The Gay Triangle Part 21

Carefully removing the dart, d.i.c.k hurried with it to the laboratory of Doctor Lepine, the well-known toxicologist.

Doctor Lepine smiled.

"Lucky you didn't scratch yourself with it, Monsieur Manton," he said in French. "It would mean almost instant death!"

He listened gravely as d.i.c.k described the death of the two police agents. The doctor had been away in England at the time and had not even heard of the circ.u.mstances. But he hurried round to the Prefecture with d.i.c.k and carefully examined the doc.u.ments which dealt with the two cases and described minutely the appearance of the bodies.

"I have not the slightest doubt," he declared, "that both men were killed with one of these darts. Every indication points to it. But as the darts were not found we must presume they were removed after death to avoid arousing suspicion. The victim would be paralysed almost instantly, and would fall and die almost on the spot where he was standing when the dart infected him. If there are any more of these accursed things in Paris it will, I fear, be a difficult matter to protect Monsieur le Prefet, for a favourable opportunity must come in the long run."

d.i.c.k hurried back to Kapok's room, meaning to secure the blow-pipe. To his amazement the deadly weapon had disappeared! The police agents on duty outside the room a.s.serted that no one had entered. But an open window told its tale; some one had crept along the ledge outside, entered the room and possessed himself of the weapon.

d.i.c.k spent several anxious hours with the Prefet, Raoul Gregoire, and Inspector Roquet, arranging a plan of campaign.

Next morning found him crouched in an upper window of a locked room in a house facing the old villa in the Place d'Italie. Close at hand lay a powerful pneumatic gun, a weapon perfected by Jules and almost as deadly and efficient as a rifle. He was haunted by a sickening _sense_ of foreboding. Against every evidence of his reason and senses he felt convinced that it was from that old villa that danger threatened Gregoire.

Yet he was bound to admit that his fears seemed absurd. The old house opposite was packed with sightseers, but there was a detective in every room close to the window. Even the garrets had been searched. It was obvious that they had not been entered for months.

Yet d.i.c.k could not shake off the uncanny feeling which haunted him.

At last the head of the procession came in sight, with the blare of military bands and a crash of cheers from the thousands of spectators lining the streets. But d.i.c.k had no eyes for the show. His whole attention was riveted on the building before him.

The Sultan Ahmed Moha.s.sib, of Morocco, in his white _burnous_ with many decorations, pa.s.sed amid a hurricane of cheers. Glancing along the procession d.i.c.k saw the Prefet--a soldierly figure sitting erect in his car. In a few moments he would be abreast of the villa.

Suddenly d.i.c.k's eye was caught by a flash of light. Glancing quickly upward he saw to his amazement that the window of a garret facing him--a room which had already been searched--had suddenly opened. Only the chance reflection of the sun upon the gla.s.s had attracted his attention to the swift movement.

As Raoul Gregoire pa.s.sed, a dark rod, clutched in a hand which rested on the grimy windowsill, projected itself from the window. It wavered for a moment, then steadied itself and pointed downward.

Instantly d.i.c.k fired.

The hand disappeared with a jerk, while the rod slid forward and fell over to the ground!

Wild with excitement d.i.c.k dashed down into the street. It was utterly impossible to force his way through the cheering crowd and he could only watch Monsieur le Prefet in a fever of anxiety.

It was soon dear that Raoul Gregoire was untouched. Evidently the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin, if he had indeed dispatched one of the poisoned darts, had missed his aim.

Five minutes later d.i.c.k and half a dozen detectives were in the garret of the old villa. But they were too late. The bird had flown, badly hurt to judge by the blood which stained the floor. But on the window-sill lay three little poisoned darts ready for use.

A glance at the open skylight in the low roof was enough. In a moment they were out on the roof of the adjoining house.

A few yards away was a rope ladder hooked over the parapet and dangling to the exterior fire-escape leading from the roof of a big drapery store only ten feet below. The miscreant himself had vanished.

The would-be murderer, it was clear, must have climbed the fire-escape during the darkness of the previous night, and lain hidden on the roofs till the procession came along. After the garret had been searched, he had slipped down with impunity while every one was excitedly watching the procession.

They never caught him. But when Gregoire returned to the Prefecture a poisoned dart was found sticking in the upholstery of his car, close to his head. Had it been a bare half-inch lower down it would, no doubt, have struck him with fatal result. d.i.c.k's lightning shot had spoilt the miscreant's aim and saved the Prefet's life.

The incident is one of the secrets of the life of official Paris and led to the Prefet's resignation a month later, an occurrence which filled all France with dismay and was the cause of much conjecture and speculation.

Raoul Gregoire has returned to the provinces and is now Prefet of the Department of the Alpes-Maritimes an appointment which he much prefers.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE MESSAGE FOR ONE EYE ONLY.

The heat was stifling in the Gran Ancora at Barcelona, an obscure but grandiloquently named cafe of more than doubtful reputation. At dilapidated tables in the long apartment which served as a saloon groups of rough-looking men were drinking steadily. The fumes of strong tobacco poisoned the heavy atmosphere, flies swarmed over everything, the air was full of the reek of stale drink and unwashed humanity.

Though it was but early evening the ill-omened place was already filling up. It was a notorious haunt of betting men and some of the worst characters of the town, frequented by desperadoes who were ready to undertake any deed of violence if it offered the promise of plunder.

The swarms of anarchists, who are the curse of Spain, found there a ready welcome and congenial companionship.

At a table at one end of the long room, sat a solitary individual who was reading the "Diario," an anarchist journal devoted to the preaching of doctrine of the most revolutionary type. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him, though now and again curious glances were directed towards him. He took no notice of the hubbub around him, but went on calmly reading his paper and sipping slowly at a gla.s.s of the villainous wine which seemed to be the favourite beverage of the habitues of the house.

The stranger was no other than d.i.c.k Manton. He had come to Barcelona on the trail of a gang of international crooks who had got away with a hundred thousand francs by a clever bank swindle in Paris. Had his ident.i.ty been suspected his life in that haunt of depravity would not have been worth five minutes' purchase.

But he sat there undisturbed, apparently oblivious of what was going on around him, but in reality keenly on the alert and with one hand close to the b.u.t.t of the heavy revolver which, as he well knew, he might be called upon to use at any moment in the deadliest earnest.

Manton stiffened suddenly as his eye fell on the queer jumble of figures quoted above. They were buried away in a ma.s.s of advertis.e.m.e.nts and might well be overlooked by the casual reader. As d.i.c.k well knew, the "Diario" was used for all kinds of queer communications to all kinds of queer people, and he was attracted by the hint of mystery, a lure which he could never resist. The jumble of figures fascinated him. He had a strange feeling that it would be well worth while to try to decipher the weird cryptogram. But he knew better than to try to do so there. It was not healthy to try in public to pry into the secrets of the underworld of Barcelona.

d.i.c.k Manton had had a strange and adventurous career. But as he gazed at the odd announcement, he had a premonition that he was on the edge of a mystery stranger than anything that he had so far encountered.

Having read the queer cryptogram over and over again, d.i.c.k slipped the paper into his pocket.

Presently he finished his wine and sauntered out, with an uneasy feeling that made him wonder whether he would reach the door without a bullet in his back. He got out in safety, however, and once clear of the doubtful neighbourhood of the cafe, made his way swiftly to his rooms at the "Hotel Falcon."

It took several hours of hard work before he could obtain the key of the cipher. Then he realised with a gasp that it was in one of the simplest of British signal codes. The key read:

At first d.i.c.k was completely mystified. The message conveyed nothing to him. Who were Mataza, Wilson, and Greening? Where was Chalkley? And, above all, why should such a message appear in an English code in an obscure paper published in Barcelona?

It was the last point which worried him most.

He felt instinctively that the message must conceal a meaning of which he was necessarily ignorant, and that it must be related to some affair which was pending in England. The more he thought about it the more uneasy he grew. He had the premonition which so often comes to the help of the detective, and at length, though he was almost ashamed of acting on such slender grounds, he decided to consult his chief. An hour later he was on his way to Paris, leaving the affair of the bank swindlers in the hands of a capable subordinate.

Arriving in Paris he drove straight to Regnier's private apartment, just off the Place de la Concorde.

"Why, Manton, what brings you here?" asked Regnier in surprise. "Have you finished at Barcelona already?"

For answer d.i.c.k laid the deciphered cryptogram before the Chief.

"What do you make of that?" he asked abruptly.

Regnier read the slip of paper with knitted brows.

"Queer," he commented. "Why should it be published in the `Diario'? I think it means mischief. Do you know Chalkley?"

d.i.c.k shook his head.

"No," he replied, "but it sounds like an English name. And yet I have a feeling that I must have heard it somewhere. It sounds familiar, but I cannot place it. In the meantime I will run home and see if the English papers will tell me anything."

d.i.c.k found Jules and Yvette eager for news; he had telegraphed them that he was returning. d.i.c.k, Jules, and Yvette had become the most formidable combination in the French Secret Service. They always insisted on working together, they would accept no a.s.sistance except that which they chose themselves, and they would work only under the direction of Regnier, who was astute enough to realise their abilities.

Yvette had been prevented by a slight illness from accompanying d.i.c.k to Barcelona, and both she and Jules, who had stayed with her, hated inaction. There had been a slump in international crime of the kind in which they specialised, and they were suffering from _ennui_. Anything which promised excitement and adventure was welcome.