“Now, Pierre, my friend, you must win some money upon this match — do you see? And you won’t deny me the pleasure of putting down your stake for you; and, if you win, you shall buy something pretty for Madame — and, win or lose, I shall think it friendly of you after so many years, and like you the better.”
“Monsieur is too good,” he said with effusion.
“Now look. Do you see that fat Jew over there on the front bench — you can’t mistake him — with the velvet waistcoat all in wrinkles, and the enormous lips, who talks to every second person who passes?”
“I see perfectly, Monsieur.”
“He is betting three to one upon Markham. You must take his offer, and back Hood. I’m told he’ll win. Here are ten pounds, you may as well make them thirty. Don’t say a word. Our English custom is to tip, as we say, our friend’s sons at school, and to make presents to everybody, as often as we like. Now there — not a word.” He quietly slipped into his hand a little rouleau of ten pounds in gold. “If you say one word you wound me,” he continued. “But, good Heaven! my dear friend, haven’t you a breastpocket?”
“No, Monsieur; but this is quite safe. I was paid, only five minutes before I came here, fifteen pounds in gold, a cheque of forty-four pounds, and — — “
“Be silent. You may be overheard. Speak here in a very low tone, as I do. And do you mean to tell me that you carry all that money in your coat pocket?”
“But in a pocketbook, Monsieur.”
“All the more convenient for the chevalier d’industrie,” said Longcluse. “Stop. Pray don’t produce it; your fate is, perhaps, sealed if you do. There are gentlemen in this room who would hustle and rob you in the crowd as you get out; or, failing that, who, seeing that you are a stranger, would follow and murder you in the streets, for the sake of a twentieth part of that sum.”
“Gabriel thought there would be none here but men distinguished,” said Lebas, in some consternation.
“Distinguished by the special attention of the police, some of them,” said Longcluse.
“Hé! that is very true,” said Monsieur Lebas— “very true, I am sure of it. See you that man there, Monsieur? Regard him for a moment. The tall man, who leans with his shoulder to the metal pillar of the gallery. My faith! he has observed my steps and followed me. I thought he was a spy. But my friend he says ‘No, that is a man of bad character, dismissed for bad practices from the police.’ Aha! he has watched me sideways, with the corner of his eye. I will watch him with the corner of mine — ha, ha!”
“It proves, at all events, Lebas, that there are people here other than gentlemen and men of honest lives,” said Longcluse.
“But,” said Lebas, brightening a little, “I have this weapon,” producing a dagger from the same pocket.
“Put it back this instant. Worse and worse, my good friend. Don’t you know that just now there is a police activity respecting foreigners, and that two have been arrested only yesterday on no charge but that of having weapons about their persons? I don’t know what the devil you had best do.”
“I can return to the Hill of Ludgate — eh?”
“Pity to lose the game; they won’t let you back again,” said Longcluse.
“What shall I do?” said Lebas, keeping his hand now in his pocket on his treasure.
Longcluse rubbed the tip of his finger a little over his eyebrow, thinking.
“Listen to me,” said Longcluse, suddenly. “Is your brother-in-law here?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Well, you have some London friend in the room, haven’t you?”
“One — yes.”
“Only be sure he is one whom you can trust, and who has a safe pocket.”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur, entirely! and I saw him place his purse so,” he said, touching his coat, over his heart, with his fingers.
“Well, now, you can’t manage it here, under the gaze of the people; but — where is best? Yes — you see those two doors at opposite sides in the wall, at the far end of the room? They open into two parallel corridors leading to the hall, and a little way down there is a cross passage, in the middle of which is a door opening into a smoking-room. That room will be deserted now, and there, unseen, you can place your money and dagger in his charge.”
“Ah, thank you a hundred thousand times, Monsieur!” answered Lebas. “I shall be writing to the Baron van Boeren tomorrow, and I will tell him I have met Monsieur.”
“Don’t mind; how is the baron?” asked Longcluse.
“Very well. Beginning to be not so young, you know, and thinking of retiring. I will tell him his work has succeeded. If he demolishes, he also secures. If he sometimes sheds blood — — “
“Hush!” whispered Longcluse, sternly.
“There is no one,” murmured little Lebas, looking round, but dropping his voice to a whisper. “He also saves a neck sometimes from the blade of the guillotine.”
Longcluse frowned, a little embarrassed. Lebas smiled archly. In a moment Longcluse’s impatient frown broke into a mysterious smile that responded.
“May I say one word more, and make one request of Monsieur, which I hope he will not think very impertinent?” asked Monsieur Lebas, who had just been on the point of taking his leave.
“It mayn’t be in my power to grant it; but you can’t be what you say — I am too much obliged to you — so speak quite freely,” said Longcluse.
So they talked a little more and parted, and Monsieur Lebas went on his way.
CHAPTER V.
A CATASTROPHE.
The play has commenced. Longcluse, who likes and understands the game, sitting beside Richard Arden, is all eye. He is intensely eager and delighted. He joins modestly in the clapping that now and then follows a stroke of extraordinary brilliancy. Now and then he whispers a criticism in Arden’s ear. There are many vicissitudes in the game. The players have entered on the third hundred, and still “doubtful it stood.” The excitement is extraordinary. The assembly is as hushed as if it were listening to a sermon, and, I am afraid, more attentive. Now, on a sudden, Hood scores a hundred and sixty-eight points in a single break. A burst of prolonged applause follows, and, during the clapping, in which he had at first joined, Longcluse says to Arden, —
“I can’t tell you how that run of Hood’s delights me. I saw a poor little friend of mine here before the play began — I had not seen him since I was little more than a boy — a Frenchman, a goodnatured little soul, and I advised him to back Hood, and I have been trembling up to this moment. But I think he’s safe now to win. Markham can’t score this time. If he’s in ‘Queer Street,’ as they whisper round the room, you’ll find he’ll either give a simple miss, or put himself into the pocket.”
“Well, I’m sure I hope your friend will win, because it will put three hundred and eighty pounds into my pocket,” said Richard Arden.
And now silence was called, and the building became, in a moment, hushed as a cathedral before the anthem; and Markham knocked his own ball into the pocket as Longcluse had predicted.
On sped the game, and at last Hood scored a thousand, and won the match, greeted by an uproar of applause that, now being no longer restrained, lasted for nearly five minutes. The assemblage had, by this time, descended from the benches, and crowded the floor in clusters, discussing the play or settling bets. The people in the gallery were pouring down by the four staircases, and adding to the crowd and buzz.
Suddenly there is a sort of excitement perceptible of a new kind — a gathering and pressure of men about one of the doors at the far corner of the room. Men are looking back and beckoning to their companions; others are shouldering forward as strenuously as they can. What is it — any dispute about the score? — a pair of men boxing in the passage?
“No suspicion of fire?” the men at this near end exclaim, and sniff over their shoulders, and look about them, and move toward the point where the crowd is thickening, not knowing what to make of the matter. But soon there runs a rumour about the r
oom— “a man has just been found murdered in a room outside,” and the crowd now press forward more energetically to the point of attraction.
In the cross-passage which connects the two corridors, as Mr. Longcluse described, there is an awful crush, and next to no light. A single jet of gas burns in the smoking room, where the pressure of the crowd is not quite so much felt. There are two policemen in that chamber, in the ordinary uniform of the force, and three detectives in plain clothes, one supporting a corpse already stiffening, in a sitting posture, as it was found, in a far angle of the room, on the bench to your left as you look in. All the people are looking up the room. You can see nothing but hats, and backs of heads, and shoulders. There is a ceaseless buzz and clack of talk and conjecture. Even the policemen are looking, as the rest do, at the body. The man who has mounted on the chair near the door, with the other beside him, who has one foot on the rung and another on the seat, and an arm round the first gentleman’s neck, although he has not the honour of his acquaintance, to support himself, can see, over the others’ heads, the one silent face which looks back towards the door, upon so many gaping, and staring, and gabbling ones. The light is faint. It has occurred to no one to light the gas lamps in the centre. But that forlorn face is distinct enough. Fixed and leaden it is, with the chin a little raised. The eyes are wide open, with a deep and awful gaze; the mouth slightly distorted with what the doctors call “a convulsive smile,” which shows the teeth a little, and has an odd, wincing look.
As I live, it is the little Frenchman, Pierre Lebas, who was talking so gaily tonight with Mr. Longcluse!
The ebony haft of a dagger, sticking straight out, shows where the hand of the assassin planted the last stab of four, through his black satin waistcoat, embroidered with green leaves, red strawberries, and yellow flowers, which, I suppose, was one of the finest articles in the little wardrobe that Madame Lebas packed up for his holiday. It is not worth much now. It has four distinct cuts, as I have said, on the left side, right through it, and is soaked in blood.
His pockets have been rifled. The police have found nothing in them but a red pockethandkerchief and a papier-maché snuff-box. If that dumb mouth could speak but fifty words, what a world of conjecture it would end, and poor Lebas’s story would be listened to as never was story of his before!
A policeman now takes his place at the door to prevent further pressure. No newcomers will be admitted, except as others go out. Those outside are asking questions of those within, and transmitting, over their shoulders, particulars, eagerly repeated. On a sudden there is a subsidence of the buzz and gabble within, and one voice, speaking almost at the pitch of a shriek, is heard declaiming. White as a sheet, Mr. Longcluse, in high excitement, is haranguing in the smoking-room, mounted on a table.
“I say,” he cried, “gentlemen, excuse me. There are so many together here, so many known to be wealthy, it is an opportunity for a word. Things are coming to a pretty pass — garotters in our streets and assassins in our houses of entertainment! Here is a poor little fellow — look at him — here tonight to see the game, perfectly well and happy, murdered by some miscreant for the sake of the money he had about him. It might have been the fate of anyone of us. I spoke to him tonight. I had not seen him since I was a boy almost. Seven children and a wife, he told me, dependent on him. I say there are two things wanted — first, a reward of such magnitude as will induce exertion. I promise, for my own share, to put down double the amount promised by the highest subscriber. Secondly, something should be done for the family he has left, in proportion to the loss they have sustained. Upon this point I shall make inquiry myself. But this is plain, the danger and scandal have attained a pitch at which none of us who cares to walk the streets at night, or at any time to look in upon amusements like that we attended this evening, can permit them longer to stand. There is a fatal defect somewhere. Are our police awake and active? Very possibly; but if so the force is not adequate. I say this frightful scandal must be abated if, as citizens of London, we desire to maintain our reputation for common sense and energy.”
There was a tall thin fellow, shabbily dressed, standing nearly behind the door, with a long neck, and a flat mean face, slightly pitted with smallpox, rather pallid, who was smiling lazily, with half-closed eyes, as Mr. Longcluse declaimed; and when he alluded pointedly to the inadequacy of the police, this man’s amusement improved, and he winked pleasantly at the clock which he was consulting at the moment with the corner of his eye.
And now a doctor arrived, and Gabriel Laroque the watchmaker, and more police, with an inspector. Laroque faints when he sees his murdered friend. Recovered after a time, he identifies the body, identifies the dagger also as the property of poor Lebas.
The police take the matter now quite into their hands, and clear the room.
CHAPTER VI.
TO BED.
Mr. Longcluse jumped into a cab, and told the man to drive to his house in Bolton Street, Piccadilly. He rolled his coat about him with a kind of violence, and threw himself into a corner. Then, as it were, in furore, and with a stamp on the floor, he pitched himself into the other corner.
“I’ve seen tonight what I never thought I should see. What devil possessed me to tell him to go into that black little smoking-room?” he muttered. “What a room it is! It has seized my brain somehow. Am I in a fever, or going mad, or what? That cursed smoking-room! I can’t get out of it. It is in the centre of the earth. I’m built round and round in it. The moment I begin to think, I’m in it. The moment I close my eyes, its four stifling walls are round me. There is no way out. It is like hell.”
The wind had come round to the south, and a soft rain was pattering on the windows. He stopped the cab somewhere near St. James’s Street, and got out. It was late — it was just past two o’clock, and the streets were quiet. Wonderfully still was the great city at this hour, and the descent of the rain went on with a sound like a prolonged “hush” all round. He paid the man, and stood for a while on the kerbstone, looking up and down the street, under the downpour of the rain. You might have taken this millionaire for a man who knew not where to lay his head that night. He took off his hat, and let the refreshing rain saturate his hair, and stream down his forehead and temples.
“Your cab’s stuffy and hot, ain’t it? Standing half the day with the glass in the sun, I daresay,” said he to the man, who was fumbling in his pockets, and pretending a difficulty about finding change.
“See, never mind, if you haven’t got change; I’ll go on. Heavier rain than I fancied; very pleasant though. When did the rain begin?” asked Mr. Longcluse, who seemed in no hurry to get back again.
“A trifle past ten, Sir.”
“I say, your horse’s knees are a bit broken, ain’t they? Never mind, I don’t care. He can pull you and me to Bolton Street, I daresay.”
“Will you please to get in, Sir?” inquired the cabman.
Mr. Longcluse nodded, frowning and thinking of something else; the rain still descending on his bare head, his hat in his hand.
The cabman thought this “cove” had been drinking and must be a trifle “tight.” He would not mind if he stood so for a couple of hours; it would run his fare up to something pretty. So cabby had thoughts of clapping a nosebag to his horse’s jaws, and was making up his mind to a bivouac. But Mr. Longcluse on a sudden got in, repeating his direction to the driver in a gay and brisk tone, that did not represent his real sensations.
“Why should I be so disturbed at that little French fellow? Have I been ill, that my nerve is gone and I such a fool? One would think I had never seen a dead fellow till now. Better for him to be quiet than at his wit’s ends, devising ways and means to keep his seven cubs in bread and butter. I should have gone away when the game was over. What earthly reason led me into that d —— d room, when I heard the fuss there? I’ve a mind to go and play hazard, or see a doctor. Arden said he’d look in, in the morning. I should like that; I’ll talk to Arden. I sha’n’t sleep, I know; I can�
��t, all night; I’ve got imprisoned in that suffocating room. Shall I ever close my eyes again?”
They had now reached the door of the small, unpretending house of this wealthy man. The servant who opened the door, though he knew his business, stared a little, for he had never seen his master return in such a plight before, and looking so haggard.
“Where’s Franklin?”
“Arranging things in your room, Sir.”
“Give me a candle. The cab is paid. Mr. Arden, mind, may call in the morning; if I should not be down, show him to my room. You are not to let him go without seeing me.”
Upstairs went the pale master of the house. “Franklin!” he called, as he mounted the last flight of stairs, next his bedroom.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I sha’n’t want you tonight, I think — that is, I shall manage what I want for myself; but I mean to ring for you by-and-by.” He was in his dressing-room by this time, and looked round to see that his comforts were provided for as usual — his foot-bath and hot water.
“Shall I fetch your tea, Sir?”
“I’ll drink no tea tonight; I’ve been disgusted. I’ve seen a dead man, quite unexpectedly; and I sha’n’t get over it for some hours, I daresay. I feel ill. And what you must do is this: when I ring my bell, you come back, and you must sit up here till eight in the morning. I shall leave the door between this and the next room open; and should you hear me sleeping uneasily, moaning, or anything like nightmare, you must come in and waken me. And you are not to go to sleep, mind; the moment I call, I expect you in my room. Keep yourself awake how you can; you may sleep all tomorrow, if you like.”
With this charge Franklin departed.
But Mr. Longcluse’s preparations for bed occupied a longer time than he had anticipated. When nearly an hour had passed, Mr. Franklin ventured upstairs, and quietly approached the dressing-room door; but there he heard his master still busy with his preparations, and withdrew. It was not until nearly half-an-hour more had passed that his bell gave the promised signal, and Mr. Franklin established himself for the night, in the easy-chair in the dressing-room, with the connecting door between the two rooms open.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 521
