Part 9 (1/2)
”So genuine that I shall answer its call, Mr. Narkom, and be alone in the dark on the top floor of No. 7, Rue Toison d'Or, to-morrow night as surely as the clock strikes nine.”
And that was how the few persons who happened to be in the quiet upper reaches of the Rue Bienfaisance at half-past eight o'clock the next evening came to see a fat, fussing, red-faced Englishman in a grey frock-coat, white spats, and a s.h.i.+ning topper, followed by a liveried servant with a hat-box in one hand and a portmanteau in the other-so conspicuous, the pair of them, that they couldn't have any desire to conceal themselves-cross over the square before the Church of St. Augustine, fare forth into the darker side pa.s.sages, and move in the direction of the street of the Golden Fleece.
They were, of course, Cleek and the boy Dollops.
”Lumme, Gov'nor,” whispered he, as they turned at last into the utter darkness and desertion of the narrow Rue Toison d'Or, ”if this is wot yer calls Gay Paree-this precious black slit between two rows of houses-I'll take a slice of the Old Kent Road with thanks. Not even so much as a winkle-stall in sight, and me that empty my s.h.i.+rt-bosom's a-chafing my blessed shoulder-blades!”
”You'll see plenty of life before the game's over, I warrant you, Dollops. Now then, my lad, here's a safe spot. Sit down on the hat-box and wait. That's No. 7, that empty house with the open door, just across the way. Keep your eye on it. I don't know how long I'll be, but if anybody comes out before I do, mind you don't let him get away.”
”No fear!” said Dollops sententiously. ”I'll be after him as if he was a ham sandwich, sir. Look out for my patent 'Tickle Tootsies' when you come out, Gov'nor. I'll sneak over and put 'em round the door as soon as you've gone in.” For Dollops, who was of an inventive turn of mind, had an especial ”man-trap” of his own, which consisted of heavy brown paper, cut into squares, and thickly smeared over with a viscid varnish-like substance that would adhere to the feet of anybody incautiously stepping upon it, and so interfere with flight that it was an absolute necessity to stop and tear the papers away before running with any sort of ease and swiftness was possible. This was the ”invention” to which Cleek had alluded. Dollops, who was rather proud of the achievement, carried with him a full supply of ready-cut papers and a big collapsible tube of the viscid, ropy, varnish-like glue.
Meantime, Cleek, having left the boy sitting on the hat-box in the darkness, crossed the narrow street to the open doorway of No. 7, and, without hesitation, stepped in. The place was as black as a pocket, and had that peculiar smell which belongs to houses that have long stood vacant. The house, nevertheless, was a respectable one, and, like all the others, fronted on another street-this dark Toison d'Or being merely a back pa.s.sage used princ.i.p.ally by the tradespeople for the delivery of supplies. Feeling his way to the first of the three flights of stairs which led upward into the stillness and gloom above, Cleek mounted steadily until he found himself at length in a sort of attic-quite windowless, and lit only by a skylight through which shone the ineffectual light of the stars. It was the top at last. Bracing his back against the wall, so that n.o.body could get behind him, and holding himself ready for any emergency, he called out in a clear, calm voice: ”Cleek!”
Almost simultaneously there was a sharp metallic ”snick,” an electric bulb hanging from the ceiling flamed out luminously, a cupboard door flashed open, a voice cried out in joyous, perfect English: ”Thank G.o.d for a man!” And, switching round with a cry of amazement, he found himself looking into the face and eyes of a woman.
And of all women in the world-Ailsa Lorne!
He sucked in his breath and his heart began to hammer.
”Miss Lorne!” he exclaimed, so carried out of himself that he scarcely knew what he did. ”It was the French position that you chose, then? It is you-you-that calls upon me?”
”No, it is not,” she made reply, a rush of colour reddening her cheeks, a feeling of embarra.s.sment and of a natural restraint making her shake visibly. ”I am merely the envoy of another. I should not know you, disguised as you are, but for that. Yes, I chose the French position, as you see, Mr. Cleek. I am now the companion to Mademoiselle Athalie, daughter of the Baron de Carjorac.”
”Baron de Carjorac? Do you mean the French Minister of the Interior, the President of the Board of National Defences, Miss Lorne-that enthusiastic old patriot, that rabid old spitfire, whose one dream is the wresting back of Alsace-Lorraine, the driving of the hated Germans into the sea? Do you mean that ripping old firebrand?”
”Yes. But you'd not call him that if you were to see him now; if you could see the wreck, the broken and despairing wreck, that six weeks of the Chateau Larouge, six weeks of that horrible 'Red Crawl' have made of him.”
”'The Red Crawl'! Good heavens! then that letter, that appeal for help-”
”Came from him!” she finished excitedly. ”It was he who was to have met you here to-night, Mr. Cleek. This house is one he owns; he thought he might with safety risk coming here, but-he can't! he can't! He knows now that there is danger for him everywhere; that his every step is tracked; that the snare which is about him has been about him, unsuspected, for almost a year; that he dare not, absolutely dare not, appeal to the French police, and that if it were known he had appealed to you, he would be a dead man inside of twenty-four hours, and not only dead, but-disgraced. Oh, Mr. Cleek!”-she stretched out two shaking hands and laid them on his arm, lifted a white, imploring face to his-”save him! save that dear broken old man! Ah, think! think! They are our friends, our dear country's friends, these French people. Their welfare is our welfare, ours is theirs. Oh, help him, save him, Mr. Cleek-for his own sake-for mine-for France. Save him, and win my grat.i.tude for ever!”
”That is a temptation that would carry me to the ends of the earth, Miss Lorne. Tell me what the work is, and I will carry it through. What is this incomprehensible thing of which both you and Baron de Carjorac have spoken-this thing you allude to as 'The Red Crawl'?”
She gave a little shuddering cry and fell back a step, covering her face with both hands.
”Oh!” she said, with a s.h.i.+ver of repulsion. ”It is loathly-it is horrible-it is necromancy-beyond belief! Why, oh, why were we ever driven to that horrible Chateau Larouge! Why could not fate have spared the Villa de Carjorac? It could not have happened then!”
”Villa de Carjorac? That was the name of the baron's residence, I believe. I remember reading in the newspapers some five or six weeks ago that it was destroyed by fire, which originated-n.o.body knew how-in the apartments of the late baroness in the very dead of the night. I thought at the time it read suspiciously like the work of an incendiary, although n.o.body hinted at such a thing. The Chateau Larouge I also have a distinct memory of, as an old historic property in the neighbourhood of St. Cloud. Speaking from past experience, I know that, although it is in such a state of decay, and supposed to be uninhabitable, it has, in fact, often been occupied at a period when the police and the public believed it to be quite empty. Gentlemen of the Apache persuasion have frequently made it a place of retreat. There is also an underground pa.s.sage-executed by those same individuals-which connects with the Paris sewers. That, too, the police are unaware of. What can the ruined Chateau Larouge possibly have to do with the affairs of the Baron de Carjorac, Miss Lorne, that you connect them like this?”
”They have everything to do with them-everything. The Chateau is no longer a ruin, however. It was purchased, rebuilt, refitted by the Comtesse Susanne de la Tour, Mr. Cleek, and she and her brother live there. So do we-Athalie, Baron de Carjorac, and I. So, also, does the creature-the thing-the abominable horror known as 'The Red Crawl.'”
”My dear Miss Lorne, what are you saying?”
”The truth, nothing but the truth!” she answered hysterically. ”Oh, let me begin at the beginning-you'll never understand unless I do. I'll tell you in as few words as possible-as quickly as I can. It all began last winter, when Athalie and her father were at Monte Carlo. There they met Madame la Comtesse de la Tour and her brother, Monsieur Gaston Merode. The baron has position but he has not wealth, Mr. Cleek. Athalie is ambitious. She loves luxury, riches, a life of fas.h.i.+on-all the things that boundless money can give; and when Monsieur Merode-who is young, handsome, and said to be fabulously wealthy-showed a distinct preference for her over all the other marriageable girls he met, she was flattered out of her silly wits. Before they left Monte Carlo for Paris everybody could see that he had only to ask her hand, to have it bestowed upon him. For although the baron never has cared for the man, Athalie rules him, and her every caprice is humoured.
”But for all he was so ardent a lover, Monsieur Merode was slow in coming to the important point. Perhaps his plans were not matured. At any rate, he did not propose to Athalie at Monte Carlo; and, although he and his sister returned to Paris at the same time as the baron and his daughter, he still deferred the proposal.”
”Has he not made it yet?”
”Yes, Mr. Cleek. He made it six weeks ago-to be exact, two nights before the Villa de Carjorac was fired.”