Dangerous Ground: or, The Rival Detectives

Something like a frown crosses the dark face of Papa Francoise’s visitor. To bring himself face to face with Papa, and to satisfy himself on certain doubtful points, he has paused for neither food nor rest, but has followed up his discovery of the morning, by an evening’s visit to the new lurking-place of the Francoises, – for the sable gentleman, who would fain win the confidence of Papa in the character of body servant to Alan Warburton, is none other than Van Vernet.

Fertile in construction, daring in execution, he has hoped by a bold stroke to make a most important discovery. Viewing the events of the morning from a perfectly natural standpoint, he has rapidly reached the following conclusion:

If the fugitive Sailor and Alan Warburton are one and the same, then, undoubtedly, the message left by Mamma at the door of the Warburtons was intended for Alan. What was the purport of that message, he may find it difficult to discover, – but may he not be able to surprise from Papa an acknowledgment of his connection with the aristocrat of Warburton place?

To arrest the Francoises was, at present, no part of his plan. This would be to alarm Alan Warburton, and to lessen his own chances for making discoveries. He had found Papa Francoise, and it would be strange if he again escaped from his surveillance.

He had not counted upon the presence of a third, and even a fourth party, in paying his visit to the Francoises. And now, as the recumbent Franz began to move and to mutter, Van Vernet turned toward the pallet a keen and suspicious glance.

But never was there a more manifest combination of drowsiness and drunken stupidity than that displayed upon the face of Franz, as he raised himself upon the pallet and stared stupidly at the ebonied stranger.

Then a look of abject terror crept into his face, and he seemed making a powerful effort to rouse his drunken faculties. Slowly he rose from the pallet, and staggered to his feet, muttering some unintelligible words. Then, after a stealthy glance about the room, he turned and reeled toward the door.

As he approached, Van Vernet, still gazing steadfastly into his face, stepped aside, and at the instant Franz made a lurch in the same direction.

In another moment, – neither Papa nor Mamma could have told how it came about, – the two were upon the floor, Franz Francoise uppermost, his knees upon the breast of his antagonist!

As Van Vernet, who had fallen with one arm underneath him, made his first movement in self-defence, his ears were greeted by a warning hiss, and he felt the pressure of a keen-edged knife against his throat!

CHAPTER XXIX.

IN DURANCE VILE

This onslaught, so swift and unexpected, took Papa and Mamma completely by surprise, and, for the moment, threw even Vernet off his guard.

“Scoundrel!” he exclaimed, while the menacing knife pressed against his throat; “what does this mean?”

For answer, Franz shot a glance toward the two elder Francoises, and said in a hoarse, unnatural whisper:

“Deek the cove;1 he’s no dark lantern!”

“Eh!” from Papa, in a frightened gasp.

“Done!” from Mamma, in an angry hiss.

And then, as the two started forward, Vernet, realizing that this shrewd ruffian had somehow penetrated his disguise, gathered all his strength and began a fierce struggle for liberty.

As they writhed together upon the floor, Franz shot out another sentence, this time without turning his head.

“A dead act,” he hissed; “we’re copped to rights!”

Which, being rendered into English, meant: “Combine the attack; we are in danger of arrest.”

And then the struggle became a question of three to one.

Vernet fought valiantly, but he lay at last captive under the combined clutch of Papa and Franz, and menaced by the knife which Mamma, having snatched it from the hand of her hopeful son, held above his head.

Instinctively the two elder outlaws obeyed the few words of command that fell from the lips of their returned Prodigal; and in spite of his splendid resistance, Van Vernet was bound hand and foot, a prisoner in the power of the Francoises.

His clothing was torn and disarranged; his wig was all awry; and large patches of his sable complexion had transferred themselves from his countenance to the hands and garments of his captors.

“No dark lantern,” indeed. The natural white shone in spots through its ebony coating, and three people less fiercely in earnest than the Francoises would have gone wild with merriment, so ludicrous was the plight of the hapless detective.

“Now then,” began Franz, in a low gutteral that caused Mamma to start, and Papa to favor him with a stare of surprise; “now then, no tricks, my cornered cop. You may talk, but – ” and he glanced significantly from the knife in Mamma’s hand to the pistol now in his own, – “be careful about raising yer voice; you’ve got pals in the street, maybe. You may pipe to them, but, – ” with a click of the pistol, – “ye’re a dead man before they can lift a hoof!”

Vernet’s eyes blazed with wrath, but he maintained a scornful silence.

The three Francoises, without withdrawing their gaze from their prisoner, consulted in harsh whispers. It was a brief consultation, but it was long enough for Van Vernet to decide upon his course of action.

“Now then, my bogus dark lantern,” began Franz, who had evidently been chosen spokesman for the trio, “what’s yer business here?”

“Why don’t you begin at the beginning?” retorted Vernet, scornfully. “You have not asked who I am.”

“Umph; we’ll find out who ye air – when we want to. We know what ye air, and that’s enough for us just at present.”

“Might I be allowed to ask what you take me for?”

“Yes; a cop,” retorted Franz, decidedly. “Enough said on that score; now, what’s yer lay?”

“I suppose,” began Vernet, mockingly, “that you didn’t hear the little conversation between that nice old gent there and myself?”

“Look here,” said Franz, with an angry gesture, “don’t fool with me. Ef you’ve got any business with me, say so.”

“Don’t bully,” retorted Vernet, contemptuously. “You were not asleep when I entered this room.”

Franz seemed to hesitate and then said: “S’posin’ I wasn’t, wot’s that got to do with it?”

“If you were awake, you know my errand.”

“Look here, Mister Cop, – ” Franz handled his pistol as if strongly tempted to use it, – “we’d better come to an understandin’ pretty quick. I am kinder lookin’ for visits from chaps of your cloth. I come in here tired, and a little muddled maybe, and flop down to get a snooze. Somethin’ wakes me and I get up, to see – you. I’m on the lay for a ’spot,’ an’ I’ve seen too many nigs to be fooled by yer git-up. So I floor ye, an’ – here ye air. Now, what d’ye want with me?”

“My good fellow,” said Vernet, with an inconsequent laugh, “since you have defined your position, I may, perhaps, enable you to comprehend mine. Frankness for candor: First, then, I am not exactly a cop, as the word goes, but I am a – a sort of private enquirer.”

“A detective!” hissed Mamma; while Papa turned livid at the thought the word “detective” always suggested to his mind.

“A detective, if you like,” responded Vernet, coolly. “A private detective, be it understood. My belligerent friend, you may be badly wanted for something, and I hope you’ll be found by the right parties, but you’re not in my line. Just now you would be an elephant on my hands. You might be an ornament to Sing Sing or Auburn, if I had time to properly introduce you there, but I’ve no use for you. My business is with Papa Francoise here.”

Perhaps it was the address itself, or may be the incongruity of the haughty tone and the grotesque face of the speaker, that caused Franz Francoise to give rein to a sudden burst of merriment, the signs of which he seemed unable to suppress although no audible laughter escaped his lips. He turned, at last, toward Papa and gasped, as if fairly strangled with his own mirth:

“This kind and accommodatin’ gent, wot I’ve so misunderstood, has got business with ye, old top.”

Papa came slowly forward, his face expressive of fear rather than curiosity, followed by Mamma, fierce and watchful.

“You – you wanted me?” began Papa, hesitatingly.

“I have business with you, Papa Francoise. I want to talk with you privately, for your interest and mine, ahem.” He looked toward Franz, and seeing the stolidity of this individual, inquired: “Who is that gentleman?”

His enunciation of the last word probably excited the wrath of Franz, for he came a step nearer, with an aggressive sneer.

“My name’s Jimson, Mr. Cop, an’ I’m a friend of the family. Anything else ye want ter know?”

With a shrug of the shoulder, Vernet turned toward Papa once more.

“I’d like to speak with you alone, Papa Francoise,” he said significantly.

The mood of mocking insolence seemed deserting Franz, and a wrathful surliness manifested itself in the tone with which he addressed Papa.

“He’d like ter see ye alone, old Beelzebub, d’ye hear?”

Papa glanced hesitatingly from one to the other. He seemed to fear both the bound detective at his feet and the surly son who stood near him, with the menacing weapon in his hand, and growing rage and suspicion in his countenance.

Mamma’s quick eye noted the look of suspicion and she interposed.

“Ye can speak afore this gentleman, Mr. Cop; he’s a very intimate friend.”

A look of annoyance flashed in the eyes of Van Vernet. He hesitated a moment, and then said slowly:

“Does your intimate friend know anything about the affair that happened at your late residence near Rag alley, Papa Francoise?”

It was probably owing to the fact that the fumes of his recent potations were working still, with a secondary effect, and that from sleepy inertness he was passing to a state of unreasoning disputatiousness, that Franz, evidently by no means relieved at the transfer of Vernet’s attention from himself to Papa, seemed lashed into fury by the manner of the former.

“May be I know about that affair, and may be I don’t,” he retorted angrily. “Look here, coppy, you want to fly kind of light round me; I don’t like yer style.”

“I didn’t come here especially to fascinate you, so I am not inconsolable. I might mention, however, by way of continuing our charming frankness, that your style has not commended itself to me.” And Vernet emphasized his statement by a jerk of his fetters. “Now listen, my friends; I did not come here alone – half a dozen stout fellows are near at hand. If I do not return to them in five minutes more, you will see them here. If I call, you will see them sooner.”

Franz raised the revolver to his eye and squinted along the barrel.

“Why don’t you call, then?” he inquired.

“I don’t want to make a fuss. My errand is a peaceable one. Unbind me; give me ten minutes alone with Papa here, and I leave you, – you have nothing to fear from me.”

Franz shifted his position and seemed to hesitate.

“You can’t keep me, and you dare not kill me,” continued Vernet, noting the impression he had made. “All of you are in hiding from the police, and to kill an officer is conspicuous business – not like cracking the skull of a rag-picker, Papa Francoise. As for you, my lad, you’ve got a sort of State’s-prison air about you. I could almost fancy you a chap I saw behind the bars not long ago, serving out a long sentence.”

He paused to note the effect of his words, and was somewhat surprised to see Franz rest the revolver upon his knee, while he continued to gaze at him curiously.

Vernet had made, or intended to make, a sharp home thrust. In searching out the history of the Francoises, he had stumbled upon the fact that they had a son in prison; and the mutterings of Franz, while he lay upon the pallet, coupled with the fact that Franz and Papa wore upon their heads locks of the same fiery hue, had awakened in his mind a strong suspicion.

“Maybe ye might take a fancy ter think I’m that same feller,” suggested Franz, after a moment’s silence. “What then?”

“Then,” replied Vernet, “every moment that you detain me here increases your own danger.”

“Humph!” grunted Franz, as he rose and crossing to Mamma’s side, began with her a whispered conversation.

Vernet watched them curiously for a moment, and then turned his face toward Papa.

“Look here, Francoise,” he began, somewhat sternly, considering his position; “I’ve been looking for you ever since you left the old place, and I’m disposed to be friendly. Now, I may as well tell you that there is a rumor afloat, to the effect that your son, who was ‘sent up’ years ago, has lately broke jail, and that you harbor him. That does not concern me, however. This insolent fellow, if he is or is not your son, may go, so far as I am concerned, and no harm shall come to him or you through me. What I want of you, is a bit of information.”

From the moment of his capture, Vernet had believed himself equal to the situation. Even now he scarcely felt that these people would dare to do him bodily injury. As may readily be surmised, his talk of confederates near at hand was all fiction. He had sought out Papa Francoise hoping to win from him something that would criminate Alan Warburton, and to use him as a tool. To arrest Papa might frustrate his own schemes, and, in the double game he was playing, Van Vernet was too wise to call upon the police for assistance or protection.

“You want – information?” queried Papa; “what about?”

Vernet hesitated, and then said slowly:

“I want to know all that you can tell me about the Sailor who killed Josef Siebel.”

Papa gasped, stammered, and turned his face toward Franz, who now came forward, saying fiercely:

“Look here, my fly cop, afore ye ask any more important questions, just answer a few.”

“Take care, jail bird!” cried Vernet, enraged at his persistent interference, “or I may give the police a chance to ask you a question too many!”

“Ye’ve got to git out of my clutches first,” hissed Franz Francoise, “and yer chances fer that are slim!”

As the young ruffian bent close to him, Vernet, for the first time, fully realized his danger. But his cry for help was smothered by the hands of his captor, and in another moment he was gagged by the expeditious fingers of the old woman, and his head and face closely muffled in a dirty cloth from the nearest pallet.

“There,” said Mamma, rising from her knees with a grin of triumph, “we’ve got him fast. Open the door, old man, he’s going into the closet for – ”

“For a little while,” put in Franz, significantly.

Into a rear room, across this, and into the dark hole, which Mamma had dignified by the name of closet, they carried their luckless prisoner, bound beyond hope of self-deliverance, gagged almost to suffocation, his eyes blinded to any ray of light, his ears muffled to any sound that might penetrate his dungeon.

CHAPTER XXX.

FRANZ FRANCOISE’S GENERALSHIP

When the three had returned to the outer room, Papa turned anxiously toward his hopeful son.

“Franz, my boy,” he began, in a quavering voice, “if there should be cops outside – ”

“Ye’re the same whinin’ old coward, ain’t ye?” commented Franz, as he favored his father with a contemptuous glance. “I’ve seen a good many bad eggs, but blow me if I ever seed one like ye! Why, in the name o’ blazes, air ye more afraid of a cop than you’d be o’ the hangman?”

The mention of this last-named public benefactor, caused Papa to shiver violently, and Mamma bent upon him a look of scorn.

“Don’t be an idiot, Francoise,” she said, sharply. “We’ve got somethin’ to do besides shakin’ an’ shiverin’?”

“Time enough ter shiver when the hangman gits ye,” added Franz, reassuringly. “But ye needn’t fret about cops – I ain’t no baby; there ain’t no backers outside.”

“But, Franzy, – ” began Papa.

“Shet up; I’m runnin’ this. If there’d a-been any help outside, we wouldn’t a-had it so easy, you old fool! That cove in there ain’t no coward; he’d a taken the chances with us, and blowed his horn when we first tackled him, if there’d been help handy.”

“Ah, what a brain the boy has got!” murmured Mamma, with rapturous pride.

“Look a-here,” said Franz, after a moment’s consideration, “I’m satisfied that there ain’t no cops about; but to set yer mind at rest, old un, so that you kin use it ter help git to the bottom of this business, I’ll go and take a look around, and I’ll be back in jest five minutes.” And he made a quick stride toward the door.

“Now, Franzy, – ” began Mamma, coaxingly.

But he waved her back, saying: “Shut up, old woman; I’m runnin’ this,” and went swiftly out.

When the sound of his retreating footsteps was lost to their ears, Papa and Mamma drew close together, and looked into each others’ faces – he anxiously, she with a leer of shrewd significance.

“Old man,” she said, impressively, “that boy’ll be the makin’ of us – if we don’t let him git us down.”

“Eh! what?”

“He’s got your cunnin’ an’ mine together, and he’s got all the grit you lack.”

“Well,” impatiently.

“But he’ll want to run us. An’ when he knows all we know, he’d put his foot on us if we git in his way.”

“Yes,” assented the old man, with a cunning wink, “he’s like his ma – considerable.”

“On account o’ this here cop business,” went on Mamma, ignoring the thrust, “he’ll have to be told a little about that Siebel affair. But about the rest – not a word. We kin run the other business without his assistance. Franzy’s a fine boy, an’ I’m proud of him, but ’twon’t do, as I told you afore, to give him too much power. I know the lad.”

“Yes,” insinuated Papa, with a dry cough, “I reckon you do.”

“Ye kin see by the way he took the lead to-night, that he won’t play no second part. We’ll have to tell him about Siebel – ”

“An’ about Nance.”

“It’s the same thing; an’ ye’ll see what he does when we give him an idea about it.”

“I know what he’ll do;” with a crafty wink. “I’ll tell him all about Nance.”

“Yes,” muttered the old woman, “ye’re good at lyin’, and all the sneakin’ dodges.”

And she turned upon her heel, and went over to the pallet where Nance, undisturbed by the events transpiring around her, still lay as she had fallen in her drunken stupor.

“There’s another thing,” said Mamma, apparently satisfied with her survey of the unconscious girl, and returning to Papa as she spoke. “We’ve got to git out of here, of course, as soon as we’ve settled that spy in there.”

“We’d a-had to git out anyhow,” muttered Papa, “on account of that charity minx. Yes, we will; an’ we hain’t heard from her. You’ll have to visit her agin.”

“I s’pose so. An’ when I do – that cop’s comin’ has given me an idea – I’ll bring her to time.”

“How?”

Mamma leaned toward him, and touched his shoulder with her bony forefinger.

“Just as that cop ’ud have brought you to time, if it hadn’t been for Franzy’s comin’.”

Over Papa’s wizened face a look of startled intelligence slowly spread itself.

“Old woman,” he ejaculated, “Satan himself wouldn’t a-thought of that! The devil will be proud of ye, someday. But Franzy mustn’t see the gal.”

“I’ll manage that,” said Mamma. “It’s risky, but it’s the only way; I’ll manage it.”

They had heard no sound, although as they talked they also listened, but while the last words yet lingered on the old woman’s lips, the door suddenly opened and Franz entered.

“There’s no danger,” he said, closing the door and securing it carefully. “Ye kin breathe easy, old top; we’re a good deal safer jest now than our ‘dark lantern’ in there,” and he nodded toward the inner room.

“Then,” put in Mamma, “while we’re safe, we’d better make him safe.”

“Don’t git in a hurry, old un; we want a better understandin’ afore we tackle his case. Come, old rook, git up here, an’ let’s take our bearings.”

He perched himself upon the rickety table, and Papa and Mamma drew the stools up close and seated themselves thereon.

“Now then,” began Franz, “who did yon nipped cove come here to see, you or me, old un? He ’pears to know a little about us both.”

“Yes,” assented Papa, “so he does.”

“What he knows about me, I reckon he told,” resumed Franz. “Now, what’s the killin’ affair mentioned?”

Papa seemed to ponder a moment, and then lifted his eyes to his son’s face with a look of bland ingenuousness.

“It’s a kind of delicate affair, my boy,” he began, in a tone of confidential frankness, “but ’twon’t do for us to have secrets from each other – will it, old woman?”

“No,” said Mamma; “Franzy’s our right hand now. You ort to tell him all about it.”

“Oh, git along,” burst in Franz. “Give us the racket, an’ cut it mighty short – time enough for pertikelers later.”

“Quite right, my boy,” said Papa, briskly. “Well, here it is: I – I’m wanted, for a witness, in a – a murder case.”

“Oh,” groaned Franz, in tones of exaggerated grief, “my heart is broke!”

“You needn’t laugh, Franzy,” remonstrated Papa, aggrieved. “It’s the business I was tellin’ you about – at the other place, you know.”

“Well, see here, old un, my head’s been considerable mixed to-night; seems to me ye did tell me a yarn, but tell it agin.”

“Why, there’s not much of it. We was doing well; I bought rags an’ – an’ things.”

“Rags an’ things – oh, yes!”

“An’ we was very comfortable. But one night – ” and Papa turned his eyes toward Mamma, as if expecting her to confirm all that he said – “one night, when there was a number there, a fight broke out. We was in another room, the old woman an’ me, – ”

“Yes,” interjected Mamma, “we was.”

“An’ we ran in, an’ tried to stop the fight.”

Mamma nodded approvingly.

“But we wasn’t strong enough. Before we could see who did it, a man was killed. And in a minute we heard the police coming. Before they got there, we had all left, and they found no one but the dead man to arrest. Ever since, they’ve been tryin’ to find out who did the killin’.”

“Um!” grunted Franz, “and did you tell me they had arrested somebody?”

“No, my boy. They caught one fellow, a sailor, but he got away.”

“Oh, he got away. How many was there, at the time of the killin’?”

“There were three in the room, besides the man that was killed, and there was the old woman and me in the next room.”

“You forgit,” interrupts Mamma, “there was Nance.”

“Oh, yes,” rejoined Papa, as if grateful for the correction, “there was Nance.”

Franz glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping girl, and then asked sharply: “And what was Nance doin’.”

“Nance was layin’ on a pile o’ rags in a corner,” broke in Mamma, “an’ I had to drag her out.”

Franz gave utterance to something between a grunt and a chuckle.

“So you dragged her out, did ye? ’Tain’t exactly in your line neither, doin’ that sort o’ thing. Ye must a-thought that gal worth savin’.”

“She ain’t worth savin’ now,” broke in Papa, hastily. “She’s a stone around our necks.”

“That’s a fact,” said Mamma. “An’ it’s all in consequence of that white-faced charity tramp’s meddlin’ we’ve got to get out of here, an’ we’ll be tracked wherever we go by that drunken gal’s bein’ along.”

“Well, ye ain’t obliged ter take her, are ye?” queried Franz, as if this part of the subject rather bored him. “Your keepin’ her looks all rot to me. She ain’t good for nothin’ that I kin see, only to spoil good whiskey.”

Papa and Mamma exchanged glances, and then Papa said:

“Jest so, my boy; she spoils good whiskey, but she’s safer so than without it. We kin afford to keep her better than we kin afford to turn her loose.”

“D’ye mean ter say,” queried Franz, “that if that gal knew anything, she’d know too much?”

“That’s about it, my boy.”

Franz gave vent to a low whistle. “So,” he said; “an’ that’s why ye keep her full o’ drugged liquor, eh? I’ll lay a pipe that’s the old woman’s scheme. Have I hit the mark, say?”

“Yes, Franzy.”

“Yes, my boy.”

“Then what the dickens are ye mincin’ about? Why don’t ye settle the gal afore we pad?”

“Easy, my boy, easy,” remonstrates Papa.

“Just wot I say, Franz,” puts in Mamma. “When we leave here, it won’t be safe for us to take her – nor for you, either.”

“Safe!” cried Franz, springing from the table with excited manner; “safe! It ’ud be ruination! Afore to-morrow we must be out o’ this. I ain’t goin’ to run no chances. If ’twas safe to turn her loose, I’d say do it. I don’t believe in extinguishin’ anybody when ’tain’t necessary; but when ’tis, why – ” He finishes the sentence with a significant gesture.