Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

I shook my head. “No — for in this particular case we must proceed a step farther. Besides catching the crooks or assisting the French authorities to do so, our most important work will be to find out who is smuggling this stuff through to America. Our fine old Customs Service will be only too willing to do the rest.”

The first thing I did was to send my assistant, Hobbs, to an Apache hangout in an old stone hotel and café on the banks of the famous river Marne, in the forest of Vincennes.

Hobbs, as well as myself, was aware the Apaches do not live in Paris. They live in and around the forest of Vincennes and dash into Paris and back again to their hovels and dives, after some depredation or other.

When on some all-night job, or when it suits their purposes, they spend all night in Paris, but practically none of them live there, notwithstanding the numerous fake Apache joints in the Montmartre made up especially to lure sensation seeking tourists.

Speaking French like an educated continental, and possessed of a composite personality which made it difficult for one unacquainted with the man to place him as to his nationality or profession, if any, Hobbs was not the sort of man to be suspected of being anything like a detective or an officer of the law.

At Mme. Martin’s Café

Furthermore, the manager of the dive, one François, was under obligations to me for having saved him from serious trouble with the French authorities following the war when, to save his own hide, he had “peached” on some of his own kind.

If Hobbs could pick up any information around the Apache rendezvous that would be of value to our investigation, so much the better.

Meanwhile, I spent some hours tutoring my voting protégé, Pierre Carnot, in the subtle art of shadowing. To shadow the aged crone now posing as the scrub woman of St. Roch, should be an easy task for a beginner.

She hobbled along at a slow pace, and barring the possibility of her being suspicious of a shadow which would cause her to keep a sharp lookout to see if she was being watched, the job presented but few difficulties. Pierre would shadow the old hag from Mme. Martin’s café on St. Roch, after her second meeting with myself, provided she kept the appointment.

I was considerably gratified to find the old woman, on the evening in question, sitting at the little table by the window, sipping her evening aperitif as usual.

“Bon jour, monsieur,” grinned the old vixen as I approached her table, signaling the garçon to bring us a couple of drinks.

An Interesting Report

“Bon jour, madame” I returned, sitting down opposite her, “I trust you are not fatigued after your day’s work.”

“Ah!” she replied. “It makes but little difference, for one of my age must work hard to keep flesh and body together.”

“And — I suppose you have good news for me — yes? Did your mademoiselle agree to a rendezvous with me?”

“Alas, monsieur,” replied the old woman with a shrug of her shoulders, “she was not in a good humor when I spoke to her about you. All I could get out of her was, ‘perhaps — some day.’ ”

“Too bad,” I returned, appearing much chagrined, “I’m curious to meet her. Fix it up if you can — do your best.”

With this I assumed again to play the rich American and shoved a few francs across the table toward her. Followed profuse thanks for my generosity. I questioned her as adroitly as possible as to where mademoiselle lived, to which she would only reply that she lived on the other side of the Seine — “the left bank,” that is.

As to her own place of residence, I took it for granted she must room in some attic close to the establishment of the cure of St. Roch. In this I was mistaken, for inside of two hours after I told her good night at the entrance of the café, Pierre Carnot had some interesting things to report.

I was seated at my piano in the boarding house at 29 rue des Pyramides when he knocked at my door. As he entered his eyes were alive with interest and excitement.

“Monsieur!” he exclaimed. “I have the honor to report that the old scrub woman of St. Roch walked south from the Café Martin, along rue St. Roch to the Rivoli. From the Jeanne d’Arc statue she continued south along the rue des Tuileries, crossed the Seine on the Pont Royal, thence along rue du Bac to rue de l’Universite, then west to the rue de Poitiers, where she entered a new apartment house at No. 10.

Trailing a Young Lady

“I watched from a café diagonally across the street, and an hour and ten minutes after she entered the place she came out bareheaded and hailed a taxi from the rue l’Universite. As she stood close to the entrance of the building, a most lovely young woman, dressed in the height of fashion, came out, and after a few words with the old woman, who is evidently her servant, the taxi drove away with the young woman.