Rouletabille at Krupp's Page 5

  “It would delay things while we find something better,” opined the Tobacconist, throwing away his cigar, which he had not been smoking for some time.

  “That’s true,” agreed the President, also getting rid of the butt of his incendiary cigarette. “That’s true. We need to find something else. Something extraordinary, but on which, nevertheless, we can rely completely—something that will rid us of any such menace forever. Think of it, Messieurs—if they can destroy Paris, what can the Germans not demand of us in return for not destroying it?”

  “Of course! That’s frightful! Frightful!”

  The editor of L’Époque had not yet said anything since Nourry’s departure. He had been content to glance from time to time in the direction of the shadow in which Rouletabille had buried himself, but, as the reporter had not yet budged, he ended up by uttering a few words in an impatient tone.

  “Well, what do you think, Rouletabille?”

  “Yes, may we know what Monsieur Rouletabille thinks?” asked Horn-rimmed Glasses, turning abruptly toward the young man. “For, after all,” he added, “if we bought you here, it’s because your editor told us that you’re acquainted with Essen.”

  “Oh, I’ve only passed through it! I undertook the journey to interview Bertha Krupp—a rapid and futile expedition, because Bertha Krupp, on the emperor’s orders, refused to see me.”18

  “You nevertheless came back with an article that was reprinted throughout the world, and is perhaps the most amusing of all those you’ve written,” the editor of L’Époque declared.

  “Indeed!” agreed the Tobacconist. “I remember it very well. The article was entitled ‘How I failed to see Bertha Krupp.’”

  “Yes, I failed, completely—and I congratulate myself for it all the more today,” said Rouletabille.

  “Oh, really?” said Horn-rimmed Glasses. “You congratulate yourself for that today? Have you an idea, then, Monsieur Rouletabille?”

  “Rouletabille always has ideas,” affirmed the editor of L’Époque.

  “Yes,” the reporter replied, “I have an idea, but I don’t know whether it will be agreeable to you, for I heard just now that an extraordinary idea was required, and mine is the most ordinary in the world.”

  “Let’s hear your ordinary idea, then, young man,” said the Tobacconist.

  “Well, I have the idea of going to Essen and enabling Théodore Fulbert, his daughter and his daughter’s fiancé to escape—for they certainly won’t agree to go if all three can’t go together—and to do that, of course, before the Boche are in possession of the secret of the Titania.”

  “And you think that’s an ordinary idea, do you?” said Horn-rimmed Glasses, in amazement.

  “It’s an idea so ordinary, Monsieur, that it can’t fail.”

  “But if it does fail, what will you do?”

  “Why, Monsieur, the only thing left for me to do, and which is indicated to me in a precise fashion by rational deduction. If I can’t save the three people who possess the secret of the Titania, I shall have no option, in order to preserve the secret in an absolutely secure fashion, as Monsieur demands, but to kill all three of them.”

  This had been said in a voice so clear and trenchant that everyone there took a step toward the young reporter with a unanimous movement, under the impulse of the same emotion.

  However, although they did not doubt for a second that Rouletabille was capable of doing what he said, if the opportunity presented itself, they did not take long to conclude that there was every chance that opportunity would not present itself, and that it would be almost impossible to give rise to it. Was it not necessary first to get to Essen?

  “And then, I can’t see how you’re going to be able, on your own...” said the President.

  “That’s his business! That’s his business!” said the editor of L’Époque. “When Rouletabille says something...”

  “To begin with,” Rouletabille put it, “I didn’t say that I’d handle the matter on my own...”

  “I warn you,” declared Horn-rimmed Glasses, smiling, “that I don’t have many men to spare, and that that you shouldn’t ask me for an army to capture Essen!”

  “Rouletabille has no need of an army,” declared the editor of L’Époque. “With two of his comrades he sustained a siege for a week in an old tower at Istrandja-Dahg, against three thousand Pomaks with cannon.”19

  “Messieurs,” said the reporter, “if the two comrades that the Boss has just mentioned consent to accompany and assist me, I swear to you that there’s a ninety-nine per cent chance that my plan will succeed.”

  “In the old days, Rouletabille,” growled the editor, “You’d have set off alone, and you wouldn’t have granted a one per cent chance of the failure of your project. You would simply have said: ‘I’m off, and I’ll succeed.’”

  “Yes, but in the old days, I wasn’t dealing with the Boche,” the reporter replied.

  At that moment, a door opened abruptly and the distressed face of the head of the Sûreté reappeared. He seemed to be prey to a quite extraordinary emotion—and must, indeed have been, for the chief was renowned for his composure, which never abandoned him, even in the most difficult circumstances.

  “Messieurs! Messieurs!” the man stammered, in a fearful voice. “As I was leaving, Nourry—whom I’d arranged to meet tomorrow—was accosted by two drunkards at the corner of the Rue de Saussaies. Nourry called for help, but the agents arrived too late. Nourry was in the gutter. His blood was flowing—his carotid artery had been sliced by a knife!”

  An exclamation of horror emerged from every mouth.

  “Is he dead?” asked the President breathlessly.

  “In our arms, without having said a word.”

  “And the drunkards?” asked the calm voice of Rouletabille.

  “They ran away. Our agents are searching the vicinity—the entire quarter—but I’ll tell you something terrible, Monsieur le Président… it won’t astonish me if I don’t catch them. I believe that it was planned.”

  “You don’t need to believe it, Monsieur le Directeur, you can be sure of it!” Rouletabille declared, turning to his boss to add: “Didn’t I tell you that three of us won’t be too many, against them?”

  Chapter XVIII

  Tango

  The day after that memorable meeting, at about eight o’clock in the evening, a certain poilu of our acquaintance could be seen wandering, pipe in mouth, through all the streets adjacent to the major boulevards, from the Rue de Helder to the Rue Royale. He went into almost all the bars—or, at least, those frequented by so-called elegant clientele of foreigners that the war had not chased out of Paris, or who had returned to it “since the Marne.”

  If the poilu in question had ordered “a glass” in each of those establishments he would have needed an exceptional constitution to be able to continue on his way with such an assured stride as the one that finally brought him a small tavern in the Rue Caumartin, in front of a counter on which he leaned his elbows in a melancholy fashion.

  For the tenth time in two hours he asked for “a quarter of Vittel,” for Rouletabille (it was him) was naturally sober, especially when he was working—and we catch him here in mid-endeavor.

  He addressed himself to an amiable, slightly plump lady who must have been pretty twenty years earlier, and who was meticulously supervising the distribution of cocktails and other drinks to a mixed clientele of which the weaker sex was not, all things considered, the finest ornament.

  Those ladies, like the “patronne,” were generally of a certain age, while the young people were decidedly young; Rouletabille thought that he recognized some of them by virtue of having seen them, in the months before the war, gliding over the floors of “tea-dances” with a grace that ought to have brought them twenty francs at the end of the day.

  “Pardon me, Madame, could you tell me whether Vladimir Féodorovitch will be here this evening?”

  “Professor Vladimir?” the plump lady replied, patting the cu
rls of her red wig. “There’s every chance Monsieur le Poilu! Look—just yesterday at this time, he was dining at that table.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back to dine this evening?”

  “Oh, it’s quite probable—unless he’s been invited to dine in town by his princess.”

  “Oh yes—Princess Botosani.”

  “Oh, you know about her...”

  “I know that he’s a fellow who keep beautiful company—isn’t he, Madame?”

  “You don’t say! Professor Vladimir isn’t just anyone, and he doesn’t give his lessons to just anyone. They’re mad about him in high society. Oh, the war has done him a great deal of harm, but he’s no fool, and he gets by all the same. He has to.”

  “Madame, I have a magnificent proposition to put to Vladimir Féodorovitch, and I’d be very grateful to you if you could give me his address.”

  “His address? Why, Monsieur, it’s here, and in all the chic bars of the neighborhood. This is where he has his correspondence sent.”

  Rouletabille cast his eyes over the letters that she showed him. Their postmarks indicated that they had been there for several days. Becoming impatient, he asked point-blank: “Where is Vladimir dancing tonight?”

  “Eh! You know full well, my lad, that the tango-bars have been closed since the war started.”

  “I know that—but I’m also not unaware that there are some that open clandestinely. Speak! You can do so with confidence, and I assure you that it’s in Vladimir’s interest—an important affair. Where is he dancing?”

  “Where he’s dancing they won’t let you in dressed as a poilu.”

  “Don’t worry about that—tell me, quickly.”

  “Well, you’ll find Vladimir, from ten o’clock onwards, in a small place on the Rue de Balzac, whose exact number I don’t recall, but which you’ll easily recognize by the quantity of automobiles bringing the enthusiasts. It’s where the painter Chéron20 used to live. Do you know it?”

  “I know it,” Rouletabille replied, getting to his feet. Thank you, and au revoir.”

  An hour later, he was outside the house in question. He had put on his most elegant civilian clothes, but had not abandoned his pipe.

  It was a dark night, in a dark street. The house itself only emerged from the opaque shadows when the headlights of an automobile illuminated it. The auto stopped, a couple got out; a little door on the left-hand side of the house opened; the couple disappeared and the auto drew away, going to park a hundred meters further on.

  Arrivals were becoming increasingly numerous.

  As he slipped along the sidewalk, the reporter heard muffled music: the languorous and long-drawn-out echo of the tangos of yesteryear.

  They’re crazy, the reporter thought, but then, the must be gambling as well as dancing in there.

  Rouletabille reflected that it was impossible that the police were unaware of these little nocturnal gatherings, but that it was in their interests to let them enjoy a semblance of security for a while in order to capture certain interesting individuals who were likely to hang about in such a shady milieu.

  He had taken care to note the fashion in which the new arrivals knocked on the little door: three raps, then one then two. No one rang. He knocked in his turn.

  The door opened. An old woman, doubtless the concierge, asked him what he wanted. He replied that he had come to see Vladimir Féodorovitch, and even affirmed that he had arranged a rendezvous with him.

  The concierge showed him into a small room summarily furnished with a table and two chairs.

  Rouletabille did not have to wait long. Vladimir arrived almost immediately and, on seeing him, as had been his custom in days of old when he wanted to express his joy, set about prancing like a ballerina, sketching with his long legs what vulgar choreography calls a “pigeon wing.”

  “Rouletabille! That’s nice! You’re no longer in the trenches, then?”

  “What about you?”

  Vladimir stopped dancing. He looked at Rouletabille obliquely while shaking his hand. He was not entirely sure whether the other was joking. Smiling in his silly fashion, he replied: “Oh, me, I’m an ‘undesirable.’”

  “You haven’t been called up in Russia?”

  “Did you really believe, my dear chap, that I’m Russian? Well, I too believed that I was Russian—but can you imagine that, at the outbreak of hostilities, when I was ready to do my duty like everyone else, a funny thing happened to me, about which I’ll tell you...”

  “If it stopped you becoming a soldier, you must have suffered a great deal, Vladimir.”

  “Don’t be so sarcastic, Rouletabille—I’ve always liked war, myself, and I have no fear of adventures, as you know very well. All the same, I’d be in agreement with you regarding the military question and I don’t mind admitting to you that it wouldn’t entirely have pleased me to make war as a soldier, having only previously done so as a reporter—which requires less discipline.”

  “It’s true, Vladimir, that you’ve never been very disciplined.”

  “Is it? I didn’t tell you that. But when one’s a soldier and one isn’t very disciplined, the profession, according to what I’ve been told, isn’t without a certain redoubtable inconvenience...”

  “Bah! One only appears before a firing-squad once!” Rouletabille observed, vaguely, amused by Vladimir’s increasing embarrassment and the entanglement of his explanations.”

  “Very kind of you! I don’t like the idea of being shot at all, so I won’t hide it from you that when I suddenly noticed, on looking at my identity papers more closely and making a serious study of them, that my personal status...”

  “Your personal status! You’re well-read in international law, Vladimir!”

  “My God—it’s certainly been necessary for me to study it with a few obliging jurisconsultants… and it was then that I learned that, because of a certain incomplete naturalization of one of my ancestors, that I’ve never been Russian...”

  “Really? What are you, then, Vladimir?”

  “I’m quite simply Rumanian.”

  “Quite simply!” Rouletabille repeated, unable to help smiling. “Be careful! Examine your papers well, Vladimir—there’s a rumor going around about Rumania’s entry into the war...”

  Vladimir shook his head. “No, no! I have information about that. Rumania will remain neutral, I tell you.”

  “And who told you?”

  “A certain Wallachian princess who’s very well in with Enver Pacha.”

  “Really? So you’re still hanging around with princesses, Vladimir? And on that subject, might I ask for news of yours? How is Madame Vladimir?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “As you foresaw, as I recall, and also as her advanced age and taste for strong liquor might have caused one to dread, if my memory serves me right.”

  “What I did not foresee, my dear chap, is that the woman I believed to be as rich as the Queen of Sheba would die without leaving me a sou, the slut!”

  “Bah! You’re still young. Marry Princess Botosani...”

  “Oh, you’ve heard about that!” said Vladimir, swelling with pride. “By the way, I haven’t asked you for news of Madame Rouletabille. Still with Radko Dimitrieff?”

  Rouletabille did not reply. The whole world knew that the illustrious Bulgarian Ivana Vichlikoff, who had married the L’Époque reporter after resounding adventures, had abandoned the cause of the felon king long before Ferdinand’s treason, and had followed the patriotic general who had put his sword at the service of the Tsar to Russia, in the life-or-death struggle of the Slavic races. In that tempest, Rouletabille’s love for his young wife had been obliged to suffer the fatality that separates a lovingly united household.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” said Rouletabille. “There’s not much excitement here.”

  They went down.

  In a vast room that opened on to the back of the house, which had been the painter’ studio, a certain quantity of small tables had been dispos
ed at which the obligatory champagne was being served (at thirty francs a bottle.) The crowd was however, joyful, and devoid of scandal. It was recognized among men and women of the world that people danced. The tango, moreover, renders gravity; and the most flirtatious of young women, as soon as they begin to dance it, resume the inspired but concentrated expression that characterizes the adepts of the new choreography.

  That entirely exceptional “underworld” of wartime Paris was, as one might well imagine, far from seductive to Rouletabille even though he was no prude.

  The two young men sat down at a table near the orchestra, which comprised a pianist and three violinists. The latter were not wearing red jackets or speaking Hungarian. It was necessary to drink champagne, which did not displease Vladimir at all. To begin with, they talked about “this and that.”

  “It’s a long time since you’ve seen La Candeur?” asked the Slav.

  “I haven’t had an opportunity to see him since the war broke out,” Rouletabille replied.

  “And he hasn’t written to you?”

  “I certainly haven’t received anything.”

  “I’ll tell you the reason for his silence in your regard, Rouletabille—La Candeur is quite simply ashamed! La Candeur has got himself a cushy job behind the lines, in the automobile service. La Candeur is nothing more or less than a shirker.”

  “That’s disgusting,” said Rouletabille, without frowning.

  “Absolutely disgusting,” agreed Vladimir, with a magnificent unconsciousness of his own situation. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell him what I think, but if I run into him...”

  “You’d be quite right,” said Rouletabille, “and it won’t be undeserved.”

  Then they fell silent, vaguely watching the dancers. Rouletabille was astonished that the Slav was not dancing, and told him so,

  “My dear chap,” Vladimir whispered in his ear, “I’ve promised my princess not to dance with anyone but her—and she hasn’t arrived yet! All these ladies are annoyed with me, but I can surely make a sacrifice for that charming woman—who, in any case, is leaving Paris in a week.”