The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  “Absolutely,” retorted Gourdon. “A finer patriot than Tournefort does not exist.”

  “Probably,” rejoined the other dryly. “But what about the men?”

  “Oh, they are only a set of barefooted, ignorant louts. They do as they are told, and Tournefort has his eye on them. I dare say they’ll contrive to steal a few things, but they would never dare lay hands on valuable jewellery. To begin with, they could never dispose of it. Imagine a va-nu-pieds peddling a diamond tiara!”

  “There are always receivers prepared to take risks.”

  “Very few,” Gourdon assured him, “since we decreed that trafficking with aristo property was a crime punishable by death.”

  Chauvelin said nothing for the moment. He appeared wrapped in his own thoughts, listened for a while to the confused hubbub about the house, then he resumed abruptly:

  “Who are these men whom you are employing, citizen Gourdon?”

  “A well-known gang,” replied the other. “I can give you their names.”

  “If you please.”

  Gourdon searched his pockets for a paper which he found presently and handed to his colleague. The latter perused it thoughtfully.

  “Where did Tournefort find these men?” he asked.

  “For the most part at the Cabaret de la Liberté—a place of very evil repute down in the Rue Christine.”

  “I know it,” rejoined the other. He was still studying the list of names which Gourdon had given him. “And,” he added, “I know most of these men. As thorough a set of ruffians as we need for some of our work. Merri, Guidal, Rateau, Desmonds. Tiens!” he exclaimed; “Rateau! Is Rateau here now?”

  “Why, of course! He was recruited, like the rest of them, for the day. He won’t leave till he has been paid, you may be sure of that. Why do you ask?”

  “I will tell you presently. But I would wish to speak with citizen Rateau first.”

  Just at this moment Tournefort paid his periodical visit to the hall. The usual words, “Still nothing,” were on his lips, when Gourdon curtly ordered him to go and fetch the citizen Rateau.

  A minute or two later Tournefort returned with the news that Rateau could nowhere be found. Chauvelin received the news without any comment; he only ordered Tournefort, somewhat roughly, back to his work. Then, as soon as the latter had gone, Gourdon turned upon his colleague.

  “Will you explain——” he began with a show of bluster.

  “With pleasure,” replied Chauvelin blandly. “On my way hither, less than an hour ago, I met your man Rateau, a league or so from here.”

  “You met Rateau!” exclaimed Gourdon impatiently. “Impossible! He was here then, I feel sure. You must have been mistaken.”

  “I think not. I have only seen the man once, when I, too, went to recruit a band of ruffians at the Cabaret de la Liberté, in connexion with some work I wanted doing. I did not employ him then, for he appeared to me both drink-sodden and nothing but a miserable, consumptive creature, with a churchyard cough you can hear half a league away. But I would know him anywhere. Besides which, he stopped and wished me good morning. Now I come to think of it,” added Chauvelin thoughtfully, “he was carrying what looked like a heavy bundle under his arm.”

  “A heavy bundle!” cried Gourdon, with a forceful oath. “And you did not stop him!”

  “I had no reason for suspecting him. I did not know until I arrived here what the whole affair was about, or whom you were employing. All that the Committee knew for certain was that you and Tournefort and a number of men had arrived at Gentilly before daybreak, and I was then instructed to follow you hither to see what mischief you were up to. You acted in complete secrecy, remember, citizen Gourdon, and without first ascertaining the wishes of the Committee of Public Safety, whose servant you are. If the Sucy diamonds are not found, you alone will be held responsible for their loss to the Government of the People.”

  Chauvelin’s voice had now assumed a threatening tone, and Gourdon felt all his audacity and self-assurance fall away from him, leaving him a prey to nameless terror.

  “We must round up Rateau,” he murmured hastily. “He cannot have gone far.”

  “No, he cannot,” rejoined Chauvelin dryly; “though I was not thinking specially of Rateau or of diamonds when I started to come hither. I did send a general order forbidding any person on foot or horseback to enter or leave Paris by any of the southern gates. That order will serve us well now. Are you riding?”

  “Yes; I left my horse at the tavern just outside Gentilly. I can get to horse within ten minutes.”

  “To horse, then, as quickly as you can. Pay off your men and dismiss them—all but Tournefort, who had best accompany us. Do not lose a single moment. I’ll be ahead of you and may come up with Rateau before you overtake me. And if I were you, citizen Gourdon,” he concluded, with ominous emphasis, “I would burn one or two candles to your compeer the devil. You’ll have need of his help if Rateau gives us the slip.”

  III

  The first part of the road from Gentilly to Paris runs through the valley of the Bière, and is densely wooded on either side. It winds in and out for the most part, ribbon-like, through thick coppice of chestnut and birch. Thus it was impossible for Chauvelin to spy his quarry from afar; nor did he expect to do so this side of the Hôpital de la Santé. Once past that point, he would find the road quite open and running almost straight, in the midst of arid and only partially cultivated land.

  He rode at a sharp trot, with his caped coat wrapped tightly round his shoulders, for it was raining fast. At intervals, when he met an occasional wayfarer, he would ask questions about a tall man who had a consumptive cough, and who was carrying a cumbersome burden under his arm.

  Almost everyone whom he thus asked remembered seeing a personage who vaguely answered to the description: tall and with a decided stoop—yes, and carrying a cumbersome-looking bundle under his arm. Chauvelin was undoubtedly on the track of the thief.

  Just beyond Meuves he was overtaken by Gourdon and Tournefort. Here, too, the man Rateau’s track became more and more certain. At one place he had stopped and had a glass of wine and a rest; at another he had asked how close he was to the gates of Paris.

  The road was now quite open and level; the irregular buildings of the hospital appeared vague in the rain-sodden distance. Twenty minutes later Tournefort, who was riding ahead of his companions, spied a tall, stooping figure at the spot where the Chemin de Gentilly forks, and where stands a group of isolated houses and bits of garden, which belong to la Santé. Here, before the days when the glorious Revolution swept aside all such outward signs of superstition, there had stood a Calvary. It was now used as a sign-post. The man stood before it, scanning the half-obliterated indications.

  At the moment that Tournefort first caught sight of him he appeared uncertain of his way. Then for a while he watched Tournefort, who was coming at a sharp trot towards him. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind very suddenly and, giving a last, quick look round, he walked rapidly along the upper road. Tournefort drew rein, waited for his colleagues to come up with him. Then he told them what he had seen.

  “It is Rateau, sure enough,” he said. “I saw his face quite distinctly and heard his abominable cough. He is trying to get into Paris. That road leads nowhere but to the barrier. There, of course, he will be stopped, and——”

  The other two had also brought their horses to a halt. The situation had become tense, and a plan for future action had at once to be decided on. Already Chauvelin, masterful and sure of himself, had assumed command of the little party. Now he broke in abruptly on Tournefort’s vapid reflections.

  “We don’t want him stopped at the barrier,” he said in his usual curt, authoritative manner. “You, citizen Tournefort,” he continued, “will ride as fast as you can to the gate, making a detour by the lower road. You will i
mmediately demand to speak with the sergeant who is in command, and you will give him a detailed description of the man Rateau. Then you will tell him in my name that, should such a man present himself at the gate, he must be allowed to enter the city unmolested.”

  Gourdon gave a quick cry of protest.

  “Let the man go unmolested? Citizen Chauvelin, think what you are doing!”

  “I always think of what I am doing,” retorted Chauvelin curtly, “and have no need of outside guidance in the process.” Then he turned once more to Tournefort. “You yourself, citizen,” he continued, in sharp, decisive tones which admitted of no argument, “will dismount as soon as you are inside the city. You will keep the gate under observation. The moment you see the man Rateau, you will shadow him, and on no account lose sight of him. Understand?”

  “You may trust me, citizen Chauvelin,” Tournefort replied, elated at the prospect of work which was so entirely congenial to him. “But will you tell me——”

  “I will tell you this much, citizen Tournefort,” broke in Chauvelin with some acerbity, “that though we have traced the diamonds and the thief so far, we have, through your folly last night, lost complete track of the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy and of the man Bertin. We want Rateau to show us where they are.”

  “I understand,” murmured the other meekly.

  “That’s a mercy!” riposted Chauvelin dryly. “Then quickly, man. Lose no time! Try to get a few minutes’ advance on Rateau; then slip into the guard-room to change into less conspicuous clothes. Citizen Gourdon and I will continue on the upper road and keep the man in sight in case he should think of altering his course. In any event, we’ll meet you just inside the barrier. But if, in the meanwhile, you have contrived to get on Rateau’s track before we have arrived on the scene, leave the usual indications as to the direction which you have taken.”

  Having given his orders and satisfied himself that they were fully understood, he gave a curt command, “En avant,” and once more the three of them rode at a sharp trot down the road towards the city.

  IV

  Citizen Rateau, if he thought about the matter at all, must indeed have been vastly surprised at the unwonted amiability or indifference of Sergeant Ribot, who was in command at the gate of Gentilly. Ribot only threw a very perfunctory glance at the greasy permit which Rateau presented to him, and when he put the usual query: “What’s in that parcel?” and Rateau gave the reply: “Two heads of cabbage and a bunch of carrots,” Ribot merely poked one of his fingers into the bundle, felt that a cabbage leaf did effectually lie on the top, and thereupon gave the formal order: “Pass on, citizen, in the name of the Republic!” without any hesitation.

  Tournefort, who had watched the brief little incident from behind the window of a neighbouring cabaret, could not help but chuckle to himself. Never had he seen game walk more readily into a trap. Rateau, after he had passed the barrier, appeared undecided which way he would go. He looked with obvious longing towards the cabaret, behind which the keenest agent on the staff of the Committee of Public Safety was even now ensconced. But seemingly a halt within those hospitable doors did not form part of his programme, and a moment or two later he turned sharply on his heel and strode rapidly down the Rue de l’Oursine.

  Tournefort allowed him a fair start, and then made ready to follow.

  Just as he was stepping out of the cabaret he spied Chauvelin and Gourdon coming through the gates. They, too, had apparently made a brief halt inside the guard-room, where—as at most of the gates, a store of various disguises was always kept ready for the use of the numerous sleuth-hounds employed by the Committee of Public Safety. Here the two men had exchanged their official garments for suits of sombre cloth, which gave them the appearance of a couple of humble bourgeois going quietly about their business. Tournefort had donned an old blouse, tattered stockings, and shoes down at heel. With his hands buried in his breeches pockets, he, too, turned into the long narrow Rue de l’Oursine, which after a sharp curve abuts on the Rue Mouffetard.

  Rateau was walking rapidly, taking big strides with his long legs. Tournefort, now sauntering in the gutter in the middle of the road, now darting in and out of open doorways, kept his quarry well in sight. Chauvelin and Gourdon lagged some little way behind. It was still raining, but not heavily—a thin drizzle, which penetrated almost to the marrow. Not many passers-by haunted this forlorn quarter of old Paris. To right and left tall houses almost obscured the last quickly fading light of the grey September day.

  At the bottom of the Rue Mouffetard, Rateau came once more to a halt. A network of narrow streets radiated from this centre. He looked all round him and also behind. It was difficult to know whether he had a sudden suspicion that he was being followed; certain it is that, after a very brief moment of hesitation, he plunged suddenly into the narrow Rue Contrescarpe and disappeared from view.

  Tournefort was after him in a trice. When he reached the corner of the street he saw Rateau, at the farther end of it, take a sudden sharp turn to the right. But not before he had very obviously spied his pursuer, for at that moment his entire demeanour changed. An air of furtive anxiety was expressed in his whole attitude. Even at that distance Tournefort could see him clutching his bulky parcel close to his chest.

  After that the pursuit became closer and hotter. Rateau was in and out of that tight network of streets which cluster around the Place de Fourci, intent, apparently, on throwing his pursuers off the scent, for after a while he was running round and round in a circle. Now up the Rue des Poules, then to the right and to the right again; back in the Place de Fourci. Then straight across it once more to the Rue Contrescarpe, where he presently disappeared so completely from view that Tournefort thought that the earth must have swallowed him up.

  Tournefort was a man capable of great physical exertion. His calling often made heavy demands upon his powers of endurance; but never before had he grappled with so strenuous a task. Puffing and panting, now running at top speed, anon brought to a halt by the doubling-up tactics of his quarry, his great difficulty was the fact that citizen Chauvelin did not wish the man Rateau to be apprehended; did not wish him to know that he was being pursued. And Tournefort had need of all his wits to keep well under the shadow of any projecting wall or under cover of open doorways which were conveniently in the way, and all the while not to lose sight of that consumptive giant, who seemed to be playing some intricate game which well-nigh exhausted the strength of citizen Tournefort.

  What he could not make out was what had happened to Chauvelin and to Gourdon. They had been less than three hundred metres behind him when first this wild chase in and out of the Rue Contrescarpe had begun. Now, when their presence was most needed, they seemed to have lost track both of him—Tournefort—and of the very elusive quarry. To make matters more complicated, the shades of evening were drawing in very fast, and these narrow streets of the faubourg were very sparsely lighted.

  Just at this moment Tournefort had once more caught sight of Rateau, striding leisurely this time up the street. The worthy agent quickly took refuge under a doorway and was mopping his streaming forehead, glad of this brief respite in the mad chase, when that awful churchyard cough suddenly sounded so close to him that he gave a great jump and well-nigh betrayed his presence then and there. He had only just time to withdraw farther still into the angle of the doorway, when Rateau passed by.

  Tournefort peeped out of his hiding-place, and for the space of a dozen heart-beats or so remained there quite still, watching that broad back and those long limbs slowly moving through the gathering gloom. The next instant he perceived Chauvelin standing at the end of the street.

  Rateau saw him too—came face to face with him, in fact, and must have known who he was, for, without an instant’s hesitation and just like a hunted creature at bay, he turned sharply on his heel and then ran back down the street as hard as he could tear. He passed close to w
ithin half a metre of Tournefort, and as he flew past he hit out with his left fist so vigorously that the worthy agent of the Committee of Public Safety, caught on the nose by the blow, staggered and measured his length upon the flagged floor below.

  The next moment Chauvelin had come by. Tournefort, struggling to his feet, called to him, panting:

  “Did you see him? Which way did he go?”

  “Up the Rue Bordet. After him, citizen!” replied Chauvelin grimly, between his teeth.

  Together the two men continued the chase, guided through the intricate mazes of the streets by their fleeing quarry. They had Rateau well in sight, and the latter could no longer continue his former tactics with success now that experienced sleuth-hounds were on his track.

  At a given moment he was caught between the two of them. Tournefort was advancing cautiously up the Rue Bordet; Chauvelin, equally stealthily, was coming down the same street, and Rateau, once more walking quite leisurely, was at equal distance between the two.

  V

  There are no turnings out of the Rue Bordet, the total length of which is less than fifty metres; so Tournefort, feeling more at his ease, ensconced himself at one end of the street, behind a doorway, whilst Chauvelin did the same at the other. Rateau, standing in the gutter, appeared once more in a state of hesitation. Immediately in front of him the door of a small cabaret stood invitingly open; its signboard “Le Bon Copain” promised rest and refreshment. He peered up and down the road, satisfied himself presumably that, for the moment, his pursuers were out of sight, hugged his parcel to his chest, and then suddenly made a dart for the cabaret and disappeared within its doors.

  Nothing could have been better. The quarry, for the moment, was safe, and if the sleuth-hounds could not get refreshment, they could at least get a rest. Tournefort and Chauvelin crept out of their hiding-places. They met in the middle of the road, at the spot where Rateau had stood a while ago. It was then growing dark and the street was innocent of lanterns, but the lights inside the cabaret gave a full view of the interior. The lower half of the wide shop-window was curtained off, but above the curtain the heads of the customers of “Le Bon Copain,” and the general comings and goings, could clearly be seen.