The Terror of Algiers

by H. Bedford-Jones

  Coolly throwing back the elegant covers, I swung my legs out of bed and yawned.

  “Zelie,” I said, “you’ve hit the bull’s-eye, all right. We might as well come clean, as soon as I get a cigarette to keep you company.”

  I went to the dresser, took a cigarette from the open box there, and lit it. Then I turned to her, after a glance out the window which showed me all I needed to know. She was still sitting there on the edge of the bed, puffing at her cigarette and watching me with a triumphant glitter in her eyes. ”You’ll talk, will you?” she asked. “Of course,” I said negligently. “You don’t think I want to be one of those suicides, do you?”

  Her lips curved in a thin, cruel smile. “You’ve guessed that, too, eh? Well, where are you from? The Paris prefecture?”

  “Exactly,” I said. Reaching over to the dresser, I took up an ash tray and set it on the bed beside her. “We must be considerate of these sumptuous silken quilts, by all means—”

  She never suspected a thing, never had a hint of warning. With one hand I took her around her throat, with the other tipped up her feet. She fell backward on the bed—and I held her there.

  She never uttered a single squawk, for I had made sure of a good grip.

  It was not simple, by a good deal. I have an uncommon lot of strength in my hands and arms, but if I had not sunk my fingers in her flesh I would never have managed it. The woman fought like a tigress. She squirmed, twisted, kicked, shoved her cigarette into my cheek, tore strips of skin from my shoulder and arm with her claws—and then collapsed. She was blue in the face—strangled—when I loosed my grip. For a moment I thought she was dead, until I felt her heart beat and saw her breast rise and fall with quick breaths.

  Then I lost no time. Towels from the bathroom served to bind her good and tight and stuff a temporary gag between her teeth. As I worked I found a small pistol in her gown pocket, and appropriated it with thanks. When I had her trussed up, I shoved her into bed and drew up the bedclothes, hiding everything but a bit of her forehead and a wisp of her hair. To any casual glance it would look as though it was I who was lying there sleeping.

  Shutting the door, I made a dive for my clothes. Bleeding in a dozen places, and with my cheek burned, I was awake now and no mistake. It was late in the morning—eleven, said my watch. Zontroff was gone, according to her, but he would be back quickly enough after he had talked a bit with that photographer, who, of course, would cough up the truth when Zontroff got after him.

  Dressing hurriedly, pocketing the little pistol supplied by the lady, I locked the door, took all the cigarettes I could find, and went to the window. Any escape through that house, with its many servants, was quite hopeless. Beneath the window, however, was the sloping tile roof of the porte-cochere at the side of the house, with the gardens beyond. There was not a soul in sight. Until Zontroff returned, I figured, no one would be trying to prevent my escape.

  The next moment I was out on those tiles. Their serrated edges gave me a grip, and lying flat, I worked my way down by degrees. My mind was running fast all the while, too. I had no hankering to face Zontroff when he learned how I had tricked him. His gratitude over the presentation of the coveted film, his diamond gift, had been pretty crude and raw, and he would be just as crude in his fury. I was beginning to feel the dope they had given me now, and I was not in any shape to stand up to that gorilla.

  Suddenly my foot went out over nothing. I was at the edge of the roof. There was nothing to hang on by except the tiles. I slid down and down, then let go, and went with a rush, to land sprawling. The shock was heavy enough to leave me dizzy for a moment. When I scrambled to my feet and found no damage done, I started down the drive toward the entrance gates, feeling considerably pleased with myself.

  THERE was a man at the gates; no Arab, but apparently another of the swarthy Slavs who served Zontroff. He was sitting on a stool at one side of the massive iron grilles, smoking a pipe and eyeing me without apparent concern as I approached him. Lighting a cigarette, I made my approach as casual as possible. I nodded amiably to him; he stood up and touched his cap.

  “Open the gates, if you please,” I said.

  “M’sieu’ has a pass?”

  “No,” I said. “Didn’t Boris tell you that I was M. Zontroff’s guest? Open them.”

  He took the pipe from his mouth, puzzled. I saw that he was a slow, dull-witted rascal.

  “But m’sieu’ must know the gates can be opened only when I see a pass,” he said resolutely. “Boris has told me nothing.”

  “Then I’ll show you my pass,” I said.

  And with that I let him have a neat uppercut that took him under the chin and flopped him over on his face. He had been so busy talking and listening that he had not observed me getting planted for the blow.

  Though he was not knocked out, he was past doing any damage. I frisked him quickly, found a big automatic that I tossed among the bushes, and turned to the iron gates. These opened by a handle on the inner side. I swung them ajar and walked out and down the road that curved around the hill.

  So that was that. And now, if I could get safely back to Algiers, I had some information that would be of vital interest to somebody—undoubtedly to the police. If Solomon had got the message from me and had sense enough to hang on to those prints, we might learn something from them.

  Looking back at it, I can see now that I was still far from realizing even a small portion of the whole ghastly truth.

  I padded along the road for a while, without the least idea of my whereabouts. Those hillside roads above Algiers form a perfect maze, with lordly villas and scrubby native farms on every hand, and I had never explored them to any extent. I was on almost the last elbow-curve of the hillside, when, looking down at the road directly below, I saw a big Minerva flashing upward. Zontroff’s car.

  The wall on my left had a huge breach, half stopped by specimens of the enormous cactus which one sees growing everywhere in northern Africa. I scrambled through the breach in a hurry, and stayed there until the Minerva had purred past up the hill, then I came back into the road. Now I made time to the road below, a main road that ambled along through a charming little valley. I had gone only a few hundred yards, in the unhappy knowledge that all hell would be let loose after me any minute now, when I turned a curve and came slap upon a big Rolls Royce drawn up beside the road. The hood was up and a chauffeur was tinkering with the engine.

  “So ’ere you are, sir!” exclaimed a familiar voice. “Dang it, Ahmed, ’op out o’ that!—In with you, Mr. Herries—and werry smart about it!”

  There was Solomon, sitting on the back seat, holding the door open as though he had been expecting me! And the chauffeur, banging down his hood, leaped to his seat and squirmed under the wheel like a flash.

  FOR an instant I was too stupefied to move, then I scrambled into the big car. Solomon slammed the door and caught my arm, pressing me down.

  “On the floor!” he exclaimed, his wheezy voice urgent. “And stay there!”

  I sprawled out at his feet, as the car hummed and whirred into speed. Just what was up I did not know, and for the moment I did not care. I heard a voice call something, then Solomon leaned far over me for a moment. There was a crash, a tinkle of broken glass, and splinters fell around my face. From behind us I heard the sharp, whiplike report of a rifle, then another; but by this time we were going at tremendous speed.

  “All right now, sir.”

  I got up on the seat beside Solomon, who was wiping his face with a handkerchief. The rear window of the car, above his head, was shattered.

  “Bullet?” I asked. “Who was it?” He looked at me, and his blue eyes twinkled.

  “I’m ’oping as ’ow you can tell me that, sir,” he exclaimed. “Werry close shave it was, too, and werry lucky as I ’appened to be keeping me eye on this wicinity.”

  He picked up the speaking tube beside him and spoke rapidly in Arabic to the chauffeur. The man, in front, nodded his head and sent us shooting a
t incredible speed into a cross road. We went around on two wheels, righted, and kept going.

  “Dang it!” observed Solomon mildly. “Now that ’ere Zontroff will ’ave me number and will know as I’m a fighting ‘im! Well, it might be a ’ole lot worse, as the old gent said when ’e buried ’is third.”

  “Did you get those pictures?”

  Solomon nodded, but he did not reply. The Arab chauffeur took a hill road before us at an utterly mad speed, and I saw that the pudgy little cockney was highly nervous. Then we struck the level highway at the crest, and went sweeping along like a bird in flight.

  “What beats me,” I said, “ is how you happened to be waiting for me!—Or so it seemed.”

  “I was waiting for one o’ me own men, sir,” rejoined Solomon in his oddly apologetic tone. “An Arab, ’e was; and yesterday ’e found a way to get inside that ’ere ’ouse and lot.”

  “Oh!” I said.

  Solomon gave me a look.

  “That man—” I continued. “He was looking over the place for you, was he? Well, you won’t see him again.”

  I told him what had happened on the previous afternoon, and about the scream I had heard. Solomon said nothing at all. His face remained quite blank.

  “Of course,” I added, “it doesn’t sound credible in the least. I don’t really think he was tortured or killed, but it did look that way.”

  “Of course he was,” said Solomon. “Dang it! Ain’t we dealing with the worst lot o’ cut-throats and murderers in Europe?”

  Then he lapsed into silence, got out his tobacco plug and knife, and whittled off enough to fill his clay pipe. When the car stopped, he had just finished the job.

  I knew where we were now. We rolled up to a beautiful little old building, all agleam with tiles in the noonday sun, and alighted. This was no other than the Window of the World, a superbly situated roadhouse, as we would call it in America—a deluxe affair perched on the summits overlooking Algiers.

  “We’re all right ’ere.—They’ll be a looking every place else for us,” observed Solomon, as he joined me. “We’ll ’ave a bite to eat on the terrace. You go right ahead, sir, and I’ll do a bit of telephoning and then join you for a talk.”

  I made my way to the terrace, where servants were already laying a table for us. Lighting one of Zontroff’s cigarettes, I looked out over the city and the bay below. It was a magnificent view, one of the most beautiful sights to be found anywhere, embracing the whole sweep of Algiers, the bay, the shores beyond; but it only made the recent happenings seem more unreal and incredible to me. I could not believe that the whole adventure in Zontroff’s house had not been a dream.

  But—just who was this man Solomon? What was he?

  AS though my mental queries had summoned him, like a genie, he appeared, puffing at his old pipe. With a wheezy sigh, he sank into a chair at the table. I joined him, and he glanced at his watch.

  “We ’ave twenty minutes, sir, before luncheon,” he said. “Will you be so good as to tell me all about it? ’Ow you come to go off with that ’ere Zontroff, and so on. There ain’t nothing like gettin’ off on the right foot, so to speak, as the old gent said when ’e kissed the ’ousemaid.”

  I complied. He never once spoke or changed expression as I recounted my adventure, but sat there puffing at his pipe, staring out over the city and bay as though he did not hear a word I was saying. He scarcely glanced at the ring on my hand, and seemed lost in utter abstraction.

  “Of course,” I said in conclusion, “it looks as though this Zontroff is at the head of a murder ring—a blackmailer. We can’t get any proof of it. If we go to the police with—”

  “It ain’t their business!” broke in Solomon suddenly. “Dang it! ’Alf the police themselves are ’is agents—just like that!”

  “But that’s preposterous!” I said. “Aside from the French police, there’s the native section. It’s absurd!”

  “No, it ain’t no such thing!” contradicted Solomon brusquely.

  “Well, what the devil is behind it all?” I said. “Is my guess right?” His blank blue eyes swung around to me, with a troubled look.

  “I don’t know, sir,” he responded, “You know the old saying as ’ow dead men tell no tales. That’s it, sir. It’s werry ’ard to put your finger on proper ewidence.—Let me see that ’ere pistol you took from ’er, Mr. Herries.”

  I produced the little pistol, and a handsome little weapon it was!—silver mounted, beautifully chased. Solomon examined it, then his eyes widened a little, as he pointed to some initials engraved on the silver butt.

  “Did you see this, sir?”

  I had not seen it; had not carefully examined the weapon previously. The initials were “L. M. de M.” Solomon came to his feet, a flash of sudden energy in his manner.

  “I’ll ’ave to telephone,” he said swiftly. “You wait ‘ere. If I ain’t mistook, we’ve got the ’ole blessed game in our ’ands right ’ere!”

  He hurried away, leaving me perplexed and wondering. Then I saw a folded paper which he had been playing with, and which he had left on the table, with the pistol to weight it down. I picked it up and unfolded it, out of idle curiosity; and then, as I read it, I received a hard jolt.

  The paper had been signed by the Governor General. It stated that M. John Solomon had the entire confidence of the government, and that all police, military or civil or native, were to obey his orders implicitly. In the way its phrases were couched, in the absolute authority it placed in the hands of Solomon, this document was perfectly astounding. I could not believe my eyes until I had read it over again and again.

  In the midst of my amazement, a filthy old Arab came sidling out on the terrace. He hitched up his ragged burnoose, gave me a look, and crouched down against the wall in silence. Thinking him some employee of the place, perhaps, I paid him no attention.

  Presently Solomon appeared. He uttered a sharp exclamation; the Arab rose and spoke rapidly to him. Solomon answered—all in Arabic. Then the Arab departed.

  “Dang it!” Solomon sank into his chair, mopping perspiration from his pudgy face. “Dang it, sir, you were right! That ’ere man o’ mine was found this morning with ’is belly ripped up. You know ’ow these ’ere Arabs use their knives. He’s dead, and lying beside the ’ighway. But this ’ere pistol—well, that was a werry big stroke of luck, sir! It’s give me all I wanted to know.”

  “About Zontroff?” I asked.

  “About everything,” said Solomon. “Or it will before werry long. There’s a gent named Louis Marie de Monsereau, a werry rich and ’igh-placed gent, too; and ’e will be along ‘ere in less’n an hour to talk to us. That ’ere pistol was made for ’im—just like a pistol was made for poor Mr. Parker, with ’is initials and everything.”

  I whistled suddenly, as I perceived the unfolding of Zontrolf’s deviltry.

  “Read that paper,” I said. “Does it mean what it says?”

  Solomon chuckled wheezily. “Just like that, sir. I’m a gettin’ on in years, but I’m still good for something, as the old gent said when ’e took ’is third.”

  “You’re a detective, then?”

  “Dang it, no!” exclaimed Solomon, with an irritated flash in his eye. “But if I was you, sir, I’d go into the washroom and fix it up a bit. You can borrow a razor from the man there. ’Cause why, Miss Parker will be along any minute now, and I’m a getting ’ungry.”

  I stared at him for a moment, then rose and departed hastily.

  CHAPTER V FOUR TRUSTED MEN.

  THE ensuing luncheon provided the most amazing half hour I had ever experienced—and I think Alice Parker felt the same way about it. Amazing, of course, in what it revealed of the pudgy little cockney. This man Solomon revealed himself to us quite frankly, yet left us more mystified than ever. He had all the powers of an undercover man for the French government, but he was no Frenchman. He was nothing, in fact, except a retired old gentleman who was now being forced into activity against his will. Or so it
appeared. He spoke Arabic fluently, and French very well, indeed. He mentioned staggering sums of money as though they were nothing; and since he was not the bluffing type, we knew that he must have enormous means at his disposal.

  During luncheon, beyond briefly sketching what had happened, for the benefit of Alice Parker, we did not enter into any discussion. Solomon promised full information as soon as M. de Monsereau got here and talked with us. He made only one definite statement, when Alice spoke of bringing the police into it.

  “This ‘ere ain’t no job for the police. ’Cause why, they ain’t to be trusted,” he said, rather sharply. “I’ve took on the job, and if so be as Mr. Herries will give me a ’and—”

  “Count me in,” I said quickly.

  “Thank ‘e kindly, sir. You’ll ’ave plenty to do. When I get ’ome I’ll ’ave reports from the prefecture at Paris, and I may know more. We ain’t yet found where that photograph comes into it, remember.”

  “Then you can’t arrest the gang?” I demanded, rather skeptically.

  “No, sir. If we was to regard the law, we’d be nowhere, just like that. We ’ave to fight these murderers with their own weapons. So let it go at that.”

  As he had said to us, he was not interested in bringing Zontroff to justice, but rather in exterminating a nest of snakes. This was refreshing and logical; it promised to be interesting. Also, mind, we were in a country which has two faces. For over a century, Algiers has been part of France. But behind the closed, massive doors bearing the name of Allah—not the ”hand of Fatmah,” as fool tourists call it—plenty of things go on that would be amazing if made known. The Frenchman’s house is his castle, but the Arab’s house is his empire.

  We had finished luncheon when a big car rolled up, and presently Monsereau walked in—a thin, elegant, nervous man of sixty, who clearly did not know just what to expect.