Tournefort, never at a loss, had already climbed up on a low projection in the wall of one of the houses opposite. From this point of vantage he could more easily observe what went on inside the cabaret, and in short, jerky sentences he gave a description of what he saw to his chief.
“Rateau is sitting down…he has his back to the window…he has put his bundle down close beside him on the bench…he can’t speak for a minute, for he is coughing and spluttering like an old walrus….A wench is bringing him a bottle of wine and a hunk of bread and cheese….He has started talking…is talking volubly…the people are laughing…some are applauding….And here comes Jean Victor, the landlord…you know him, citizen…a big, hulking fellow, and as good a patriot as I ever wish to see….He, too, is laughing and talking to Rateau, who is doubled up with another fit of coughing.”
Chauvelin uttered an exclamation of impatience:
“Enough of this, citizen Tournefort. Keep your eye on the man and hold your tongue. I am spent with fatigue.”
“No wonder,” murmured Tournefort. Then he added insinuatingly: “Why not let me go in there and apprehend Rateau now? We should have the diamonds and——”
“And lose the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy and the man Bertin,” retorted Chauvelin with sudden fierceness. “Bertin, who can be none other than that cursed Englishman, the——”
He checked himself, seeing Tournefort was gazing down on him, with awe and astonishment expressed in his lean, hatchet face.
“You are losing sight of Rateau, citizen,” Chauvelin continued calmly. “What is he doing now?”
But Tournefort felt that this calmness was only on the surface; something strange had stirred the depths of his chief’s keen, masterful mind. He would have liked to ask a question or two, but knew from experience that it was neither wise nor profitable to try and probe citizen Chauvelin’s thoughts. So after a moment or two he turned back obediently to his task.
“I can’t see Rateau for the moment,” he said, “but there is much talking and merriment in there. Ah! there he is, I think. Yes, I see him!…He is behind the counter, talking to Jean Victor…and he has just thrown some money down upon the counter…gold, too! name of a dog!…”
Then suddenly, without any warning, Tournefort jumped down from his post of observation. Chauvelin uttered a brief:
“What the——are you doing, citizen?”
“Rateau is going,” replied Tournefort excitedly. “He drank a mug of wine at a draught and has picked up his bundle, ready to go.”
Once more cowering in the dark angle of a doorway, the two men waited, their nerves on edge, for the reappearance of their quarry.
“I wish citizen Gourdon were here,” whispered Tournefort. “In the darkness it is better to be three than two.”
“I sent him back to the Station in the Rue Mouffetard,” was Chauvelin’s curt retort; “there to give notice that I might require a few armed men presently. But he should be somewhere about here by now, looking for us. Anyway, I have my whistle, and if——”
He said no more, for at that moment the door of the cabaret was opened from within and Rateau stepped out into the street, to the accompaniment of loud laughter and clapping of hands which came from the customers of the “Bon Copain.”
This time he appeared neither in a hurry nor yet anxious. He did not pause in order to glance to right or left, but started to walk quite leisurely up the street. The two sleuth-hounds quietly followed him. Through the darkness they could only vaguely see his silhouette, with the great bundle under his arm. Whatever may have been Rateau’s fears of being shadowed a while ago, he certainly seemed free of them now. He sauntered along whistling a tune, down the Montague Ste. Geneviève to the Place Maubert, and thence straight towards the river.
Having reached the bank he turned off to his left, sauntered past the Ecole de Médecine and went across the Petit Pont, then through the New Market, along the Quai des Orfèvres. Here he made a halt, and for a while looked over the embankment at the river and then round about him, as if in search of something. But presently he appeared to make up his mind, and continued his leisurely walk as far as the Pont Neuf, where he turned sharply off to his right, still whistling, Tournefort and Chauvelin hard upon his heels.
“That whistling is getting on my nerves,” muttered Tournefort irritably; “and I haven’t heard the ruffian’s churchyard cough since he walked out of the ‘Bon Copain.’ ”
Strangely enough, it was this remark of Tournefort’s which gave Chauvelin the first inkling of something strange and, to him, positively awesome. Tournefort, who walked close beside him, heard him suddenly mutter a fierce exclamation:
“Name of a dog!”
“What is it, citizen?” queried Tournefort, awed by this sudden outburst on the part of a man whose icy calmness had become proverbial throughout the Committee.
“Sound the alarm, citizen!” cried Chauvelin in response. “Or, by satan, he’ll escape us again!”
“But——” stammered Tournefort in utter bewilderment, while, with fingers that trembled somewhat, he fumbled for his whistle.
“We shall want all the help we can get,” retorted Chauvelin roughly. “For, unless I am much mistaken, there’s more noble quarry here than even I could dare to hope for!”
Rateau in the meanwhile had quietly lolled up to the parapet on the right-hand side of the bridge, and Tournefort, who was watching him with intense keenness, still marvelled why citizen Chauvelin had suddenly become so strangely excited. Rateau was merely lolling against the parapet, like a man who has not a care in the world. He had placed his bundle on the stone ledge beside him. Here he waited a moment or two, until one of the small craft upon the river loomed out of the darkness immediately below the bridge. Then he picked up the bundle and threw it straight into the boat. At that same moment Tournefort had the whistle to his lips. A shrill, sharp sound rang out through the gloom.
“The boat, citizen Tournefort, the boat!” cried Chauvelin. “There are plenty of us here to deal with the man.”
Immediately, from the quays, the streets, the bridges, dark figures emerged out of the darkness and hurried to the spot. Some reached the bridgehead even as Rateau made a dart forward, and two men were upon him before he succeeded in running very far. Others had scrambled down the embankment and were shouting to some unseen boatmen to “halt, in the name of the people!”
But Rateau gave in without a struggle. He appeared more dazed than frightened, and quietly allowed the agents of the Committee to lead him back to the bridge, where Chauvelin had paused, waiting for him.
VI
A minute or two later Tournefort was once more beside his chief. He was carrying the precious bundle, which, he explained, the boatman had given up without question.
“The man knew nothing about it,” the agent said. “No one, he says, could have been more surprised than he was when this bundle was suddenly flung at him over the parapet of the bridge.”
Just then the small group, composed of two or three agents of the Committee, holding their prisoner by the arms came into view. One man was walking ahead and was the first to approach Chauvelin. He had a small screw of paper in his hand, which he gave to his chief.
“Found inside the lining of the prisoner’s hat, citizen,” he reported curtly, and opened the shutter of a small dark lantern which he wore at his belt.
Chauvelin took the paper from his subordinate. A weird, inexplicable foreknowledge of what was to come caused his hand to shake and beads of perspiration to moisten his forehead. He looked up and saw the prisoner standing before him. Crushing the paper in his hand he snatched the lantern from the agent’s belt and flashed it in the face of the quarry who, at the last, had been so easily captured.
Immediately a hoarse cry of disappointment and of rage escaped his throat.
“Who is this
man?” he cried.
One of the agents gave reply:
“It is old Victor, the landlord of the ‘Bon Copain.’ He is just a fool, who has been playing a practical joke.”
Tournefort, too, at sight of the prisoner had uttered a cry of dismay and of astonishment.
“Victor!” he exclaimed. “Name of a dog, citizen, what are you doing here?”
But Chauvelin had gripped the man by the arm so fiercely that the latter swore with the pain.
“What is the meaning of this?” he queried roughly.
“Only a bet, citizen,” retorted Victor reproachfully. “No reason to fall on an honest patriot for a bet, just as if he were a mad dog.”
“A joke? A bet?” murmured Chauvelin hoarsely, for his throat now felt hot and parched. “What do you mean? Who are you, man? Speak, or I’ll——”
“My name is Jean Victor,” replied the other. “I am the landlord of the ‘Bon Copain.’ An hour ago a man came into my cabaret. He was a queer, consumptive creature, with a churchyard cough that made you shiver. Some of my customers knew him by sight, told me that the man’s name was Rateau, and that he was an habitué of the ‘Liberté’ in the Rue Christine. Well! he soon fell into conversation, first with me, then with some of my customers—talked all sorts of silly nonsense, made absurd bets with everybody. Some of these he won, others he lost; but I must say that when he lost he always paid up most liberally. Then we all got excited, and soon bets flew all over the place. I don’t rightly know how it happened at the last, but all at once he bet me that I would not dare to walk out then and there in the dark, as far as the Pont Neuf, wearing his blouse and hat and carrying a bundle the same as his under my arm. I not dare?…I, Jean Victor, who was a fine fighter in my day!
“I bet him a gold piece that I would, and he said that he would make it five if I came back without my bundle, having thrown it over the parapet into any passing boat. Well, citizen!” continued Jean Victor with a laugh, “I ask you, what would you have done? Five gold pieces means a fortune these hard times, and I tell you the man was quite honest and always paid liberally when he lost. He slipped behind the counter and took off his blouse and hat, which I put on. Then we made up a bundle with some cabbage heads and a few carrots, and out I came. I didn’t think there could be anything wrong in the whole affair—just the tomfoolery of a man who has got the betting mania and in whose pocket money is just burning a hole. And I have won my bet,” concluded Jean Victor, still unabashed, “and I want to go back and get my money. If you don’t believe me, come with me to my cabaret. You will find the citizen Rateau there, for sure; and I know that I shall find my five gold pieces.”
Chauvelin had listened to the man as he would to some weird dream-story, wherein ghouls and devils had played a part. Tournefort, who was watching him, was awed by the look of fierce rage and grim hopelessness which shone from his chief’s pale eyes. The other agents laughed. They were highly amused at the tale, but they would not let the prisoner go.
“If Jean Victor’s story is true, citizen,” their sergeant said, speaking to Chauvelin, “there will be witnesses to it over at ‘Le Bon Copain.’ Shall we take the prisoner straightway there and await further orders?”
Chauvelin gave a curt acquiescence, nodding his head like some insentient wooden automaton. The screw of paper was still in his hand; it seemed to sear his palm. Tournefort even now broke into a grim laugh: He had just undone the bundle which Jean Victor had thrown over the parapet of the bridge. It contained two heads of cabbage and a bunch of carrots. Then he ordered the agents to march on with their prisoner, and they, laughing and joking with Jean Victor, gave a quick turn, and soon their heavy footsteps were echoing down the flagstones of the bridge.
* * *
—
Chauvelin waited, motionless and silent, the dark lantern still held in his shaking hand, until he was quite sure that he was alone. Then only did he unfold the screw of paper.
It contained a few lines scribbled in pencil—just that foolish rhyme which to his fevered nerves was like a strong irritant, a poison which gave him an unendurable sensation of humiliation and impotence:
“We seek him here, we seek him there!
Chauvelin seeks him everywhere!
Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?
That dammed, elusive Pimpernel!”
He crushed the paper in his hand and, with a loud groan of misery, fled over the bridge like one possessed.
VII
Madame la Comtesse de Sucy never went to England. She was one of those French women who would sooner endure misery in their own beloved country than comfort anywhere else. She outlived the horrors of the Revolution and speaks in her memoirs of the man Bertin. She never knew who he was nor whence he came. All that she knew was that he came to her like some mysterious agent of God, bringing help, counsel, a resemblance of happiness, at the moment when she was at the end of all her resources and saw grim starvation staring her and her children in the face. He appointed all sorts of strange places in out-of-the-way Paris where she was wont to meet him, and one night she confided to him the history of her diamonds, and hardly dared to trust his promise that he would get them for her.
Less than twenty-four hours later he brought them to her, at the poor lodgings in the Rue Blanche which she occupied with her children under an assumed name. That same night she begged him to dispose of them. This also he did, bringing her the money the next day.
She never saw him again after that.
But citizen Tournefort never quite got over his disappointment of that night. Had he dared, he would have blamed citizen Chauvelin for the discomfiture. It would have been better to have apprehended the man Rateau while there was a chance of doing so with success.
As it was, the impudent ruffian slipped clean away, and was never heard of again either at the “Bon Copain” or at the “Liberté.” The customers at the cabaret certainly corroborated the story of Jean Victor. The man Rateau, they said, had been honest to the last. When time went on and Jean Victor did not return, he said that he could no longer wait, had work to do for the Government over the other side of the water and was afraid he would get punished if he dallied. But, before leaving, he laid the five gold pieces on the table. Everyone wondered that so humble a workman had so much money in his pocket, and was withal so lavish with it. But these were not the times when one inquired too closely into the presence of money in the pocket of a good patriot.
And citizen Rateau was a good patriot, for sure. And a good fellow to boot!
They all drank his health in Jean Victor’s sour wine; then each went his way.
ADVENTURE OF THE SCRAP OF PAPER
GEORGE BARTON
THE PROLIFIC AUTHOR and journalist George Barton (1866–1940) was born in Philadelphia, where he lived for most of his life, and in 1887 became a journalist at the Philadelphia Enquirer before being hired as an editorial writer for the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin and later for the Philadelphia Enquirer. He was also a composer and instrumentalist.
Working in numerous writing fields, Barton produced books and magazine articles in such diverse areas as history, biography, juvenile works, criticism, illustrated books, novels, true crime, and mystery fiction.
Among the books for which he is best known are Adventures of the World’s Greatest Detectives (1909), which provides largely romanticized and even fictionalized profiles of members of official police forces, including such historic figures as Vidocq and the Pinkertons; The World’s Greatest Military Spies and Secret Service Agents (1917), the first comprehensive history of spies throughout history; Celebrated Spies and Famous Mysteries of the Great War (1919), a companion volume to the previous book, which focused on the espionage agents of all sides in World War I while also examining numerous adventures and mysteries of the battles on the front and behind the lines; and Famous Detective Mysteries (192
6), a collection of true crime stories in fictionalized form.
Barton’s mystery fiction was less successful than his true crime, resulting in just three novels—The Mystery of the Red Flame (1918), The Ambassador’s Trunk (1919), and The Pembroke Mason Affair (1920)—and a single short story collection, The Strange Adventures of Bromley Barnes (1918).
Barnes was a bachelor who lived in Washington, DC, where he worked as an investigator with a career of thirty years in the employ of the United States government, first as an agent in the Secret Service, then as Chief of the Special Agents of the Treasury Department.
“Adventure of the Scrap of Paper” was originally published in The Strange Adventures of Bromley Barnes (Boston, The Page Company, 1918).
ADVENTURE OF THE SCRAP OF PAPER
GEORGE BARTON
BROMLEY BARNES and Admiral Hawksby sat on either side of a flat-topped desk in the Navy Department, talking in low, earnest tones. The grizzled face of the old sea fighter looked sterner than usual, while the attentive, earnest countenance of the veteran investigator indicated that he fully appreciated the importance of the communication which was being made to him. The purport of it was simple enough, and sufficiently alarming to call for prompt action. The secrets of the Department were being peddled to the enemy. Orders, that were presumably known to only three persons in Washington, were finding their way to hostile quarters with a rapidity and a certainty that was almost uncanny.
“We’ve got to locate the leak, Barnes,” said the admiral, emphasizing the remark with a resounding blow on the desk with his closed fist, “or I’ll feel like handing in my resignation.”
The Big Book of Espionage Page 84
