The Strange Adventures of Mr. John Smith in Paris/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
IN the midst of his shaving, Mr. John Smith paused and from the high-up windows of his room looked down meditatively on the sea of mist that veiled Paris. Far away, a snow white island in the murk of morning, glistening spotlessly under the rays of a pale sun, was Sacred Heart; to his left was Eiffel Tower, that thin, spidery structure that thrust its flagpole straight toward the stars. What a fine young shot tower that would make back in Jersey! As the mists began to lift he could trace the serpentine sweep of the River Seine, winding from a point almost at his feet away, away, and disappearing like a silver ribbon in the distance—just like the dear old Passaic River! In front of him, at the far end of a trio of arched bridges, was the vast roof of the Louvre; it reminded him of the roof of the rubber works back home. And the Garden of the Tuileries! It made him almost homesick for another glimpse of First Ward Park.
Homesick! He shook off the shadowy suggestion; for there was work to be done in Paris, tedious work, the work of finding a man named Clarke, W. Mandeville Clarke, and his reward was to be the exquisite delight of pounding Mr. Clarke to a pulp. After which they would sit down calmly and discuss two or three matters of moment to both of them. He had come all the way to Paris to do this, and this he would do! It had never occurred to him that Clarke might be hopelessly lost in the labyrinthine wildernesses of the city, or that he might not be in Paris. He would find him, because it was meet and proper that he should find him, and Mr. Smith was blessed with a firm belief in the eternal justice of things.
He bared his great right arm and, looking down on it complacently, fell to imagining how Clarke would look when be had quite finished with him. The mental picture he conjured up pleased him so he smiled, and smilingly he finished shaving. After which came breakfast. Not a puny little thing of coffee and rolls, but breakfast with a couple of chops and three or four eggs, and innumerable rashers of bacon. The waiter, who spoke eating-English, allowed his eyes to grow round and rounder as Mr. Smith ordered, and he stood by in a sort of trance as Mr. Smith ate. These Americans! What gormands they were! No wonder zey aire ze beeg and ze husky!
THESE preliminaries disposed of, Mr. Smith planted his hat upon his head and started out to get a toothhold upon Paris. It was of no particular moment to him that, as he passed through the office, the new clerk on duty glanced at him suspiciously and greeted him with a servility that was wholly out of keeping with his station. It was of no particular moment that the clerk didn’t speak English,—Mr. Smith looked at him once, and knew that,—because, when he had exhausted the hotels where he could make himself understood, he would hire an interpreter and do the others.
It was of no particular moment to him that the cunning black eyes of a loiterer in the lobby swept his rugged face in one comprehensive glance and took particular note of the color of his hair, after which the owner of the eyes leisurely strolled out.
Maison de Treville, Rue Bonaparte! The combination of words had aroused a cameo-cut recollection in his mind, because once, half a dozen years ago, that had been the home in Paris of Miss Edna Clarke, the daughter of the man he sought. It was odd that he should be stopping at the same place, odd; but upon reflection overnight Mr. Smith could find nothing in it, save its oddity. Miss Clarke had lived there for nearly two years with a chaperon while she was completing her education; but there seemed to be no reason why either she or her father should be known at the Maison de Treville now. He had been convinced by the night clerk’s manner that Clarke was not living in the hotel, and, anyway, if he found it necessary, he could go into the matter further with the aid of an interpreter.
Edna Clarke! She must be twenty-four or twenty-five years old now, and for no reason he found himself wondering what she might look like. Once upon a time he had seen a little picture of her, one of a group of laughing girls on a terrace at Versailles, and he had wondered how anybody that far away from Passaic could laugh. The picture had lain for a day or so on Clarke’s desk; that same desk where Clarke had practised his knavery and— His teeth closed with a snap and there came an unpleasant glare into his straight staring eyes as he strode into the street and turned toward the river. From his cursory view of Paris at his windows it had seemed that all the big buildings were across the river, and where all the big buildings were the big hotels should be, and skulking in one of the big hotels somewhere, under some name, was W. Mandeville Clarke.
MR. SMITH was halfway across the Pont du Carrousel, which so reminded him of the bridge down near the orphan asylum back home, deep in his own thoughts, when he was brought to an abrupt halt by a man who met him face to face, a shrewd eyed individual who planted himself directly in his path.
“What is your name?” the stranger demanded suddenly in English.
Mr. Smith paused and regarded him questioningly for a moment. “Smith—John Smith,” he replied at last, curiously. “Why?”
“Where do you live?” The second question came in the same curt, businesslike tone.
“Passaic, New Jersey,” replied Mr. Smith. “What’s the answer?”
Without another word, with not even a word of thanks, the stranger passed on and was lost in the throng on the bridge. The incident struck Mr. Smith as curious, nothing more, and a minute later, in thoughts of more importance, he had forgotten it.
Then began for him a systematic, wearying round. He didn't know, and it probably wouldn't have disturbed him if he had known, that M. Remi was trailing him tirelessly, accurately, into and out of every hotel he entered. His questions at each place took the same form: “Do you speak English?” In the event of an answer in the affirmative, the conversation prospered, and there came other questions: “Is W. Mandeville Clarke stopping here? Has he been here? Do you expect him? Is there any American or Englishman with a full gray beard and white hair stopping here, anyone about my size?” In the event of a negative answer to the first question, the conversation ended abruptly, and Mr. Smith put the hotel on his blacklist, to be probed later on by an interpreter.
AT the Hotel Continental there came a pleasant break in the weary monotony of his search. He put the usual questions to the clerk. Yes, he spoke English, and he spoke it with an intonation that made Mr. Smith’s heart go out to him. No, Mr. W. Mandeville Clarke was not there; he had not been there; they didn't expect him. There was no full bearded, white haired American or Englishman stopping in the hotel, no one about Mr. Smith’s size. Mr. Smith was turning away.
“From the United States?” the clerk queried affably.
“Passaic, New Jersey,” Mr. Smith boasted.
“Waterbury, Connecticut,” said the clerk.
The kindred of country brought Passaic and Waterbury hand to hand in a long, hearty clasp, and Mr. Smith didn’t understand why, but there seemed to be a slight lump in his throat.
“Funny thing,” the clerk went on after a moment. “There was a young woman in here just a moment ago inquiring for Mr. Clarke. She was from the States too, I imagine—a slender girl dressed in black, rather tall.”
Mr. Smith studied the clerk’s face with questioning, interested eyes. “You don’t happen to know what she wanted with him, do you?”
“No, she didn’t say. She seemed to be much distressed about something.”
“She didn’t leave her name, or her card, did she?”
“No.” There was a moment’s pause. “If you’ll let me have your name and address, and Clarke comes along. I’ll let you know,” the clerk went on obligingly.
“Bully!” Mr. Smith exclaimed heartily. “My name is John Smith. I'll write my address, because I can’t pronounce it.”
So a slip of paper passed, and with a word of thanks Mr. Smith went his way.
HE had hardly vanished through the courtyard into the Rue de Castiglione when M. Remi appeared before the clerk with an eager glitter in his beady black eyes.
“You will give me at once, Monsieur,” he commanded, “the slip of paper which the American handed to you just a moment ago.”
The clerk needed no introduction to this man; the type was common. He passed over the slip of paper without a word, and M. Remi devoured it with his eyes. It bore the simple words:
John Smith,
Maison de Treville,
Rue Bonaparte.
It was mysterious—most mysterious! M. Remi puzzled over it for a minute or more, then with keen, accusing glance turned to the clerk. “You will inform me, Monsieur,” he commanded, “of the exact conversation you had with this—this M. Smith.”
The clerk laid the whole matter before him. The while spidery wrinkles grew in M. Remi’s brow. At its end M. Remi hastened away, leaving the clerk to imagine strange things of this big countryman of his, things that were not wholly complimentary. Mr. Smith would have been amazed if he had even an inkling of what Waterbury, Connecticut, was thinking of Passaic, New Jersey.