The Terror of Algiers Read online

  Going ashore in turn, I passed the customs triumphantly—they are only a formality, for those coming from France—and took a taxicab. It was good to be back, to see the swarms of beggars and bootblacks, the Arabs slouching along in burlap djellabas, the occasional wealthy native in his splendid robes, the soldiers and Algerians, with smiles on every hand. A friendly, hospitable country, wearing the smile that France used to wear before the war wiped it off.

  Since business could wait until tomorrow or next week I decided to get luncheon and then look up the chap called Parker and give him his precious film—a pretty expensive film, it seemed to me. So I sent my driver to the Hotel des Étrangers, a cheap, second-rate, gorgeously comfortable French hotel. I obtained my usual room without difficulty, and asked about the St. George. It had been open for the past week, I found. We were not yet at the end of October; thus the establishment had opened early this year, a big tourist crowd being in prospect.

  I was still talking with the desk clerk when an obviously English gentleman stepped up and asked if a Mr. Solomon was in. The clerk turned to him.

  “Not any longer, sir. He left here this week, to occupy his villa, which has just been finished. May I give you the address? It is just past Bouzarea, on the Observatory Road.”

  The Englishman departed. This Solomon, no doubt, was the chap to whom the new Rolls which had just arrived was being shipped. I mentioned that possibility to the clerk, but he merely shrugged and appeared to know little about the man. So I went on to my room, and immediately after left to get luncheon at my favorite cafe, fronting the nearby Square Bresson.

  In the restaurant I ran slap into Sam Gower, a chap from Kalamazoo, who had the local agency for American farming implements, and who did a huge business. I sank down at his table, and found him full of talk about the country club, the new tariff, and so forth.

  All of a sudden his jaw fell and his eyes bulged.

  “My gosh, Herries!” he exclaimed. “Turn around and look at that dame, if you want to see a real beauty! You might know, if she’s with him. He picks ’em right, that boy does!”

  I turned around, and there, floating along toward a corner table was the lady of my cabin. She had the brass to fling me a smile and a wave of the hand, and of course I rose and bowed. The man with her gave me a look that was far from a smile, and went on. He was a big fellow, but not at all stout. Just naturally built big, like a gorilla; and, to boot, he looked like a gorilla in the face. He was dressed to kill, and by the way the proprietor bowed and scraped he was someone of importance.

  “Say, I thought you only got here this morning?” exclaimed Sam. “How come you know her?”

  “I don’t,” I said, in an offhand way.

  “I just gave her the high sign, and she had to smile. It always works, boy.”

  “Aw, cough it up!” he returned. “Who is she?”

  “Honest, I don’t know,” I told him. “She was on the boat coming over, that’s all.—Who’s the big chimpanzee with her?”

  “You’d lay off her if you knew,” said Sam. “He’s quite a big shove in these parts, and I don’t mean maybe, either! I think he’s a Bulgar by origin; his name’s Nick Zontroff. He’s one of the gambling crowd who’ve been running the casino on the Riviera and the Channel resorts. They say he owns a dozen stables of horses and so forth. He’s built himself a swell place outside town, and has bought a lot of property here and there.”

  “Looks like he could give the czars of the underworld back home quite a run for his crown,” I observed.

  “By all accounts he might,” admitted Sam. “But don’t do any talking. It isn’t healthy even to express your mind about him, I hear.”

  I gave him a curious look. “Say, you’re not in America! You’re in France, where speech is free—and then some.”

  “Well, you mind your step, big boy!” said Sam hastily. “You like nothing better than to get into a row and raise hell, but I don’t. I got a wife and family, besides—and not enough insurance.—Well, Herries, I got to run along. Listen! I’ll send a club guest card over to the hotel for your use, see?—And lay off that dame, if you’re wise. That bird doesn’t like you a bit, by the way he’s looking at you. See you later. So long!”

  He slipped the waiter a banknote and hurried out of the place. I paid little attention to what he said, because Sam was always a quiet sort, and hated to get into a jam. Last time I had been here we’d both got drunk and gone to an Arab dance at the Kursaal and ended up in jail, so I suppose he thought I was bad company.

  I WENT ahead and finished my meal, then took care of the waiter and reached for my hat. As I turned around, I noticed that Nick Zontroff was giving me a hard stare, so I walked straight over to his table and shook hands with the lady, telling her how glad I was to see her again. Then he gave me a real jolt, for, as she introduced us, he took my hand warmly and permitted a grin to spread all over his ugly face. He had a grip like an iron man.

  “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Herries!” he said in faintly accented English. “Mile. Vassal was speaking of you. Sometime soon, you must come out to my villa and see my horses. You are fond of horses, yes?”

  “Not much, to be frank,” I told him. “I run more to mechanics. Autos and things. None the less, it would give me great pleasure, I assure you.”

  “Good,” he returned cordially. “I shall pick you up one of these days. We will have a little party, eh?—All good friends, good people. Here in Algiers are the best people in the world; glad to have met you!”

  I walked out, and felt his eyes following me. In spite of his grin, those eyes of his somehow gave me a cold chill. So her name was Vassal, eh? She might be Russian, of course. There are thousands of Russians in North Africa—all kinds of them.

  Since I was going to the St. George, I took a taxicab up the hill. The English hotel is slap on the tram line, but one has to throw a bit of a front, and as it was a pretty hot day I was glad of the excuse to hail a cab and enjoy the ride. As we purred along and turned up the winding incline to Mustapha Superieur, however, I somehow found myself thinking again of Nick Zontroff. He was big, as I have said; almost as tall as I am, which is six foot two, but built wide, whereas I stick up like a lonely lath. A bull for strength, no doubt, but I had a vague notion that I could handle him if he ever got nasty.

  We finished the climb and swung in among the magnificent trees of the hotel grounds. I walked in, crossed the foyer to the desk, and waited until a group of haughty English tourists finished an argument with the clerk.

  As I waited, I could not help observing an extremely attractive young woman who stood talking with an odd old chap, at one side; they looked like Beauty and the Beast. At that, the old fellow was not so bad. He was rather sloppily dressed, and was smoking a vile old clay pipe that smelled to high heaven. He had the oddest face I ever saw on a human being; it had no expression, although it was round and chubby. Pudgy is the right word for it. His eyes were blue and rather wide, and as blank as his face; but I noticed that they could twinkle when they met those of the girl. He wore a chechia cocked over one ear, with wisps of gray hair sticking out around the edge. As I was looking at them, they shook hands and the old gentleman walked out toward the door, rather stiffly.

  I turned to the desk, presented my card, and asked for A. M. Parker. The clerk gave me a queer, puzzled look, which I did not understand at the moment. Then he beckoned a boy and spoke under his breath.

  “In just a moment, Mr. Herries,” he said. “Ah, yes! Here is Miss Parker now,”

  I turned and saw the girl coming toward me—the same girl. I call her that, although she was really a woman. There was something simple and fresh about her, despite her black dress, for she had level, honest eyes of clear gray. If her face was not exactly pretty, it was full of the character which makes for real beauty. She came up inquiringly, and I bowed.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Parker,” I said. “You see, I asked for A. M. Parker.—I suppose he must be your father?” ”No,” she returned
. “I am the only A. M. Parker—Alice M., you see. My father was Francis Parker. I suppose you don’t know that he died only a week ago? It was odd that you should ask for me in that manner.”

  I apologized hastily.

  “You see, I only got here today,” I went on. “I had nothing to go on except the name of A. M. Parker, written on an envelope. If you’ll be good enough to give me a few moments in private, I’ll explain why I’m here.” Her eyes went into me for a moment, then she nodded.

  “Of course. Will you come out on the veranda? There’s a bit of a breeze there, and we can speak quite freely.” We went out on the long, wide veranda that overlooks the gardens and settled down in comfortable chairs. I was pretty well taken aback to find that I was dealing with a woman, and I could not help contrasting Alice Parker with the Vassal lady.

  MISS PARKER glanced at my card, then looked up at me. ”Well, Mr. Herries?”

  “I don’t know if it’s well or not,” I said, trying to be whimsical about a very serious matter. “Tell me, do you know a man named Leconte?”

  She shrank a little.

  “Oh, please!” she exclaimed. “I only heard about it a few minutes ago. It is terrible! I don’t understand it a bit, really. You are not a newspaper man?”

  “Lord forbid!” I said. “I’ve been many things, but never that!”

  “Oh!” Her eyes widened suddenly. “Are you Herries, the American aviator who was with the French army in Morocco?”

  “Never mind all that stuff,” I said. “Yes, I’m the bird, but I’m not aviating now. I came from Marseilles on the same boat with Leconte. You’ve heard about his murder?”

  “Murder?” Her face changed swiftly. “No! They said it was suicide. You don’t understand, of course, if you’ve only just arrived here. But perhaps the report about suicide was false.” ”Well, they called it that,” I told her. “But to my notion, it was no such thing. Leconte was not the man to do it. Besides, I happen to know that he was afraid of something.”

  “Oh! That’s exactly what I thought—what I said when—” she checked herself abruptly, and swallowed hard. ”You see,” she went on quietly, “my father died only last week, in exactly the same manner—pistol and all. I know it was not suicide. I know it! But I could not make any one believe me.—But go on please. What did you want to tell me?”

  I was startled by the apparent coincidence she had mentioned, but I went on to tell her of the incident aboard the courrier. At first she had been alert, even suspicious, but she changed as my story proceeded, and fell into a more natural attitude. I gave her the envelope. She drew out the inner envelope and produced the film, looking at it with puzzled eyes.

  “All this—well, I don’t understand it at all,” she said slowly. “It’s frightfully good of you to have taken all the trouble, and I know some explanation is due you, but I can’t give it. You see, my father was a consulting architect. He came down here six weeks ago to go over the plans for several new hotels which the Transatlantique people have in mind, and I came with him. We stopped in Marseilles several days. Just before his—his accident, he spoke of getting something he had left in the safe deposit box of a Marseilles bank. He was much worried, refused to tell me why, and I could do nothing.

  “The day after it happened, I engaged Mr. Leconte to go to Marseilles and get whatever was in the box. My father left very little ready money, you see, and I thought he might have put away some cash or stocks there.”

  “Hm!” I put in. “Looks bad for me, having broken into that envelope—”

  “Don’t be silly!” she exclaimed quickly. “Any one would have done it, under the circumstances. It doesn’t look bad for you at all. I’m really very grateful to you, Mr. Herries! Only, I do wish I could understand all this. Why would my father have put this photograph away so carefully as he did? Why would anyone else want it so desperately?”

  “Is it any one whom you know?” I asked.

  She held up the film and shook her head.

  “No. Of course it’s hard to tell about a film—the reversal of light and shade makes everything look so different.”

  I took it from her and held it to the light. The two figures, as she said, looked unreal. Still, there was something vaguely familiar about that of the man. It puzzled me.

  “Seems to me I’ve seen this chap somewhere,” I said. “Look here, Miss Parker, will you let me get a print or two made from this, today? The finished print may throw some light on the matter. I’ll have a couple made, and bring them back here this evening.”

  “Good idea!” she approved. “Do it by all means, if you will. But I hate to impose—”

  “Never mind all that,” I cut in. “You’re an American, aren’t you? Well, so’m I; and since I’ve bought chips in this game, I want to see it through. Let me be inquisitive, like a good girl. Do you mind a few questions?”

  She shook her head, her fine eyes resting on me steadily.

  “You say your father was found in the same way. With a silenced pistol?”

  “No,” she replied. “It was a small automatic, pearl-handled. I know he did not carry or even possess such a weapon, yet this one had his initials engraved on a silver plate.”

  “What became of the gun?”

  “The police have it. Only yesterday I saw the prefect of police himself,” she went on, “and I urged him to find out whether that engraving had been done here in Algiers. He seemed much struck by the idea, and promised to have an investigation made at once. I thought that someone might have planned it all.”

  She broke off, her lips quivering.

  “SAY, you’re a good one!” I exclaimed eagerly. “You know. I was just thinking the same thing. What about your father? Did he have any enemies?”

  “None, to my knowledge,” she said. For a moment she hesitated, then looked up at me. “You may think I’m silly about it, but three weeks ago another man here died, in the same way. He was a retired army man, a colonel, of an aristocratic and wealthy French family. I can’t recall his name.

  I saw about it in the papers, and only remembered it the other day. He had shot himself one night, and no one knew why.”

  “Oh,” I said thoughtfully. “That is more than a coincidence, eh? Look here, Miss Parker, how are you fixed? For money, I mean. Pardon me if I’m awkward about it, but—”

  “I understand. It’s very good of you,” and she smiled a little. “My father left plenty, thank you. He was well to do, and he had won rather heavily last summer. Racing was his one hobby or vice, as you may look at it. He did not own hones, but he used to bet rather heavily. As to the lack of ready money, that’s been taken care of. I’m all right, thanks.”

  “Is there anything I can do about other arrangements, then?” I suggested.

  She caught my meaning and shook her head, looking down.

  “No, thanks, it’s all been done. He had to be buried here, you know. Under French law, any one who dies a violent death must be—must stay in France. Fortunately, an old friend of my father’s turned up and has attended to everything for me—a Mr. Solomon. He was here only a few minutes ago telling me about poor Mr. Leconte.”

  “l saw him, then!” I exclaimed. “A queer little old chap with blue eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “A new car came over on the boat for him,” I said. “A big Rolls. The captain said it was going through free of duty.—What is this Solomon? Some politician?”

  She laughed. “He says he’s a retired ship-chandler, but that’s rather ridiculous, isn’t it? He’s really a most interesting and amazing sort of man, Mr. Herries. You must meet him.”

  I rose. “Well, I’ll come back this evening if I may, with the pictures. Would it be impertinent if I asked you to get out of the hotel and have dinner with me somewhere? Might buck you up a bit.”

  “It would be highly impertinent,” she said, “but extremely pleasant. Let’s!”

  “Done. I’ll show up at eight with the cleanest taxicab in town. Does that suit you?”r />
  She assented, shook hands with me, and I departed.

  I walked down the hill, clear downtown, and was treading on air all the way. When I got down to the Boulevard Laferrière, I turned into the gardens and dropped on a bench, feasting my eyes on the glorious post office opposite—a building that puts to shame ’the most splendid examples of Arab art. Somehow, it seemed appropriate. That building and Alice Parker sort of went together, if you understand. A man would go half across the world to see either one a second time.

  Lighting a cigarette, I sobered down by degrees until I could think less of the girl and more about her story. It looked oddly sinister to me. Of course, it was perfectly possible that after one man committed suicide in a certain way others would do the same. Such things have happened.

  It is well known that if a suicide takes place in a hotel room, others will follow in that same room—this has been proven by statistics, which will prove anything. The psychological effect of suicides affords a remarkable field of study.

  Was it a question of suicide, however? I strongly doubted this. Besides, the deaths had not occurred in the same room.

  CATCHING sight of a photographer’s sign on the upper windows of a building across the street, I rose and crossed to the building. In five minutes I was talking with the photographer, who was thrown into visible agitation by the sight of a hundred-franc note. He readily agreed to drop everything else and make a couple of prints from the film while I waited. So I settled down by a window, idly watching the street and the park and the gorgeous post office.

  If these deaths were a coincidence, probably no one wanted that film. But why had Parker so carefully laid it away in a bank box? No, somebody had been after it; and if anyone had murdered Parker on account of it, they would certainly keep an eye on his daughter. Having failed to get it from Leconte, suspecting that he might have given it to me, and knowing that I had called to see her this afternoon—Hm! I shook myself to get rid of the unpleasant inferences. Then, as I looked down at the street I saw something that startled me.