CHAPTER XII.
THE SHADOW OF PERIL.
Harvey Wynne was there!
The moment Frank saw the young newspaper correspondent an exclamation of recognition leaped to his lips, but he choked it back.
Wynne was in company with a professional guide, who was showing him the bloody pictures, and explaining all about each one.
Frank realized that the eyes of almost every person in the room had been turned toward the door as he entered. One of the women, who had been singing, stopped and stared at him as if she longed to grasp him by the throat.
“By Jawve!” Wynne was drawling, as he surveyed the gory picture of a celebrated anarchist; “this is weally shocking, don’t yer ’now. Aw—er—it actually makes me verwy ill.”
He turned away, saw Frank, looked at the boy in a blankly curious way, but did not seem to recognize him at all.
Then Frank seemed to understand that both Wynne and he were being watched in a most jealous manner by the eyes of the unpleasant gang in that room.
Bornier called for Frank’s name, suavely begging pardon for having forgotten it, and, when the boy had told him, proceeded to introduce Merriwell to the assembled rascals.
“This,” he said, “is Peri Montparnasse, a celebrated pickpocket. He can relieve you of your purse so gently that you could never know anything about it till you came to need it and feel for it. In his line he is a very great artist. This is François Lenoir, a most successful housebreaker, a gentleman and a scholar. He is the poet of the Red Flag. It would charm you so very much to hear him recite one of his most soothing and delightful poems all about robbing and murdering. This is Fabian Vaugirad, who bears the very great honor of having been arrested one hundred and ninety-three times. And this is Emile Durant, who has never been arrested, but—let me whisper it—is one of the most desperate anarchists in all Paris. He is a scientist, a surgeon, a man of the most wonderful attainments, and a leader of the anarchists.”
These final words were breathed in Frank’s ear, as if it were all true, and Bornier dared not speak it aloud even there.
Frank was a trifle dazed. On his previous visit to the place, he had been told by the proprietor that all the men he saw lounging about were very desperate characters, but Bornier had not openly introduced them, recounting the crimes for which each was celebrated as he did so. The boy wondered if the proprietor of the place had held this in reserve that he might have something of a sensational nature to interest his guest on a second visit—wondered if this was Bornier’s custom.
But what caused the lad the greatest wonderment was concerning the truth of Bornier’s words. If the man spoke the truth, how was it he dared so boldly tell the crimes of his patrons, and how was it that none of them showed alarm at being thus exposed?
Surely, if Bornier spoke the truth, these men should be hiding from the police, and should not be gathered here in a place concerning which every officer in Paris must be perfectly informed.
With these thoughts came a momentary belief that the proprietor of the Red Flag was lying, and that these fellows were hired to sit there and look fierce that they might be shown to visitors and described as great criminals.
But Frank was a shrewd reader of character, and, looking over the faces of the rascals introduced, he was forced to confess to himself that they had the appearance of being able to commit all the crimes which Bornier had laid at their doors. They were of a certainty a most scoundrelly looking crowd.
These rascals bowed to the boy as they were introduced, but none of them offered to shake his hand, much to Frank’s satisfaction.
And now Merriwell began to doubt the wisdom of coming here unattended by a guide. He wondered if the rascals would not fancy they had a perfect right to rob him under such circumstances.
That, however, was not what troubled him the most. In the eyes of the women he had seen a threat, and in the eyes of more than one of the men he read a blood-thirsty desire.
Having been introduced, Frank ordered drinks, which were brought. He barely touched his lips to the contents of his glass, and then placed it on a table.
When he lifted the glass it seemed that every eye in the room was on him, and when he scarcely wet his lips with the liquid he fancied he detected anxiety, and this seemed followed by disappointment as he placed the glass upon the table.
“Monsieur does not drink,” growled Durant. “Is it an insult he would mean to give M. Bornier?”
“By no means,” smiled Frank, as if he were quite at his ease. “I never drink. I have done everything else here, as is the custom, and no one can be offended because I decline to do what I have never done.”
Durant looked little satisfied, and was on the point of saying something more when Bornier hastily cut in:
“The young American is quite right to decline to drink if it is not his custom. As no offense is meant, none shall be taken.”
He bowed very low to the boy, who was very much relieved.
Durant scowled blackly, plainly in a very bad mood.
Bornier began to show the boy the pictures, explaining about each as they passed. While this was in progress, Frank caught Wynne looking at him fairly, and the young newspaper man placed a finger on his lips.
It was a signal for silence, and it gave Frank Merriwell a thrill, for something about it seemed to plainly say, “Danger.”
Frank pretended to be greatly interested in the pictures, but he was acutely alive to all that was taking place in the room.
One by one, the women were going out, and soon all had left. In a corner, over his bottle of poor red wine, an unshaven, ragged fellow began to sing a song. It was a doleful thing, and it made Frank’s blood cold.
The singer seemed to fall off into a drunken doze before the song was finished; but Lenoir, the poet, continued with the entertainment by reciting some doggerel about the slow and horrid strangulation of a police spy.
This did not make Frank feel any more at ease, but, from his manner, one could not have surmised that he was in the least disturbed.
Wynne had taken a seat. He was sucking the head of his stick, staring about him in a blank manner, and saying some witless thing now and then.
Lenoir finished his “poem,” and Vaugirad tried to start up a conversation with Wynne. He asked the young newspaper man where he was from, and Wynne said London. Then Vaugirad asked twenty more questions, and Wynne lied deftly in answering each one.
But Frank saw something that was unseen to the young newspaper correspondent.
Behind Wynne’s back sat Emile Durant, listening to every word, the expression of a murderer on his evil face. His attitude and the baleful glow in his eyes gave the boy a feeling of nameless horror.
And now it seemed to Frank that he had unwittingly walked into a deadly trap. A feeling of oppression, a sense of deadly and terrible danger, bore down on him.
Bornier appeared uneasy. Frank half believed the man was dreading something he felt sure must happen.
Even the pictures of the noted anarchists on the walls seemed to glower at the two young Americans, and it appeared that the bloodstained head of the fellow beneath the guillotine was about to denounce them with its open mouth.
The long, snaky fingers of Montparnasse, the pickpocket, were twisting and curling over each other as his hands met on the table where they rested. How easily they might snatch a purse or close about the throat of a victim.
Lenoir was striding up and down the room like an actor, his head bowed on his breast, his attitude seeming to indicate that he was deep in meditation. It was plain that he sought to give the impression that he was putting together another “poem.”
But Frank caught a hasty glance that was shot now and then from beneath the poet’s heavy eyebrows, and there seemed something besides meditation in those glances.
No longer was the boy inclined to doubt that the men around him were capable of committing almost any crime.
For what were they waiting?
Frank sought to catch Wynne’s eye again. He longed to signal that they should leave the place together, and make haste to leave it at once.
Frank did not want to get up and leave Wynne there, and he felt sure that the fellow was remaining with a hope of discovering something that would be of service to him.
At last Frank decided that it was best to start to leave, hoping Wynne would follow. He paid all charges against him, and then, having thanked Bornier for his courtesy, began to bid the rascals good-night.
Durant arose to his feet.
“You should not go so very soon, my friend,” he said, and there was a sneer in his face and his voice.
“It is late,” said Frank, “and my guardian may already be on his way to police headquarters to notify them that I am missing.”
“Your guardian?”
Durant lifted his eyebrows, and he laughed. That laugh was an insult. It distinctly said: “You lie; you have no guardian.”
“Exactly,” bowed the boy, feeling the hot blood coming to his cheeks, yet retaining his composure, “I am traveling with my guardian, and he——”
That hateful laugh cut him short.
“You do look young,” said Durant, “but looks in your case are deceptive. I fancy you are not the boy you appear to be.”
“You are mistaken, sir. It is plain that you are seeking trouble, and Monsieur Bornier is not the man to see one of his visitors insulted here. Monsieur Bornier, I will go. I thank you.”
Durant made a spring. He planted himself squarely in the small doorway.
“You will not hurry,” he said. “You cannot go!”