The Gay Triangle Part 19

Less than two hundred yards away d.i.c.k and his companions halted spellbound. In some mysterious fas.h.i.+on they realised that they were to witness the last act in the terrible drama.

The end came swiftly. More and more slowly, almost crawling at last, the strange creature approached Erckmann and at length, evidently utterly exhausted, collapsed at his feet in a heap.

They heard the scientist shout something unintelligible. Then he raised his heavy whip and struck with fearful force at the unfortunate thing which lay before him.

It was a fatal mistake. With the speed of lightning the misshapen heap on the ground flashed into furious activity. All the horrified spectators saw was an instantaneous leap and a brief struggle, and Erckmann and the Thing locked in a deadly grapple and then drop motionless.

d.i.c.k covered the last hundred yards in a furious dash. But he was too late. Erckmann lay dead, with his adversary dead on top of him. The zoologist had been killed almost instantly by the grip of two large hands that still encircled his neck in a vice-like clutch, and in his throat the misshapen fangs of the creature were still buried deeply.

Only with infinite trouble was the body of the scientist freed from that deadly grapple, and they were able to examine the monster that had spread terror and death through Argylls.h.i.+re.

Unmistakably the body was that of a man, but incredibly dehumanised and ape-like. The muscular development was tremendous; the hands and arms were knotted ma.s.ses of t.i.tanic muscle. But the crowning horror was the face--low-browed, flat-nosed, with a tremendous jaw and long pointed teeth, utterly unlike anything human. The body, stark naked, was covered thickly with hair and in the side was a terrible wound evidently made by the impact of a soft-nosed bullet from one of the automatic pistols. No normal human being could have survived it for more than a few minutes.

It was only later, when they searched Lockie, that they realised fully that Erckmann had fallen a victim to a monster he had himself created.

His diaries proved that Chatry had spoken the truth. They were a repellent but horribly fascinating account of his experiments. Of the results he had written in a wealth of detail, but of the process he employed there was not even a hint. That awful secret he had kept to himself, and had taken with him to his grave.

They found that he had, as Chatry had said, taken a human being, obviously of low mental development--possibly an asylum patient--and practically, by some devilish discovery, converted it into a human ape, endowed with the blood-l.u.s.t of the tiger. But whether the fearful creature was capable of receiving and acting upon instructions, or whether Erckmann simply let it loose to follow its terrible instincts until the "homing" instinct brought it back they never learned.

Of Lockie, the police decided to make a clean sweep. The animals were shot and the half-dozen evil-looking foreign servants were paid off and sent to their homes, mostly in the wilder parts of Transylvania. They one and all refused to say a word. Whatever they were, they were at least faithful to their dead master.

Then, in the magnificent chemical laboratory with which the house was equipped, d.i.c.k, who found himself Renstoke's sole executor, easily arranged an "accident." Fire broke out, there was no help for miles around and in a couple of hours the ill-omened house was a heap of ashes. The Spectre of Lockie had been finally laid.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE PERIL OF THE PREFET.

It was a mystery of the City of Paris which engaged the trio--a secret that has never been told, though many enterprising newspapers have tried to fathom it. Here it is related for the first time.

On a gloomy mid-December morning the sensation-loving Parisians awoke to a new and eminently agreeable thrill. It was only last year and the occasion will be well remembered.

There had been trouble enough in the City of Light, which for once at any rate belied its name. A series of strikes had half-paralysed the capital. Coal and light were almost un.o.btainable; the public lamps remained unlit; at night the City of Pleasure was plunged in profound gloom. There were misery and wretchedness in the haunts of squalor and poverty which flanked the wealthier districts where, at a price, all things agreeable were as usual obtainable.

But the dumb underworld was becoming vocal!

"A Mort L'a.s.sa.s.sin!" At daybreak the startling legend suddenly, and without warning, revealed itself from a thousand vantage-points to the awakening city. In crude, blazing red it flared from the h.o.a.rdings-- sinister, ill-omened and, above all, full of significance. Parisians alone knew.

There could be no possibility of doubt as to the individual referred to.

It was, beyond question, Raoul Gregoire, the Prefect of Police, whose cold, ruthless vendetta against the dark, turbulent forces which flowed beneath the effervescent gaiety of the gay life of Paris, had earned for him the vindictive hatred of the criminal world, and had gained him his unenviable sobriquet of "a.s.sa.s.sin!"

For months Raoul Gregoire's life had hung by a thread. Before his appointment he had been Prefect of Finisterre. A series of efforts to "remove" him had been defeated only in the nick of time. Twice he had been badly wounded. Once a bomb had wrecked his car just after he had left it. A less courageous man would have given up the unequal contest and sought a pretext for retirement--back to the quiet, sea-beaten coast of Finisterre.

But Monsieur le Prefet was of a different mould. Stern and ruthless he was, but his courage was invincible. He remained calm and imperturbed-- far more so, indeed, than many of his subordinates, who feared that the vengeance of the underworld might fall, by accident or design, upon themselves.

"Gregoire has pushed things a bit too far," was Yvette's verdict, as she talked over with d.i.c.k Manton and Jules the latest and most blatant challenge to the forces of the law and order. "They mean to make certain this time. I'm sure of it?"

"It certainly seems so," d.i.c.k agreed. "But I wonder when and how it will be? That's the point. Gregoire doesn't show himself much in public now; he is practically living in the Prefecture, and surrounded by his agents he is far too well guarded for any attempt to be made there."

"They will have a good chance at the Sultan's reception," remarked Jules reflectively. "Monsieur le Prefet will have to be in the procession--he can hardly stay away even if he wanted to. It would show the white feather."

It was a day to which the gaiety-loving Parisians were looking forward with special interest. France's age-long quarrel with the wild tribes of the Morocco hinterland had at length been amicably settled, and their Sultan, Ahmed Moha.s.sib, a picturesque figure whose eccentric doings provided the gossip-loving boulevard with hundreds of good stories, was "doing" Paris as the guest of the Quai d'Orsay. It was expedient to show the barbaric ruler all the honour possible, and the following Friday was the day on which he was to pay a ceremonial visit to the Elysee. There was to be a great procession, and the Government had let the Press understand that a skilfully worked-up popular demonstration was desirable. The papers had responded n.o.bly, and it was certain that "tout Paris" would be out to see the show.

On the occasion, at any rate, Monsieur le Prefet must be greatly in evidence. He was responsible for public order and must ride in the procession whatever the risk to himself, a plain target, for once, for the bullet or bomb of the a.s.sa.s.sin.

"To-day is Sat.u.r.day," Yvette remarked. "We really have not much time to spare between now and the twenty-second. I think I will make a few inquiries to-night. Jules had better go with me."

d.i.c.k's heart sank. He knew what Yvette's "inquiries" meant--hours, perhaps days, spent in the lowest quarters of Paris, surrounded by such horrible riff-raff that if her purpose were even suspected her life would be worth hardly a moment's purchase.

But he knew it was useless to remonstrate. Yvette had a perfect genius for "make-up," and what was far more important, a perfect knowledge of the strange _argot_ which served the underworld of Paris. Jules was almost as clever as Yvette. But in this particular, of course, d.i.c.k was far behind. He could not hope to sustain his part in surroundings where a single wrong word would mean instant suspicion, and probably a swift and violent death for all three.

"I wish I could go with you, Yvette," he said wistfully, "but, alas! I know it is quite impossible."

Yvette had many friends in the lower quarters of the Montmartre. The proprietors of many of the low _buvettes_ of the slums--places where one could get absinthe and drugs--were secretly in her pay, and so far as they were concerned she had no fears; the traffickers trusted her because they knew their secrets were safe. And by an ingenious code system which depended upon a mere vocal inflexion of certain common words she could reveal her ident.i.ty, no matter what her disguise, to those who were in her secret.

Darkness had fallen upon the city when two appalling specimens of the worst vagabondage of Paris--a man and a woman--crept silently through the market quarter towards one of Paris's vilest haunts of villainy.

They were such woebegone specimens of humanity as might have served for figures in some new "Inferno." Bedraggled and unkempt, their hands and faces besmirched with grime, their clothes hanging in tatters, it would have been impossible for even the keenest eye to have detected the smart French girl and her usually debonair brother. So far as appearances went they were safe enough. The risk would come when they began to talk, and especially when they began to ask questions. Here a slip of the tongue might betray them. But the risk had to be taken.

The Prefet himself, quite as anxious as d.i.c.k for the safety of Yvette and Jules, had taken precautions to protect them as far as possible.

Actual escort, of course, was out of the question. Both Yvette and Jules carried revolvers, but in addition Jules had concealed in the ample pockets of his villainous clothing, a tiny but delicate wireless telegraph apparatus, powerful enough upon a dry battery to send out a wireless wave which would carry a thousand yards or so.

This dainty little bit of electrical work was the invention of d.i.c.k Manton. Hardly larger than an old-fas.h.i.+oned watch it was operated by a hundred-volt battery which fitted into a specially made pocket, and the tiny transmitting key could be operated with one finger without arousing the slightest suspicion. Gregoire's agents were dotted thickly around the unsavoury neighbourhood, each in touch, by means of the wireless, with every movement Yvette and Jules might make. d.i.c.k himself was not far away. How amply these precautions were justified the events of the night were to show.

For hour after hour Yvette and Jules slunk from one haunt of vice to another, always keenly on the alert, frequently helped by one or another of Yvette's disreputable friends, but yet unable to pick up the slightest vestige of the trail of which they were in such active search.

At length their patient vigil culminated.

Plunging deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the slums, they had penetrated at length to a tiny bar in the very lowest and most dangerous portion of the market section. The place was crowded with a ma.s.s of riff-raff at which even Yvette and Jules, accustomed as they were to such sights and sounds, could not repress a shudder.

The proprietor, as it happened, was a beetle-browed Provencal whose one redeeming feature was grat.i.tude to Yvette. His character was utterly bad and he had been mixed up in dozens of affairs more or less disreputable. A year or two before a serious charge of which he happened to be innocent had been brought against him. Yvette had managed, with considerable trouble, to lay the real culprit by the heels, and Jules Charetier, Apache though he was, would now go through fire and water to serve her. Yvette knew that in his house she was personally far safer than she would have been in many more pretentious establishments.

Charetier raised his eyebrows when he caught the slight inflexion that instantly revealed to him Yvette's ident.i.ty. But he took no further notice beyond serving the drinks for which she had asked.

A moment later, with a significant look, he quitted the room. Yvette, with a slang caution to look after her drink for a moment, slipped into the filthy street and round the corner to the side entrance of the house. Charetier was waiting for her, and a few moments later they were seated in the man's dingy room on the floor above the bar.

"Whatever are you doing here, mademoiselle?" Jules burst out impulsively. "This is no place, even for you!"

"Listen, Charetier," replied the girl rapidly. "Something is brewing for next Friday. Something serious! You have seen the posters. I _must_ find out about it. Can you tell me where any of the `Seven' are to-night?"

Jules Charetier paled at the mention of "The Seven," the powerful camarilla whose hidden influence was felt throughout the criminal underworld of Paris, London, and New York. The men who, practically without risk to themselves, were responsible for half the anarchist crimes of the three great capitals. Who they were, and their real names, not even Yvette knew. Never appearing directly themselves, they worked entirely through agents, and fighting against them, the police found themselves in a stifling fog of mystery. But, as Yvette knew, Charetier was deep in the councils of Continental Anarchism, and she knew, too, that in his hands the life of the ordinary police agent would have been worth nothing. Even for herself she was not very confident, but she had decided on a bold stroke, trusting Charetier with everything on the ground of the service she had done him.

At first the man was obdurate.

"Not even for you, my dear mademoiselle," he said sullenly. "But, mademoiselle," he went on earnestly, "we have been friends, therefore I implore you for your own sake to drop the matter and get away as speedily as possible. I cannot tell you anything."

Yvette's revolver flashed out and in an instant she had the innkeeper covered.

"Listen, Jules!" she cried imperiously. "My brother is below, and the house is surrounded. If I stamp upon the floor you will be raided instantly. And you know there are things here you would not like the police to see--they don't know it, but you and I do! Suppose Demidoff learned that his papers had fallen into Raoul Gregoire's hands--eh?"

For a moment Yvette thought Charetier would have risked everything and sprung at her. But it was only for a moment. Then he collapsed. It was evident he feared Demidoff, the notorious Bolshevik agent, even more than he feared the police.

"Very well, mademoiselle," he replied, beads of perspiration standing out upon his wide white forehead and, despite his bravado, a hunted look crept into his eyes. "You might try the `Chat Mort.' There will be a meeting there at three o'clock this morning. But again I implore you not to go. You cannot get in and if you did you would never come out alive."