CHAPTER II
THE COUNTESS ROSALIE
One of the coffee-drinking chauffeurs got up and cranked our motor, with some joke about a pretty woman's need of a strong arm. I stepped inside and we started, Chu-Chu being by that time near the end of the street.
My titled chauffeuse certainly knew her work. As soon as Chu-Chu was around the corner she darted ahead, lagging back when he came in sight again. As it was very hot and the hour for déjeuner, there was but little traffic, but unless they led us a chase of some length I did not think that they would suspect they were being followed. It is nothing unusual for two taxicabs to be running the same course at about the same speed; in fact, many chauffeurs drop into the habit of gauging speed by the chap ahead, as this simplifies traffic and tends to an evenly moving procession.
We spun out through the Chaussée de la Muette and into the Bois, past the Auteuil racecourse and, striking the boulevard that leads to the Boulogne gate, followed it straight out. Here Rosalie let Chu-Chu get so far ahead that I was worried.
"Don't lose him," said I through the tube; for the Countess' cab was fitted out with all the modern conveniences, even to flowers and cigar holder and a little red electric light. Chic was the word for it, inside and out.
"I want to give him time to pass the octroi," she answered, brisk as a robin redbreast.
"All right," I answered, "you know best."
But Chu-Chu, instead of going through the Boulogne gate, held on around past the Longchamps racecourse, and at such a clip that Rosalie got anxious and turned on all the power she had. As we passed the Porte de Boulogne I saw an agent raise his whistle to his lips and thought it was all up with us, but Rosalie blew him a kiss and he lowered it with a sheepish grin and a warning shake of his head. Although I did not know it at the time, Rosalie was quite a well-known figure, and had even been interviewed for several of the papers. Being in automobile circles myself, I should have known all about her, but did not, simply on account of the pressure of my own affairs.
But I was learning about her fast enough now. Under the impression that Chu-Chu was going right around Longchamps she closed in, and when he suddenly darted off to the left and pulled up at the St. Cloud gate we were only about a hundred metres behind him. It was a big surprise for Rosalie, but she wasn't feazed a particle. If she had kept on around we might have lost him, and if we had slowed down and waited for him to declare his essence it might have attracted attention, so up comes Rosaline full bore, brakes down at the gate, coming to a stop just behind Chu-Chu, and hops out to get her ticket.
As for me I had put on my tinted goggles and and whipped out a little breviary, and was reading away with my head ducked a trifle. Under the rim of the flat hat I watched Chu-Chu as he made his declaration, took his ticket, and stepped back to his car. He shot a quick glance at Rosalie, half-curious and half-amused, at which she shoved out her little chin and passed him with a pout. The octroi men tried to give her a little guff, and I was frightened for a minute as Chu-Chu was going off at a good clip; but Rosaline snatched her ticket out of the official's hand and came back laughing. She had left the motor running, of course, and the next second we were off along the bank of the Seine after Chu-Chu.
"Your Léontine is a beauty," said Rosalie through the tube. "I don't wonder you're jealous. But that chauffeur has the eyes of a wolf. He looks as if he might be Chu-Chu le Tondeur."
"What do you know about Chu-Chu le Tondeur?" I asked.
"Oh, everybody knows about him. For myself I doubt that there is such a person. Every time there is a murder and robbery people say 'Chu-Chu le Tondeur.'"
I wondered what she would think if she knew that the gentleman with the wolfish eyes was actually none other than the celebrated criminal whose performances had sent shivers down the spine of many a respectable bourgeois or lonely chatelaine in her gloomy country house hidden in the trees. It might also startle her, I thought, if she were to discover that the studious preacher in her cab was, even as Chu-Chu walked from the octroi station to his motor, wondering if it might not be possible to hit him with a shot from an automatic pistol and escape in the confusion that would follow.
For precisely this idea had gone through my head. Nowadays when one hears a sharp report the first thing that crosses the mind is the thought that it is a burst tire or a back fire from a motor. As Chu-Chu walked past the window of Rosalie's taxi I was almost on the point of shooting, then jumping out, picking him up and, while the octroi officials were tearing about and the crowd was gathering, slipping off into the bushes and shedding my round hat, goggles and soutane. Underneath I wore a tweed knickerbocker suit and russet shoes, and I had in my pocket a tweed tourist's cap to match the suit, and a Paris Baedeker. It would have taken me just about two seconds to have made the change from a wandering Alsatian French prédicateur to the most harmless of British tourists.
Then why didn't I? It is rather hard to say. I had nothing to fear from Léontine or from Chu-Chu's man. Léontine would have guessed in a flash what had happened, and probably would have helped me if the opportunity offered. Chu-Chu's pal would have been principally interested in doing his own get-away before it was discovered that Chu-Chu's face was skilfully made up. I had noticed when he passed that his nose got its aristocratic bridge from shadow-lines carefully laid on; and his eyes, really light, were made to look dark by the blackening of the lower lashes and perhaps a little atropin. His moustache was faked by the glueing in of white hairs among the black ones already there.
I think that I could have pulled the job off all right. Honestly, my chief reason for not taking the chance was the Countess Rosalie—I didn't want to mix her up in it. She had been a little trump, and the French police are always ready to grab a scapegoat. There's a bit of the Chinese theory about French criminal procedure. Somebody ought to suffer, if only to preserve the reputation of the police. Punish the guilty by preference, but punish somebody. As a matter of fact, the guilty party, or supposedly guilty party, usually gets off in the end unless he's a fairly honest sort of cove; but there's a lot of trouble about it all the same, and I didn't want to chuck it on my bright-eyed Rosalie. I was getting rather keen about Rosalie.
Anyway, Chu-Chu walked past me unhurt, and maybe he felt that there was a heap of trouble in the atmosphere, for his little smile showed the white of two fangs that might be useful to a collie, and his eyes were dancing. He may have looked at me; I don't know, because when he got close my own eyes were frozen on an Ave Maria. One spark would have blown up the magazine, and I wasn't taking any more chances than were strictly necessary. Something told me that from the moment that Chu-Chu's eyes and mine actually met any disguise under heaven would be about as effective as a tulle gown in front of an X-ray machine.
Off we went again, Chu-Chu well in the lead and a car or two between us. He was across the bridge at St. Cloud before we had reached it, but we caught a glimpse of him as he swung round the corner to start up the hill on the road to Versailles. At the first turn, which, as you remember, is mighty sudden, and with a good nine per cent. grade, we caught up to him, which we certainly should not have done if he hadn't purposely slowed. The man with Léontine was looking back, and as he sighted Rosalie he said something to Chu-Chu, who went from his first to his second speed.
It was plain enough that they were a bit suspicious, although the chances were about ten to one that any car coming out of that gate of the Bois would stick to the Versailles road. Nevertheless, at the top of the hill Chu-Chu still kept on his second speed, and Rosalie was obliged to take her choice of passing him or appearing to slow down purposely. Being a quick-witted girl she did the former, and skipped past in a sort of triumphant way, as if pleased at having overtaken him.
Apparently Chu-Chu was satisfied and came to the conclusion that there was no harm in us, for when Rosalie purposely slowed down on the incline farther along he swept past without so much as a glance.
All of this time I had been trying to study out their game, but without any success. The relations between Chu-Chu and Léontine had always been strictly professional, with Ivan as intermediary. That is to say, when Chu-Chu managed to collar stones or pearls he turned them over, or was supposed to turn them over, to Ivan, who gave them to Léontine to dispose of. Why Chu-Chu should be lugging her off into the country I couldn't imagine, unless there was some game going that had nothing to do with me.
Chu-Chu's taxi was of precisely the same make and model as Rosali's, the sort most in use in Paris. But from the way he passed us I could see that he was getting a good deal more out of his motor than we were—and this was not surprising when you come to remember that Chu-Chu was a star driver, with a beautiful sense for any sort of machinery, whereas Rosalie was more or less of a novice. Besides, her carburetter was working irregularly, and she was always too impatient about going into the speed ahead. I was afraid that as soon as we struck the fast part of the road beyond St. Cloud Chu-Chu might dig out and leave us wondering. There was also the chance of his be coming suspicious of us if at the end of several kilometres he found us still on his trail. Rosalie's taxi looked like any other taxi, but Rosalie herself did not look like any other taxi driver, and what had been at first an advantage—for Chu-Chu would never suspect me of picking out the most conspicuous driver in Paris to hound him—might easily spoil the whole business.
So I picked up the speaking tube. We were working up the last easy part of the grade.
"Madame Rosalie," I said.
"Eh, well?" she answered.
"I'm afraid he smells a rat. He is going to try to leave us once we get past the railroad crossing."
"Don't be afraid," she answered tartly. "There isn't a taxi in Paris that can make this one feel lonely. Besides, he is carrying one more person."
"But how about your carburetter?"
"Don't bother about the carburetter. It's all right."
"Thank you," said I, and hung up the tube.
Evidently the Countess Rosalie was touchy about her car. Or perhaps she felt that some slight compliment was due her, rather than impending doubts. As if she wanted to show what she could do when she really tried she brushed the arm of a bicyclist with her mudguard, then swept past a stone-cart on the wrong side of the road, and got a stream of bad talk from the carter, to say nothing of a narrow escape from knocking the head off the leader, which swung to the right from instinct at the sound of the motor.
It was a wasted effort of hers though, for Chu-Chu fooled us again. Instead of turning sharply to the left at the crossroads he held straight on, slowing a bit to let the stream of cars go past. The result was that we drew up right behind him, and he looked back and saw us. After we had followed him across the big road from Suresnes to Versailles he looked back again, then slowed down.
"Keep right on," said I sharply to Rosalie.
"I am not a fool!" she answered, and gave her speed-lever a vicious little jerk. I could feel the three pairs of eyes on us as we passed. It was a pretty serious moment, and we were in danger of spoiling everything, for we had taken a big, unnecessary détour from Paris to go to any point where that road would take us. There was only one thing to do, and I did it. Leaning out of the window, I called to Rosalie to stop. She cut off the gas and braked viciously.
"Pretend to be arguing about the route," I said quickly.
Rosalie caught my drift and began to gesticulate; I did the same. Chu-Chu was coming up slowly behind.
"Turn round and start back," said I, and jerked my head back into the cab. Rosalie stuck out a gauntleted arm, then hauled to the side of the road. Chu-Chu swept past in a cloud of dust. He turned a corner and disappeared.
"What now?" asked Rosalie, turning round.
"Wait a minute," I answered; "he suspects. We've got to change places."
I slipped off the soutane and round black hat and stepped out into the road in my knickers. Rosalie stared at me with her lips like a big red "O."
"Quick, madame," said I; "you must let me drive."
"But why?" she gasped.
"Don't ask questions; I am a chief of the secret service. Do you know who that chauffeur is? You said his name not long ago."
"Not Chu-Chu?"
"Perfectly. Jump inside and let me run the car. Don't be afraid. I shall not hurt your motor."
Rosalie obeyed without a word. I stepped up and took the wheel, and we were off.
Just as I had feared, once given a little start on a fairly good road, Chu-Chu was hard to catch. The dust hanging in the air showed that he was not far ahead, and I might have overhauled him if it hadn't been for our carburetter, which kept on flooding when I cut off the gas on curves and down grades, so that when we started to climb the mixture was too rich and we were smothered. The only way to keep any speed was to throw out the clutch and let the motor spin going down hill, and this practice is not the best in the world for the motor. Presently I heard from Rosalie on the subject.
"You'll soon heat up if you keep on doing that," said she through the tube, "Reach down and cut off the essence from the reservoir when you go down hill."
That was sound doctrine, and I acted on it, though from this point on the road mounts pretty steadily until you get to Rocquencourt. As we passed the old soldiers home I noticed that it was about five minutes to one. Rather to my surprise we found more motors on this road than before we had reached the crossroads. Three handsome cars had passed us, and presently a fourth—a big, heavy limousine—went lumbering by.
"That was Orelovna, the Russian dancer," said Rosalie's voice in the tube at my ear. "The man with her was the Grand Duke Alexander. Those people in the torpilleur that passed a moment ago were of the Comédie Française—at least I recognised Martet, and I think the man driving was Parodi."
That was all I needed to know. The whole mystery was cleared up in a flash. Just before you get to Rocquencourt, as you may remember, the road passes between two big estates surrounded by heavy walls that inclose park, chasse and farms. One of these, I remembered, had been rented by a retired millionaire banker of Frankfort, a Baron von Hertzfeld, who was a prominent figure in the theatre and café life of Paris, and who was probably giving a big déjeuner.
Léontine was no doubt on her way to this function, and very possibly Chu-Chu's associate was also an invited guest. Chu-Chu, in his character of Monsieur de Maxeville, had very likely received an invitation, as I had several times seen him with Von Hertzfeld and his little group of intimates, for outside of Ivan's mob Baron Rosenthal and I were the only ones who knew that Monsieur de Maxeville was other than a clubman of sufficient fortune, an excellent companion and a devotee of outdoor sports.
But Chu-Chu, knowing that I might even at that moment be hot on his trail, had not cared to run the risk of sticking his head above the surface. On the other hand, he must have some definite reason for wishing to be on the Hertzfeld premises during the luncheon party. Either there was some work in hand another string of pearls perhaps, for some of the women guests would be sure to be decked out in wonders—or else he might want to have a look at the house and its surroundings. He would be kept waiting until Léontine's return, and as a brave garçon of a taxi driver it is not probable that in an establishment as lavish as Hertzfeld's he would be neglected by the butler's department. Hertzfeld was a man who handed out hundred-franc notes as a tip for opening the door of his limousine.
There was no room for any doubt. Léontine was bound for Baron von Hertzfeld's, and the taxi would, of course, wait inside, so there seemed nothing for me to do but hang around outside until the party was over, which would probably be late in the afternoon. It was to be an elaborate affair, as two more big cars swept past us, also a couple of taxis.
Sure enough, when we reached the estate the big iron gates were wide open, and a footman was stationed on either side to salute the guests as they entered. I held straight on and pulled up in the shade around the first bend. Here I stopped the motor and, getting down, opened the door.
"Eh, well?" asked Rosalie a little sharply. I don't think she cared much for being a passenger in her own taxicab.
I jerked my head toward the corner of the big wall. "That's where they are," I answered, "at Baron von Hertzfeld's luncheon party."
"Oh! So that is his estate? I had heard that he lived out this way. What do you want to do now?"
"I want to keep them in view," I answered, "especially Chu-Chu. But I don't exactly see how I'm to do it. If we wait in front of the gates we shall be too conspicuous, and if we wait here we shall not be able to see them come out."
Rosalie threw me a peculiar look. She gave her pretty shoulders the slightest shrug.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"That's what I am asking myself," said she with a little smile. "To tell the truth, there are some things about this affair that strike me as funny. First you say you are jealous of la belle Léontine; then you say that the affair is all over and done with and that you are pushed along by a desire for revenge. That is easy to understand. It is not difficult to believe, also, that you have become a missionary and a prédicateur on her account. Then, while we are following her you step suddenly out of my taxi as a comme iI faut English milord, telling me that you are an officer of the secret service and that the driver of the taxi we are following is Chu-Chu le Tondeur. That is startling to hear, but possible to believe. But now what I do not understand is, if you are an officer of the secret service and the driver of that taxi is Chu-Chu, why don't you go in and arrest him? If you do not care to attempt it alone there is a station of the gendarmerie nationale not very far away."
"Madame Rosalie," I answered, "there is but one way to arrest Chu-Chu, and that way requires but one person and no assistants. Such a person as our friend Chu-Chu should be shot first and arrested afterward. But this is something that one dislikes to undertake in a crowd."
She gave me that peculiar look that had already puzzled me.
"And is it for that that you are following him?" she asked.
"I wish to take him single-handed," I answered. "Of course, if he resists" I shrugged. "But," I added, "I want to do it as quietly as possible. It is a very bad thing for everybody when the taking of a notorious criminal is attended with a lot of noise."
"And makes it necessary to divide the credit of his capture," said Rosalie, giving me one of her intelligent looks. "You would like to arrest him without any help from outside, but are not quite sure that you could manage it. Well, then"—she turned away and began to unfasten the hood of the motor—"while you are trying to make up your mind let us see if we can't do something to correct the trouble in the carburetter."
I stepped over to lend a hand, for there was no hurry, and I liked being with Rosalie. It wasn't hard to guess at what she thought. She had me sized up as a jealous lover of Léontine's. She thought that I had been giving her a lot of guff, and was really a theatrical sort of fool who had put on a priest's hat and a soutane over my outing clothes, and had sat down in the café opposite Léontine's house to watch for whatever might happen.
But what did puzzle her, as I could see from her attitude toward me, was to determine whether I was a gentleman or merely some cheap imitation. You see, though the blood in me is about as good as you'll find, even if it never paid duty, my early education was a queer one; and though I can act the part of swell, and often have, to the point of making it mighty expensive for a critical audience, it's usually a part that I'm playing. Then my speech puzzled Rosalie, for I can talk the most affected society Parisian or the toughest La Villette argot and never change my gait. Tante Fi-Fi started me with pure French, and I'd perfected it later working society graft, and Tante Fi-Fi had been a swell in her day; the second was a sort of post-graduate course in the University of Cayenne, to which I earned a scholarship from the French Government by getting nabbed while trying to lift Kharkov's wad at Auteuil a couple of years before.
So it wasn't surprising that Rosalie had some trouble to place me, or that she began to get a little suspicious and resentful about the way I had commandeered her motor and herself. She seemed a little sulky as we leaned together over the carburetter, but it wasn't in her nature to wear a grouch for long, and when I had located the trouble in the feed-pipe and got it cleaned out and flowing properly again her smile had come back, and we seemed to be getting to be friends again.
There was no hurry about anything for the present, as Léontine would be at Hertzfeld's for the next three hours or so, and I was pretty sure that Chu-Chu would wait to take her home. Besides, a plan was buzzing round in my head, and I wanted to study it out a bit. This was a scheme for coming to grips with Chu-Chu by letting him spot me and do the stalking himself. It was a scheme that I felt pretty sure would work, and was rather like hunting a tiger by ramming round through the ungle at night, pretending to be a sheep or a kid.
But to work it right I needed Rosalie's help, and although I could not see how she would be in any danger herself, I wanted her to know and believe just what I was up against. So as soon as we had finished with the carburetter I said:
"Madame, I am afraid that you don't believe what I have told you about this affair. Some of the things I have said were true and some were not. I have now formed a plan, but before going ahead with it I wish to tell you more about the situation, and I will ask you to believe me, as I shall tell you nothing but the truth. After hearing it, if you would prefer not to be mixed up in the business you have only to say so, when I will pay you for your services up to this point, and you may return to Paris."
Rosalie gave me one of her bright, searching looks.
"Monsieur is fond of romance," said she. "Well, then, so am I. Tell me the story, if you please. Are you D'Artagnan, and is La Petrovski Milady? And if I help you what is to be my reward?"
She seated herself on the cool, shaded bank, clasped her hands in front f her knees, and looked up at me with a mocking little smile. I flung myself down beside her, for the day was hot and the grass sweet and cool.
"In the first place," said I, "let me tell you that the man who drove La Petrovski's taxi is certainly Chu-Chu le Tondeur. Of that there can be no doubt."
Rosalie raised her eyebrows. She looked incredulous yet startled.
"I cannot tell you how I happen to know him," I went on, "but I have every reason to think that Chu-Chu has sworn to take my life. It is, in fact, on that account that he is in disguise, for I will tell you another thing that many people suspect but few know for a certainty. This clever thief and murderer called Chu-Chu le Tondeur is actually a man very well known and well received in Paris society. If I were to tell you his name you would probably know at once who he is."
Rosalie's red lips parted and her breath came faster.
"Some time ago," I continued, "I discovered Chu-Chu's identity. We have also quarrelled, and there is not the slightest doubt in my mind that he has put aside all other interests to try to find and murder me. It is on this account that I shaved my head, put on goggles and a soutane, and took to watching Léontine's house from the Bon Cocher. In his life of man-about-town Chu-Chu knew that I had been attentive to La Petrovski, and has probably been hanging about there with his taxicab either in the hope of my taking him for a course or perhaps merely to locate me. You see, as soon as I learned of my danger I gave it out that I had left the country, then disguised myself and set out to watch Chu-Chu."
Rosalie's pretty face was pale with excitement, and her eyes sparkled.
"You are really serious?" she cried, pleadingly.
"I wish that I were not."
"And are you yourself of the police?"
"No; I told you that when I slipped off my preacher's rig so that you would not make any difficulty about going on. I am a private citizen and in the motor business. All that I ask is to be left in peace, but Chu-Chu will not do that, for two reasons. In the first place, he hates me for having spoiled a good job of his; in the second, he considers my assassination necessary to his own safety."
"But if this is so, and you can identify him as Chu-Chu le Tondeur, why do you not go to the police and have him taken?"
"Because," I answered slowly, "Chu-Chu is the leading light of a very powerful criminal organisation. To denounce Chu-Chu would be to involve others, and in that case I probably should not live long enough to drink a petit verre. But Chu-Chu himself is not in very good favour with the gang, and nobody would hold it against me if I were to settle my affair with him quietly."
"You wish?" gasped Rosalie.
"I wish to protect myself."
She glanced at my face, then drew back a little, pale and her breath coming quickly. But the fascinated look I had observed in the café was there again.
"What do you want to do?" she asked almost in a whisper; and her hazel eyes never left my face. "And what do you want me to do?" She moistened her lips with her tongue.
"My plan is this: In about an hour, or, say, an hour and a half, I want you to drive me, dressed as I am now, into the Hertzfeld place. I will tell the maître d'hôtel that I am a journalist, a correspondent of some English paper, and ask to be favoured with a list of the guests, the menu, and, if possible, a few words with the Baron. This ought not to be difficult, as he is nouveau riche and his title a recently purchased one, and he likes notoriety. While in there I will contrive to let Chu-Chu get a glimpse of me. He will recognise me at once, but I shall pretend not to have seen him. Chu-Chu will think that I have come in the hope of a word with Leontine, whose house I might be afraid to visit. Then, unless I am very much mistaken, when we leave Chu-Chu will follow us."
"To learn where you live?"
"Yes, and possibly even to make an attack on the road. That is what we must avoid."
"Mon Dieu! But how?"
"We must not let him catch us until we reach the forest of Marly. It begins less than a kilometre from here. We shall have a sufficient start to keep ahead for that distance. Once in the wood I shall jump out and walk into the trees. If Chu-Chu follows me we will settle our difficulties then and there."
Poor Rosalie looked scared to death. I waited for a minute, expecting to hear her say that she wanted nothing to do with the whole business. Instead of that, after a minute of reflection:
"Do you think that he will believe that I know?" she asked.
"If I thought that for a single second," said I, quickly, "I should walk into that place and shoot him off the seat of his taxi before I would permit you to have any hand in it. No; Chu-Chu will believe that I chose you either by chance or because I should naturally expect him to think that the last person I would choose should be the most easily traced taxi in Paris. He would never for a second dream that I had taken you into my confidence. Besides, he would never believe that if you knew what was going on you would dare tackle it."
She dropped her hands at her sides, straightened out her pretty limbs, and took a deep breath. I looked at her admiringly, for it was plain that she was frightened and was making a plucky fight to get the upper hand of her scare. Lithe as a cat, she twisted over presently on one hip, dropped her chin on her knuckles, her elbow on the sward, and began to pluck at the grass. Neither of us said anything. Her long reflection made me begin to believe that she was wondering, perhaps, what there was going to be in it for her in mixing up with such an ugly business. That idea was in my own mind, and I had decided to offer her a thousand francs for the afternoon's work and four thousand more to be paid later if the business turned out all right for me. I really did not see how Rosalie ran any risk, especially as I should be taking good care not to let Chu-Chu haul up very close to us. And, any way, she was free to turn the proposition down if she chose.
Rosalie rolled back, put a stem of grass between her lips, and turned to me with the colour in her cheeks again. I expected to hear her ask: "What do I get?" or words to that effect. Instead she asked:
"You are well armed?"
I grinned, and nodded. A few minutes before she had been advising me rather sarcastically to get a troop or two of the gendarmerie nationale to help me out; now she was worrying about my armament.
"Don't you bother about me," I answered. "Think about yourself a little. After all, you aren't in the motor business for your health."
We were speaking in French, of course. I had no earthly reason for suspecting Rosalie of knowing any other language, as, for all her title, she had nothing of the grande dame about her, and might have been a farmer's daughter or run a decent little restaurant, so far as distinction went. But when I said, "You're not in the motor business for your health," I translated the American slang literally. Now, as a matter of fact, most slang translates literally from one language to another, and it has often surprised me when I've been in the States to hear some local mug that had never got farther from his alley than the first full gutter, spouting what was considered the very latest hot talk, and what I've recognised straight off as good old moth-eaten, fly-bitten Montmartre or La Villette. If some person with a lot of time on his hands wanted to take the trouble he could dig up an old English or old German or old French gag for the bulk of American slang. I can only think of a few this minute. For instance, "to have a good front," avoir du front; "chippy," chiple; the word French crooks have for prison, couloir—corridor and, in American, "the cooler"; or to get right down to recent American slang, not over five years old, "gink." The apache French for that, and old as the hills, too, is ging, and comes from the word ginguet, which means a soft, easy mark. So, mind you, what I said to Rosalie about not running a taxi for her health might have been said in French slang in exactly the same way. Maybe my way of putting it was the American one, for she stared at me for a second, then answered in perfectly good American: "Not on your life!"
I felt like a fool. Some years before I'd worked Kansas City until I thought that the ground needed to lie fallow for a while, and I was on to the accent. I'd been a "distinguished foreign guest," and the leading citizens trimmed me at poker while I was making myself popular and finding out where they kept it. When I was all fed up with the place I worked a couple of banks, then ran over to Monte to give it away to the Prince of Monaco, for you mustn't forget that the greatest rest for the grafter is to become a happy, idle sucker for a while. That is the reason why so many American millionaires go to Europe for their vacations.
So when Rosalie came back at me with that "Not on your life!" and no mistake about the "your-r-r-r," I was about as startled as if Chu-Chu had stuck his head over the wall behind us—which belonged, I believe, to Prince Marat. No French woman could have got that accent, any more than an American woman could ever hope to pronounce the simple French word for "king."
Rosalie threw back her head and laughed. She was mighty inviting to look at when she laughed, and I got an impression of soft throat, moist red mouth, and her tantalising eyes looking down half-closed over her cheeks. I must have looked like a fool, because she laughed harder than ever; in fact, she laughed too hard for just ordinary amusement.
Suddenly she straightened up and wiped her eyes. She had laughed so hard that she had slipped down the bank, and her short skirt was drawn up over her knees, and this and the dimpled face made her look like a little girl hot and flushed after some frolic.
"Well," said I, as she straightened her skirt and pushed back her hair, "that's one on me all right. I've taken the elementary courses in human nature and knocked around the world a bit, but I'll be hanged if I could ever have spotted you for an American!"
"Wichita," said she.
"The rest wasn't hard to guess," I answered; "but how did you manage to spot me for an American?"
"I had my doubts from the first," she answered. "Your telling me that you were Alsatian put me off; then I thought you were English. I knew you weren't French French."
"What gave you the clue finally?" I asked.
"Your business methods."
"My what?"
Your scheme for drawing Chu-Chu off into the forest of Marly and having it out with your guns—or knives, or whatever comes handy. That doesn't match up with the local colour. What's your State? Arizona?"
"I've been there," I answered; "but never mind about me. I wish you'd tell me how it happens that a Wichita girl should be driving a Paris taxicab and speaking French like a Parisienne de Paris. Then you are titled, too."
Rosalie gave a little mock sigh. "Such is fame," says she. "Now, if you ever read the Matin and the Kansas City Star you'd know all about me. Not that there's such an awful lot to know. My father was Mr. Michael O'Rourke, and he emigrated from Ireland to Chicago, where he started in business driving a cab. You see, it's a sort of inherited gift. Pretty soon he owned most of the cabs, and then he owned a street-car line and a good bit of the city, and a lot of the people in it. But he stayed Mike O'Rourke, and when he married my mother there was an awful row from all the old snobs. Mother was proud, and asked odds of nobody, but a few years later they went to Wichita, where I was born. Mother never forgave the people who turned her down for marrying beneath her, so as soon as I was old enough she sent me to a French convent, saying that she wasn't going to have me grow up a snob. The last year that I was in the convent mother and father were both killed in a railway collision"—Rosalie blinked a few times—"and I went home and found myself a mighty lonesome heiress. Then my mother's sister came over for the winter and brought me with her, and while we were away her husband took such good care of my estate that in a few months there was nothing left of it but enough to give me a fairly decent dot. To compensate for what her husband had done my aunt made what she considered a very good match for me with the Comte de Brignolles. Of course, being convent-bred, it never occurred to me to object, so we were married, and started off on our honeymoon, and—and"—Rosalie's face got crimson—"and five minutes after we had left my aunt's I found that I loathed him, so I stopped the motor and got out and jumped into a taxi, and went straight to where the Mother Superior lived; for the convent had been closed by this beautiful Government, and the nuns driven away. I stopped with Sœur Anne Marie, and my aunt was furious, and wouldn't see me, and the Comte got a separation and my dot. A year ago he died, and his lawyers kindly gave me back what he hadn't gambled away—about fifteen thousand francs. It wasn't enough to go on long, and about that time the Prefecture decided to issue permits for women taxi drivers, so I bought my little car and, went to work. You see, I'd learned to drive after leaving the convent, and I liked it, and I must say I haven't done so badly." She looked at me and smiled.
"You're a wonder," said I. "Now let me tell you something. I'm going to square up with you for our promenade, and then I want you to get into that little taxi of yours and spin back to Sœur Anne Marie as fast as God will let you. You still live with her, I hope?"
Rosalie shoved out her little chin. "That is none of your affair," says she.
"I beg your pardon," I answered. "I said it out of pure friendly interest. You see, a girl in your position is like a pheasant in the hunting season, and I'd like to feel that you had a high fence that you could fly over and be unmolested if you had need."
Her face softened. "Well, then," says she, "I don't mind telling you that I have taken a little apartment for Sœur Anne Marie and myself, and I go straight there as soon as ever my work is over. I'm my own mistress and can do as I please, but sometimes it's hard to finish up and go home. You can wait for an hour or so on a stand, then get a little twenty-sou fare and start home, and the chances are that if you're very tired and your lamps need filling, and you're not quite sure about one of your envelopes, and the bougie is full of burned oil, and a little grease has got into the clutch and is making it slip, and Sœur Anne Marie is waiting for you to come in and make the omelette, that is just the time that you'll be hailed by three or four American college boys who want to run out to Versailles or Fontainebleau for dinner. And you can't refuse."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because, for one thing, I can't afford to. Besides, they make me homesick. I always have a fight to keep them from digging into their jeans and giving me all the money they've got. Of course, I never let them guess that I'm American, too. Only last week a youngster sat beside me coming in from Chantilly. He offered me a hundred francs for a good-night kiss. I told him that he could have the kiss for nothing if he'd promise to go straight home and go to bed. What do you think he did?"
"I don't like to say," I answered; and maybe my voice was a bit nasty, for somehow or other I wasn't very keen at the thought of this nice little girl being mauled and jollied by a batch of cub collegians.
Rosalie pushed out her lips and chin. "You needn't be afraid," she said. "He thanked me very nicely, and when we got to the Champs Elysées he said: 'I'll claim my forfeit now. Stop at the Carlton.' I was awfully upset, because, you see, he'd called my bluff, and I didn't like to cheapen myself before the concierges and chauffeurs. But I had to make good, so I turned in under the marquise to let him out. Instead of trying to kiss me he got down, walked round to my side—and kissed my hand, or my glove. Then he went in and went to bed."
"And the next day?" I asked.
Rosalie's colour was like a big crimson dahlia.
"He had less sense when he was sober than when he was drunk," she answered, and laughed; "but he's safely on the way to his fiancée in Newport now, so it's all right. He'll always think of the little French chauffeuse who gave him such good advice, and asked no more than what was indicated on the clock, as those boys called it."
Rosalie stopped talking and looked thoughtful. I was a bit thoughtful myself.
"Well," said I, "suppose you look at the clock and tell me what time it is in louis. It's time that you were getting back to Sœur Anne Marie—and that I was getting on the job."
Rosalie looked at me with her queer little smile.
"You engaged me for the afternoon," said she. "I'm no quitter, as they say in Wichita."
"That's plain enough," I answered, "but I am. How much do I owe you?"
"A little straight talk," she answered.
"You're right there," I answered, "and you shall have it." Perhaps it was the strain of the last week or two, or perhaps it was the knowledge that things were coming to a focus. Maybe Rosalie had something to do with it. Anyway, said I:
"What if I were to tell you that you were talking to a crook?"
Rosalie gave me a steady look.
"I wouldn't believe you," she answered. "But if you were to tell me that I was talking to a man that was settling off old scores"—she smiled—"I think I'm on," says she, "and I stand pat."