The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1884-03-15 00:00:00

[ALL RIGHTS RZSERTED,i
A CRIME IN AN OMNIBUS.

A STORY OF PARISIAN LIFE.
BY FORTUNE DU BOISGOBEY
Translated from the French.

CHAPTER 3a. '

The passage was by no means wide. Two men
could scarcely have passed each other in it, and also
it was not well lighted. Binos advanced slowly,
feeling the wall with his hands on both &des. At
last he came to a place where his left hand encoun-
tered nothing, and a voice cried, " What do you
want ?"

" I want to speak to the concierge," replied
Binos.

"You will find no concierge here," answered the
voice which evidently belonged to a female.
"The landlord, then."
"That's me— the landlord. What do you
want? Are you come for a room
"No. I come for one of your female lodgers.'

" ye got none—only take men."
" was told nevertheless--"

" What ? Let us hear—but first step in that I
may ee you."
That is exactly what Binos wanted. He would
gladly enough have shown himself, but he could not
see his band before him, and did not know which
way to turn towards the rough individual who
questioned him so harshly. By dint of feeling, how-
ever, he discovered a glass door, and perceived a
glimmer from a skylight. The door was ajar he
pushed it, and entered a little room not much lighter
than the passage. It was some seconds before he
saw a little, shrivelled, old woman crouching over
the remains of a coke fire.

"Good! Now sneak up," she cried; "I know who
I've got to deal with."
Biwa would have liked to be able to say as much,
for he could make nothing of this reception. Quite
confounded, he did not know where to begin. PL.-
douche's programme was utter'y useless. The five-
franc pieces would have no effect, for the simple
reason that the shrivelled hag whom they were to
have m Eified could not possibly see the glitter of
the precious metal between the fingers of the in-
quisitive stranger. But Binos was never puz7led
for long. If diplomacy was not his forte, timidity
was not his weak point; he had a natural gift, so to
speak, of falling on his feet.
"You say you know who you have to deal
with ? " said he. "I bet you don't!"
"If I did bet, you would lose, my chick," replied
the lady of the lodging-house, fixing upon him two
grey eyes that shone in the half-darkness like those
of a cat. "I am up to you!"
" Bah ! Tell me what my name is ?"
"I don't care what your name is, but I know
your trade is to daub bad paint on to good canvas.
You're a painter, my man—a sign painter; I have
met you often enough on the boulevard, dicky with
your paintbox."
"Then I'll tell you what, mother; I will paint
your portrait whenever you like!"
"Get alone! I don't want my portrait. It is
fifty years since I looked in a glass. And don't you
dare call me ' mother '! . . . I haven't any
children, nor husband neither, thank my lucky
stars!"

KV Very well, then I will say ' miss' !
"None of your jokes; I don't like them. What
do you want?"
"I want to know whether you have had a young
woman in whom I am interested lodging hero?"
"Come now, there you are I guessed she sent
you." _ _

- "0 nessed who sent mo ? " asked Binos, sufficiently
astonished.

"Why, the Italian, of course, Bianca:'
"Oh well, if you guessed, it is not worth while to
Contradict," muttered Binos, anxious to let the old
woman talk on.

"Then it is you who decoyed her—villain !
snake! she cried. "I thought as much when the
little fool talked of artists. She was mad about
them, and you took advantage of her, you scoundrel!
The child was innocent as a babe, I'd stake my life,
when she had the ill luck to come in your way.
Where did you find her? In the market, where she
rent every morning to buy her victuals, or at night
in the Place Pigalle, when she had her singing
lesson ? "

"I solemnly swear to you I have decoyed nobody,"
said Binos.

" Hold your wicked tongue! For three days she
has not teen here, and she never once before s'ept
out. Do you dare tell me you did not drag her into
your miserable hole of a room ? " _ _

"Rather," cried Binos, overjoyed at having these
reproaches heaped on him, for they showed he had
dropped on to the right place. The young Ita' ian
who had disappeared three days ago must surely he
the Same girl that died in the omnibus. He had
already discovered that her name was Bianca, and it
only now depended on his tact to learn much more.
"That is all very fine! It is no use trying to
take me in, I'm too old; besides, it does not matter
a rap to me where the young one is. But you have
come for her box, haven't you? Well, go back
and tell her if she wants it she must take the
trouble to fetch it herself. Ferve her right, too!"
continued the old hag; "she's not turned into a
duchess that she can't do her own business."

4‘ Be"' pardon," zitamm cred Binos' " I told you--"
" Oh! I dare say she doesn't care to see me
again, because she knows I don't mince words when
I've got the truth to tell. I should treat her as she
deserves. It is shameful what she has done! If I
had known she was going to end like that I would
never have taken her in.
'But, my good lady--"
" There is no good lady in the question. Ah !it
makes my blood run cold to think of it! The saints
defend us, I'd swear she never told you how she
came to lodge here! Well, 'twas one evening when
it rained so hard one would not turn a dog out; she
walked into my room here, with a boy at her
heels, carrying her little trunk—l could see th ‘t
much. A wh'te wooden box just about big
enough to hold a couple of flocks anl a chemise.
Madame '—she had a funny accent can you let me
have a room, cheap? I havea't much money, and
I will pay every day!' While she was saying this I
had a good look at her, and I could see she was not
the sort that are common enough round about here.
80 I asked her if she had any pai ers, and she showed
me an Italian passport —Astrpdi Bian-a, eighteen
years old, a singer. Now just think of that—
a singer, poor little devil, and she had trulged all
the way on foot from the Lyons Station to save a
cab fare. It was just as though you were to tell me
you are a painter, when I know well enough you
are only fit to clean up palettes and brushes."
"Thanks !"
-" Perhaps you'll tell me you do pictures for the
exhibition ! Go and tell Bianca that if you like ;
she'll believe you, as you have already stuffed her
with the idea you are going to make her happy.
But with me that cat won't jump! I know you, you
ne'er-do-well, and that's why I feel savage about this
little Italian—when I think how she was here a
whole month, and never saw man or woman either-
-in her room— and only went out to her singing
master, as she said, a fellow-countryman. I dare.
say she only went to make love in your garret."
i" Never, on my soul! I didn't know the
"Don't tell me You got to know her. I'm sure
I don't know what she can have seen in your ugly
face. You must have charmed her by your singing.
rra an artist, so are you; are are made for one
another. Here's a garret and my heart—and she
believed it all, no doubt, the simpleton. Goodness
me, what fools girls are, to be sure !"
Binos only protested by a gesture. He would not
interrupt the old woman; his only care was to vex
her into chatterings, and this ruse answered admir-
ably, for, in five minutes of monologue, sho had told
him all he wished to know, without being questioned.
"But I am wasting time," she began again' wrath-
fully. "I have plenty to do besides talking to birds of
Your feather. I've seen enough of them and of you,
too. Be off with you."
"Not till you have told me."
"What now? What more do you want? Do
you think I am going to give over the girl's things
to you? Not such a fool! You would go and I awn
them. They would not fetch the six francs she
owes me for three day s' rent; but that is neither here
nor there. I have her box, and Jam respons e for
it. You may tell her from me, that if she It es to
come and claim it, I will give it up without keeping
back the six francs. he hasn't much money, poor
creature, especially now she's got you to keep as
Well as herself !"
"I say, come now! I can stand a good deal, but
I can't let any one--"
"Make you swallow the truth, oh? Whether or
nO, I don't care. You can tell her at the same time
that her room is let, and. that I wouldn't take her in
if she offered twenty francs a day. There's no room
here for impostors, nor yet for idlers neither, and so
you'll know that, when they turn you out of your
lair, it will be no use coming here for quarters.'
"Eh ? Confound you! I don't wish to be your
lodger. I'd rather sleep in the street. If you would
only have listened, you would have known what a
long way all this is outside the question. Now, will
You hear me—yes or no? I have not been able to
say a word yet, and I did not come here to Fay
tlurns."

"No! because you came for Bianca."
"About her, certainly ; but not for her. She did
npt send me. She is dead."
"lead!" screamed the old woman. "Ah ! that
joke is too bad."
"It is no loke. The young girl you call Bianca
is dead, and if you think I am lying, you have only
to go to the Morgue to see. She is there."
"At the Morgue '1" reneated the old lodging-housa
keeper, rising suddenly.' "You are fooling me—it
is rot possible." - _
--
"Go and see," replied Binos. "Only make haste.
She has been there three days, and they are going
to bury her."
"Three days. Just the time I have missed her.
But then, why, it is not you after all
"1 kept on telling you I never knew the girl. I
set eyes on her for the first time stretched out on a
.3z 4,1191 e slab behind the glass screen."

M...im....-...--_

•, 7 -

"But how did you guess she lodged with me?"
e.sked the hag, eyeing Binos keenly.
"I did not guess it at all. I thought she probably
lived somewhere up here, and in a furnished place.
I took it into my head to visit all the likely houses.
I began with you, and found I had come to the
right shop. You told me her name at once. I did
not know it before."

"Why, then, are you a, policeman? And I have
been taking you for-- "
"For just what I am, old mother, Jacques Binos,
painter and artist. I happened to go into the
Morgue and saw this unhappy girl. Her beauty
touched me; and. when I found that no one knew
or recognised her, I set about making inquiries;
and I have done well. Now at least they will be
able to put her name on the certificate of her death,
and on the wooden cross which I shall plant over
her grave."
" Her name! Her name! But you must first
prove that it is really my poor lodger they have laid
out there, Bianca Astrodi.'
"Well, 'tis for you to prove it. You must go and
see if you recognise her."
"I ? Never! It would make me ill. The very
idea of that dreadful drowned people's place makes
my flesh creep."
"I can quite unders'and that, my good dame, but
there is no way of sparing you this task. I am
going straight off to make my declaration before the
commissary; and he will send me at once to fetch
you."
" Ah, you rascal! if you serve me that trick you
shall pay for it."
"But I dare not keep what I know to myself; and
I am sure you would not like your poor little lodger
to be thrown into the same pit as the bodies they
dissect at the amphitheatre."
"Hold your tongue; you turn me cold. Good
heavens! Poor child—poor child! How has it all
happened? She did not throw herself into the water
I hope? No? Then she must have been run
over.

"She was found dead in the omnibus at the Place
Pigalle."
" What ? Why, I saw all about that in the Petit
Journal, but I never dreamt it could be her. Yet it
was the very evening that she disappeared; and I
was all the time accusing her of taking up bad
ways!
" That just shows how mistaken one can be. Now
you will not suspect me any more?"
"Not of ruining her—no; but still it's very queer,
her death—very queer. I don't know what there
was about the girl, but she seemed to charm you.
She must have been poisoned."
"Not unlikely. But who can have done it? You
say she never saw anyone."
"Not here she didn't; but she went out every
evening, and sometimes in the day."
"Where did she epo ? That is the thing to find
out."

"You won't find out from me, that's very certain.
Bianca was no chatterbox, and I don't pry into other
people's business; I know nothing. She has spoken
of a singing-master who lived near the Jardin des
Plantes. I did think that rather odd, because there's
nothing but organ grinders down there—unless she
was learning to sing in the streets. Once, when she
first came, she told me she had some relations
Paris, but she did not know where they lived. I
thought she was boasting."
"But what she said about the Jardin des Plantes
was true enough; she died in the omnibus that
comes from the Halle des Vins. But what surprises
me is that her singing-master or her relatives—if
she had any—have not been to the Morgue to look
for her. They must have read the papers, and they
must have wondered at her disappearance."
"Oh ! they didn't care about her—they never
showed their faces here."

"She came from the Lyons railway-station here,"
muttered Binos to himself.

"It is funny she chose a lodging at Montmartre."
"Not at all, sir! She did not know Paris, and an
Italian who lodged with me last year told her of
this house."

"Then she came straight from Italy ?"
"From Milan—it was on her passport."
"Have you got her passport?'
"Of course 1 have gs:Jt it, my fine fellow; it is up-
stairs in her box with the rest of her papers and her
wardrobe, which is scanty enough. The box is
locked, and she has-the key with her."
"The key? Yes; it was found in her pocket,
and a purse with a few pence in it."
" Ah ! poor child, she was poor as a church mouse,
but, withal, she was suspicious, for she always
locked her things up when she went out. I might
have had her box opened when she did not come
home, but I did not like to, poor little thing
besides, I kept on expecting her. I would not have
tutned her out.; I would have given her a good
scolding. You see, my boy, lam not a bad sort, as
any of the neighbours will tell you. You will find
that old Sophy Cornu never bothers her lodgers."
"I'm sure of it, although. you were so hard on me
just now."
"Never mind, you must forgive me, lad. I took
you for one of those vultures that hang about the
Boulevard Clichy to pounce on the poor girls they
meet. It was not my fault, nor yet yours, though
you don't look very steady, and I have an idea you
never do any work."
'A little every day, my dear madam."
Well, I'll believe it if you say so; and now 1.
know you have not run away with Bianca I have
nothing to say against you. I'm not sorry to see
you, though you have brought such bad news. At
least I know now what has become of the child, and
she shall not be thrown into the common pit, even
if it costs me fifty francs to buy the ground to lay
her in."

"That's right! I knew you had a kind heart.
You will go to the Morgue, won't you?"
"Saints defend me! I can't face it."

"You must t-h-o-u-g.h. I would willingly spare
you this if I could, but if I went in your place it
would not be the same thing. I did not know the
girl when living, whereas she lived in your house,
and you have all her papers."
"Yes, I could give her name, and prove that I
told the truth certainly. Are you sure she is still
there i"
•" lam quite sure she is not yet buried. If she is
not exposed to public view you can just apply to the
clerk, and he will let you see her."
" B-r-r-r ! It gives me quite a turn. Suppose I
recognise her, what then ?"
"Nothing, as far as you are concerned. The
inspector of police will send for her box; her papers
will be examined, and who knows? Perhaps the
relations she spoke of may be discovered."
"As for that, I don't think it likely. What would
be the use? They must be queer sort of relations,
for they took no more notice of her than of a stray
dog. But, my boy, that is not exactly what troubles
me. If Igo out someone must be left to mind the
house, and my woman is gone washing. I will ask a
neighbour to fetch her, but you had better go away
now, and come to see me again to-morrow. I will
welcome you better than I did to-day. And if you
feel inclined you can come with me to the funeral."
"I shall certainly feel inclined," said Binos, "but
if I go away now it must be on one condition: we
share all expenses."
"Share expenses! Come—come! You want all
the sous you've got, and I, thank God, have enough
and to spare. I could pay for a real grand funeral!
But we will talk of that to-morrow; now be oil.
I've no more time to gossip."
I3inos desired nothing better. He had succeeded
beyond h's highest hopes; he felt radiant, trium-
phant • he thought himself a gifted diplomatist, and
rejoiced much in the same way as a successful card
player, who wins solely on account of his good hand,
but who imagines all the time that his fortune is
due to his fine play.
He took leave of Sophy Cornu and hurried into
the street. _ _ _

(To oe continued.)