Complete weird tales of.., p.871
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 871
The man who had turned the cask went to the door, slid aside a panel, reached in and unbolted it, and had already opened the door when a big bulk loomed up in front of him; a gross, vibrant voice set the hollow echoes growling under the arches of stone and mortar; Wildresse barred their way.
He stood there, the torchlight falling full on his round, partly bald and smoothly shaven head; his wicked little ratty eyes were two points of black, his wicked mouth was twisted with profanity.
“Sacré tas de bougres!” he roared. “I told you to come at nine o’clock, didn’t I? What are you doing here, then? You, Asticot, you are supposed to have more sense than Squelette, there! Why do you interrupt me before the hour I set?”
The man addressed as Asticot — a heavy, bench-legged young man with two favoris pasted over his large wide ears — shuffled his shoes most uncomfortably.
Squelette, tall, frightfully thin, with his long, furrowed neck of an unclean bird swathed in a red handkerchief, stood sullen and motionless while the glare of his torch streamed over Wildresse.
“Nom de Dieu!” shouted the latter. “Aim at my belly and keep that light out of my face, you stupid ass!”
Squelette sulkily shifted his torch; Asticot said in the nasal, whining voice of the outer boulevards:
“Voyons, mon vieux, you have been at it for six hours, and the Skeleton here and I thought you might require our services — —”
“Is that so!” snarled Wildresse. “Also, they may require your services in La Roquette!”
“They do,” remarked Squelette naïvely.
“You don’t have to tell me that!” retorted Wildresse. “You’ll sneeze for them, too, some day!” He turned savagely on Asticot: “I don’t want you now! I’m busy! Do you understand?”
“I understand,” replied the Maggot. “All the same, if I may be so bold — what’s the use of chattering if there’s a job to finish? If there’s work to do, do it, and talk afterward. That’s my idea.”
Wildresse glared at him:
“Really! Very commendable. Such notions of industry ought to be encouraged in the young. But the trouble with you, Asticot, is that you haven’t anything inside that sucked-out orange you think is a head.
“Whatever mental work is to be done, I shall do. Do you comprehend me, imbecile? And I don’t trouble to consult your convenience, either. Is that clear? Now, take your friend, the Skeleton, and take your torch and yourself out of this cellar. Get out, or I’ll bash your face in! — You dirty little bandy-legged, blood-lapping cockroach — —”
His big, pock-pitted, hairless face became frightful in its concentrated ferocity; both men made simultaneous and involuntary movements to the rear.
“You’ll come at nine o’clock, do you hear!” he roared. “And you’ll bring a sack with you and enough weight to keep it sunk! You, Maggot; you, Skeleton, do you understand? Very well, clear out!”
The young ruffians made no response; Asticot turned and made his way through the narrow passage; the Skeleton shuffled on his heels, shining his torch ahead.
Halfway down the central corridor they helped themselves to two more bottles of Bordeaux, pocketing them in silence, and continued on their course.
Listening, Warner could hear them ascending the stone stairs, could hear the door click above as they left the cellar. But his eyes remained fixed on Wildresse, who still stood in the door, darkly outlined against the dull gaslight burning somewhere in the room behind him.
Once or twice he looked at the great cask which the two voyous had not troubled to close into its place behind them. And Wildresse did not bother to go out and swing the cask back into place, but, as soon as he caught the sound of the closing cellar door, stepped back and shut his own door.
He must either have forgotten, or carelessly neglected, to close the open panel in it, for the lighted square remained visible, illuminating the narrow passage after Warner heard him bolt the door on the inside.
His retreating footsteps, also, were audible for some distance before the sound of them died away; and Warner knew then that the door belonged to the cabaret, and that behind its bolted shutters and its police seals Wildresse had been lurking since his return from Saïs.
There was no need to use his torch as he crept out of his ambush and entered the narrow lane behind the big cask.
With infinite precautions, he thrust his arm through the open panel, felt around until he found the two bolts, slid them noiselessly back.
The door swung open, inward. He went in softly.
The place appeared to be a lumber room littered with odds and ends. Beyond was a passage in which a gas jet burned; at the end of it a stairway leading up.
The floor creaked in spite of him, but the stairs were carpeted. They led up to a large butler’s pantry; and, through the sliding door, he peered out into the dim interior of the empty cabaret.
Through cracks in the closed shutters rays from the setting sun pierced the gloom, making objects vaguely distinct — tables and chairs piled one upon the other around the dancing floor, the gaudy decorations pendent from the ceiling, the shrouded music stands, the cashier’s desk where he had first set eyes on the girl Philippa ——
With the memory his heart almost ceased, then leaped with the resurgence of his fear for her; he looked around him until he discovered a leather swinging door, and when he opened it a wide hallway lay before him and a stairway rose beyond.
Over the thick carpet he hastened, then up the stairs, cautiously, listening at every step.
Somewhere above, coming apparently from behind a closed door, he heard the heavy vibration of a voice, and knew whose it was.
Guided by it along the upper passageway, he passed the open doors of several bedrooms, card rooms, private dining-rooms, all empty and the furniture covered with sheets, until he came to a closed door.
Behind it, the heavy voice of Wildresse sounded menacingly; he waited until it rose to a roar, then tried the door under cover of the noise within. It was locked, and he stood close to it, listening, striving to think out the best way.
Behind the locked door Wildresse was shouting now, and Warner heard every word:
“By God!” he roared in English. “You had better not try to lie to me! Do you want your neck twisted?”
There was no reply.
“I ask you again, what did you do with that paper I gave you by mistake?” he repeated.
Suddenly Warner’s heart stood still, as Philippa’s voice came to him, low but distinct:
“I burned it!”
“You burned it? You lie!”
“I never lie,” came the subdued voice. “I burned it.”
“You slut! How dared you touch it at all?”
“You handed it to me,” she said wearily.
“And you knew it was a mistake, you treacherous cat! My God! Have I nourished you for this, you little snake, that you turn your poisonous teeth on me?”
“Perhaps.... But not on my country.”
“Your country! You miserable foundling, did you suppose yourself French?”
“France is the only country I have known. I refuse to betray her.”
“France!” he shouted. “France! A hell of a country to snivel about! You can’t tell me anything about France — the dirty kennel full of mongrels that it is! France? To hell with France!
“What has she done for me? What has she done to me? Chased me out of Paris; forced my only son into her filthy army; hunted us both without mercy — finally hunted my son into the Battalions of Biribi — me into this damned pigpen of Ausone! That’s what France has done to me and mine! — Blackmailed me into playing the mouchard for her — forcing me to play spy for her by threatening to hunt me into La Nouvelle!
“By God! I break even, though! I sell her every chance I get; and what I sell to her she has to pay for, too — believe me, she pays for it a hundred times over!”
There came a silence, then Wildresse’s voice again, rumbling, threatening:
“Who was that type you went to visit in Saïs at the Golden Peach?”
No answer.
“Do you hear, you little fool?”
“I hear you,” she said in a tired voice.
“You won’t tell?”
“No.”
“Why? Is he your lover?”
“No.”
“Oh, you merely got your wages, eh?”
No answer.
“In other words, you’re launched, eh? You aspire to turn cocotte, eh?”
“I am employed by him quite honestly — —”
“Very touching. Such a nice young man, isn’t he? And how much did you tell him about me, eh?”
No reply.
“Did you inform him that I was a very bad character?” he sneered. “Did you tell him what a hard time you had? Did you explain to him that a pious Christian really could not live any longer with such a man as I am? Did you? And that is the way you feel, isn’t it? — That you are too good for the business in which I have taken the trouble to educate you?”
“To be compelled to seek information for my Government has made me very unhappy,” she said. “But to betray that Government — that is not in me to do. I had rather die.... I think, anyway, that I had rather not — live — any longer.”
“Is that so? Is that all the spirit you have? What are you, anyway — a worm? Have you no anger in you against the country which has kicked you and me out of Paris into this filthy kennel called Ausone? Have you no resentment toward the Government that has attempted to beggar us both — the Government which bullies us, threatens us, blackmails us, forbids us entry into the capital, keeps us tied up here like dogs to watch and bark at strangers and whine away our lives on starvation wages, when we could make our fortunes in Paris?”
“I don’t know what you did.”
“What of it? Suppose I broke a few of their damned laws! Is that a reason to kick me from place to place and finally tie me up here?”
“I — don’t know.”
“Oh, ‘don’t know’!” he mimicked her. “You ungrateful slut, if you had any gratitude in your treacherous little body, you’d stick to me now! You’d rejoice at my vengeance! You’d laugh to know that I am paying back in her own coin the country which insulted me! That’s what you’d do, instead of sniveling around about ‘treachery’ and ‘betraying France.’
“And, by God! — now that war has come, you’ll see your beloved France torn into pieces by the Bosches! That’s what you’ll see — France ripped into tatters!
“Yes, and that sight will repay me for all that has been done to me — that revenge I shall have — soon! — just as soon as they sweep up that stable litter of Belgians over there!
“Then we’ll see! Then perhaps I’ll get my recognition from the Bosches!
“What do I care for France or for them, either? I’m of no nation; I’m nothing; I’m for myself! The Bosches were the kinder to me, and they get what I don’t need, voilà tout!”
There came a long pause, and then Wildresse’s heavy tones once more:
“I’ll give you your chance. Yes, in spite of your treachery and your ingratitude, I’ll give you your chance!
“You have a brain — such as it is. It’s a woman’s brain, of course, but it can figure out on which side the bread is buttered.
“Listen: I ought to twist your neck. You’ve tried to put mine into the lunette. You could have sent me up against a dead wall if you had given that paper you burned to the flics. No, you didn’t. You enjoyed a crisis of nerves and you burned it. I know you burned it, because I admit that you tell the truth.
“Bon! Now, therefore, I do not instantly twist your neck. No! On the contrary, I reason with you. I do not turn you over to the sergots. I could! Why? Voyons, let us be reasonable! I was not hatched yesterday. No! Do you suppose I have trusted you all these years without having taken any little precautions? Tiens, you are beginning to look at me, eh?
“Well, then, listen: if in future you have any curiosity concerning lunettes and dead walls, let me inform you that you are qualified to embellish either.
“Tiens! You seem startled. It never occurred to you to ask why I have had certain papers written out by you, or why I have had you affix your pretty signature to so many little documents which you could not read because the ink was invisible.
“No. You have never thought about such matters, have you? But, all the same, I have all I require to make you sneeze into the basket, or to play blindman’s buff between a dead wall and a squad of execution.
“And now! — Now that you know enough to hold your tongue, will you hold it in future and be honest and loyal to the hand that picked you out of the gutter and that has fed you ever since?”
There was a silence.
“Will you?” he repeated.
“No!”
A bull-like roar burst from Wildresse:
“I’ll twist your neck for you, and I’ll do it now!” he bellowed. “I’ll snap that white neck of yours — —”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE NEXT INSTANT Warner struck the door such a blow with his doubled fist that the jarring sound silenced the roar of rage that had burst from Wildresse at Philippa’s answer, and checked the heavy scuffle of his great feet, too.
Already Warner had drawn back, pistol lifted, gathered together to throw his full weight against the door and hold it the moment it was opened from inside.
The sudden stillness which followed his blow lasted but a few seconds; heavy steps approached the door, halted; approached irresolutely, stopped short. Then ensued another period of quiet; and Warner, listening, could hear the breathing of Wildresse on the other side of the door.
Minute after minute passed; Wildresse, still as a tiger, never stirred, and even his suppressed breathing became inaudible after a while.
Warner, pistol in hand, ready to throw himself against the door the instant it moved on the crack, bent over and placed his ear close against the paneling. After a while he detected the sound of footsteps cautiously retreating, and realized that Wildresse did not intend to open the door.
He knocked again loudly: the steps continued to recede; somewhere another door was unbolted and opened; and the stealthy, retreating footsteps continued on beyond earshot.
Again he knocked heavily with the butt of his pistol; waited, listened, then drew back and fairly hurled himself against the door. It scarcely even creaked; he might as well have attempted to push over the retaining wall of the corridor itself.
“Philippa!” he called. “Philippa!”
A low cry answered him; he heard her stir suddenly.
But as he grasped the door knob and shook it in his excitement and impatience, over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of a gross, hairless face slyly peering around the further corner of the corridor. It disappeared immediately.
“Open the door, Philippa!” he cried. “Open quick!”
“Warner, mon ami, I can’t! He took the key — —” she called through to him. “Oh, Warner! What am I to do?”
“All right! Wait there!” He turned and ran for the further end of the corridor, sprang around the corner without hesitating, sped forward, now fiercely intent on the destruction of Wildresse. But the Patron had fled. He ran forward, turned another corner in the dim light of locked shutters, but found no trace of the bulky quarry he hunted, heard nothing, halted, breathing fast and hard, trying to establish his bearings.
A stair well plunged downward into shadowy depths just ahead; he stole forward and looked over; carpeted steps vanished into the darkness below.
Doors, all locked, faced him everywhere; he ran along them, trying each as he passed; came to an angle of solid wall, stepped around it, pistol extended; and it was a miracle he was not startled into pulling trigger when a door was torn open in his very face, and a figure, dark against the fiery sunset framed by a window, sprang forward.
“Warner, mon ami! Me voici!” she cried joyously, flinging both arms around his neck; but he stood white and trembling with the nearness of her destruction at his hands, holding the shaking pistol wide from her body and unable to utter a word.
And as he stood there, one arm around her thin body, somewhere below and behind him a door burst open and there came a muffled rush of feet up the stairway from the darkness below.
He pushed her violently away from him, but before he could turn and spring to the stairhead, three men leaped into the passage, their weapons spitting red flashes through the dusky corridor; and he jumped backward dragging Philippa with him into the room behind them, slammed the door, and bolted, chained, and locked it.
Outside, Asticot, Squelette, and Hoffman stood close to the door and poured bullets through it at close range. The stream of lead tore the papered plaster wall, opposite to tatters; but the door was as massive as the one he had tried to force with his shoulder; two great bars of metal bolted it, a heavy chain further secured it, and the key remained in the lock.
But steel-jacketed bullets still pierced the wood, stripping splinters from the inside and mangling the opposite wall until the gay wall paper hung in strips, and the whole room swam in a haze of drifting white dust.
Edging along, his body flattened against the north wall of the empty room, and drawing Philippa after him, he cautiously approached the door which he had tried to force; and heard Wildresse whispering to somebody outside. No wonder he had not been able to force it; the bolts and chains that held it were exactly like those which secured the other door.
He placed his lips close to Philippa’s ear:
“Where are we?” he breathed; and bent his head to the child’s bruised mouth, which was still swollen and cut from the blow dealt her by Wildresse that morning in the car.
“We are in the Patron’s private office, where he used to lock himself in,” she whispered. “They’ve taken out the desk and chairs. His bedroom is next; mine is the next beyond that.”
He looked anxiously toward the window and saw tree tops and glimpses of rolling country sparkling in the lilac-tinted haze of approaching twilight.
“Where does that window face?” he whispered, softly.
