CHAPTER XI.BRUANT, THE STRANGLER.
Frank Merriwell removed his hand from his coat pocket, and his fingers gripped the butt of a revolver, on the shining barrel of which the lamplight glinted. At that moment, he felt disgusted with himself because he had walked into the snare, and yet it was not strange he had done so, for the failure of the man to give the complete signal before the Café de la Paix had seemed natural enough, considering the publicity of the place. Naturally, Merry had reason that he should follow the man to some more secluded spot, where the complete signal would be given, and he would surrender the precious ball, without being seen by eyes that should know nothing of its whereabouts. But now it seemed plain that the man knew no more than the words of the signal, and that did not make it complete. This being the case, Frank had no thought of giving up the tiny ball.
The door had closed softly behind him, and he was alone in that room with the man he had followed there. His hand found the knob of the door, and he satisfied himself that it was fastened. Again the Frenchman smiled into his face, a smile of craft and triumph.
“Monsieur should not hurry,” he said in his purring voice. “I am sure he will not hurry, for I wish to talk with him more.”
The man saw the revolver in Frank’s hand, but he seemed to heed it very little. Merry leaned against the door, crossing his feet. He was quite as cool as the Frenchman.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “I had thought to keep an engagement, but it is rather late, and it will make little difference if I do not appear. I shall make an excuse that I was in very detaining company.”
“Monsieur is skilful in the use of words, and he speaks French beautifully. One might almost believe him a Frenchman, from listening to his language. Won’t you sit down?”
The man motioned toward a chair near the table, on which stood the lamp, bowing politely.
“After you, monsieur,” said the American youth, with equal politeness, indicating another chair. “I do not like to sit with my back toward the door, for doors unexpectedly opened sometimes admit dangerous drafts.”
“It will not be politeness for me, as your host, to be seated first,” protested the man.
“Perhaps we had better disregard the matter of form on this occasion. There are times when it is not well to be too conventional. I pray you be seated first.”
“Very well; but I ask your pardon, in advance, for the breach.”
The man started to sit down.
“Not there, my dear friend,” said Frank. “Be kind enough to take the chair to the left.”
“As you like,” said the man, with a shrug of his shoulders.
He sat down; and then, still holding his revolver in his hand, Frank advanced to the table, and sat on the chair the man had first attempted to take.
“This is more comfortable,” said the Frenchman. “It distressed me to see you standing.”
“The ease with which you are distressed over the inconvenience of others does you great credit,” said Merry, with a curl at the corners of his lips. “Now we are seated, you are at liberty to say whatever you have to say.”
“Thank you,” bowed the man, placing his hands on the table before him, and leaning slightly toward Merry.
Frank noticed those hands for the first time. Although the fingers were long, they were also thick and muscular, and there was something about them suggestive of great strength. The man saw Merriwell looking at his hands, and a strange, chilling smile hovered on his face.
“What do you think of them?” he asked.
“Eh? Of what?”
“My hands.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I saw you looking at them. Are they not very strong?”
“They seem to be.”
“They are. There are no hands in Paris like them. They are the most famous hands in all this city.”
Frank wondered what the man could mean by all this.
“What do I care about your hands!” he cried, forgetting for the moment his assumption of suavity. “I did not stop here to talk of them.”
“No, monsieur; you stopped here because the door was closed.”
“I believe you are right.”
The Frenchman bowed.
“I am sure I am right,” he said. “But I saw you looking at my hands. They attracted your attention. It is not strange. They are very strong. Look.”
He spread the sinewy fingers out till his hands looked like huge talons, and then he brought them slowly together, as if gripping something, and crushing it. There was something so horribly suggestive about this action that the lips of the American youth were pressed together, and there was a frown on his forehead.
“If I had something within the grasp of those fingers,” purred the man across the table, “they would close just the same. They can crush anything but iron, and that they can bend.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Frank impatiently. “Was it to boast of the strength of your hands that you induced me to stay?”
“I thought of telling you about it, my cool young friend from America. After I have told you all, we will talk of something else.”
The hands unclosed, and lay on the table. Surely, there was something fascinating about them, and Frank took his eyes from them with difficulty.
“Now,” said the Frenchman, in that same purring voice, “suppose that those hands were to close on a human throat, Monsieur American. What chance would the owner of that throat have to escape with his life? They would crush the windpipe, and end a human life with ease. I did not lie to you when I told you those hands were the most famous in all Paris. They have given me my name.”
Frank was silent.
“I have used those hands,” continued the man, “and I expect to use them again—perhaps to-night. They have felt human throats!”
Merriwell felt a creepy sensation stealing over him.
“Did you ever hear of Claude Bruant?” asked the man.
“Never.”
“Then you have not been long in Paris. I am Claude Bruant, but I have another name, given me in honor of the work these hands have done. I am more often called The Strangler!”
“A very pretty name for a man like you, and most appropriate,” said the American youth, with unruffled coolness. “I should say it fitted you very well. But there are ropes that strangle, as well as hands, and in France the guillotine is sometimes used by the executioner. Sometime you may discover how very beautifully it works!”
The lips of the man curled back from his teeth in a wolfish smile. The nerve of this youth, scarcely more than a boy, was too much for him. If he had thought to terrify Frank Merriwell, he realized now that he had failed utterly. For all of his anger and disappointment, which were betrayed by that wolfish smile, he could not help admiring the lad who had remained unruffled by all he had said.
That the American appreciated the situation was certain, for he had been keen to scent danger, and his language had shown that he possessed an unusually acute brain. The Strangler knew little of Americans, save what he had seen of them in Paris, and he had fancied that they could be intimidated with ease. He had expected to become more blunt and direct in his threats, but now he felt that it would be useless.
Still, he was angry, and further threats came rolling to his tongue without being summoned.
“You are very clever, Monsieur American!” he sneered; “but there is such a thing as being too clever. Do you know that?”
“Without doubt, you are right, Monsieur Strangler. You have shown considerable cleverness yourself, but you are bound to overstep the limit in time, and then——Well, you know.”
“Ah, monsieur, I fear you will not live to see that time!”
“There is no reason why I should not, for I am much younger than you.”
“Accidents will happen, you know. A strong hand, or two of them, might find the way to your throat.”
“I hardly fear there is danger of that. A bullet is much swifter than human hands.”
Frank smiled as he handled his revolver.
“And do you know how to shoot?”
“Monsieur, there is a fly crawling toward the lobe of your left ear. If you will permit me, I’ll guarantee to shoot him off without breaking the skin on your ear, and then there will be no flies on you.”
Frank rested his elbow on the table, and pointed the revolver at Bruant.
Instantly the man held up those fearful hands, with the palms toward the young American, saying:
“I beg you will not shoot! Not that I fear harm, of course; but that is a pet fly of mine, and he has a way of crawling to the lobe of my left ear every evening at about this hour. If you were to destroy him, I should miss him very much.”
“That being the case, I would not think of harming him for the world; but, if you will turn your head, I’ll agree to brush the dust from your eyebrows without ruffling them in the least.”
“Monsieur, it would be easy to hit a large mark across a table, but could you hit a small mark across a room?”
“I am willing to exhibit my skill. If you will hold a cigarette in your teeth, I think I may be able to clip it close to your lips, without knocking out a single tooth, or drawing blood.”
“That would be very good; but would you yourself dare make such a test?”
“It is an easy thing for you to learn. All you have to do is to take a cigarette in your lips, and stand against that door yonder.”
“Thank you, but I am certain you will not urge me to arise after I have assured you that I am much tired, not having slept well for several nights.”
“As you like. It was for your pleasure I proposed giving the exhibition of my skill. Under any circumstances, you should not doubt my ability to hit a man across a table.”
“Let us talk of other things.”
“As you choose,” bowed Frank, feeling well satisfied by what had passed between them.
“It is needless to waste words,” said Bruant.
Merry lifted his eyebrows.
“You make the discovery after a great many have been wasted,” he smiled.
“Now I will talk direct.”
“Do!”
“You have what I want.”
“Still you continue to waste words, for you told me that once before.”
“Well, monsieur, I tell you so again!” came rather sharply from the Strangler, his suavity beginning to break down before the coolness of the young American. “You have what I want. I led you here to obtain it from you.”
“You have been to considerable trouble.”
“And I am not to be baffled!”
“You may promise yourself that as much as you like, but you must seek no such assurance from me.”
“I promise you that! As truly as that door is closed, you shall not leave this room till it is delivered to me! On it the fate of a good man depends, and I must have it! Why attempt to baffle the efforts of justice by seeking to keep it?”
“Why attempt to deceive me, Monsieur Strangler? You are not the friend of justice, but of something quite different. There is no reason why I should deliver anything into your hands.”
“You value your own life?”
“That I will admit.”
“Then, that is reason enough.”
“I shall defend my life with this weapon. Further than that, what is to hinder me from compelling you to rise and escort me from this room? I have a weapon in my hand, and I can put a piece of lead through your body in a twinkling, if I choose. Were you to refuse, I might shoot you.”
“And that would be a serious thing for you.”
“Not in this case, which would be purely one of self-defense. By your words, it is evident that Claude Bruant, the Strangler, is known in Paris, and it would not matter much if one of his intended victims were to end his life. In fact, it seems probable that every honest man would rejoice, and the one who did the deed would be applauded, if not rewarded.”
“You have that matter reasoned out to your own satisfaction, I presume?”
“Fully.”
“Well, let me tell you that the friends of the Strangler are within call. Were you to become careless with that pistol——”
“I should not give you time to call.”
“The report of the weapon would suffice. My voice would not be needed.”
“How many friends have you near?”
“Oh,” grinned Bruant, with a shrug of his shoulders, “there are enough—four or five.”
“Five—not more?”
“Why are you so anxious to know?”
“Because this revolver holds six shots. That would be one for you and each of your five friends. I really think I had better begin on you, and let the others come along later. I’ll take them as they come!”
The astounded Frenchman began to fear that the American really contemplated carrying out the idea.
“Wait a little!” he urged. “You can save yourself trouble by handing over the article. When you have done that, you will be permitted to depart unharmed. I will guarantee that not a hand shall be raised against you.”
“You are very kind!”
“Then you will comply?”
“No.”
“You refuse to give it up?”
“I have nothing to give you.”
At last, Bruant realized that the American could not be wheedled or frightened into handing over the metal ball. Indeed, all this talk had been a waste of words, and the anger in Bruant’s heart was intense. A sudden idea came to him. One thing he had not tried. Fool that he was, he had forgotten that all Americans are ready to sell their very souls for money!
The Strangler grinned with sudden satisfaction. He leaned on the table close by the lamp, lowering his voice.
“Monsieur American,” he said, “what you have is very valuable to me, and I am willing to pay for it. I was wrong in not coming to an understanding concerning its value at once. I will buy it from you, and you shall be well paid.”
There was a dark frown on the face of Frank Merriwell, and he looked as if he longed to dash his clenched fist into the evil face that was grinning at him with sudden satisfaction.
“You have made a mistake, Monsieur Strangler,” he said grimly. “I have nothing to sell you.”
Bruant stared.
“But, perhaps, you doubt that I will pay? Oh, I can give you positive assurance of that!”
“I do not need it.”
“I will bring the money here to this room, and place it on this table, before you.”
“Spare yourself the trouble.”
“It may be you doubt me? It may be you think I will bring you harm? Then we will both sit still, and I will call old Mezin to bring the money.”
“I tell you that you are giving yourself needless trouble.”
“Wait till I have named a price.”
“Bruant,” said Frank Merriwell clearly and distinctly, “you cannot command enough money to buy anything of me! Do you think I’d touch one coin of your crime-stained money! I should feel that every piece was dripping with the blood of Dreyfus!”
“Most Americans are not such fools!”
Bruant had quite lost control of his temper now, and he snarled the words.
“Most Americans cannot be bought with ill-gotten coin!”
“Then you absolutely refuse, at any price?”
“I do!”
They looked at each other across the table, defeat flushing the dusky face of the Strangler with black blood. There was nothing but utter fearlessness in the face of the young American.
The Frenchman turned his head toward the lamp, and gave a sudden great puff. Then, as it went out, plunging the room in darkness, he sprang to one side, and flung himself bodily across the table, his hands diving out in search of a human throat!