The Cibourne Trail

by H. Bedford-Jones

Illustration: “What’s the matter here?” I demanded. “Can I be of service?”

Detective Clancy and his partner Logan put over one of their most exciting exploits in this fine tale by a master of mystery fiction.

The
Cibourne Trail

By H. Bedford-Jones

I WAS passing along the boulevard before one of the large department-stores of Paris, not far from the Madeleine, when it happened. In front of me was a woman, obviously an American tourist, extremely frightened; a Frenchman had her by the arm; another was on her other side; a crowd was collecting. I butted in.

“What's the matter here?” I demanded. “Madame, can I be of any service?”

“Oh, you speak French! Please help—I don't know what it is!” she exclaimed. The man at her arm gave me a look.

“Shoplifter,” he said curtly. “Will you come along, monsieur?”

“You bet,” I said. And to the woman, who was nearly in hysterics: “Better go with him and see what it's about, and Ill keep company. They think you're a shoplifter.”

She was half angry, half frightened, protested the charge vehemently, but we all went along to the office of the general manager, and things were sorted out. The manager demanded to know who I was.

“Jim Logan, assistant to Doctor Clancy, the dentist in the Rue Cambon—”

“Ah, we know M. Clancy very well!” he exclaimed. “Be seated, m'sieur.”

They might well know Clancy, who had been located in Paris for years—because Clancy did more detective work than he did dentistry, and was one of the best-known men in Paris in official circles.

The present affair was simple enough. The woman, a lady of position and culture from the Middle West, had been seen by three girls in the notion department to put several small toilet articles in her purse. She had not paid for them, had left the store, and the detective had promptly brought her back. Here were the articles—she had no receipt to show.

Her defense was that she was in a hurry, had given one shopgirl the money, had put the things in her bag as the girl told her to do, and had gone. She could not be sure which girl had waited on her; she could be sure of nothing—was in tears. Since I was acting for her, the manager took me to one side and expressed his regret.

“You know, my dear sir, how shoplifters are always women of position? Kleptomania, not theft! This is our first experience with an American lady; we find many Germans, Belgians, English, but never before an American. I regret it most deeply, I assure you!”

He was quite sincere. I asked what would be done, and he shrugged.

“Nothing. It is a matter of a few francs—not worth the trouble. Perhaps you will see the poor woman on her way?”

I did so, convinced that she was a kleptomaniac. She was furious—was going to appeal to the bank, to the consulate, to the police. I saw her to her hotel, and then went along to Clancy's office.

HE was disengaged when I entered, and thrust a cigarette at me. A queer little man, Clancy—very short in build, with gray mustache and imperial, shabbily dressed, absent-minded, his gray eyes clear and keen as crystal. Laughing, I gave him an account of my recent experience, and dismissed the matter.

“What's on for today? Got any cases in hand?”

“For a newspaper man, at present an assistant detective,” said Clancy dryly, “you're a stupid sort, Jim Logan!”

“All assistant detectives are stupid,” I chuckled. “That's why the senior partner shines—by contrast. What are you driving at?”

“Shoplifting,” he said, puffing at his cigarette. “Did you see the girl who was supposed to have been paid?”

“Yes.” I gave him a curious glance. “You're not going to open up the matter and defend our countrywoman, are you? It's useless.”

“Of course it's useless.” And he nodded. “No, let her go her way in peace—she was neatly trapped and has no comeback. However, it might be worth our while to glance over the three shopgirls who witnessed her theft. Little things lead to big things. Of course.”

“What do you mean by trapped?” I demanded. “It was a clear-cut case. You know a big store like that doesn't want to trump up false charges—”

He waved his cigarette with a derisive gesture, and I fell silent.

“Take the case of a shopgirl getting from one to two hundred francs per month wages,” he observed. “Tourists flood around her, spending money regardlessly. She is tempted, and she finds one or two friends in the same department who are also tempted. Voilà, as the French say! There you have the nucleus.”

I smoked silently. After a moment he resumed:

“This it not an isolated case, Logan—it happens every day, in every one of the big shops here. It's one of the traps for tourists, but Americans seldom fall for it, because they're too sharp. A woman comes into the store; she's alone, a foreigner, unacquainted with the way things are done in Paris. Good! The shopgirl has a possible victim. She is in a hurry and buys one or two little things. The shopgirl tells her to put them in her bag, or perhaps she does it without being told. Usually she is told—this is the trap. It's done every day in every shop.

“She pays the girl. She does not go to the cashier, so gets no receipt. The girl has not made a pencil-mark through the price-ticket. The woman starts to leave. The girl had already signaled her accomplices, to one of whom she slips the money given her. The detective is called, sent after the woman. Once the latter leaves the shop, he accosts her and brings her back. Three witnesses against her—a plain case! There's nothing to show she paid the girl. You see? I'm surprised you're not on the dodge, Logan!”

“We live and learn,” I commented. “By George! The store ought to be put wise to it—”

“Bah! They stand by the employees, naturally. To check the game would be difficult—an endless system of espionage would be necessary. Well, you saw the three girls in question, did you? Good. We have a starting-point.”

“For what?” I demanded. Clancy fingered his imperial and chuckled.

“For something bigger than you'd believe—perhaps. It's a long chance. You'll have a bit of real work to do, my young friend, and if you succeed there'll be some rewards in sight, I promise you!”

“Want me to get acquainted with the girl?” I said, and grunted. “Fat chance! These French business girls are smart as steel traps. The very fact that I went there using your name would spoil—”

“Did the girl see you? Did she know you used my name?”

“No,” I said reflectively. “Come to think of it, she didn't. And the woman said she'd not know the girl again—had paid her no attention. The manager was a wooden wall to her. If I'd not been there, they probably would have pinched her as an object lesson—”

OBVIOUSLY Clancy was paying no attention to anything I said. He had the far-away look of a man who habitually loses his umbrella or gets out at the wrong station. I waited for him to wake up again, wasting no more good words on the empty air.

“Coke,” he ejaculated at length.

“By-product of coal,” I commented. He gave me a wondering look, then chuckled.

“Oh! Sometimes. Hm! Logan, do you know anything about the little island across the Channel—home of labor unions, dole, nonworkers and nobility?”

“I haven't the honor,” I returned with a shake of the head. “Never saw England.”

“There are several ways in.” He spoke dreamily, as though all the while pursuing his train of thought far beyond the words. “If you take the air-route or Calais-Dover, you'll be fashionable—one way, no baggage is examined; the other, they go through the last item and your person to boot. Folkestone-Boulogne is nearly as bad. Newhaven-Dieppe is variable; you never know whether the Customs will be asleep or awake. But by Havre-Southampton, you dump down your grip, and the Customs man puts a chalk-mark on it while he's reciting the list of dutiable articles. Yes, it must be Havre-Southampton. The air-route is never examined, but the people who fly are known after the second trip.”

I looked at him in puzzled wonder.

“And what,” I demanded, “has all this touring information got to do with a supposed kleptomaniac and a tourist trap in Paris?”

“I told you,” responded Clancy absent-mindedly. “Coke.”

The connection was beyond me, and so I abstracted another of his cigarettes to assist me in puzzling it out. Clancy, with his mind on the other side of the world, sat looking like an opium fiend after the third pipe, until I shot a demand at him.

“Spill it!”

“Eh?” He started. “What?”

“The connection between kleptomania, tourist traps, and coke.”

He laughed and reached for a cigarette himself.

“Sometimes I think you're something of a wizard at this game yourself, Logan,” he observed, “and at other times you develop a woodenness that's something amazing! I'd advise you to turn loose on your own, this time. Your use to me is your difference of outlook and your ability to act swiftly. Now, tourist traps go into all sorts of ramifications.”

True enough, as I knew. From Deauville to Nice, pleasure-seeking tourists were the prey of the harpies, despite all the efforts at protection exerted by the French government. They had themselves to thank for most of it, naturally.

“Dope-smuggling is is running the Government ragged,” went on Clancy. “Go to it! You know the store; you know the city; finally, there's the Havre-Southampton route. These people work de luxe, by regular steamers. Want any money?”

I knew better than to ask him for particulars; but: “Does this blind alley lead to London?” I observed with heavy sarcasm.

Clancy gestured complete ignorance with his hands, French-fashion. Then he took a wad of notes from his breast pocket and tossed it over to me.

“There's ten thousand francs—big game, big money. Government rewards will pay us back, with a profit. Unless it's too much for you, go ahead and get busy.”

“Too much? The job or the ten thousand francs?” I asked, scooping it in.

Clancy chuckled. “Get to work! And keep me posted. I've a straggling idea where it'll run, but nothing to go on; however, I sha'n't be idle. Don't forget I'm rather too well known in some quarters, and if we meet, don't speak to me first. Now run along, and all good luck go with you!”

I ran, but with only the vaguest idea of what I was about.

“YOUR use to me,” Clancy had said, “is your different outlook.”

There was his reason for sending me blind out on the quest—of what? Drugrunners, it appeared. Three shop assistants playing a crooked game for small stakes! How could this lead to big game, I could not see for the life of me. It might be there was a general organization of crooks running from large to small—this was the only possible hope of any solution. Perhaps Clancy thought I might run down the big game by working through the small fry.

There was, in fact, nothing else I could do, therefore I set about doing it.

The department-store in question being close by, I made for it, and presently found myself at the notion counter or counters—a whole corner of the vast establishment, chiefly given over to women's articles and toilet goods. A giri came up and inquired what I wanted.

“Je ne sais pas,” I told her, and she smiled.

This carefully pronounced sentence; instead of the usual “sais pas,” was enough to tell her that I was a tourist. So was my accent. I can get along pretty well with French, though not well enough to fool any Parisian; seldom, indeed, can the foreigner manage such a feat. In this case the girl at once began to speak English, asking what sort of article I was after, and giving me a chance to study her.

Unhealthy, naturally, and as usual none too clean about the neck. Clever—watching the effect of every word on me, summing me up, evidently questioning what was behind my aimless manner. And she had the usual animal-like nostril of the lower-class French woman; pretty in a way, yet of the earth earthy. The French maxim that one need not be ashamed of anything the good God has made, leaves its mark.

Few shoppers were about, so my quest was unhurried. I bought a toothbrush and handed the girl a twenty-franc note, slipping the brush into my pocket. She was not to be so easily taken in, however—the little game was played only upon women, or perhaps one victim in a day was the maximum. She calmly led me to the cashier's desk and waited while I got my change. I had not finished with her, however.

“I'd like to look at some perfumes,” I said.

She accompanied me to the proper counter and displayed the wares in a bored fashion.

“You speak English very well,” I commented. “Where did you learn it?”

“In Paris,” she said. “And I am here to sell, not to listen to idle compliments from tourists.”

“It is not a compliment, but an inspiration,” I told her. “If you learned English in Paris, why shouldn't I learn French here? Perhaps you could teach me. I couldn't afford more than a hundred francs a lesson.”

Mention of this staggering sum was enough to shake anyone. She eyed me sharply, for your French shopgirl may be an unwedded wife, but she has nothing to do with strangers. However, the hundred-franc offer was a temptation.

“M'sieur,” she said without anger, “my work begins at nine, and I am not out until seven. I fear you must seek another teacher. There are schools.”

“And I do not like these schools,” I said. “Now, I speak a little French, not much. You must, obviously, dine each evening. If you were to dine with me three evenings a week, and help with my terrible accent, it would be three hundred francs added to your wages.”

She gave me another appraising look and evidently decided that I was not attempting any tourist flirtation but meant my words literally—as I did. Just then a floorwalker came along to see what all the talk was about, so I bought a cheap bottle of perfume, and the gentleman went on his way satisfied. My girl gave me a quick look and a smile, and I knew the day was won—not by me, however. It was won by three hundred francs a week.

“The first lesson?” she asked.

“Where and when you like,” I replied. “It depends on your quarter of Paris, eh?”

She nodded, and yet hesitated. “You are very genteel,” she said in French. “And yet, I do not know—”

I produced a hundred-franc note and handed it to her.

“For the first lesson, in advance,” I said. “I leave the place of meeting entirely to you, mam'selle.”

“You know the Boulevard St. Denis?” she asked, and I nodded. 'Then, say, the Café Mairie, at eight tonight?”

“Very good,” I responded, and paid for my perfume in a matter-of-fact manner, and so went my way.

I HAD done the obvious thing, naturally. It might lead me nowhere. These girls were sharp ones; perhaps, in their little tourist-trap that won a few francs from each victim, they were being sharpened still further for larger work—perhaps not. At the same time they might know more than they seemed to know, and I was out to buy information. Naturally they would not talk here in the store, and pumping would be easier work over a dinner-table.

Thinking it as well to take counsel with Clancy and perhaps worm some item of value from his stubborn lips, I looked in and found him busy cleaning instruments. He heard what I had done, and nodded.

“That's where youth and beauty score,” he observed. “Now, if I had suggested dinner and French lessons to the prettiest girl in sight—whew! I'd have caught it heavy. Not to mention the hundred francs per time.”

“Well,” I said, “one look at me, and she could see my intent was innocent—”

“It had better be, for your own sake,” and he chuckled. “You might have a look at the paper there.”

I saw an English paper lying on the table, and my eye was caught by the heavy headlines of an article on the dope-traffic. It was on what passes for the front page—in England the front page is stuck away where nobody can find it.

Illustration: The proprietor froze into immobility as he looked into the barrel of my pistol.

“It needs skilled labor,” I commented. “The beggar who wrote this doesn't know the first thing about a lead, or about headlines—”

“No, nor about cocaine and allied products,” said Clancy. “He blames it all on Hamburg and Rotterdam, talks about hollow boot-soles and umbrella-sticks—bosh! Funny what the British public will swallow from Fleet Street. I expect this chap never heard of Cibourne.”

“Who's Cibourne?” I asked.

“Mystery man,” said Clancy. “He's a Frenchman, but has never been seen in France—and the English police can't set eyes on him either. However, Cibourne has landed about a hundred pounds of cocaine alone in the hands of London crooks, within the past two months—not to mention heroin and other such products.”

“If they know his name, they can get him,” I said. “How'd they learn it?”

Clancy shrugged. “A name isn't a man, and gives no direct clue. Some little fellow squealed it, I suppose. A hundredweight of cocaine, Logan—some few hollow boot-soles, eh? Of course. Quite a few.”

He wiped the last pair of forceps, and laid them away, and chortled at me.

“The girl wont turn up. Somebody in the place saw you accompany that American woman to the office of the 'grand director,' as they call him. She'll be tipped off. Counting your perfume and tooth-brush, you're a hundred and eighty francs out of pocket.”

“I'll bet you the hundred and eighty she turns up,” I said.

“Done. If you're going to keep the appointment, you'd better go!”

Glancing at my watch, I agreed with him, and went.

Naturally, I took the underground, or Metro, as it is generally known, to the Porte St. Denis station. This station has two entrances, like most subway stations in Paris. And as I came out of one exit, I saw the girl and knew my bet was won. She was pacing up and down before the side entrance to the restaurant.

Clever, all right—but I was on the lookout. She came toward me, alone; my glimpse of the man leaving her, diving hurriedly into the other Metro entrance, gave me only a fleeting impression of him. They had seen me first. He wore the usual Parisian hat, a wide-brimmed black felt, and my hasty snapshot of his face showed it as furtive, ferret-nosed, pallid. Beyond doubt he was a drug-addict.

The girl came toward me. She looked different, here, wearing a little black dinner dress with touches of black lace. Cheap enough, yet the Parisian talent for making something out of nothing gave it a dainty touch, and she looked more attractive now. I offered my arm and complimented her on her appearance, in purposely clumsy French. She smiled a little, and we entered the restaurant.

As we came to a table, I checked her slightly, and put a card into her hand.

“One must always be polite,” I murmured. “Especially pupil and teacher! Here is my card, mam'selle. You have not yet told me your name.”

She laughed slightly, as though amused by my awkwardness.

“It is Marguerite,” she answered readily, “—Marguerite Cibourne.”

SELECTING an excellent dinner, I got rid of the waiter; then the wine-boy brought his card and I passed it to my vis-à-vis. Whether because she liked it, or from consideration for my pocket, Marguerite Cibourne picked a late vintage Vouvray.

Meantime I was hesitant between placing the blame on Clancy or on chance. Obviously it was impossible for Clancy to have known the identity of the girl I had selected as a French teacher; and yet these impossible things had a way of turning up, where Peter J. Clancy was concerned. Perhaps the little dentist had been amused by my way of worming information out of him. I was ready to venture a long bet that Clancy had been occupied for some time in quietly getting information about the dope-ring, doubtless for the Government. And my little adventure with the American lady had come at just the right moment to let me into the game.

My partner was very happy over the outing, for she must have concluded by this time that I had no ulterior motives in the invitation; this was typical of her class. She started to work brightly enough, asking how she could best help with my accent.

“Suppose we talk about your work,” I suggested. “It will give me new words, and I shall learn by hearing you talk.”

She nodded to this, and I led off by asking whether she had always been in the same department-store.

“Always is a very long time,” she returned demurely. “I am not that old! No, I've been there only a year, in the same department.”

“And how many of you are there?”

“Three of us—oh, là, là, Does M'sieur Logan wish other teachers too? Well, there is Mlle. Lebert, Mlle. Ockerts, and myself. And the buyer, Madame Lebrun.”

“And you like your companions?”

“But yes! We are very good friends. It is necessary that we should be friends, working all day together, is it not?”

I agreed with this. She broke in upon the questions with the remark that I already spoke French very fairly.

“Perhaps,” I assented. “Yet this fact does not prevent me from desiring to improve my knowledge, especially when I can dine with a charming companion!”

She laughed, and fell into a cheerful camaraderie. Presently our meal arrived, or at least the first essentials of it. When the waiter had departed, I reverted to questions.

“Yours is not a common name,” I told her. “Is there anyone else of the same name in the department-store?”

She shook her head. “No. You are right, it is not a common name.”

I was stumped. Obviously enough, a girl such as this could not be the cocaine-dealing Cibourne, the smuggler. She was a rather weak sort, with no great force of character—one reason I had selected her almost instantly as a victim. Yet she did not seem depraved, vicious in any way, or a police character: she was merely a clever, light-headed Parisian girl.

“Have you any relatives in the store?” I asked idly, and then was astonished by the sharp look I received.

“Why do you ask that?”

“To enlarge my vocabulary.” And I laughed. She nodded.

“My uncle is buyer of woolen goods for the firm.”

“Oh! And you got your position through him, eh?”

She nodded. “He is very good to me.”

“He would be—anyone would be! But didn't you say there was no one else of your name in the store?”

“But there is not!” and she laughed gayly. “He is my mother's brother—his name is Guilbert.”

“After this we both devoted ourselves to our meal.

I WAS exceedingly satisfied with myself, and small wonder—here I had the whole thing complete, cut and dried, except for details! Guilbert must make frequent trips to England in connection with his buying. The store catering largely for tourists, must carry English woolens. It would pay its employees meanly. So Guilbert could turn many a dishonest penny in his travels, without suspicion pointing to him—the more so as woolens destined for Paris or returned to England would be heavy. A regular traveler, with a definite standing, representing a large firm, the Customs officials would never dream of molesting him.

Why had Clancy called it “something big?” It was certainly one of the flattest cases we had ever tackled together. Obviously Guilbert would be known to his underworld associates, not by his own name, but by the first to come to mind—that of his defunct brother-in-law. Everything was pat.

While Marguerite got on with the Chateaubriand, I was busy with mental calculations. Assuming the three clerks caught a kleptomania client once a week, which must be the limit of activity, it meant at most a hundred francs to divide among them. Despite her Uncle Guilbert, I had no doubt this girl was in on the little game. It seemed a petty business, until the thought of blackmail came into my head. A tourist caught in Paris could be milked profitably at home—perhaps.

Was this the aim of the gang? Or as Clancy had hinted, was it an educational affair by which apt pupils were raised to greater heights of crime? Well, the girl must be made to talk. After seeing the pasty-faced man vanish down the Metro steps, I was morally certain she was in on the whole thing. Also, our pupil-and-teacher relationship would not last more than a lesson or two, and action must be prompt. I had no desire to be taking this girl out on interminable dinner-parties. Nothing ventured, nothing gained!

At the present moment she sat against the wall, facing me. She could not get away without making a scene, even if I startled her into flight. So, after vainly plying her with the Vouvray in the attempt to loosen her tongue, I started in abruptly.

“The American lady was badly frightened this morning, eh?”

Her swift glance showed she was instantly on guard, and she made no response. Leaning elbows on table and looking at her intently, I gave her a second shot.

“How much did your friend clear on the deal?”

She tried to look indignant, and failed. Bewilderment came next, and that failed. Fear glimmered in her eyes.

“I do not understand,” she said, suddenly losing interest in her dinner. “What do you mean, m'sieur?”

I laughed and relaxed slightly.

“Oh, we all know how these things are done. In my opinion, it's not worth the risk. If, now, it were a matter of something like this—”

Quietly laying a folded thousand-franc note on the table, I met her gaze steadily. The implication of the purplish bit of paper was clear enough.

“M'sieur,” she said coldly, “I am only a poor shopgirl, but even a shopgirl may be virtuous.”

I allowed myself a grin at this.

“For the sake of Uncle Guilbert, and his admirable sister, may you long remain so!” I said. “But is it virtuous, mademoiselle, to conduct a campaign of petty thievery, rendering innocent people guilty in the eyes of others?”

She regarded me steadily, dangerously, alertly. Yet she was badly frightened.

“I have never done so,” she said.

“You have connived at it,” I stated calmly, banking heavily on Clancy's theory. “Those of you in the notions department work together, swear to each other's perjury.”

Everything must have struck her like a blow—my seeking her out, bringing her to dinner, all the rest of it. She turned pale.

“What would you?” she demanded, without another attempt at denial. “I am junior to the other two there. If I did not assist them, they would see that I was discharged. And does it hurt anybody? The tourists, perhaps—bah! Who cares about a tourist, flinging money around like dirt? Everybody else gets their easy money. Should we poor folk not touch a bit of it, when it means so much to us?”

“I'm glad you admit it,” I said dryly.

“I admit nothing, m'sieur,” she retorted with sudden energy. “You have been kind, but now I understand the reason. See, here is your hundred francs. I will go, rather than be thus insulted.”

She half rose, laying down my hundred-franc note.

“If you go, mam'selle,” I said easily, “you will find an escort awaiting you at the door—just outside the door, I think.”

At this she sank back into her seat again, and her face was swiftly pitiful under its make-up. Then her eyes flitted from me, and drove past me, at the corner doorway, as though she could see gendarmes waiting there.

“Come, Mlle. Cibourne,” I said, feeling sorry for this poor little victim of a rotten system. “Come! I wish information, that is all.”

“That is all!” she said in an accent of irony.

“Certainly, and reason enough for my inviting you here. Let us suppose, now, that you were given full protection from those you fear,”—and in my pause, she started slightly,—“and were paid well for your trouble. Would you tell what you know?”

FOR an instant her eyes widened on mine, in startled fear, and her lips trembled. Then:

“I know nothing!” she exclaimed.

“And I, little,” I responded. “Yet the penalties in France for traffic in illicit drugs are rather heavy. And the reward, if I learn what I wish, is equally heavy.”

So speaking, I quietly put the hundred-franc note under her bag, which lay on the table. The purplish thousand-franc note I half extended. She lifted her hand, but instead of taking the note, made a slight gesture.

I turned swiftly. There by the corner entrance of the restaurant stood the pasty-faced addict who had dived down the Metro entrance. He slipped away out of sight, but not before I had seen him. I turned back and smiled a little.

“Your friend was not quick enough,” I said. Next time, don't wave him off, but invite him to join us. “I shall be delighted to meet him.”

All pretense of conversation or improving my accent was long since past and forgotten. Marguerite, sitting back to the wall, was trapped, and looked it. Her face became yet whiter, her eyes larger. She made no attempt to get away, but looked as though she had walked into a trap and were awaiting the closing of the jaws upon her.

“Will you answer the questions I put?” I asked sharply, putting thoughts of mercy aside, as I must.

“I dare not,” she muttered; yet her nerve was going fast.

“I will guarantee you protection.”

“Impossible. You do not know them, or you would not say such a thing. Let me go—let me go, m'sieur, before evil comes of it!”

The request was both a plea and a sign of returning self-control, which was the last thing I desired.

“It is for you to choose,” I said coldly, “whether you go with my money, or with an escort whom you may not like.”

Her eyes went to the thousand-franc note hungrily. It was down beside my plate on the table. The waiter came, and I ordered coffee and benedictine for two.

“What do you want to know?” she asked nervously, when we were alone again.

Being none too sure myself of what I sought, I drew bow at a venture.

“When does your uncle go again to England?”

A shot in the dark—her expression told me instantly that it had gone amiss.

“But he does not go to England!” she said, surprised. “He interviews the travelers in woolens who come to the store!”

I tried again. “They send the stuff by Havre and Southampton, eh?”

This was better—Clancy was behind me this time, and to a certain extent the shaft went home. The waiter brought cups and glasses, and went away again.

“We do not trade with England,” she said. “The tourists come to the store to buy.”

About this reply was a certain shakiness, a lack of surety, giving the girl away. I smiled, as though knowing all about it.

“We are not talking about the store any longer, mam'selle. Come! I am talking of what has made your friend by the door a human wreck. You comprehend.”

She did; it got her, finished her completely. Tears came into her eyes.

“Will you let me go, m'sieur?”

“Not at all,” I said firmly. “I should be sorry to see you go in company of the two police agents who await us. Then I should have to attend the proces verbal in the morning, and you would have an unpleasant night of detention. If you speak freely, you shall have full protection; and this,”—I tapped the thousand-franc note—“is only part of the reward you will receive.”

The pourer came with the coffee; another came with the benedictine. Both saw the large bank-note on the table and grinned, drawing their own conclusions, which did not trouble me in the least. When they had gone, the girl changed suddenly—she leaned across the table and spoke with a new and definite decision.

Illustration: Around the corner came Bill and another seaman shoving the reluctant Norman along between them.

“If it were possible—but it is not. If I tell you all, I should not live to profit by any reward. For this reason, even if I wished—”

She finished with a most expressive gesture, and it made me pause momentarily for thought.

Clancy must have been right—it was something big! Only something big could so terrify this girl, could so fill her with the fear of death itself. Yet I had ten thousand francs to play with!

“Have you friends outside Paris?” I asked thoughtfully.

“No nearer than St. Jean de Luz,” she answered. “My mother lives there, in the south.”

“The Spanish border—good!” I nodded at her. “The Sud Express leaves the Quai d'Orsay at ten every morning. If you comply with my request, you shall be on it tomorrow morning, with a through billet for St. Jean de Luz and two of these thousand-franc notes in your pocket. They may be powerful in Paris, these unkindly friends of yours, but they would dare attempt nothing so far away.”

Things hung in balance. Again I saw her look past me, and I glanced around toward the entrance, but there was no sign of her companion. I had not the least idea whether her information would be worth two thousand francs, but in these ventures of Clancy's I had found it always paid to take long chances. Then her name—it meant a lot!

“Three of those notes,” she suggested, cupidity gleaming in her eyes.

This was the French in her showing through, and showed me she was hooked. If I fell for it, she would probably double-cross me, for I had no check whatever on her, except that of bluff.

“I can have your information for nothing,” I responded, “by requesting the two agents to enter. You know, perhaps, how one tells at the prefecture—even when one does not want to tell? Well, choose between me and the prefecture!”

She gave in.

“What do you wish to know, then?”

“When the next consignment of drugs goes to England.”

“It has already gone,” she murmured, rather than spoke.

“No trifling. The next, I said!”

“But I do not know, m'sieur!” she exclaimed, white-lipped. “Only that one departed yesterday, and is now waiting.”

“Waiting where?”

“That too I do not know. Only that Gambin, who will take it to England, has not yet left the city. Gambin is known to the police—” She hesitated and stopped, as though she had said too much.

“You gain nothing by evasions,” I said coldly, though it was a hateful business to thus torture the poor creature. “Come! Already you've said enough to hang you. The rest, if you want to win all! Otherwise, you lose all. Where is that consignment at the moment?”

“I do not know!” she breathed, her eyes tragic.

“But it goes through Havre?”

She shook her head to this, as not knowing. Her eyes said otherwise.

“Gambin—where is he?”

She looked past me to the doorway. Her glance darted about.

“He leaves tomorrow.”

“Come—out with it! Give me the process of action, how he manages it!”

“He—they are all suspect,” she returned, breaking down. “He goes to Le Havre, knowing he is watched. He goes to the wagon-restaurant and dines, and his baggage will then be searched. There will be nothing found in it.”

SHE paused, her eyes flitting here and there about the room. I made a gesture, touching the crisp bank-note, and she shivered a little, then went on.

“At Havre he meets a man in an automobile—a man once imprisoned for such work.” She wet her lips, and the words seemed dragged from her. “His car leaves for Dieppe, and Gambin waves him off, then goes to a hotel. The agents follow the other to Dieppe, and find nothing. At the last minute, at midnight, Gambin leaves his hotel and goes aboard the Southampton boat. He takes nothing on the boat with him.”

“Yet he must have a ticket and a berth,” I put in.

“It has been bought in another name, some days ago,” she answered. “Search will be made of the other man at Dieppe, but it is Gambin—Gambin!” She insisted on the name, with such energy as to raise suspicion in me.

“And Gambin takes the cocaine on the steamer?”

“No.” She shook her head, desperate now, as though determined to go through with it at any cost. “He receives it after he is on the steamer, for he is known to the police.”

“He takes it ashore at Southampton, then?”

“No. There are three in all. One will see that Gambin receives it on board. In the morning, when they land, Gambin sees that another receives it to take ashore. But of this I know nothing—only that Gambin is the director for the consignment. He lands to make sure the money comes back. He will bring it back with him.”

“And Gambin,” I said, “is the man who left you just before I arrived—the man hanging around the door here?”

She started. “No, no!” she exclaimed sharply. “He is not Gambin—do not think it!”

She was a bad conspirator, this poor girl. Her eagerness to put me off gave me the idea this man was the one to get first, but for the moment I had my hands full. I had first to make sure of her.

“You will be at the Orleans station on the Quai d'Orsay at nine-forty-five tomorrow,” I said. “I'll meet you there, with your tickets. At the same time I'll hand you two thousand francs. If you need anything else, tell me now. Can you give me other names than Gambin's?”

“No, m'sieur, I know none of the others.”

“Where do you live?”

“Rue d'Austerlitz—Quarante bis.”

“Then I will now escort you to Quarante bis, Rue d'Austerlitz. You'll be watched all the time, mam'selle. If you attempt evasion or duplicity, the end of it is the prefecture. If not, then happiness! You understand?”

She nodded in a pale and frightened way. I did not blame her for fear, knowing thus abruptly that the prefecture loomed above her. They are devils, those French police—very efficient devils, serving a devilishly efficient master! The French law is merciless, much more merciless than our American law—and holding about one hundred per cent more justice for all concerned.

I did not try to probe farther here. If she were not lying, we could reach her again when necessary. If she were lying, then it was not worth the trouble. So, satisfied with what had been accomplished, I summoned the waiter and paid the bill, and ordered a taxi called.

She accompanied me in silence to the Rue d'Austerlitz, and I watched her go past the concierge with a brief greeting—proof enough that she had not attempted deceit in this. So I departed—there was a place to book in the Sud Express, and there was a report to be made in the Rue Cambon.

It looked like a good game, this time, even if a trifle flat and smugglish.

{fqm|“}GAMBIN?” queried Clancy. “Wait a minute.”

He telephoned to the prefecture. Early as it was,—not yet nine in the morning,—Peter J. Clancy got action when he was on the line. If there was anything this American dentist wanted and could not get, it was only because the Paris police did not have it.

In fifteen minutes a special messenger arrived with a photograph and the particulars from Gambin's dossier. Here, at least, the girl had told the truth—the man was known to the police. He had done two years for housebreaking, since when nothing had come up against him. A large man for a Frenchman, he had an open, honest sort of face, easily recognizable. I had never seen him before.

“You'd better be hustling—it's past nine,” said Clancy cheerfully. “And best not come back here, Logan. You're apt to be followed; a girl who would talk like that to you is weak. She'll have talked to somebody else before this. Lose yourself, once you see her off, and get a train for Le Havre. Go to the Hotel Central, opposite the war memorial, at half-past eight tonight, I'll put a long-distance call through for you there at eight-thirty. If Gambin is on the Southampton boat-train, I'll know it.”

This arranged, I went down to the street, caught a taxi, and made the Quai d'Orsay station well ahead of my appointment. Punctually at nine-forty-five Marguerite Cibourne appeared, carrying a modest suitcase and a hat-box.

“Good morning,” I greeted her. “You've no other baggage?”

“I have no other,” she said, and I did not like her manner by half.

I gave her the ticket and reservation-form, and conducted her to her seat on the train. We chatted, and she seemed anything but at her ease. At two minutes of ten I handed her the two thousand francs, which Clancy had termed wasteful in the extreme, and she said good-by.

I did not. Instead of getting out, I stayed aboard. The conductor came along, got into a snarl with some tourists, and we were off. The poor girl, I could see, was on tenterhooks.

We came into the Gare d'Austerlitz, where the express stops for ten minutes before leaving Paris. She was growing more and more worried, and her fingers worked nervously. When we came out of the tunnel, she was white in the face, and demanded anxiously if I meant to compromise her by staying further. I did. I remained, inexorably, until the train was on the move—and then I dropped out to the platform, slammed the door and saw the train off.

I saw some one else off, too—the pasty-faced individual who had accompanied the girl the previous evening.

He had been waiting here. She had intended giving me the slip by getting off here at the Austerlitz station; Clancy was dead right, as usual! Now, however, the nearest stop of the train, as I remembered, was at Poitiers, and so thinking I made off after the gentleman of the pasty complexion.

He had seen me first, however, and having also seen that Marguerite had not alighted, he tailed it for the exit. There I had to stop and explain why I had no ticket of entry to the station, with a bit of palm oil. By the time I got outside my man had vanished completely.

All this gave me pause—considerable pause! The girl had meant to double-cross me, and therefore I began to doubt her story of the previous evening. She had been in dire fear, but she was a good actress. Against this, I could set the identification of Gambin; all the same, I did not like it a little bit.

So I stopped in at a restaurant and there rang up Clancy, telling him of events and asking his view of the case. Was there enough in it, as matters now stood, to warrant my leaving Paris and going on to Le Havre? I already had my ticket, but—

“Hotel Central at eight-thirty tonight,” said Clancy serenely. “Get on with it and don't borrow trouble.”

He rang off, and I got on with it as ordered.

MINDFUL of instructions, I took a taxi out to Longchamps and enjoyed a walk in the Bois de Boulogne, a pleasant orderly forest. Nobody seemed to be following me, and I sauntered along until a stray taxi came past, when I hailed it and told the driver to make for the Etoile. Once in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, I slipped into the Metro entrance, took the Italie line to the Trocadero, changed off there to the Chaussée d' Antin, and got out at Saint Augustin, satisfied that any possible pursuer had been thrown off the track.

I walked over to the Gare St. Lazare and was in time to catch the midday express for Le Havre, with only the one stop at Rouen ahead. At the last moment I almost changed over to the Deauville express for the sake of seeing the resort, which lies just across the bay, but decided I had best follow orders. I paid for it; too much fidelity is a bad thing sometimes.

I made the train with perhaps thirty seconds to spare, stood in the door of a first-class compartment, and gasped for breath—it had been a run. The train started, in the gentle way of French trains; and there before me, on the platform, appeared the pasty-faced man again.

No mistake about it. He saw me, and wild astonishment leaped into his face. He made a jump for the train, but his rush was too late; looking back, I could see him struggling in the arms of an official—who, no doubt, was nobly preventing the would-be suicide. Unfortunately the suicide did not take place. Nor did the pasty-faced man make the train.

I guessed at once he must have gone direct from the Austerlitz station to the Gare St. Lazare, without troubling his head about me; therefore my doubling must have been to no purpose. He was not interested in me, but in Marguerite. Past doubt, then, Marguerite had told me much of the truth! Well, she could not get back to Paris for some hours, and meantime I was gone.

Reposing in the compartment, which I had to myself, I wished I had thought to get a line on the girl's uncle, the unknown Cibourne. Too late now, yet I felt certain of recognizing Gambin if he turned up, and he would lead me to the others concerned, or some of them. It must be a pretty big gang, all told. Uncle Guilbert, the pasty-faced beggar, Gambin and three others all sharing the profits from this one load—well, it was a big affair, though it still seemed rather flat.

I had lunched in the dining-car by the time we came to Rouen, about two, and felt placidly comfortable, enjoying my pipe and a magazine from home the rest of the trip. Somewhat after three we rolled into Le Havre. I caught a tram at the station, and left it at the big square where the flower-market is dominated by one of the few magnificent monuments left to us by the war. The Hotel Central, I found, was one of the very good hostelries fronting the square, not too conspicuous.

I obtained a room, slept, bathed and dined. This brought me to eight-thirty, and going to the reception-desk I informed the madame there that I expected a telephone-call from Paris. She was incredulous. No calls came through from Paris. It was too expensive. And at such an hour—

The call came while she was protesting. Clancy's voice greeted me.

“Any news at your end, Logan?”

“Not a scrap. What about you?”

“Our friend is not on the boat-train.”

I grunted. Then I had my trouble for my pains.

“Can you hear me?” demanded Clancy.

“Yes. Shoot!”

“See the train in, then go right down and watch at the boat. I'll have the line cleared at eleven tomorrow and put through another call for you. I'm inclined to believe the consignment has gone, at least to Havre; they may delay a day or so to throw us off the scent. If so, sit tight. You'll hear from me at eleven tomorrow. Any queries?”

“None.”

The click of the replaced receiver finished it. Clancy wasted nothing, especially words, unless he were in one of his absent-minded fits.

I had to kick my heels for another hour or more, then went to the station and bought an entry ticket, watching the boat-train slide up alongside the platform. The train was not very full. A few tourists, chiefly English, commercial travelers, and numerous French for the town. It was easy to see all who came down toward the exit, and also to watch the side exit leading off to the tram for the boat and quay.

I scanned them all. Clancy was right—no sign of Gambin anywhere. Then suddenly I jerked wide awake. Among the last to emerge came my pasty-faced man. He was looking around anxiously enough as though for any possible watchers. I was not particularly surprised to see him, but must own to surprise at seeing, hanging on his arm, no other than Marguerite Cibourne.

She had left the Sud Express at Poitiers and had come to Paris in time to make this train, then!

Illustration: Those two muscular sailors dropped on the man Gambin like a bolt from the blue.

NEAR a pillar were a couple of big bales covered with burlap, and around these I dodged to keep the girl and her escort from having sight of me.

The pair did not turn out to the tram, but headed for the barrier and the main exit. Giving them plenty of time to emerge, I followed, for their appearance had quite driven Clancy's orders out of my head. Although I had no hold on either of them, and no reason to think they could have anything to do with the drug-shipment, they constituted a definite link, and I was after them at once.

Out in the square before the station I saw them bargaining with the driver of a four-wheeler. I slipped back to the platform and out to the tram entrance, where a couple of taxicabs were standing. No fear of losing my prey—the driver of their growler had the only gray horse on the rank.

Instructing my driver to follow the gray-horsed vehicle, I gave him ten francs in advance and climbed in. We came around to the square in time to see the four-wheeler turning the corner that leads to the quays, and dragged wearily along after them; not until one tries to keep after an ordinary cab-horse with a taxicab does the difficulty of the feat appear.

Presently our quarry bore away from the tram-lines off to the left, and crossed the bridge of the inner basin where the yachts tie up. They led us now into the quarter behind the Southampton quay—the quarter crammed with cabarets, with seamen's resorts, with petty hotels and worse. These narrow little streets, paved with rough cobbles, were dark except for occasional flickering lights and the gleam from lighted windows, but they were not at all silent.

I had a fair acquaintance with Le Havre, and felt glad of the pistol in my pocket. There was nothing nice about this part of town, in the shadow of the old church though it was. Ships of all nations crowd the port, and here, on pleasure bent, gathered men of all races and colors—Hindus, Frenchmen, English, Americans, negroes, Algerians, Swedes. Our quarry halted before the widely lighted window of a cabaret or restaurant—these places were anything and everything, from hotel to boozing den.

My driver stopped, at a little distance. I watched the girl descend and enter the place; her companion stopped to pay his driver, then followed. I gave my driver a cigarette and another ten francs, telling him to wait. He nodded, lighted the smoke, and settled back in his seat. I was not sure of needing him, but if the need came, it would be in a hurry.

I walked on to the café, narrowly missing a bucket of garbage emptied from an upper window. Quiet enough outwardly, this quarter of town was no safer than Limehouse in London, Grey Street in Durban, or any other haunt where vice is preferred to virtue. However, I need not have worried much. Gaining the entrance and finding the windows curtained from sight, I opened the door and strode in, to find a very tame sort of place.

Three separate groups of seamen, all foreign, regarded me with semi-tipsy gravity, and a red-headed Norman turned from the aluminum-covered bar to see what the wind had blown in; of the pair whom I sought, there was no sign. I went up to the bar and ordered a demi of beer; whereupon the man behind the bar commented in English that it was a fine night, and one of the seamen said something about a blooming Yank.

I inspected the place. There was no exit, save behind the bar, and a narrow staircase at the back, leading upward. A light shone from somewhere above on the stairs, and the absence of shadows showed no one was lurking there. My two friends must have gone up those stairs, and they must have gone rapidly and without any questions being asked.

Therefore this joint was in the game too, and the man and girl were known here. I sipped my beer and reflected that I was very neatly blocked. A glance at my watch showed me it was just turned eleven. The Southampton boat left sharp at midnight, so if the consignment was to get off this night, little time remained. And then, suddenly and sharply, Clancy's orders hit me like a blow in the face.

“See the train in, then go right down and watch at the boat.”

And here I was, wasting time that might be precious! I lifted my tall beer and was about to drain the last of it when my eye caught a shadow on the staircase. Following the shadow came a pair of feet descending—the feet of Marguerite Cibourne, bringing the girl herself. Now she carried a cloth-covered suitcase instead of her cheap cane article, an expensive and incongruous bit of luggage.

She came to the bottom of the stairs, looked up, saw me standing there. She reeled as though struck; in this instant the pasty-faced man descended the stairs after her, and then stood petrified at sight of me. The man behind the bar, seeing them stare at me, flung me a sharp word:

“What do you want? Who are you?”

“I'm through,” I said, and flung down a coin to pay for my drink.

“A police spy!” shot out the pasty-faced man, then turned and bolted up the staircase with Marguerite Cibourne after him.

THE proprietor of the place reached down behind the bar, but froze into immobility as he looked into the barrel of my pistol. Feet pounded on the floor above—the pair were making off while I stood here, barred! For I knew well this pistol of mine would be of slight avail once I turned my back and dashed up the stairs.

“Come out of there,” I said to the barman, gesturing.

He dropped the bottle he had seized, and moved to obey. Until now I had quite forgotten the red-headed Norman seaman, to whom my back was partly turned. I sensed a quick movement from behind, and half turned—but not swiftly enough!

“Look 'ere!” came in startled, angry fashion from one of the seamen, and a crash! And that was all. The Norman had neatly crowned me with a heavy glass.

However, I was far luckier than I knew or deserved. There must have been a fine, quick little row. When I woke up, the proprietor was backed against the wall with two seamen holding him; the Norman was knocked out on the floor, and another seaman was lifting me.

“Did 'e 'urt yer, mate?” he demanded with beery kindliness. An Englishman, this.

I managed to sit up. “Some. You chipped in—eh? Why—”

“Blimey!” he exclaimed. “Think we was going to sit 'ere and see a blarsted frog knock yer out from be'ind? English, mate?”

“American,” I said, dizzily getting to my feet.

“Told yer so!” said somebody. My friend gave me a frowning glare.

“Goin' to tell me yer won the war?” he growled.

“Not much,” I said, and laughed. “Those two who ran upstairs are a pair of crooks, and I'm after them. Dope-smugglers.”

“Good enough,” he responded. “Want 'em, do yer?”

“I want their baggage.”

IN reality I had nothing against either of the pair, and questioned the wisdom of detaining them, but those suitcases were different. The two bags might be—indeed, probably were—filled with cocaine or kindred stuff.

“Right,” said my seaman promptly. He turned to his mates holding the landlord. “Bill, jack up 'is front wheel if 'e tries any parlor tricks! Right back.”

In five seconds he was out of sight, pounding up the staircase. I looked at my watch—eleven-fifteen. None too much time to finish here and get down to the boat. One of the seamen came to me with a glass.

“Brandy—it'll pull yer square, matey.”

I sipped the cognac, and it did pull me together amazingly. From overhead came sharp cries and the heavy pounding of feet. The noise increased, lessened, and came on again. My seaman came clattering down the stairs.

“Skipped, and the bloomin' door locked!” he said. “What next?”

“Southampton boat—I've a taxicab waiting outside.”

“Right! What say—want any 'elp? We got leave till midnight.”

“Fine!” I returned. “Come along to the quay, then—”

“Wot about this 'ere feller?” spoke up Bill, jabbing the landlord in the stomach. The Norman stirred and sat up, blood streaking from his nose.

“Let him go, and fetch this redhead along after us. I'll go after him for assault, if you'll witness against him.”

“Righto,” exclaimed my seaman. “Bill, let's make a lark of it—might be something in it, if it's only beer! I'll go down the quay with the Yank, and you can fetch the bleedin' joker along after us.”

“Cheerio!” agreed Bill heartily.

In another moment I was in the taxi with my seaman, and we were speeding down toward the quay, not far away. Arrived there, I paid off my driver, and the seaman followed me into the entry shed and the oblong of the Customs benches. One or two tourists were being perfunctorily passed; another was having his passport examined. I turned to the agent on duty at the doorway of the shed, and described Marguerite and her companion.

“Have they gone aboard yet?”

The agent assured me they had not, while my seaman whistled. Two other agents strolled up, interested. At a sudden thought I pulled out Gambin's police photograph intrusted to me by Clancy. Its prefecture stamps and marks were at once recognized, and I was accorded a very sudden respect by the agents. I demanded whether they had seen the man.

“That man is aboard the steamer,” said one agent promptly. “He went aboard half an hour ago, m'sieur.”

AROUND the corner of the shed and into the light came Bill and another seaman, shoving the reluctant and bleeding Norman along between them. Immediately the agents betrayed a quick and active interest in all the proceedings. They called an officer, to whom I handed Clancy's card. He shrugged slightly, looked at Gambin's police photograph, and beckoned me to one side.

“Perhaps, m'sieur,” he said loudly and accusingly, “you have a card of identity?”

“Certainly,” I said, and produced it. To my astonishment, he only returned it with a slight smile, then spoke very softly.

“We have received instructions to coöperate with you, M. Logan,” he said. “May I ask as to your errand?”

Good old Clancy! I might have known he would have arranged matters here for me in case of any hitch or mix-up. It may seem rather incredible that an American should go about France accredited with practically full powers from the prefecture in Paris—yet if this American were the assistant of Peter J. Clancy!

“Cocaine-smuggling,” I said, and the officer nodded.

“It is a bad business, that,” he said quietly. “We have our own methods of cutting off the supply to the victims in France,—they center in Paris, Deauville and Nice,—but it is another matter of cutting off the supply that comes through France to England. Just what do you want, m'sieur?”

I indicated the Norman.

“I want this man detained on a charge of assault on me—these men were witnesses. Whether or not he can be implicated in anything graver remains to be seen.”

He summoned two of the agents; note-books were produced; and evidence was at once jotted down. I broke in with word that there might be other work aboard the steamer, but the officer turned to me with a gesture of helplessness.

“We have no jurisdiction aboard the steamer, m'sieur, Here we can give you all assistance, but there—”

“Very well,” I said. “Then arrange for me to go aboard.”

HE accompanied me to the gangway, spoke to the agent on duty there, and I was passed. I went on, and had a steward get me audience with the captain. This took some time, and time was getting perilously short. An automobile was being swung inboard to be stowed on the forward deck, and hatches were being battened down, the heavy loading being obviously finished.

The captain was an obdurate Briton, stoutly refusing to admit any French police aboard, although sympathetic enough in my behalf. He accompanied me to the purser's office, and they speedily found the man Gambin was aboard, occupying the lower berth of a promenade-deck cabin. The upper berth was not taken.

“Unless you can prefer a definite charge against this Gambin, Mr. Logan,” said the captain, “I cannot allow you to interfere with him. The best I can do is to see that he gets special attention at Southampton—after what you've told me, he'll not be allowed to land. My authority does not include search of a passenger's property.”

Another blank draw! However, I had it from Marguerite that Gambin himself would not bring the drug aboard, so I guessed it to be in the two expensive suitcases, which had not yet turned up. I thought to ask for a look at the passenger-list, and it was produced. No Cibourne figured in it, but I put my finger on the name of Guilbert.

“Here we are. Do you know this man?”

The purser's brows went up.

“Regular traveler, sir. Represents one of the big Paris houses—comes over with us rather regularly.”

This did not jibe with Marguerite's story. Yet there was no proof anywhere, nothing on which I could lay a finger. Neither Gambin nor Guilbert would bring the stuff aboard. Guilbert, known to the officials at both ends, following a known avocation for years, could easily enough land it... Ah! I guessed the pasty-faced man and Marguerite had the task of getting it into the hands of Gambin, who would then turn it over to Guilbert at the end of the trip. But how? Unless I could discover the means employed, I could touch neither Gambin nor Guilbert.

“I'm afraid we cannot help you further, Mr. Logan,” said the captain. “You see how we are placed. And now, if you'll excuse me—”

He left the purser's office, and I followed helplessly. Going on deck, I stood at the rail and looked over at the quay under its high white lights.

It wanted eight minutes to midnight. Under the Customs shed were my three friendly seamen, with the Norman and the agents. A couple of tourists paced the deck by the first-class entrance. I hoped against hope to see Marguerite and the pasty-faced man coming through the Customs shed, but there was no sign of them. I felt sure they were charged with getting the shipment into Gambin's hands—yet they had not come. I decided to wait until the very last instant. Men were grouped about the gangway, awaiting the word to swing it away, but I could jump to the dock if need were, for the tide was running out and the ship was low against the quay.

Five minutes! I crossed over to the other side of the boat, desperate, utterly at a loss. Gambin was here, then, despite Clancy—had probably taken an earlier train, as I myself had done. Here, out across the black water of the Channel, was the mole, with the high lights of the farther quays stretching on to the left.

On this darker side of the deck was little movement. A man and a girl, apparently going through all the silent agonies of the old, old story, stood at the rail, arms entwined. A little farther forward, in a patch of deep shadow from the bridge, another single figure leaned over the rail, as though lonely, perhaps homesick for England. Ahead of us rose a sound of voices—some sort of work was being done to the ferry, tied up there, that plied across the Seine estuary to Deauville-Trouville. Down below, a dot against the black water, was a small skiff, probably coming from one of the many fishing-craft swinging at anchor. One of its occupants rowed; the other sat in the stern. It was coming toward the steamer.

Illustration: Solander stood against the wall, hands in air, while Marguerite crouched beside him.

I heard a bell ring, and looked at my luminous-dial watch. Three minutes more. An officer bawled something from forward, repeated from aft and bridge. The lonely man in the shadow leaned far out, looking downward—

Cursing my own blindness, I turned and raced for the bridge. A wheeler met me and called something about not being allowed; I brushed him aside and leaped up the ladder. His cry drove ahead of me, and the captain himself stepped out as I came to the top.

“Not ashore yet, sir? The gangway's off now—you'll have to jump for it—”

“Hold up your boat five minutes, Captain!” I exclaimed. “I've got the whole game now—the stuff is just coming aboard—”

He looked over the bridge rail at the quay, where the gangway was just being lowered out.

“Coming by air, perhaps?” he said with heavy irony.

“No, by boat. Take my word for it—bring along a couple of men! It's coming up the side now, I tell you—”

“Hold up for five minutes—hm! Want to get your man ashore, eh? Go ahead.” He snapped an order, and two helmsmen came on the jump. “Your move, Mr. Logan—”

I lost no time moving.

Those two muscular sailors dropped on the man Gambin like a bolt from the blue, and I followed them closely. He had been hauling in a line, sure enough, and for a moment he gave all three of us a bad time. Knowing the game was up, Gambin fought like a fiend, but had no chance to get out a gun. It was hammer and tongs across the deck, all four of us.

From below came a startled cry in a woman's voice, and I darted to the rail to see the skiff go leaping away over the black water. Gambin was at length stretched out, senseless. A fine cord was tied to the rail, and the captain came up while I was hauling it in. Over the rail came a large cork float, followed by a heavier line, as the deck lights were turned on.

“Here we are!” I exclaimed triumphantly, feeling the dragging weight.

Next instant came in, of all things, a pair of footballs!

For an instant I stood holding them blankly, then comprehended the whole game. Another pair followed. Getting out my pocketknife, I stabbed one of the four inflated balls, and as it collapsed, a fine white powder came trickling out.

“Good work,” commented the captain. “Now, sir, time's running short—what do you want done?”

“Run my man ashore, and give me your names as witnesses.”

“Willingly.” The captain jerked out pencil and paper, flung an order at his men, scribbled down his name and theirs. “But the man Guilbert—you've nothing against him?”

I shook my head regretfully. “All you can do is to tip off Southampton that he's a suspect. Afraid I can't touch him—yet. Thank you immensely for your help, Captain! If you'd play a searchlight around as you go out, we might pick up that skiff.”

“Right. Good night!”

He went hastily for the bridge. Bearing my captured plunder, I followed the prisoner ashore—the agents had already pinned him, like terriers on a rat.

Here ensued a busy five minutes, while the steamer was pulling out. My Customs officer took charge of prisoner and evidence, with high praises for the way I had landed both, and then we stood on the quay searching the water, while the steamer's searchlight reached across the channel and flitted hither and yon. The skiff had vanished.

“No use, m'sieur,” said the officer, disappointed. “She's hiding somewhere—before the police boats could get after her, our birds would be flown.”

I was forced to assent. We had captured the consignment; we had one and possibly two members of the gang—and no more. A flat little smuggling deal. Clancy's “something big” had not materialized, and there was no prospect of it in sight,

However, there remained Marguerite and the pasty-faced man, name unknown. They must have made for safety somewhere down the line of quays, and I had little doubt would come back to the tavern up the street. Since they had brought the stuff from Paris, we might as well gather them in—they could not get away from Havre in any case, with their descriptions known. I said as much to the officer, and he nodded.

“Very good, m'sieur. What do you suggest?”

“Suppose you come with me, and a couple of your men, and we'll see what we can see.”

He agreed. I turned to my three seamen friends, and handed them five hundred francs beer-money—a cheap price for their assistance. They were loud in their joy, and at once made off up the quay.

The officer picked out two of his huskiest Normans, and we left the shed. As we were crossing the street, an automobile showed up bearing down on us with lights going full blaze—an infraction of all French ordinances. The officer exclaimed angrily, and stepped out with hands extended in signal to halt.

No danger—the car was already braking down. It was a big car, and as it drew beneath the street-lamp, I was astonished to see the insignia of the Paris police decorating it. Then it opened—and out stepped Clancy.

“Evening, Logan,” he said. “Am I late for the party?”

CLANCY chuckled as he lighted a cigarette. A Paris prefecture man, who had accompanied him, was gesticulating and talking to my Havre officer.

“Very simple,” said Clancy, after I had briefly sketched events here. “I could make better time in a police car than by train, especially at night, so I came along. We believed our men would all be here tonight—your activity in Paris had evidently put them on the jump. One of them came to Havre today—Solander, the Hungarian. He's supposedly a Pesth banker, who has a fine villa at Deauville and so forth.”

I was staggered. “Your men?” I demanded. “Who the devil are your men, then?”

“Solander,” said Clancy. “The unknown Cibourne. Last and not least, an American business man resident in Paris—his name is Coster. We've nothing against any of them, at the moment. You'd better move along if you want to get any action on Marguerite and her friend, Logan! I don't think they'll go back to that cabaret. They'll probably report direct to Cibourne and the other two, since Gambin is nabbed.”

“I'm in out of my depth,” I said. “What do you mean to do?”

“It's your game—play it!” snapped Clancy. “This business will put you in solid with the authorities, and I don't want to spoil your play. Find that crowd!”

Throw a chap head over heels into the water, and he'll swim if he has any duck blood—that was Clancy's motto. It made me angry, and I snapped him up on it.

“All right, confound you! Trail along.” I turned to my Customs officer, and he joined me with his men, leaving the others to follow.

Judgment being lost in irritation, I headed straight for the cabaret or hotel, whichever it might be. As we approached, up the narrow little street, I saw the proprietor leaning in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. Quickening my pace, I went on ahead of the others, came up to him, and without a word took him by the collar and jerked him toward me. My knee in his stomach doubled him up before he could strike a blow or give a call.

Inside, the bar was empty. We hauled him in, and he came to his senses with uniformed gentlemen all around. He was a badly frightened man, also most unhappy in body. I leaned over him.

“Where is Solander staying in town?” I snapped. “Speak out, quickly!”

“He is upstairs now,” stammered the man. “Second room back—”

“Is Cibourne with him? And Coster?” I staggered him anew with these names.

“Not Cibourne. Coster—yes. Mercy, m'sieur! I will tell everything—”

“Get him out of here in a hurry and let him tell,” I said to my officer. “Quick! So you didn't think the other pair would come back here, eh?” And I gave Clancy a triumphant look. “Well, they'll be back. Suppose we slide upstairs and see what we can see.”

Clancy and the Paris official, my officer and his one man, remained, after sending the proprietor of the place away under guard. Five of us were enough, obviously. Clancy, who was immensely delighted by the way luck was playing into my hand, clapped me on the back and told me to lead on. We could safely leave the cabaret deserted, so that Marguerite and her pasty-faced man might walk into the trap unsuspecting.

I led on up the narrow stairs, walking very gently. This little den among the stews of the waterfront would be the last place where anyone would expect to find a Deauville celebrity, not to mention an American-Parisian business man; obviously they were the men higher up in the ring, and yet I was keenly disappointed over the whole affair. A smuggling game, even en a grand scale, seemed rather a petty affair to employ Peter J. Clancy.

AT the head of the stairs the door of the first room steed open—it was dark, evidently untenanted. I motioned the others in there. The second doorway was topped by a transom, showing light, and voices came from within. The remainder of the hallway was dark and empty. Clancy joined me; and for a moment we stood by the second door, listening, his hand on my arm.

“That is all right,” came a heavy guttural voice—Solander, no doubt. “The reports all seem excellent, my friend. By these accounts, we should clear a million francs this month, eh? But I do not like this cocaine business. It must be stopped. No more after tonight.”

There was a short laugh, from Coster. “That's bad luck, in America,” he said. “You're right about it, though. We'll quit it for a few months. So these reports from Nice suit you? Then jot down the figures and burn them.”

Clancy's fingers tightened on my wrist. I obeyed a jerk of his head, and we softly left the doorway, going to the other in which waited the officers.

“Those reports—at all costs!” he breathed in my ear. “We must break in on them—”

“Wait,” I said. “Duck in—quick!”

A swift shuffle of feet came from the sanded floor below, and steps on the stairs.

“I don't like it!” came a panting voice. “Where's Lebrun?”

“Probably closing up for the night.” This was Marguerite's voice. “Hurry!”

They hurried, while we slipped aside into the darkness of the first room and waited. The two came up, went past our door, knocked on the second door. It was opened, and there was a babel of voices. I jerked out my pistol.

“All right, messieurs!”

Before the second door could be closed behind the pair, I jumped into it with my pistol covering those in the room—Marguerite, her friend, a dark gentleman of heavy build, and a lean, wolfish American.

“Hands up!” I snapped.

The American took a chance and dived for me. I fired and missed—we came to the floor together. Next instant the place was pandemonium.

Another shot sounded, then a woman's keen scream, while I battled the furious Coster. We rolled across the floor, slammed into the wall, and I managed to get a short-arm jab to the throat that knocked him gasping. I followed it with another, laid him out, and came to my feet.

Solander stood against the wall, hands in air, while Marguerite crouched beside him. The pasty-faced man was being handcuffed by the Paris official. My Customs officer was holding a gun on all concerned, while his man lay on the floor with a knife in his throat; the pasty-faced-man sprawled above him with blood dripping from his shoulder. Clancy was calmly flipping over some papers he must have taken from Solander. A police whistle shrilled below, and feet were on the stairs.

“A fine business!” I said to Clancy in disgust. “We've got Marguerite's friend for murder—and your little smuggling ring is broken up. And that poor chap with the knife in his throat was worth more alive than the whole gang! This is the sort of police work I don't care for, by half.”

“Yes?” said Clancy absent-mindedly, while police flooded into the room.

“Yes,” I snapped at him. “And I'm a bit surprised at you mixing up in it, too!”

“Perhaps, perhaps! But this rather vitally concerns us, my friend. Who do you think we've landed, tonight?”

“Who? Your smugglers, of course.”

“Not a bit of it.” Clancy chuckled, took out a cigarette, and watched as our victims were taken from the room one by one. “Look, now! There's Marguerite Cibourne—her husband, that chap with the pasty complexion, is the mysterious Cibourne at the head of the coke traffic. He's in for murder as well, now. Count one.”

I grunted. Clancy held a match to his cigarette, and jerked his head.

“There goes Solander—he's the big man in the blackmailing crowd, the head of that section. Works badger-games, smuggling, and so forth, on our gentle tourists from America. Exit Solander. Coster follows; he's at the head of the gang in the south, with Nice for his headquarters. An accomplished blackleg, this Coster—he works gambling and other side-lines, gets the victims in shape for Solander to milk.”

Clancy's sharp gray eyes bored into me maliciously.

“So you don't like smuggling work, eh?” he observed. “Well, I told you this was something big, and it is. The biggest organization of crooks in France, their activities directed against English and American tourists. And we climbed to them, Logan, from that petty training-ground of the department-stores in Paris—you see, now? Tomorrow there'll be a round-up of a couple of hundred gentry from Deauville to Nice, lesser members of this gang; we'll bag the whole works from soup to nuts. Feel better about it?”

I swallowed hard, and mechanically took the cigarette he extended to me.

“Well, this time,” I said meekly, “you win.”

“Exactly,” said Clancy.