“The first part of it only.”
Chicotin pointed through the portholes.
“Monsieur would not desire that I committed suicide by venturing on board the Bird of Paradise with those searchlights playing? It would end the whole affair.”
“You await, then, the withdrawal of the gunboat?”
“But naturally. The withdrawal of the gunboat or the cessation of the searchlights.”
“And in the meantime you inhabit a flat in Juan-les-Pins with your mistress, regardless of the fact that you have been allotted quarters on board here and that you are being paid a handsome salary for acting as my consulting engineer.”
“The title is a sinecure,” Chicotin pointed out. “There is nothing to be done to engines that are stationary.”
“You are mistaken,” Mermillon replied. “I require you to remain on duty. What else do I pay you for?”
“I am not an eight-hour mechanic or a slave,” Chicotin protested. “I am willing to carry out my contract when there is anything to be done. When there is not why should I stay and gaze at dumb machinery in an atmosphere entirely disagreeable to me? You have divined rightly. My mistress is at Juan-les-Pins. I prefer to be there with her.”
“That is very interesting,” Mermillon observed tonelessly, “but I have sent for you to say that in future you will report each morning for orders and again at 6 o’clock in the evening.”
Chicotin’s face darkened.
“There can be no orders to give under the present conditions,” he grumbled. “If Monsieur wishes to hasten the finish of this business he would have that gunboat removed.”
“No one but a fool like you could have made such a suggestion,” was the caustic reply. “One lives nowadays in a glasshouse of publicity. If the gunboat were sent away at my request, and things were to happen on board the Bird of Paradise directly afterwards, the situation, so far as I was concerned, might easily become embarrassing.”
Chicotin’s face was dark with anger.
“It is not fair that my efforts should be hampered in such a fashion,” he insisted. “I have carried out my contract. I have produced an even more wonderful machine than I promised. It is no fault of mine that conditions prevent its being used. Unless you can smooth the way to bring this business to an end, I think that you should make me a further advance on account of the hundred thousand.”
“There will be no more money until the affair is concluded,” Mermillon warned him. “That event would find me without a doubt in a generous frame of mind. What have you done with the fifty thousand francs?”
“I had debts,” the man admitted. “Then—since you seem to know it—it is nothing to be ashamed of—I have a little friend in Juan who sends the mille notes spinning. It is not given to all men to live like hermits.”
“Your manner of life does not interest me,” Mermillon assured him. “There will be no more money until the deed is accomplished, and until then you will report at 10 o’clock every morning and 6 every evening. On the other hand, on the day when your coup is successfully dealt your extra bonus will be raised to a hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
Chicotin’s eyes shone with desire. One hundred and fifty thousand francs! What could not be done with such a sum? Tanya could have the bracelet she coveted, and a few thousand francs for The Cause, if it made her happy. He himself could play roulette like a prince. What he would win! He moistened his dry lips.
“I could, perhaps, arrange so .that the attachments on board were unnecessary,” he muttered. “It could be done with a few hours’ work. All that I would have to do in that case would be to accelerate the time fuse and leave the despatch box into which I have fitted it on board. Getting away would still be a risk.”
“One hundred and fifty thousand francs is worth a risk,” his employer told him coolly.
“I shall need to visit the chemist’s,” Chicotin announced. “I must go there at once. At six o’clock I will return. I shall work all night. During the early morning I may devise a scheme for getting on board.”
“Very good,” Mermillon agreed.
Chicotin drew a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote a name and address. He passed it to his employer.
“If I succeed for you, but disappear myself into atoms, which is clearly possible, I desire that you will pay the money to my friend.”
“It is a reasonable request.”
“I have Monsieur’s permission to depart then?”
“Under the present circumstances the sooner the better.”
From their chairs under the awning, which covered most of the deck of the Aigle Noir, de Brett and his host watched Chicotin step into the little dinghy and push off towards the shore.
“Our friend inspires me with a theme for a brief essay,” Mermillon remarked. “It is a strange thing how many famous criminals have delighted in exotic and luxurious attire. These American gangsters, for instance, the list of their wardrobes, silk shirts, and silk underclothes, filled whole columns of the newspapers a year or so ago. One very notorious bootlegger gunman is said to have found his way into what is known as New York society, and to have become a recognised arbiter in the knowledge of clothes and of luxury appurtenances. Our Chicotin has gone out to-day to conquer like a tropical bird of brilliant plumage. To-night he will work for hours in a suit of overalls, with death waiting for him round the corner if he makes a single mistake.”
“Very likely for us, too,” de Brett grumbled. “Lily has invited me to dinner. The Marquis has been called suddenly to Paris. I think I shall accept her invitation.”
“Do, my dear fellow, by all means,” Mermillon agreed. “I am afraid I have been rather a dull host,” he apologised, “although there have been many matters of business which we have profitably discussed.”
“We could have discussed them equally well in Paris or Brussels.” the Baron pointed out, “and I confess that I am tired of the quiet life. Your society, my dear Edouard, is always wonderful, and I must admit that the sight of that infernal little schooner yacht fascinates me. Still, I shall tear myself away before long.”
“You will go to Paris?”
De Brett shook his head thoughtfully.
“To Brussels, I fancy, until this matter is finally settled. I shall be at the end of the telephone there. I shall hear quickly of your success or of disaster.”
There was a subtle significance in the faint twitching of Mermillon’s lips, which scarcely amounted to a smile.
“You are fortunate, my dear Albert,” he said, “to be a citizen of two countries, and a native of only one. Brussels will always provide an asylum for you.”
The Baron permitted himself a little gesture of contempt.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed. “For men like you and me no asylum will ever be necessary.”
“If the world knows what is good for it, you are right, my friend,” his companion assented. “But sometimes men—even nations—achieve insanity…Ah, now approaches one of the enjoyable moments of the day. Here is something worth talking about. I have finished with my despatches. One of them, by-the-by, to our friend over in London, is I think a masterpiece. I have worked Chicotin into a reasonable frame of mind. In half an hour’s time there will be luncheon and at this moment cocktails are arriving.”
“And so,” de Brett remarked, looking over across the narrow strip of sea between the Aigle Noir and the gunboat, “is a visitor.”
“Our friend, the commander, paying his return visit,” Mermillon observed. “I begged him to come in the morning, to be sure of finding us at home. Matelot, l’échelle!”
The two men strolled over to the rail to greet their guest. The latter saluted them respectfully. These were very great men whom he had the honour of visiting.
“Delighted to see you, Commander,” Mermillon said, as they shook hands. “You are in time to join us in our pre-luncheon cocktail. Perhaps you will give us the pleasure of your company at déjeuner?”
“Sorry,” the visitor regretted, “My first office
r is away for the day. An aperitif I will accept with pleasure.”
The three men sat down, and, after a few minutes’ general conversation, Mermillon made tactful reference to the work upon which the gunboat was supposed to be engaged.
“I am not a naval man, Commander, I must admit,” he said, “but the nature of your operations here has been somewhat of a surprise to me.”
“If one may go so far as to admit the fact,” the officer replied, “they have been equally a surprise to me. We continue the work according to instructions. I took the precaution of having them confirmed from Toulon.”
“Your men appear to me,” the Baron observed, “remarkably well disciplined. They make little disturbance. The presence of a ship of war, however, in a tiny pleasure bay like this is naturally a trifle disconcerting. My distinguished friend here, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, has been engaged for some time upon a scheme to be submitted to the Counsel of Europe, the object of which is to secure peace for the world. Those rakish-looking guns of yours only a few hundred yards away must, I fancy, be disconcerting.”
The commander smiled broadly.
“You will understand,” he said, “that I cannot discuss my mission here in a general way, but there is no harm in confiding to you my personal impression. I cannot help believing that I was simply sent here because of the presence of a French Minister of great distinction and a banker of international fame.”
“Someone in that case would seem to have been a trifle officious,” Mermillon reflected.
“If I may continue to speak entirely personally,” the commander went on, “I am not at all sure that my presence here, from the point of view I have just suggested, is not a wise dispensation. Marseilles and Toulon are both dangerous centres of Communism in these days. Le Prefet of Toulon, who visited the Admiral not long ago, has many anxieties. Deeds of violence in the city occur with lamentable frequency, and I fear that the next 10 years will witness many of them. In a beautiful holiday centre such as this it would be ruinous and most distressing to the inhabitants to have tragedy, as it were, thrust down their throats. A few extra precautions are worth taking. At the same time, Monsieur le Ministre,” the officer added, rising to his feet and turning respectfully to his distinguished host, “if there is anything in the conduct of our operations which can be altered to suit your convenience, I should only be too glad to consent to it, so long as it does not clash with my instructions.”
“You are very kind, sir,” the latter acknowledged. “Your name, I think you said, was Berard?”
The young man bowed. Mermillon rose to his feet and laid his hand upon his shoulder as they walked together towards the gangway.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “if you could arrange to discontinue those searchlights, say after 3 o’clock, it would be a blessing. I am here for a vacation, it is true, but I have messengers from Paris every day and sometimes I am working with them until long after midnight. My best hours for sleep are from 3 o’clock until eight.”
The commander saluted.
“I will give orders for the searchlights to cease an hour earlier, that is at 3 o’clock,” he promised. “If at any future time I can be of service, Monsieur, I am at your disposition.”
“I shall not forget your courtesy, sir,” Mermillon assured him.
The Baron was helping himself to another cocktail when his host resumed his seat.
“You see, I have solved Chicotin’s difficulty,” the latter remarked. “It was an idea, I think.”
The Baron lit a cigar and smoked thoughtfully for several moments.
“An idea, beyond a doubt,” he admitted. “Yet one has to consider this. If anything curious were to happen between the hours of 3 and 4 o’clock and our young friend was court-martialled he would naturally disclose the fact that it was at our request that he discontinued those searchlights.”
Mermillon smiled.
“Ah, my dear Albert,” he said. “I think that fortune is with us because the small things march our way. I happen to know through your friend, the Marquise, that the young American, Hamer Wildburn, was the first to protest against the searchlights. I have exchanged courtesies with the young man. It would be natural for me to use my influence to help him in the matter. You will excuse me, Baron? I go to have a word with Chicotin. He will be a happy man. He is now a step nearer the fortune at which he aims.”
Chicotin and Tanya dined late that evening in the garden of the Provençal Hotel. They had chosen one of the small tables, half hidden amongst the trees. Chicotin was an ardent lover, and he liked the surreptitious caresses impossible in a crowded room. It was 11 o’clock when they sat down for dinner, but what an evening it had been! They had gambled a little at the Casino and won. They had drunk cocktails there, crossed the road, and danced at Maxim’s. Cocktails there, and so on to the Provençal Bar, where they spent a pleasant hour. Then back to Tanya’s room, where two new frocks from Cannes had just arrived, and must be tried on with the aid of Chicotin, who always declared that if he had not been a miraculous machinist he would have been a ladies’ dressmaker. He dared even to put the finishing touches and criticise the creations of one of the most famous dressmakers in the world. Each gown awoke in him fresh transports. Tanya at last escaped.
“You are terrible to-night, my dear Paul,” she cried. “Remember that the night is young.”
His expression suddenly changed.
“Yes, the night is young,” he agreed. “At 3 o’clock—”
She stood rigidly in front of her mirror.
“Yes?” she Queried
“At 3 o’clock I shall be gay still, but not with you, dear one.”
She half turned her head.
“With another woman, perhaps?”
“With no other woman.”
“I should think not, indeed,” she murmured, coming across the room towards him, her arms outstretched, that terribly seductive look in her eyes. “At 3 o’clock, what?” she went on, her right arm around his neck, the fingers of her left hand caressing his cheek. “Tell me, my lover, what is it that you do at 3 o’clock?”
“A trifling commission,” he confided. “Something to be done by Paul Chicotin that he may pay for more frocks for Tanya, more of the jetons one flings upon the board, more of the glorious sunshine of life.”
“Three o’clock,” she repeated wonderingly.
“Ah, well, forget that,” he enjoined, “or if you will speak of it again remember this it is an affair of two hundred thousand francs.”
“Paul!” she remonstrated, patting his cheek once more. “There is no man in the world clever enough to earn two hundred thousand francs at 3 o’clock in the morning.”
He suddenly realised the hour, the number of cocktails he had drunk, his companion with her blind enthusiasms.
“I talk no more,” he insisted. “I am fatigued with hunger. I have spoken for our little table under the trees at the Provençal. You will wear the robe cerise. I will arrange that scarf. Then at half-past two, I leave you for an hour, and at half-past three, when Juan sleeps, will be our next hour of love.”
She pinched his cheeks.
“I am your slave, little one,” she submitted. “Come and choose what remains of my toilette.”
So that was how they came to dine under the trees at the Provençal and Tanya was seductive and amorous in turn, as he liked her best. When the lights went out and the waiters began to linger around impatiently they crossed the way to Maxim’s, where they danced under the trees and found a seat once more in the background. Chicotin glanced at his watch.
“It is triste here this evening,” he declared. “We are the only two who seem to have gaiety in our hearts and the flavour of living upon our lips. There is an hour before I start.”
She sprang to her feet.
“We go home then—yes?” she invited. “You may rest there if you will. The car is outside my door. You can start from there.”
They walked through the maze of pavement cafes with their danc
e gardens and small restaurants. His fingers trembled as they turned the key of Tanya’s door. They mounted to the first floor. With a little laugh she threw herself upon the couch.
“Give me a drink, dear lover,” she cried. “There is everything there on the side—champagne even. Open a bottle and have a drink to your enterprise. Sit here. I will spare you just that much room,” she went on, making a little circle in the air. “We will talk together and I will pronounce a benediction upon your enterprise. You are going to rob someone, perhaps? A brave deed. It is for you people with brains to take their possessions away from the plutocrats. I love a daring thief. Paul. I love you.”
The fingers which tore away the wires of the champagne bottle trembled. Paul Chicotin was treading on air. Even to himself he was great. A man with a brave enterprise before him—an enterprise which was to save or destroy a country. He poured out the wine, drained a glassful, and took another over to her. Passion flamed in his eyes.
“Drink,” he begged. “Drink quickly.”
She drew him down on to the side of the couch.
“Paul,” she whispered, “I shall remain here counting the seconds while you are away. I pray for you. Tell me what it is that you do. What is it that you carry about in that despatch box which you look at so anxiously?”
She drank half the contents of the glass, then she placed it to his lips. He drained the remainder greedily.
“I do what it is not within the power of any other man in the world to accomplish,” he confided. “I save France from revolution, I spread to the winds of heaven written words which might have brought her to the threshold of ruin. Two hundred thousand francs is little enough to pay. It is my brain which has done this. It is your lips and your arms which will reward.”
He drew her to him and she easily yielded to his embrace—one arm around his neck, the other, however, still free.
“Paul,” she murmured, “what is it then you do?”
“The last record,” he cried. “At three o’clock it will be back amongst the atoms of the universe—gone for all time, Tanya!”
There was a sudden pain in his back. The eyes that a moment before had seemed luminous with love were glaring at him. He was drunk! He was sure he must be drunk. But the pain. His head was swimming. He fell back. Tanya slipped from his arms. He lay on the floor and he felt the slow ebbing away of life.
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