Number Six and the Borgia/Chapter 4

Tray-Bong Smith stood stock-still listening to Cæsar's retiring footsteps. Then he examined the room minutely and carefully. There was no lock to the door and no bolt, but that did not greatly worry him. Cæsar would not have brought him to Maisons Lafitte to betray him, he was sure of that. He sat down in one of the two deep chairs which stood on either side of the shuttered fireplace and pulled off his boots, speculating on the plans of his new employer.

For just what reason had Cæsar taken him under his wing? Cæsar had witnessed the affair on the Quai des Fleurs and knew that by harboring the man who had committed the act he had rendered himself guilty by the laws of France. The project ahead must be of vast importance or Cæsar would not have run the risk. If the girl had seen—the girl in black whom Smith had seen peering into the river. She must have seen, or why would she have been standing on that spot, leaning over the parapet? Smith rubbed his chin and frowned. The girl might spoil everything. Suppose she went to the police and a newspaper got hold of the story of this midnight struggle? He swore to himself as he unlaced his wet boots, slipped off his wet clothes, unbuckled the canvas strap which supported the little Colt automatic he carried under his shirt, and put the pistol beneath the pillow.

The silk pajamas which had. been left for him were rather long in the leg, but he turned them up, and, switching out the light, pulled aside the heavy velvet curtains which covered the window and looked out. The windows were of the French type which open outward and these he swung wide. There was an easy drop from the window to a flower bed beneath, so that there was no need. to worry about a get-away. The rain had ceased and the clouds had thinned, though the wind still blew gustily. There was a full moon, faintly visible, and in the occasional gleam which lit the countryside he was able to take his immediate bearings.

By the light of the moon he looked at the watch on his wrist. It was a quarter past three. In two hours the day would break, but he was not sleepy. He went back to the window to fix in his mind the exact lay of the ground. Immediately facing the window was a broad lawn which ran into the shadows of a poplar plantation. To the left he glimpsed the yellow of the drive which led to the lane up which he had bumped, and to the main road.

He lay down on the bed and covered himself with the eiderdown, but he was not in the least tired. He lay there thinking about Cæsar and speculating upon the future, wondering just what game Cæsar was after, and to what purpose he intended putting his new protégé.

A distant clock chimed four, and he was beginning to doze, when he heard a sound which brought him wide awake again. It was a queer, tinkling sound, like the drip-drip of a faucet, and it was some time before he located it as being outside of the window. It was the dripping of rain, of course, he told himself—a gutter overflowing on to a window sill; but, nevertheless, he slipped from the bed and stole softly to the window, for Tray-Bong Smith was a suspicious man. At first he saw nothing, though most of the clouds had disappeared and the moon was shining brightly. Then he saw a sight so eerie, so unexpected, as to bring his heart to his throat.

Walking across the broad lawn was the figure of a woman. She was dressed in gray or white—he could not be certain which—and she appeared to be carrying something in her hand. Smith could not see what that something was until she turned and walked back again with the moon on her face, and then he heard the jingle of steel plainly. He shaded his eyes from the moonbeams and cautiously put his head round the side of the window.

The woman was walking with curiously short steps, and this mincing gait at such an hour was so unreal and so grotesquely unnatural that he might have guessed the cause. Her walk brought her to within twenty yards of the window and then Tray-Bong Smith saw and heard.

Clink, clink, clink!

Her hands were handcuffed together, and between her two ankles was a steel chain that jingled as she walked.

“Well, I'm” whispered Smith. As he stared at her, he heard a low voice, commanding and surly. It sounded as though it came from the shadow of the trees, and the woman turned and walked in that direction. Smith watched her until she disappeared, and then went back to his bed, a considerably puzzled man.

But the amazing happenings of the night were not completed. He had begun to doze again when he was awakened by a shriek—a shriek accompanied by a crash against the bedroom door, that brought him to his feet, gun in hand. The gray of dawn was in the sky, and there was just enough light to see the door moving slowly inward.

Then of a sudden it burst open and somebody fell into the room with a thud, gibbering and sobbing hideously. It made an attempt to rise and poised a moment totteringly on its knees and Smith recognized him. It was the red-haired man, the man called Ernest, but his face was no longer scarlet. It was gray and drawn and horrible. “Cæsar, Cæsar!” he whimpered, and then collapsed in a heap.

Then came a sound of hurrying feet, and Cæsar came into the room. He was in his dressing gown and pajamas, and apparently had just wakened.

“What is it?” he said, and looked down. “Ernest! What are you doing here?”

He shook the inanimate figure.

“I'm sorry, this man's drunk again.”

He lifted him in his strong arms as easily as though he were a child. “Do you mind?” he said, and laid him on the bed. “Put on the light, will you, Smith?”

Tray-Bong Smith obeyed, and Cæsar, bending over the man, looked down at his wide-opened eyes. Then he turned to the other.

“He's dead,” he said soberly. “What a perfectly dreadful thing to have happened!”