The knife whirled out, his thumb on the blade. My left fist went straight and low into his wind, and my right came up ten inches, full with the weight of arm and shoulder, to the point of his jaw. His breath spurted and died in a gurgle. I heard him go down on the bricks with a sodden flatness like bones breaking. Then I was running again. There were feet behind me Sticky wetness had thickened in my eyes. Here was a lighted door. He must have been guarding it. I reached for the knob, for now there seemed to be nothing but a warm, glutinous wetness on my forehead, my eyes and nose. I tried to dash it away, but it only thickened, and my head was ringing with explosions. The absurd thought came to me that I mustn't be sick right in the middle of these luxurious surroundings. Thud-thud, thud-thud - coming closer filling the whole court with a roar. I wrenched open a knob, fell ahead and slammed a door behind me. Going to go under in a second....
A corridor. There was music somewhere; I was safe - I must be near the main hall. The enormous pounding of my heart split the very ear-drums. I couldn't go any farther, because I couldn't see at all. Shaking, I crumpled against the wall. The whole floor swung backwards and forwards under my feet, and my legs were like rubber. I groped for my hip pocket, found a handkerchief, and fiercely swabbed my eyes. ...
The minute a light flickered in, I straightened up. More blood was pouring down - my God! how was there so much blood in the human body? - and my very shirt-front was a mess. But there had come to me in one flash where I was. I saw behind me a covered passage, without flowers; I heard behind me a murmur and the music of an orchestra. Ahead were the lights of a big room. Somebody (I could see that dimly) stood in my path, and the light made a small bright circle round the muzzle of a pistol. I had run straight into the manager's office, straight into a trap, at the rear. .. . Thud-thud, thud-thud, muffled now, but still closing in. .. .
Desperately I brushed the handkerchief across my eyes, swabbed my forehead, and tried to straighten up. Rush the pistol ahead ? Yes; might as well go down taking a crack at somebody.
Into my dim sight swam a figure I could not understand. The figure with the weapon was a woman. A woman in a flame-coloured dress. She stood in the middle of a room hung with rugs. Her dark eyes were steady and wide open. I heard a dim tumult behind me; I heard somebody hammering at a door, which I must instinctively have locked behind me. This woman! - it flashed over me now - Galant's partner, the new owner of the club. ... The surge of hope, the sudden realization of a way out, steadied my buzzing wits. My sight seemed to clear, and a new breath rushed cold into my lungs. I took a step forward.
'Don't move!' said the woman. I recognized that voice. .. .
'I do not think,' I said, steadily - 'I do not think that you will betray me, Mademoiselle Augustin.'
Our Sybarite Scrub-lady
Even then I could not help marvelling at the change in her. Seeing Marie Augustin at a distance, I should not have recognized her at all. The girl in dowdy black, with the shiny face and dull hair; and then this vivid woman! I was conscious only of the flame-coloured gown, and of her white, glossy shoulders above it. I found myself speaking to the gown, speaking swiftly. The gown; the ticket-booth at the waxworks, as though I faced her there and desperately sought admittance without money.. . .
'There's no time to argue!' I said. 'They'll be here in a moment. You're going to hide me. I -I - -'
Just behind me was a door with a glass panel, through which I could see the dark passage to the great hall; and now I thought I could see white-masks pushing their way through this hall as well as hammering on the court door to the passage. . .. To my astonishment, Marie Augustin came sweeping forwards. She drew a dark velvet curtain over the glass panel, and shot the bolt in the door.
She had not asked why. I had a good reason, though. I mumbled:
'There's information. ... I can give you information about Galant. He's going to sell you and wreck the club . .. and...'
Now I had discovered the cut in my forehead. My head must have smashed partly against the brick wall when I dropped. Pressing my handkerchief over it, I discovered that Marie Augustin was standing beside me staring up into my face. It was impossible to see her distinctly. It seemed impossible to talk. She still covered my heart with that bright ring from the gun-muzzle. There was a sharp rattling knock on the glass; a hand twisted the knob. Marie Augustin spoke.
'This way’ she said.
Somebody was leading me by the hand. When I have tried to recall that scene later, I have only hazy flashes, like the recollection of a drunken man. Soft carpets and bright light. Fierce hammering on glass behind me, and voice upraised. Then a black, gleaming door opened somewhere, and darkness. I seemed to be pushed down on something soft.
When next I opened my eyes, I knew I had lost consciousness for some time. (It was, as a matter of fact, less than ten minutes.) My face felt gratefully cold, wet, and free from stickiness; but light was painful to the eyeballs and an edifice of stone had been erected on my forehead. My hand, moving up, found bandages.
I was half reclining on a chaise-longue. At its foot Marie Augustin sat quietly, fingering the weapon, looking at me. In some fantastic way pursuit seemed (momentarily, at least) baffled. I lay quietly, trying to accustom my eyes to the light; so I studied her. The same long face. The same black-brown eyes and hair. But now she was almost beautiful. I remembered that fancy I had had last night in the waxworks: how, removed from ticket-booths and horsehair sofas, this girl would take on a hard grace and poise. Her hair was parted, drawn back behind the ears, and glossy under the lights; her shoulders were old ivory; I found I was looking at changing, luminous eyes which had lost their hard snapping....
'Why did you do it?' I said.
She started. Again that sense of secret communion. She tightened her lips, and replied in a monotonous voice :
;It ought to be stitched up. I've used sticking-plaster and bandages.'
'Why did you do it ?'
Her finger tightened round the trigger of the pistol. 'For the moment, I grant you, I told them you were not here. That - that was my office, and they believed me. Let me remind you, though, that they are still looking for you and I have you under my thumb. A word from me . . . ' The eyes grew hard again. 'I told you I liked you. But if I discover you are here for the purpose of hurting this place, or trying to wreck it...'
She paused. She seemed to be gifted with an endless patience.
'Now, then, monsieur. If you can account for your presence in any legitimate way, I shall be pleased to believe you. If not, I can always press the bell for my attendants. Meantime . . .'
I tried to sit up, discovered that my head throbbed painfully, and relaxed again. I looked round at a large room, a woman's room, decorated in black and gold Japanese lacquer, over which bronze lamps threw a subdued light. Black velvet curtains were drawn at the windows, and the air was heavy with wistaria incense. Following the direction of my glance, she said:
'We are in my own private room, adjoining the office. They cannot get in - unless I summon them. Now, then, monsieur!'
'Your old style of speech, Mademoiselle Augustin,' I said, gently, 'does not fit your new role. And in your new role you are beautiful.'