Complete weird tales of.., p.854
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 854
The next instant there came a crash, a heavy fall, dull sounds of feet scuffling behind the locked door, a series of jarring, creaking noises, then silence.
A chambermaid came into the corridor to listen, but the silence was profound, and presently she went away.
When the boy came back with the hand luggage and knocked at 23, Halkett opened the door a little way and, tipping the lad with a five-franc piece, bade him leave the luggage outside the door for the present.
Later, Gray cautiously opened the door and drew in the luggage.
Ten minutes later both young men came leisurely out of the room, locking the door on the outside. They each carried hand luggage. Halkett lighted a cigarette.
At the desk Gray requested that the gentlemen in No. 23 should not be disturbed that night, as they were lying down and in need of repose. Which was true.
Then both young men departed in a cab. At the railroad station, however, an unusually generous stranger offered Gray a motor cycle for nothing. So he strapped his bag to it, nodded a smiling adieu to Halkett, and departed.
Halkett bought a ticket to Maastricht, Holland, which he had no idea of using, and presently came out of the station and walked eastward rather rapidly. A man who also had bought a ticket for Maastricht rose from his seat in the waiting room and walked stealthily after him, making a signal to another man.
This second man immediately stepped into a station telephone booth and called up room 23 at the Hôtel St. Antoine, where two German gentlemen, badly battered, were now conferring with a third German gentleman who had paid no attention to instructions from the hotel office but had gone to room 23, knocked until out of patience, and had then summoned the maître d’hôtel, who unlocked the door with a master-key.
Which operation revealed two Teutons flat on their backs, very carefully tied up with rope and artistically gagged.
This unbattered gentleman now conversed over the telephone with the man at the railroad station.
A few moments later he and the two battered ones left the hotel hastily in a taxicab, joined the man at the railroad station, and drove rapidly eastward.
And before forty-eight hours had elapsed, each one of these four men operating in pairs, had attempted to kill the young man named Halkett. Twice he got away. The third time two of them succeeded in locating him in the little town of Diekirch, a town which Halkett was becoming more and more anxious to leave, as he finally began to realize what a hornet’s nest he and his friend Gray had succeeded in stirring up.
And all the while the invisible net of destiny in which he now found himself entangled was every minute enmeshing in its widening spread new people whose fate was to be linked with his, and who had never even heard of him. Among them was the girl Philippa.
PROLOGUE
A narrow-gauge railroad track runs through the woods from Diekirch, connecting the two main lines; and on the deserted wooden platform beside this track stood Halkett, his suitcase in one hand, the other hand in his side pocket, awaiting the shuttle train with an impatience born of deepest anxiety.
The young man’s anxiety was presently justified, for, as he sauntered to and fro, uneasily scanning the track and the unbroken woods around him, always keeping his right hand in his coat pocket, two men crept out from behind separate trees in the forest directly behind the platform, and he turned around only in time to obtain a foreshortened and disquieting view of the muzzle of a revolver.
“Hands up—” began the man behind the weapon; but as he was in the very act of saying it, a jet of ammonia entered his mouth through the second button of Halkett’s waistcoat, and he reeled backward off the platform, his revolver exploding toward the sky, and fell into the grass, jerking and kicking about like an unhealthy cat in a spasm.
Already Halkett and the other man had clinched; the former raining blows on the latter’s Teutonic countenance, which proceeding so dazed, diverted, and bewildered him that he could not seem to find the revolver bulging in his side pocket.
It was an automatic, and Halkett finally got hold of it and hurled it into the woods.
Then he continued the terrible beating which he was administering.
“Get out!” he said in German to the battered man, still battering him. “Get out, or I’ll kill you!”
He hit him another cracking blow, turned and wrested the other pistol from the writhing man on the grass, whirled around, and went at the battered one again.
“I’ve had enough of this!” he breathed, heavily. “I tell you I’ll kill you if you bother me again! I could do it now — but it’s too much like murder if you’re not in uniform!”
The man on the grass had managed to evade suffocation; he got up now and staggered off toward the woods, and Halkett drove his companion after him at the point of his own revolver.
“Keep clear of me!” he said. “If you do any more telephoning or telegraphing it will end in murder. I’ve had just about enough, and if any more of your friends continue to push this matter after I enter France, just as surely as I warn you now, I’ll defend my own life by taking theirs. You can telephone that to them if you want to!”
As he stood on the edge of the wooden platform, revolver lifted, facing the woods where his two assailants had already disappeared, the toy-like whistle of an approaching train broke the hot, July stillness.
Before it stopped, he hurled the remaining revolver into the woods across the track, then, as the train drew up and a guard descended to open a compartment door for him, he cast a last keen glance at the forest behind him.
Nothing stirred there, not even a leaf.
But before the train had been under way five minutes a bullet shattered the glass of the window beside which he had been seated; and he spent the remainder of the journey flat on his back smoking cigarettes and wondering whether he was going to win through to the French frontier, to Paris, to Calais, to London, or whether they’d get him at last and, what was of infinitely greater importance, a long, thin envelope which he carried stitched inside his undershirt.
That was really what mattered, not what might become of a stray Englishman. He knew it; he realized it without any illusion whatever. It was the contents of this envelope that mattered, not his life.
Yet, so far, he had managed to avoid taking life in defense of his envelope. In fact, he traveled unarmed. Now, if matters continued during his journey through France as they had begun and continued while he was crossing Holland and the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, he would be obliged to take life or lose his own.
And yet, if he did kill somebody, that meant arrest and investigation by the police of France. And such an investigation might be fatal to the success of his undertaking — quite as fatal, in fact, as though he himself were killed.
The main thing was to get that envelope and its contents to London.
His instructions were not to mail it, but to take it in person, or to send it, if necessary, by another messenger through other channels.
One thing became more and more evident to him; the time had now arrived when certain people unknown to him by sight had decided to kill him as the only way out of the affair.
Would they actually go so far as to kill him in France, with the chance of the French police seizing that envelope before they could seize it and clear out with it to Berlin? Would they hazard the risk of France obtaining cognizance of a matter which so vitally concerned Germany, rather than permit that information to reach England?
Halkett lay on his back and smoked and did not know.
But he was slowly coming to the conclusion that one thing was now imperative: the envelope must not be found upon his person if he were killed.
But what on earth to do with it until it could be safely transferred to the proper person he had not the slightest idea.
That evening, as he changed trains at the frontier, in the lamp-lit dimness of the station platform he was fired at twice, and not hit.
A loud outcry naturally ensued; a stampede of passengers who tried to escape, a rush of others who desired to see what had happened — much hubbub and confusion, much shouting in several languages.
But nobody could be found who had fired two shots from a revolver, and nobody admitted that they had been shot at.
And so, as nobody had been hit, the gendarmes, guards, and railway officials were in a quandary.
And the train rolled out of the station with Halkett aboard, a prey to deepest anxiety concerning his long thin envelope.
CHAPTER I
SOMEBODY AT WARNER’S elbow spoke to him in French. He turned his head leisurely: a well-dressed young fellow, evidently an Englishman, was striving to maintain a place beside him in the noisy, market day crowd.
“Pardon, Monsieur, are you English?”
“American,” replied Warner briefly, and without enthusiasm.
“My name is Halkett,” said the other, with a quick smile. “I’m English, and I’m in trouble. Could you spare me a moment?”
To Warner the man did not look the typical British dead-beat, nor had he any of the earmarks and mannerisms of the Continental beach-comber. Yet he was, probably, some species or other of that wearisome and itinerant genus.
“I’m listening,” said the young American resignedly. “Continue your story.”
“There’s such a row going on here — couldn’t we find a quieter place?”
“I can hear you perfectly well, I tell you!”
Halkett said:
“If I try to talk to you here I’ll be overheard, and that won’t do. I’m very sorry to inconvenience you, but really I’m in a fix. What a noise these people are making! Do you mind coming somewhere else?”
“Say what you desire to say here,” returned Warner bluntly. “And perhaps it might save time if you begin with the last chapter; I think I can guess the rest of the story.”
The features of the American expressed boredom to the point of unfriendly indifference. The Englishman looked at him, perplexed for a moment, then his sun-bronzed face lighted up with another quick smile.
“You’re quite mistaken,” he said. “I don’t expect the classic remittance from England, and I don’t require the celebrated twenty-franc loan until it arrives. You take me for that sort, I see, but I’m not. I don’t need money. May I tell you what I do need — rather desperately?”
“Yes, if you choose.”
“I need a friend.”
“Money is easier to pick up,” remarked Warner drily.
“I know that. May I ask my favor of you all the same?”
“Go ahead.”
“Thanks, I will. But can’t we get out of this crowd? What is going on in this town anyway?”
“Market day. It’s like this once a month in Ausone. Otherwise the town is as dead as any other French provincial town.”
Shoulder to shoulder they threaded their way through the crowded market square, amid the clatter of sabots, the lowing of cattle, the incessant bleating of sheep. Ducks quacked from crates in wagons, geese craned white necks and hissed above the heads of the moving throngs; hogs squealed and grunted; fowls hanging by their legs from the red fists of sturdy peasant women squawked and flapped.
Cheap-Jack shows of all sorts encumbered the square and adjacent streets and alleys — gingerbread booths, shooting ranges, photograph galleries, moving-picture shows, theaters for ten sous. Through the lowing, bleating, and cockcrowing, the drumming and squeaking of Punch and Judy, and the brassy dissonance of half a dozen bands, mournful and incessant strains from several merry-go-rounds continued audible.
But the steady clatter of sabots on stony pavements, and the ceaseless undertone of voices, swelling, subsiding, dominated the uproar, softening the complaint of kine and feathered fowl to a softly cheerful harmony suggestive of summer breezes and green fields.
On the dusty Boulevard d’Athos — the typical solitary promenade of such provincial towns — there were, as usual, very few people — the inevitable nurses here and there, wheeling prams; a discouraged, red-trousered and sou-less soldier or two sprawling on benches under the chestnut trees; rarely a passing pedestrian, more often a prowling dog.
At the head of the Boulevard d’Athos, where the rue d’Auros crosses, Warner halted under the shade of the chestnuts, for the July sun was very hot. His unconvinced grey eyes now rested inquiringly on the young Englishman who had called himself Halkett. He said:
“What species of trouble are you in?”
Halkett shook his head.
“I can’t tell you what the trouble is; I may only ask you to help me a bit—” The quick smile characteristic of him glimmered in his eyes again — a winning smile, hinting of latent recklessness. “I have my nerve with me, you see — as you Americans have it,” he added. “You’re thinking something of that sort, I fancy.”
Warner smiled too, rather faintly, but remained silent.
“This is what I want you to do,” continued Halkett. “I’ve a long thin envelope in my pocket. I’d like to have you take it from me and slip it into your breast pocket and then button your coat. Is that too much to ask?”
“What!”
“That’s all I want you to do. Then if you wouldn’t mind giving me your name and address? And that is really all I ask.”
Said the American, amused and surprised:
“That airy request of yours requires a trifle more explanation than you seem inclined to offer.”
“I know it does. I can’t offer it. Only — you won’t get into trouble if you keep that envelope buttoned tightly under your coat until I come for it again.”
“But I’m not going to do that!”
“Why?”
“Why the devil should I? I don’t propose to wander about France carrying papers concerning which I know nothing — to oblige a young man about whom I know even less.”
“I quite see that,” admitted Halkett seriously. “I shouldn’t feel inclined to do such a thing either.”
“Can’t you tell me what is the nature of these papers? — Or something — some explanation — —”
“I’m sorry.”
“And why do you propose to trust me with them?” continued Warner, curiously. “How do you know I am honest? How do you know I won’t examine your packet as soon as you clear out?”
Halkett looked up with his quick and winning smile:
“I’ll take that risk.”
“Why? You don’t know me.”
“I had a good look at you in the market square before I spoke to you.”
“Oh. You think you are a psychologist?”
“Of sorts. It’s a part of my business in life.”
“Suppose,” said Warner, smiling, “you explain a little more clearly to me exactly what is your actual business in life.”
“Very glad to. I write.”
“Books?”
“No; just — stories.”
“Fiction?”
“As one might say, facts rather than fiction.”
“You are a realist?” suggested Warner with slight irony.
“I try to be. But do you know, there is more romance in realism than in fairy tales?”
Warner, considerably diverted, nodded:
“I know. You belong to the modern school, I take it.”
“Very modern. So modern, in fact, that my work concerns tomorrow rather than today.”
Warner nodded again:
“I see. You are a futurist — opportunist. There are a lot of clever men working on those lines in England.... Still—” he glanced amusedly at Halkett “ — that scarcely explains your rather unusual request. Why should I take charge of an envelope for you?”
“My dear fellow, I can’t answer that.... Still — I may say this much; I’m hard put to it — rather bewildered — had a rotten time of it in the Grand Duchy and in Belgium — so to speak—”
“What do you mean by a rotten time?”
“Rows.”
“I don’t understand. You’ll have to be more explicit.”
“Well — it had to do with this envelope I carry. Some chaps of sorts wanted to get it away from me. Do you see? ... I had a lively time, and I rather expect to have another before I get home — if I ever get there.”
Warner looked at him out of clear, sophisticated eyes:
“See here, my ingenuous British friend,” he said, “play square with me, if you play at all.”
“I shan’t play otherwise.”
“Very well, then; why are you afraid to carry that envelope?”
“Because,” said Halkett, coolly, “if I’m knocked on the head and that envelope is found in my clothing and is stolen, the loss of my life would be the lesser loss to my friends.”
“Is anybody trying to kill you?”
Halkett shrugged his shoulders; but there seemed to be neither swagger nor bravado in his careless gesture of assent. He said:
“Listen; here’s my case in brief. I saw you in the crowd yonder, and I made up my mind concerning you. I have to think quickly sometimes; I took a good look at you and—” He waved one hand. “You look like a soldier. I don’t know whether you are or not. But I am ready to trust you. That’s all.”
“Do you mean to say that you are in any real personal danger?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t count. I can look out for myself. What worries me is this envelope. Couldn’t you take charge of it? I’d be very grateful.”
“How long do you expect me to carry it about?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know whether anything is likely to happen to me today in this town — or tomorrow on the train — or in Paris — I have no means of knowing. I merely want to get to Paris, if I can, and send a friend back here for that envelope.”
“I thought you were to return for it yourself.”
“Maybe. Maybe I’ll send you a letter by a friend — just a line for him to give you, saying it’s all right.”
“Mr. Halkett, you have rather a disconcerting way of expressing unlimited confidence in me—”
“Yes, I trust you.”
“But why?”
“You look right.”
