The Moonlit Way Part 35

"Has the last mail come? Is there a letter for me?" he asked.

"Yes ... I'll bring you w-what there is--if you'll let me?"

"Thanks, Sweetness! Come right up!" And she heard him say: "It's probably your letter, Thessa. Dulcie is bringing it up."

Her limbs and body were still quivering, and she felt very weak and tearful as she climbed the stairway to the corridor above.

The nearer door of his apartment was open. Through it the music of the gramophone came gaily; and she went toward it and entered the brilliantly illuminated studio.

Soane, who still lay flat on the roof overhead, peeping through the ventilator, saw her enter, all dishevelled, grasping in one hand the fragments of a letter. And the sight instantly sobered him. He tucked his shoes under one arm, got to his stockinged feet, made nimbly for the scuttle, and from there, descending by the service stair, ran through the courtyard into the empty hall.

"Be gorry," he muttered, "thot dommed Dootchman has done it now!" And he pulled on his shoes, crammed his hat over his ears, and started east, on a run, for Grogan's.

Grogan's was still the name of the Third Avenue saloon, though Grogan had been dead some years, and one Franz Lehr now presided within that palace of cherrywood, bra.s.s and pretzels.

Into the family entrance fled Soane, down a dim hallway past several doors, from behind which sounded voices joining in guttural song; and came into a rear room.

The one-eyed man sat there at a small table, piecing together fragments of a letter.

"Arrah, then," cried Soane, "phwat th' devil did ye do, Max?"

The man barely glanced at him.

"Vy iss it," he enquired tranquilly, "you don'd vatch Nihla Quellen by dot wentilator some more?"

"I axe ye," shouted Soane, "what t'h.e.l.l ye done to Dulcie!"

"Vat I haff done already yet?" queried the one-eyed man, not looking up, and continuing to piece together the torn letter. "Vell, I tell you, Soane; dot kid she keep dot letter in her handt, und I haff to grab it. Sacre saligaud de malheur! Dot letter she tear herself in two. Pas de chance! Your kid she iss mad like tigers! Voici--all zat rests me de la sacre-nom-de sacreminton de lettre----"

"Ah, shut up, y'r Dootch head-cheese!--wid y'r gillipin' gallopin'

gabble!" cut in Soane wrathfully. "D'ye mind phwat ye done? It's not petty larceny, ye omadhoun!--it's highway robbery ye done--bad cess to ye!"

The one-eyed man shrugged:

"Pourtant, I must haff dot letter----" he observed, undisturbed by Soane's anger; but Soane cut him short again fiercely:

"You an' y'r dommed letter! Phwat do you care if I'm fired f'r this night's wurruk? Y'r letter, is it? An' what about highway robbery, me bucko! An' me off me post! How'll I be explaining that? Ah, ye sicken me entirely, ye Dootch square-head! Now, phwat'll I say to them? Tell me that, Max Freund! Phwat'll I tell th' aygent whin he comes runnin'?

Phwat'll I tell th' po-lice? Arrah, phwat't'h.e.l.l do you care, anyway?" he shouted. "I've a mind f'r to knock the block off ye----"

"You shall say to dot agent you haff gone out to smell," remarked Max Freund placidly.

"Smell, is it? Smell what, ye dom----"

"You smell some smoke. You haff fear of fire. You go out to see. Das iss so simble, ach! Take shame, you Irish Sinn Fein! You behave like rabbits!" He pointed to his arrangement of the torn letter on the table: "Here iss sufficient already--regardez! Look once!" He laid one long, soiled and bony finger on the fragments: "Read it vat iss written!"

"G'wan, now!"

"I tell you, read!"

Soane, still cursing under his breath, bent over the table, reading as Freund's soiled finger moved:

"Fein plots," he read. "German agents ... disloyal propa ... explo ...

bomb fac ... shipping munitions to ... arms for Ireland can be ...

destruction of interned German li ... disloyal newspapers which ...

controlled by us in Pari ... Ferez Bey ... bankers are duped.... I need your advi ... hounded day and ni ... d'Eblis or Govern ... not afraid of death but indignant ... Sinn Fei----"

Soane's scowl had altered, and a deeper red stained his brow and neck.

"Well, by G.o.d!" he muttered, jerking up a chair from behind him and seating himself at the table, but never taking his fascinated eyes off the torn bits of written paper.

Presently Freund got up and went out. He returned in a few moments with a large sheet of wrapping paper and a pot of mucilage. On this paper, with great care, he arranged the pieces of the torn letter, neatly gumming each bit and leaving a s.p.a.ce between it and the next fragment.

"To fill in iss the job of Louis Sendelbeck," remarked Freund, pasting away industriously. "Is it not time we learn how much she knows--this Nihla Quellen? Iss she sly like mice? I ask it."

Soane scratched his curly head.

"Be gorry," he said, "av that purty girrl is a Frinch spy she don't look the parrt, Max."

Freund waved one unclean hand:

"Vas iss it to look like somedings? Nodding! Also, you Sinn Fein Irish talk too much. Why iss it in Belfast you march mit drums und music? To hold our tongues und vatch vat iss we Germans learn already first!

Also! Sendelbeck shall haff his letter."

"An' phwat d'ye mean to do with that girrl, Max?"

"Vatch her! Vy you don'd go back by dot wentilator already?"

"Me? Faith, I'm done f'r th' evenin', an' I thank G.o.d I wasn't pinched on the leads!"

"Vait I catch dot Nihla somevares," muttered Freund, regarding his handiwork.

"Ye'll do no dirty thrick to her? Th' Sinn Fein will shtand f'r no burkin', mind that!"

"Ach, wa.s.s!" grunted Freund; "iss it your business vat iss done to somebody by Ferez? If you Irish vant your rifles und machine guns, leaf it to us Germans und dond speak nonsense aboud nodding!" He leaned over and pushed a greasy electric b.u.t.ton: "Now ve drink a gla.s.s bier. Und after, you go home und vatch dot girl some more."

"Av Misther Barres an' th' yoong lady makes a holler, they'll fire me f'r this," snarled Soane.

"Sei ruhig, mon vieux! Nihla Quellen keeps like a mouse quiet! Und she keeps dot yoong man quiet! You see! No, no! Not for Nihla to make some foolishness und publicity. French agents iss vatching for her too--l'affaire du _Mot d'Ordre_. She iss vat you say, 'in Dutch'! Iss she, vielleicht, a German spy? In France they believe it. Iss she a French spy? Ach! Possibly some day; not yet! And it iss for us Germans to know always vat she iss about. Dot iss my affair, not yours, Soane."

A heavy jowled man in a soiled ap.r.o.n brought two big mugs of beer and retired on felt-slippered feet.

"Hoch!" grunted Freund, burying his nose in his frothing mug.

Soane, wasting no words, drank thirstily. After a long pull he shoved aside his sloppy stein, rose, cautiously unlatched the shutter of a tiny peep-hole in the wall, and applied one eye to it.

"Bad luck!" he muttered, "there do be wan av thim secret service lads drinkin' at the bar! I'll not go home yet, Max."

"Dot big vone?" inquired Freund, mildly interested.