“It would make trouble?”
“For Lebrun, perhaps.”
Curel laughed heartily. “You have an astonishing self-confidence! But I shall say nothing of it. I repeat, the game interests me. I have never delved deeply into crime, but now I am grateful for the opportunity. It will be absorbing! You have my promise.”
“Your word’s good with me. Come along—I don’t want to lose the others!”
The two started after their companions.
CHAPTER III
The Engaging of Félice Bonnard
When Berangère des Gachons arrived at Saigon, the government had departed for Hanoi for their six-months’ residence in the north, and she had the southern capital pretty much to her own sweet self. She made the most of it.
No longer was the absence of “the court” regretted, no longer was the pleasant city dull and lifeless. The Rue Catinat picked up in business, and the Boulevard Norodom witnessed the amazing sight of government clerks hastening to work and hastening away. In effect, Berangère not only demoralized the Palais, but the city itself. Brought up in official life, she had no awe of the chiefs of bureau, and if she wanted a trifle of help in a customs affair or any such petty detail, she came straight to the Palais du Gouvernement and cut the red tape.
Berangère was apt to be impetuous, although it must be admitted that she had a way of converting over-hasty impulses into triumphs on the approach of disaster. It had occurred to her that if she provided another objective for the sheep’s-eyes of the two secretaries at home, she might save herself a good deal of annoyance. Accordingly, on the second day of her visit, there appeared in L’Opinion an advertisement which stated that she desired a maid.
Many maids, Eurasian, French and native, sought admission to her rooms at the Continental, but none were chosen. At length appeared Félice Bonnard.
It was morning when this application came. Berangère had breakfasted in her room. She was arrayed in a robe de chambre of gorgeous deep yellow, with boudoir cap to match; she had a penchant for this hue, which well set off her own golden yellow hair, her deep blue eyes, her vivacity of color. When Félice entered, she perceived at once that she had found her maid.
This Félice was a woman of twenty-odd, very chic, a decided brunette. Her mournful dark eyes held a fund of experience. They were dangerous, those eyes. They marked their owner as one who knew much of the world from varied angles. Her dress betrayed remnants of taste—real worth fallen upon days of poverty. Berangère saw before her what would be termed in England a “gentlewoman in reduced circumstances.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, motioning to a chair. “You are not exactly the type one would expect to see, Mademoiselle.”
“Madame,” corrected Félice, smiling a little. Her smile was most attractive. “Madame Bonnard, Mademoiselle. My husband was an officer in the army, and was killed at Verdun. We had been married only three months. After that, I nursed. At length I heard of a fine opening here, and came. Now I am in trouble with the authorities, because they do not wish nurses and since I have no family they say I must go back to France. The opening did not develop. I have no money and no friends. If I could get a position of any sort—”
“Listen,” said Berangère. “I wish a maid, you comprehend? You have pride—”
“When one has nursed the poilus, Mademoiselle, one has no pride; that is, no pride in the old sense. Only pride that one has been of service.”
Well, that was a good answer. It captivated Berangère. She perceived that this woman would have the two secretaries fighting a duel within a fortnight.
“I live on an island,” she said. “There is little companionship. You will be lonely. We spend the rainy season each year here in Saigon. For the remainder of the time, we live on the island by ourselves. We have few visitors, no social life. Consider!”
Félice smiled. “Mademoiselle, I have much to forget.”
Berangère nodded and rose. “Come back this afternoon at three.”
* * * *
When her visitor had departed, Berangère dressed and summoned a ’riksha. She was whirled out the Boulevard Norodom to the palace, and there impressed an eager and attentive clerk into service.
She started a train of inquiries that took them to the Commissariat Central, then down to the Customs and Revenue office on the quay, and finally ended at the government office in the Rue Lagrandière. Here a smiling official spread before the young lady a dossier which related to the Veuve Bonnard.
“But,” said Berangère, “there is then nothing wrong with her?”
The official spread his hands. “Nothing. But we do not care to have young women come out here alone and without expectancies. In Algeria, you comprehend, that has been done with very unfortunate circumstances—for the young women. And here we are taking much caution and no chances.”
“Tut!” broke in the girl swiftly. “If I engage her, all is well?”
“Of a certainty. Still, as you may see, one knows little about her. It is true that she was given the Croix for her hospital work under fire. But the Croix has gone to Apaches who served la patrie. It might be well to wait, to cable home and inquire—”
“Nonsense!” declared Berangère calmly. “I shall engage her.”
As she spoke, her eye fell upon a paper which lay on the desk of the official. She reached over and picked it up. “What is this? There is a handsome man, monsieur! Tiens—one thousand dollars! What has he done, then, to be worth so much to the government?”
The other shrugged. “Mademoiselle, I do not know. Me, I know nothing of it. The paper came in the official mail from Hanoi, this morning.”
Berangère frowned. “An American and a criminal! This is singular.”
The paper in her hand was one which bore the enlarged picture of a man—not a bad-looking fellow, excellently dressed. The face was full of possibilities. It was a bronzed and rugged face, anything but handsome from the oily and mustached French colonial standard of masculine beauty; a keen and incisive face, rather good-humored and very calm.
Beneath this picture was the name, “J. Hudson Smith. American,” followed by the information that the governor general would pay one thousand piasters—locally termed dollars—for information of his whereabouts. It was an unusual thing, this circular; the police seldom follow such a system of advertising.
“I shall keep this,” said Berangère coolly. “Somewhere I have seen this man; whether lately or long ago, I cannot say. But perhaps I shall gain the reward, eh?”
“Could Mademoiselle have the cruelty to deliver a poor wretch of a man to justice?”
She laughed gayly. “That remains to be seen! He must first be found.”
Returning to her hotel, Berangère laid the circular upon her table and forgot it temporarily. In the course of the afternoon, Félice Bonnard appeared, was promptly engaged, and was given enough money to supply herself with a modest wardrobe. Berangère dined out, and attended a band concert in the Jardin Botanique, followed by an evening with friends.
When she finally returned home, she noted that the circular about Hudson Smith was gone. Since it was nowhere about the rooms, she concluded that it had been thrown out with the trash and so passed the matter by.
* * * *
Félice Bonnard was inhabiting a none too pleasant chambre meublée in the Rue Turc. That same evening, she left her room exactly at eight, and was joined outside by a man who had been awaiting her. They walked several blocks without speaking, came at length to the Café de la Terrasse, and took one of the outside tables beneath the tamarind trees.
When the waiter had departed with their orders, the man, who revealed himself as a well-dressed person with a rather broad, powerful face crowned by a thatch of reddish hair and adorned by a sprouting red mustache, looked at Félice and smiled.
“Well, dear sister? You succeeded?”
“Perfectly,” answered Félice coolly. “I am engaged.”
The other nodded. “Of course. Who could resist yo
u?”
“You have managed it very well.” Félice regarded him with a flash of cold challenge.
“Ah!” said the man blandly. “But I resist all women, my dear sister—”
“Abandon that term!” she exclaimed with a trace of anger. “I am not your sister, Paul! I do not wish you to speak again in that manner!”
The man laughed amusedly. “Very well, my dear Félice. As you wish.”
The waiter arrived with their orders, and departed.
“Here is something of interest.” Félice took a folded paper from her handbag. “It was lying on the table in the apartment of mademoiselle, so I brought it. The face, you understand, was interesting. Our friend M. Smith seems to be in some demand, and in case you desire to make a thousand dollars at once—” She concluded with a shrug.
Her companion studied the handbill, then pocketed it.
“I must thank you, Félice, for this thoughtful act. We must leave town immediately.”
“Then you do not want to turn him in?”
Lebrun made a gesture of dismissal. “For a thousand? Bah! We are playing for ten thousand, for a hundred thousand! He is a good man; we need him. It does not matter about your mademoiselle. If she saw this picture, she may recognize Smith on the island. But what of that?”
“When are you leaving?” asked Félice.
“Tonight,” said M. le Diable, reflectively. “Le Morpion, who is a sailor and who perfectly understands navigation, will remain to bring you and Mademoiselle to the island.”
“But she has a man—an old Breton—”
“Oh!” Lebrun laughed softly. “You mean, she had such a one! He was attended to this evening. L’Etoile and Curel tied an anchor to his neck and dropped him over the rail. Trust Le Morpion for the rest, my dear. He is very capable, that one! So is this Curel, also a seaman.”
“You intend to work swiftly or slowly, Paul?”
“Slowly, of course. Who knows what may turn up? There on the island we are safe. There is none to interfere. Why not take our time? This is a case where art is worth more than brute force. Listen!”
Enthusiasm kindled in the broad, powerful features. One saw that those features held not so much a lack of refinement, as a loss of pristine refinement; as though some elder fires of evil had burned out much of the inner man, purging him of conscience and all spiritual things.
“My dear Félice, that island was absolutely made for us; the ensemble is perfect—perfect! No communication with anywhere. A fool of a fat man and his silly butterfly of a daughter. A house filled with artistic, fictitious treasures. A cellar filled with real, factitious treasure; liquor, you comprehend—the most absolute treasure in the world of today. Do you realize that America has ceased to ship liquor to us, that lack of space forbids much being sent from England and France? A cellar filled with liquors can be taken to any port on the mainland and sold instantly, where a cellar filled with gold would only excite queries. You see? Besides, there is the place itself—a magnificent health resort for one so lately undermined by hard work on Noumea, not to mention a difficult escape.”
Félice regarded him with a slight frown. “You mistake,” she said slowly, “when you speak of the girl as a silly butterfly. Here, I grant, she is gay and reckless and merry. But be careful! I think this girl is no fool.”
M. le Diable nodded soberly. “I respect your judgment, Félice. I shall not forget it.”
“Besides, what do you plan for her?”
A sardonic smile tipped his lips as he regarded her. “Ah, you look upon her with jealous eyes? Nonsense! When have you known me to look upon a woman? Never—unless it were you; and sometimes I think that even here I made a mistake.”
She trembled slightly, but her eyes did not waver. “Then, about this girl—”
“Bah! I shall give her as a reward to L’Etoile. Now, by all means neglect no details; remember, I plan to remain on that island for some time. Recuperated, refreshed, enriched, we shall leave there when we wish. Then the world lies before us!”
“Before—who?” asked Félice.
“Before—well, before us two! Is that satisfactory? To your health, Veuve Bonnard! You and I, we shall spend our honeymoon in Japan!”
The woman’s eyes flashed with a singular fire—a fire, one would say, of exultation. She seized and lifted her glass.
“Good! It is a promise, Paul?”
“It is a promise,” the man nodded. “My promises are never broken.”
His glittering black eyes watched her, a terrible gleam in their depths, as she drank; when her gaze returned to him, the gleam was gone.
A man who sat at the adjoining table, and whose eyes had several times fallen upon the face of M. le Diable, rose and departed. He strode along to the Rue Lagrandière, turned down to the middle of the block, and entered the Gendarmerie.
This man came to an office where a light showed, and entered. Inside, he found another man, like himself clad in civilian clothes, who glanced up and nodded from a paper-littered desk.
“Do you remember,” said the new arrival abruptly, “a man who was brought to Hanoi from our settlement in Shanghai—a man wanted for a particularly atrocious murder in Hué City?”
“Paul Adran, alias Lebrun, alias Thomson, alias le Diable—alias everything!” said the man at the desk, without hesitation. “Suspected of being an Englishman or American. He was sentenced to Noumea for life; sentence approved by Des Gachons and appeal denied. He was transported. Well?”
“I thought tonight,” said the newcomer reflectively, “that I saw him sitting at a table of the Café de la Terrasse. I only saw M. le Diable once, so I am not certain, yet—”
The other smiled. “My dear fellow, absolutely impossible!”
“All the same, let us have the Noumea report that came in two days ago.”
Ten minutes later, the man at the desk read aloud a sentence.
“Drowned in attempting escape,” he said. “I trust this satisfies you?”
“Evidently.” The bearded one sighed. “Evidently! What about this American, this man Smith? The information that he was believed to be here in Saigon—”
“Was correct.” The man at the desk glanced up, nodded. “I found this afternoon that he had been here, had been employed as a laborer at the quay.”
“Had been?”
“He vanished from sight two days ago.”
The newcomer made a gesture of resignation. “Not just Smith has vanished, then, but a thousand dollars, which is more to the point.” He picked up several official cables and telegrams, and began to open them. “Ah!” His voice again drew the eyes of the man at the desk. “Here is word from Hanoi! We must look out for two men, known as L’Etoile and Le Morpion—descriptions given. Also a request from the governor-general himself that we leave nothing undone to locate the man Smith. Devil take it! Who is this American, and what has he done? Why do they send us no details?”
The other man shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows? But we may find him. Five of our best men are going over the lower end of the city at this hour. What about the two who are wanted?”
“A murder and robbery in Hanoi. See that the bulletins are copied and posted in the hall at once. With luck, we may pick up all three before dawn.”
At this precise moment, the men under discussion were engaged in getting supplies aboard a whaleboat which lay at the wharf, not a hundred yards from the Customs house.
CHAPTER IV
When a Star Falls a Soul Has Passed
Lebrun had taken in charge the whaleboat, which was moored openly at the Messageries wharf on the river. Presumably, the palm of the quay watchman had been gilded, to prevent interference.
Curel and Smith were handing down provisions and boxes, while in the boat L’Etoile and Le Morpion stowed them away. Smith had known M. le Diable twenty-four hours, yet he had not the least idea of where they were going or what they were going to do. If his companions knew, they said nothing to him. Smith had not
shared in the removal of Paul, the Breton boatman, but Curel had participated in that murder, with his usual bored air.
Suddenly, an indistinct figure appeared from the shadows of the godowns, darted forward and engaged in a low conversation with Lebrun. The figure darted away and was gone again. Lebrun came to the boat and spoke, addressing the two men below.
“Messieurs! The police are looking for you gentlemen. Le Morpion, you will have to go with us instead of remaining here.”
There was a sound of hearty oaths from below. Monsieur the Devil took the arm of Curel and drew him to one side. He spoke in a low tone.
“You told me that you had been in the navy. You can navigate?”
“Perfectly,” said Curel. “That is, if I have opium. My pills are gone, and I can find only pipe outfits—”
“I know, I know,” said Lebrun impatiently. “You who eat, cannot smoke, eh? Very well; I have a supply of pills ready for you. You must remain and take charge of that Des Gachons boat—apply for the job. Félice will make things easy for you, if you tell a convincing lie. If you cannot do it, then the devil take you! I want no inefficient ones.”
“Oh, I’m scoundrel enough for anything,” said Curel philosophically.
“You had better be,” said Lebrun dryly. “We must get out of here at once. M. Smith! The police are in search of you!”
Smith chuckled as he joined them. “Not for the first time. I like this way of leaving town, too—right under the noses of the customs people, from the biggest wharf in the city!”
“Always audacity,” quoted Lebrun, with a soft laugh and a glance at the lights of the nearby Customs house. “Everything is stowed? Very well. We must get down the river and be off Cap St. Jacques before daylight. Curel, can you accomplish your share?”
“If I have the opium.”
Lebrun handed him a package. “Then, au revoir, and the devil’s luck! Down with you, Smith, we’re off this instant!”
* * * *
Smith climbed down into the boat; its mast was already stepped. He joined L’Etoile. Behind them sat Le Morpion. Monsieur the Devil came down, cast off the lines, and took his position in the stern at the tiller.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 54
