TAP-TAP-TAP! So they’d come for him. They’d found him after all, and now they’d come to take him away, him, Paul Ashby, and hang him by the neck till he was dead for the murder of Luela da Costa. Tap-tap-tap! By God! they shouldn’t catch him—he’d see them in hell first. There was still time—he’d run for it. But the room had no window—no door except that one which trembled with the insistent knocking. If it was that damned little Leech he’d trip him up and run for it. But of course it wouldn’t be—they’d never send Leech by himself. They’d sent him to torture Adelaide, though. Tap-tap-tap! God! he hadn’t much longer—they’d break the door down.
Adelaide—would she be sorry when she heard?—would she cry, as she had for Adrian? Tap-tap-TAP-TAP! Could nothing save him? They were opening it . . . Oh, God! they’d got him!
He struggled, and woke to find Benvenuto shaking him by the arm.
“You lazy devil, get up. I’ve been banging on your door for the last ten minutes. Thought I’d better come in and see if you’d passed away in your sleep. Buck up and dress—we’re going to Marseille in the car.”
“Marseille?” said Paul half awake. “What the devil for?”
“I want to find our friend the Slosher. Explain later. How soon can you be ready? Adelaide is having coffee with me down at the café—join us as soon as you can.”
“Ten minutes,” said Paul, springing out of bed, and the door banged behind Benvenuto.
He turned on the bath, and splashing himself with cold water tried to get his thoughts into shape. Why on earth was Benvenuto interested in the Slosher now—when Adelaide had made plain Adrian’s guilt? Or was that all a dream, too? He shook himself, and started to scrub vigorously. Of course it wasn’t—he could remember the whole thing, and taking her home afterwards, she leaning on his arm. Was Benvenuto trying to get hold of something to put the authorities off the scent while he got Adrian away into safety? If that was it, he’d help, too. Adrian, poor devil—Paul was able to feel nothing but sympathy for this man he’d never met. Tough luck on his father; shock would probably kill the old chap. So thinking, Paul shaved and dressed as quickly as possible, and ran down to join the others.
He saw them drinking coffee on the quay, and Adelaide waved as he came towards them. He was sorry when he saw she had no hat; she couldn’t be coming. Dressed in one of her usual white linen frocks, she looked very fresh and trim, her hair waving back from her face.
Her smile was almost as gay as usual when she greeted him.
“Forgive all this handshaking,” she said. “Touche la main is the great national sport of France. We shake hands when we meet a friend, regardless of the fact that we’d met round the corner five minutes before. He sits down at our table, finds he has no cigarettes, rises to go and buy some, shakes hands all round, is absent two minutes, and the ceremony is repeated on his return. I shook hands thirty-five times in one morning with a woman who was doing her marketing at the same shops that I was, and she’d have been deeply offended if I hadn’t. Do try to remember!”
“I will,” said Paul fervently. “Useful little tip that. Do you mind if we practise it? I find I’m out of cigarettes.”
“Bon voyage,” they said, and he left them, his brain rather in a whirl, to find the nearest tobacconist’s. How were they managing to be so cheerful when things had taken on such a sinister appearance? “Upon my word, I believe I’m more concerned for Adrian than they are,” thought Paul, walking back from the shop; and then had an idea so startling that he stopped dead. Supposing someone else had used Adrian Kent’s name on the telephone in order to throw suspicion on him? This was interesting. He lit a cigarette and stared out to sea. But who could have done it? Adelaide would have recognized De Najera’s voice with its rich Southern drawl, and yet who else was there? . . . Ah, he had it—the Slosher, his companion of the train. He hurried back to the café full of his idea to put it to Benvenuto, and somehow his enthusiasm evaporated when he found them calmly discussing painting.
Sitting down to his coffee, he determined to test his theory. “You know that chap you spoke to on the phone, who made an appointment for Kent,” he said to Adelaide. “D’you remember if he had an extraordinary uneducated voice?”
“No, he hadn’t in the least,” she said, bewildered. “Why?”
Benvenuto shook his head at Paul.
“I’m afraid we can’t hang my late fare on his accent, strong as it is,” he said.
“That’s disappointing. But didn’t you say just now that we’re going after the Slosher today?”
“Mr. Herbert Dawkins, to you,” corrected Benvenuto. “I got his name from Leech this morning. Yes, at the moment he’s our only line of action, for since you laid out De Najera last night we can’t expect to glean anything from friendly intercourse with him. Still, I must say it was worth it.” He smiled reminiscently. “Meanwhile Leech is keeping a firm eye on the chateau. You know, there’s no doubt that Herbert is mixed up in the affair, more so than I can explain to you just at present, for I’ve no facts, and only an inkling as to how. Now, it seems to me more than likely that he’ll be in Marseille to-day, for it was only yesterday he got that address in the Rue Galette from Mr. Paleidos.”
“Seems like weeks to me,” said Paul. Benvenuto nodded. “Me too. If you’ve finished your coffee I think we’d better be getting along.”
They said good-bye to Adelaide and climbed into Benvenuto’s car, a rakish-looking two-seater. Driving along the Marseille road they passed the spot where De Najera had doubled back the day before and continued inland for a time, the white dusty road, already very hot in the sun, winding up through the hills above the town. Paul caught a glimpse of the port of St. Antoine far below him, the church raised up over the houses like a hen brooding over her chickens, the bay lively with boats. A big wine ship was coming in, its siren hoarsely summoning the town pilot. Along the road the olive trees were a dusty grey, and through them Paul could see vineyards heavy with grapes, and sometimes a stone-built farmhouse with a shaded court in front where children played and hens scratched about. It got hotter as they went inland, and the peasants at work in the fields wore wide straw hats to protect them from the sun. Topping a rise, a great plain spread out before them bounded by range upon range of bare mountains. They passed an ancient Provençal village, formal as an Italian hill town, its red roofs packed closely round a square-towered church, and beyond it a massive wedge-shaped mountain jutted into the plain. The side facing them was perpendicular, formed of different stratas of rock, and Paul imagined the sea washing against it thousands of years before.
“Montagne de Ste. Victoire,” said Benvenuto, taking off his hat. “You’re on holy ground—rapidly approaching the birthplace of Cézanne. All this country looks to me as though it had been created by him—indeed was, as far as I’m concerned. Five minutes, and we’ll drink to his memory on the Grande Place.”
Aix-en-Provence proved to be a town of mellow and faded magnificence, very quiet and forgotten. Paul caught glimpses of enormous carved gateways and ancient courtyards where fountains played, and determined he would come back one day and stay for a bit. They drove down a fine wide Place with a great fountain playing at one end, and had drinks in a café in the shade of plane trees, watching the townspeople go by with their market baskets, and students from the university with books under their arms. It was very tranquil and orderly.
Half an hour’s drive down the main road brought them to the outskirts of Marseille, and Paul asked Benvenuto his plan of campaign.
“Well, the only real clue we’ve got to the Slosher’s whereabouts is Madame V.,” he replied, “but it would be difficult to watch her house all day, particularly as the Rue Galette is down in the Vieux Quartier, and it’s no place to hang about in. I think the best thing to do is to go straight to the Gare, for the station detective is a pal of mine and he might give us a lead. Fortunately the Slosher isn’t one of these people one would overlook.” Paul agreed, and on arriving at the station Benvenuto went in to make inquiries, leaving him in the car. He reappeared in a few minutes.
“Bad luck,” he said. “Chap’s gone off duty. However I’ve got his address and we shall have to go and hunt him up. Damn waste of time.”
They started off again, crossed the Cannebière, the main street of Marseille, and drove into the suburbs; Benvenuto held his own with great skill amongst the Marseille taxi drivers, possibly the most temperamental in the world, and presently arrived at a small villa surrounded by a neat garden on the outskirts of the town.
He rang the bell and they were let in by a cheerful-looking woman with a shrill voice, who explained her husband was in bed, but if they would give themselves the trouble of entering she would go and speak with him. With many apologies on their part and much volubility on hers they seated themselves in a dark little parlour where heavy Provençal furniture smothered in knick-knacks and fringed mats stood uneasily against an execrable modern wallpaper.
Presently their hostess returned and begged them to mount to her husband’s bedroom, where he would have much pleasure to see them if they would excuse . . . Passing through a tiny hall, where mingled odours of charcoal and garlic issued from the kitchen, they went up the stairs and into a bedroom, preceded by Madame. Here, lying in an enormous bed draped with mosquito netting, lay a fat Frenchman with fierce moustaches who greeted Benvenuto enthusiastically.
“Ah, mon vieux, vous allez bien?” he roared, grasping his hand, and Paul saw to his great delight that he was wearing a flannel nightgown. Then Paul’s hand was crushed in his grasp while the great voice said:
“Enchanté, m’sieu, enchanté—et qu’ est-ce que vous voulez boire? Mais oui, mais oui, il faut prendre un petit verre.”
The preliminaries over, healths drunk and compliments passed on the brandy, Benvenuto broached the subject of their errand, to find that the detective had been on duty the night before and remembered a monsieur who might be their friend arriving on the nine o’clock train from Cannes. The monsieur was carrying two suitcases, one large, one small, but helas! he regretted infinitely he knew not what had become of him after leaving the station. Benvenuto thanked him profusely, and with many handshakes they left him among his pillows and went down to the car.
“That’s something anyhow,” remarked Paul. “What do we do now—try the hotels?”
Benvenuto considered, and then said: “I think on the whole we’ll try the station again first. The town is stiff with hotels and it would be a long business, whereas if we’re lucky we might get hold of a taxi driver or a porter who remembers him and knows where he went.”
Back in the station yard Paul sat in the car while Benvenuto strolled over to the taxi rank, where he soon had all the drivers round him, gesticulating and talking. After various suggestions had been made and discarded Paul saw him hand a note to one man and walk on one side with him. Presently he came back looking very pleased and said: “Smart fellow—remembers taking him to the Hotel George V. Attaboy”—and off they went again.
Leaving the car in a garage, they walked to the hotel, where things were simple, for after a murmured consultation with the hotel clerk and a further note expended, they were allowed to look at the register. Benvenuto ran his finger down the names entered on the previous night and stopped opposite one of them. A delighted smile overspread his face. “Percy de Winter, London,” he said softly, and Paul bent over and read it, written with many flourishes. A conference with the clerk confirmed their suspicion—Percy was undoubtedly the Slosher, and he had, it seemed, left the hotel half an hour before, saying he would not be back for lunch.
Whilst standing in consultation at the hotel entrance they were approached by a very shabby, genteel, elderly Englishman.
“May I have the pleasure of showing you round this city, sirs?” he began, taking off his greasy hat and speaking in a sprightly tone which went badly with his threadbare clothes and furtive-looking face. They turned away hastily, but he was not to be put off.
“Very interesting, the old quarters of the town, sir,” went on the voice insinuatingly. “Churches — antiquities — unusual cinemas — lovely women—”
Benvenuto drove him off with a curse, and then suddenly took Paul’s arm and went back to him. He drew a fifty-franc note from his pocket which the man eyed hungrily. Benvenuto gave it to him and said, “This your usual pitch?”
“Yes, Captain, night and day. I have many clients among the English visitors.”
“Well, look here. A stout man came out of this hotel this morning—an Englishman with sandy hair and a red face, wearing a grey check suit. Did you see where he went?”
The man eyed the fifty-franc note in his hand, coughed, and looked at Benvenuto meaningly.
“Your words of wisdom are precious, my friend, but you don’t get more than another ten. Now then, what about it?”
“I am obliged to you, Captain. The tourist season is not what it was. Yes, sir, I remarked the gentleman, and noticed he seemed in a hurry. About half an hour ago it was, and he went in that direction”—pointing down the Cannebière.
“Thanks,” said Benvenuto, and they left him, only to find him at their side a moment later.
“For a further fifty francs, Captain, I could give you some more information about the gentleman,” he said confidentially. Benvenuto sighed and took out his pocketbook again.
“Well, sirs, I made acquaintance with the gentleman last night,” the tout went on, “and as he was in search of amusement I took him to the Elysée Club, where he was very free with his money and did himself well on champagne. Towards the close of the evening he picked up a young lady, and I didn’t see much more of him. I offered him my services this morning when he came out of the hotel, thinking he might care to see the town, but he refused, saying he was going to meet his little friend of last night. He did not mention where, sir.”
The man appeared to be speaking the truth and they left him, though not before he had made another attempt to show them the sights.
“Ten to one it’s the Cintra,” said Benvenuto to Paul. “Everyone goes there, and it’s a likely rendezvous with a poule. And look here, when and if we do run him to earth he’s certain to recognize you. Don’t cut him—but on the same hand don’t be too eager, for I imagine you didn’t exactly part like brothers. I flatter myself he won’t know me, for I was pretty well camouflaged the other day.”
The Cintra they found crowded, and noisy with many tongues. Pushing their way to the bar, they ordered brandies and sodas, and looked about them. Paul was the first to discover their quarry, and murmuring to Benvenuto he edged sideways through the crowd. The Slosher was sitting at a small table with a man and a girl, and the party seemed to be in the best of spirits. In fact the laughter was so loud that it was attracting general attention. The girl was quite young, and crudely painted, with coarse black hair plastered in curls on her cheeks. She was extremely smartly dressed, though when she laughed she displayed teeth that made Paul shudder. Her companion was a thin dark man in an exaggeratedly cut suit, a typical bar lounger. Paul was doubtful of his nationality, though he appeared to be acting as interpreter to the party. They were both laying themselves out to please the Slosher, who responded cheerfully.
“Wot abaht painting the town pink ternight?” he was saying expansively, as they got near enough to catch his words. The interpreter was unequal to this and said, “Pardon?”
“Seein’ a bit of life,” elaborated the host, raising his voice hoarsely.
“Ah! mais oui—yes, yes, parfaitement,” said his companion. He smiled and translated to the girl, who broke into a torrent of agreement.
“Je connais une boîte beaucoup plus curieuse que celle d’hier soir, ou y trouve des jolies gonzes—et on y boit bien,” she finished, looking at the Slosher eagerly. He was bewildered for a moment, but the man explaining, he proved entirely agreeable.
“Tell ’er,” he said, pressing his companion’s waistcoat with a podgy forefinger, “tell ’er if she’s a good girl I’ll give ’er a brace of hear-rings.”
“Herrings?” queried the guide, again baffled.
The Slosher frowned as if he suspected a joke in bad taste, and then decided to laugh. He pinched the girl’s ear coyly and repeated, “Hearrings, yer fool. Pearls—real ’uns.”
“Ah! Boucles d’oreilles,” said the man, and translated the joke, whereupon there was general laughter and camaraderie.
“Après midi, cinema?” said the lady to her host, raising large and painted eyes appealingly to his face.
“She say she wish to go to cinema this afternoon,” put in the interpreter superfluously.
The Slosher leant back in his chair and shook his head solemnly from side to side.
“Je ne pooh pas,” he replied. “Je swee occupay,” he added mysteriously.
The man and girl exchanged a fleeting glance.
“Meet yer both ’ere at six,” he continued, getting up and paying for the drinks. “Cheerio, mate. Au revoyer, chérie.”
He turned and came face to face with Paul. “Why, Gor blimy where ’ave I seen you before?” he asked.
“Didn’t we travel down together in the train the other day?” said Paul.
“Why, o’ course, that’s it. ’Ow are yer?”
They shook hands, and then a look of distrust crossed the Slosher’s face. “I thought you said you was going along to the seaside?” he said.
“Yes, so I did,” said Paul, “but I came over to-day to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Brown, who’s just landed.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Brown,” said the Slosher, shaking hands, his face clearing. “’Ave a cigar. This is some town, this is, ’ot stuff I can tell you. Now where’s my little bit o’ skirt gone? ’Ere, Fifine, come and say ’ow do to the gentlemen.”
“Enchanté, m’sieurs,” said Fifine, looking far from enchanted, and a moment later hurried after her companion who had strolled to the door and was waiting with a frown on his face and a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Little bit of orl right,” said the Slosher, winking at Benvenuto who nodded sympathetically. “Well, sorry I can’t stop—pressin’ engagement and I got to get a bite to eat first. So-long, all.”
By this time the bar had emptied, and Benvenuto turned to Paul.
“Look here—can you lunch on sandwiches? They’ll give us some here, and we’ve not much time,” he said.
“Rather—I’ll go and order some at the bar,” said Paul.
When he came back Benvenuto had moved over to a corner table. He bent forward eagerly.
“Now for a council of war. If I mistake not, things are going to hum this afternoon. I’m determined on a quiet interview with the Slosher, and we must waylay him before he gets to Madame V.’s—for that’s obviously where he’s going after lunch—he’s full of it. The Rue Galette is down in the Vieux Quartier and I warn you that place is no picnic. Want to come?”
Paul chuckled. “You bet I do. I’m told it’s as fierce as the underworld of Chicago. It doesn’t seem possible, cheek by jowl with this well-gendarmed city.”
“Believe me, it is. Last winter I spent three months down there, painting, and more or less received the ‘freedom.’ I’d got no money and nothing they wanted. I didn’t poke my nose into their business, and that being so, I found thieves and harlots extremely good company when off duty. The Senegalese are the worst. Last time I was over here I went into a gunshop to get some shot for my rifle, and while I was there five fellows came in and purchased between them twenty revolvers, discussing meanwhile some gentleman of the name of André. But to return—I’m afraid the plot is thickening round the Slosher’s head.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well, I’m pretty well convinced that his young woman is the decoy of a gang. Poor Slosher—he may be a grand criminal in his own country, but he’s a sucking babe in this town. I don’t think their plans for trapping their rich Anglais will mature till to-night—you remember she was very enthusiastic about some place of amusement she intends taking him to—and there’s our chance. We must act this afternoon or there’ll be no more jewels, and very possibly no more Slosher. When I’ve got hold of him I propose doing a bit of blackmailing. We’ve got to get his story of last Tuesday evening, and the threat I can hold over him is my knowledge, or suspicion that amounts to knowledge, of his theft of Lady Trelorne’s jewels. Hence the haste—for once he’s disposed of them to Madame V. the thread is valueless. Finished lunch? Well, let’s go. I have a revolver (which doesn’t revolve, it’s true) and you have a fist. Forward to Madame V., and for the love of heaven obey me exactly.”
“Yes, Captain!” said Paul, and they started off down the Cannebière, a wide street of hotels, shops, and cafés, with a tramway down the centre, crowded and noisy. It terminated on the Old Port, and while they were held up at the corner by a stream of traffic Paul looked about him. Sea and sky were a burning blue, the sun blazed down baking the cobbles so that they hurt his feet, the noise was terrific, the air full of the tang of fish, salt, and gasoline fumes. A wide cobbled causeway ran round three sides of the port, backed by tall houses huddled unevenly together and sun-dried to a dusty white. Fishwives were throwing pails of sea water over their stalls. It glistened on the bright green of seaweed and the yellow skins of lemons which decked trays of strange shell fish. Plaques stuck in them announced the price and the different varieties—piades, piadons, moredues, violets, moules, portugaises. The harsh accents of the fishwives rose above the noise of traffic as they called their wares or shouted across at each other from throats apparently of brass. Enormously strong, rather short and broad in the beam, they were dark and swarthy-skinned, and seemed to Paul, as they clattered about in wooden clogs with baskets of fish and pails, to be the embodiment of this harsh and vigorous town. He stared about him, fascinated, till Benvenuto pulled him by the arm through the traffic to the other side, where boats were moored up against the causeway. Here they could walk with comparative safety, picking their way among ropes and barrels, and eluding the boatmen who sought custom for a trip round the bay. Another five minutes brought them to the beginning of the Vieux Quartier, where every building seemed to be a tenement or a sailors’ lodging house and washing hung like flags from the windows. Along the pavement were rows of bistros where sailors and dock hands sat drinking, their chairs sprawling across the pavement, and there were many Negroes among them, bright scarves tied round their necks. The interiors looked dark through the sunshine, but Paul caught glimpses of crude paintings on the walls, the gleaming brass rails of bars, rows of bottles, and dark faces bent over cards. It was smelly and noisy, coarse and strong, and very exciting. Between the houses narrow streets ran sharply up hill, some of them rising in stone steps, where women sat in the doorways and hung over balconies, and lines of washing stretched across between the houses. Painted signs stuck out over the doors, in French and English and Arabic. “Seamen’s hostel,” Paul read as he went by, “First-class English House,” “Au Clair de la Lune.” Suddenly Benvenuto turned up hill.
“Rue Galette,” he murmured. “If anyone grabs your hat let it go. Bérets are cheap, but so is virtue.”
Receiving many stares from the dark doorways, they strolled past No. 52 without incident, and found it was a bistro at the bottom of a tall house. There was a plaque on the door—“Madame V. Corsets. 5me étage.” They walked on to the end of the street, turned and came back, and suddenly Benvenuto pulled Paul into a doorway. Coming towards them was the girl Fifine, her hands on her hips, whistling. She had not seen them and they crouched back as she went by, and then suddenly Paul felt hands pulling him backwards into the house. Not daring to struggle, he looked behind him to see an old hag with a painted mouth smiling horribly at him. Benvenuto thrust ten francs into the hands, muttering something in an argot Paul did not understand, and he was released.
“Can’t go out for a minute—curse the girl—but what did I tell you? Unfortunate Slosher!” said Benvenuto in his ear. “Still, this isn’t a bad observation post for the moment, for he must pass this way to get to Madame V.’s.”
As he spoke a taxi turned up the street that was only just wide enough to take it, and as it went quickly past them they could see the Slosher inside.
“Damn!” said Paul with emphasis, and Benvenuto broke into a string of curses.
“I never thought of the fool coming up here in a taxi—didn’t think it could be done. Come on, after him.” They saw the Slosher alight, hand the taxi man a note, and enter the bistro, and then Benvenuto pulled Paul back into the doorway. For the girl, who had been whistling all the time in the street, suddenly stopped doing so, and three men emerged from a house and walked quickly across into the bistro.
“Hell! he’s trapped. They won’t attack him till he comes out, for money is money and jewels are hard to get rid of. Come on—we’ll have to do our best and Lord help us.”
Fifine had apparently done her bit and was walking off. They waited till she disappeared and then walked down towards the bistro, which was empty except for the three men, one of them a Negro, who were seated at a table drinking. They walked straight through and met the barman, a small green-faced diseased-looking pimp, who stopped them.
“I have an appointment with Madame V.,” said Benvenuto in French.
“Elle est occupée,” returned the barman.
“Yes, I know, but it is my friend with her and I have some important information for him.”
“On ne passe pas.”
It was getting difficult, for the gang were all looking at them and talking in low voices. Suddenly Benvenuto leant forward and whispered something in the barman’s ear. His sickly face immediately became wreathed in smiles, and he made way for them to reach the staircase, making a sign to the three men as he did so.
“Bit of luck,” whispered Benvenuto. “Fifth story—top of the house. Now follow me, and if you make a single sound, even breathe, you’re as good as dead.” With which cheerful remark he preceded Paul up the dark staircase.
Very slowly and quietly they climbed five flights without encountering anyone, and found themselves in a long narrow landing at the top with two doors facing them. Benvenuto bent down and examined the lock on the first door very carefully, and listened with his ear to the keyhole, then, making a cheerful gesture to Paul, he crept along to the next door. After repeating the proceeding he took what appeared to be a small tyre lever from his pocket, and inserting it between the door and the lintel he levered very gently at the lock until the door swung quietly inwards. They slipped inside and found themselves in a passage with a thick carpet on the floor. Benvenuto closed the door behind them, and went towards another at the end of the passage. This proved to be unlocked and he opened it very slowly, looked inside, and beckoned to Paul to follow him. They found themselves in a large bedroom ornately and vulgarly furnished, dim daylight coming in through the shutters. Another door, opposite the one they had entered by, obviously led into the second room which communicated directly with the staircase. They crossed over to it, thanking heaven for a thick flowered carpet on the floor; they heard the sound of voices, and it seemed to Paul an eternity before Benvenuto had turned the handle, pushed the door inwards, and released the handle without making a sound. He peered round the door, his revolver in his hand, and motioned to Paul to do likewise. They saw a large room with a window straight ahead of them, and in front of this an ormolu table was drawn up. Sitting up to it, his back towards them, was the Slosher, and on his left another man, enormously fat, with a microscope in his eye. So Madame V. was a man! The table was covered with jewels which flashed and glittered as the men handled them.
Benvenuto covered the two men with his revolver, walked into the room and said:
“Mr. Dawkins, I presume.”