The Strange Adventures of Mr. John Smith in Paris/Chapter 5

R. SMITH had just turned into the Place de l’Opéra when, for the second time, he was halted by the abrupt appearance before him of a man who blocked his way. Mr. Smith stopped, thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked him over. He was the same type of man, precisely, as the one who had stopped him on the Pont du Carrousel,—who, in a general sort of way, was a twin of M. Remi,—and something told Mr. Smith he was going to ask the same questions.

“What eez your name?” demanded the stranger curtly. Yes, the same question—in worse English.

“What’s it to you?” Mr. Smith queried belligerently.

Aha! He was not M. John Smith any more; he was M. Watts Ittooyu! It must be a Japanese name! Ze huge Americaine must take ze police of la belle France for ze grand stupid! Oho!

“Where do you leeve?” came the question.

“At the corner of the United States and two o’clock,” Mr. Smith declared hotly. “Now, look here, son, I don’t know why you people in Paris stop a fellow and ask his name; but it’s none of your business, and the next one who does it will get a good swift poke in the jaw.”

Mr. Smith stalked into the lobby of the Grand Hotel with a grim expression on his face, which softened instantly into mild interest as he came face to face with a tall, slender young woman gowned in black and heavily veiled, coming out. She started a little at sight of him, hesitated a scant instant,—he thought she was going to speak,—then passed on hurriedly. There was something vaguely familiar in the trim figure, the walk, the tilt of the head, and he paused to look after her a moment. Whatever he thought of her was lost in the throes of his verbal wrestlings with a clerk who boasted that he spoke English and understood United States.

HE first day’s search ended fruitlessly for Mr. Smith, but rich beyond the most optimistic dreams to the sleuths of Paris who were seeking W. Mandeville Clarke. M. Remi listened to the reports of the men who were assisting him, and his mental convolutions were weird in the extreme. He sent them away and sat down to try to adjust all the odd facts in his possession.

John Smith, alias Watts Ittooyu, was W. Mandeville Clarke. He was big enough, the rugged lines on his face made him look old enough, he kept clean shaven with the most scrupulous care, and his dingy black hair bore every indication of having been newly dyed—badly dyed. But why should W. Mandeville Clarke set himself to search the hotels of Paris for W. Mandeville Clarke? Why, when confronted the second time by one of M. Remi’s assistants, did he give that strange name, Watts Ittooyu? And that strange address—the corner of the United States and two o’clock? Who was the mysterious veiled woman in black who was also searching for M. Clarke? Was she a confederate? There was some deep laid plot somewhere, and seeking it the French sleuth acquired a headache, which he treated with many oversweetened Martinis. Result, more headache!

N the second day Mr. Smith planned to take the Arc de Triomphe as a center and revolve around it. At his first point of inquiry, the Hotel Carleton in the Champs Elysées, he encountered for the second time the veiled woman in black. She was standing at the desk with her back toward him as he entered, talking in French with the clerk in charge. She finished and started away.

“Do you speak English?” Mr. Smith began monotonously.

“Yes, Monsieur, I speak him quite well,” replied the clerk.

“Do you happen to have with you a man known as W. Mandevilie Clarke?”

The clerk glanced involuntarily at the veiled woman, who turned quickly, inquiringly. At sight of Mr. Smith she became rigid where she stood, listening, listening!

“No, Monsieur. He is not here.”

“Has he been here? Do you expect him?”

“He is not here. We do not expect him.”

“There’s no American or Englishman with a full beard and white hair here? No man about my size?”

Again the clerk glanced at the young woman, who, with fingers writhing within themselves, stood motionless half a dozen feet away.

“No, Monsieur,” replied the clerk at last. “We have them wider and shorter, and longer and thinner; but none of your size.”

Following the clerk’s glance, Mr. Smith turned and recognized the veiled, woman with a sort of start. Her eyes met his squarely for a fraction of a second; then she turned and went out. A minute later he went out in the same direction. She was standing beside a taxicab at the curb waiting. He knew she would be. She faced him flatly, almost defiantly.

AM not mistaken?” she asked in a tone so low he could just hear her. “This is Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mr. Smith thought at first he knew the voice, knew it as one he had heard before; but there was some note in it that made it seem strange. He wondered if she was going to ask where he lived.

“You don't—don’t happen to know who I am?” she went on, apparently with an effort.

“No, ma’am.”

She sighed a little; it might have been relief. “You are looking for Mr. Clarke, I believe?” There was a tense, eager note in the girl’s question, a suggestion of fear. Her face was perfectly pallid behind the kindly veil, and her small fingers gripped her palms mercilessly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Smith replied frankly. “You don't happen to know where he is, do you?”

“May I ask—pardon me if my question seems impertinent—may I ask why you are looking for Mr. Clarke?”

Mr. Smith thoughtfully stroked his chin. “It’s a little personal matter, ma'am,” and his voice hardened, “a little matter between us. If it’s just the same to you, I’d rather not tell you.”

The girl caught her breath sharply, and when she spoke again there was abject terror in her manner. “I should not have asked, of course,” she apologized quickly, falteringly. “You—you come from the United States to find Mr. Clarke?”

“Passaic, New Jersey; yes, ma’am.”

“And when you find him?”

Mr. Smith’s straight staring eyes grew steely, and there was a glint of danger in them; his powerful hands worked spasmodically, his white teeth were locked together. “When I find him!” he repeated grimly. Then quietly, “I’d rather not tell you, ma’am.”

For an instant she stood staring at him, and twice she made as if to speak; then suddenly, silently, she turned and entered the taxicab. The car jerked and went speeding away up the Champs Elysées. For a long time Mr. Smith stood gazing after it blankly, wonderingly.