by J. T. Edson
The latter rather than the shout caused the brothers to pause!
From his final scrutiny of the street, André felt sure there was nobody close enough to hear and come in answer to the appeal for assistance. Claude had not given the matter any thought. So they both acted in the same way. Being healthy young men with a full measure of the traditional Gallic interest in members of the opposite sex, their eyes followed the descent of the girl’s skirt with eager anticipation. They found themselves disappointed by the view. Each was expecting that some form of feminine underclothing would be revealed, the briefer the better, but saw only masculine—if most attractively filled, black riding breeches and Hessian boots.
Having taken the requisite action to rid herself of hindrance from the skirt, the Rebel Spy’s left hand flashed to the body of the parasol. A twist separated it from the handle and left the way clear for the spring-loaded billy to be brought into use, but she did not toss it aside as she had in the hospital’s entrance hall. Instead, rotating swiftly at the hips, she swung it in an upwards arc.
Belle had not neglected to continue watching the brothers and, seeing that Andre was recovering his wits faster than Claude, made him the first object of her attentions. Rising with all the wiry strength of her slenderly muscled body behind it, the point of the steel ferrule jabbed him hard beneath his chin. Letting out a pained and startled squawk, he went into an involuntary retreat.
‘What’s happening …?’ Claude gasped in French, jerking his gaze from the tight seat of the riding breeches in time to see his elder brother staggering away from their intended victim.
The question went uncompleted!
Reversing her torso’s direction with an equal rapidity and turning her right hand palm upwards, Belle delivered just as painfully effective a thrust with the steel knob of the billy to the same target as she had selected on André. Caught unawares and unprepared, Claude discovered what had caused his brother’s reaction. Croaking instead of continuing speaking, he backed away just as hurriedly.
While dealing with the brothers, the Rebel Spy was not unaware that there might be other threats to her well being. She saw that, registering an even greater alarm and consternation; Tinville was thrusting back his chair as he started to rise. However, she considered he would be the least of her problems. Not only was Papa Champlain showing anger mingled with amazement over the way in which the situation was developing, he was grabbing for something beneath the counter. It required little deductive genius to decide that the concealed object was a firearm of some kind. Nor did Belle need to exert any excessive amount of thought to realize just how grave a peril she was facing.
Wanting only to escape, Tinville was no threat!
Nor, although neither was as yet incapacitated, were the two brothers too serious a danger while she held the spring-loaded billy ready for instant use for she would no longer need to restrict herself to merely jabbing. She was confident in her speed and agility being sufficient to keep her out of either’s reach until she could bring the device into the kind of use for which it was designed.
Being too far away for Belle to reach him before he was able to raise whatever kind of weapon he was picking up, it was Papa Champlain who would put her in jeopardy.
Even as she was reaching the unpalatable conclusion with regard to the proprietor, Belle was bringing up her right leg. Hooking the toe of the Hessian boot under the table, she lifted and shoved. Sliding from its top as it tilted, Tinville’s bottle of wine and glass preceded it in tumbling on to his lap. He gave a frightened wail as, trying to avoid all three, he overturned his chair and sprawled backwards on to the floor.
Satisfied with her effort as far as the actor was concerned, the Rebel Spy still had no idea how she might cope with Papa Champlain.
Having crossed to approach the Bistro le Marseillaise from the opposite side of the street and reduce the chances of being seen, even though they were relying upon Belle to keep the occupants’ attention away from the windows, the Kid and Ballinger were halfway back when they heard her shout for help. They had already drawn their Webley revolvers and darted forward without worrying any longer about remaining undetected. The detective did not know that the door was locked, but he still swung his left shoulder forward and charged it open. Experience had taught him the value of making a noisy and dramatic entrance. Such shock tactics were likely to distract the people upon whom he was literally bursting in and he took the precaution instinctively.
‘Don’t!’ the Kid roared, springing across the threshold on Ballinger’s heels and coming to a halt with his Webley R.I.C. revolver held in the shoulder level, double-handed grip which allowed for accurate sighting. ‘You’re a dead man if you do!’
To be fair to Papa Champlain, he was only lifting the sawed-off shotgun from the shelf under the counter with the intention of threatening the very competent young woman into compliance. He would have been reluctant to use it, if only because to kill her would ruin any chance of obtaining the money he believed to have been stolen from the theater.
For a moment, staring into the rock steady muzzle of the revolver aimed at him, Champlain thought that his female visitor’s partner had arrived. Then he recognized Ballinger and knew this could not be the case. There were dishonest officers in the Chicago Police Department, but the detective lieutenant had never been in their number and would not be helping a criminal. So the proprietor drew a parallel conclusion to that reached, then discarded, by le Loup-Garou outside the Streeterville Municipal Hospital. He assumed that the man who was covering him must be another police officer and appeared to be as competent as Ballinger in the use of firearms.
‘Don’t shoot,’ Champlain yelled, dropping the shotgun and raising his empty hands hurriedly.
Even without the evidence that his father was surrendering, Andre had no inclination to do otherwise. With Ed Ballinger pointing a revolver at him, he knew resistance would be futile and could prove fatal.
Claude reached a different conclusion. Finding that he was not directly subjected to either of the newcomers’ attentions, he saw what he believed was a way in which the affair could be brought back in his family’s favor. He would grab the girl and use her as a hostage. There were flaws in his reasoning, if he had only given the matter more thought. He did not bother to consider why police officers would be greatly concerned over what happened to a female criminal, or what he, his father and brother would do after they regained control of the situation. Instead, he made a lunge forward and very soon wished he had not.
Seeing the younger Champlain brother approaching, Belle deduced his motives. What was more, she appreciated that he could put her companions in an embarrassing position if he succeeded. So she continued to move with the speed which had allowed her to protect herself from the beginning.
As the Rebel Spy’s right arm swung, the billy opened and its spring came into operation. The steel ball caught the back of Claude’s outstretched left hand and elicited a howl of agony as the bones splintered. While striking, Belle had stepped aside and, as he went by, she spun on her right foot to deliver a kick with her left leg to his rump. Fast taken though it might have been, the impact sent him reeling onwards. Clutching his injured hand with the other, he fell across a table. The legs buckled and collapsed under his weight, dumping him almost fainting from the pain, on the floor. It was a sight which would have gladdened the heart of more than one prostitute in his father’s employment if she had seen it. Claude was noted for his rough handling of such unfortunates.
‘You’ve come just in time, Lieutenant Ballinger,’ Papa Champlain stated, not entirely dissatisfied with the way his younger son’s ill-advised actions had turned out. He waved a hand towards the Rebel Spy and the recumbent Tinville, elaborating, ‘I was just going to send for the police. These two are responsible for the fire and robbery at O’Malley’s theater.’
‘Now wasn’t that thoughtful of you, Papa,’ Ballinger answered, with only the faintest trace of sarcasm in his voice. ‘If there w
as more like you around, I swear Chicago would become so law-abiding and honest fellers like me would have to go somewhere else to find work. Hadn’t you better go and find out how bad Brother Claude’s hurt? André? Damned if it doesn’t look like he’s come across one girl he can’t lick.’
Watching the detective and the Remittance Kid advancing without holstering their revolvers, although he was still unaware of the latter’s identity and true status, Henri Champlain scowled malevolently at the former’s sardonic comment. He knew that Ballinger was aware of the various illegal enterprises which had their origin in the Bistro le Marseillaise, despite there never having been sufficient evidence for an arrest. What was more, he sensed that his former immunity was now in jeopardy. A wily judge of strategy, he was a believer in attack offering the best means of defense. So he had got his version of what was happening in first. His story might not be believed, but it would at least warn his sons of the line he wanted them to take.
‘Lebrun there came in earlier and asked if he could wait and meet somebody,’ Papa continued, remaining behind the counter and pointing at Tinville. ‘Something in his manner made me suspicious that he might not be up to anything good. So, being the law-abiding citizen I am, I had my fine sons help me persuade him to tell us the truth. Then I thought that I would help the police still further, as they would probably all be busy with the fire at the theater. So we would catch both the woman and her accomplice when they came to meet him.’
‘Hoots, mon!’ the Kid ejaculated, adopting a Scottish highlander’s accent and sounding genuinely impressed. ‘Wasn’t that public-spirited of you?’
‘Wasn’t it,’ Ballinger conceded, with equally spurious sincerity, noting the change in the Englishman’s voice and deciding it sounded as authentic as the Irish brogue which had been there on their first meeting. Having no doubts over why the proprietor had supplied the information, he felt sure that it was partially true. His gaze swung to the young actor, who had rolled the table aside but was still sitting on the floor. ‘Get up, Mr. Lebrun—or is it Marcel Tinville?—You and the young lady are coming with us.’
‘You don’t sound like a policeman, m’sieur,’ Papa Champlain remarked, looking from where André was helping Claude to rise, to the Kid. Certain other factors were beginning to come to his attention, leading him to wonder whether his position was as precarious as he had at first imagined. ‘In fact, you don’t even sound like an American.’
‘That could be because I’m not an American,’ the Englishman replied, still sounding as if he had been born far to the north of Hadrian’s Wall. 41 He had adopted the Scottish accent in the hope of preventing Tinville from connecting him with the character he had played on their earlier meetings. However, remembering that the two men killed in the entrance hall of the hospital might have been French-Canadians, or Metis, he continued in the hope of producing an informative response. ‘But I am a policeman. Inspector Macdonald of the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police, at your service.’
The incorrect introduction elicited the kind of comment it had been uttered to create, but it was made by Tinville. Alarmed over the unexpected turn of events and hurt as a result of being precipitated unexpectedly to the floor, he was still capable of thought. In spite of the scar having disappeared from the left cheek, the broken nose had led him to believe the speaker was the man to whom he had imparted much the same information as he had sold to the fiery haired young woman. Although the accent was now Scottish and not Irish, the man’s announcement of his name and rank could explain why he had been employing the latter.
‘The Canadian Northwest !’ the actor began. ‘Then you know—?’
Before Tinville could go any further, Claude Champlain let out a bellow of rage. Helped to his feet by his brother, his gaze had just reached the person who was responsible for the pain he was suffering. The sight of Belle detonated his far from stable temper into an eruption of fury. Hurling André aside, he sprang across the room with the intention of avenging the injury he had sustained at her hands.
Knowing the young man’s far from savory reputation where women were concerned, although none of the victims of his brutal treatment had dared to lodge a formal complaint, Ballinger took a step forward and started to line the Webley Bulldog at him. Not so well informed about Claude, but equally apprehensive in spite of being even more aware than the lieutenant of how capably the Rebel Spy could defend herself, the Kid was just as able to refrain from diverting his attention and weapon ready to protect her.
Taking advantage of the diversion, Tinville turned and dashed towards the open front door.
Although none of the barroom’s occupants realized it, there was an interested observer watching and listening to what was happening!
Twelve – You’d Better Cooperate, M’sieur
Arnaud Cavallier, taking advantage of the woman’s escort being preoccupied with avoiding being seen by the occupants of the Bistro le Marseillaise, had closed the distance separating him from them. Being aware of how Henri “Papa” Champlain received the major portion of his income, le Loup-Garou did not doubt that Lieutenant Edward Ballinger was equally well informed even though unable to obtain sufficient proof to secure a conviction. So he had been puzzled when it had become obvious that the two men intended to let the woman go in alone. Listening to the disturbance which had caused them to follow her so hurriedly, he had decided it might be possible for him to eavesdrop without too great a risk of being discovered.
Moving as silently as the wearing of a pair of moccasins allowed, Cavallier had reached the window through which Belle Boyd had conducted her not entirely satisfactory examination of the barroom. His own scrutiny had been far more fruitful and, apart from one aspect, informative. What was more, as the door was still open, he was able to listen to the conversation taking place inside. Almost the first words he heard had warned him that the situation was grave. The rest had suggested there were facets which he had not envisaged and they added to the danger.
From what “Father Matthew Devlin” had told le Loup-Garou before he and his two companions had set off with Raoul Fourmies on the ill-fated visit to the Streeterville Municipal Hospital, he found Ballinger’s use of Marcel Tinville’s name the source of speculation. According to the bogus priest, the detective had been supplied with only vague details about the missing actor’s appearance. The fact that Ballinger had been able to identify him, even though he had shaved off his beard and mustache, suggested the possession of more information than had been obtained at O’Malley’s Grand Emerald Isle Theater. Unless it had been given by Papa Champlain, the woman—whose face Cavallier had still not been permitted to see—was the most likely candidate to have supplied it prior to their arrival at the bistro.
Hearing the man he had assumed to be a detective of the Chicago Police Department claim to be a member of the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police had been alarming to Cavallier. He was aware of how efficient the newly formed force had already become, 42 so it was disconcerting in the extreme to learn that one of its inspectors was in the city.
The discovery set thoughts racing through le Loup-Garou’s head. Foremost was that he had never heard of an Inspector Macdonald and he had taken care to learn all he could about the composition and strength of the ‘Mounties’. Next had come the realization that, no matter whether the man was genuine, or in Chicago on some other business, Tinville must not be permitted to fall into his hands. The comment begun by the actor had been a reminder that he knew far too much about Cavallier’s affairs to be allowed to speak of it in either ‘Macdonald’s’ or Ballinger’s presence.
Even as le Loup-Garou was reaching this conclusion and wondering how to avert the danger, Claude Champlain provided his diversion. Seeing Tinville starting to run towards the door, Cavallier sprang in the same direction. Although he had the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker tucked into his trouser waistband, access to it was impeded by his vest and jacket being buttoned over it. However, he was carrying another weapon far more to his liking
and readily available. Reaching over, his right hand slid the J. Russell & Co. Green River knife from the sheath strapped to his left wrist. It was in his grasp by the time he had reached a position from which he could make the best use of it.
Ignoring the threat of the Webley revolvers being aimed at him by Captain Patrick Reeder and Lieutenant Ballinger, Claude took just as little notice of his father’s furious bellow for him to stop. Much to his surprise as he continued to charge at Belle Boyd, although her previous behavior ought to have warned him against expecting otherwise, she showed no alarm. Unlike the previous victims of his wrathful attentions, she neither cowered nor tried to run away in the face of his fury. Instead, she sprang to meet him. The sight had an adverse effect upon his judgment.
Although Claude’s left hand was inoperative, his right was thrusting out with the intention of grasping and crushing a breast in the way he had found to be most effective on other occasions when dealing with members of the opposite sex. Under the circumstances he decided that he would be better advised to concentrate upon catching hold of his proposed victim’s right arm. It was rising rapidly and he had all too painful memories of what had happened the last time she struck at him with the end of the, as he assumed, broken parasol. It was, however, too late for him to change his tactics.
While the Rebel Spy’s reach was less than her assailant’s, the length of the billy nullified his advantage. Nor had she any qualms about using it. Ballinger’s comment about Claude having met a girl he could not ‘lick’ had warned her that mistreating members of her sex was a far from rare occurrence where he was concerned. For all that, being cognizant of how lethal the device could be, she had no wish to cause the lieutenant further difficulties or embarrassment. With the latter consideration in mind, she directed the steel ball against the top of Claude’s head at something less than the full force she was capable of producing.
