The Sins of Séverac Bablon

by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER XXIII

  M. LEVI

  The art of detection, in common with every other art, produces from timeto time a genius; and a genius, whatever else he may be, emphatically is_not_ a person having "an infinite capacity for taking pains." Suchmasters of criminology as Alphonse Bertillon or his famous compatriot,Victor Lemage, whose resignation so recently had stirred the wide worldto wonder--achieve their results by painstaking labours, yes, but allthose labours would be more or less futile without that elusive elementof inspiration, intuition, luck--call it what you will--whichconstitutes genius, which alone distinguishes such men from the othercapable plodders about them. A brief retrospective survey of thesurprising results achieved by Dr. Lepardo within the space of an hourwill show these to have been due to brilliant imagination, deepknowledge of human nature, foresight, unusual mental activity, and--thatother capacity so hard to define.

  Dr. Lepardo was studying the following paragraph marked by MissMaitland:

  FOR SALE.--Entire furniture, antique, of large flat, comprising pieces by Sheraton, Chippendale, Boule, etc. Paintings by Greuze, Murillo, Van Dyck, also modern masters. Pottery, Chinese, Sevres, old English, etc. A collection of 500 pieces of early pewter, etc., etc., etc. The whole valued at over L30,000.

  The torpedo-like car had dropped him at Bedford Court Mansions, and,shuffling up the steps into the hall, he addressed himself to theporter.

  "Ah, my friend, has the Count de Guise gone out again?"

  "I have not seen him go out, sir."

  "Not since you saw him come in?"

  "Not since then, sir--no."

  "About half-past seven he came in, I think? Yes, about half-past."

  "Quite right, sir."

  Again the odd gleam came into the doctor's eyes, as it had come when, byone of his amazing leading questions he had learnt that LawrenceGuthrie's father resided in Constantinople. The doctor mounted to thefirst floor. He was about to ring the bell of No. 59b, when another ideastruck him. He descended and again addressed the porter.

  "The Count must be resting. He does not reply. He has, of course,discharged his servants?"

  "Yes, sir. He leaves England next week."

  "Ah, he is alone."

  Upstairs once more.

  He rang three times before the door was opened to him by a tall, slightman, arrayed in a blue silk dressing-gown. He had a most pleasant face,and wore his moustache and beard according to the latest Parisian mode.He looked about thirty years of age, was fair, blue-eyed, and handsome.

  "I am sorry to trouble you so late, Count," said the old doctor, inperfect French; "but I think I can make you an offer for some, if notall, of your collection."

  He hunted, peering through a case which apparently contained some dozensof cards, finally handing the Count the following:

  ISIDOR LEVI Fine Art Expert _London and Paris._

  Count de Guise hesitated, glanced at his caller, glanced at his watch,cleared his throat--and still hesitated.

  "If I approve," continued 'Isidor Levi,' "I will hand you a cheque onthe Credit Lyonnais."

  The Count bowed.

  "Enter, M. Levi. Your name, of course, is known to me."

  Indeed it was a name familiar enough in art circles.

  Dr. Lepardo entered.

  The room into which the Count ushered him was most magnificentlyappointed. The visitor's feet sank into the carpet as into banked moss.Beautiful furniture stood about. Pictures by eminent artists graced thewalls. Statuettes, vases, busts, choice antiques, were everywhere. Itwas the room of a wealthy connoisseur, of an aesthete whose delicacy oftaste bordered upon the effeminate. The doctor stared hard at the Countwithout permitting the latter to observe that he did so. With his handsthrust deep in the sack-like pockets of his inverness he drifted fromtreasure to treasure--uninvited, from room to room--like some rudderlesscraft. The Count followed. In his handsome face it might be read that heresented the attitude of M. Levi, who behaved as though he found himselfin the gallery of a dealer. Suddenly, before a Van Dyck portrait, thevisitor cried:

  "Ah, a forgery, m'sieur! Spurious."

  Count de Guise leapt round upon him with perfect fury blazing in hisblue eyes. The veins had sprung into prominence upon his forehead, andone throbbed--a virile blue cord--upon his left temple.

  "M'sieur!"

  He seemed to choke. His sudden passion was volcanic--terrible.

  Dr. Lepardo, still peering, seemed not to heed him; then quickly:

  "Ah, I apologise, I most sincerely apologise. I was misled by theunusual tone of the brown. But--no, it is undoubted. None other than VanDyck painted that ruff."

  The Count glared and quivered, his fine nostrils distended, a whilelonger, but swallowed his rage and bowed in acknowledgment of theapology. Dr. Lepardo was off again upon his voyage of discovery,drifting from picture to vase, from statuette to buhl cabinet.

  "M'sieur," he rumbled, peering around at de Guise, who now stood by thefireplace of the room to which the visitor's driftings had led him, hishands locked behind him. "I think I can propose you for the entirecollection. Is it agreeable?"

  The Count bowed.

  "Ah!"

  M. Levi seated himself at the writing-table--for the room was abeautifully appointed study--and produced a cheque-book.

  "Twenty thousand pounds, English?"

  The Count laughed contemptuously.

  "Twenty-two?"

  "Do not jest, m'sieur. Nothing but thirty."

  "Twenty-eight is final. It is the price I had determined upon."

  De Guise considered, bit his lip, glanced at the opencheque-book--always a potent argument--and bowed in his grand fashion.Lepardo changed his spectacles for a larger pair, reached for a pen,peering, and overturned a massive inkstand. The ink poured in an oilyblack stream across the leathern top of the table.

  "Ah, clumsy!" he cried. "Blotting-paper, quick."

  The other took some from a drawer and sopped up the ink. Lepardo rumbledapologies, and, when the ink had been dried up, made out a cheque forL28,000, payable to "The Count de Guise, in settlement for the entireeffects contained in his flat, No. 59b Bedford Court Mansions," signedit "I. Levi," and handed it to de Guise, who was surveying his inkyhands, usually so spotless, with frowning disfavour.

  The Count took the cheque, and Lepardo stood up.

  "One moment, m'sieur."

  Lepardo sat down again.

  "You have dated this cheque 1928."

  "Ah," cried the other, "always so absent. I had in mind the price,m'sieur. Believe me, I shall lose on this deal, but no matter. Give itback to me; I will write out another."

  The second cheque made out, correctly, Lepardo shuffled to the door,refusing de Guise's offer of refreshments. He was about to pass out onto the landing when:

  "Heavens! I am truly an absent fool. I wear my writing glasses and haveleft my street glasses on your table. One moment. No, I would nottrouble you."

  He shuffled quickly back to the study, to return almost immediately,glasses in hand.

  "Will seven-thirty in the morning be too early for my men to commence aninventory?"

  "Not at all."

  "Good night, m'sieur le Comte."

  "Good night, M. Levi."

  So concluded an act in this strange comedy.

  Let us glance for a moment at Thomas Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, who satin his study, his head resting upon his clenched hand, his pipe cold.

  Twelve o'clock, and the household sleeping. He had spent the early partof the night at Moorgate Place, had written his account of the murder,seen it consigned to the machines, and returned wearily home. Now, inthe stillness, he was listening; every belated cab whose passing brokethe silence of the night set his heart beating, for he waslistening--listening for Severac Bablon.

  His faith was shaken.

  He had been content to know himself the confidant of the man who hadtaken from Park Lane to give to the Embankment; of the man who hadkidnapped four great
millionaires and compelled them each to bear anequal share with himself, towards salving a wrecked bank; of the man,who assisted by M. Lemage, the first detective in Europe, had hoodwinkedScotland Yard. But the thought that he had called "friend" the man whohad murdered, or caused to be murdered, Douglas Graham--whatever hadbeen the dead man's character--was dreadful--terrifying.

  It meant? It meant that if Severac Bablon did not come, and come thatnight, to clear himself, then he, Sheard, must confess to his knowledgeof him--must, at whatever personal cost, give every assistance in hispower to those who sought to apprehend the murderer.

  A key turned in the lock of the front door.

  Sheard started to his feet. A soft step in the hall--and Severac Bablonentered.

  The journalist could find no words to greet him; but he stood watchingthe fine masterful face. There was a new, eager look in the long, darkeyes.

  Severac Bablon extended his hand. Sheard shook his head and resting hiselbow on the mantelpiece, looked down into the dying embers of the fire.

  "You, too, my friend?"

  Sheard turned impulsively.

  "Tell me you are in no way implicated in that ghastly crime!" he burstout. "Only tell me, and I shall be satisfied."

  Severac Bablon stepped quickly forward, grasped him by both shouldersand looked hard into his eyes with that strange, penetrating gaze thatseemed to pierce through all pretence into the mind beyond.

  "Sheard, in the pursuit of what I--and my poor wisdom may be no betterthan a wiser man's folly--of what I consider to be Nature's onelaw--Justice, I have braved the laws of man, risked my honour and myliberty. I have dared to hold the scales, to weigh in the balance someof the affairs of men. But life, be it that of the lowliest insect, ofthe vilest sinner against every code of mankind, is sacred. I--with allmy egotism, with all my poor human vanity--would not dare to rob afellow creature of that gift which only God can give, which only God maytake back."

  "Then----"

  "You, who knew me, doubted?"

  Sheard grasped the proffered hand.

  "Forgive my fears," he said warmly; "I should have known. But thishorrible thing has shaken me. I cannot survey murdered corpses with thecalmly professional eye of the Sheffields and Harbornes."

  "It was the work of an enemy, Sheard. There are men labouring, even now,piecing a false chain together, link by link; searching, spying, toilingin the dark to prove that the robber, the incendiary, the iconoclast, isalso a murderer. I have need of all my friends to-night."

  With a weary gesture, almost pathetic, he ran his fingers through hisblack hair. The shaded light struck greenly venomous sparks from hisring.

  "This is such a coward's blow as I never had foreseen," he continued;"but, as I believe, my resources are equal even to this."

  "What! You know the murderer?"

  "If the wrong man is not arrested by some one of the agents of ScotlandYard, of Mr. Oppner, of Julius Rohscheimer, of Heaven alone knows howmany others that seek, I have hopes that within a few hours, at most, ofthe world's learning I am an assassin, the world will learn that I amnot. Can you be ready to accompany me at any hour after 5 A.M. that Imay come for you?"

  Sheard stared.

  "Certainly."

  "Then--to bed, oh, doughty copy-hunter. You still are my friend. That isall I wished to know. For that alone I came like a thief in the night.Until I return, au revoir."