Number Six and the Borgia/Chapter 2

When in prison at Brixton, England, a man who has no defense, and is waiting his trial on a charge of murder, finds time hanging pretty heavily upon his hands. It was due to this ennui of his that “Tray-Bong” Smith, usually an extremely reticent man, condescended to furnish certain particulars which enables the writer to fill in the gaps of this story which began, for our purpose, in Chi So's tea room, which isn't more than a hundred meters from the Quai des Fleurs.

Chi So was that rarity, a Jap who posed as a Chinese. He ran a restaurant in Paris, which, without being fashionable, was popular. People used to come across the river to eat the weird messes he prepared, and as many as a dozen motor cars have been seen parked at the end of the narrow street in which “The Joyous Pedlar”—that was the name of his joint—was situated.

Tray-Bong Smith had never eaten at Chi So's, but he'd smoked there quite a lot. The restaurant was built on a corner lot and was a fairly old house. It was probably an inn in the days of Louis, for beneath the building was one of the most spacious cellars in Paris. It was a great, vaulted room, about thirty feet from the keystone to the floor, and Chi So had turned this into what he called a “lounge” for his regular customers.

For weeks Tray-Bong Smith had turned into the “lounge” regularly at twelve o'clock every night, to bunk down with a pipe and a few busy thoughts till four o'clock in the morning. There were lots of reasons why he shouldn't wander about Paris at night. At this time some sort of international conference was going on, and it was impossible to stroll from the Place de la Concorde to the Italiennes. without falling over a Scotland Yard man who would know him. Whether other visitors. would have recognized the gaunt, unshaven man with the shabby suit and the discolored shirts as the man who won the one-hundred-yards sprint and the broad jump at the Oxford and Cambridge sports is doubtful. Certain sections of the police, however, knew him very well indeed.

In a little café on Montmartre where he spent his evenings they had christened him “Tray-Bong Smith” because of his practice of replying to all and sundry who addressed him, with this cockneyfied version of “tres bien.” Even when they discovered that his French was faultless and his “tray bong” an amusing mannerism, the name stuck and it came with him to Chi So's, where he was accounted a dangerous man. There were days when he counted his sous, days and nights when he would disappear from view and come back flush with money, changing thousand-franc notes with the nonchalance of a Monte Carlo croupier. But when he was visible at all he was a regular attendant at Chi So's.

If he was regular in his habits, so was Cæsar Valentine. On Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, at two o'clock to the minute, he used to make his appearance in what the habitués of Chi So's called the private box. In one wall, about fifteen feet from the ground, there was a moon-shaped opening, in which had been built either by Chi So or his predecessor, a sort of Swiss balcony. It was unlighted and heavily curtained, and it was suspected that Chi So made quite a respectable income out of letting the box to respectable people who wanted to be thrilled by the dope horrors of Paris and peregrinating journalists who were writing up Chinatown stories.

Cæsar Valentine, as a rule, came through a private door direct into the cellar, but sometimes he would stalk through the “lounge” looking from side to side with that insolent stare of his, and go out through a small door in the wall which communicated, by means of a circular iron staircase, with the private box above. And there he would sit for exactly one hour, peering down at the smokers, his eyes ranging the whitewashed cavern which with its big Chinese lanterns, its scarlet dado, and the brightly covered bunks was not without its picturesque qualities. Chi So said that he was a “beautiful man” and the description was not extravagant. He was invariably in evening dress which fitted him like a glove. about six feet in height, with such a face as the old Greek sculptors loved to reproduce, his head was covered with a mass of small brown curls, slightly—very slightly—tinged with gray. The first time Tray-Bong Smith saw him he thought he was a man of twenty-eight. The second time, when a shaft of light from a torn lantern caught him square, he guessed he was nearer fifty. He had big, brown, melancholy eyes, a Straight nose, a chin a little too rounded for the fastidious taste, and on his cheeks just a faint flush of color.

The night this story begins Tray-Bong Smith had turned in at Chi So's by the side door which was used by the smokers and took off his mackintosh in the hall. Chi So was there rubbing his hands, a sly and detestable little figure, in blue silk blouse and trousers, and he helped him off with his coat. “It's raining, Mr. Thmith?” he lisped.

“Like the devil,” growled Tray-Bong. “A poisonous night, even for Paris.”

Chi So grinned. “You thmoke plenty to-night, Mr. Thmith, I have thome good thtock in from China. Plenty people here to-night.”

Smith grunted a reply and went down the stone stairs and found his bunk. Chi-always reserved the same bunk for regular customers, and Smith's was just opposite the “private box.” O San, the pipe man, gave him his instrument of delight, made and lit a pill, and then hurried off.

There were the usual queer lot of people there that night. Society folks, a woman or two, the old camelot who sells the story of his life at the corner of the Rue Royale, and a gentleman whom Smith recognized as an official attached to one of the numerous embassies in Paris. Him he noted for future use and profit.

At two o'clock precisely came Cæsar Valentine, and with him Chi So, who usually accompanied him if he came through the lounge. Chi So's attitude was servile, his voice a wheedling whine, but Valentine said nothing. He strode down between the bunks and paused opposite that on which Tray-Bong Smith lay with wide eyes and wakeful.

Valentine looked for a moment absent-mindedly, and then, turning, walked through the door which Chi So had opened and reappeared a little later in the gallery. There he sat, his white hands on the plush ledge of the box, his chin on the back of his hands,. looking down; and it seemed that the unshaven Englishman in the bunk below was the principal attraction, for his eyes always came back to him. At half past two there was a curious stir, a faint chatter of voices from the passageway leading down from the side entrance, and the dull sound of blows. Then Chi So appeared in a panic and came twittering across the lounge to where Tray-Bong Smith was lying. Smith was out of the bunk and on his feet in an instant.

“Mis' Smit', you go quickly; here is the polith—it is for you! Through this door!” He indicated the door leading to the gallery. “Mis' Valentine shall not mind.”

Smith was through the door in two strides and, closing it behind him, went noiselessly up the narrow iron stairs which led directly into the “box.” Cæsar Valentine turned as he entered, and he spoke for the first time to the man who was destined to play so important a part in his life.

“You're in trouble?” he said.

“At present, no. In a few moments, yes,” said Smith and opened his shirt at the front. Cæsar saw the butt of the man's gun behind the linen and knew why Tray-Bong invariably lay on his right side.

“Do you know the way out?” he asked.

“I will show you.” He pulled aside a curtain and revealed a rough opening in the wall. Smith stepped through and passed along a passage lit by one electric bulb and leading, apparently, to a blank end.

“Straight ahead and then to your right,” said the voice of Cæsar behind him. “The door opens quite easily.”

The fugitive found the door and stepped out into a small courtyard. Cæsar Valentine brushed past him, crossed the yard without hesitation and, opening another door, they found themselves in a side street. It was raining heavily and a southwesterly gale was blowing.

“Wait,” said Cæsar. He fastened a big cloak about his shoulders. “You are younger than I, and the rain will not hurt you.”

Smith grinned in the darkness and loosened the sheath knife he carried in his hip pocket. Valentine led the way through a labyrinth of alleys. And presently they were standing on the deserted quay. Paris was in the throes of a coal famine and the lighting had been considerably reduced, which helped, for the quay was apparently deserted. Suddenly Valentine caught his companion by the arm.

“One moment,” he said. “You are the person who has the ridiculous nickname, are you not?”

“I cannot be answerable for the absurdity of any names which are given to me by absurd persons,” said Smith a little coldly, and Valentine laughed.

“Tray-Bong Smith?” he asked, and the other nodded.

“Yes, thought so,” Valentine was satisfied. “Only I did not wish to make a mistake. Not that it is possible that I can make mistakes,” he added, and the man at his side thought at first that he was jesting, but he was serious enough.

Along the quay Smith could see two dim lights and guessed that these belonged to Valentine's motor car. He walked on, a little ahead of the exquisite, toward the car and was less than fifty feet from safety when a man came out of the darkness, gripped him by the coat, and swung him round as he flashed an electric lamp in his face.

“Hullo!” he said in French. “Tray-Bong Smith, N'est ce pas? I want you, my ancient!”

Valentine stopped dead and shrunk back into the shadows, watching. Only for a second did Tray-Bong Smith hesitate, then with a swift movement of his hand he knocked the lamp from the man's hand. In another second he had gripped his assailant by the throat and had thrust him back against the gray stone parapet behind which the Seine flowed swiftly.

“You want me, eh?” he said between his teeth and Valentine saw the quick rise and fall of a glittering blade. The man relaxed his grip and slid limply to the ground. Smith looked round to left and right, then stooping, lifted the fallen man bodily in his arms and flung him across the parapet into the river. Only one groan came from the victim and something amused Tray-Bong Smith, for he laughed as he picked his knife from the pavement and threw it after the man into the stream.

Valentine had not moved until the knife was sent flying. Then he came forward, and Smith could hear his quick breathing. “My friend,” he said, “you are rapid.”

He said no more than this and walked rapidly toward the car and opened the door. The chauffeur could not have seen what had happened, for the quay was badly lit—but there may have been some other spectator. The car moved forward until it came almost abreast of the spot where the struggle had occurred. Smith thought he saw some one on the pavement, and dropped the rain-blurred window to look. The car was moving slowly, and the head lamps of the car had only just flashed out their fullest radiance.

In the light of the lamps was a girl. She was dressed from head to foot in black, and stood peering over the parapet into the dark river. As the car came up to her she turned her head and the man had a momentary glimpse of the saddest and most beautiful face he had ever seen. His shoulders were out of the window, and he was looking back, when he felt Valentine's hand clutch him and pull him back.

“You fool,” he said savagely, “what are you doing? Whom were you looking at?”

“Nobody,” said Smith, and pulled up the window.