The Terror of Algiers by H. Bedford-Jones

Author:H. Bedford-Jones [Bedford-Jones, H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime, OCR-Editing
Published: 1933-11-13T23:00:00+00:00

I SCOOPED all sorts of stuff from the small receptacle before me. Packets of banknotes, cases that seemed to hold jewelry, and an account book, followed by a dozen more of the large ticketed envelopes. Convinced that we had something worthwhile here, I got everything over to the desk, called in the Arab from the outer office, and pointed to our loot.

“Load up and get down to the car—”

A sharp rapping checked me, brought me around sharply. There was another door to this office, a door that opened out into the corridor. And now the rapping was repeated on this door, vigorously, imperatively.

“Quick!—Take everything and go!” I ordered.

They hastened to obey.

We all realized the same thing. Whoever stood outside there was not far from the head of the stairs. He must be brought in here, must be allowed to enter, before Dris and his companion could get away from the entrance door.

They stuffed envelopes, cases and banknotes into their pockets and under their coats, anywhere, scooping up the booty with miraculous rapidity. I went to the outer door, which could be opened only from the inside.

The insistent knocking came again. “All right, m’sieu’!”

Dris and the other man darted out, and the door slammed behind them. I released the catch of the outer door and swung it back. Into the room came a familiar figure. As I swung the door shut behind him, he uttered a sharp exclamation and swung around, to look into my pistol. It was the same rascal who had kidnaped me on the previous day, at the post office.

“Weil, Bijou!” I exclaimed. “Up with them, quickly!”

His hands went up. His face was a picture of dismayed astonishment.

“You, m’sieu’! Name of the devil!”

I shoved the gun under his chin and frisked him, bringing to light a fat pistol, which I tossed into the wastebasket. He took in everything rapidly—the figure of Montjoy on the floor, the open safes and drawers, the confusion evident on all sides.

“A razzia?” he muttered.

“Exactly, a raid,” I said, cheerfully. “You’re out of luck, Bijou.—Come! You’re not a bad sort, and I hate to knock you on the head. I’ll give you the first chance to cough up everything you know, and I promise you’ll get off scot free. We’ve got Zontroff and most of the gang, so you might as well earn your liberty instead of being sent up with them.—Yes or no?”

He was too old a bird to fall for that sort of chaff.

“Don’t come that over me, m’sieu’,” he said amiably, and laughed at me. “I’d sooner take my chances than have Zontroff get his hands on me for treachery. Besides, you haven’t got him, because I was talking with Zelie not five minutes ago on the boulevard, and he had just dropped her there. A good bluff, m’sieu’, but it doesn’t work.”

I acknowledged my defeat with a smile.

“Anyhow, I owe you a bit of decency,” I said, “and I can’t knock you out in cold blood. So turn around and put out your wrists.

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