CHAPTER XXVI GIVES THE KEY TO THE CIPHER

Even though tired out, I slept but little that night. I tried, times without number, but in vain, to solve the secret of that cipher message—or warning, was it?—written upon the table before the "Grand Café." But neither the initial nor the word "tabac" conveyed to me any meaning whatever. One fact seemed particularly strange, namely, the reason why the ragged collector of cigar-ends should have searched for it; and, further, why the word written there should have been "tabac." Again, who was the shabby, wizen-faced individual who had watched that table with such eagerness and expectancy?

As I reflected, I became impressed by the idea that the table itself was one of those known to be a notice-board of criminals, and therefore at night it was watched by the police.

The great Goron, that past-master in the detection of crime, had, I remembered, told me that in all the quarters of Paris, from the chic Avenue des Champs Elysées to the lower parts of Montmartre, there were certain tables at certain cafés used by thieves, burglars, and other such gentry, for the exchange of messages, the dissemination of news, and the issue of warnings. Indeed, the correspondence on the café tables was found to be more rapid, far more secret, and likely to attract less notice than the insertion of paragraphs in the advertisement columns of the newspapers. Each gang of malefactors had, he told me, its own particular table in its own particular café, where any member could sit and read at his leisure the cipher notice, or warning, placed there, without risking direct communication with his associates in rascality.

Had the man whom I had so fondly loved actually allied himself with some criminal band, that he knew their means of communication, and was in possession of their cipher? It certainly seemed as though he had. But that was one of the points I intended to clear up before denouncing him to the police.

Next morning I rose early, eager for activity, but there seemed no movement in the room adjoining mine. All three took their coffee in their bedrooms, and it was not till nearly eleven o'clock that I heard Keppel in conversation with the mysterious woman who had been my travelling companion.

"Ernest is running a great risk," he was saying. "It's quite unnecessary, to my mind. The police are everywhere on the alert, for word has, of course, come from Nice. If he is unfortunate enough to fall into their hands, he'll only have himself to blame."

"But surely you don't anticipate such a thing?" she asked, in genuine alarm.

"Well, he goes about quite openly, well knowing that his description has been circulated through every town and village in France."

"And if he were arrested, where should he be?" inquired the woman, in dismay.

"In a very awkward predicament, I fear," he responded. "That's the very reason why I'm trying to persuade Cameron to act with greater discretion. He's well known, you see, and may be recognised at any moment in the street. If he were a stranger here, in Paris, it might be different."

"It's certainly ridiculous for him to run his head into a noose. I must speak to him at once."

"He's out. He went out before six this morning, the chambermaid tells me."

"That's odd! Where's he gone?"

"I don't exactly know. Somewhere in the country, I should think."

"What if he is already arrested?"

"No, don't let's anticipate such a contretemps. Matters are, however, beginning to look serious enough, in all conscience," he answered.

"Do you think we shall succeed?" she inquired eagerly.

"We have been successful before," he responded confidently. "Why not now? We have only to exercise just a little more care and cunning than that exercised by the police. Then, once beyond suspicion, all the rest is perfectly plain sailing."

"Which means that we must make a perfect coup."

"Exactly. The whole scheme must be carried out firmly and without a hitch, otherwise we shall find ourselves in very hot water."

"Knowing this should make us desperate," she observed.

"I'm desperate already," he replied, in a quiet voice. "It will not go well with anyone who tries to thwart us now. It's a matter of life or death."

What new plot had been hatched I could not guess. What was this fresh conspiracy that was intended? His carefully-guarded words awoke in me an intense curiosity. I had already overheard many things, and still resolved to possess myself in patience, and to continue my ever-watchful vigil. There was, according to the old man's own words, a desperate plot in progress, which the conspirators were determined to carry out at all hazards, even up to the point of taking another human life.

I wrote down on a piece of paper the cipher which I had found scrawled upon the table, and tried by several means to reduce it to some intelligible message, but without success. It was evidently in one of those secret codes used by criminals, and therefore I had but a remote chance of discovering a key to what so often had puzzled the cleverest detectives of the sûreté.

The day passed without any important incident. I remained in my room awaiting the return of the man whose strange action had puzzled me on the previous night, and who was now running such risk of arrest. If he returned, I hoped to overhear his conversation with his companions; but unfortunately he did not come back. All was quiet in the adjoining chamber, for Keppel and the woman with the strange marks had evidently gone out in company.

About seven o'clock I myself dressed and went forth, strolling idly along until I stood on the pavement at the corner of the Boulevard des Italiens, in front of the Opera. There are always many idlers there, mostly sharks on the watch for the unsuspecting foreigner. The English and American tourist offices are just opposite, and from the corner these polyglot swindlers can easily fix upon persons who change cheques as likely victims, and track them down. Suddenly it occurred to me to stroll along and glance at the table before the "Grand Café." This I did, but found only the remains of some cipher which had been hastily obliterated, possibly earlier in the day, for the surface of the marble was quite dry, and only one or two faint pencil-marks remained.

As I sat there, I chanced to glance across the road, and to my surprise saw the same shabby, wizen-faced man lounging along the kerb. He was evidently keeping that table under observation. While pretending not to see him, I drank my coffee, paid, rose from my seat, and walked away; but as the watcher at once followed me, I returned to the hotel.

It is not pleasant for a woman to be followed by a strange man, especially if she is bent upon making secret inquiries, or is watching another person, so when I had again returned to my room I presently bethought myself of the second exit from the hotel—the one which leads straight into the booking-office of the Gare St. Lazare. By means of this door I managed to escape the little man's vigilance, and entering a cab, drove down to the Pont des Arts. As I had nothing particular to do, it occurred to me that if I could find the little coiffeur's, where I had seen the man with whom I had danced on the night of the Carnival ball, I might watch, and perhaps learn something. That this man was on friendly terms with both Keppel and Cameron had been proved by that scrap of confidential conversation I had chanced to overhear.

The difficulty I experienced in recognising the narrow and crooked street was considerable, but after nearly an hour's search through the smaller thoroughfares to the left of the Boulevard St. Michel, my patience was rewarded, and I slowly passed the little shop on the opposite side. The place was in darkness, apparently closed. Scarcely had I passed, however, when someone emerged from the place. It was, I felt quite sure, the man who had worn the owl's dress. He was dressed rather elegantly, and seemed to possess quite an air of distinction. Indeed, no one meeting him in the street would have believed him to be a barber.

Almost involuntarily, I followed him. He lit a cigarette, and then walked forward at a rapid pace down the Boulevard, across the Pont Neuf, and turning through many streets, which were as a bewildering maze to me, he suddenly tossed his cigarette away, entered a large house, and made some inquiry of the concierge.

"Madame Fournereau?" I heard the old man answer gruffly. "Yes. Second floor, on the left."

And the man who had so mysteriously returned to me the stolen notes went forward, and up the stairs.

Madame Fournereau! I had never, as far as I recollected, heard that name before.

I strolled along a little farther, hesitating whether to remain there until the man emerged again, when, as I lifted my eyes, I happened to see the name-plate at the street corner. It was the Rue du Bac. In an instant the similarity of the word in the cipher, "tabac" occurred to me. Could it be that the woman for whom the message was intended lived there? Could it be that this woman for whose love Ernest had forsaken me was named Fournereau? I entertained a lively suspicion that I had at last discovered her name and her abode.

I think at that moment my usual discretion left me utterly. So many and so strange were the mysteries which had surrounded me during the past month or so, that I believe my actions were characterised by a boldness of which no woman in her right senses would have been capable. Now that I reflect upon it all, I do not think I was in my right senses that night, or I should not have dared to act alone and unaided as I did. But the determination to avenge the poor lad's death, and at the same time to avenge my own wrongs, was strong upon me. A jealous woman is capable of breaking any of the ten commandments. "Amor dà per mercede, gelosia e rotta fede."

Had I remained to reason with myself, I should never have entered that house, but fired by a determination to seek the truth, and to meet that woman face to face, I entered boldly and, without a word to the concierge, passed up to the second floor.

The house was, I discovered, like many in Paris, far more handsome within than without. The stairs leading to the flats were thickly carpeted and were illuminated by electricity, though, judging by the exterior, I had believed it to be a house of quite a fourth-rate class. When I rang at the door on the left a neat Parisian bonne in a muslin cap answered my summons.

"Madame Fournereau?" I inquired.

"Oui, madame," answered the woman, as she admitted me to the narrow but well-furnished entrance-hall. "Madame is expecting you, I believe. Will you please enter?"

I saw in an instant that I was mistaken for a guest, and quickly made up my mind to use this mistake to the best possible advantage.

My quick eyes noticed in the hall a number of men's hats and women's capes. From the room beyond came quite a babel of voices. I walked forward in wonderment, but next second knew the truth. The place was a private gambling-house. Madame's guests, a strange and motley crowd, came there to play games of hazard.

In the room I had entered was a roulette table, smaller than those at Monte Carlo, and around it were some twenty well-dressed men and women, all intent upon the game. Notes and gold were lying everywhere upon the numbers and the single chances, and the fact that no silver was there was sufficient testimony that high stakes were usual. The air was close and oppressive, for the windows were closed and heavily curtained, and above the sound of excited voices rose that well-known cry of the unhealthy-looking, pimply-faced croupier in crimped shirt front and greasy black:

"Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"

Advancing to the table, I stood there unnoticed in the crowd. Those who saw me enter undoubtedly believed me to be a gambler, like themselves, for it appeared as though madame's guests were drawn from various classes of society. Although the atmosphere was so stifling, I managed to remain cool, and affected to be interested in the game by tossing a louis upon the red.

I won. It is strange that carelessness at roulette invariably brings good fortune. I glanced about me, eager to discover madame herself, but saw neither her nor the barber whom I had followed to this place. At the end of the room there were, however, a pair of long sage-green curtains, and as one of the players rose from the table and passed between them, I saw that another gaming-room lay beyond, and that the gamblers were playing baccarat, the bank being held by a superior-looking old gentleman who was wearing the crimson ribbon of the Legion d'Honneur in the lapel of his dining-jacket.

Boldly I went forward into that room, and in an instant saw that I was not mistaken, for there, chatting to a circle of men and women at the opposite end of the salon, was the small, fair-haired woman whom I had seen in Ernest's company at Monte Carlo, and whom I had followed to Enghien. The man who had given me the stolen notes was standing near her, listening to her account of a pleasure trip from which she had apparently only just returned.

A couple of new-comers, well-dressed men, entered, walked straight up to her, shook hands, and expressed their delight that she had returned to Paris to resume her entertainments.

"I, too, am glad to return to all my friends, messieurs," she laughed. "I really found Monte Carlo very dull, after all."

"You were not fortunate? That is to be regretted."

"Ah!" she said. "With such a maximum, how can one hope to gain? It is impossible."

I stood watching the play. As far as I could see, it was perfectly fair; but some of the players, keen-faced men, were evidently practised card-sharpers, swindlers, or men who lived by their wits. The amount of money constantly changing hands surprised me. As I stood there, one young man, scarcely more than a lad, lost five thousand francs with perfect sang-froid. The women present were none of them young, but were mostly elderly and ugly, of that stamp so eternally prominent in the Principality of Monaco. The woman, when she turns gambler, always loses her personal beauty. It may be the vitiated atmosphere in which she exists; it may be the constant tension of the nerves; or it may, perchance, be the unceasing, all-consuming avarice—which, I know not. All I am certain of is that no woman can play and at the same time remain fresh, youthful, and interesting.

Until that moment I had remained there unnoticed in the excited crowd, for I had turned my back upon Madame Fournereau, lest she should recognise in me the woman whom Ernest had undoubtedly pointed out to her either in the Rooms, in Giro's, or elsewhere.

But as I began to pass back to the adjoining room, where I considered there would be less risk of recognition, the green curtains suddenly opened, and Ernest Cameron stood before me.