The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

A night when he and Irene happened to be alone in the house, Le Loup threw open her door without knocking.

Irene jumped to her feet and faced the Apache. He stood on the threshold, his great body filling the doorway. His eyes glittered menace; his torn mouth was distorted in a grin.

Irene struck a hand to her breast. “Get to your quarters!” she cried.

Le Loup stepped toward her. A stiletto flashed into Irene’s hand. Her arm swept downward and struck. But Le Loup was swifter. His hand shot forward. Blood spurted from his palm, but he held Irene’s wrist. Le Loup laughed hysterically. His teeth ground in a frenzy. Irene felt an enormous pressure on her wrist. Her arm was bending at the elbow. The stiletto came up in her hand guided by the powerful arm of Le Loup. Irene’s eyes dilated with horror. Her face was a mask of fear. But she uttered no cry.

Le Loup forced her wrist backward until the stiletto was a scant inch from her throat. Irene’s left hand shot forward and her nails clawed at Le Loup’s eyes. The Apache grinned and gripped that wrist in his left hand. Irene retreated until her back was pressed hard against the wall. Still the stiletto drew nearer. She felt its sharp point graze on her flesh. Her skin was pierced, Irene screamed when she felt a short, hot flash in her throat. Le Loup laughed and dropped her wrist.

“Another time, my vixen, it will not be a scratch!”

He reached down and tore a great piece of silk from her dress. This he bound around his bleeding palm.

Irene stood silent, the stiletto dangling from her limp hand. Le Loup looked contemptuously from the dagger to Irene’s eyes. But Irene had forgotten the stiletto. She was looking at Le Loup with new interest. For in the Apache, Irene suddenly saw the weapon with which she would destroy Jean Duret, the killer of her father.

Two of the band entered the house and the tension was broken. Le Loup walked from her room and Irene closed and locked her door.

She could hear Le Loup and the others laughing in another room. Their talk grew boisterous and Irene knew they were drinking. A loud scraping of chairs reached Irene’s ears, then came the clump of heavy feet descending the stairs. Le Loup had gone out for the first time since his arrival.

It was hours later when Irene was awakened by a soft rap on her door.

“Who is there?” she called quietly.

“Joe.”

Irene arose and opened the door. A pale, trembling wretch slid into her room.

“Mon Dieu, Joe, what is it?”

“Le Loup,” Joe whispered hoarsely. “Godin and I drank with him. We went out at midnight. There was a lone sailor on St. Paul Street. We crept into a doorway. When he passed, I stepped out with my gun. He raised his hands and Godin emptied his pockets. Le Loup stepped forward and counted the haul. ‘Here, young fellow,’ Le Loup shouted, ‘let this be a warning to you to carry a fuller pocket in the next world!’ With that he struck the sailor to the heart. It was awful. Then as we came home, the madman boasted that he kills on every job. We must flee, Irene, or he will hang us all!”

Irene laughed softly. “You are upset, Joe. Here is money. Take Godin and go to the country for a rest. Stay away for some weeks, and when you return go to Desfarges before you come here. Where did you leave this sailor?”

“We dragged him into the passage by Dionne’s warehouse.”

Irene dressed quickly, then waited in her room until she heard Godin and Joe steal down the stairs. She slipped on a pair of kid gloves and stepped into the hall. She paused at Le Loup’s door and heard him deep in an alcoholic sleep. Irene laughed softly and went downstairs.

She paused in the old snuff factory long enough to scoop up a pinch of dust from a corner, then she stepped out into St. Amable Street. The narrow, cobbled street was silent and deserted. Irene skirted the block and came to St. Paul Street. The old stone buildings, old as the city, and once the homes of early adventurers from Old France, loomed up in great black shadows. Irene moved swiftly under the protecting shield of the darkness. Soon she came to the passage by Dionne’s warehouse. She listened for a full minute, then crept toward the victim of Le Loup’s knife.

They had placed him in a doorway and he sat with knees drawn up and head thrown forward. He looked like a drunken man asleep, but the flesh on his face was cold to the touch.

Irene bent over him and found the wound where his coat was wet. She opened his coat, then drew her stiletto and dipped its point into the pinch of dust she had taken from the snuff factory. She threw a startled glance along the passage. Her breath came in short gasps. The stiletto point sank easily into the open wound. Irene withdrew the blade and wiped it carefully on the man’s coat. Again she dipped its point in the dust in her gloved hand, and this time touched the blade lightly along the rent Le Loup’s knife had made in the sailor’s coat.