ING-A-LING-A-LING went the telephone on Hercules Popeau's table. He took the receiver off, feeling quite certain that he would be told whoever it was had been given a wrong number. His number was known to very few of his friends, for his long connection with that branch of the Paris police known as La Sûreté, had induced in a man naturally frank to a fault, habits of caution and secretiveness. Also, he had only just been installed in the charming rooms which he had taken on a permanent basis in the old-world stately Hotel Paragon which lies just off the Boulevard St. Germain.
"Allo! Allo!" he called out sharply. "Who d'you suppose you're asking for?"
"My venerated master, Herculean Popeau," came the laughing answer.
"Good day, Maroquin! What can I do for you, my boy? I suppose you want me to lunch to-morrow instead of to-day—eh?"
"Nothing of the sort!" came the instant, indignant answer. "On the contrary, I want you to come now, at once. I have an English lady in my office, sent me by one of my London correspondents. He telephoned and told me about her last night, but I could make nothing of the story, except that he does not believe in it himself! But she has plenty of money to spend, it seems, so I may as well get some of it. Unluckily she knows very little French, and I, as you are aware, know hardly any English."
"What does she want you to do?"
"That's what I want you to tell me. I'm speaking from the Post Office, for I know by experience that even those who profess complete ignorance of our beautiful language generally understand what one does not wish them to hear."
"I'll come at once. By the way, what is her name?"
"She is a Mrs. Brantwood, and charming, dear friend, charming!"
Hercules Popeau went through into the spacious panelled bedroom which opened out of his study. Already it had assumed a home-like look, for it contained his own furniture. Opening a huge Breton carved wood cupboard, he got out of it a greatcoat, for it was cold as only Paris can be cold a few days before Christmas. Then, with his hat and stick in his hand, he went quickly down the wide staircase where just a little over a hundred years ago a Marshal of France and his beautiful wife had stood many an hour receiving their guests, including, according to tradition, on one occasion at least, Napoleon and Marie Louise.
As he went through the hall he stayed his steps for a moment, and smiled pleasantly at Madame la Patronne. "Have you any clients coming to-day?" he inquired genially.
She shook her head a little anxiously. "Everything's very quiet—too quiet. But we generally get a certain number of provincials, for, the New Year. What we long for are some English and Americans."
Hercules Popeau hastened on, through the great paved courtyard, to the boulevard. He looked longingly at a taxi, but he was a thrifty Frenchman, for all his cosmopolitan experiences, so he waited in the bitter wind for an omnibus. At last one came up, and as he rattled along in it, he visualised what this autobus must have looked like transferred into a perambulating meat-safe, when rushing up food to the Front. No Frenchman of our time ever forgets the War for more than a few minutes of his waking hours.
Within less than ten minutes he was across the Seine, and in the narrow street, behind the Louvre, where his friend Maroquin had lately set up a Secret Enquiry Agency. The young man had started on his own against Hercules Popeau's advice. The older man would have liked his pupil to remain longer in the public service. But very confident Maroquin had done extremely well in a big murder mystery case, and his name had even been mentioned in the newspapers. So his father-in-law had provided the capital for him to start on what is an expensive, as well as, often, a dangerous business. Hercules Popeau, during his own last year at the Sûreté, had gone to a great deal of trouble to help—he called it "to form"—young Maroquin. He had tried hard to persuade him to learn more than a mere smattering of English and German, but there he had been up against French, or rather Parisian, insularity. "There are plenty of people who can speak languages," had exclaimed Maroquin. "International crime does not interest me. Our own evilly-disposed countrymen will provide me with plenty of work!"
"No doubt. But most of the money in the world is now in the hands of Germans and Americans," the other had answered sadly.