper and mine; not much, heaven knows, but enough! The others are dining downstairs.”

  “The others?”

  “Mme. Bonnard, our sister in complicity, and M. le Diable. Mademoiselle has gone to her room. She is, I think, somewhat overcome by grief. Damn Lebrun! If I had foreseen what was about to happen here, if I had known that girl—”

  “Well?” said Smith, as the other put down the tray and paused. “What would you have done?”

  Curel laughed harshly. “I would have come all the same, very likely! Well, it is a droll world; but here is some very fine Sauterne. Your health, monsieur!”

  Curel poured himself a glass of wine and gulped it, as though in need of the stimulant.

  CHAPTER VII

  A Woman Has Her Own Ideas

  At this moment Smith was struck by a singular fact. He knew very well that those who are addicted to opium, usually shun liquor, which seems to kill the deadening effect of the drug. Yet Curel, who was a gentleman by birth, did not drink his Sauterne as either a gentleman or an opium addict should. On the contrary, he gulped it avidly, as though seeking in it a stimulant and cordial. Curel had the manner of one who has just been profoundly shocked and horrified.

  “My dear M. Smith,” he said, leaning back and surveying Smith, “I feel some pity for you.”

  “Thanks,” said the American. “Why?”

  “You perceive the result of yourself from extinguishing L’Etoile. Now, it will be even more difficult to do away with Le Morpion; who, I assure you, can bite worse than his namesake! Still worse, I am convinced, will prove the Veuve Bonnard. After all this, you will be stabbed, shot, back-broken—yet there will remain the worst of all, M. le Diable himself—”

  “What are you driving at?” demanded Smith, raising himself to one elbow and regarding Curel from narrowed lids. “Do you think I’m an assassin?”

  “By no means, dear comrade! However, I am a philosopher; I view what passes with an air of abstraction—usually. But now it is different. Now I am about to make you a proposal.”

  “Make it,” said Smith curtly, wondering what the man was coming to.

  “It is this: that you take care of Le Morpion and Félice, since I cannot touch a woman. I will undertake to remove Monsieur.”

  Smith started. “What? You mean that you would join me—”

  Curel rose to his feet and yawned.

  “You wonder, perhaps?” he said. “Well, there is an explanation. I am not the same poor devil whom you saw in Saigon. You comprehend I have spent some time in the company of Mlle. Berangère! I take for granted that you will not scruple to betray the devil in order to save an angel—particularly when you have become acquainted with the angel! Moreover, as I hinted in Saigon, I am somewhat acquainted with your past; hence I can guess at certain things in the present. Think over my proposal until tomorrow. Au revoir!”

  So saying, Curel hastily left the room, disregarding the meal he had brought.

  * * * *

  During the remainder of the evening Smith was left to his own devices, not a little to his relief. He found it exceedingly hard to digest the proposal of Curel; he was both amazed and suspicious.

  Suspicion, however, was scarcely justified—he realized this quickly enough. Here was a man who still retained something of the gentleman; coming in contact with Lebrun and what Lebrun had done, he instinctively revolted. Curel, or De Curel, must have been in ignorance of all that was intended. Certainly, he had been terribly upset upon getting here. News of the supposed ptomaine poisoning must have been broken to Berangère rather ungently; at all events, the shock had been no less severe to Curel than to the girl.

  The amazement of Smith was more justified than was his first impulse to suspicion. This offer of alliance was the last thing he expected. There was some reason for thinking that Curel would be neutral—but an active aid! This was different. It was distinctly encouraging. And yet—

  What about this girl, Berangère?

  “I’ll have to go slow until I can see her,” thought Smith. “If she’s some little fool, some hysterical feminine doll, I’d better put her in the motor boat and beat it. If not—well, let the future manage itself! Curel was right about my chances of surviving, however; I’d better lose no time, or Le Morpion won’t be easy to handle.”

  So thinking, he fell asleep.

  * * * *

  In the morning, his breakfast was brought by Félice Bonnard. It was not his first sight of this extraordinary person; he had met her, briefly, in Saigon. When she had arranged the tray, she stepped back and surveyed him in silence. Her air was saturnine, unsmiling.

  “You have changed,”
she announced critically. “And for the better. I understand that you have undertaken to tame my mistress?”

  In the last word was a covert sneer—a flash of the eye, a twist of the lip.

  “That, I believe,” responded Smith calmly, “is the arrangement. Do you object?”

  She shrugged. Already, without word or reason, there had risen between them a wall of intense dislike. On the part of Félice, this feeling was tinctured with lofty contempt. “You are not the man for the job,” was her cool response. “But since it is settled—take warning! The girl is no fool.”

  “Ah!” The American’s brows were elevated. “Yet she engaged you?”

  “Take care, you!” she retorted, a slow flush mantling her cheek. “A word from me, and the master will put you out—pouf!—like a candle.”

  Smith regarded her with a cold smile. Already he perceived how one of his difficulties might be removed. He could scarcely kill a woman, and this was a woman who would require killing—nothing less. A woman? No; a snake. Yet she was no more than a sharer in the crimes of Lebrun; thus far, she had done nothing overt. To kill her would be difficult.

  “The master?” he replied slowly. “I suppose you mean your master, charming Félice! Are you not capable, then, of extinguishing your own candles?”

  Her eyes hardened beneath this raillery; her face became harsh, livid.

  “You are impudent to me—you!” she said in a level voice. “Take care!”

  “If you have finished your warnings,” said Smith, with a gesture of dismissal, “you may go. I require nothing further, thank you.”

  She darted him one glance that was barbed with venom, then swept from the room.

  The breakfast was excellent, and Smith enjoyed it to the full. When he had finished, he rose, made shift to bathe, and dressed. There were clothes laid out for him—garments of silk; but he revolted at wearing the clothes of murdered men, and he got into his own frayed attire. This effort left him nearly exhausted. He reached an old fashioned bell-pull near the door, dragged at the cord, and sank into a chair.

  In response to this summons, Curel appeared.

  “Tiens! Up and dressed? But—”

  “Some coffee, Curel,” broke in the American. “I need it. And an automatic.”

  Curel nodded, caught up the tray, and vanished. In ten minutes he reappeared, bearing a cup of hot coffee. With this, he set down an automatic pistol.

  “I trust,” he observed whimsically, as Smith pocketed the weapon and gulped the coffee, “that you anticipate no executions this morning?”

  “Don’t be a fool.” Smith chuckled. “Get me a stick, will you? A cane. Help me to reach the garden, bring me something to read, and leave me to recuperate by myself.”

  “Willingly.”

  In twenty minutes, Smith was seated in an easy chair in the sunken garden, drinking in the warm sunlight and the perfume of the trees around. Magazines and cheroots were nearby. Curel had departed.

  As he sat here, Smith was oppressed by the sudden loneliness of this beautiful place. As if by the touch of a malignant hand, all those who lived here had been swept away. Everything was yet eloquent of them; the personality of Des Gachons lingered in the place he had loved.

  “I could forgive much,” thought Smith dreamily, “but I cannot forgive this poisoning. Wait a little, M. le Diable!”

  * * * *

  He had encountered no one. Nor did he see anyone until noon, when Lebrun in person fetched his tray and regarded him with a thin smile.

  “My dear Smith, you have antagonized Félice. This is unfortunate, really!”

  “Can’t help it,” said the American. “Mutual antagonism, I suppose. How’s everything?”

  The other nodded complacently. “Excellent. Le Morpion procured some brandy, and his wound is inflamed. He’ll be around tomorrow, I trust. By the way, you’ll join us at dinner tonight? We are a bit short of help, you understand, and since you can walk—”

  “By all means,” assented Smith. “You are a good surgeon!”

  Lebrun bowed, laughed, and departed.

  * * * *

  At the dinner table that night, Smith for the first time met Berangère des Gachons. The houeshold arrangements were, in the nature of things, informal. Le Morpion, who possessed some culinary skill, was aiding Félice as cook; Curel buttled, with his tongue in his cheek. At the table in the dining room, which was lighted by two huge candelabra, were only Lebrun, Smith, and the girl.

  Berangère appeared clad in black, crowned by her radiant hair; her blue eyes were dimmed by sorrow, her face pale. She was silent and unsmiling, yet by the quiet manner in which she assumed her position of hostess, Smith was entirely convinced that this game was to be played out here on the spot—there was to be no running away!

  The introduction had been performed mechanically; the talk was all in French. But, when at the table, Smith made a passing remark to Lebrun in English. Instantly he found the blue eyes of the girl widening upon him, a new light stirring in their depths. She leaned forward.

  “Pardon, monsieur—is not your name Smith? You are an American?”

  Smith smiled and assented. But the girl said no more; she relapsed into her silence, and betrayed slight interest in the conversation. Perhaps Lebrun, who missed nothing, perceived that from time to time her gaze dwelt upon Smith in frowning curiosity. The meal over, Berangère bade the others make themselves at home, and excused herself.

  Lebrun and Smith settled down to cheroots in the library, where Le Morpion and Curel joined them. Here, presently, came Félice with word that Berangère had retired for the night.

  “And,” she added, lighting a cigarette and settling into a chair, “I have had enough of being a maid, me! How much longer, Paul, before—”

  She broke off significantly. Lebrun gave Smith a glance, and his thin smile.

  “M. Smith can hardly become a bridegroom as yet,” he responded. “Unless, that is, he prefers to arrange matters with the young lady in advance—”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” said Smith. “It’s settled that the girl belongs to me?”

  He saw Curel wince slightly. Le Morpion grinned. Lebrun nodded assent.

  “Then I’ll have a talk with her tomorrow,” said the American. He rose. “I’m off for bed—can’t afford to overdo now. Good night!”

  “I’ll help you,” volunteered Curel.

  * * * *

  They left the room together and sought Smith’s bedroom. Neither man spoke until they had closed the door, and Curel had lighted the lamp. Then, blowing out the match, he looked at the American and smiled in his melancholy way.

  “You can’t possibly mean,” he said questioningly, “that you’ll strike tomorrow?”

  Smith nodded. “It’ll have to be now or never, Curel. Late tomorrow afternoon, perhaps. I’ll have a talk with Berangère.” He broke into a quick laugh, “What’s so terrible about it, after all? The odds are absolutely even. A woman against a woman. A wounded man against a wounded man. You against Lebrun. Bah!”

  Curel fingered his beard. His dark eyes were somber.

  “You mistake,” he answered. “It is not so at all. It is Berangère against Félice; you against Le Morpion; and I—I!—against M. le Diable. Well, we shall see!”

  With this rather cryptic utterance, he departed.

  When Smith wakened to the early morning sunlight in his room, he felt himself again—only the twinge of pain as he left the bed, brought him to realization that he was good for little. Still, the weakness had gone. He dressed with cheerful confidence in himself, and went down to breakfast. When Berangère appeared he saw that she, too, seemed more like the girl she must have been. He wished vaguely that he had known her before this blow had stricken her.

  He had already decided that Berangère must attend to Félice. Woman against woman.

  During breakfast, Smith discovered that there was something amiss with his bandage, which had slipped. After the meal he returned to his room, adjusted the
binding firmly, pocketed his automatic, and resolved to have a talk with Berangère at once.

  Yet the house seemed oddly deserted. Before speaking with the girl, he must assure himself that the others were out of the way; but he could not find them. He went to the kitchen. Le Morpion had vanished. Curel and Lebrun were nowhere.

  In the hall, Smith paused before a rack of sticks. His eye was caught by a fine Malacca, and for this he discarded the heavier stick which he had been using. Then he perceived that the Malacca was a sword-cane—three-edged, elegant, deadly, its triangular blade finely chased. He took this, and then turned at a step behind him.

  It was Berangère. She was dressed for the pool, a light wrap about her shoulders, cloaking her gold-clad figure.

  She paused at sight of him, and her blue eyes flashed.

  “Mademoiselle, I was about to seek you,” said Smith, “in order to beg a few moments—”

  “Perhaps you will reconsider,” said she, coldly, “when I tell you that I know you.”

  “What?” Smith’s brows lifted. “I am afraid—”

  “No protestations, if you please,” she broke in. “I am aware that there is a reward for you. I am also aware that, a year or so ago, you were the confidential emissary of the governor-general himself; I have remembered your face at last. You are the man who reorganized the police system. You are the man who tracked down the opium traffic from Yunnan and stamped it out. You are the man who broke up the criminal gangs along the western border.

  “For all this, monsieur, you have received recognition. I find you here, shipwrecked and hurt; you are welcome to shelter and food. But, I pray you, seek nothing more! I know that the governor-general himself offers a thousand dollars for information as to your whereabouts.

  “What crimes you have committed, how you have fallen so low from so high a place, I do not know nor do I desire to know. Kindly remember, monsieur, that I wish no intrusion.”