Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

In the Shadows of St. Roch by Cyrus Chapin

She posed as an humble scrub woman, but she represented a ring of international smugglers who dealt in millions.

Every night I saw the old hag sitting in the window of Mine. Martin’s café, between five and six as I went to my boarding-house for dinner. Sometimes I had an aperitif in the little café, and one night I asked madame who she was.

“She, monsieur?” replied madame, surprised at my interest. “I only know her as the scrub woman of St. Roch.”

“You mean she scrubs along the Rue St. Roch?”

“No — no, monsieur, I mean she is the scrub woman for Monsieur le Cure at the church of St. Roch. She drops in here every night for her vermouth cassis.”

“Wry good,” I answered. “She seems a good-natured sort, and lonesome. I’m going to invite her to have a drink with me. I see her glass is empty.”

I did not tell Mme. Martin my real reasons for buying the old woman a drink. In fact, neither madame nor any one in Paris outside of the attaches of the Préfet of Police, and my own assistants in the secret service game, knew my actual official status as a criminal investigator from America.

I wanted a chance to look at the old woman’s hands and size her up from a criminological standpoint, for even a novice at the game would have known from her face that she belonged to the habitual criminal type, or class of incorrigibles made famous by such anthropologists as Lombroso, Ferri, Bertillon, and Ellis.

I was particularly interested, not idly curious, in this specimen, because of the difficult, and, so far, extremely mysterious case which had brought me to Paris. Why should this ancient crook of the deepest possible dye be masquerading as an innocent scrubber of churches, such as the highly respectable Eglise de St. Roch?

I bowed to the old woman and she grinned and accepted a second drink with evident pleasure. She appeared a little surprised, but not suspicious. She simply took me for one of those very rich Americans who are likely to take a notion to do anything while romping around Paris.

“It is kind of monsieur to notice a poor old woman like me,” she began, sipping her drink. “I am nothing but the scrub woman of St. Roch. There are thousands of gay young girls in Paris for rich men like yourself. In fact I could tell you—”

She stopped, pretended to be distracted by something outside the window, then toyed with her glass. It was very evident she feared to finish whatever she had started to say.

As she slowly twirled the glass in her fingers, I had ample opportunity to observe her misshapen hands, and they were distinctly criminal down to the inordinately spatulate fingers.

Furthermore, she had the prominent cheek bones, receding forehead, heavy jaw and prominent incisors in the widely separated teeth that belonged to her particular type of crook.

To be perfectly candid and fair concerning myself, I must admit I did not then in any way connect this ancient crone with the Franco-American gang of jewel thieves and smugglers I was in France to try to catch and bring to justice.

My thought for the moment was that she was a more than ordinarily tough, old time delinquent who, for the time being, was escaping the efficient and far-reaching eye of the French police, with whom I was constantly exchanging favors.

Perhaps I could do them a good turn, without jeopardizing my own work, the while.

The very day I met the old dame, a young man, Pierre Carnot, was recommended to me by one of our Embassy as a promising young cub who aspired to became a sure enough expert detective.

In my interview with Pierre I was impressed with his evident sincerity and the earnestness of purpose reflected in his snappy, black eyes. He was willing to work for nothing if I would only give him a chance to learn. He wanted particularly to work under me, so he might have a better chance of getting to America later in the same line of work.

In France all there was in view for him was a job as a gendarme. He was a Gascon French boy of twenty, hardy and tough as nails physically, with far more education and wit than the average lad of his age, regardless of country.

Here was a chance for Pierre to learn while helping solve the mystery surrounding the scrub woman of St. Roch, for which work, as a matter of course, I would pay him a small wage and his expenses on the case.

Before the old woman and I left the café, I called her attention to the fact she had started to say something and had not finished.

“Madame,” said I, “you were going to tell me there are thousands of gay girls in Paris for which rich men like me, and that you knew of — perhaps one — who would suit my fancy. Was that it?”

Old and ashen-hued though her features were, a flush of color actually mounted to her shrunken cheeks. But, for the instant she was silent, and as we stood there on the narrow sidewalk of Rue St. Roch, she gnawed at her nails as though greatly embarrassed.

“Some other time, if you will, monsieur,” she replied, her face crackling into a deprecatory grin. “I must first ask — of mademoiselle.”

“Ah! Ha!” I answered, assuming a chuckle as though highly amused as well as intensely interested in the prospect. “I say, my good woman, be sure I am not disappointed. Let us meet again at this same place to-morrow night.”

She nodded and grinned understandingly, and as I placed a few francs in her bony hand she hobbled off down St. Roch toward the church of that name on the corner of Rue St. Honoré.

I had but to cross a short block to my pension at 29 Rue des Pyramides, where, from the fourth étage, the windows looked down upon Rue d’Argenteuil and St. Roch from the large, high ceilinged room filled with ancient but dependable antique furniture, where I slept and also made my headquarters when in Paris.

Waiting for me was my dependable assistant, Operative O. B. Hobbs, who had just finished a case in Spain and reported now for instructions on the work which had brought me to Paris. Hobbs was long, lean, lank and thirty-five, with the eye of a hawk and the beak of an eagle.

In the world-wide International Police and Detective Organization to which we were attached he was known as the best shadow among all of our thousands of operatives. And, though shadowing is considered generally as the most onerous of any branch of detective work, very strangely, Hobbs liked to shadow and never lost his man.

He had an almost uncanny ability in the way of disappearing and reappearing in the most unexpected way and in the most unexpected places when on this work. Besides being a clever shadow he was an excellent all round detective, with good judgment and plenty of well directed nerve. The first thing to do was to explain to Hobbs something about the work we were in Paris to perform.

“The Maiden Lane jewel merchants of New York,” I began, “are, as you know, all members of the Jewelers’ Security Alliance, but there is a scurvy outfit with headquarters on the Bowery who call themselves the Jewelers’ Exchange.”

“I know ’em,” replied Hobbs. “Receivers of stolen goods.”

“Right,” I responded, “though, according to the ethics of the criminal profession, I presume we may speak of them as smugglers.”

Hobbs smiled at this, for the Bowery Jewelers’ Exchange were known in inner police circles the world over as a slippery, tricky bunch, hard to catch and harder to handle, even after being caught, which they were at times, with “the goods on.”

“In this case,” I continued, “the Maiden Lane crowd are our clients. A bunch of diamonds, pearls and all kinds of jewels, set and unset, are reaching this country from France and a few other points in Europe without being declared to our customs service. That means, of course, they are being smuggled into the country.

“As we know, there is more or less of this sort of thing going on in a small way through small channels, ordinary passengers on steamships who think it funny to beat their own country out of what rightfully belongs to them. But here we have to deal with this jewel smuggling proposition on a truly huge scale.

“This Bowery exchange have been and are right now receiving the stuff. They have agents in Paris, Antwerp and other places. The better class of jewelers, say, for example, along the Rue de la Paix in Paris, are, comparatively speaking, straight.

“Even where they are not so, they have to come to America in order to be arrested on any such charge as smuggling into our country. But we are not interested in the merchant end of it right now. What we are interested in is the crook end of it.”

“The crook end of it?” repeated Hobbs, all interest and keen as a bloodhound to take up his part of the work at once.

“Yes,” I went on, “I mean, a gang of crooks are operating in Paris, getting hold of all kinds of jewels, by one means and another, all having to do with thievery of course, and getting the swag through this Jewelers’ Exchange on the Bowery.”

“Apaches?” questioned Hobbs.

“Perhaps,” I answered. “At any rate, coincident with the jewels reaching America through the Bowery exchange, which the Maiden Lane merchants rightfully want to put out of business, the French police are having a tremendous lot of trouble over jewel thefts at social functions.

“A necklace or a tiara, for instance, will be lifted from some guest and disappear instantly as if by magic. The préfet suspects some society man or woman — some fraud or poser no doubt — is nabbing the stuff and slipping it out of the various houses where these thefts occur to confederates waiting outside. This may be done by tossing valuable articles out of windows or off of balconies to whoever happens to be waiting for them.

“And, mark this, in several instances all the guests have been lined up and searched in the good old-fashioned way, without the slightest clew being derived from these methods.”

“So,” grinned Hobbs, “I suppose, as usual, all we have to do is — catch the thieves.”

I shook my head. “No — for in this particular case we must proceed a step farther. Besides catching the crooks or assisting the French authorities to do so, our most important work will be to find out who is smuggling this stuff through to America. Our fine old Customs Service will be only too willing to do the rest.”

The first thing I did was to send my assistant, Hobbs, to an Apache hangout in an old stone hotel and café on the banks of the famous river Marne, in the forest of Vincennes.

Hobbs, as well as myself, was aware the Apaches do not live in Paris. They live in and around the forest of Vincennes and dash into Paris and back again to their hovels and dives, after some depredation or other.

When on some all-night job, or when it suits their purposes, they spend all night in Paris, but practically none of them live there, notwithstanding the numerous fake Apache joints in the Montmartre made up especially to lure sensation seeking tourists.

Speaking French like an educated continental, and possessed of a composite personality which made it difficult for one unacquainted with the man to place him as to his nationality or profession, if any, Hobbs was not the sort of man to be suspected of being anything like a detective or an officer of the law.

Furthermore, the manager of the dive, one François, was under obligations to me for having saved him from serious trouble with the French authorities following the war when, to save his own hide, he had “peached” on some of his own kind.

If Hobbs could pick up any information around the Apache rendezvous that would be of value to our investigation, so much the better.

Meanwhile, I spent some hours tutoring my voting protégé, Pierre Carnot, in the subtle art of shadowing. To shadow the aged crone now posing as the scrub woman of St. Roch, should be an easy task for a beginner.

She hobbled along at a slow pace, and barring the possibility of her being suspicious of a shadow which would cause her to keep a sharp lookout to see if she was being watched, the job presented but few difficulties. Pierre would shadow the old hag from Mme. Martin’s café on St. Roch, after her second meeting with myself, provided she kept the appointment.

I was considerably gratified to find the old woman, on the evening in question, sitting at the little table by the window, sipping her evening aperitif as usual.

“Bon jour, monsieur,” grinned the old vixen as I approached her table, signaling the garçon to bring us a couple of drinks.

“Bon jour, madame” I returned, sitting down opposite her, “I trust you are not fatigued after your day’s work.”

“Ah!” she replied. “It makes but little difference, for one of my age must work hard to keep flesh and body together.”

“And — I suppose you have good news for me — yes? Did your mademoiselle agree to a rendezvous with me?”

“Alas, monsieur,” replied the old woman with a shrug of her shoulders, “she was not in a good humor when I spoke to her about you. All I could get out of her was, ‘perhaps — some day.’ ”

“Too bad,” I returned, appearing much chagrined, “I’m curious to meet her. Fix it up if you can — do your best.”

With this I assumed again to play the rich American and shoved a few francs across the table toward her. Followed profuse thanks for my generosity. I questioned her as adroitly as possible as to where mademoiselle lived, to which she would only reply that she lived on the other side of the Seine — “the left bank,” that is.

As to her own place of residence, I took it for granted she must room in some attic close to the establishment of the cure of St. Roch. In this I was mistaken, for inside of two hours after I told her good night at the entrance of the café, Pierre Carnot had some interesting things to report.

I was seated at my piano in the boarding house at 29 rue des Pyramides when he knocked at my door. As he entered his eyes were alive with interest and excitement.

“Monsieur!” he exclaimed. “I have the honor to report that the old scrub woman of St. Roch walked south from the Café Martin, along rue St. Roch to the Rivoli. From the Jeanne d’Arc statue she continued south along the rue des Tuileries, crossed the Seine on the Pont Royal, thence along rue du Bac to rue de l’Universite, then west to the rue de Poitiers, where she entered a new apartment house at No. 10.

“I watched from a café diagonally across the street, and an hour and ten minutes after she entered the place she came out bareheaded and hailed a taxi from the rue l’Universite. As she stood close to the entrance of the building, a most lovely young woman, dressed in the height of fashion, came out, and after a few words with the old woman, who is evidently her servant, the taxi drove away with the young woman.

“The old woman looked after the departing taxi a moment, then shook her head as though dissatisfied about something, then reentered the building. I thought it best to report this to you, and await your further instructions.”

“Good work for a beginner, Pierre,” I assured him. “I know the locality of which you speak. You will go to the Hotel de l’Intendance and rent a room from which you will be able to observe the apartment house in question. If I am not mistaken you will find a garden in the rear of the apartment house, which backs up against the de l’Intendance.

“Here is some money on account of your expenses. You will drop the shadow of the old woman and take up the shadow of the young lady, who is probably, as you suspect, her mistress.

“If she uses a taxi, naturally it will be necessary for you to use one; if she walks, as a matter of course, you will walk. Use your best judgment, and report to me by phone, letter, or in person as occasion permits.”

“A hunch” appears to be little short of an inspiration.

As soon as young Pierre Carnot reported the result of his first two hours’ work to me, I had one of those indefinable “hunches” that the young woman whom he described as lovely, was a criminal who would well bear watching.

Further, I believed it quite possible she was in some way or other connected with the jewel robberies which were then going on in certain of the exclusive social strata of Paris. I immediately instructed Operative Hobbs to also move to the de l’Intendance, and detailed two operatives to assist himself and Pierre in the shadowing of the young mademoiselle.

In addition to this Hobbs, and the two operatives, Weems and Kipling, would secure whatever information it was possible to get that might be of value to the case.

Three days after these instructions were given out, Hobbs reported to me that the young woman often used a private automobile driven by a French chauffeur who appeared to be in her employ. Besides this she often used the public taxicabs of the city.

She came and went between the apartment house and several of the old homes belonging to the aristocracy of the St. Germain, as well as certain pretentious establishments on Boulevard Malesherbes. These were principally calls made during the afternoons.

Mornings she would sometimes drive to the Bois Boulogne, where she would meet a crowd of young people and go horseback riding with them. Occasionally she visited shops along the rue de la Paix, Boulevard des Capucinnes and Madeleine, as well as the Galleries Lafayette and Printemps, but in these visits there was nothing suspicious to be noted.

She simply shopped and spent money freely the same as any wealthy young society woman might do. That she belonged to the exclusive social set of the old regime in Paris there could be no doubt, but so far there had been no receptions, balls, or evening parties given, since the shadow on her had been in operation.

Young Pierre Carnot’s room was located where he could observe her occasionally moving about the small garden and walled courtyard to the rear of her apartment house.

The old woman of St. Roch came and went between the old church of St. Roch, the café of Mme. Martin, and the apartment house where she was evidently some kind of servant to the young mademoiselle, but for a while nothing out of the way occurred in her actions. Perhaps after all, she was but adding to a slender income by acting as a maid of all work to the younger woman.

From Pierre’s room at the de l’Intendance I had ample opportunity to observe the young mademoiselle, and, judging from what could be seen from that distance, I thought her to be not more than twenty-five years of age, and unusually graceful and good-looking.

Occasionally she had callers who drove up in expensive equipages. Pierre Carnot found out that her name was Jeanne Bizot. The name did not appear near the entrance, so Pierre succeeded in getting the information from a near-by café keeper, also that the young woman was supposed to be very rich, with many rich friends. She was said to be the orphan of wealthy parents.

I purchased a one-karat diamond ring in the Clichy district, close to Pigalle, at a bargain. It stood me approximately three thousand seven hundred and fifty francs, or close to one hundred and fifty dollars. This was in preparation of forcing a meeting with Mlle. Jeanne Bizot, through the old scrub woman of St. Roch or otherwise.

The ring I had purchased, as a matter of fact, would cost between four and five hundred dollars in expensive shops along the rue de la Paix.

The week before Christmas it had been cold and rainy, with an occasional flurry of snow. On a Friday evening it turned warmer, and I judged, from the shadow reports of my operatives, Mlle. Jeanne would be apt to take a stroll in the evening, after dinner, accompanied as usual by the old woman.

On my way to my boarding house for dinner, I noticed the old hag, sitting as usual at the table in the window of the Café Martin on rue St. Roch. And, as usual, I stepped in, bade her good evening, and bought her the customary aperitif.

Seated at the table, sipping our drinks, I casually remarked that I had purchased a diamond ring during the afternoon at what I considered a bargain for such a beauty. Her old eyes lit up with curiosity and greed as I produced the gem for her inspection.

“And,” questioned she, “how much did monsieur pay for it?”

“Twelve thousand francs,” I answered indifferently, “and I intend to buy some more—”

“What?” she fairly screeched, “twelve thousand francs? Robbers! Canaille! And you are about to allow them to fleece you again?” She gestured with her hands imploringly.

“Mon Dieu! This is too much. To see a fine gentleman like yourself robbed before my eyes. Monsieur, I pray you to buy no more jewels until I see you again. The fact is, I have a friend—”

She put a finger to her lips and looked cautiously around at the various patrons of the bar who were paying no attention to us.

“The fact is,” she repeated, “I have a friend — and I will see her — see him, this very night, and meet you here tomorrow evening with some good news.”

I appeared not to be particularly interested. In fact, I assumed a little temper for the occasion.

“Huh!” said I, with a shrug of the shoulders. “You were going to fix it for me to meet your mademoiselle, whoever she is, and nothing came of it. Now you say you have a friend, some mysterious friend whom you will see before I buy any more jewels.

“Very well, I shall trust you once more, and that will be the finish unless you produce something, some one out of all this mystery.” At this juncture I laughed as though to put her in a good humor.

“Another thing,” I continued, “it draws close to Noël. There is barely time now to get presents to America. So if you know of any snaps in the jewelry line, get busy.”

“I’m sorry,” returned the old hag, “monsieur will understand later, it is not my fault, these delays.”

After dinner, I strolled across the Place de la Concorde to the commencement of the Champs Élysées, with young Pierre Carnot following me in case I needed him. Operative Hobbs had already got word to me that Mlle. Jeanne and the old woman were walking along the Champs in the direction of Place de l’Étoile.

I soon spotted the pair and walked directly toward them. The old woman began bowing when she saw me and was evidently telling her mistress who I was. As I came closer to them I stopped and there was nothing the old crone could do but introduce me to mademoiselle, who smiled and shook hands agreeably enough.

She was not only pretty but beautiful, probably five feet six in height and of the Norman French type, with light brown hair and dark blue eyes.

Her charming smile displayed rows of small, white, even teeth and in spite of her beauty it was easy enough to perceive she apparently lacked vanity.

Mademoiselle accepted my invitation to go to some café in the neighborhood and have some refreshments. At a signal from her mistress, the aged crone hobbled away, and we soon found a place that appeared satisfactory, on rue St. Honoré close by Avenue de Marigny. I noticed my companion rather insisted on a certain table and preferred to sit facing the entrance.

“A pet idiosyncrasy of mine, monsieur,” she smiled. “I do not like to sit with my back to the door of a café. I... don’t know exactly why.”

I had the feeling her eyes were sizing me up from top to bottom. From what followed it was apparent she had decided I was all right and to be trusted, with certain reservations.

“The old woman, Margot, was telling me you wanted to buy some jewels,” she began, smiling good-naturedly, “and I thought perhaps if you desired it so, I might help you.”

“I would be delighted if you did,” I responded, taking the ring I had shown Margot from my pocket and handing it to her. As the waiter served us, she looked it over with considerable care.

“Very good,” said my companion, “only the price of twelve thousand francs was entirely too much. I am afraid you Americans often get the worst of it here in Paris. Let me tell you a little something about myself, for it has to do with what may follow.

“I am an orphan and enjoy a small income, but it is not enough for a girl of my rather expensive tastes. So, instead of going into business, running a lingerie shop or some such nonsense, I add to my income quite a little by dealing in jewelry of various sorts — principally in precious stones.

“Of course, this is a secret from my friends of the St. Germain crowd and others. They might approve and they also might not.

“At any rate, I take no chances on that score. Now, if you can keep a close tongue in your mouth I can get you all the diamonds, pearls, emeralds and even rubies that you might want, for say a quarter of the regular price.”

I must retain the role I had assumed of the extravagantly rich American, and yet one who was not quite a fool with his money.

“Of course,” said I, “even when one considers spending a considerable sum on such baubles, one must be careful. In the case of this ring, I must confess I was hasty. I’m not usually so. I’ve been having quite a little fling in Paris, and thought twelve thousand francs for a little ring, comparatively speaking, did not count for much.

“I understand perfectly all you have said about your income and your station in life and in society. Of course, I am not counting on buying a great Jot of stuff, but if you can put me on the track of some real bargains I will be very glad to consider buying from you or through you as the case may be. The matter of the duty — the ad valorem—”

“Oh, as to that” — she laughed merrily — “there are various ways of getting around that. I happen to know several of them. Every one does it, you know, I mean beats the duty.”

She returned the ring to me and sipped at the champagne I had ordered. Meanwhile she was taking most thorough stock of myself.

Then, as if taking a sudden determination, she reached down under the table, as though perhaps adjusting her skirt or stocking, and brought forth a bracelet of diamonds and emeralds, by far the most elaborate piece of jewelry of its kind I had ever seen.

As it lay on the table between us I glanced around as though fearful some of the habitues of the place might see it and suspect something.

“Never mind them, monsieur,” said she, laughing gayly, “even if any one noticed it they would swear it must be paste. But — it is distinctly not. It is the real thing. Its original value — its value right now for the matter of that, is close to ten thousand dollars American money, say two hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

She shrugged her shoulders very prettily and accepted one of my cigarettes with the utmost sang-froid. “And that, my dear monsieur, is but a sample of what I have to offer.” Again she laughed, then, “I talk like a shopkeeper, do I not? In fact, I speak as one of the petit bourgeoisie?”

“Not at all,” I responded, as her laughter died away into a fascinating ripple. “Hardly that. If anything, you are certainly an aristocrat, mademoiselle.”

“Thank you,” she responded, nodding, “but, as I say, I can manage to get you what you want in the way of jewels, set or unset, much cheaper than you can get them yourself. You see, I have access to certain channels, certain dealers we will call them, and, well, I can get them.

“Now, this bracelet you may have for — let me see — well, I will let you have it for fifty thousand francs, two thousand dollars in American money.”

I was prepared for just such a contingency as this. I knew the bracelet was worth, even at a quick sale, anywhere in the world, as much as she asked me for it. The clients of our International Police and Detective Organization would be very glad to get hold of such a treasure as this for twice the price, and the original owner, assuming it had been stolen, as I believed, would be glad to redeem it. And if not, it fitted in with my plans to make the purchase anyway.

Consequently without further delay, and without the slightest hesitancy I drew forth a fat wallet from an inside pocket and counted out the money. As I shoved the pile of francs to her across the table and pocketed the bracelet, she smiled and held out her hand.

“I see, monsieur,” said the girl, “that you are a man after my own heart. And — I can tell by the look in your eyes, that you are no man’s fool or woman’s either. You know jewels when you see them. I could tell that by the way you inspected the bracelet.

“You saw every stone in it in the space of a minute. Perhaps, after all, monsieur is one of those American jewelers over here looking for just such bargains as this?”

“No,” I responded, “I am not a jeweler, nor do I claim to be an expert, so-called. I do know something of jewels, yes, enough to know the bracelet is not a bad buy at the price. Of course I’m asking no questions as to how you got hold of it; fact is, I don’t care.

“By rights, I should have some qualified connoisseur go over this bracelet with a powerful glass, but I’m taking a chance on your playing square with me and on my own snap judgment. That’s all.

“Now, listen, young lady — I want you to arrange to get together all of this junk you have or can find and let me look at it and perhaps bring a friend of mine along who is in a way better qualified than I to pass on the stones. You can surely have no objection to that. He is as dumb as an oyster when it comes to talking.”

Without waiting for her to answer and realizing this was a good time to press the point, “You arrange to do what I say as soon as possible. And then — it may be I will want you to show me how to outwit the customs officials on the United States end of this proposition. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” answered the girl quick as a flash. The possession of the money cash in hand had put her in an excellent humor. Money after all does talk.

“There is no time like the present. Meet me — let me see—” She paused an instant as though debating something in her mind. “Meet me — at my apartment, No. 10 Rue de Poitiers. Ask the conceirge to show you my suite.

“And — if agreeable to you, monsieur, let us make the hour — midnight. That will be easy to remember. Midnight sharp. We will have a little trip to make. I will furnish the automobile.”

“Agreed,” I replied, “and it is all right for me to bring my friend the jewel expert and connoisseur?”

“As you will, monsieur,” smiled the girl. “You have trusted me. I shall now proceed to trust you — to the limit. But remember — in these purchases you make of me no one must know of the transactions but you.

“For you must know, my friend, the authorities, the office of the Sûreté Gencrale of France and of the Préfet of Police of Paris, they are all what we may call — extremely — nosey.”

We walked together to mademoiselle’s quarters on rue de Poitiers where I left her. As soon as I was safely around a corner on rue du Bac I signaled Hobbs, using the same thin, shrill whistle made with tongue and teeth he knew so well — and difficult to place for one unaccustomed to it.

When Hobbs joined me I gave him certain instructions for the night’s work, which he was to pass on to the boy Pierre and the rest of my operatives. I then drove directly to M. Payon’s home on rue Merceau and showed him the bracelet.

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the police official, “it is the identical bracelet that was stolen from the Comtesse Eandres a fortnight ago. The theft occured under the most mysterious circumstances at a ball given at the Belgian embassy. Monsieur, I have the honor to salute you as clever. Consider myself and staff under your orders.”

It was then quickly arranged between us that he should pose as the jewel expert and connoisseur on the trip mademoiselle had said we would be called upon to make. The chauffeur would be one of his picked men. After some further discussion as to details, we arranged to meet at Mlle. Bizot’s apartment at midnight.

Exactly on the stroke of the hour M. Payon and myself ascended in the lift to the girl’s apartment and rapped on the door. It was opened by the old hag. The girl was dressed ready to go out. She was apparently at her ease in the presence of M. Payon who looked the part he was prepared to play and nothing more than that.

He was a small, dark, wiry little man with a Vandyke beard and glasses, quite scholarly in appearance. I introduced him as M. Potin. I was known to her as Frederic Chapman.

The girl wore a light tan, short outer coat, trimmed with beaver, and a jaunty cap to match, all distinctly à la mode. She carried a hand bag which I surmised contained a pistol.

As we started downstairs she unbuttoned her coat and snapped the bag onto a neat leather belt she wore around the waist of her suit, which was apparently of a very dark-blue cheviot. She looked stunning, to say the least. We were ready to start, and as we stepped into the private limousine which evidently belonged to her she gave her chauffeur an address that astounded me for a moment.

“François’s place on the Marne — you know.”

“Oui — oui — mademoiselle,” replied the chauffeur quickly, snapping to a salute.

François’s place on the Marne, in the edge of the forest of Vincennes, was the very Apache hangout to which I had recently sent Hobbs for possible information. A dangerous den of murderous and thieving rogues — one of the toughest caldrons of iniquity to be found within the realms of crookdom!

A veritable canakin of the barbarous, half civilized, untamable Apache; and yet François — bullet-headed, beady-eyed, serpent-faced François — had sworn he was my friend when I had saved him once from the all-devouring maw of the criminal law machine in France.

By one thirty o’clock M. Payon and myself sat opposite Mlle. Jeanne Bizot at a table in a back room of François’s dive on the Marne. A door, now closed, opened into the main room of the café.

A curtain was drawn over the single window which looked out into the garden. A single greasy oil lamp stood in the center of the oilcloth-covered table.

On either side of mademoiselle, in strange contrast to her almost spirituelle beauty, were two of the vilest-looking Apaches I, in all my experiences with criminals, had ever seen. Standing back of the trio was another male member of the gang.

Spread before us on the table was an array of necklaces, bracelets, rings, tiaras and brooches that truly represented a king’s ransom and no mistake. M. Payon was busy with a “loupe” in one eye, and a heavy lensed hand-glass microscope by his right hand.

The girl was strangely silent. Perhaps she had some kind of premonition a “pinch” was in the wind, perhaps her intuitive cunning only gave her a sense of doubt that all was not well.

The loot before her represented her accumulated wealth as well as the stuff her three confederates had brought along with them, to sell, if possible, to myself, the rich American.

I left Payon alone with the quartet a moment, while I stepped out and into the bar to survey the vantage of the ground. A look passed between Francois and myself, which meant the fun was about to begin. And as far as he and his ill-visaged woman companion, who stood beside him, were concerned, the silent message of our eyes meant it must be a case of hands off.

Francois knew at least some of the several strange men who moved about the place must be there to protect and assist me, if necessary. None of the other forty-odd Apaches, men and women, in the dive were wise to this.

Back in the little room again, I closed the door and again took my seat beside M. Payon. I pressed my knee against his, which was the signal for action. Simultaneously we whipped out a pistol each and, rising quickly from our chairs, leveled them at the four crooks before us.

“Up with your hands!” I commanded.

A noise resembling a low cry came from the throat of the girl, and as the hands of the four started upward there came a smash as the Apache on her left managed to sweep the lamp from the table, leaving the room in total darkness.

M. Payon and I were prepared for some such move as this, and were determined to spare the life of the girl. If her confederates were lulled it made no difference.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Four shots rang out, thundering in the close confines of the narrow space. Two belched from the guns of the enemy and two from the pistol of M. Payon. I sprang to the door and grabbed the girl as Payon ducked downward behind the table.

The smashing of the window followed, and as two of the men attempted a get-away in that direction they were caught by Hobbs, Pierre and Weems.

The girl raved; cursed and bit at me to no avail; excepting for a slight cut across the back of one of my hands, from a knife she carried, I was not scratched. Finally she ceased struggling and confined herself to reviling me unmercifully.

As my operative Kuplung and two of M. Payon’s men opened the door, a flash light revealed the body of one of the Apaches lying on the floor, bleeding from a gun wound in the neck.

Outside, in the main room, Payon’s reserves had herded the entire crowd of Apaches, men and women, into the corner of the pool room. François and his woman stood behind the bar shackled together with an officer on guard.

The girl and the three Apaches who had been in with her on the swag were the only ones we wanted. François and his companion were liberated immediately, and after we had safely departed with our prisoners, including the wounded man, the crowd in the pool room were allowed to go free.

M. Payon took charge of the loot.

It was prearranged between Payon and myself that I should accompany mademoiselle in her limousine, Operative Hobbs driving, as we made out-way toward the Palais de Justice, where we arrived shortly after daylight. For a wonder she was quiet. Finally she spoke.

“I am a fool!” said she. “I suppose this means twenty years in Saint Lazare for me — or does it? After all, I cannot help but feel you are a gentleman. I was a good girl, and I fell — that’s all. I intended to pay it all back. What can I do, monsieur?”

“Confess all to M. Payon and myself, and give us the names of the conspirators who are smuggling the jewels.

“You may think this is dishonorable, but you are not by nature a thief.

“These Apaches are. They are habitual, born, dyed-in-the-blood criminals, and never will be anything else. They will be punished anyway. But it will simply make it easier to convict them if you help us.”

After some days of thought in prison, she consented to follow my advice.

The result of this was that her three Apache accomplices, including the wounded one, who recovered, were tried, convicted and sentenced to serve fifteen years each.

And more important to me was the fact that she made it possible for our International Police and Detective Organization to assist the United States Customs service in arresting and convicting a man and his wife who were doing most of the “go-between” smuggling work between the Paris crooks and the Jewelers’ Exchange on the Bowery.

These two malefactors, including one of the principal members of the fake Bowery exchange, received eight years each in Atlanta.

Six months after these cases were all finished and I was back in Paris on some other work, I came across the old scrub woman of St. Roch, nor did she seem inclined to avoid me. We met early one morning in the great market of the Halles. I asked her what she was doing, and if she was still the scrub woman at St. Roch.

“Ah, no, monsieur,” said she. “You see, I was working there as an excuse and to enable me to come across rich visitors like yourself. Now mademoiselle and I are very good. She runs a small shop on the rue St. Honoré, and will be overjoyed if you will visit us.”