The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
there is American, and the American sailor gets paid higher. Trifles like that told with MacTavert.
And now, eighteen years later, the small, stuffy saloon in which he had started had grown into a big garish dancing hall, while its owner, heavy- jowled and gross, looked on his creation with beady eyes and found it good. His clientþle remained the same, but many more could be accommodated. And, further, a very lucrative side-show had developed gradually during the last few years. Tourists, anxious, as they put it, to see the sights, were apt to be escorted there by specially-selected touts of his own— people who paid anything up to ten times the regular tariff without a murmur. And MacTavert himself would welcome the poor fools with an expansive smile, which displayed his yellow teeth to the full advantage.
It was one of these touts who approached Jim and me before dinner. We neither of us knew Valparaiso, and we were at a loose end, but that tout had "tout" written altogether too largely all over him. So Jim, with commendable brevity, consigned him to his undoubted future destination, and we turned back towards our hotel for a cocktail before dinner.
And then there occurred one of those things which a man ignores or does not ignore, according to the particular brand he is. When a woman gives a little cry for help, it is as often as not advisable to continue one's stroll and leave matters to the proper authorities to deal with. Ulterior motives have been known to be behind such cries.
Not, however, for Jim. He was perfectly capable of dealing with ulterior motives should they arise, and, until they arose, he was of the brand who emphatically does not ignore. He swung round, and the next instant I was standing alone. And when I came up with him again, the tout who had recently accosted us was struggling impotently in his grasp, and Jim was staring over his head at a girl who was standing on the pavement beyond. She was a pretty little thing, but what struck me most was the look of terror in her eyes as she glanced at the man whom Jim was holding.
"Can I help you in any way?" said Jim, in Spanish. "I thought I heard you call out."
She looked at Jim, and her mouth drooped.
"It doesn't matter," she said, despairingly. "I thought you were English."
Jim smiled.
"I most certainly am," he answered, and the girl's face lit up once more. "I must blame the bad light for failing to see you were too."
And then he looked at the man who was still struggling in his grasp.
"That being the case," he continued, "how comes it that a Dago made you cry out for help? Dagos who do anything so foolish as to molest English girls are simply asking for trouble, aren't they, you repulsive little beast?"
The Dago squirmed and twisted in his hands, and Jim smiled placidly. Then he took him by the collar and the seat of his trousers and fairly slung him across the road. He lay for a moment where he fell; then, with a look of venomous hate on his face, he vanished down the road, and Jim turned back to the girl.
"Now, what can I do for you?"
She was gazing at him in admiration, and then she clapped her hands together.
"Oh, but you're strong!" she said, and her eyes were shining. "That little brute ought to be killed. He's one of MacTavert's men."
"So I gathered," said Jim quietly. "In fact, a little while ago he was suggesting to my friend and me that we should go to MacTavert's place this evening."
The girl shuddered, and once again the look of terror came into her eyes. She began to speak a little breathlessly, touching Jim's arm every now and then with her hand.
"It's an awful place—a ghastly place. And when I saw you, somehow I knew you were English, and I followed you. I thought perhaps you might be able to help me. That's why that little brute tried to interfere and prevent me speaking to you."
"But why should he object to you speaking to us?" said Jim, looking a trifle puzzled. "What has he got to do with you, anyway?"
"I'm in the most dreadful trouble," said the girl, and her lips were trembling. "You see, I'm at MacTavert's."
"You're at MacTavert's?" repeated Jim slowly. "But I don't understand. Why are you at such a place?"
"I was told to go there last night. I had no money, and I met a woman who said she could give me a room, and it didn't matter about paying her. And then I found that it was at this awful dancing saloon."
It was all a little incoherent, and Jim looked at her gravely.
"Then why not go away?" he said at length. "Surely re must be a British chaplain here, or somebody to whom you could apply."
"But I can't find my box, or any of my things." The girl was on the verge of tears. "They've taken them away and hidden them. And I don't know anyone in this horrible town, and I can't speak Spanish."
"I see," said Jim quietly, and his eyes were very gentle. "I see. Well, what do you want me to do?"
"If only I could tell you my story!" she cried. "But it's getting late, and I haven't got time now. I must get back, or that brute will find out I've gone, and get in a rage. You see, he told me I wasn't to go out unless he said I might. Oh, if you could come to the place tonight, and tell MacTavert you want to dance with me—That's what I have to do, you see: dance with anyone who wants me to. And then I could tell you. And perhaps you could help me."
She was looking up at Jim through eyes that were swimming with tears, and Jim smiled at her reassuringly.
"All right, kid," he said quietly. "We'll come, and you shall tell us all about it. And then we'll see what we can do."
"Oh, thank you a thousand times!" cried the girl, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I think I should have drowned myself if I hadn't seen you passing by. You know where it is, don't you? Just down the road there."
"We'll find it," said Jim. "Now you trot along. By the way, what is your name?"
"Colette," said the girl simply, and she gave Jim a look such as a dog gives its master. And then she was gone, flitting like a shadow, through the trees that lined the road.
For a few moments Jim watched her: then he turned to me.
"I may be several sorts of a fool, Dick," he remarked, "but I'll take my oath that wasn't a put-up job. In fact, I'm thinking we may be just in time to prevent a tragedy."
"You'll probably find MacTavert a fairly tough customer," I said, as we strolled back towards the hotel.
Jim grinned. "I like 'em tough. Let's dine."
He was silent during dinner, and it was not until we had nearly finished that he spoke.
"If it's what I think it is, Dick, Mr. MacTavert and I will have words to- night."
And his voice was savage.
* * * * *
MacTavert's dancing saloon took very little finding. As we entered the doors, the strains of an automatic piano grinding out a waltz met our ears, and for a moment or two we stood just inside watching the scene. It was typical of scores of similar places to be met with in seaports all over the world. A little larger perhaps than the average—apart from that there was nothing to distinguish it from a hundred others. A general reek of perspiring humanity and stale spirits filled the air: the thick haze of tobacco smoke made it almost impossible to see across the room. In the centre, where a space had been left, five or six couples were dancing; around the walls, seated at little tables, were men of every nationality drinking. Every now and then one of them would seize some woman by the waist and solemnly gyrate round the floor in the centre to the strains of the piano. Then the pair would sit down again, and more drink would be ordered; MacTavert expected his girls to increase the liquor consumption.
"Good heavens, Jim!" I muttered in disgust, "what a horrible spot!"
And it was as I spoke that we saw Colette. She was dancing with a big Dago, and her eyes lit up as she saw us.
Jim smiled at her, and at that moment MacTavert himself approached. His shrewd eyes had soon