The Trail of Jeopardy

Front matter

THE TRAIL OF JEOPARDY

By H. Bedford-Jones Author of “Captain No More,” “Malay Gold, etc.

PARISIAN JEWEL THIEVES SUDDENLY DISCOVER THAT AN AMERICAN REPORTER AND AN AMERICAN DETECTIVE ARE ON THEIR TRAIL TO ADD TO THE ALREADY SOMEWHAT COMPLEX LIFE OF A CROOK IN THE FRENCH CAPITAL

II

THE boat docked early in the morning, and Ogilvy, who had expected some little trouble, found himself the first passenger to step ashore. The chief of the passport bureau was on hand, summoned by officials of the line, and when Ogilvy had thoroughly established his identity, he scrawled his name on a document and was through. With the slightly bored courtesy of the French official, the chief shook his hand, welcomed him to France, and bade him go.

“So much for wearing a red ribbon in my button-hole!” thought Ogilvy, and took his kit-bag in to the customs shed, where he had finished in five minutes.

Evading the eager porters, eager for the money of tourists who pay ten times the proper charges, Ogilvy turned aside from the waiting boat-train in the long shed, and sought one of the taxicabs outside. On all of these the tops were down, French fashion. Ogilvy selected one, took the driver aside, gave him a cigarette, and confided in him.

“Look you, mon gars—there is a man whom I would follow, you comprehend? Put up the top of your cab, then we can post ourselves down the street at the end of the sheds, where one turns for downtown. I think he will go to the Quai de Southampton, for the Trouville boat; but let us wait and see.”

“Ah!” said the driver, and winked broadly. “A jealous husband, eh?”

“Not a bit of it,” said Ogilvy, and returned the wink. “Shall we say—a rival?”

Thus put into an excellent humor the chauffeur raised the top of his cab, Ogilvy entered, and presently they drew away from the line of taxicabs and private vehicles. The landing quay was at some distance from the town proper, and after a moment the driver halted the car just around a sharp turn. Here Marmont would either bear off to the left, if bound for Trouville, or would go on downtown if heading for the town itself.

Presently taxies and victorias began to file past. Ogilvy watched them narrowly. He had no definite reason for his present action, and indeed was proceeding in a very vague fashion, content to follow his hunch and see what turned up. If Marmont had a chateau down the coast at Villers, he would be known in Havre, and Ogilvy wanted some information about the man. As he waited, he reflected on Keene's invitation. Today was Friday—well, why not? He liked Keene. If Monday found him in Deauville, he might keep that appointment.

“There's our man!” Ogilvy tapped on the window, the driver nodded, the car moved. It wheeled into line behind that of Marmont—no easy task, for there was now a solid stream of vehicles leaving the quay.

Marmont looked extremely pleased to be back in France, beaming on all around. As usual, he was impeccably dressed and groomed, and had a good deal of baggage heaped on and around his taxicab. His driver turned to the right and headed for the town. Passing the wide gardens of the Hotel de Ville, the first car halted before a little dram-shop in a dirty and obscure street. Marmont got out, took one of his suitcases, and entered the place. It was anything but a choice establishment, being a hang-out of chauffeurs.

Ogilvy's driver went on to the next corner, turned up the street, turned around and came back, and waited. Almost immediately Marmont's car passed—the count must have taken in the suitcase and then left at once. Now his taxi headed back to the square at the end of the yacht-basin, and turned down for the Quai de Southampton. At the shed devoted to the Trouville-Deauville ferry, he alighted with all his baggage. One of the little black steamers that plied across the Seine estuary was waiting, and Marmont hustled aboard.

Having discovered this much, Ogilvy paid off his own driver, took his bag, and settled himself over coffee and rolls in a corner of a nearby restaurant. He waited there, and saw the Trouville boat depart with Marmont perched in all his glory on the solitary first-class deck. Then he relaxed and began to reflect on the situation. Why had Marmont dumped that one suitcase at the anything-but-respectable dram-shop?

Ogilvy found it worth pondering. He knew what queer things might happen in this town. Le Havre is a survival of the days when packet rats afloat were the prime seamen of the world, and ashore were the veriest dregs of humanity. There is nothing cheerful about the dull gray city; it holds an aspect of neglect and hopeless dreariness and grime, while its Norman folk are noted for their incivility.

Along the byways of the town may be seen odd human flotsam. Battered fair-haired Scandinavians two by two, seaman's duffle-bags over shoulder, purplish bruises and old scars marking faces and warped hands; negroes from Senegal or Virginia, dungarees oil-smeared, teeth flashing white with gay impudence and brotherhood of man; lagging wrecks drifting about the quays, brown Algerines, huge side-shouldered slouchers with dirty fez and a bundle of gaudy rugs and mangy furs, and sorrowful-eyed Hindus. The tiny, narrow streets are lined with boozing dens, the doorways know blowsy, beckoning women; here are money-changers and pallid, furtive-eyed men with faces of preying birds, and worse. This town is a center for many things—sea-trade, traffic with America and England, the coast resorts lying all around—and is on the line between Paris and London and New York. Havre in the west, like Marseilles in the south, has its finger on the very pulse of France.

“Why not?” Ogilvy laughed suddenly. “What's the use of a hunch if you don't follow it? Take a chance, you poor fish, take a chance!”

He paid for his breakfast, arranged to leave his bag here until the next boat for the twin ports across the bay, and set off uptown at a rapid, swinging pace.

Retracing the course followed by his taxi, he presently sighted the chauffeurs' hang-out. He went straight to it, and much to his satisfaction found it empty of clients. The woman behind the bar gave him a greeting as he entered, and Ogilvy, playing the Frenchman, made answer.

“Good morning, madame! A café fine, if you please, and then we'll relieve you of the suitcase and be on our way.”

Mechanically drawing his coffee, the woman checked herself, gave him a sharp look, then called for “Jules!” From the rear appeared an unkempt, red-haired Norman, who regarded Ogilvy suspiciously.

“So!” he observed, with Norman abruptness. “Of what suitcase is it a question?”

Ogilvy smiled eee at him.

“Sacred name oe a dog! Were you not told to expect me?”

“No,” growled the other. “Unless you are the maggot and have changed your skin since we last met!”

For an instant Ogilvy was stumped, despite his thrill at finding his main conjecture correct. The maggot! A nickname? No—suddenly he remembered his Parisian slang, and laughed heartily at his own denseness.

“Maggot?” he repeated, leaning over the bar and fingering his glass. “Not yet, my old one! There is nothing of the Chinaman about Georges Picard, I assure you! Here's to you, madame, with my compliments.”

The Norman's scowl did not lighten as Ogilvy drank his coffee.

“Exactly,” he said. “There is nothing of a maggot about you, my Georges Picard, and I never heard of you before, Certainly, the master did not mention you.”

“How should he, when he has been in America?” said Ogilvy. Then he regarded the other seriously. “Listen, mon gars! I am in a hurry, for I have to catch the rapide for Paris and there is not too much time. Here's the master's card, if that will convince you. If it won't, then I shall go direct across the bay to the master and hand in a report on you that will make somebody's hair curl. So trot out the suitcase or take the consequences!”

Ogilvy tossed Count de Marmont's card down the bar with a flourish.

The Norman read it, and nodded heavily. Obviously this Georges Picard had been sent—did he not know the master, did he not have Marmont's card and know all about him and where he was? It was certainly all right.

“One moment,” growled the Norman, and shuffled into the rear room.

Ogilvy lighted a cigarette, and not a trace of his inward excitement showed itself in his lean, large-boned features. Nothing venture, nothing win! He had plunged on a wild guess, and apparently had won. Marmont might have smuggled something past the customs—no matter. He was known as “the master,” and therefore was clearly the head of a gang, and this gang comprised at least one Chinaman.

Thus ran suspicion. After all, the whole game might be an innocent one. Marmont might be leaving the suitcase for a Chinese servant to pick up and take to a friend. There were a dozen possible explanations, but all of them were discounted by the low character of this dram-shop. A gentleman of Marmont's appearance would certainly choose another rendezvous unless there were something shady going on. Ogilvy chuckled at thought of Keene—how that hard-bitten rascal would enjoy such a game as this!

Two men sauntered in, greeted the lady behind the bar, and lined up for drinks. They were not chauffeurs, but workmen of a sort, as their baggy corduroys and red sashes indicated; from the fact that they were in no hurry and evidently not at work, Ogilvy's alert brain took sharp warning. He was rather relieved when the Norman appeared, carrying the same suitcase which Marmont had deposited here earlier.

As he set down the grip, he shoved Marmont's card back at Ogilvy.

“Sign it,” he growled.

Was this a test? It was hard to say. Very likely the gang, if there were one, had some secret system of numbers or names. Ogilvy wagged his head with a knowing wink.

“Sign the honest name of Georges Picard?” he said, knowing that the others were drinking in every word. “Name of a black dog—I am no such fool! No, no, il pleut!”

And taking the card, he scrawled across it the nickname of “Le Minuit”—thieves' argot for “The Nigger”—a name which might easily be applied to him because of his dark compexion. The Norman glanced at it and nodded with an air of satisfaction. Once more, Ogilvy had scored a bull's-eye with his scraps of slang.

He shook hands with the Norman and his wife, while the others watched him curiously, then picked up the suitcase and departed.

He found the suitcase unexpectedly heavy and started for the Hotel de Ville to get a tram, then changed his intention. Beyond doubt, he would be followed—therefore he must go to the railroad station as though heading for Paris. So, instead of hopping the down-bound tram, he struck one bound for the station and climbed aboard.

Ogilvy knew perfectly welt that he dared not take any chances at the present stage of the game; he was, as yet, absolutely in the dark on many heads, and needed information. So he inquired as to the Paris express, found it left in ten minutes, bought a ticket, passed through the gates to the platform—and then promptly doubled on his tracks. He emerged through the side entrance of the restaurant, found a taxi-cab ten feet away, and climbed in.

“American Express,” he said, and then bent over in order to conceal himself until the taxi had left the station square.

Five minutes later he climbed out and paid the driver. Instead of entering the building before him, he turned away from the wide open space before the Bourse, crossed the bridge spanning the basin where ships were closely laid up, and then plunged through the waterfront section beyond. He came out on the Quai de Southampton, feeling certain that his tracks had been lost, and hurried on to the restaurant where he had left his bag.

The big blackboard at the wharf entrance across the street told him that the next ferry left in fifteen minutes. He ordered an aperitiff, drank it, then departed. Once aboard the boat he ensconced himself in the second-class cabin, out of sight from the quay above, and settled down to wait. He was tempted to open Marmont's suitcase, but refrained.

The boat was comfortably crowded when she worked her way out past the fishing craft and mole, until she left the harbor behind and headed for the green hills on the other side of the Seine estuary, on her forty-minute trip. From the depths appeared an old hag, clad in black, with the usual lace cap of Normandy. She was serving coffee, and Ogilvy ordered a cup, which she brought him after a time, with crescent rolls. As it was boiling hot, Ogilvy laid it aside for the moment.

He smoked for a little, ironically watching the cabin empty, for the craft was catching a heavy Atlantic swell, and was rolling badly, so that the rails were quickly lined with unhappy mortals paying their debt to Neptune. After a time Ogilvy sipped his coffee, and found it vile—so strong as to have an acrid taste. However, he put it down, left his two grips, and strolled out for a glance at a fishing lugger bound up for Rouen.

And as he stood there, he glimpsed a red-sashed man up forward on the barred-off third class portion of the deck.

Ogilvy turned and leaned over the rail, startled. He recognized the figure instantly. It was one of the pseudo-workmen he had seen in the dram-shop. Either he was being shadowed with astonishing skill, or this was a chance encounter—the man might be going to Deauville for any one of a score of reasons, perhaps to seek Marmont.

Almost on the heels of the thought, Ogilvy had his answer. This came in a sudden swirl of giddiness, gone at once—but here was enough to give him sharp alarm. Instinctively he knew he was less clever than he had deemed; he had been shadowed after all, and the bitter taste of that coffee2

Reacting at once to the least divergence from his normal state of perfect physical well-being, Ogilvy did not hesitated. He knew he had been drugged; unless he acted swiftly, he was lost. So he rammed fingers down throat, and leaned far over the rail—and remained there a good five minutes. He was so placed, however, that, from the corner of his eye he could keep watch on the cabin where his grips reposed.

When he had done the best he could for himself, Ogilvy staggered in, got his two bags, brought them out in the open, and sat on them. He was feeling as though he had been dragged through a knot-hole, his senses were all swimming, and his legs were weak; the drug must have been powerful to act so rapidly. With an effort he took stock of the situation. The little steamer was nearing the end of her trip.

As it was low tide, she could not enter the Trouville harbor, and was heading for the long pier a mile to the east, on the other side of the town. She turned slowly and drifted in under the high steel framework; lines were flung and made fast, the gangplank was presently in place, and the passengers began to file ashore, presenting their tickets as they left.

Ogilvy stayed where he was until the worst of the shoving throng was gone, then rose and forced himself to the effort. It was a tremendous one, for his head was reeling, his brain had nearly lost coherence, and he seemed to have gone to pieces physically. Only by summoning up every atom of will-power did he manage to get across the gangplank with his two bags.

There faced him the steep climb to the wharf above. He negotiated the narrow iron steps slowly, yet for all his condition he had kept track of the red-sashed workman. He saw that the man had waited, also, and was now following him with a negligent air. No question about it all now!

Somehow the man must be got rid of. Ogilvy groaned to himself, but faced the problem squarely. The man was waiting for him to collapse, and he certainly would collapse if he did not get to bed in a hurry. The drug must have gone through his whole system most viciously to leave him in such condition.

Now he was up on the wharf, a long file of people streaming ahead of him toward shore where carriages and taxicabs were waiting. He took a few steps, then staggered and set down the grips. Turning, he found the workman close behind him. Ogilvy, gray-faced, appealed to him.

“My friend, will you give me a lift? I'm very ill2”

“Of course, of course!” exclaimed the other heartily. “Give me the bag, m'sieu—now put your arm around my neck and lean on me—so! Lean well. My faith, I am no weakling!”

Ogilvy complied, and thus they slowly proceeded toward shore. The workman looked well pleased with himself—more so than he would have done had he known John Ogilvy's mind.

III

OGILVY knew that he must win or lose everything at one blow, and faced the ordeal grimly enough, hanging on by sheer will-power.

Leaning heavily on the workman, staggering as he pulled himself along, he found the end of the pier in sight. Half a dozen taxi drivers were beckoning and shouting. He selected one, motioned, and the man sprang forward to take the bags. Ogilvy followed to his car, which was on open touring model, and turned to the workman.

“M'sieu, perhaps you'll accompany me?”

“With the greatest of pleasure!” replied the other, eagerly enough. Ogilvy motioned him in, seized the car door to steady himself, and looked at the driver.

“I am ill—I need air,” he said. “Drive out a little way along the coast road, then back to town.”

The driver assented, helped him in, and Ogilvy collapsed on the cushions. The workman at his side quite obviously considered all this a providential occurrence.

The car started up, gained the highway leading from town along the shore, turned into it, and everyone was happy; the chauffeur, for his extra fare, the workman, for the way Ogilvy was playing into his hands, and the American, for the impression of extreme exhaustion he had conveyed. He was badly off enough, but not nearly so badly as he appeared.

Within half a mile they reached a deserted spot with no chalet in sight, the long reaches of black rocks studding the exposed shore to the left. Ogilvy, bracing himself, saw the workman gazing off across the sparkling waters toward the Havre headland, and loosed his blow. His fist took the man accurately at the angle of the heavy jaw, and the workman limply collapsed. Ogilvy tapped on the glass, the driver glanced around, and then put on his brakes.

“Mon Dieu m'sieu, what has happened!” he exclaimed, staring at the senseless figure.

“Listen to me,” said Ogilvy curtly. “This man was one of a gang that tried to rob me, you comprehend? They misjudged their prey. Now if I turn him over to the police, you and I will both be questioned and caused trouble. So I propose that we leave him here beside the road and let it end there. Speak up—yes or no? If you refuse, go to the prefecture of police and turn him in.”

Naturally, the driver was only too anxious to escape the red-tape and inquisitions of a police inquiry; moreover, his hesitation was dispelled by sight of a hundred-franc note which Ogilvy was fingering. So, making sure no other car was in sight, he offered no further protest but opened a door, lifted out the body of the workman, made sure the man was no more than stunned, and set him beside the road. Then he leaped back to his seat, swung the car around, and headed back for Trouville at his best pace.

Ogilvy gazed out across the sands at the gaily colored tents and umbrellas on the beach near the casino, and with a last effort of will kept himself in hand. He was, now that the crisis had passed, gradually failing, and recurrent vertigo seized upon him. As the car approached the cathedral, he sighted by pure chance, the sign of a small hotel on a side street up the hill—the Hotel Fonduc. Swiftly, he tapped on the glass.

“Stop! I'll get out here.”

The chauffeur obeyed, then protested. M'sieu was obviously ill—and the bags were2

Ogilvy shook his head, paid the promised fee, then stood beside his bags until the car had departed on toward the casino. The final spurt remained before him, and he managed it somehow—but when he reached the little hotel he was staggering, and stars were dancing before his eyes.

He did not argue over the price of a room, but made out the regulation police card and then followed his host, who bore the bags. He found himself taken to a large, neat corner room, and expressed himself as well pleased.

“I was very seasick crossing from Havre,” he said, “and I must sleep—perhaps until tomorrow morning. Do not disturb me. I'll ring when I want anything.”

“Very good, m'sieu—our good Trouville air will soon put you in shape!”

Alone, Ogilvy locked the door; then leaned against it, trembling, reeling. He jerked off hat and coat, tried to undress—and collapsed across the bed.

When he opened his eyes again darkness was falling; the day had gone. He sat up, and immediately fell back under an access of giddiness while pain darted through him. He did not doubt now that but for his prompt action he would have been dead; no ordinary knockout drops would have thus affected him. It was an alarming thought, but he wasted no time on it—he managed to undress, and then crawled into bed. He was asleep almost at once.

He wakened again, to find the sun up—morning had come and half gone. When he rose, he found himself better, but extremely shaky. He rang for his breakfast, bathed and shaved, and after a bite to eat, got out his pipe and reviewed the situation,

“This bird traced me to the station, then to the Trouville boat, and knew I had tricked them regarding the suitcase,” he reflected. “Then what? He arranged with the old dame on the boat to fix my coffee, and did it with a heavy hand. He was taking no chances. Well, we've established the fact that Count Marmont is at the head of a cheerful bunch of cut-throats—and nothing else. Now for the grip.”

He pulled out Marmont's grip and attacked it. The affair was a cheap one, poorly constructed—not at all the sort which a customs officer would search, especially when his palm was greased. Besides which, as Ogilvy knew, American tourists were not bothered by the customs people unless some under-tipped porter drew down the official notice.

Thus, finding the suitcase locked, Ogilvy attacked it and speedily wrenched out the flimsily riveted fastenings on either side. He flung back the lid, then stared down at the contents, brows wrinkled in astonishment.

The suitcase was filled with soiled clothes.

Ogilvy broke out laughing. Shirts, pajamas, handkerchiefs, collars—his hand rumpled up the articles, and amusement seized on him. Here he had expended wits and strategy, had all but lost his life, over a suitcase filled with Count de Marmont's dirty linen awaiting the wash! No wonder it had been left at the dram-shop—probably it was to be taken to some particular blanchisseuse2

“But Chinamen don't do washing in France,” reflected Ogilvy, and his frown returned.

He untied the strips of cloth holding the contents of the suitcase in place, and ruthlessly tumbled out the articles. His half-suspicion was startlingly verified. Something dropped to the floor—he was looking at the dark green folder of his own passport! And now the cloth-lined bottom of the suitcase—yet not the bottom, surely! Too shallow for that2

Five minutes later, John Ogilvy leaned back, relighted his pipe, and regarded the row of little boxes on the table before him. They had been exhumed from the false bottom of the suitcase, and he was filled with admiration for the ingenuity of Marmont—not as to the false bottom, but the affair as a whole.

Slight attention is paid by the customs to the tourists who arrive from America, and the chances were ten thousand to one against any customs searcher giving a grip filled with soiled things a second glance, even if he opened it at all. As for considering that such a bag could have a false bottom, that was out of the question. The French have no organized system of rewards and reports such as the American government puts into play on its returning tourists, and Marmont could carry the thing off with practically no danger whatever.

It paid him well, too, since the French levy a high duty on precious stones. Ogilvy whistled in astonishment as he eyed the contents of the little boxes—unset stones of all descriptions, but none of them negligible; diamonds in platinum settings, tiny watch-bracelets, and one necklace of blazing sapphires whose sheer beauty held him spellbound. He examined one or two of the articles, found where names had been engraved and later erased, and sat back to figure it out.

“Why would he jeopardize this batch of stuff for the sake of stealing a passport?” he cogitated. “Of course, a passport would be of prime value in the hands of a crook over here, and perhaps Marmont has particular need for such an article at the moment; or one of his outfit might need it. Hm! He's certainly the head of an organization.”

As for the stones, these explained everything. They must undoubtedly be the loot of some American gang, stones too valuable to be easily disposed of at home. Marmont had taken them over, perhaps for a French syndicate, and after smuggling them into France could turn them over at good profit. There was the thing in a nutshell.

“How does it affect me?” thought Ogilvy, “I've got the loot, and there's going to be a large slice of hell raised over its disappearance, I don't want it particularly, but there's sure to be a large reward for it, and I want that reward, What's more—look at the front page story, exclusive with John Ogilvy! I'll bet the count has been dined and wined by half the would-be society in New York, too. What'll I do with the stuff?”

It was a poser. Ogilvy was not at all the sort to hand over conscientiously every lost umbrella he found to the police, but he had no desire to retain the jewels of other people. If he turned in these stones, the first thing he would be up against would be an inquiry as to how he got them, and he had no intention of explaining. He wanted to keep the whole thing tight until he could get the story on the wire. If he called in the police this would be impossible.

The thing to do, then, was to cable his New York paper, briefly describing the stones, let them take up the matter with the police, using their influence at home and in Paris to keep the story exclusive—and await developments, which should come within a day or so. To go over to Deauville and find the cable office meant the risk of being seen and recognized by Marmont's gang, who were undoubtedly moving heaven and earth to find him; but this risk must be run.

So much for the stones, but what about himself? He was in no shape to run down the story, as he realized when he began to dress. Once Marmont located him, recognized him as the man who had relieved him of the loot, it would be war; sharp and deadly. Perhaps he had already been traced to this hotel.

Glancing around the room, Ogilvy went to the old-fashioned washstand in the corner, pulled out its bottom drawer, piled the little boxes in it, and shut it again. This must serve for the present, Then he dressed, alarmed by his own weakness and lack of energy, and after replacing the soiled clothes in Marmont's suitcase, took it and left the hotel.

In five minutes he reached the line of waiting carriages beside the cathedral, and hired one to take him to the station. He chucked in the suitcase, settled back on the cushions, and was soon rolling along the main street of Trouville, with the walled river-channel on his right. Crossing the bridge, the carriage took him to the side door of the station, and Ogilvy got out.

“Now,” he said to the driver, “there is a noon train for Paris, eh? Good. You know the chalet of Count de Marmont, at Viller?”

The driver shrugged.

“One can always find, m'sieu.”

“Here's a hundred francs. Drive there and deliver this suitcase at the chalet. Any time this afternoon will do.”

The driver nodded, pocketed the money, and turned out of the big enclosure.

After five minutes, Ogilvy hired a taxi-cab and was taken to the cable office in Deauville, the more aristocratic of the twin resort towns. Here he sent off wires to announce his recovery of the passport, and filed a long cable in code to his own newspaper in New York.

These things took considerable time. When they were finished, noon had arrived. He left the office and made his way to the Potinière, the café across the street from the casino, where the so-called society of Deauville gathered each day. Ogilvy knew that in this assemblage of actresses, society loafers and pleasure-seekers, he was effectually concealed, so he made himself comfortable at a table beneath the trees, had a drink and a bite to eat, and presently paid his score and sauntered over to the casino. Finding that this would not open up for real business until late in the afternoon, he turned aside to hail a carriage—and things went black.