With weeping eyes and sobbing breath
And fair sweet face as pale as death?
“For love repayed
By Mary’s scorn,
I weep, betrayed
By one unborn!
Where can a poor lass hide her head
Till day be done and she be dead!”
The voice and playing lingered among the golden shadows, hushed to a whisper, ceased.
“Is it very old, that sad little song?” he asked at last.
“My mother wrote it.... There is the Mea Culpa, still, which ends it. Shall I sing it?”
“Go on,” he nodded.
So she sang the Mea Culpa:
III
“Winds in the whinns
Shall kene for me —
(For Love is Love though men be men!)
Till all my sins
Forgiven be —
(Maxima culpa, Lord. Amen.)
And Mary’s grace my fault shall purge,
While skylarks plead my cause above,
And breezy rivers sing my dirge,
Because I loved and died of Love.
(I love, and die of Love!)
Amen.”
When the soft cadence of the last notes was stilled, Dulcie turned once more toward him in the uncertain light.
“It’s very lovely,” he said, “and dreadfully triste. The air alone is enough to break your heart.”
“My mother, when she wrote it, was unhappy, I imagine — —” She swung slowly around to face the keys again.
“Do you know why she was so unhappy?”
“She fell in love,” said the girl over her shoulder. “And it saddened her life, I think.”
He sat motionless for a while. Dulcie did not turn again. Presently he rose and walked slowly out and down stairs, carrying his letters with him.
The stolid, mottled-faced German girl was on duty at the desk, and she favoured him with a sour look, as usual.
“There was a gen’l’man to see you,” she mumbled.
“When?”
“Just now. I didn’t know you was in.”
“Well, why didn’t you ring up the apartment and find out?” he demanded.
She gave him a sullen look:
“Here’s his card,” she said, shoving it across the desk.
Barres picked up the card. “Georges Renoux, Architect,” he read. “Hotel Astor” was pencilled in the corner.
Barres knit his brows, trying to evoke in his memory a physiognomy to fit a name which seemed hazily familiar.
“Did the gentleman leave any message?” he asked.
“No.”
“Well, please don’t make another mistake of this kind,” he said.
She stared at him like a sulky sow, her little eyes red with malice.
“Where is Soane?” he inquired.
“Out.”
“Where did he go?”
“I didn’t ask him,” she replied, with a slight sneer.
“I wish to see him,” continued Barres patiently. “Could you tell me whether he was likely to go to Grogans?”
“What’s Grogan’s?”
“Grogan’s Café on Third Avenue — where Soane hangs out,” he managed to explain calmly. “You know where it is. You have called him up there.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about it,” she grunted, resuming the greasy novel she had been reading.
But when Barres, now thoroughly incensed, turned to leave, her small, pig-like eyes peeped slyly after him. And after he had disappeared through the corridor into the street she hastily unhooked the transmitter and called Grogan’s.
“This is Martha.... Martha Kurtz. Yes, I want Frank Lehr.... Is that you, Frank?... The artist, Barres, who was pumping Soane the other night, is after him again. I told you how I listened at the door, and how I heard that Irish souse blabbing and bragging.... What?... Sure!... Barres was at the desk just now inquiring if Soane had gone to Grogan’s.... You bet!... Barres is leery since K17 hit him with a gun. Sure; he’s stickin’ his nose into everything.... Look out for him, if he comes around Grogan’s askin’ for Soane.... And say; there was a French guy here callin’ on Barres. I knew he was in, but I said he was out. I was just goin’ to call you when Barres came down.... Yes, I got his name.... Wait, I copied it out.... Here it is, ‘Georges Renoux, Architect.’ And he wrote ‘Hotel Astor’ in the corner.
“Yes, he said tell Barres to call him up. Naw, I didn’t give him the message.... You don’t say! Is that right? He’s one o’ them nosey Frenchman? A captain?... Gee!... What’s his lay?... In New York? Well, you better watch out then.... Sure, I’ll ring you if he comes back!... No, there ain’t no news.... Yes, I was to the Astor grille last night, and I talked to K17.... There was a guy higher up there. I don’t know who. He looked like he was a dark complected Jew.... Ferez Bey?... Gee!... You expect Skeel? To-night? Doin’ what? You think this man Renoux is watchin’ the Clan-na-Gael? Well, you better tell Soane to shut his mouth then.
“Yes, that Dunois girl is here still. It’s a pity K17 lost his nerve.... Well, you better look out for her and for Barres, too. They’re as thick as last year honey!
“All right, I’ll let you know anything. Bye-bye.”
* * * * *
Barres, walking leisurely up the street, kept watching for Soane somewhere along the block; but could see nobody in the darkness, resembling him.
Outdoors the July night was cooler; young girls, hatless, in summer frocks, gathered on stoops or strolled through the lamplit dark. Somewhere a piano sounded, not unpleasantly.
In the branch post office he mailed his letters, turned to go out, and caught sight of Soane passing along the sidewalk just outside.
And with him was the one-eyed man, Max Freund — the man who, perhaps, had robbed Dulcie of half the letter.
His first emotion was sheer anger, and it started him toward the door, bent on swift but unconsidered vengeance.
But before this impulse culminated in his collaring the one-eyed man, sufficient common sense came to the rescue. A row meant publicity, and an inquiry by authority would certainly involve the writer of the partly stolen letter — Thessalie Dunois.
Cool and collected now, but mad all through, Barres continued to follow Soane and Freund, dropping back several yards to keep out of sight, and trying to make up his mind what he ought to do.
The cross street was fairly well lighted; there seemed to be plenty of evening strollers abroad, so that he was not particularly conspicuous on the long block between Sixth and Fifth Avenues.
The precious pair, arriving at Fifth Avenue, halted, blocked by the normal rush of automobiles, unchecked now by a traffic policeman.
So Barres halted, too, and drew back alongside a shop window.
And, as he stopped and stepped aside, he saw a man pause on the sidewalk across the street and move back cautiously into the shadow of a façade opposite.
There was nothing significant in the occurrence; Barres merely happened to notice it; then he turned his eyes toward Soane and Freund, who now were crossing Fifth Avenue. And he went after them, with no definite idea in his head.
Soane and Freund walked on eastward; a tramcar on Madison Avenue stopped them once more; and, as Barres also halted behind them and stepped aside into the shadows, there, just across the street, he saw the same man again halt, retire, and stand motionless in a recess between two shop windows.
Barres tried to keep one eye on him and the other on Soane and Freund. The two latter were crossing Madison Avenue; and as soon as they had crossed, still headed east, the man on the other side of the street came out of his shadowy recess and started eastward, too.
Then Barres also started, but now he was watching the man across the street as well as keeping Soane and Freund in view — watching the former solitary individual with increasing curiosity.
Was that man keeping an eye on him? Was he following Soane and Freund? Was he, in fact, following anybody, and had the lively imagination of Barres begun to make
something out of nothing?
At Park Avenue Freund and Soane paused, not apparently because of any vehicular congestion impeding their progress, but they seemed to be engaged in vehement conversation, Soane’s excitable tones reaching Barres, where he had halted again beside the tradesmen’s gate of a handsome private house.
And once more, across the street the solitary figure also halted and stood unstirring under a porte-cochère.
Barres, straining his eyes, strove to make out details of his features and dress. And presently he concluded that, though the man did turn and glance in his direction occasionally, his attention was principally fixed on Soane and Freund.
His movements, too, seemed to corroborate this idea, because as soon as they started across Park Avenue the man on the opposite side of the street was in instant motion. And Barres, now intensely curious, walked eastward once more, following all three.
At Lexington Avenue Soane sheered off and, despite the clutch of Freund, went into a saloon. Freund finally followed.
As usual, across the street the solitary figure had stopped. Barres, also immobile, kept him in view. Evidently he, too, was awaiting the reappearance of Soane and Freund.
Suddenly Barres made up his mind to have a good look at him. He walked to the corner, walked over to the south side of the street, turned west, and slowly sauntered past the man, looking him deliberately in the face.
As for the stranger, far from shrinking or avoiding the scrutiny, he on his part betrayed a very lively interest in the physiognomy of Barres; and as that young man approached he found himself scanned by a brilliant and alert pair of eyes, as keen as a fox-terrier’s.
In frank but subtly hostile curiosity their glances met and crossed. Then, in an instant, a rather odd smile glimmered in the stranger’s eyes, twitched at his pleasant mouth, just shaded by a tiny moustache:
“If you please, sir,” he said in a low, amused voice, “you will not — as they say in New York — butt in.”
Barres, astonished, stood quite still. The young man continued to regard him with a very intelligent and slightly ironical expression:
“I do not know, of course,” he said, “whether you are of the city police, the State service, the Post Office, the Department of Justice, the Federal Secret Service” — he shrugged expressive shoulders— “but this I do know very well, that through lack of proper coordination in the branches of all your departments of City, State, and Federal surety, there is much bungling, much working at cross purposes, much interference, and many blunders.
“Therefore, I beg of you not to do anything further in the matter which very evidently occupies you.” And he bowed and glanced across at the saloon into which Soane and Freund had disappeared.
Barres was thinking hard. He drew out his cigarette case, lighted a cigarette, came to his conclusions:
“You are watching Freund and Soane?” he asked bluntly.
“And you, sir? Are you observing the stars?” inquired the young man, evidently amused at something or other unperceived by Barres.
The latter said, frankly and pleasantly:
“I am following those two men. It is evident that you are, also. So may I ask, have you any idea where they are going?”
“I can guess, perhaps.”
“To Grogan’s?”
“Of course.”
“Suppose,” said Barres quietly, “I put myself under your orders and go along with you.”
The strange young man was much diverted:
“In your kind suggestion there appears to be concealed a germ of common sense,” he said. “In which particular service are you employed, sir?”
“And you?” inquired Barres, smilingly.
“I imagine you may have guessed,” said the young man, evidently greatly amused at something or other.
Sheer intuition prompted Barres, and he took a chance.
“Yes, I have ventured to guess that you are an Intelligence Officer in the French service, and secretly on duty in the United States.”
The young man winced but forced a very bland smile.
“My compliments, whether your guess is born of certainty or not. And you, sir? May I inquire your status?”
“I’m merely a civilian with a season’s Plattsburg training as my only professional experience. I’m afraid you won’t believe this, but it’s quite true. I’m not in either Municipal, State, or Federal service. But I don’t believe I can stand this Hun business much longer without enlisting with the Canadians.”
“Oh. May I ask, then, why you follow that pair yonder?”
“I’ll tell you why. I am a painter. I live at Dragon Court. Soane, an Irishman, is superintendent of the building. I have reason to believe that German propagandists have been teaching him disloyalty under promise of aiding Ireland to secure political independence.
“Coming out of the branch post office this evening, where I had taken some letters, I saw Soane and that fellow, Freund. I really couldn’t tell you exactly what my object was in following them, except that I itched to beat up the German and refrained because of the inevitable notoriety that must follow.
“Perhaps I had a vague idea of following them to Grogan’s, where I knew they were bound, just to look over the place and see for myself what that German rendezvous is like.
“Anyway, what kept me on their trail was noticing you; and your behaviour aroused my curiosity. That is the entire truth concerning myself and this affair. And if you believe me, and if you think I can be of any service to you, take me along with you. If not, then I shall certainly not interfere with whatever you are engaged in.”
For a few moments the young Intelligence Officer looked intently at Barres, the same amused, inexplicable smile on his face. Then:
“Your name,” he said, with malicious gaiety, “is Garret Barres.”
At that Barres completely lost countenance, but the other man began to laugh:
“Certainly you are Garry Barres, a painter, a celebrated Beaux Arts man of — —”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Barres, “you are Renoux! You are little Georges Renoux, of the atelier Ledoux! — on the architect’s side! — you are that man who left his card for me this evening! I’ve seen you often! You were a little devil of a nouveau! — but you were always the centre of every bit of mischief in the rue Bonaparte! You put the whole Quarter en charette! I saw you do it.”
“I saw you,” laughed Renoux, “on one notorious occasion, teaching jiu-jitsu to a policeman! Don’t talk to me about my escapades!”
Cordially, firmly, in grinning silence, they shook hands. And for a moment the intervening years seemed to melt away; the golden past became the present; and Renoux even thrilled a little at the condescension of Barres in shaking hands with him — the nouveau honoured by the ancien! — the reverence never entirely forgotten.
“What are you, anyway, Renoux?” asked Barres, still astonished at the encounter, but immensely interested.
“My friend, you have already guessed. I am Captain: Military Intelligence Department. You know? There are no longer architects or butchers or bakers in France, only soldiers. And of those soldiers I am a very humble one.”
“On secret duty here,” nodded Barres.
“I need not ask an old Beaux Arts comrade to be discreet and loyal.”
“My dear fellow, France is next in my heart after my own country. Tell me, you are following that Irishman, Soane, and his boche friend, Max Freund, are you not?”
“It happens to be as you say,” admitted Renoux, smilingly. “A job for a ‘flic,’ is it not?”
“Shall I tell you what I know about those two men? — what I suspect?”
“I should be very glad — —” But at that moment Soane came out of the saloon across the way, and Freund followed.
“May I come with you?” whispered Barres.
“If you care to. Yes, come,” nodded Renoux, keeping his clear, intelligent eyes on the two across the street, who now stood under a lamp-post, engaged in some s
ort of drunken altercation.
Renoux, watching them all the while, continued in a low voice:
“Remember, Barres, if we chance to meet again here in America, I am merely Georges Renoux, an architect and a fellow Beaux Arts man.”
“Certainly.... Look! They’re starting on, those two!”
“Come,” whispered Renoux.
Soane, unsteady of leg and talkative, was now making for Third Avenue beside Freund, who had taken him by the arm, in hopes, apparently, of steadying them both.
As Renoux and Barres followed, the latter cautiously requested any instructions which Renoux might think fit to give.
Renoux said in his cool, agreeable voice:
“You know it’s rather unusual for an officer to bother personally with this sort of thing. But my people — even the renegade Germans in our service — have been unable to obtain necessary information for us in regard to Grogan’s.
“It happened this afternoon that certain information was brought to me which suggested that I myself take a look at Grogan’s. And that is what I was going to do when I saw you on the street, carefully stalking two well-known suspects.”
They both laughed cautiously.
Grogan’s was now in sight on the corner, its cherrywood magnificence and its bilious imitation of stained glass aglow with electricity. And into its “Family Entrance” swaggered Soane, followed by the lank figure of Max Freund.
Renoux and Barres had halted fifty yards away. Neither spoke. And presently came to them a short, dark, powerfully built man, who strolled up casually, puffing a large, rank cigar.
Renoux named him to Barres:
“Emile Souchez, one of my men.” He added: “Anybody gone in yet?”
“Otto Klein, of Gerhardt, Klein & Schwartzmeyer went in an hour ago,” replied Souchez.
“Oho,” nodded Renoux softly. “That signifies something really interesting. Who else went in?”
“Small fry — Dave Sendelbeck, Louis Hochstein, Terry Madigan, Dolan, McBride, Clancy — all Clan-na-Gael men.”
“Skeel?”
“No. He’s still at the Astor. Franz Lehr came out about half an hour ago and took a taxi west. Jacques Alost is following in another.”
Renoux thought a moment:
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 879
