The Toilers of the Sea (20 page)

VII

SHADY TRANSACTIONS

Clubin had been away from the Auberge Jean for the whole of Tuesday evening, and he was away again on Wednesday evening.

That evening, as night was falling, two men walked along the Ruelle Coutanchez and stopped in front of La Jacressarde. One of them knocked on the window. The shop door was open, and they went in. The woman with the wooden leg put on the smile she kept for respectable citizens. There was a candle on the table.

The men were indeed respectable citizens.

The one who had knocked on the window said: “Good evening, mistress. I've come about you know what.”

The woman smiled again and went out of the door into the courtyard. A moment later a man appeared in the half-open door. He was wearing a cap and an overall, with the bulge of some object showing under the overall. He had bits of straw in the creases in his overall, and the look of someone just roused from sleep.

He came forward. The three looked at one another. The man in the overall had a wary, cunning air. He asked: “You are the gunsmith?”

The man who had knocked on the window replied: “Yes. You are the man from Paris?”

“Name of Redskin. Yes.”

“Let me see it.”

“There you are.”

The man drew from under his overall an object rarely seen in Europe at that time—a revolver.

It was new and shining. The two men examined it. The one who seemed to know the establishment and had been addressed as the gunsmith tried the mechanism and then passed the revolver to the other man, who looked less like a local man and kept his back turned to the light.

The gunsmith asked: “How much?”

The man in the overall answered: “I've just brought it from America. There are some who bring in monkeys and parrots and animals, as if the French were savages. That is what I bring in. It's a useful invention.”

“How much?” repeated the gunsmith.

“It's a pistol that revolves.”

“How much?”

“Bang! The first shot. Bang! The second shot. Bang! A whole volley of shots! It does a good job.”

“How much?”

“It has six barrels.”

“Well: how much?”

“For six barrels the price is six louis.”

“Will you take five?”

“Can't be done. One louis per bullet. That's the price.”

“Come, now: if we're to do business you must be reasonable.”

“I've put a fair price on it. Just examine it, Mr. Gunsmith.”

“I have examined it.”

“It turns as fast as Monsieur Talleyrand. It ought to be in the
Dictio
nary of Weathervanes.
¹³⁶
It's a jewel.”

“I've looked at it.”

“The barrels are of Spanish forging.”

“I can see that.”

“It's rifled. I'll tell you how they do the rifling. They empty into the forge the stock of a scrap-iron dealer—a load of old iron, farriers' nails, broken horseshoes—”

“And old scythe-blades.”

“As I was just going to say, Mr. Gunsmith. Then they expose the whole lot to a good sweating heat, and that gives you the finest quality of iron.”

“Yes; but there can be cracks and faults in the metal.”

“True enough. But they put that right by small dovetails, just as they avoid the risk of defects in soldering by heavy pounding. They weld it together with a heavy hammer and give it two more turns in the furnace. If the iron has been overheated they retemper it with strong heats and light hammering. Then the stuff is drawn out and well rolled on the lining; and with iron of that quality you get a barrel like this.”

“You are in the trade, then?”

“I'm a man of all trades.”

“The barrel is very light-colored.”

“That's the beauty of it, Mr. Gunsmith. They get that effect with butter of antimony.”

“So we are going to pay you five louis for it?”

“If you don't mind, sir, may I remind you that I said six louis?”

The gunsmith lowered his voice: “Listen to me, Mr. Parisian. Take your chance, and get rid of it. A gun like that is not a good thing for a man like you to have. It draws attention to you.”

“True enough,” said the man from Paris. “It is a bit conspicuous. It's better for a respectable citizen.”

“Will you take five louis?”

“No: six. One for each hole.”

“All right, then: six napoleons.”

“I want six louis.”

“You are not a Bonapartist, then? You prefer a louis to a napoleon?”

The man from Paris who called himself Redskin smiled.

“Napoleon is better,” he said; “but Louis is worth more.”

“Six napoleons.”

“Six louis. It makes a difference of twenty-four francs to me.”

“In that case there's no deal.”

“All right. I'll keep this little trinket.”

“Keep it, then.”

“Asking for a cut price! Not likely! I'm not the man to give away a thing like that—a new invention.”

“Good-bye, then.”

“It's a great improvement on a pistol, which the Chesapeake Indians call Nortay-u-Hah.”

“Five louis in cash is good money.”

“Nortay-u-Hah means Short Gun. Not many people know that.”

“Will you take five louis and an écu thrown in?”

“I said six, sir.”

During this conversation the man who had kept his back to the candle and had not yet spoken had been making the mechanism revolve. He now went up to the gunsmith and whispered in his ear, “Is it a good one?”

“First-rate.”

“Then I'll pay the six louis.”

Five minutes later, while the man from Paris who called himself Redskin was tucking the six louis into a secret recess under the armpit of his overall, the gunsmith and the purchaser of the revolver, carrying it in his trouser pocket, left the Ruelle Coutanchez.

VIII

CANNON OFF THE RED AND OFF THE BLACK

On the following day, which was Thursday, a tragic event took place a little way out of Saint-Malo, near the Pointe du Décollé, at a spot where the cliffs are high and the sea is deep.

There a tongue of rock shaped like a spearhead, linked with the mainland by a narrow isthmus, reaches out to sea and ends abruptly in a sheer crag—a very common feature in the architecture of the sea. To reach level ground above the crag from the shore involves climbing up a slope that at some points is quite steep.

About four o'clock in the afternoon there was standing on a level spot of this kind a man wearing a uniform cape and probably armed, to judge from the straight, angular folds in his cape. The summit of the crag on which he stood was a level area of some size scattered with large cubes of rock like giant paving stones, with narrow fissures between them. This platform, with a dense carpet of low-growing grass, ended in an open space above a vertical rock-face, rising some sixty feet above high-water level, which looked as if it had been cut with the help of a plumb line. Its left-hand corner, however, had broken away, forming one of those natural staircases commonly found in granite cliffs, with awkwardly shaped steps that sometimes call for the strides of a giant or the agility of a clown. This tumble of rocks reached perpendicularly down to the sea and continued down into it. It was a breakneck track, but if need be a man could make his way down to embark in a boat at the foot of the cliff.

A breeze was blowing. The man, wrapped in his cape, stood firmly on his feet, holding his right elbow in his left hand and with his other hand on a telescope, through which he was looking, with one eye closed. He seemed absorbed in an intent watch. He had moved forward to the very edge of the cliff and stood motionless there, his eye imperturbably fixed on the horizon. It was high tide, and the waves were beating against the base of the cliff below him.

The object the man was watching was a ship out at sea that was behaving in a peculiar manner.

The ship, which had left Saint-Malo harbor barely an hour before, had stopped beyond the Banquetiers. It was a three-master. She had not dropped anchor but had merely lain to, perhaps because the bottom would have allowed her to bear to leeward only on the edge of the cable and because she would have strained on her anchor under the cutwater.

The man, whose uniform cape showed him to be a coastguardsman, was following all the movements of the three-master, and seemed to be taking a mental note of them. The ship was lying to a little off the wind; the fore topsail was taken aback and the wind was filling the main topsail. The mizzen had been squared and the topsail had been set as close as possible so as to work the sails against one another and to make little way either on- or offshore. Her master had evidently no wish to expose his vessel much to the wind, for he had only braced up the small mizzen topsail, so that the ship, coming crossway on, was drifting at no more than half a league an hour.

It was still broad daylight, particularly out at sea and on the top of the cliff. Lower down, on the coast, the light was beginning to fail.

The coastguardsman, engrossed in his task and conscientiously scanning the open sea, had not been watching the cliff beside him and below him. His back was turned to the rough stone staircase leading from the sea to the top of the cliff. He did not notice that something was moving there. Behind a crevice in the rocks there was someone—a man—who had evidently been hiding there before the coastguardsman's arrival. Every now and then, in the shadow of the rock, a head appeared, looking up, watching the watcher. The head, wearing a broad-brimmed American hat, belonged to the Quaker who had been seen ten days ago talking to Captain Zuela amid the rocks on the Petit Bey.

Suddenly the coastguardsman's attention seemed to redouble. Quickly he wiped the glass of the telescope with the sleeve of his cape and focused it on the three-master.

A small black dot had left the ship.

The black dot, like an ant on the surface of the sea, was a boat. It seemed to be making for the shore. It was manned by a number of seamen, rowing vigorously. It gradually altered course and headed for the Pointe du Décollé.

The coastguardsman's watch had reached a peak of intensity. He followed every moment of the boat's movement. He had drawn even closer to the edge of the cliff.

At this moment the figure of a tall man, the Quaker, appeared at the top of the rock staircase, behind the coastguardsman. The watcher did not see him.

The man stopped for a moment, his arms hanging by his sides and his fists clenched, and watched the coastguardsman's back, like a hunter watching his prey.

He was only four paces behind the coastguardsman. He took a step forward and stopped; then took another step, and stopped again. Only his legs moved; the rest of his body was as still as a statue. His footsteps made no sound on the grass. Then he took a third step, and stopped again. He was now almost touching the coastguardsman, who remained motionless, intent on his watch. The man slowly brought his clenched fists up to the level of his collarbone; then his arms suddenly shot forward, and his fists, as if released by a trigger, struck the coastguardsman's shoulders. It was a fatal blow. The coastguardsman had no time even to utter a cry. He fell head first from the cliff into the sea. There was a brief glimpse of the soles of his shoes. It was as if a stone had fallen into the sea. Then the water closed over him.

A few large circles formed on the dark water.

All that was left was the telescope that had fallen from the coastguardsman's hands and was lying on the grass.

The Quaker looked down from the edge of the cliff, watched the ripples on the sea dying down, waited for a few minutes, and then stood up, humming between his teeth:

Monsieur d'la Police est mort
En perdant sa vie.

The gentleman of the police is dead
As a result of losing his life.

He looked down again. Nothing had reappeared; but, at the spot where the coastguardsman had fallen into the water, a brown patch had formed on the surface of the water and was spreading under the movement of the waves. Probably the coastguardsman had fractured his skull on some underwater rock and his blood had risen and formed this stain on the sea.

Watching this reddish patch, the Quaker went on humming his song:

Un quart d'heure avant sa mort,
Il était encore—

A quarter of an hour before his death
He was still—

He did not finish. He heard a soft voice behind him saying: “So there you are, Rantaine. How are you? You have just killed a man.”

He turned around and saw, in a crevice in the rocks, some fifteen paces away, a short man holding a revolver.

He replied: “As you see. How do you do, Sieur Clubin?”

The other man started.

“You recognize me, then?”

“You recognized me all right,” said Rantaine.

The sound of oars was heard. It was the boat that the coastguardsman had been watching, now approaching the coast.

Sieur Clubin murmured, as if speaking to himself: “It was over very quickly.”

“What can I do for you?” asked Rantaine.

“Not much. It is just ten years since I saw you last. You must have done well for yourself. How are you?”

“Pretty well,” said Rantaine. “What about you?”

“Very well,” replied Sieur Clubin.

Rantaine took a step toward Sieur Clubin.

He heard a sharp click. It was Sieur Clubin cocking the revolver.

“Rantaine, we are fifteen paces from one another. It's a good distance. Stay where you are.”

“Very well,” said Rantaine. “What do you want of me?”

“I have come to talk to you.”

Rantaine did not move. Sieur Clubin went on:

“You have just murdered a coastguardsman.”

Rantaine raised the brim of his hat and replied:

“You have already told me that.”

“In rather less precise terms. I said, a man; now I say, a coastguardsman. This coastguardsman was No. 619. He was married, and he leaves a wife and five children.”

“That may well be,” said Rantaine.

After an imperceptible pause Clubin went on:

“These coastguardsmen are picked men; almost all of them are former sailors.”

“I have noticed,” said Rantaine, “that they do generally leave a wife and five children.”

Sieur Clubin continued:

“How much do you think this revolver cost me?”

“It's a good little gun,” said Rantaine.

“What do you think it's worth?”

“I think a lot of it.”

“It cost me a hundred and forty-four francs.”

“You must have bought it,” said Rantaine, “in the shop in Rue Coutanchez.”

Clubin went on:

“He didn't even give a cry. Falling cuts off your voice.”

“Sieur Clubin, there's going to be a bit of a breeze tonight.”

“I am the only one in the know.”

“Do you still put up at the Auberge Jean?” asked Rantaine.

“Yes; it's a comfortable place.”

“I remember having had a good dish of sauerkraut there.”

“You must be very strong, Rantaine. What shoulders you have! I wouldn't like to get a tap from you. When
I
came into the world I looked so puny that they weren't sure whether they would be able to keep me alive.”

“Fortunately, they managed to.”

“Yes, I still put up at the old Auberge Jean.”

“Do you know, Sieur Clubin, how I recognized you? It was because you recognized
me.
I said to myself, ‘Only Clubin could do that.' ”

And he took a step forward.

“Get back to where you were, Rantaine.”

Rantaine retreated, saying to himself in an aside: “Faced with a thing like that, you're as helpless as a child.”

Sieur Clubin went on:

“Now, this is the situation. To the right, in the direction of SaintÉnogat, three hundred paces from here, we have another coastguardsman, No. 618, who is alive, and to the left, toward Saint-Lunaire, a customs post. That makes seven armed men who can be here within five minutes. The rock is surrounded. The pass will be guarded. There is no way of escape. There is a corpse at the foot of the cliff.”

Rantaine cast a sidelong glance at the revolver.

“As you say, Rantaine, it is a good little gun. Perhaps it is only loaded with blank, but what difference does that make? It needs only one shot to bring all these armed men to the spot. I have six shots to fire.”

The sound of oars was increasingly distinct. The boat was very near now.

The tall man looked at the shorter man with a strange look in his eye. Sieur Clubin's voice was becoming increasingly tranquil and gentle.

“Rantaine, the men in the boat that is coming in would help to arrest you. You are paying Captain Zuela ten thousand francs for your passage. As a matter of fact, you could have done a better deal with the Pleinmont smugglers; but they would only have taken you to England, and you cannot risk going to Guernsey, where you are known. So the situation is this. If I fire you will be arrested. You are paying Zuela ten thousand francs to get you away, and you have given him a down payment of five thousand francs. Zuela would keep the five thousand francs and go on his way. There you are, then. You have a good disguise, Rantaine. That hat, that coat of yours, and these gaiters change you. You have lost your spectacles, and it was a good idea to let your whiskers grow.”

Rantaine smiled: a smile that was more like a grimace. Clubin went on:

“Rantaine, you are wearing a pair of American trousers with two fobs. In one of them is your watch: you can keep it.”

“Thank you, Sieur Clubin.”

“In the other is a small box of beaten iron with a spring-loaded lid. It is an old sailor's tobacco box. Take it out of your fob and throw it to me.”

“But that is robbery!”

“Call for help if you want to.”

And Clubin continued to fix his eyes on Rantaine.

“Look here, Mess Clubin—,” said Rantaine, taking a step forward and holding out his open hand.

The style “Mess” was an attempt at flattery.

“Stay where you are, Rantaine.”

“Mess Clubin, we can come to some arrangement. I'll give you half.”

Clubin folded his arms, allowing the tip of his revolver to show.

“What do you take me for, Rantaine? I am a respectable citizen.”

After a moment's pause he added: “I want the lot.”

Rantaine muttered between his teeth: “He's a hard man, this fellow.”

A gleam came into Clubin's eye. His voice became as sharp and cutting as steel:

“I see you don't understand the position. It is you who go in for robbery: my aim is restitution. Listen to me, Rantaine. Ten years ago you left Guernsey by night, taking from the funds of a partnership of which you were a member fifty thousand francs that belonged to you but failing to leave behind fifty thousand francs that belonged to someone else. Those fifty thousand francs that you stole from your partner, the good and worthy Mess Lethierry, now amount, with compound interest over ten years, to eighty thousand six hundred and sixty-six francs and seventy centimes. Yesterday you went to a money changer. I will tell you his name: it was Rébuchet, in Rue Saint-Vincent. You gave him seventy-six thousand francs in French banknotes, for which he gave you three English banknotes, each for a thousand pounds sterling, plus some small change. You put the banknotes in the iron tobacco box and put the box in your right-hand fob. These three thousand pounds are worth seventy-five thousand francs. On behalf of Mess Lethierry, I shall be satisfied with that amount. I am leaving tomorrow for Guernsey, and I mean to hand them over to him. Rantaine, the three-master lying to out there is the
Tamaulipas.
Last night you had your baggage stowed away aboard her among the bags and trunks of the crew. You want to get away from France. You have good reason to. You are going to Arequipa.