But the dumb underworld was becoming vocal!
“À Mort L’Assassin!” At daybreak the startling legend suddenly, and without warning, revealed itself from a thousand vantage-points to the awakening city. In crude, blazing red it flared from the hoardings—sinister, ill-omened and, above all, full of significance. Parisians alone knew.
There could be no possibility of doubt as to the individual referred to. It was, beyond question, Raoul Gregoire, the Prefect of Police, whose cold, ruthless vendetta against the dark, turbulent forces which flowed beneath the effervescent gaiety of the gay life of Paris, had earned for him the vindictive hatred of the criminal world, and had gained him his unenviable sobriquet of “Assassin!”
For months Raoul Gregoire’s life had hung by a thread. Before his appointment he had been Prefect of Finisterre. A series of efforts to “remove” him had been defeated only in the nick of time. Twice he had been badly wounded. Once a bomb had wrecked his car just after he had left it. A less courageous man would have given up the unequal contest and sought a pretext for retirement—back to the quiet, sea-beaten coast of Finisterre.
But Monsieur le Préfet was of a different mould. Stern and ruthless he was, but his courage was invincible. He remained calm and imperturbed—far more so, indeed, than many of his subordinates, who feared that the vengeance of the underworld might fall, by accident or design, upon themselves.
“Gregoire has pushed things a bit too far,” was Yvette’s verdict, as she talked over with Dick Manton and Jules the latest and most blatant challenge to the forces of the law and order. “They mean to make certain this time. I’m sure of it?”
“It certainly seems so,” Dick agreed. “But I wonder when and how it will be? That’s the point. Gregoire doesn’t show himself much in public now; he is practically living in the Prefecture, and surrounded by his agents he is far too well guarded for any attempt to be made there.”
“They will have a good chance at the Sultan’s reception,” remarked Jules reflectively. “Monsieur le Préfet will have to be in the procession—he can hardly stay away even if he wanted to. It would show the white feather.”
It was a day to which the gaiety-loving Parisians were looking forward with special interest. France’s age-long quarrel with the wild tribes of the Morocco hinterland had at length been amicably settled, and their Sultan, Ahmed Mohassib, a picturesque figure whose eccentric doings provided the gossip-loving boulevard with hundreds of good stories, was “doing” Paris as the guest of the Quai d’Orsay. It was expedient to show the barbaric ruler all the honour possible, and the following Friday was the day on which he was to pay a ceremonial visit to the Elysée. There was to be a great procession, and the Government had let the Press understand that a skilfully worked-up popular demonstration was desirable. The papers had responded nobly, and it was certain that “tout Paris” would be out to see the show.
On the occasion, at any rate, Monsieur le Préfet must be greatly in evidence. He was responsible for public order and must ride in the procession whatever the risk to himself, a plain target, for once, for the bullet or bomb of the assassin.