The Terror of Algiers Read online

  H. BEDFORD-JONES

  The Terror of Algiers

  Copyright © 1933 H. Bedford-Jones

  Originally serialized in Argosy, December 1933

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I - DEATH OF AN AVOCAT.

  CHAPTER II - TRIPLE SUICIDE

  CHAPTER III - A HOUSE OF LUXURY

  CHAPTER IV - BLACKMAIL RING

  CHAPTER V FOUR TRUSTED MEN.

  CHAPTER VI - TO THE SURÊTÉ

  CHAPTER VII - M. LE PRÉFET.

  CHAPTER VIII - SIGNAL FLASHES

  CHAPTER IX - SURRENDER

  CHAPTER X - PERFUME OF ARABY

  Cockney John Solomon knew that those “suicides” might be murders—especially when they took place in Africa

  CHAPTER I - DEATH OF AN AVOCAT.

  I WAS standing at the bar, alone, when the pallid, elderly man came up to me. I had noted him more than once since leaving Marseilles that morning. Now he spoke abruptly.

  “Monsieur, you are an American?’

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I regret that I have no card,” he said. “My name is Leconte. I am an avocat.”

  “Enchanted,” I said, shaking hands. “I’m John Herries, buyer for an American firm.”

  He looked disappointed. “A commercial man? But m’sieu’ looks like a soldier.”

  “Served my time, “I explained. “Lost my nerve and can’t take up a plane anymore, so I now earn my living honestly. Here’s looking at you!’’

  At his suggestion, we took our glasses to the little corner table. The bar was deserted. Even the barman had now departed temporarily.

  Leconte lowered his voice.

  “M’sieu’, I am prompted to ask a favor. I have seen your face before— in Algiers!”

  “Possibly, “I said. “I come down from Paris twice a year.”

  “I am an Algerian,” he said.

  It is thus that the French born in Algiers speak of themselves—and proudly, too. Algiers has been an integral part of France for more than a hundred years.

  “I undertook an apparently trivial commission for an American client,” he went on, “merely the obtaining of an envelope from the deposit box of a Marseilles bank. It now appears to be business of a most alarming nature. I cannot say just why. I am in terror, m’sieu’.’’

  Giving the man more attention, I perceived that his pallor was unnatural. Beneath his rather stiff manner was, indeed, a deadly fright. He was keeping his poise only by great effort.

  “Why pick on me?” I asked.

  He regarded me gravely, steadily.

  “Because, m’sieu’, I am a judge of men. One sees that you are strong, resourceful, unafraid. You have no nerves. You are an American. I dare trust no one else. I ask, m’sieu’, that you take charge of an envelope for me, returning it to me as we land tomorrow.”

  I looked at him in some astonishment for he seemed entirely serious. Undoubtedly, he was in the grip of some terrific emotion, probably fear. He had gulped down his drink at one ^crack, an unheard-of thing for a Frenchman.

  “Why don’t you hand it over to the purser to be put in the ship’s safe?” I suggested.

  “No, no! Don’t you understand?” He leaned forward, transfixing me with straining eyes. “I cannot trust them! You are an American; that is different. One sees at a glance that you have chivalry, honor, a fighting spirit. You could not be allied with these dirty brutes—”

  He checked himself abruptly.

  “Of whom are you afraid?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “No. I cannot tell you, m’sieu’. I regret—but it is impossible. If you would do me this favor it would be an inestimable aid. I ask you as one gentleman to another.”

  Somehow, the poor devil’s voice reached into me. He was pathetically afraid of something. Very likely, I thought, he was a bit touched in the head. The gradations of sanity, or rather of insanity, are extremely subtle among old-world people, for impoverished bloodstreams can cause very odd effects. This chap might have some phobia; and since he seemed a decent sort I shrugged and decided to humor him.

  “Very well, if it will make you feel easier,” I said. “But how do you know I won’t run off with your treasure, or whatever it is?”

  “You wouldn’t,” he answered, and mopped his forehead. “Besides, you could not, if I spoke to the customs people and laid a charge. However, it is no treasure at all.—Here. And, m’sieu’, you have my most earnest thanks.”

  He swiftly slid an envelope from his pocket, gripped my hand for a moment, and then rose and left the bar with a quick, nervous step.

  I looked at the brown envelope. It was of ordinary size, was heavily sealed, and was addressed in pencil to A. M. Parker, St. George Hotel. Being in French this had no doubt been scribbled here by Leconte after getting the envelope from the bank—for I felt sure this envelope must be the same one. It was thin, and seemed to enclose nothing at all.

  Shoving it into my pocket, I finished my drink and sauntered out.

  DINNER was an hour past, and the courrier, as these North African boats are usually termed, was chugging along on a calm Mediterranean under a flood of moonlight.

  She was one of the new boats on the run, all tricked up in modernistic style. The season had not yet begun, so there were no tourists. Otherwise, she carried the usual crowd. Up forward was a pack of Arabs and native soldiers, with a dozen recruits for the Foreign Legion. Aft, a few business men and a number of officers, gay in their sky blue and gold lace, or in the uniform of various African regiments, many of them having their families along. The writing and card rooms were well thronged; a portable radio was bawling out the Eiffel Tower program; everybody was happy and gay, as was usual on the south-bound run. Gayest of the French are these Algerians, and as different from their homeland people as day is from night.

  I walked the deck for a long time, smoking, enjoying the moonlit sea, wondering a little why this Leconte had not chosen one of the army officers for his repository. The captain, whom I had met on previous trips and at whose table in the dining room I sat, joined me, pacing up and down.

  “That’s a beautiful car you took aboard this morning,” I said, pointing at a covered-over Rolls Royce lashed in the well deck forward, with several other automobiles. “Brand new, eh? Somebody will have a pretty penny to pay in customs duties.”

  “Oh, that?” he replied. “No, it goes through free of duty. To a M. Solomon, of whom one knows nothing. Well, some people have all the luxuries, eh? Not that I envy these fools who run around in big cars. Mon Dieu! One’s life is never safe. Now, here at sea, one is in no danger of being run over or knocked down, or of having a spark set fire to the gasoline. No, you don’t get me into an automobile—except from necessity!”

  When he said good night, I started for my own cabin. This was one of six deluxe cabins which occupied a little half-deck above the upper deck, and I had been lucky to get one of them to myself. One went up a few steps, ducked into a narrow passage, and had three doors on either hand. There was no other way in or out.

  At the top of the steps, I opened the passage door and entered. My cabin was the last on the right. I was just in time to see a woman come out of it and close the door. She straightened up, saw me, and froze. I had not seen her aboard before now; she was, at a venture, about thirty, dark and slender, gorgeously beautiful. She wore expensive clothes, and I caught the flash of diamonds on her fingers.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “M’sieu’, I cannot
find my cabin.”

  “You found mine, all right,” I said. “Judging from your diamonds, you’re no hotel rat.—What were you looking for?” I spoke sharply.

  She drew herself up. “M’sieu’! You misjudge me! You are brutal!”

  “I know it,” I said bluntly. “I mean to be. Back up, now. You’ve got a skeleton key; otherwise you wouldn’t have got into that room. Get back in there and cough up everything, unless you want me to get the captain here and have the thing out in public.”

  I usually mean what I say, and she probably perceived as much. She put on an air of pleading beauty, clasped her hands, and smiled.

  “Ah, m’sieu’, I have only the key that was given me! True, it unlocked your door. I have been seasick since we started, and—”

  “Listen, sister. You get back into that room, and do it quick!” I said. “Never mind any sob stuff, unless you want to work it on the captain. If you’ve got any of my property, I aim to know it right now, and to get it back. Move!”

  At this, she passed to anger; but that did not work either. She could not get past me, and our voices had waked a child in one of the cabins. It began to wail. At this, startled, she stooped and put her key in the door and swung it open. With a defiant look, she entered the cabin and switched on the lights.

  I followed her, closed the door, and put my back against it. In the full light she was even more beautiful than I had first thought. A hard, brilliant sort of beauty, but a lot of it. She was the kind of woman who would make a sensation on entering any restaurant or theater.

  SHE came up to me suddenly, put her hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eyes tenderly.

  “Please do not be harsh,” she said, her voice low and purring. “I assure you, m’sieu’, it was but a lamentable error—”

  “It was for you,” I said. “And I’m not to be vamped, thanks.—What did you get?”

  “Nothing!” she exclaimed, and drew back, her eyes flashing. “You are a beast! How could you even imagine that I am a thief?”

  “Easily,” I said, looking around the cabin. “Hm! Nothing here of the slightest value—nothing you could use, except possibly the papers in my portefeuille; and I see you’ve been into that.”

  My brief-case had been lying on the bunk. It was still there, but was now face down, whereas I had left it face up. There was nothing in it of value to a thief, however.

  “You might just as well come clean,” I told her. “Did you take anything?”

  “No!” she declared, and somehow I believed her.

  “Good. Now, why did you come in here and go through my stuff?”

  She gave me a long look, then smiled and threw all pretense overboard.

  “If I told you, would you believe me?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. Getting out my cigarettes, I offered her one, held a light to it. “This is better. All I demand is your reason.”

  “Don’t you know that a woman is never reasonable?” she said in perfect English, and laughed at my look of astonishment. “Come, m’sieu’! You are American, and a gentleman. I shall tell you the exact truth. My father is an officer in the commissary. Another officer is bringing to Oran certain papers which would compromise and ruin him. If they were lost, he would be saved. I thought the man had this cabin. I came in here, saw the name on your portefeuille yonder, and on the papers, and realized my mistake. I took nothing. Look for yourself.”

  I nodded. She looked like a lady; she was dressed like a lady, yet I sensed something amiss.

  “You know me, mademoiselle. Your name?”

  “Lescaut,” she said. “Manon Lescaut.”

  “We shall meet again, perhaps,” I said, and throwing open the door I bowed to her.

  She uttered a laugh and departed with a backward look and a smile.

  Not until she had gone did the name hit me. Manon Lescaut.—Why, nonsense! What a fool I was to let her put that over on me! It was the name of an Eighteenth Century heroine, of a certain sort, and she had had the impudence—the brass—to give it as her own!

  My first impulse was to rush after her, but I checked it and turned instead to my brief-case. Nothing was missing, sure enough.

  Puzzled by this meeting, I turned in. The lady, it seemed to me, might be a dangerous sort of eat. She would appeal to most men, because of her beauty, but she looked like a bad actress to me—a good person to stay away from, and the farther the better. John Herries is no little tin angel, but he has learned through sad experience that some females are the worst sort of bad medicine.

  As to the story ‘she had handed me, that of course was a very plausible one; it did her credit. If she could think up so convincing a lie on such short notice, she was capable of anything. Glad that I had got rid of her so well, I jammed a chair under the doorknob, read a magazine for twenty minutes, and galloped off to dreamland without a hitch. I clean forgot about the envelope which Leconte had given me.

  THE other five deluxe cabins around me were all occupied by officers and their families, so her yarn was a palpable lie.

  I was thinking this when I got up and shaved in the morning, with the shrill voices of French infants going up from every hand. I had slept late, and we were due to dock at ten, so I rushed things a bit and hurried down to the dining salon. Breakfast is always informal on these boats, and everyone was sitting anywhere and anyhow; even pajamas were not barred.

  Voices were rising in excitement on every side, but I paid little attention until a young officer slipped into the chair next mine, gave me a pleasant greeting, and grinned.

  “What the devil!” he said, affecting a bored air. “One would think the world had turned over, eh?”

  “Sometimes it does, at sea,” I observed dryly.

  He twirled his new little mustache. “Bah! It is strange how people regard death.” And he tried to look like an old campaigner. “Especially these civilians. You are an old soldier, by your looks. Am I right?”

  “Right,” I said. “Air service. But why bring up death? Isn’t the morning pleasant? Or have you a hangover?” He looked slightly astonished. “What? You haven’t heard what happened last night?”

  “No,” I said. “What was it, then?”

  “A man died—a well-known fellow, it seems. Some avocat from Algiers; a lecturer at the law university there.” I gave him a hard look. “What!—not Leconte?”

  “That was the name, yes. He killed himself during the night, it seems. Gave no reason, and left no letter. He lacked the usual vanity of suicides, eh?—A friend of yours, perhaps?”

  “No,” I said. “Met him yesterday for the first time.”

  A friend of mine! Something in the manner of that whipper-snapper, as he asked the question, gave me furiously to think, as the French say. He was young, and he lacked the military reserve of his seniors; but somehow I had the impression that his rather awkward question was by no means so careless as it seemed. Was it altogether by chance that he had sat down here and accosted me?

  “Leconte, yes,” I said. “A queer chap. He spoke to me in the bar last night. I remember now; he complained of feeling ill. He said that he desired to see me today about something, but he did not say what. And now—Imagine!”

  The young officer looked much pleased with himself. I felt certain that he had wanted to make me talk. This thing began to look serious. Why had Leconte been unable to trust anyone aboard here? And why had that woman been in my cabin, unless someone had seen me with Leconte?

  I bolted my breakfast and got out on deck. The wide, curved bay was in sight, with the yellow and white city running up the sharp hillside. Everyone was crowded at the rail, gabbling as they watched Algiers. All I had to do was listen, and learn everything.

  Leconte had been found dead by his steward. He had occupied a cabin to himself. A bullet had been put through his head. In his hand was a silenced pistol of an unusual type evolved in Germany. That Leconte had killed himself was quite obvious.

  I went to my own cabin and packed, feeling entirely ske
ptical. Leconte had not been the type of man to kill himself, nor the type to carry a weapon around with him. Particularly a rather uncommon sort of weapon, like this silenced pistol. No, it did not fit, somehow. To me it looked like murder.

  However, it was none of my business. I have too much sense to get mixed up with the French police.

  All this reminded me of the envelope. I felt in my pocket; it was still there. Locking my cabin door, I took out the envelope and deliberately broke the seals. There might be some explanation here of the murder, if it was a murder, or some information that ought to go to the police.

  Inside was a smaller envelope, thin, with the return address of a Paris hotel in one corner, and nothing else. I held it to the electric bulb, looking through the thin paper. Inside was nothing except a photographic film. Even through the envelope I could see that it showed a man and a woman together in a garden. That was all.

  With a sniff, I replaced it in the original envelope, which I pocketed. I would have to deliver it to this Parker at the St. George Hotel, of course.

  CHAPTER II - TRIPLE SUICIDE

  THE unintelligent and affected tourist, of the type you long to smite utterly, will tell you that Algiers and its country is spoiled, not worth seeing, and so forth. Well, don’t believe it. When you’ve been there once you cry to go back. And that’s that.

  I was thinking this, as I stood at the rail and looked at the long yellowish-white arcades and buildings lifting along the hillside to the Kasbah, and awaiting my turn to hit the gangway. The tender had just left for shore, and, glancing down at the crowd in her, I saw two figures standing together in her bow, talking. They were the young officer who had accosted me during breakfast and the superb woman who had entered my cabin the previous night.

  “Probably comparing notes now,” I thought. “Well, that settles it, sure enough! Wonder which one of them murdered Leconte?”