"No, no, monsieur," answered the man. "Did I not just tell an Englishman that I have a fare inside the cafe? Pas possible, monsieur."
Jarvis smiled, put his hand into his pocket, and unrolled several French notes. "Now, monsieur taxi driver," he said, "we want your car bad—right now, pronto, vite! O est compris?"
The driver's small black eyes glowed; his teeth flashed white in a grin of understanding. He was down on the pavement in a second; the door swung open. "Jump in, messieurs! Merci bien. In Marseilles, nothing is impossible."
Tod jumped in. Jarvis hesitated. "See that blue taxi just starting across the street? Follow it, driver. Keep it in sight and there's a fifty-franc note extra for you."
The taxi throbbed. They were off. Tod, from his deep seat in the cab, kept his eyes on the blue car ahead. Jarvis leaned forward in anxiety. The driver was manifestly one who knew this business well; be threaded his way through the traffic with a practised hand. The other car turned into a side street to the left. Their car gave chase.
"Not too fast, driver," warned Jarvis. "Don't let them suspect we're after them."
The blue taxi now speeded up; apparently Mr. Hawkes was in urgent haste.
"Where are we?" Tod asked in a low tone.
"I think this is the Avenue de la Republique. Hawkes seems to be shaping a course for the docks."
As they followed at a safe distance Tod perceived that they were once more in the mean gloomy streets near the harbour. The dark stone houses seemed to press together above them, to blot out sky and air. Noisome odours struck his nostrils. Occasional sailors passed on the narrow sidewalks where gas lamps gleamed dully in the night.
With a soft grinding of brakes, their taxi pulled up sharply. "They've stopped, monsieur," called the driver in a hushed voice.
"Wait," Jarvis cautioned.
The man descended and, opening the long hood of the car, pretended to tinker with the engine. Secure in the darkness of the interior, Tod and his companion watched Mr. Hawkes step from his cab, pay his driver, and with a quick glance to left and right, enter a dimly lighted doorway.
"Some little wine shop," Jarvis affirmed. "Who can he be meeting there!"
A moment later the blue taxi disappeared round a corner; the dark street was empty. Only a few wanderers strolled up from the quays toward the Rue Cannebiere. Jarvis and Tod descended, dismissed the cab, and quietly crossed to the other side of the street. Here the shadows protected them from any prying eyes which might peer from the wine shop. Opposite the doorway through which they had observed the mate vanish, they slipped into the darkened recess of a grimy entrance.
"He's talkin' to someone in there," Jarvis ventured.
Tod saw that the wine shop opposite was a poor little place, probably frequented by the riff-raff from ships in port. It was a silent place, too, this April night. Within, a gas light burned dimly; behind a high counter, a large fat woman poured out drinks undoubtedly for the two men who were vaguely visible through the dirty casement windows.
"Listen, Joe Macaroni," Jarvis whispered. "I'm going closer. You stay here and watch. I've got to see who that other fellow is."
Tod waited in the darkness of the doorway, while Jarvis noiselessly crossed to the edge of the cafe window where he might glimpse the interior. Two seamen went by, singing. A late produce wagon passed noisily on the cobbled way. With shortened breath, Tod saw that his friend was slowly edging toward the dark, cobwebby windows. At the same moment, a lounger rose from a hidden table near the counter. His figure was instantly outlined in the doorway.
Tod's heart leaped, seemed to drop. It was Red Mitchell.
Too late Jarvis observed him. He began to move swiftly away, but the little coal-passer was already on the pavement, grasping his arm.
Tod heard a rasping voice cut the stillness of the air. "Whatcher doin' here, cooky?"
At the sound of the shrill voice, Hawkes left his companion at the table and came quickly to the doorway. "What the devil's the matter, Mitch?"
"Here's the big cook sneaking round. Is that right, now?"
In a flash of despair Tod realized that the game was up. Fools! Why hadn't they known that the wily first mate would have one of his henchmen on guard! He pressed his slim body back into the kindly darkness.
"The tattooed cook!" Mr. Hawkes swore volubly. "What in thunder are ye followin' me for, Jarvis?"
Amazement overwhelmed Tod as he saw the huge form of his friend lurch toward the curb. Then a drunken voice spoke in deep, raucous tones. "Me? I'm just goin' back t' the blasted ship. I'm broke already, Mr. Hawkes. Say, now—can't yer let me have a little on the side?"
"Oh, he's drunk, is he?" The mate stepped forward. "Yeh, the whole blamed crew'll be drunker'n a bell buoy by mornin'. Sure I can let yer have a little." Tod thought he detected relief in the tone. "But I wants yer on board to-morrer mornin', see? You go with him, Mitch. See that he gets back O. K."
"All right; but the blasted savage ain't the kind of company I'd choose, Mr. Hawkes. Is yuh through with me to-night?"
The mate's glance swept up and down the cobbled way. "Yes—keep yer eyes on the cook. Here, take this."
"Aye, that's a good feller," said Jarvis with an assumed swagger. "We'll git aboard some time, won't we, Mitch?"
Red Mitchell put his arm through the Tattooed Man's, and the two figures, one towering above the other, went swaying down the pavement. Mr. Hawkes stood in the doorway, watching. A moment later, he turned back to the table where his unknown companion waited.
Tod clung to the darkness of the recess. What should he do? Wait? Yes, he must follow Mr. Hawkes.
The street became quiet again. A chill wind began to blow up a cobbled alley from the sea. The gas lamps flared. Once, far down the street, he glimpsed a gendarme making his nightly rounds; and soon after a blurred figure went by on the opposite pavement singing "Toute la longe de la Tamise" in the bawdy voice of a cuirassier. In the wine shop Tod saw the massive patronne counting her money, preparing to close for the night. Presently, the two belated customers rose; their figures showed mistily through the windows. He heard their murmuring voices as they paid and crossed to the door. Beneath the lamp, they paused to survey the deserted street.
Tod felt his heart suddenly jump. His mind flashed back to a fog-enveloped wharf office in San Francisco, to a sardonic face with sleek dark hair over eyes narrow and crafty. His throat tightened; his hands clenched. Mr. Hawkes's companion stood revealed.
It was the manager of the European-Pacific Steamship Company—Jasper Swickard.
CHAPTER II
THE THIRD-CLASS COMPARTMENT
THE instant realization that all of Jarvis's surmises had been correct, that the mate was in league with the manager of the European-Pacific Steamship Company, sent Tod's thoughts whirling. He was on the right trail, then. Could he find the secret? Could he get news of Neil? Tod's hands itched at his sides. By golly, he'd show them! These two men had swept Jarvis from their path to-night mainly because his great height and bulk could be seen; but a youth of seventeen, slim and quick, could more easily follow, unsuspected.
He waited in his secure retreat until the Americans were half a block ahead; then, from his own side of the street, he started in pursuit. Evidently they were no longer in fear of detection. They were in earnest conversation; not once did they glance round. At a lighted corner, they stopped, and Tod perceived that they were waiting for an electric tramcar, looking toward the harbour.
They were going east then, toward the other side of the city. He must get on that trolley too. In the shadow of a doorway he halted. Presently a tram came thumping along the Boulevard des Dames; it paused and he saw Mr. Hawkes and Swickard take a seat on the front platform and face the other way. On the side he saw the sign: Gare St. Charles. The station! Were they leaving town, going to Paris, perhaps?