The Dark Star by Robert W. Chambers (best fiction novels of all time TXT) 📖

id="page_353"/>353 within an hour of the time that the robbery was committed?

Leaning back carelessly on the lounge and keeping his eyes on the people in the café, Neeland imparted these ideas to Sengoun in a low voice—told him everything he knew in regard to the affair, and asked his opinion.

“My opinion,” said Sengoun, who was enchanted at any prospect of trouble, “is that this house is ‘suspect’ and is worth searching. Of course the Prefect could be notified, arrangements made, and a search by the secret police managed. But, Neeland, my friend, think of what pleasure we should be deprived!”

“How do you mean?”

“Why not search the place ourselves?”

“How?”

“Well, of course, we could be picturesque, go to my Embassy, and fill our pockets with automatic pistols, and come back here and—well, make them stand around and see how high they could reach with both hands.”

Neeland laughed.

“That would be a funny jest, wouldn’t it?” said Sengoun.

“Very funny. But––” He nudged Sengoun and directed his attention toward the terrace outside, where waiters were already removing the little iron tables and the chairs, and the few lingering guests were coming inside the café.

“I see,” muttered Sengoun; “it is already Sunday morning, and they’re closing. It’s too late to go to the Embassy. They’d not let us in here when we returned.”

Neeland summoned a waiter with a nod:

“When do you close up inside here?” 354

“Tomorrow being Sunday, the terrace closes now, monsieur; but the café remains open all night,” explained the waiter with a noticeable German accent.

“Thank you.” And, to Sengoun: “I’d certainly like to go upstairs. I’d like to see what it looks like up there—take a glance around.”

“Very well, let us go up––”

“We ought to have some excuse––”

“We’ll think of several on the way,” rising with alacrity, but Neeland pulled him back.

“Wait a moment! It would only mean a fight––”

“All fights,” explained Sengoun seriously, “are agreeable—some more so. So if you are ready, dear comrade––”

“But a row will do us no good––”

“Pardon, dear friend, I have been in serious need of one for an hour or two––”

“I don’t mean that sort of ‘good,’” explained Neeland, laughing. “I mean that I wish to look about up there—explore––”

“Quite right, old fellow—always right! But—here’s an idea! I could stand at the head of the stairs and throw them down as they mounted, while you had leisure to look around for your stolen box––”

“My dear Prince Erlik, we’ve nothing to shoot with, and it’s likely they have. There’s only one way to get upstairs with any chance of learning anything useful. And that is to start a row between ourselves.” And, raising his voice as though irritated, he called for the reckoning, adding in a tone perfectly audible to anybody in the vicinity that he knew where roulette was played, and that he was going whether or not his friend accompanied him.

Sengoun, delighted, recognised his cue and protested 355 in loud, nasal tones that the house to which his comrade referred was suspected of unfair play; and a noisy dispute began, listened to attentively by the pretty but brightly painted cashier, the waiters, the gérant, and every guest in the neighbourhood.

“As for me,” cried Sengoun, feigning to lose his temper, “I have no intention of being tricked. I was not born yesterday—not I! If there is to be found an honest wheel in Paris that would suit me. Otherwise, I go home to bed!”

“It is an honest wheel, I tell you––”

“It is not! I know that place!”

“Be reasonable––”

“Reasonable!” repeated Sengoun appealingly to the people around them. “Permit me to ask these unusually intelligent gentlemen whether it is reasonable to play roulette in a place where the wheel is notoriously controlled and the management a dishonest one! Could a gentleman be expected to frequent or even to countenance places of evil repute? Messieurs, I await your verdict!” And he folded his arms dramatically.

Somebody said, from a neighbouring table:

“Vous avez parfaitement raison, monsieur!”

“I thank you,” cried Sengoun, with an admirably dramatic bow. “Therefore, I shall now go home to bed!”

Neeland, maintaining his gravity with difficulty, followed Sengoun toward the door, still pretending to plead with him; and the gérant, a tall, blond, rosy and unmistakable German, stepped forward to unlock the door.

As he laid his hand on the bolt he said in a whisper:

“If the gentlemen desire the privilege of an exclusive 356 club where everything is unquestionably conducted––”

“Where?” demanded Neeland, abruptly.

“On the third floor, monsieur.”

“Here?”

“Certainly, sir. If the gentlemen will honour me with their names, and will be seated for one little moment, I shall see what can be accomplished.”

“Very well,” said Sengoun, with a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m Prince Erlik, of the Mongol Embassy, and my comrade is Mr. Neeland, Consul General of the United States of America in the Grand Duchy of Gerolstein!”

The gérant smiled. After he had gone away toward the further room in the café, Neeland remarked to Sengoun that doubtless their real names were perfectly well known, and Sengoun disdainfully shrugged his indifference:

“What can one expect in this dirty rat-nest of Europe? Abdul the Damned employed one hundred thousand spies in Constantinople alone! And William the Sudden admired him. Why, Neeland, mon ami, I never take a step in the streets without being absolutely certain that I am watched and followed. What do I care! Except that towns make me sick. But the only cure is a Khirgiz horse and a thousand lances. God send them. I’m sick of cities.”

A few moments later the gérant returned and, in a low voice, requested them to accompany him.

They passed leisurely through the café, between tables where lowered eyes seemed to deny any curiosity; but guests and waiters looked after them after they had passed, and here and there people whispered together—particularly two men who had followed them 357 from the sun-dial fountain in the rue Soleil d’Or to the Jardin Russe, across the Place de la Concorde, and into the Café des Bulgars in the rue Vilna.

On the stairs Neeland heard Sengoun still muttering to himself:

“Certainly I am sick of cities and narrow strips of sky. What I need is a thousand lances at a gallop, and a little Kirghiz horse between my knees.”