CHAPTER III
THE FIRST ROUND
There was no use in trying to send Rosalie back to Paris. She wouldn't go. The girl was no fool; and, totting up what she'd seen and what I'd told her, and making a good fore-and-aft guess at the rest, she came pretty near piping down the situation.
"As I dope it out," says she, sitting there on the edge of the bank with her round knees cuddled under her clasped hands, "there's a feud between you and this Chu-Chu person—and it's coming to a head. Now let me tell you something; there's been only one time in my life when I've started something that I couldn't finish, and that was my marriage to De Brignolles. I don't know whether you're what they call a 'grafter' over there at home, or whether you're a sort of Arsene Lupin or Sherlock Holmes, or what you are. At first I thought you were a jealous lover; then I thought you were a secret service man; then I thought you were a liar." Rosalie looked at me sort of doubtfully.
"What do you think I am now? I asked.
She smiled a little and shook her head.
"I don't know," she answered, "and I don't care very much; but you're an American, and you're up against something that is very difficult, and I'm not going to scud off and save myself."
Let me tell you, my friend, I wanted to reach over and gather the girl in and kiss her. She was a little brick. Here she was, a girl who had spent two-thirds of her life in France and had her ups and downs in both countries, yet had never been smirched you had only to look at her to see that and had kept ideals.
"Look here, Rosalie," said I, "you're the best little girl in all the world, and I feel that I'm going to be a better man for having known that there really are some like you. I've only been up against one in my life, and she thinks I'm all wrong—and I don't blame her. Now it ain't included in my route-card to bring trouble to the only two really unselfish women that I ever met; so you and I are due to part immediatement. You said a minute or two ago, 'That's all you get for being famous'; so there's no kick coming if you don't recognise me when I tell you one or two of my old business names. Until a month or so ago, when I went on the level for my own good reasons, I was about as slick a thief as ever tried to collect what he thought the world owed him. The police in New York and Chicago, and London and Frankfort—and even 'way off there in St. Louis, where they love a thief until he's pinched almost as much as they do here in Paris—would feel real broken up if they knew I'd chucked graft. Maybe you never heard of Frank Clamart, alias the 'Tide-water Clam,' alias 'The Swell,' alias 'Sir Frankie,' and a few others?"
Rosalie looked embarrassed.
"No," says she. "I never had a chance to see the papers in the convent." She looked at me and laughed outright. "That squares us, doesn't it? So it was an old score, just as I thought."
"No," I answered, "it's not an old score. It's a brand-new one. It all happened after I'd chucked graft and passed my word to—to"
"Léontine?"
"Faugh!" said I.
"I beg your pardon," says Rosalie, and the smile had clean gone out of her face.
"Look here, little girl," said I, quick as a flash; "don't think for a second that I'm pretending to be in love again. I'm not. The woman I passed my word to is the wife of my half-brother, and she's not like the rest of us down here."
"Hush!" says Rosalie. "You needn't shout. I understand. Sœur Anne Marie is that kind. Just knowing them makes the rest of us who have naughty thoughts and too many feelings and a certain amount of honesty feel that, after all, it's worth while to kick along. Don't you think so?"
"Yes," I answered. "You're on, my dear. And now, after what I have told you, I fancy you won't mind climbing up on that seat and twisting your little waggon back to Paris. If you start right now you'll just about get to the Champs Elysées in time to take some of the boys to a different bar. Will a hundred francs cover our account?"
I spoke roughly on purpose, because I wanted her to flare up and clear. Here was a nice little woman, and an American at that, who had had troubles enough of her own; so I spoke to her as if what I said could have only one possible answer.
Instead of acting up as I had counted, however, she gave me a quiet little smile and answered:
"Do I strike you as the sort to file away and leave a fellow American in a bad corner? Not much! You've engaged me for the whole afternoon, and it's not yet two o clock. What you are after, as I dope it out, is to draw the fire of this Chu-Chu person. You want to make sure that he means business, and you think that, if he does, the sooner you liquidate the better. Well, the forest of Marly is just the place for two people with your trouble. And"—she glanced at me and a sort of warmth came into her eyes—"I'm not worrying myself to death over the result. You look as if you could manage to take care of yourself."
I shook my head.
"It won't do, Rosalie," I answered. "If Chu-Chu should happen to know that you were an American he would suspect you of working with me or trying to help. He's as revengeful as a Pathan, and there's no telling what he might do to you afterward. Besides, he's seen you once to-day, and if he were to catch sight of you again he might get suspicious. I'll manage some other way. I've got a little scheme. It may not work, but there's no great harm in trying it. If you're interested to know how it pans out drop into the Bon Cocher at about noon to-morrow."
She saw that I meant it, so she gave in; and I thanked her and squared up. Rosalie would let me pay her only the regular amount and the regular tip for an out-of-town course. Then we shook hands and she stepped up to her seat when I cranked the motor; and she moved slowly off in the direction of Paris. I had made a bundle of my prédicateur costume and carried it under my arm.
So back down the road I went and in through the big gates, which had been left open—though, the guests having all arrived, the footmen had gone up to the house. The place was a very handsome one, with a big park and straight alleys cut through the trees, with grottoes and fountains and statues—all very stately and well kept. Beyond the house one caught a glimpse of a jardin d'agrément, with a bank of crimson dahlias all in bloom and a sort of temple d'amour at the far end.
As I drew near the house I discovered that the stables were off to the left, and some distance in the rear, the waiting motors, both private cars and taxis, being parked out on the shady terrace. Some of the servants had brought out a couple of tables, and the chauffeurs were partaking of the refreshment offered. There was a good deal of tobacco smoke and the distant murmur of talk and laughter, but the house itself was silent, as if deserted; and this was explained by a file of waiters going in a double stream, like ants, down one of the paths which led off into the park. Apparently the déjeuner was being served al fresco some distance from the house. I stopped to listen, and heard the faint ripple of women's voices, then a silvery laugh.
Not a soul was in sight about the front of the chateau. Such servants as were not occupied in helping to serve were hobnobbing with the chauffeurs or on duty in the kitchen. Even the dogs were assisting at the banquet, for I could hear intermittent yappings, and once a sharp ki-yi!
At the foot of the big stone steps I paused and looked about for somebody to hail, wishing that I had rung at the gate; but I had never counted on finding the place deserted, and had thought that once inside the better my chance of success would be.
For this was my plan—and you can see, my friend, that if the first was a sporting proposition, this second, which I had fallen back on rather than have Rosalie mixed up in the business, was almost dangerous. I meant to go to the maître d'hôtel and explain to him that I was a reporter, and ask for the names of Monsieur le Baron's guests. A five-franc piece would get me all the information I might seem to need. I would then explain that I had come from Paris in a taxicab, which had broken down on the road within about a kilometre; that I had walked the remainder of the distance. And I would ask him if he thought that one of the waiting taxis might not set me over to Versailles, which was only about three kilometres away. The maître d'hôtel, I fancied, would tell me that I might go and ask them, and this I would do, feeling sure that Chu-Chu would immediately recognise me and volunteer, trusting to his disguise. Once in the cab and on the way, he would probably pick out the first unpeopled part of the road to turn sharply on his seat and shoot into me. And my particular business was to beat him to it.
It was a nice little plan, and there seemed no particular reason why it shouldn't work. Chu-Chu would think I had come out in the hope of getting a word with Léontine, and no doubt find nothing to suspect in the story of my motor having broken down.
So I stood at the bottom of the steps, looking round for a servant; and, seeing no one but the distant waiters carrying dishes, I was about to try the side entrance when my ear was caught by a low sound which had for me a peculiar significance. Nobody but an ex-cracksman would have given it a second's thought. On a lovely summer day, with birdsongs all about, the distant sounds of careless revelry, bursts of laughter, and the occasional squeal of a maid coming from the direction of the stables, and the big, sunny, wide-open country house, its front shaded and silent, but the rear teeming with activity—let me tell you, it seemed the very last place in the world for such a sound as fetched me up all standing!
It was no more than the gentlest purr; and if I had not been standing directly before the open door, so that it came to me amplified through the vaulted corridor within, I never could have heard it. As it was, I recognised it instantly, and knew exactly what was going on.
I took a quick look round. There was nobody in sight for the instant, and I slipped like a cat up the steps and through the front door. There I stopped again to listen. It was cool and silent inside—so still that I could hear the ticking of a clock on the floor above. The noise which had attracted me came also from the floor above; and as I listened it ceased for an instant, then changed in character, becoming more metallic and even more difficult to hear.
There was no need for me to listen, however. Chu-Chu was at work up there. I wondered that he went to the trouble of blow-lamp and drill when in his wonderfully sensitive hands the lock of a country-house safe would have been a mere child's puzzle, to be solved in a couple of minutes at most. I decided that the safe must be a very ancient one, with a heavy, rusty old lock—the meanest sort, by the way, for the cracksman.
It made it all plain enough. Chu-Chu had run out to look the house over with an idea to a future job, but, finding the conditions so favourable, was acting on the bird-in-the-hand principle. Chu-Chu was an avaricious man, and loved his profession, and he couldn't resist the opportunity. I doubted he'd find much in the safe; and no doubt he felt the same way, but thought he might as well gather in what there was. And, mind you, it was only about three weeks earlier that he had stolen the Allerton-Stair jewels on the Calais-Dover boat. Chu-Chu was certainly a greedy hog!
I laid my bundle on a big Renaissance chest in the hall and crossed, as silent as a weasel, to the stairs. I was wearing felt-soled shoes these days, and they made no more noise on the marble than the pads of a wolf. Chu-Chu's merry little mill was turning again as I stole up the stairs, and it stopped just as I reached the first landing.
It was better to stalk him while he worked, so I waited; and as I did so there came a squeal and a giggle from somewhere in the rear of the house and the sound of a ringing slap. Next, a throaty-voiced but panting "Voyons!—ma belle!"—half-reproachful, half-indignant. Another squeal, another slap, followed by the rustle of muslin skirts in swift flight. This time the "Tiens, p'tite!" had a fierce sort of ring to it, and there was the clatter of pursuit. Out of the pantry they burst, through the salon and sallé-a-manger, where something got overturned and came down with a crash. A lap or two round the table, then out into the ante-chamber, and for a second I thought they were coming up the stairs; but no, she dodged him at the foot of the stairs, and I caught a glimpse of them—and a mighty pretty, healthy specimen of an eighteen-year-old poulette she was, and he a trim young chauffeur in maroon livery and gaiters. He chased her into the conservatory, and there I think he caught her, for there was the sound of a scuffle, a stifled squeal or two, and a couple of flower-pots coming down. Then silence, and I reached for my knife.
For it was knifework—this job ahead. No Fourteenth of July, Fall-of-the-Bastile celebration for Chu-Chu and myself. Our work had to be quick and silent; and I wondered what old Hertzfeld would think when he saw a respectable-looking, middle-aged chauffeur lying in a pool of blood in front of his safe—nothing touched—and learned later that the man was none other than the celebrated Chu-Chu, who was commonly thought to be part myth, I think. Chu-Chu had earned the name in his youth, and was trying hard to live it down by sincere and steady work of an unspectacular sort. When he felt the need of murdering somebody he did it quietly and without any limelight, and for some definite purpose—usually a money one. I remember that the night of Léontine's party Chu-Chu spoke pretty bitterly about a play that had appeared at the Grand Guignol under his name.
This sort of obituary notice of Chu-Chu was going through my head while I waited for the scufflers in the conservatory to come to terms and Chu-Chu to start to work again; and pretty soon the house got quiet, and I heard the little purr of the blow-lamp.
Up I went, knife in fist, impatient to be done with the business and out into the bright sunlight, with the perfume of the oleanders and the bird-songs. That was what I wanted—to be out in the bright upperworld again, a free man, with no vampire from the underworld dogging me in and out. Compunction? I had no more of it than the man who blows the head off a crocodile or sneaks out and poisons a wolf. That sort of sentimentality was never my trouble; and, between you and me, there's a lot of nonsense about the sacredness of human life, any way. Send 'em back where they came from, and let 'em start fresh! Next time, maybe, they'll get started on the right thread. As for the fairness or lack of it in stabbing to death an unsuspecting man—well, this wasn't exactly a sporting event, like a prize-fight or a duel. It was just a plain feud.
At the top of the stairs I paused to listen. The blow-lamp had stopped and the drill was at work again, but I didn't hear it, as one of the chauffeurs had started his motor for some reason, and the hum of it filled the place. A couple of seconds later I slipped down the hall and was looking through a crack between the portières and the door—and there was Chu-Chu, squatting on his knees and just in the act of drawing out the drill.
The little room where he was at work was a sort of boudoir, just off the Baron's bedroom probably, and finished in English style—Jacobean, with desk and safe and writing table, and the walls hung with English hunting prints. There was a big armoire, one door half-open, and a goat coat hanging inside, and a couple of golf sticks were lying on a Breton chest. The place seemed a sort of little den—part writing-room, part cosey corner—the sort of place that the man who lives there usually takes more comfort in than all the rest of the big house put together.
Chu-Chu was squatting in front of the safe, which, just as I had thought, was an old-fashioned affair, clumsy and rusty, and, as a matter of fact, a hanged-sight more burglar-proof than lots of your modern contraptions. I once knew of an expert cracksman losing his temper and making such a row getting into an old-fashioned buffet after a drink that it got him pinched. The first glimpse I got of Chu-Chu showed him hot and angry as he pocketed his drill and half turned to listen before going on with the job.
My friend, I don't care what they say, there's certainly such a thing as pure animal instinct that can be developed in a man just as in a dog or wolf, to warn him and put him on his guard when his human senses tell him nothing. Chu-Chu could not possibly have heard me. In the first place, the motor in the rear of the house was buzzing away; and, in the second, I had not made so much noise as a spider walking across his web. He could not see me, as the hall was darkened, and the slit between the portières no wider than the cover of a book. But, all the same, he felt danger and was on his feet like a flash, his legs braced, his head dropped between his shoulders, and a long blade flashed from somewhere and lay in his hand as a man holds a foil.
I waited for a second, feeling that the alarm might pass. Chu-Chu's eyes were on the portières. His hand went out to the oak chest and picked up some thing lying there. I caught the glint of it and whipped out my pistol, and even as I did so Chu-Chu fired point blank straight into the portières.
There was a sharp pain in my shoulder, and the pistol flew out of my hand. I tore aside the portières and leaped into the room. Chu-Chu fired again, but I ducked under his arm, grabbed his wrist and sent the knife home just under it. He squalled like a cat, and struck at me with his knife, putting the blade through my right forearm. Mad with pain, I loosened my hold of the hilt and struck him under the chin with my left fist. It was a solid, short-arm blow, and keeled him over. At the same instant somebody grabbed me from behind. I flung back my head and writhed round like a cat. A footman had me by the shoulders, but I got an arm free and landed him one between the eyes that sent him floundering across a chair. Then I turned and darted out of the door, down the stairs, grabbed up my bundle and dashed into the nearest thicket, a mass of shrubs and flowers, and out into the more open park behind. Back of the house there was a 
THERE WAS A SNARL OF RAGE IN HIS VOICE, AND I BEGAN TO THINK THAT IVAN WAS A MORE DANGEROUS MAN THAN I HAD THOUGHT (page 273)
yelping like kennels at feeding-time, and two or three of the waiters who were carrying dishes down the path with the grass carpet caught sight of me as I sped under the trees and raised a squall. Chu-Chu had drilled me through the shoulder and sliced me through the arm, and before I'd gone fifty metres my head began to swim. The shoulder didn't bother me a bit, but the blood was welling out of my arm rich and red, and I knew he'd got an artery. So I pulled up for a minute and tugged off my tie and twisted it round a couple of times, tying it with hand and teeth; and hardly had I got it fast when things began to get black and I had to stretch out on the ground, knowing that unless I did I was pretty sure to flop.
The faintness passed in a few moments, and I shoved up my head to look and listen. I was lying in a heavy clump of ivy that covered not only the ground, but the trees and shrubs thereabout, and made a splendid cover. Voices were shouting from here and there, and the hum from the house was like a beehive kicked over. Somebody was crashing round in the underbrush not far away, but out of sight from where I lay. You know how jungly and overgrown these French places get, so different from the spick-and-span English ones.
It was a bad look-out for me, as I knew that some of the people would have run out into the road; but all hands would be looking for a man in a tweed knickerbocker suit, according to the descriptions of the footman and the waiter who had sighted me as I burst from the house. So as quickly as I could I climbed into my long black soutane, round hat and goggles. Then, walking carefully and making as little noise as possible, I stole through the underbrush toward the wall, where I fell on a path.
Nobody was in sight for the moment, but there were shouts and cries coming from all over the place. Then down the path in my direction came running a couple of chauffeurs, both of them with very flushed faces. At sight of me they paused for a second.
"Have you seen anybody?" asked one of them.
"Have I seen anybody?" I repeated. "I do not understand. What has happened?"
"There has been a thief in the house! Where do you come from, anyhow?"
"I am afraid you have had too much to drink," I answered. "Too much wine is a bad thing during this hot weather."
"Come on!" said the other impatiently. "Don't stop to argue!" And the two of them started to run down the path.
The whole park was swarming, and from all sides came the sound of crashing foliage and shouted questions and answers. The déjeuner had been abandoned, of course, and guests, waiters, cooks, chauffeurs, stablemen and field-workers were scouring the place—some beating out the bushes, others patrolling the road outside on the look-out for the criminal should he break for the wall. I came suddenly upon an exquisitely-dressed gentleman and lady adventuring through the woods hand in hand. He was pushing slightly in advance, armed with an enormous carving knife, and glaring ferociously into the shaded coverts. I recognised him at a glance as Martet, the actor; and the woman I had seen in the restaurants with her husband, a prominent playwright. She was very pretty, and appeared frightened; and as I drew near the actor turned and gave her an embrace that ought to have reassured her, so far as the desperado was concerned. Then, as he loosed her, she caught sight of me and let out a little scream, at which Martet gave a jump that might have taken him to the top of the wall if it had been in the right direction. Seeing what I was, he scowled ferociously, and picked up the carving knife which he had dropped.
"Have you seen anything suspicious?" he demanded in his sonorous stage voice.
I smiled, and made a little gesture with my hand.
"A slight indiscretion, monsieur," I answered. "I have already forgotten it."
The lady giggled. The actor frowned, then burst into a laugh.
"Touché mon ami!" he said. "I was, of course, referring to this scoundrel of a burglar, not to a slight touch of midsummer madness."
"Indeed," says my lady, raising her eyebrows. "So it was that—and the champagne perhaps."
I smiled, touched my hat and passed on, leaving them to squabble and make it up. A little farther on I saw a tall white figure moving toward me at right angles. It disappeared behind some evergreens; then out into the path in front of me stepped Léontine.
I moved aside to let her pass, raising my hand to the brim of my hat. She shot me a quick glance, and seemed about to look away; then stared, and her amber-coloured eyes darkened. Then she raised her hand warningly, seemed to listen for an instant, and peered in a stealthy way under the low-hung branches.
"You're a wolf, Frank," she whispered. "How did you manage it? Getting honest has turned you preacher in not much but costume—has it, my friend? And"—she turned her head aslant and surveyed me with a critical smile—"I must say you look rather nice without your moustache."
"Is he dead?" I asked, and leaned against the wall, for the tourniquet on my arm was hurting me horribly.
"No; you've missed again, my little boy. The surgeon, Doctor Lemaitre—who was lunching with us, you know—says the knife passed between the ribs and the heavy muscles of the chest. He is painfully but not dangerously hurt."
"Do they guess who it is?"
"On the contrary, he is the hero of the moment. He is the brave chauffeur who, while walking under the trees, saw a man scale the wall, and followed him to the house, where he surprised him at his work and tried to take him single-handed. Hertzfeld is going to give him a handsome present for having prevented the robbery. There was in the safe a diamond tiara for which our friend the Baron paid two hundred thousand francs, and which he had intended to present to a certain young actress of his acquaintance on her jour de fête, as a slight token of his appreciation of her talent."
I whistled.
"Chu-Chu's chest is not the sorest part of him!" I observed.
"He is very vexed," said Léontine. "As he was my taxi-driver, I have volunteered to look after him, and shall take him to a maison de santé that I know of. Don't try to kill him while he's laid up, Frank. That would not be nice."
"All right," I answered. "By-the-way, Léontine, where are your sympathies? Am I to count on your help or not?"
"Neither, mon ami. My position is precisely that of Ivan. Personally I sympathise with you, as there is a great deal about Chu-Chu that I have never liked; but he is one of us, and you are a renegade. So, as the case stands, I am strictly neutral. Fight it out, my little dogs, and may the best pup win! What you did on the road to Calais set my blood on fire. I would have given my jewels to have been in the car with you. And what you have done to-day was daring, too; and I like daring things. No; you've missed again—but perhaps you may catch it on the third coup. I won't help you, Frank; but I'll tell you what I will do—I'll walk to the gate with you and see you into the road, and if necessary say that I know you. They might wonder what you were doing in the park."
"I'll say that I was passing, and came in when I heard the row."
"I don't think that it will be necessary to say anything. The gendarmerie has not yet arrived, and everybody is off his head. It was so funny, Frank, to see the way the party broke up. Some of the men got pale and some got red, and two or three began to arm themselves with empty bottles and some with full ones; and some ran to the house"
"And some are spooning in the park," I interrupted.
"I don't doubt it What's the matter, Frank? You are getting ghastly!"
"Chu-Chu pricked me in the arm."
"Here—rest a minute! Sh-h-h!—somebody's coming. Brace up, my dear!"
I managed to brace up after a moment or two, and we started to walk to the gate. Fortunately it wasn't far, and—would you believe it?—the first person I saw was Rosalie, her taxi pulled up to the curb, and she talking, with a very white face, to a mottled-looking footman, armed with a billiard cue.