Читать книгу The Destroyer: A Tale of International Intrigue - Burton Egbert Stevenson - Страница 12

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It was nearly four o'clock when Crochard, Lépine and Pigot took their leave of M. Delcassé and made their way through the dark and silent streets in the direction of the Hotel du Nord. The people who had leaped from their beds at sunrise, wearied at last by the emotions of the day and dampened by the fine rain which had begun to fall, had gone to bed again. Only about the harbour were there any signs of life. There the searchlights of the battleships still played about the wreck, where squads of marines were searching for the bodies of their comrades.

The three men, their coats buttoned about them, their hats pulled down, hurried on in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Crochard and Lépine were planning the campaign; Pigot had not yet recovered from his confusion at the sight of these two working hand in hand.

Five minutes brought them to the door of the Hotel du Nord, and Lépine applied to it a vigorous fist. There was no response, and he pounded again. At last there came the sound of a window being raised, and a night-capped head was thrust out from the upper story.

"Who is there?" asked a voice.

"Are you the proprietor?" demanded Lépine.

"Yes, sir."

"Then come down at once."

"But what is wrong, sir?" stammered Brisson, to whose frightened eyes those three dark figures huddled in his doorway appeared most sinister. "What is it you require?"

"No matter," said Lépine, sternly. "Come down at once and open the door."

The window was lowered and some minutes passed. Had the three men at the door been able to see inside the house, they would have been amused at what occurred there, could anything have amused them at that moment. As it was, they merely stamped with impatience and crowded closer to the door, for the rain was falling more heavily.

Brisson retreated from the window, his fat countenance fallen into creases of dismay, and plunged back into his bedroom, where his wife, who had also been awakened by the knocking, was sitting up in bed.

"What is it, Brisson?" she asked.

"There are three men below," gasped Aristide, fumbling for his trousers. "They command that I descend at once and admit them. There is something which tells me it is the police—the police at this hour!"

"The police?" and Madame Gabrielle cast a rapid mental glance over their affairs. "Well, admit them; we have no reason to fear the police."

"There is that little matter of the wine from your nephew which did not pay the octroi," Brisson reminded her.

"Bah!" retorted Madame, who was by far the stronger spirit; "it cannot be that! No one could suspect that; besides, even if they did, they would not come hammering here in the middle of the night. Descend at once and admit them. Assume a bold front, Brisson! Do not let them suspect that you have fear! Go at once! Hasten! I will come as soon as I have found a petticoat."

Thus encouraged, Brisson descended and opened the door, holding a lighted candle above his head and presenting as bold a front as his not-too-courageous spirit could muster. The three men crowded past him, without waiting for an invitation or saying a word, and one of them took the door from his hand and closed and bolted it. The horrible thought flashed through Brisson's head that they were robbers, bandits, and he had opened his mouth to cry for help, when one of them, the little, lean, grey-bearded one, with the fierce eyes, spoke.

"We belong to the police," he said. "We desire a few moments' conversation with you."

"Certainly, sir," stammered Brisson, thinking, as he met those eyes, that perhaps he would have preferred the bandits. "Come this way, if you please, sirs," and he led the way into his bureau.

He placed the candle on the table and dropped into a chair. His visitors remained standing, facing him. Brisson realised that for him to sit while they stood was anything but courteous, and he struggled to arise, but the strength seemed departed from his legs, and he sank helplessly back again.

"What is your name?" asked the little man, looking at him with those gimlet eyes.

"Aristide Brisson, sir."

"You have been long in this house?"

"For twenty years, sir. My record is of the best."

"We will investigate it," said Lépine curtly.

"Do so!" cried a voice behind them. "Nothing would please us better!" They turned to find Madame Brisson on the threshold, her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving, one plump hand holding together at the throat the garment which threatened every moment to disclose her still plumper shoulders. "We are honest people—our neighbours will speak a good word for us—all of them!"

"I do not doubt it, Madame," said Lépine, courteously, realising that here he had to do with the head of the house. "Meanwhile we wish to make certain inquiries of you, which you need not hesitate to answer. But I wish first to warn you that of these inquiries you must not breathe so much as a word to any one. Do you understand?"

"We understand, sir; you may rely upon us," said Madame Brisson, and sat down beside her husband.

"Our inquiry," pursued Lépine, "concerns the two gentlemen who departed so early yesterday morning."

At the words, Brisson bounded in his chair, and the colour swept back into his cheeks. He was himself again.

"So!" he cried, and suddenly found that he could stand erect, and did so. "So! It is about those swine! I knew that all was not right; I knew that they were not as they pretended!"

"What was it they pretended?"

"That they were of America. But it did not deceive me—no, not for one instant. They had not the air of Americans. Besides, do Americans go tramping about the country with knapsacks on their backs? No; only Germans do that! To Gabrielle, as they departed, I said, 'Americans, no; Germans perhaps, or Austrians—but not Americans!'"

"Yes, gentlemen, those were his very words!" said Madame Brisson, with an emphatic nod.

"And there is a final proof," went on Brisson, excitedly; "a proof conclusive. When I present my bill, the one who takes it grows quite red with anger. It was a most reasonable bill—ninety-six francs for three days, with many extras—a most reasonable bill, for Americans. It was then that I knew there was something wrong—that they were imposters who feared the police. It was only that which prevented a scene. 'Gabrielle,' I said, as they went away down the street, 'those men have something to conceal.'"

"Yes, gentlemen," put in Gabrielle, "he said just that."

"There is even worse to come, sirs," and Brisson dropped his voice as one does in speaking of great horrors. "You will scarcely credit it, but, after having had us at their heels for three days, upstairs, downstairs; after compelling us to arise in the dark of night to prepare their breakfasts—this person handed me a note for a hundred francs and said with a lordly air, 'You may keep the change.' The change—four francs! And yet from his manner you would have thought he was giving me a fortune!"

"Have you still that hundred-franc note?" Lépine inquired.

"But certainly, sir," answered Madame Gabrielle, and, turning her back to the company, she stooped quickly and arose with the bill in her hand.

Lépine took it and examined it carefully by the light of the candle. It was a new note, apparently fresh from the bank, and the Prefect's eyes were shining with satisfaction when he raised his head.

"I shall have to retain this," he said. "One moment," he added, as Madame Brisson opened her lips to protest; "I shall, of course, give you another for it," and he drew out his purse, placed the new note carefully in a flapped compartment, selected another and handed it to the anxious lady, who received it with a sigh of relief. "And now!" went on Lépine, "please tell us all that you can remember about these men—every small detail."

Both Monsieur and Madame Brisson grew voluble at once, for rarely had it been their fortune to address so attentive an audience. But there were few grains of wheat among the chaff. The two strangers had arrived, it appeared, on the evening of the twenty-second, Friday. They were Americans, they said, on a walking tour. Their names? Brisson did not remember; but they would be found on the police registration slip which he had caused them to fill out at once and had sent to the Prefecture that very evening. He had noticed on the slip that they had come from Marseilles and were on their way to Nice. Their bags had already arrived from Marseilles, and, at their direction, he had had them brought up from the station.

"Where are the bags now?" asked Lépine.

"They directed that they be sent to Nice," explained Brisson. "I despatched them yesterday morning, as I agreed."

"You have the receipt?"

"But certainly, sir," and Brisson, while his wife held the light, rummaged in his desk and finally produced the paper in question.

Lépine placed it in his purse beside the hundred-franc note.

"Proceed," he said. "In what way did these strangers occupy themselves during their stay?"

They were absent from morning till night, it appeared, walking about the streets, about the docks, visiting the ships in the harbour, climbing the hills back of the town, and even going as far as Cape Cepet, where the great fort is—penetrating, in a word, to every nook and corner which it is possible for visitors to enter. In fact, in the two days of their stay, they had seen more of Toulon than had Brisson in the twenty years of his residence.

The details of these expeditions Brisson had learned with the greatest difficulty, for his guests had talked but little, had kept to themselves, had discouraged his advances, resented his questions, and often pretended that they did not understand—all of which was in itself suspicious. When talking together, they used a language which Brisson supposed to be English; but he was not familiar with English; knew only a few words of it, indeed—"money," "damn,"—such words as every one knows. Their French, also, was very bad—much worse at some times than at others. …

Lépine finally stopped this flow of language, when it became apparent that nothing but chaff remained.

"Do any further questions suggest themselves?" he asked, looking first at Crochard and then at Pigot. "No? You understand, my friends," he added, turning back to the innkeeper and his wife, "that of all this you will say nothing—not even to each other. An incautious word, and you may find yourselves in a most difficult position. On the other hand, if you are careful, if you are reticent, you will not be forgotten."

"We understand, sir," said they both in a breath, and Brisson added, with venom in his voice, "They were swine! I rejoice that they did not get their telegram!"

Lépine jumped as though a pin had been driven into him.

"Their telegram? What do you mean?" he cried.

"About an hour after they were gone," Brisson hastened to explain, "or perhaps two hours—I do not know—a messenger appeared with a telegram addressed to a grotesque name—Zhones, Smeet—I do not remember—in care of the Hotel du Nord. I concluded it was for one of them, and told the messenger it was too late, that the man had departed—to Frejus, to Nice—I did not know whither. So he took the telegram back again."

Lépine's eyes were gleaming as he glanced at Crochard.

"I am glad that you have mentioned this detail, M. Brisson," he said. "I thank you—and you also, Madame!" and with that, he and his companions bade the worthy couple adieu.

Once in the street, Crochard paused.

"I will leave you now, M. Lépine," he said. "You have your work to do—but you do not need me. Should I have anything further to communicate, you will hear from me."

"And if we wish to find you?"

"For the present, I am staying with my friend on the Quai de Cronstadt."

"Very good," said Lépine. "Good night," and in a moment he and Pigot were lost in the darkness.

The rain had ceased and a chill wind had arisen, but Crochard did not seem to feel it, as he walked slowly toward the quays, his head bent in thought. An ironical smile curved his lips, as he pictured Lépine off upon the scent first to the Prefecture, then to the post-office. He would follow it well, of course; he would run it to the end. He would discover, no doubt, the identity of the two travellers; that would not be difficult. Crochard himself had pointed out the way.

But what then? Even if they were found to be men high in the German service, that was of small importance. It proved nothing. They were at liberty to visit Toulon, if they wished to do so; and, after all, their arrival at the quay five minutes before dawn might have been an accident; they might have lingered for a last look at La Liberté without any suspicion of what was about to occur. Such a coincidence, if not probable, was, at least, conceivable; and such, of course, would be their explanation, if an explanation was ever asked for. There was no way to disprove it.

As to the yacht on which they had embarked—well, that, too, may have been an accident—a boat belonging to a friend whom they had come upon unexpectedly and upon which they had been persuaded to take a cruise. Suspicious circumstances—yes, many of them; but no proof, no absolute proof. And nothing, absolutely nothing, to show that the explosion had been caused by any outside agency.

Arrived at the water-front, Crochard walked on until he was opposite the wreck. There he sat down, with his legs overhanging the quay. Two or three searchlights were still focussed on the ruin, but the rescue parties had been withdrawn, and only a few sentries remained. He could see how that formidable monster of a ship had been torn and twisted into an inextricable and hideous mass of iron and steel. One turret remained above the water, blown over on its side, its great guns pointing straight at the zenith; but the rest was a mere tangle of metal.

Such destruction could have been wrought only by the explosion of the magazines; no mine or torpedo could have done it. And as he gazed at the mass of wreckage visible above the water, he perceived a certain resemblance to photographs he had seen of the wreck of the Maine. The Maine's forward magazine had exploded; but Crochard knew, as well as M. Delcassé himself, what had caused that explosion.

Perhaps history was repeating itself, as, proverbially, it is supposed to have a way of doing. But Crochard shook his head. If the catastrophe was not an accident, then it was the result of some agency far more subtle than mine or torpedo. And, also, if it was not an accident, those two men who had waited in the shadow of the doorway back of him for the deed to be accomplished, must have had an accomplice. They could not destroy the ship merely by staring at her! Somewhere, somewhere, concealed but not far distant, that accomplice must have awaited the first beam of the rising sun as the signal to hurl his thunderbolt, to loose his mysterious power!

What was that power? How had the thing been done? Those, Crochard felt, were the questions to be answered. As to who had done it, or why it had been done—that could wait. But if there existed in the world a force which, directed from a distance, noiseless, invisible, impalpable, could destroy a battleship asleep at her anchorage, then indeed did it behoove France to discover and guard against it!

At last, his head still bent, Crochard arose, crossed the quay, opened the door of Number Ten, and entered.

No doubt it would have interested both him and M. Delcassé to know how nearly parallel the channels of their thoughts had run!