V
MOTHER TOULOUCHE AND CRANAJOUR
"Come along, Cranajour! Let's have a sight of what they've given you forthe frock coat and the whole outfit!"
The person thus challenged rummaged in the pockets of his old,much-patched and filthy garments, and after interminable fumblings andhuntings, finished by extracting a certain number of silver pieces,which he counted over with the greatest care, finally he replied:
"Seventeen francs, Mother Toulouche."
Mother Toulouche showed her impatience:
"It's details I want! How much for the coat? How much for the wholesuit? I've got to know, I tell you! I've got to write it all down, andI've got to see how much I've to hand over to each of the owners of theduds!... Try to remember, Cranajour!"
The individual who answered to this odd appellation reflected. After asilence, shrugging his shoulders, he replied:
"I don't know. I can't make myself remember--not anyhow!... And it's along time since I sold the goods!"
Mother Toulouche shrugged in turn:
"A long time!" she grumbled. "What a wretched job! Why, it's only twohours since--barely that!... It's true," she went on, with a pityinglook at the shabby, down-at-heel fellow, who had spread out hisseventeen francs on the table, "it's true that you're known not to havetwo ha'p'orths of memory, and that at the end of an hour you haveforgotten what you've done!"
"That's right enough," answered Cranajour.
"Let's have done with it, then," cried Mother Toulouche.
She held out a repulsive-looking specimen of old clothes:
"Be off with you! Go and pawn this academician's cast-off! When thecomrades catch a sight of this bit of stuff to the fore, they'llunderstand they can come without danger!... No cops about the store onthe lookout, are there?"
Mother Toulouche took the precaution to advance to the threshold of herstore, cast a rapid glance around--not a suspicious person, nor a signof one to be seen:
"A good thing," muttered she, "but I was sure of it! Those police spiesare going to give us some peace for a bit!... Likely the whole lot ofthem are on this Dollon business! Isn't it so, Cranajour?"
As she retreated into her store again Mother Toulouche knocked againstthat individual, who had not budged: he had hung over his armrespectfully the miserable bit of stuff that had been styled anacademician's robe:
"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked she sharply.
"Nothing...."
"What are you going to do with that?"
Cranajour seemed to reflect:
"Haven't I told you," grumbled Mother Toulouche, "to go and stick it upoutside?... Don't say you've gone and forgotten already!"
"No, no!" protested Cranajour, hastening to obey orders.
"What a specimen!" thought Mother Toulouche, whilst counting over theseventeen francs.
Cranajour was a remarkably queer fish, beyond question. How had he gotinto connection with Mother Toulouche and her intimates? That remained amystery. One fine day this seedy specimen of humanity was found amongthe "comrades" exchanging vague remarks with one and another. He stuckto them in all their shifting from this place to that: no one had beenable to get out of him what his name was, nor where he came from, for hewas afflicted with a memory like a sieve--he could not remember thingsfor two hours together. A feeble-minded, poor sort of fellow, with not ahalfpenny's worth of wickedness in him, always ready to do a hand's turnfor anyone: to judge by his looks he might have been any age betweenforty and seventy, for there is nothing like privations and misery toalter the looks of a man! Faced by this queer fish, with a brain like asieve, they had christened him "Crane a jour"--and the nickname hadstuck to this anonymous individual. Besides, was not Cranajour the mostcomplaisant of fellows, the least exacting of collaborators--alwayscontent with what was given him, always willing to do his best!
As to Mother Toulouche; she kept a little shop on the quay of the Clock.The sign over her little store read:
"_For the Curiosity Lover._"
This alluring title was not justified by anything to be found insidethis store, which was nothing but a common pick-up-anything shop: it wasa receptacle for a hideous collection of lumber, for old brokenfurniture, for garments past decent wear, for indescribable odds andends, where the wreckage of human misery lay huddled cheek by jowl withthe beggarly offscourings of Parisian destitution.
Behind the store, whose little front faced the edge of the quay andlooked over the Seine, was a sordid back-shop: here the pallet of MotherToulouche, a kitchen stove out of order, and the overflow of the goodswhich were crowded out of the store were jumbled up in ill-smellingdisorder. This back-shop communicated with the rue de Harlay by a narrowdark passage; thus the lair of old Mother Toulouche had two outlets, norwere they superfluous; in fact, they were indispensable for such asshe--ever on the alert to escape the inquisitive attentions of thepolice, ever receiving visitors of doubtful morals and thoroughly badreputation.
Mother Toulouche's quarters comprised not only the two stores, but acellar both large and deep, to which one obtained access by a staircasepitch dark, crooked, and everlastingly covered with moisture, owing tothe proximity of the river. The floor of the cellar was a kind ofnoisome cesspool: one slipped on the greasy mud--floundered about in it:for all that, this cellar was almost entirely filled with cases of allkinds, with queer-looking bundles, with objects of various shapes andsizes. Evidently the jumble store of Mother Toulouche did not confineitself to the rough-and-ready shop in the front; and, into the bargain,this basement might be used as a safe hiding-place in an emergency, aprecious refuge for whoever might feel it necessary to cover his tracks,and thus escape the investigations of the police, for instance!
Mother Toulouche, as a matter of fact, needed such premises as hers: ifshe took ceaseless precautions it was because she had a reason for heruneasy watchfulness.
Mother Toulouche had already come into involuntary contact with thepolice; and her last and most serious encounter with them went as farback as those days of renown when the band of Numbers had as their chiefthe mysterious hooligan Loupart, also known under the name of Dr.Chaleck.[4] She had been arrested for complicity in a bank-note robbery,had been tried, and had been sentenced to twenty-two months'imprisonment.
[Footnote 4: See _The Exploits of Juve_.]
Not turned in the slightest degree from the error of her ways, andpossessing some money, which she had kept carefully hidden, MotherToulouche had decided to set up shop close to the Palais de Justice,that Great House where those gentlemen of the robe judged and condemnedpoor folk! She would say:
"Being so close to the red-robed I shall end by making the acquaintanceof one or two of them, and that may turn out a good job for me one ofthese days!"
But this was merely a blind, for other considerations had led to MotherToulouche renting this shop on the Isle of the City, in opening on thequay of the Clock, a quay but little frequented, her wretched jumblestore of odds and ends. She had kept in touch with the band of Numbers,which had gradually come together again as soon as the various numbersof it had finished serving their time.
For a while they had lived unmolested, but lately misfortunes had laid aheavy hand on the group. Still, as the band began to break up, othermembers came to replace those who had disappeared, either temporarily orfor good and all.
At any rate, they could safely count on the assistance of an individualmore valuable to them than anyone; this was a man named Nibet, whoalthough he intervened but seldom, could, thanks to his influence, savethe band many annoyances. This Nibet held an honourable officialposition; he was a warder at the Depot.
* * * * *
Whilst Mother Toulouche, from the back of her store, was watching with aderisive air the good-natured Cranajour fasten up the Academician's robein a prominent position on the front of her nondescript emporium,someone stepped inside, and warmly greeted Mother Toulouche with a:
"Good day, old lady!"
It was
big Ernestine,[5] who explained volubly that for a good half hourshe had been prowling about near the statue of Henry IV, keeping thestore well in view, but not daring to approach until the usual signalhad been displayed. Those who frequented the place knew that when thestore was under police observation and Mother Toulouche feared a raidshe took care to hang out any kind of old clothes; but if the way wasclear, if no lurking police were on the lookout, then the rallying flagwould be hoisted, the flag being the old, patched, rusty, mustyAcademician's robe.
[Footnote 5: See _The Exploits of Juve_.]
Ernestine had arrived looking thoroughly upset:
"Have you heard the latest?" she cried, "the bad news?"
"What news? Whose news?" questioned Mother Toulouche.
"Why, that poor Emilet has come down a regular cropper!"
"The poor fellow!... He isn't smashed up, is he?" Mother Toulouchelifted her hands.
"I haven't heard anything more than what I've told you!"
Consternation was on the faces of the two women.
Their good Mimile! He who knew how to take care of himself withoutleaving a comrade in the lurch, who stuck to them, working for thecommon good.
A few years previous to this Mimile, having refused to conform tomilitary law, had been arrested in the tavern of a certain Father Kornduring a particularly drastic police raid, and the defaulting youth hadbeen straightway put under the penal military discipline administered tosuch as he. Instead of making himself notorious by his execrable conductas those in his position generally did, he behaved like a little saint.Having thus made a reputation to trade on, he was twice able to stealthe money from the regimental chest without a shadow of suspicionfalling on him, and, what was worse, two of his innocent comrades hadbeen accused of the crime, had been condemned and shot in his stead!Owing to his good conduct Mimile had been transferred to a regimentstationed in Algiers, and having a considerable amount of spare time onhis hands, he got into close touch with the aeroplane mechanics.
He was very much at home in this branch of work: could not Mimiledemolish a lock as easily as one rolls a cigarette? He was daring to adegree, and, as soon as his time in the army was up, he began to earnhis living as an aviator, and rightly, for he had become an able airman.Nevertheless, Mimile become Emilet, had aspired to greater things: ahumdrum honest livelihood was not to his taste!
He had come to the conclusion that provided he went warily nothing couldbe easier than to carry on a lucrative smuggling trade by aeroplane: hecould fly from country to country under the pretext that he was out tomake records in flying. Custom-house officials and police inspectors inthe interior would never think of examining the tubes of a flyingmachine, to see whether or no they were packed with lace; nor would itoccur to them to overhaul certain cells fore and aft to discover whetherthings of value had been secreted in them, such as thousands of matchesor false coin.
So, from time to time, Mimile would announce that he was off on a trialtrip to Brussels from Paris, from London to Calais, and so on.
For mechanics Mimile had two brokendown sharpers, who served asconnecting links between the aviator and the band of smugglers and falsecoiners who gathered at the lair of Mother Toulouche under the seal ofsecrecy. This was why big Ernestine was so anxious when she heard ofMimile's accident. Had the aeroplane been totally wrecked? Would thevery considerable prize of Malines lace they were expecting reach itsdestination safe and sound?
For some time past ill-luck had pursued them, had seemed to pursueimplacably these unfortunates who took such pains and precautions tocarry through their unlawful operations to a successful issue. Alreadythe Cooper, a member of the confraternity who had had his glorious hourin the famous days of Chaleck and Loupart, had scarcely left prisonretirement before he had been nabbed again, owing to the far too sharpeyes of the French custom-house officials on the Belgian frontier.Others of the band were also under lock and key again: it really seemedas if Mother Toulouche and her circle were being strictly watched by thepolice ... and now here was Emilet who had come a regular cropper in hisaeroplane--no doubt about it!
Mother Toulouche was set on knowing the rights of it:
"But what has happened to Emilet exactly?"
She called Cranajour. The queer fellow came forward from the back store,where he had been loafing: he had a bewildered air.
"Cranajour," said Mother Toulouche, putting a sou in his hand, "hurryoff and buy me an evening paper! Now be quick about it!... Don'tforget.... Make a knot in your handkerchief to remind a stupid head!"
"Oh, don't be afraid, Mother Toulouche," declared Cranajour, "I shan'tforget!" He nodded to big Ernestine, and vanished as by magic into thedarkness, for night had fallen.
Scarcely had Cranajour gone, than a surly looking individual slippedinto the store, not by the quay entrance, but through the back store, towhich he had gained access by the dark passage leading to the rue deHarlay.
His collar was turned up as though he were cold; his cap was drawn wellover his eyes, thus his face was almost entirely hidden.
Having barred the door on the quay side of the store, Mother Toulouchejoined big Ernestine and the newcomer:
"Well, Nibet, anything fresh?" she asked.
Removing his cap and lowering his collar Nibet's crabbed visage gloweredon the two women: it was the Depot warder right enough:
"Bad," he growled between his teeth: "Things are hot right at thePalais!"
"Things to worry about--to do with comrades committed for trial?"questioned big Ernestine.
Nibet shrugged and threw a glance of disdain at the girl:
"You're going silly! It's this Dollon mess-up!"
The warder gave them an account of what had happened. The two women wereall ears, as they followed Nibet's story of events which had thrown thewhole legal world into a state of commotion: incomprehensibleoccurrences, which threatened to turn an ordinary murder case into oneof the most mysterious and most popular of assassination dramas.
Mother Toulouche and big Ernestine were well aware that Nibet knew muchmore than he had told them about the details of the Dollon-Vibrayaffair; but they dared not cross-examine the warder who was in a nastymood--nor did the announcement of Emilet's accident add to his gaiety!
"It just wanted that!" he grunted: "And those bundles of lace were toturn up this evening too!"
"Who is to bring them?" asked big Ernestine.
"The Sailor," declared Nibet.
"And who is to receive them?" demanded Mother Toulouche.
"I and the Beadle," answered Nibet in a surly tone. "Come to think ofit," went on Nibet, staring hard at big Ernestine, "where _is_ that manof yours--the Beadle?"
* * * * *
Like someone who had been running at top speed Cranajour, who had beengone about an hour on his newspaper-buying errand, drew up pantingbefore the dark little entry leading from the rue de Harlay to the denof Mother Toulouche. He slipped into the passage; but instead ofrejoining the old storekeeper he began to mount a steep and tortuousstaircase, which led up to the many floors of the house. He climbed upto the seventh story; turned the key of a shaky door, and entered anattic whose skylight window opened obliquely in the sloping roof.
This poverty-stricken chamber was the domicile of the queer fellow whopassed his daylight hours in the company of Mother Toulouche, hobnobbingwith a hole-and-corner crew, cronies of the old receiver of stolengoods.
Overheated with running, Cranajour unbuttoned his coat, opened hisshirt, sprinkled his face and the upper part of his body with coldwater, sponged the perspiration from his brow, and brushed the dust offhis big shoes.
It was a clear starlight night. To freshen himself up still more he puthis head and shoulders out of the half-opened window. He was gazing atthe roofs facing him; suddenly he started, and his eyes gleamed. Theywere the roofs, outlined against the night sky, of the Palais deJustice. There was a shadow on the roof of the great pile, a shadowwhich moved to and fro, passing from one roof ridge t
o another, nowvanishing behind a chimney, now coming into view again. AnxiouslyCranajour followed the odd movements of the mysterious individual whowas making his lofty and lonely promenade up above there.
"What the devil does it mean?" soliloquised the watcher. Whoever couldhave seen Cranajour at this moment would have been struck by the markedchange produced in his physiognomy. This was not the Cranajour of thewandering eye, the silly smile, the stupid face, known to MotherToulouche and her cronies; it was a transformed Cranajour, mobile offeature, lively of movement, a sharp, keen-witted Cranajour! Veritablyanother man!
Puzzled by the vagaries of the promenader on the Palais roofs, Cranajourfollowed his movements intently for a few minutes longer. He would haveremained at the window the whole night long had the unknown persisted inhis peregrinations; but Cranajour saw him climb to the top of a chimney,a wide one, lower himself slowly into the opening of it, and then vanishfrom view!
Cranajour waited a while in hopes that the unknown would not be long incoming out of his mysterious hiding-place again. He waited and expectedin vain: the roofs of the Palais resumed their ordinary aspect: solitudereigned there.
* * * * *
Not long afterwards Cranajour re-entered the back store.
"What a time you have been!" cried Mother Toulouche: "You've brought thenewspaper, haven't you?"
Cranajour looked at the little company with his most stupid expressionand then lowered his eyes:
"My goodness, I've forgotten to buy one!" he cried.
Nibet, who had paid but scant attention to the new arrival, continuedhis conversation with big Ernestine: they were talking about her lover,nicknamed the Beadle.
He was a terrible individual this Beadle! Though his nickname suggesteda peaceful occupation, he really owed it to the frightful reputation hehad won as a "_bell-ringer_"; but the bells big Ernestine's lover was inthe habit of ringing were unfortunate pedestrians whom he would rob andhalf murder, beating them unmercifully about the head and body.Sometimes he would beat them to within an ace of their last gasp:occasionally he would beat the life out of them altogether if they triedto resist his brutal attacks. The Beadle was an Apache[6] of the firstorder of brutality.
[Footnote 6: Hooligan.]
Big Ernestine finished explaining to Nibet that he must not count on theBeadle that evening, for things were so queer and uncertain, the outlookwas so gloomy that no one knew what bad business they might be in for.
Mother Toulouche asked if he had got mixed up in the Dollon affair.
Cranajour cocked his ear at that, whilst pretending to put a greatbundle of old clothes in order.
But Nibet replied:
"The Beadle has nothing whatever to do with that business.... I knowwhat I know about all that.... He's afraid of getting what the Coopergot, so he keeps away. He's not far out either--you've got to be carefulthese days--queer times!"
Ernestine and Mother Toulouche bewailed the Cooper's fate:
"Poor fellow! No sooner out of quod than back--only a fortnight'sliberty! And with a vile accusation fastened to him--smuggling andcoining!"
Nibet tried to relieve their minds:
"Haven't I told you," growled he, "that I'm going to get Maitre HenriRobart to defend him? He knows how to get round juries: he'll get theCooper off with an easy sentence."
Nibet looked at his watch:
"It will soon be half-past two! Got to go down! The boatman will bethere before long, at the mouth of the sewer!"
Mother Toulouche, who was always in a flurry when smuggled goods were tobe unloaded in her cellars, tried to dissuade Nibet:
"You'll never be able to manage it by yourself!"
Nibet glanced at Cranajour. The warder hesitated, then said:
"Since there's no one else, couldn't I take Cranajour with me?"
At first objections were raised; there was a low-voiced discussion, sothat the simpleton might not catch what they were saying: Cranajour hadnever been up to dodges of this kind: so far he had been kept out ofthem; besides, he was such a senseless cove, he might give things away,make a hash of it!
Nibet smiled:
"Why, it's just because he is such a simpleton, and because he hasn't amite of memory that we can use him safely!"
"That's true!" said Mother Toulouche, somewhat reassured.
She called to Cranajour:
"Come along, Cranajour, and just tell us where you dined this evening!"
The simpleton seemed to make a prodigious effort of memory, seized hishead between his hands, closed his eyes, and racked his brains: afterquite a long silence, he declared emphatically and with a distressedair:
"Faith, I can't tell you now!"
Nibet, who had closely watched this performance, nodded:
"It's quite all right," he said.
The cellars below Mother Toulouche's store were extensive, dark, andill-smelling. The walls glistened with exuding damp, and the ground wasa sticky mass of foul mud, of all sorts of refuse, of putrefying matter.
Nibet, followed by his companion, made his way down to them: it was noeasy descent, for they had to climb over cases of all kinds, and overbales and bundles that moved and rolled about. They passed into asmaller cellar, around which were ranged long boxes of tin with rustycovers.
Cranajour, who had been given the lantern to carry, was attracted tothese boxes: he lifted the cover of one of them and drew backwonderstruck, for the box was full of shining gold pieces! Nibet, with ajab and thrust in the back, interrupted Cranajour's contemplation ofthis fortune:
"Nothing to faint over!" he growled. "You're not such a simpleton then!You know the value of yellow boys? All right, then, I'll give you one ortwo, if you do your job all right! But," continued the warder, leadinghis companion to the further end of the second cellar, "you will have tolook out if you present your banker with one of those pieces, for thelittle bits of shiny won't pass everywhere--you've got to keep your eyeopen--and jolly wide, too!"
Cranajour nodded comprehension:
"False money! False money!" he murmured.
There was a very strong big door: an iron bar kept it closed. Nibetraised it with Cranajour's help. Through the door the two men passedinto a long dark passage, swept by a sharp rush of air. The floor of itwas paved, and at the side of it flowed a pestilential stream, carryingalong in its slow-moving water a quantity of miscellaneous filth: it wasthick as soup with impurities.
"The little collecting sewer of the Cite," whispered Nibet. Pointing toa grey patch in the distance he put his mouth to Cranajour's ear:
"See the daylight yonder? That's where the sewer discharges itself intothe Seine: it's there the boatman and his load will be waiting for uspresently."
Nibet stopped dead; drew Cranajour back by the sleeve, and steppedstealthily backwards to the massive doors of the cellar. An unaccustomednoise had alarmed the warder. In profound silence the two men stoodlistening intently. There was no mistake! The sound of sharp regularsteps could be clearly heard coming from that part of the sewer oppositethe opening.
"Someone!" said Cranajour, who was all on the alert, as he had been inhis attic, watching the shadow and its vagaries on the roofs of thePalais de Justice.
Nibet nodded.
The light from a dark lantern gleamed on the damp, slimy walls of thesubterranean passageway.
"Come inside," murmured Nibet, in an almost inaudible voice; and, withinfinite precaution, he closed the massive portal between the cellar andthe sewer-way.
In safe hiding the two men could watch the approaching intruder: theyhad extinguished their lantern, and were peering through the badlyjoined wood of the solid door. Friend or foe? An individual moved intoview. The reflected light of his lantern lit up the vaulting of thesewer-way, and showed up his face. The man was young, fair, wore asmall moustache!
Hardly had he passed the cellar door when Nibet gripped Cranajour's armand growled--intense rage was expressed in grip and tone--"It's he!Again! The journalist of the Dollo
n affair, of the Depotbusiness--Jerome Fandor! Ah.... This time we'll see!..."
Nibet's hand plunged into his trouser pocket.
Cranajour was eagerly watching the warder's every movement: he clearlyheard the sharp snap of a pocket-knife--a long sharp knife--a deadlyweapon!
Giving prudence the go-by, Nibet had opened the door, and draggingCranajour in his wake had rushed into the sewer-way, hard on the heelsof the journalist, who was slowly going in the direction of the Seine.Nibet ground his teeth.
"I have had enough of that beast! Always on our track! Too good a chanceto miss! I'm going to make a hole in his skin for him!"
In the twilight of early dawn, which penetrated the sewer near theopening, Cranajour shuddered.
With stealthy step the two men drew near the journalist. Fandor walkedon unsuspicious at a slow regular pace, his head lowered. The twobandits came up to within a yard of him. Noiselessly, savagelydetermined, Nibet lifted his arm for a murderous stroke. At this precisemoment Fandor stopped at the verge of the exit, by which the sewerdischarged its burden steeply into the Seine.
Yet a moment: Nibet's knife was poised for the rapid and terriblestroke; it was about to bury itself in the neck of the journalist up tothe hilt, when Cranajour lifted his foot, as if inspired by an idea onthe spur of the moment, gave the journalist a violent kick in the lowerpart of the back, and sent him flying into space!
They heard his body fall heavily into the Seine.... So roughly suddenhad been Cranajour's movement that Nibet stood dumbfounded, arm in air,and staring at Cranajour:
Cranajour smiled his most idiotic smile, nodded, but did not utter oneword!...
* * * * *
It was formidable, the rage of Nibet! Here had that crass fool,Cranajour, kicked away the warder's chance of ridding himself of thejournalist for good and all! This hit-and-miss made Nibet foam withrage. Of all the exasperating simpletons, this fool of a Cranajour tookthe cake!
The two made their way back to the store, where Mother Toulouche and bigErnestine anxiously awaited results; and now not only had the two menreturned stuttering over their statements and with no news of theboatman, who was generally up to time, but they had missed a fineopportunity chance had offered them!
Nibet hated the journalist like all the poisons. Taunts, jeers, abusewere heaped on the silly head of Cranajour, who, all in vain, raised hiseyes to heaven, beat his chest, shrugged his shoulders, stammered,mumbled vague excuses:
"He didn't know exactly why he had done it! He thought he was helpingNibet!"
They disputed and contended for two hours. Suddenly Cranajour broke along silence and demanded, looking as stupid as a half-witted owl:
"What have I done then? What are you scolding me for?"
Mother Toulouche, big Ernestine, and the wrathful Nibet stared at oneanother, taken aback--then they understood: two hours had gone by, andCranajour no longer remembered what had happened!
Decidedly he was more innocent than a new-born babe! There was nothingwhatever to be done with such an idiot, that was certain!