The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  “Tell me, are you quite certain that you are not talking nonsense?”

  He replied by asking me to take his hand. I took it—it was chill with the icy cold as of death; and I doubted his meaning no more, but determined to have the whole mystery, then so faintly sketched, laid bare before me.

  “If you are not playing the fool, Hall,” said I, “and if you are sincere in wishing me to do something which you say is a favour to you, you must be more explicit. In the first place, how did you get this absurd notion that you are going to die into your head? Secondly, what is the nature of the obligation you wish to put upon me? It is quite clear that I can’t accept a trust about which I know nothing, and I think that for undiluted vagueness your words deserve a medal. Let us begin at the beginning, which is a very good place to begin at. Now, why should you, who are going to Paris, as far as I know, simply as a common sightseer, have any reason to fear some mysterious calamity in a city where you don’t know a soul?”

  He laughed softly, looking out for a moment on the sunless fields, but his eyes flashed lights when he answered me, and I saw that he clenched his hands so that the nails pierced the flesh.

  “Why am I going to Paris without aim, do you say? Without aim—I, who have waited years for the work I believe that I shall accomplish tonight—why am I going to Paris? Ha! I will tell you: I am going to Paris to meet one who, before another year has gone, will be wanted by every Government in Europe; who, if I do not put my hand upon his throat in the midst of his foul work, will make graves as thick as pines in the wood there before you know another month; one who is mad and who is sane, one who, if he knew my purpose, would crush me as I crush this paper; one who has everything that life can give and seeks more, a man who has set his face against humanity, and who will make war on the nations, who has money and men, who can command and be obeyed in ten cities, against whom the police might as well hope to fight as against the white wall of the South Sea; a man of purpose so deadly that the wisest in crime would not think of it—a man, in short, who is the product of culminating vice—him I am going to meet in this Paris where I go without aim—without aim, ha!”

  “And you mean to run him down?” I asked, as his voice sank to a hoarse whisper, and the drops stood as beads on his brow; “what interest have you in him?”

  “At the moment none; but in a month the interest of money. As sure as you and I talk of it now, there will be fifty thousand pounds offered for knowledge of him before December comes upon us!”

  I looked at him as at one who dreams dreams, but he did not flinch.

  “You meet the man in Paris?” I went on.

  “Tonight I shall be with him,” he answered; “within three days I win all or lose all: for his secret will be mine. If I fail, it is for you to follow up the thread which I have unravelled by three years’ hard work——”

  “What sort of person do you say he is?” I continued, and he replied—

  “You shall see for yourself. Dare you risk coming with me—I meet him at eight o’clock?”

  “Dare I risk!—pooh, there can’t be much danger.”

  “There is every danger!—but, so, the girl is waking!”

  It was true; Mary looked up suddenly as we thundered past the fortifications of Paris, and said, as people do say in such circumstances, “Why, I believe I’ve been asleep!” Roderick shook himself like a great bear, and asked if we had passed Chantilly; the Perfect Fool began his banter, and roared for a cab as the lights of the station twinkled in the semi-darkness. I could scarce believe, as I watched his antics, that he was the man who had spoken to me of great mysteries ten minutes before. Still less could I convince myself that he had not many days to live. So are the fateful things of life hidden from us.

  CHAPTER II.

  I MEET CAPTAIN BLACK.

  The lights of Paris were very bright as we drove down the Boulevard des Capucines, and drew up at length at the Hôtel Scribe, which is by the Opera House. Mary uttered a hundred exclamations of joy as we passed through the city of lights; and Roderick, who loved Paris, condescended to keep awake!

  “I’ll tell you what,” he exclaimed, after a period of profound reflection, “the beauty of this place is that no one thinks here, except about cooking, and, after all, cooking is one of the first things worthy of serious speculation, isn’t it? Suppose we plan a nice little dinner for four?”

  “For two, my dear fellow, if you please,” said Hall, with mock of state—he was quite the Perfect Fool again. “Mr. Mark Strong condescends to dine with me, and in that utter unselfishness of character peculiar to him insists on paying the bill—don’t you, Mr. Mark?”

  I answered that I did, and, be it known, I was the Mark Strong referred to.

  “The fact is, Roderick,” I explained, “that I made a promise to meet one of Mr. Hall’s friends tonight, so you and Mary must dine alone. You can then go to sleep, don’t you see, or take Mary out and buy her something.”

  “Yes, that would be splendid, Roderick,” cried Mary, all the girlish excitement born of Paris strong upon her. “Let’s go and buy a hundred things”—Roderick groaned—”but I wish, Mark, you weren’t going to leave us on our first night here; you know what you said only yesterday!”

  “What did I say yesterday?”

  “That there were a lot of bounders in Paris—and I want to see them bound!”

  I consoled her by telling her that bounders never made display after six o’clock, and assured her that Roderick had long confessed to me his intention to buy her the best hat in Paris, at which Roderick muttered exclamations for my ear only. By that time we were at the hotel, and the Perfect Fool had much to say.

  “Could any gentleman oblige me with the time, English or French?” he asked; “my watch is so moved at the situation in which it finds itself that it is fourteen hours too slow.”

  I told him that it was ten minutes to eight, and the information quickened him.

  “Ten minutes to eight, and half-a-dozen Russian princes, to say nothing of an English knight, to meet; so ho, my toilet must remain! Could anyone oblige me with a comb, fragmentary or whole?”

  He continued his banter as we mounted the stairs of the cozy little hotel, whose windows overlook the core of the great throbbing heart of Paris, and so until we were alone in my room, whither he had followed me.

  “Quick’s the word,” he said, as he shut the door, and took several articles from his hat-box, “and no more palaver. One pair of spectacles, one wig, one set of curiosities to sell—do I look like a second-hand dealer in odd lots, or do I not, Mr. Mark Strong?”

  I had never seen such an utter change in any man made with such little show. The Perfect Fool was no longer before me; there was in his place a lounging, shady-looking, greed-haunted Hebrew. The haunching of the shoulders was perfect; the stoop, the walk, were triumphs. But he gave me little opportunity to inspect him or to ask for what reason he had thus disguised himself.

  “It’s five minutes from here,” he said, “and the clocks are going eight—you are right as you are, for you are a cipher in the affair yet, and don’t run the danger I run—now come!”

  He passed down the stairs with this blunt invitation, and I followed him. So good was his disguise and make-pretence that the others, who were in the narrow hall, drew back, to let him go, not recognising him, and spoke to me, asking what I had done with him. Then I pointed to the new Perfect Fool, and without another word of explanation went on into the street.

  We walked in silence for some little distance, keeping by the Opera, and so through to the broad Boulevard Haussmann. Thence he turned, crossing the busy thoroughfare, and passing through the Rue Joubert, stopped quite suddenly at last in the mouth of a cul-de-sac which opened from the narrow street. He had something to say to me, and he gave it with quick words prompted by a quick and serious wit, for he had put off the rôle of the jester at the hotel.

  “This is the place,” he said; “up here on the third, and there isn’t much time for ta
lk. Just this; you’re my man, you carry this box of metal”—he meant the case of curiosities—”and don’t open your mouth, unless you get the fool in you and want the taste of a six-inch knife. That’s my risk, and I haven’t brought you here to share it; so mum’s the word, mum, mum, mum; and keep a hold on your eyes, whatever you see or whatever you hear. Do I look all right?”

  “Perfectly—but just a word; if we are going into some den where we may have a difficulty in getting out again, wouldn’t it be as well to go armed?”

  “Armed!—pish!”—and he looked unutterable contempt, treading the passage with long strides, and entering a house at the far end of it.

  Thither I followed him, still wondering, and passing the concierge found myself at last on the third floor, before a door of thick oak. Our first knocking upon this had no effect, but at the second attempt, and while he was pulling his hat yet more upon his eyes, I heard a great rolling voice which seemed to echo on the stairway, and so leapt from flight to flight, almost like the rattle of a cannon-shot with its many reverberations. For the moment indistinct, I then became aware that the voice was that of a man singing and walking at the same time, and seemingly in no hurry to give us admission, for he passed from room to room bellowing this refrain, and never varying it by so much as a single word:—

  “There was a man of Boston town,

  With his pistols three,

  With his pistols three, three, three;

  And never a skunk in Boston town

  That he didn’t chaw but me!”

  When the noise stopped at last, there was silence, complete and unbroken, for at least five minutes, during which time Hall stood motionless, waiting for the door to be opened. After that we heard a great yell from the same voice, with the words, “Ahoy, Splinters, shift along the gear, will you?” and then Splinters, whoever he might be, was cursed in unchosen phrases as the son of all the lubbers that ever crowded a fo’cas’le. A mumbled discussion seemed to tread on the heels of the hullabaloo, when, apparently having arranged the “gear” to satisfaction, the man stalked to the door, singing once more in stentorian tones:

  “There was a man of Boston town,

  With his pistols three,

  With his pistols——”

  “Hullo—the darned little Jew and his kick-shaws; why, matey, so early in the morning?”

  The exclamation came as he saw us, putting his head round the door, and showing one arm swathed all up in dirty red flannel. He was no sort of a man to look at, as the Scots say, for his head was a mass of dirty yellow hair, and his face did not seem to have known an ablution for a week. But there was an ugly jocular look about his rabbit-like eyes and a great mark cut clean into the side of his face which were a fit decoration for the red-burnt, pitted, and horribly repulsive countenance he betrayed. His leer, too, as he greeted Hall, was the evil leer of a man whose laugh makes those hearing hush with the horror of it; and, on my part, forgetting the warning, I looked at him and drew back repelled. This he saw, and with a flush and a display of one great stump of a tooth which protruded on his left lip, he turned on me.

  “And who may you be, matey, that you don’t go for to shake hands with Roaring John? Dip me in brine, if you was my son I’d dress you down with a two-foot bar. Why don’t you teach the little Hebrew manners, old Josfos? but there,” and this he said as he opened the door wider, “so long as our skipper will have to do with shiners to sell and land barnacles, what ken you look for?—walk right along here.”

  The room indicated opened from a small hall, for the place was built after the Parisian fashion—akin to that of our flats—and was a house in itself. The man who called himself “Roaring John” entered the apartment before us, bawling at the top of his voice, “Josfos, the Jew, and his pardner come aboard!” and then I found myself in the strangest company and the strangest place I have ever set eyes on. So soon as I could see things clearly through the hanging atmosphere of tobacco smoke and heavy vapour, I made out the forms of six or eight men, not sitting as men usually do in a place where they eat, but squatting on their haunches by a series of low narrow tables, which were, on closer inspection, nothing but planks put upon bricks and laid round the four sides of the apartment. Of other furniture there did not seem to be a vestige in the place, save such as pertained to the necessities of eating and sleeping. Each man lolled back on his own pile of dirty pillows and dirtier blankets; each had before him a great metal drinking-cup, a coarse knife, which I found was for hacking meat, long rolls of plug tobacco, and a small red bundle, which I doubt not was his portable property. Each, too, was dressed exactly as his fellow, in a coarse red shirt, seamen’s trousers of ample blue serge, a belt with a clasp-knife about his waist, and each had some bauble of a bracelet on his arm, and some strange rings upon his fingers. In the first amazement at seeing such an assembly in the heart of civilised Paris, I did no more than glean a general impression, but that was a powerful one—the impression that I saw men of all ages from twenty-five years upwards; men marked by time as with long service on the sea; men scarred, burnt, some with traces of great cuts and slashes received on the open face; men fierce-looking as painted devils, with teeth, with none, with four fingers to the hand, with three; men whose laugh was a horrid growl like the tumult of imprisoned passions, whose threats chilled the heart to hear, whose very words seemed to poison the air, who made the great room like a cage of beasts, ravenous and ill-seeking. This and more was my first thought, as I asked myself, into what hovel of vice have I fallen, by what mischance have I come on such a company?

  Martin Hall seemed to have no such ill opinion of the men, and put himself at his ease the moment we entered. I had, indeed, believed for the moment that he had brought me there with evil intent, distrusting the man who was yet little more than a stranger to me; but recalling all that passed, his disguise, his evident fear, I put the suspicion from me, and listened to him, more content, as he made his way to the top of the room and stood before one who forced from me individual notice, so strange-looking was he, and so deep did the respect which all paid him appear to be. We shall meet this man often in our travels together, you and I, my friends, so a few words, if you please, about him. He sat at the head of the rude table, as I have said, but not as the others sat, on pillows and blankets, for there was a pile of rich-looking skins—bear, tiger, and white wolf—beneath him, and he alone of all the company wore black clothes and a white shirt. He was a short man, I judged, black-bearded and smooth-skinned, with a big nose, almost an intellectual forehead, small, white-looking hands, all ablaze with diamonds, about whose fine quality there could not be two opinions; and, what was even more remarkable, there hung as a pendant to his watch-chain a great uncut ruby which must have been worth five thousand pounds. One trade-mark of the sea alone did he possess, in the dark, curly ringlets which fell to his shoulders, matted there as long uncombed, but typical in all of the man. This then was the fellow upon whose every word that company of ruffians appeared to hang, who obeyed him, as I observed presently, when he did so much as lift his hand, who seemed to have in their uncouth way a veneration for him, inexplicable, remarkable—the man of whom Martin Hall had painted such a fantastic picture, who was, as I had been told, soon to be wanted by every Government in Europe. And so I faced him for the first time, little thinking that before many months had gone I should know of deeds by his hand which had set the world aflame with indignation, deeds which carried me to strange places, and among dangers so terrible that I shudder when the record brings back their reality.

  Hall was the first to speak, and it was evident to me that he cloaked his own voice, putting on the nasal twang and the manner of an East-end Jew dealer.

  “I have come, Mister Black,” he said, “as you was good enough to wish, with a few little things—beautiful things—which cost me moosh money——”

  “Ho, ho!” sang out Captain Black, “here is a Jew who paid much money for a few little things! Look at him, boys!—the Jew with much money! Turn
out his pockets, boys!—the Jew with much money! Ho, ho! Bring the Jew some drink, and the little Jew, by thunder!”

  His merriment set all the company roaring to his mood. For a moment their play was far from innocent, for one lighted a great sheet of paper and burnt it under the nose of my friend, while another pushed his dirty drinking-pot to my mouth, and would have forced me to drink. But I remembered Hall’s words, and held still, giving banter for banter—only this, I learnt to my intense surprise that the pot did not contain beer but champagne, and that, by its bouquet, of an infinitely fine quality. In what sort of a company was I, then, where mere seamen wore diamond rings and drank fine champagne from pewter pots?

  The unpleasant and rough banter ceased on a word from Captain Black, who called for lights, which were brought—rough, ready-made oil flares, stuck in jugs and pots—and Hall gathered up his trinkets and proceeded to lay them out with the well-simulated cunning of the trader.

  “That, Mister Black,” he said, putting a miniature of exquisite finish against the white fur on the floor, “is a portrait of the Emperor Napoleon, sometime in the possession of the Empress Josephine; that is a gold chain—he was eighteen carat—once the property of Don Carlos; here is the pen with which Francis Drake wrote his last letter to the Queen Elizabeth—beautiful goods as ever was, and cost moosh money!”

  “To the dead with your much money,” said the Captain with an angry gesture, as he snatched the trinkets from him, and eyed them to my vast surprise with the air of a practised connoisseur; “let’s handle the stuff, and don’t gibber. How much for this?” He held up the miniature, and admiration betrayed itself in his eyes.

  “He was painted by Sir William Ross, and I sell him for two hundred pounds, my Captain. Not a penny less, or I’m a ruined man!”