The Destroyer A Tale of International Intrigue

Excerpt

THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF SEPTEMBER

Monsieur Aristide Brisson, the fat little proprietor of the Hotel du Nord—a modest house facing the Place Puget at Toulon—turned uneasily in his sleep, as though fretted by a disturbing dream; then he awoke with a start and rubbed his eyes. A glance at the dark windows showed that the dawn was yet far distant, and he was about to turn over and go thankfully to sleep again when a sudden remembrance leaped into his brain. In an instant, he had bounded from the bed, struck a match, and, after a look at his watch, lighted a candle. Then he returned to the bed, and, without compunction, grasped the plump arm of Madame Brisson, who was sleeping peacefully, and shook her roughly.

"Wake, Gabrielle, wake!" he cried—in French, of course.

Madame Brisson, who was also little and fat with a white skin that was her pride, opened her eyes, stared an instant, and then sat up in bed.

"Heavens, Brisson!" she cried, her hand to her throat. "What is it? What has happened? Have you illness?"

"No, no!" said her husband, who was struggling with his trousers. "But rise, quickly!"

Madame Brisson glanced at the dark windows.

"I do not understand," she said.

"Ah, Gabrielle," said her husband reproachfully, "I should never have believed you could have forgotten! It is to-day, at sunrise, that our guests depart!"

"Heavens!" cried Madame Brisson again, and she, too, bounded from the bed and began to don her clothes with trembling fingers. "That I should have forgotten! Forgive me, Aristide! What hour is it?"

"It is almost four and a half. At five, the coffee must be ready."

"It shall be!" Madame promised, and hurried from the room, to complete her toilet in the kitchen.

"Fortunately," M. Brisson muttered to himself, "the fire is laid!"

Then, having held his collar to the light and decided that it was clean enough, he buttoned it about his neck, attached his shiny ready-made tie, donned his little white coat, picked up the candle and left the room. Passing along the corridor to the front of the house, he tapped at a door.

"Who is there?" called a rough voice.

"Your coffee will be ready in twenty minutes, sir," said Brisson.

"Very well; and thank you," answered the voice, and Brisson descended to the dining-room, opened the shutters, lighted the lamp, and spread the cloth.

He was contemplating his handiwork, his head to one side, when heavy steps sounded on the stair, and a moment later two men entered. They were both of middle-age, somewhat stocky and heavily-built, their hair close-cropped, their faces smooth-shaven and deeply tanned. They had, indeed, that indurated look which only years of exposure to wind and rain can give, except that their upper lips were some shades lighter than the remainder of the face, betraying the fact that they had, until recently, been protected by a moustache. They were dressed in somewhat shabby tweed walking-suits, and wore heavy well-worn shoes. At this moment, each carried in his hand a little knapsack.

M. Brisson greeted them bent double, hoped that they had slept well, foretold a fine day, and assured them that coffee would be ready in a moment....