The Pawns Count | Page 7

now."
She shook her head.

"On the contrary," she said drily, "Mr. Fischer represents a type of my
countrymen of whom I am not very fond. He is a great patron of yours,
is he not?"
"He is a large shareholder in the company," Ferrani confessed.
"Then your restaurant will prosper," she told him. "Mr. Fischer has the
name of being very fortunate.... That was a wonderful luncheon you
gave us to-day."
"Madame is very kind."
"Will you do me a favour?"
Ferrani's gesture was all-expressive. Words were entirely superfluous.
"I want two addresses, please. First, the address of Joseph, your head
musician, and, secondly, the address of Hassan, your coffee-maker."
Ferrani effectually concealed any surprise he might have felt. He tore a
page from his pocket-book.
"Both I know," he declared. "Hassan lodges at a shop eighty yards
away. The name is Haines, and there are newspaper placards outside
the door."
"That is quite enough," Pamela murmured.
"As for Monsieur Joseph," Ferrani continued, "that is a different matter.
He has, I understand, a small flat in Tower Mansions, Tower Street,
leading off the Edgware Road. The number is 18C. So!"
He wrote it down and passed it to her. Pamela thanked him and stood
up.
"Now that I have done as you asked me," Ferrani concluded, "let me
add a word. Both these men are already off duty and have left the
restaurant. If you wish to communicate with either of them, I advise
you to do so by letter."

"You are a very courteous gentleman, Mr. Ferrani," Pamela declared,
dropping him a little mock curtsey, "and good morning!"
She made her way into the street outside, shook her head to the
commissionaire's upraised whistle, and strolled along until she came to
a cross street down which several motor-cars were waiting. She
approached one--a very handsome limousine--and checked the driver
who would have sprung from his seat.
"George," she said, "I am going to pay a call at a disreputable-looking
news-shop, just where I am pointing. You can't bring the car there, as
the street is too narrow. You might follow me on foot and be about."
The young man touched his hat and obeyed. A few yards down the
street Pamela found her destination, and entered a gloomy little shop. A
slatternly woman looked at her curiously from behind the counter.
"I am told that Hassan lodges here, the coffee-maker from Henry's,"
Pamela began.
The woman looked at her in a peculiar fashion.
"Well?"
"I wish to see him."
"You can't, then," was the curt answer. "He's at his prayers."
"At what?" Pamela exclaimed.
"At his prayers," the woman repeated brusquely. "There," she added,
throwing open the door which led into the premises behind, "can't you
hear him, poor soul? He's been pinching some more charms from
ladies' bracelets, or something of the sort, I reckon. He's always in
trouble. He goes on like this for an hour or so and then he forgives
himself."
Pamela stood by the open door and listened--listened to a strange,
wailing chant, which rose and fell with almost weird monotony.

"Very interesting," she observed. "I have heard that sort of thing before.
Now will you kindly tell Hassan that I wish to speak to him, or shall I
go and find him for myself?"
"Well, you've got some brass!" the woman declared, with a sneer.
"And some gold," Pamela assented, passing a pound note over to the
woman.
"Do you want to see him alone?" the latter asked, almost snatching at
the note, but still regarding Pamela with distrustful curiosity.
"Of course," was the calm reply.
The woman opened her lips and closed them again, sniffed, and led the
way down a short passage, at the end of which was a door.
"There you are," she muttered, throwing it open. "You've arst for it,
mind. 'Tain't my business."
She slouched her way back again into the shop. At first Pamela could
scarcely see anything except a dark figure on his knees before a closed
and shrouded window. Then she saw Hassan rise to his feet, saw the
glitter of his eyes.
"Pull up the blind, Hassan," she directed.
He came a step nearer to her. The gloom in the apartment was
extraordinary. Only his shape and his eyes were visible.
"Do as I tell you," she ordered. "Pull up the blind. It will be better."
He hesitated. Then he obeyed. Even then the interior of the room
seemed shadowy and obscure. Pamela could only see, in contrast with
the rest of the house, that it was wonderfully and spotlessly clean. In
one corner, barely concealed by a low screen, his bed stood upon the
floor. Hassan muttered something in an Oriental tongue. Pamela
interrupted him. She spoke in the soothing tone one uses towards a