“I wonder how he got on in London,” Mark reflected. “I suppose we shall know soon,” she answered, “or rather you will.”
“You think that after all he may be back this evening?”
She nodded.
“I went out for an hour after luncheon,” she confided, “up to where his private aerodrome is on the Upper Corniche. They were evidently expecting him. The two big lamps were there ready for lighting and there were a great many of his men about.”
“Well, the sooner I can get a talk with him the better,” Mark observed. “Meanwhile I must not forget I have a commission from headquarters. I must talk to Suzanne. Do you think we could get hold of her?”
“Of course,” Catherine replied. “She never goes out till late. Where do you want her?”
“Oh, anywhere—in the Bureau.”
“Not in here?”
He dissented vigorously.
“Can’t stand the odour of all those perfumes. They would hang about this place for hours. I’ll see her in Cheng’s room.”
“Sure you are feeling all right again now?” Catherine asked as they walked down the corridor.
“Fighting fit,” he assured her.
“Strong enough to resist the wiles of this dangerous young lady?”
“Not my sort,” he declared. “Lovely as sin, of course, and all that, but I never can quite see why all the men fall for her.”
Catherine paused with her fingers upon the handle of the general staff room door.
“I can send for her then without a qualm?” she asked. “I am not handing you over to the beasts of prey?”
He shook his head.
“Come and hear me talk to her,” he invited.
“Too much work to do,” she replied. “You could let me know when Mr. Cheng comes, if you will.”
“I wish he were here now,” Mark sighed, as he turned away. “I am not so good as Cheng with these yellow-haired houris.”
Suzanne shivered when, a few minutes later, she reluctantly tapped at the door of Mr. Cheng’s room. When she saw that it was Mark alone who awaited her, however, her face cleared. Anything was better than having to converse with the sphinx-like Mr. Cheng. Mark Humberstone she had always found a little difficult, but after all her opportunities with him, she reflected, had been scanty. He motioned her to a chair.
“I understand,” he began, “that your little difficulty with the police over l’affaire Costoli is arranged?”
“Monsieur Déchanel assures me that I shall never hear of it again,” she replied. “He proposes, by the by, to pay me a visit this afternoon.”
“Good business,” Mark approved. “You will embrace the opportunity, my dear Mademoiselle Suzanne, of enquiring whether he knows anything about a weird-looking Turkish gunboat which lies in the harbour.”
“Again an affair of the sea,” she complained. “The memory of the last one still troubles me. For my own pleasure I have lost what you call the taste for the Navy.”
“This time,” Mark observed, “you will not need to be so precipitate. It is Monsieur Déchanel of whom you must first ask a few questions.”
“Bien, monsieur.”
“There are two men of importance on board, I believe,” he continued. “The Commander and the Admiral. They are reported to be waiting for a cargo. Any information with regard to the nature of that cargo would be welcome.”
Suzanne drew a brief sigh of relief. She was to be trusted again, then.
“Entendu, monsieur,” she murmured. “The good Monsieur Déchanel shall tell me all that he knows within an hour. The nature of the cargo! Oh, la la—that will be simple.”
“Perhaps at Maxim’s to-night,” Mark suggested, “you might look around for the Commander. Even a slight acquaintance with him might prove valuable. An invitation to take tea on board might produce results.”
“It probably would,” Suzanne agreed, “but what sort of results are you looking for?”
“There are two ways in which the Commander might prove to be a useful acquaintance,” Mark explained. “The first is that we want to know why he is lying in Nice Port and what manner of cargo he is expecting.”
“That should not be difficult,” she said hopefully.
“Another little matter in which we are interested,” Mark continued, “is the fact that either the Commander or the Admiral was a director of naval defence, at any rate until a few years ago. An Admiral with whom I was talking this afternoon believes that one of the two is probably at the present moment working upon a chart of the Dardanelles. That chart would be quite valuable to us.”
“If I can once find my way on board,” she promised, “I will bring you the chart.”
Mark rose to his feet. Suzanne, with a little grimace, accepted the hint and like a sleepy cat, with just one backward glance over her shoulder, stole away. At her own door she was met by her maid.
“Monsieur Déchanel of the police awaits Mademoiselle,” she announced.
CHAPTER X
Table of Contents
Suzanne, her masses of yellow hair warmer and more lustrous than ever against the white skin of her neck and her black gown, flung herself upon the couch and pointed out an adjacent easy chair to her visitor.
“It is very kind, Monsieur Déchanel, that you come to pay me a little visit under this roof. What an entourage we have here, eh? You find it a little strange in the midst of your wonderful Nice, an establishment like this dealing with world affairs?”
Monsieur Déchanel, who held a prominent position in the Bureau of the Chef de la Sûreté of the neighbourhood, and was inclined to think that Suzanne was not treating him with sufficient respect, twirled his black moustaches and disposed of himself more comfortably in his chair.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “we consider it somewhat of an honour that your Chief has chosen Nice for his headquarters.”
“An honour,” Suzanne repeated with a peculiar smile upon her lips. “Well, that may be so.”
“Nothing in the activities of your Bureau,” he went on, “has ever come to the notice of the police which was not strictly in order.”
“And of course,” she commented, “the police know everything.”
“You are inclined to be facetious to-day, little one. Nevertheless, I can assure you we who know look upon your director as a great person who is highly thought-of in Paris. He mixes in the important affairs of the world—sometimes no doubt with profit to himself—but he preserves always for us and our Government—”
“Excellent, mon ami,” Suzanne purred.
“Then, for a further guarantee as regards the stability of the Bureau,” he went on, “consider Monsieur Cheng’s partner. Is he not the son of Professor Humberstone, that marvellous American, the greatest savant the world has ever known?”
“It is true,” she admitted.
“Why do you wonder, then, that we—the French police—hold this Bureau in the highest possible respect?”
Suzanne lit a cigarette from the box by her side and tossed the latter over to her visitor.
“I wonder no longer, mon ami. As usual, you are right. Help yourself, dear—am I to call you Henri?”
“It may be permitted,” Monsieur Déchanel conceded, edging his chair a little closer.
“Well then, mon cher Henri, tell me this,” Suzanne continued, “not that I am particularly curious but you know how I love the sea and all naval men. I drove yesterday around the port and I saw there a strange-looking ship—I suppose it was an out-of-date cruiser—flying a strange flag.”
“Well?”
“Tell me—what is she? Of what country, I mean?”
His fingers toyed with the gold chain on his ample stomach. He looked at Suzanne with his head a little on one side. He had the air of one who was up to all the tricks of her sex—a man impossible to deceive—a man who demanded the truth.
“Tell me exactly why you are interested in that boat, Mademoiselle,” he questioned.
She blew out a little cloud
of smoke at him. The slight pursing of her scarlet lips he found full of pleasant suggestion.
“I like naval officers,” she confessed, “but I am tired of the usual types. I wondered whether there might not be some novelty for me—Chileans I have heard are most attractive men.”
“Mademoiselle will have to go to Chile to find them then,” he warned her. “Chilean ships do not ride these waters. The ship concerning which Mademoiselle is curious is a third-class cruiser, very much out-of-date, from a country one hears little of nowadays—Turkey.”
She extended her arms with a sudden gesture. She wore very loose sleeves. The arms were shapely.
“Turkey! Oh, la la!” she exclaimed. “I knew a Turk once—he was a minister—a friend of a friend of mine. He was so ‘andsome!”
He shook his head disparagingly.
“They have not the fire or the élan of the French,” he assured her.
“Nevertheless,” she sighed, “my Turk was marvellous, and one needs a change. All women are different, you know, Henri, but men are all the same.”
“How do you know that at your tender years?” he demanded. “Your experience has not been large enough. If you found the right Frenchman you would never be unfaithful to your country.”
“The right Frenchman, then, does not disturb himself to find me,” she confided. “I find them bold in words but evasive, and alas the things that count, my dear Henri—they are not too fond of spending their money. The little presents do not come so readily.”
Monsieur Déchanel, who was a married man with a growing family, edged his chair a little closer still.
“My little one,” he said, “a Frenchman gives romance which a Turk never possessed. He gives fidelity which is but a jest to a semi-Oriental. Furthermore—”
“My Turk gave me pearls,” Suzanne interrupted.
“Those were other days,” he pointed out. “We are not poverty stricken but, we French of the official classes, we have not great fortunes. Fortunately we have other gifts. We can give protection to our friends.”
“Protection,” Suzanne repeated thoughtfully.
The chair was a couple of inches nearer now. He laid his fingers caressingly upon that beautiful white arm.
“There was a little affair at the Ruhl not long ago,” he reminded her. “Everything about that was managed by the French police in a fashion which would have been impossible in any other country. The body of an Italian officer, par exemple, was conveyed at night back to his ship. There were rumours of a companion. It was I indeed who was in charge of the case. The companion was a Frenchwoman. What affair was that of ours? I tear up a few odd papers, I put the fear of God into a loquacious waiter, I seal the mouths of those who would have chattered. Voilà! Is not that protection, Suzanne?”
She looked at him with eyes full of well-simulated admiration. He was beginning to feel a trifle lightheaded. Most men who spent an hour with Suzanne were taken that way.
“It is wonderful to have power. That counts for much with us women. One cannot deny it. Will you bring the captain or the first officer of the Turkish ship to see me, Henri?”
“You would be disappointed,” he warned her. “The Admiral is a fat and greasy man. He spends most of his time in his cabin eating sweetmeats and reading novels—French ones, alas, of the salacious type. You would disgust yourself with him. The Commander who does the work of the ship, he is better, but he is one of the new party of Turks—he keeps a still tongue in his head. The Commissioner, and also the General in command here, are both curious to understand the presence of a Turkish warship in these waters. I, having gifts in that direction, was sent to call and entertain these officers. The Commander knew nothing. The first officer would tell me nothing. They have a purpose in coming here, but what it is I cannot tell.”
“Perhaps,” she said with a smile which was full of self-confidence, “I might be more fortunate.”
Monsieur Déchanel was distraught. Such a picture of loveliness as Suzanne that afternoon the whole of Nice could not display. There was no woman of his acquaintance—and he knew many—who could compare with her. His fingers closed tightly around that alluring arm.
“Why should I bring this man?” he demanded. “There is no way he could be of service to you save in one fashion and for that I am jealous.”
She turned slightly towards him.
“But my dear Henri,” she reminded him with her lips very close to his, “you need not bring him until to-morrow and you are here to- day.”
There was something akin to a mild sensation amongst the officials of the famous night restaurant in Nice when Monsieur Antoine, the manager, discovered a new patron of most distinguished appearance standing at the head of the room glancing down the long line of tables. The two chief maîtres d’hôtels were already offering their respects, suggested tables were being pulled out. Monsieur Antoine presented himself, with a low bow.
“Monsieur is alone?” he enquired.
“I am alone,” Mark replied. “And I wish to remain alone,” he added a little significantly.
“There is a gentleman who makes signals to Monsieur,” Antoine pointed out.
Mark glanced down the room again and smiled faintly. It was Monsieur Déchanel who had risen from a table and was seeking to attract his attention. Antoine glanced questioningly at his unexpected patron.
“It is a high official in the police there who invites that Monsieur should share his table,” he confided. “Monsieur would rather be alone?”
“Not at all,” Mark replied. “I will join Monsieur Déchanel.”
With a bodyguard of waiters surrounding him, Mark passed about halfway down the room to where Monsieur Déchanel was already pushing out his table. With a nod of dismissal to his escort and a bow to his friend, Mark took the vacant place.
“The best wine you can offer us,” Mark ordered. “A sandwich, perhaps, of caviar. You are sure that I do not disarrange you, Monsieur Déchanel?”
“You do me a great honour,” the latter assured him, “and you are very welcome.”
“You will give me the gratification of joining me in a bottle of wine?”
Déchanel pushed his own half-bottle of very inferior vintage away.
“It will give me great pleasure,” he agreed.
Mark lit a cigarette and, leaning back against the wall, glanced at his companion. Monsieur Déchanel was apparently not altogether at his ease. There was an unbecoming flush upon his cheeks, his small black tie which without a doubt had started the evening in its proper position had escaped control and was in rapid progress towards his right ear. One of his studs, too, had come unfastened, disclosing, when he leaned forward, a vest of an alarming shade of blue.
“Been dancing?” his host asked.
“For me that is not possible,” was the somewhat formal reply. “In my official position I am bound to visit these places sometimes, but to dance—no. That would not be in order. I sit here and watch. It is interesting to me to mark down the frequenters, to discover who makes use of the place. It is the centre of the night life of Nice.”
Mark was silent for a few moments. His eyes were searching amongst the crowd. Suzanne was by far the most remarkable-looking woman there. She was clasped in the arms of a tall, handsome young man of olive complexion and with heavy black eyelashes. She was leaning back laughing into his admiring eyes.
“So this is where a portion of our work is done, eh, Monsieur Déchanel?” Mark remarked with a smile.
“I myself—” Déchanel began.
“I do not include our two selves. You have your spies here without a doubt. So have we. I watch with interest the beautiful Mademoiselle Suzanne. She has found a new victim.”
Monsieur Déchanel’s face was dark with anger.
“She is a good worker, without a doubt, this Mademoiselle Suzanne,” he admitted, “but she lacks tact—discrimination.”
“Yes?” his companion murmured interrogatively. “She throws herself too precipitately into an af
fair. She has no manners.”
“For that,” Mark observed indifferently, “she can scarcely be blamed. I do not suppose that good manners are part of the equipment of the demi-mondaine.”
“I am not of the same opinion,” Déchanel objected, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “I do a great service to Mademoiselle Suzanne. I present her to her present partner who was seated with me at this table. They have danced together all the evening. Suzanne has called for a table of her own. They have left me.”
“Suzanne, without a doubt, has a method,” Mark admitted. “Who is this young man to whom she is clinging?”
“He is an officer from the Turkish boat that lies in Nice Harbour.”
“Turkish boat?” Mark repeated.
“It is something that—yes?” Déchanel exclaimed. “What business, I ask myself, can Suzanne have with a Turk? They are out of the world—thrown out of Europe—outcasts as they deserve for their share in the war. They count for nothing. Their wretched little tub is commanded by a greasy old: Turk who sits in his cabin munching sweetmeats.”
“But what is she doing in these waters?” Mark asked curiously.
Déchanel made no reply. The wine had arrived and he drank off a glass with evident appreciation.
“I feel better,” he confided. “I was a fool to let myself be annoyed, especially as the incident has given me the honour of Monsieur’s company. To be left planté là, though, by a young woman whom I have brought into the place! It was undignified. These men do not realise that it is an affair of business.”
“An Italian officer, an English one—yes,” Mark soliloquised. “Even a Danish one or an American. But a Turkish officer! I scarcely believed that such a thing existed. Of what use can he be to our friend Suzanne?”
The two men exchanged glances. There was a gleam of cunning enquiry in Déchanel’s eyes. Mark seemed genuinely puzzled.
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