HU-CHU LE TONDEUR, alias M. de Maxeville, was a distinguished-looking man of medium height, but very broad and compactly made. In his long black redingote and narrow French trousers one would never have guessed the heavy bone and muscle underneath. His face, though scarcely to be called handsome, was intelligent, and, in a way, attractive, being forceful and wearing an habitually pleasant expression. Indeed, one of his nicknames was “l'homme qui sourit.” Chu-Chu was usually smiling. He went about the streets with the hint of a smile on his face. He may have trained himself to wear this pleased expression, which is, after all, a fairly good mask. One hardly looks for a recent murderer going about with a pleasant smile on his lips.
Chu-Chu's forehead was very broad and high, his eyes small, of a curious slaty brown and set well apart; he had a long nose arm a black moustache and imperial. His jaws, very prominent at the angles, and the heavy cheekbones Suggested a Spanish strain. His hands were beautifully shaped and usually restless,
Chu-Chu dressed with the quiet elegance which might be expected of a senator, and when he spoke his bass voice was slow, quiet and pleasingly modulated. He had a curious, precise way of dragging out the ends of his words, adding almost a whole syllable to consonant endings, and this gave his conversation a hint of pedantry. He had told me at Léontine's dinner-party that his favourite recreation was big-game hunting, and that he had once, while in the Nguru country, taken part in a Masai lion hunt. You know the sport. The natives, armed with shield and spear surround the lion and then close in on him in a small circle; when he springs the hunter receives him on his assegai.
Such a man was Chu-Chu le Tondeur, As I entered the room he bowed; I did the same. Ivan offered me a chair, then seated himself behind his desk.
Chu-Chu opened the conversation by complimenting me upon my escape, then expressed his regret that so accomplished a colleague should quit the professional field, hinting at the same time that I would probably return to it when tired of the banality of legitimate business. He spoke in fairly good English, but with the effort of one who has learned a language by study and translates from his own tongue.
“M. le Comte tells me,” he said, presently, “that you are not content with our little affair of the night before last.”
“To be frank,” I answered, “it impressed me as a poor return for my own behaviour on the occasion when we last met.”
Chu-Chu shrugged. “We are criminals,” says he, “and business is business, as they say in your country. Besides, my dear Mr. Clamart, once a man has given up his profession he can hardly expect to receive professional courtesies from his former colleagues.”
“There is a difference,” I answered, “between professional courtesy and appreciation for a service rendered. However, that incident is closed. What I am now protesting against is the stealing of the string of pearls belonging to Madame Cuttynge.”
Chu-Chu's slaty eyes hardened.
“That is a matter,” said he, “of which I have just heard for the first time. Whatever my views in regard to yourself, Mr. Clamart, I should never think of breaking my faith with our respected Chief.” He bowed to Ivan.
“Far be it from me,” I answered, “to accuse M. de Maxeville of any such intention as that. When it reaches a point where those of us who are outside the law can no longer trust one another, a man might better retire from the field.”