“I don’t know anything about you or where you get your information,” said Neeland. “I suppose you’re in the Secret Service of the Russian Government.”
“Mon ami, Nilan,” said Fifi, smiling, “we should feel lonely outside the Secret Service. Few in Europe are outside — few in the world, fewer in the half-world. As for us Tziganes, who belong to neither, the business of everybody becomes our secret to sell for a silver piece — but not to Russians in the moment of peril!... Nor to their comrades.... What do you desire to know, comrade?”
“Anything,” he said simply, “that might help me to regain what I have lost.”
“And what do you suppose!” exclaimed Fifi, opening her magnificent black eyes very wide. “Did you imagine that nobody was paying any attention to what happened in the rue Soleil d’Or this noon?”
Nini laughed.
“The word flew as fast as the robber’s taxicab. How many thousand secret friends to the Triple Entente do you suppose knew of it half an hour after it happened? From the Trocadero to Montparnasse, from the Point du Jour to Charenton, from the Bois to the Bièvre, the word flew. Every taxicab, omnibus, sapin, every bateau-mouche, every train that left any terminal was watched.
“Five embassies and legations were instantly under redoubled surveillance; hundreds of cafés, bars, restaurants, hôtels; all the theatres, gardens, cabarets, brasseries.
“Your pigs of Apaches are not neglected, va! But, to my idea, they got out of Paris before we watchers knew of the affair at all — in an automobile, perhaps — perhaps by rail. God knows,” said the girl, looking absently at the dancing which had begun again. “But if we ever lay our eyes on Minna Minti, we wear toys in our garters which will certainly persuade her to take a little stroll with us.”
After a silence, Neeland said:
“Is Minna Minti then so well known?”
“Not at the Opéra Comique,” replied Fifi with a shrug, “but since then.”
“An artiste, that woman!” added Nini. “Why deny it? It appears that she has twisted more than one red button out of a broadcloth coat.”
“She’ll get the Seraglio medal for this day’s work,” said Fifi.
“Or the croix-de-fer,” added Nini. “Ah, zut! She annoys me.”
“Did you ever hear of a place called the Café des Bulgars?” asked Neeland, carelessly.
“Yes.”
“What sort of place is it?”
“Like any other.”
“Quite respectable?”
“Perfectly,” said Nini, smiling. “One drinks good beer there.”
“Munich beer,” added Fifi.
“Then it is watched?” asked Neeland.
“All German cafés are watched. Otherwise, it is not suspected.”
Sengoun, who had been listening, shook his head. “There’s nothing to interest us at the Café des Bulgars,” he said. Then he summoned a waiter and pointed tragically at the empty goblets.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE CAFÉ DES BULGARS
Their adieux to Fifi and Nini were elaborate and complicated by bursts of laughter. The Tziganes recommended Captain Sengoun to go home and seek further adventures on his pillow; and had it not been for the gay babble of the fountain and the persistent perfume of flowers, he might have followed their advice.
It was after the two young men had left the Jardin Russe that Captain Sengoun positively but affectionately refused to relinquish possession of Neeland’s arm.
“Dear friend,” he explained, “I am just waking up and I do not wish to go to bed for days and days.”
“But I do,” returned Neeland, laughing. “Where do you want to go now, Prince Erlik?”
The champagne was singing loudly in the Cossack’s handsome head; the distant brilliancy beyond the Place de la Concorde riveted his roving eyes.
“Over there,” he said joyously. “Listen, old fellow, I’ll teach you the skating step as we cross the Place! Then, in the first Bal, you shall try it on the fairest form since Helen fell and Troy burned — or Troy fell and Helen burned — it’s all the same, old fellow — what you call fifty-fifty, eh?”
Neeland tried to free his arm — to excuse himself; two policemen laughed; but Sengoun, linking his arm more firmly in Neeland’s, crossed the Place in a series of Dutch rolls and outer edges, in which Neeland was compelled to join. The Russian was as light and graceful on his feet as one of the dancers of his own country; Neeland’s knowledge of skating aided his own less agile steps. There was sympathetic applause from passing taxis and fiacres; and they might, apparently, have had any number of fair partners for the asking, along the way, except for Sengoun’s headlong dive toward the brightest of the boulevard lights beyond.
In the rue Royal, however, Sengoun desisted with sudden access of dignity, remarking that such gambols were not worthy of the best traditions of his Embassy; and he attempted to bribe the drivers of a couple of hansom cabs to permit him and his comrade to take the reins and race to the Arc de Triomphe.
Failing in this, he became profusely autobiographical, informing Neeland of his birth, education, aims, aspirations.
“When I was twelve,” he said, “I had known already the happiness of the battle-shock against Kurd, Mongol, and Tartar. At eighteen my ambition was to slap the faces of three human monsters. I told everybody that I was making arrangements to do this, and I started for Brusa after my first monster — Fehim Effendi — but the Vali telegraphed to the Grand Vizier, and the Grand Vizier ran to Abdul the Damned, and Abdul yelled for Sir Nicholas O’Connor; and they caught me in the Pera Palace and handed me over to my Embassy.”
Neeland shouted with laughter:
“Who were the other monsters?” he asked.
“The other two whose countenances I desired to slap? Oh, one was Abdul Houda, the Sultan’s star-reader, who chattered about my Dark Star horoscope in the Yildiz. And the other was the Sultan.”
“Who?”
“Abdul Hamid.”
“What? You wished to slap his face?”
“Certainly. But Kutchuk Saïd and Kiamil Pasha requested me not to — accompanied by gendarmes.”
“You’d have lost your life,” remarked Neeland.
“Yes. But then war would surely have come, and today my Emperor would have held the Dardanelles where the Turkish flag is now flying over German guns and German gunners.”
He shook his head:
“Great mistake on my part,” he muttered. “Should have pulled Abdul’s lop ears. Now, everything in Turkey is ‘Yasak’ except what Germans do and say; and God knows we are farther than ever from St. Sophia.... I’m very thirsty with thinking so much, old fellow. Did you ever drink German champagne?”
“I believe not — —”
“Come on, then. You shall drink several gallons and never feel it. It’s the only thing German I could ever swallow.”
“Prince Erlik, you have had considerable refreshment already.”
“Copain, t’en fais pas!”
The spectacle of two young fellows in evening dress, in a friendly tug-of-war under the lamp-posts of the Boulevard, amused the passing populace; and Sengoun, noticing this, was inclined to mount a boulevard bench and address the wayfarers, but Neeland pulled him down and persuaded him into a quieter street, the rue Vilna.
“There’s a German place, now!” exclaimed Sengoun, delighted.
And Neeland, turning to look, perceived the illuminated sign of the Café des Bulgars.
German champagne had now become Sengoun’s fixed idea; nothing could dissuade him from it, nothing persuade him into a homeward bound taxi. So Neeland, with a rather hazy idea that he ought not to do it, entered the café with Senguon; and they seated themselves on a leather wall-lounge before one of the numerous marble-topped tables.
“Listen,” he said in a low voice to his companion, “this is a German café, and we must be careful what we say. I’m not any too prudent and I may forget this; but don’t you!”
“Quite right, old
fellow!” replied Sengoun, giving him an owlish look. “I must never forget I’m a diplomat among these sales Boches — —”
“Be careful, Sengoun! That expression is not diplomatic.”
“Careful is the word, mon vieux,” returned the other loudly and cheerfully. “I’ll bet you a dollar, three kopeks, and two sous that I go over there and kiss the cashier — —”
“No! Be a real diplomat, Sengoun!”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Neeland, because she’s unusually pretty. And we might establish a triple entente until you find some Argive Helen to quadruple it. Aha! Here is our German champagne! Positively the only thing German a Russian can — —”
“Listen! This won’t do. People are looking at us — —”
“Right, old fellow — always right! You know, Neeland, this friendship of ours is the most precious, most delightful, and most inspiring experience of my life. Here’s a full goblet to our friendship! Hurrah! As for Enver Pasha, may Erlik seize him!”
After they had honoured the toast, Sengoun looked about him pleasantly, receptive, ready for any eventuality. And observing no symptoms of any eventuality whatever, he suggested creating one.
“Dear comrade,” he said, “I think I shall arise and make an incendiary address — —”
“No!”
“Very well, if you feel that way about it. But there is another way to render the evening agreeable. You see that sideboard?” he continued, pointing to a huge carved buffet piled to the ceiling with porcelain and crystal. “What will you wager that I can not push it over with one hand?”
But Neeland declined the wager with an impatient gesture, and kept his eyes riveted on a man who had just entered the café. He could see only the stranger’s well-groomed back, but when, a moment later, the man turned to seat himself, Neeland was not surprised to find himself looking at Doc Curfoot.
“Sengoun,” he said under his breath, “that type who just came in is an American gambler named Doc Curfoot; and he is here with other gamblers for the purpose of obtaining political information for some government other than my own.”
Sengoun regarded the new arrival with amiable curiosity:
“That worm? Oh, well, every city in Europe swarms with such maggots, you know. It would be quite funny if he tries any blandishments on us, wouldn’t it?”
“He may. He’s a capper. He’s looking at us now. I believe he remembers having seen me in the train.”
“As for an hour or two at chemin-de-fer, baccarat, or roulette,” remarked Sengoun, “I am not averse to a — —”
“Watch him! The waiter who is taking his order may know who you are — may be telling that gambler.... I believe he did! Now, let us see what happens....”
Sengoun, delighted at the prospect of an eventuality, blandly emptied his goblet and smiled generally upon everybody.
“I hope he will make our acquaintance and ask us to play,” he said. “I’m very lucky at chemin-de-fer. And if I lose I shall conclude that there is trickery. Which would make it very lively for everybody,” he added with a boyish smile. But his dark eyes began to glitter and he showed his beautiful, even teeth when he laughed.
“Ha!” he said. “A little what you call a mix-up might not come amiss! That gives one an appetite; that permits one to perspire; that does good to everybody and makes one sleep soundly! Shall we, as you say in America, start something?”
Neeland, thinking of Ali-Baba and Golden Beard and of their undoubted instigation by telegraph of the morning’s robbery, wondered whether the rendezvous of the robbers might not possibly be here in the Café des Bulgars.
The gang of Americans in the train had named Kestner, Breslau, and Weishelm — the one man of the gang whom he had never seen — as prospective partners in this enterprise.
Here, somewhere in this building, were their gambling headquarters. Was there any possible chance that the stolen box and its contents might have been brought here for temporary safety?
Might it not now be hidden somewhere in this very building by men too cunning to risk leaving the city when every train and every road would be watched within an hour of the time that the robbery was committed?
Leaning back carelessly on the lounge and keeping his eyes on the people in the café, Neeland imparted these ideas to Sengoun in a low voice — told him everything he knew in regard to the affair, and asked his opinion.
“My opinion,” said Sengoun, who was enchanted at any prospect of trouble, “is that this house is ‘suspect’ and is worth searching. Of course the Prefect could be notified, arrangements made, and a search by the secret police managed. But, Neeland, my friend, think of what pleasure we should be deprived!”
“How do you mean?”
“Why not search the place ourselves?”
“How?”
“Well, of course, we could be picturesque, go to my Embassy, and fill our pockets with automatic pistols, and come back here and — well, make them stand around and see how high they could reach with both hands.”
Neeland laughed.
“That would be a funny jest, wouldn’t it?” said Sengoun.
“Very funny. But — —” He nudged Sengoun and directed his attention toward the terrace outside, where waiters were already removing the little iron tables and the chairs, and the few lingering guests were coming inside the café.
“I see,” muttered Sengoun; “it is already Sunday morning, and they’re closing. It’s too late to go to the Embassy. They’d not let us in here when we returned.”
Neeland summoned a waiter with a nod:
“When do you close up inside here?”
“Tomorrow being Sunday, the terrace closes now, monsieur; but the café remains open all night,” explained the waiter with a noticeable German accent.
“Thank you.” And, to Sengoun: “I’d certainly like to go upstairs. I’d like to see what it looks like up there — take a glance around.”
“Very well, let us go up — —”
“We ought to have some excuse — —”
“We’ll think of several on the way,” rising with alacrity, but Neeland pulled him back.
“Wait a moment! It would only mean a fight — —”
“All fights,” explained Sengoun seriously, “are agreeable — some more so. So if you are ready, dear comrade — —”
“But a row will do us no good — —”
“Pardon, dear friend, I have been in serious need of one for an hour or two — —”
“I don’t mean that sort of ‘good,’” explained Neeland, laughing. “I mean that I wish to look about up there — explore — —”
“Quite right, old fellow — always right! But — here’s an idea! I could stand at the head of the stairs and throw them down as they mounted, while you had leisure to look around for your stolen box — —”
“My dear Prince Erlik, we’ve nothing to shoot with, and it’s likely they have. There’s only one way to get upstairs with any chance of learning anything useful. And that is to start a row between ourselves.” And, raising his voice as though irritated, he called for the reckoning, adding in a tone perfectly audible to anybody in the vicinity that he knew where roulette was played, and that he was going whether or not his friend accompanied him.
Sengoun, delighted, recognised his cue and protested in loud, nasal tones that the house to which his comrade referred was suspected of unfair play; and a noisy dispute began, listened to attentively by the pretty but brightly painted cashier, the waiters, the gérant, and every guest in the neighbourhood.
“As for me,” cried Sengoun, feigning to lose his temper, “I have no intention of being tricked. I was not born yesterday — not I! If there is to be found an honest wheel in Paris that would suit me. Otherwise, I go home to bed!”
“It is an honest wheel, I tell you — —”
“It is not! I know that place!”
“Be reasonable — —”
“Reasonable!” repeated Sengoun appealingly to the people
around them. “Permit me to ask these unusually intelligent gentlemen whether it is reasonable to play roulette in a place where the wheel is notoriously controlled and the management a dishonest one! Could a gentleman be expected to frequent or even to countenance places of evil repute? Messieurs, I await your verdict!” And he folded his arms dramatically.
Somebody said, from a neighbouring table:
“Vous avez parfaitement raison, monsieur!”
“I thank you,” cried Sengoun, with an admirably dramatic bow. “Therefore, I shall now go home to bed!”
Neeland, maintaining his gravity with difficulty, followed Sengoun toward the door, still pretending to plead with him; and the gérant, a tall, blond, rosy and unmistakable German, stepped forward to unlock the door.
As he laid his hand on the bolt he said in a whisper:
“If the gentlemen desire the privilege of an exclusive club where everything is unquestionably conducted — —”
“Where?” demanded Neeland, abruptly.
“On the third floor, monsieur.”
“Here?”
“Certainly, sir. If the gentlemen will honour me with their names, and will be seated for one little moment, I shall see what can be accomplished.”
“Very well,” said Sengoun, with a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m Prince Erlik, of the Mongol Embassy, and my comrade is Mr. Neeland, Consul General of the United States of America in the Grand Duchy of Gerolstein!”
The gérant smiled. After he had gone away toward the further room in the café, Neeland remarked to Sengoun that doubtless their real names were perfectly well known, and Sengoun disdainfully shrugged his indifference:
“What can one expect in this dirty rat-nest of Europe? Abdul the Damned employed one hundred thousand spies in Constantinople alone! And William the Sudden admired him. Why, Neeland, mon ami, I never take a step in the streets without being absolutely certain that I am watched and followed. What do I care! Except that towns make me sick. But the only cure is a Khirgiz horse and a thousand lances. God send them. I’m sick of cities.”
A few moments later the gérant returned and, in a low voice, requested them to accompany him.
They passed leisurely through the café, between tables where lowered eyes seemed to deny any curiosity; but guests and waiters looked after them after they had passed, and here and there people whispered together — particularly two men who had followed them from the sun-dial fountain in the rue Soleil d’Or to the Jardin Russe, across the Place de la Concorde, and into the Café des Bulgars in the rue Vilna.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 833
