The Terror of Algiers

by H. Bedford-Jones

  I was thinking of this as I struggled into a clean shirt. When a sharp knock came at the door, it opened to admit the desk clerk in person, who bowed profoundly to me.

  “M’sieu’! It is M. Zontroff, who requests that you accompany him for a ride.”

  Instead of taking me for a ride, he was offering one; but I had the uneasy suspicion that it might amount to the same thing.

  There were a number of things I might have done; so I did none of them, and merely told the clerk that I would be down as soon as I could dress.

  He departed. I finished dressing, as I was about to leave, catching up the film that had caused all this trouble and shoving it into my pocket. Cigarettes, money, a clean handkerchief, and I was ready.

  Civilization had so far improved on French custom at this hotel that a guest might use the “lift” to go down as well as up. When I stepped out into the narrow lobby, the clerk motioned to the door. I stepped outside, to see a huge Minerva, about the biggest thing on wheels in all Algiers. Sitting back grandly in the tonneau was the gorilla Zontroff, alone.

  His chauffeur held open the door for me, he himself held out his hand, and I climbed in. It was not quite four-thirty, so I had plenty of time for a drive.

  “Well, well, my friend I” he exclaimed in his throaty, carrying voice. “You see, I keep my promise! We are going for a little drive.—You are well?”

  “Usually,” I responded, sinking back beside him.

  The car started off, heading for Mustapha Superieur.

  “I am delighted to see you again,” I said politely.

  “Yes?” he returned, giving me a look. “You have heard of me, perhaps?”

  “Never in my life, before we met this noon,” I said. “But I have something that belongs to you, obviously. I recognized it as such. Here it is.”

  I took out the film and handed it to him.

  If he had been sitting ten thousand feet up in a perfectly clear sky, and tracer bullets had suddenly begun to smoke around him, he could not have been more astonished. For a minute or so he was utterly incapable of speech or motion. All he could do was sit there and gape.

  I pretended not to notice his stupefaction.

  “I’ve had the devil’s own time over that picture,” I said. “I started to throw it away, then I took a look at it and recognized you. A lot of people seemed to know I had it, for some reason. They’ve been buzzing around all afternoon. Since the man in the picture is evidently you, I kept it for you.”

  He took out a silk handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face, with its flat nose and square-cut, retreating chin. Then he reached out and grabbed me. It was just a quick, impulsive hug, but for a minute I thought I was gone.

  “Listen, my friend,” he said, seeming to grope for words. “You—mon Dieu! It is incredible. Incredible!—You are right. Other people wanted that picture. You understand, it compromised a lady! And now—now! Wait a minute.”

  HE roared at the chauffeur, who drew in to the curb. Zontroff pulled out matches, struck one, and touched it to the film. His huge, hairy fingers were positively shaking. Then he turned to me.

  “Now you come with me,” he said, in a grim, determined manner. “You are my friend; I owe you something. Say no more! We must not talk here. Wait.”

  Again he roared, probably in Bulgar, and the swarthy chauffeur threw in his gears. We shot away at a mad speed, paying absolutely no attention to any restrictions. When an Arab gendarme whistled after us, Zontroff merely spat a curse at him. He clapped me on the knee and shoved a cigar at me. Then we were out of the boulevard, swinging into one of those lovely hill roads that pierce the heights behind Algiers, where fairy villas cling to the hillsides above ancient farms once worked by Christian slaves.

  Zontroff broke into song, rumbling some queer melody. His eyes were shining, his fists beating time. He was like a man drunk, but he was drunk with sheer jubilation, and not with wine. Somehow, that picture had meant an enormous lot to him. The explanation he had given was obviously false.

  Suddenly he turned to me, beaming.

  “And to think,” he observed, “that I considered you clever, when you were only stupidly honest! You are a rare man, my friend.—What do you want most in the world? Money? Beautiful women? Wine? You shall have them all.—Jewels? You shall have the finest in the world! What do you most desire?”

  “Some American cigarettes,” I said gravely.

  Zontroff rolled his eyes at me, then broke into a roar of laughter.

  “You shall have them as well,” he said, when he could speak again. He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Look! There is my house.”

  It was a huge place on a hilltop, for which we were racing full speed. As we drew around the last curve, we passed between massive gates where two men, evidently guards, saluted us. The walls, stretching to either hand, were eight feet high, and enormously thick—those striking walls of northern Africa that are seen everywhere. Before us appeared the house, a massive structure of huge size, glittering with tile work and mosaic. We came to a halt beneath a porte-cochere, and a servant in black-and-scarlet livery opened the car door.

  “Send Boris to me in the library, instantly,” barked Zontroff.

  I followed him into a house the magnificence of which was astonishing. The rooms were large, and furnished with a gaudy, ornate splendor beyond description. Some French decorator had evidently been given a free hand, and he had made the most of it.

  We passed through these gorgeous rooms and came into a large library, evidently the personal room of my host, and the place where he was most at home. It was rather untidy, with the air of being much used.

  A valet appeared, took our things, and bowed respectfully as Zontroff gave him orders.

  I glanced around the room. Instead of the usual tiled walls, the place was paneled with oak. There were easy chairs, a big, flat-topped desk, tantalus and smoking outfits. And on the walls hung old masters—three or four of them. A huge fireplace was at one end of the room, and at the other a wide, immense window giving an outlook over the gardens and the green valleys beyond.

  “This is a house of luxury, my friend,” said Zontroff proudly. “The air is cooled. It has everything money can—Ah! You, Boris!”

  He turned, as a thin, cadaverous, snake-eyed man appeared and bowed.

  Zontroff flew out at him, with no regard whatever for my presence.

  “You fool, Boris! In five minutes I have done what ail your fools could not do.—Call them off, do you understand? M. Herries is my guest. Whatever he desires is his.”

  Boris bowed. “Very well, excellency. The native whom we found last night in the garden—”

  “Yes, yes!” broke in Zontroff. “He has talked?”

  “He will not talk, excellency.”

  “I shall come at once.” Zontroff turned to me. “My friend, make yourself at home. Coffee will be served. I shall return in a few moments, if you will excuse me.”

  I nodded, and he strode off with Boris, his huge, ungainly figure shambling over the floor with tremendous rapidity. He looked and acted constantly more like a gorilla.

  NOW I had to take a long chance, and I concluded that there was no time like the present. On the desk was a telephone, and taking it from the rack, I heard the welcome voice of a feminine French operator. I gave the number of the St. George Hotel, and presently had Alice Parker.

  “Herries speaking,” I said. “And in a hurry.—Can you reach our friend Solomon?”

  “Why, yes,” she said in surprise.

  “Do it quick. Tell him to get into my room at my hotel; he’ll be able to work it somehow. There are two pictures on the dresser. Tell him to get them and keep them until we see him tonight. He can learn at the hotel who called and got me. I can’t talk more now. So long.”

  I hung up—and just in time, too. I had no more than lighted a cigarette when one of the gaudily liveried servants came in with a huge silver tray bearing coffee and liqueurs. I paid no attention to him, bu
t strolled around the room looking at the pictures and the view. This was a library which contained no books whatever.

  When I was alone again I made a closer examination, hoping for some light on Zontroff. I got none. Somehow the thought of what I had just done made me shiver. If that telephone conversation had been overheard. Still, it was unlikely. This was Zontroff’s private line, and he would not allow any tampering. An instant later the telephone buzzed softly. Going to the desk, I picked up the instrument and spoke with his deep rumbling growl.

  “Excellency!” came the response in French. “This is Mont joy, at the bureau. Countess de Chausson is here now, in the other room. She has brought the money, but she will not give it to me until the letters are placed in her hands. She threatens, is hysterical, blames us for the death of her husband. She is dangerous. Shall I give her the letters and close the affair?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Very well, excellency.”

  I turned from the desk, grinning to myself. I had fooled that little rat, and no mistake. Then I sobered swiftly, as his words and what they inferred came back to my mind.

  At the office, eh? Evidently Zontroff had an office in the city. And who was this Countess de Chausson? I thought of what Alice had said about the retired colonel and aristocrat who had presumably shot himself a few weeks back. The same, possibly. Letters and money—why, it sounded a whole lot like blackmail, for a fact!

  AT this instant a faint sound reached me, froze me where I stood. It was a scream, coming from somewhere. Faint as it was, the sound was terrible—indescribably eloquent of horror. I thought of the native who had been found in the garden and who had refused to talk. As a rule, my nerves are pretty good, but that scream jangled them badly, somehow.

  Sitting down to the tray, I poured out some black coffee and drank it. The strong stuff pulled me together in a jiffy. Luckily, too, for as I was pouring more, there came a swish of silken skirts, and I looked up to see the Vassal woman entering the room. At sight of me she stopped dead, in the utmost astonishment; then she recovered and came forward, smiling.

  “Why, it is Mr. Herries!” she exclaimed, putting out her hand to me as I rose. “Of all people! I’m delighted to see you again so soon.”

  “The delight, I assure you, is mutual,” I said, holding a chair for her.

  She seemed quite at home here, and was wearing a magnificent afternoon gown, a gossamer scarf wound about her shoulders. Her position in the household was clear enough to me, but she made it clearer.

  “I expected to find M. Zontroff here,” she said. “You know, I am his social secretary. He is quite careless about engagements, and is due for dinner tonight at the governor’s palace. Did he bring you home with him?” Before I could reply, Zontroff himself appeared, a frown on his gorilla-face. It vanished at sight of us, and he came forward, rubbing his hands.

  “Ah, Zelie, my dear!” he exclaimed. “Some coffee, if you please. Your American friend has become my guest. He has rendered me a great service—an inestimable service! Now I am going to show him my appreciation in some small way.—Pour the coffee, by all means.”

  As he said these words, the lady gave me a look. It was a cool, appraising sort of look, and it warned me. I knew perfectly well that she would disabuse Zontroff of the notion that I was a stupidly honest sort of person. The big gorilla himself might be duped, but not this woman. She had brains enough for a dozen.

  Zontroff crossed to the opposite wall, pressed a spring, and slid back a panel to expose the face of a wall-safe. I noticed that he turned a couple of switches. Undoubtedly that safe had electrical safeguards, to use the word literally. Then he opened the door, took something out, and closed up the whole thing again before turning back to us.

  Zelie Vassal, to use her full name, was demurely pouring coffee.

  Zontroff held out a small plush case to me, a beaming grin on his ugly face.

  “M. Herries, you refused today to be bribed with forty thousand francs,” he said. “Here is a present for you, therefore; a testimonial of my appreciation, and worth three times that sum.”

  I took the box and opened it. Inside was a magnificent ring, set with three superb diamonds.

  “But, my dear sir—”

  “No protests! Put it on. Let us see if it fits!” he exclaimed eagerly. “You shall wear it in memory of our friendship.”

  I saw the woman’s face assume an expression of the most intense astonishment at these words, but he saw nothing at all. He pressed the ring onto my third finger, where it fitted, and then slapped me on the back.

  “Now, let us relax—talk—chat—be merry!” he exclaimed, dropping into a chair. “Ah! This is good coffee. It is my weakness, this good Nosi Bé coffee of Algiers!”

  I had another cup, and we followed it with a liqueur. Afterward, I remembered that Zelie Vassal had poured that drink, and I remembered her quiet, dangerous smiling glance is I drained the glass. It was some time afterward—a long time afterward, in fact, before I could remember anything. For that drink knocked me out cold…

  CHAPTER IV - BLACKMAIL RING

  IT was late the next morning when I awakened. I knew it was next morning, for the Courrier d’Afrique lay beside me on the bed, with the date showing plainly.

  By degrees I came awake and realized my position. I lay in a gorgeous little room, blazing with morning sunlight; silken walls, a high, carved bed, everything most ornate and luxurious. I was even wearing silk pajamas. A tray on a bedside table held coffee and rolls, covered over. Except for a heavy head, I felt quite myself, and a swallow of coffee brought me around in good shape.

  The diamond ring was still on my finger.—But it was certainly the next morning, and I had entirely missed my dinner engagement with Alice.

  “Damn it!” I exclaimed, after trying to remember. “That Vassal woman doped me, and no mistake. She’s a smart one, right enough. She probably laid me out, and has been trying to convince Zontroff that I tricked him. H-m! We’ll see later. Meantime—” I opened up the folded newspaper. On the front page was the announcement of the death of the prefect, and this gave me a jolt. The whole paper was full of it, in fact, and also of Leconte’s suicide aboard the boat. In the whole first column there was a screaming editorial about all this; it went on to recount the suicide of the American architect, Parker, and of the Count de Chausson, retired colonel of Tirailleurs. The writer of that editorial had been scared stiff, too! I read part of his eloquence:

  Four persons of prominence—suicides in exactly the same manner! Ladies and gentlemen, it is formidable! It gives one to pause. What manner of epidemic has come upon Algiers, that this should be so?

  An epidemic, certainly. Any one of us may retire at night, and be found with a pistol in cold fingers at morning. This madness comes upon the most unlikely victims. The Prefect of Police, an estimable gentleman, who had no enemies, and who was happy in his domestic affairs, respected and honored, is the latest victim. Another, a few hours earlier, out at sea.

  An epidemic, then! A terrible epidemic, my good readers—one of which we are to stand in deadly fear.

  It went on in the same way for a column. There were interviews with prominent physicians and others, in regard to possible suicide epidemics; there were suicide statistics, special articles, and so forth. The religious and social aspect of suicide, too, was taken up.

  “By George!” I muttered, throwing aside the paper. “Anybody who waded through all that mess would be inclined to suicide when he got through! Algiers will have suicide on the brain if it keeps up.”

  There was a peal of thin, silvery laughter, then silence. I looked around. Certainly I was alone in the room. Adjoining was a gorgeously tiled bathroom, but the door was open and I could see that it was empty. With a sudden chill feeling, I leaned over and poured more coffee, and drank it.

  Someone was watching me, and I knew now who it was. This room was probably arranged so that a person on the outside could see and hear what went on inside. I was thinking thi
s when my door opened and into the room swaggered Zelie Vassal, hands on hips, flinging a smile at me. She was wearing a fluffy, magnificent negligee that must have cost a small fortune.

  “Good morning, my honest American!” she exclaimed brightly. “You slept well?”

  “Perfectly, thanks,” I said. “But what do you mean by coming into my bedroom without a chaperon, you shameless woman?”

  She laughed delightedly at that, took a cigarette from the dresser and lighted it.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” she demanded. “Well, my friend, since I have learned that it is impossible to vamp you—as you told me yourself—you can feel perfectly safe. I merely came to ask you a question.”

  “Oh!” I said. “Then go right ahead. I want to dress.”

  “Don’t mind me, I beg of you.”

  She came forward and perched herself on the foot of my bed and looked at me. Her smile had vanished now, and when I met her eyes, I had the same sensation of acute danger that I had felt aboard the boat.

  “Your question?” I said.

  “A simple one,” she replied, and took the cigarette from her lips. “Just what is your game?”

  I sat up in bed and showed the ring on my hand.

  “This,” I said. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

  She made a quick, angry gesture.

  “Come, don’t try evasion. I assure you, I mean to get at the truth, and you know perfectly well that you can’t fool me. Why were you on the boat? Why did you take the envelope from Leconte? Why did you go direct to the girl, then keep the film yourself? Bah! If you come clean you may save your life, my fine fellow. If not, you know what you’ll get. You’ve tricked him, all right, but I’ve opened his eyes. He’s out learning the truth now.—Buying a camera, indeed! You were getting copies made of that picture! That’s why you handed over the film as if you had been a simpleton! Well, what’s your game? Answer me!”

  TO tell the truth, that was something of a relief. I did not have the brains or the desire to do any fencing with this cat. She was a bad one, as I had known from the start. If Zontroff was really visiting that photographer, he would quickly find out the truth.