Durin was silent for a moment. Then he continued:
“There are things in that bag that it would be cruel, for many people’s sake, to make public. Fortunately, I am the only one who knows the secret of its lock, and I am counting on you to take care of it for me until I get out of prison.”
“You expect me to keep it for you in my room?” I asked. “You probably don’t realize what that means. If it were discovered, I might be expelled from the bar, and my career would be finished.”
At this, he broke out into a laugh.
“A fine career !”
His eyes glittered sarcastically as he glanced down at my shoes.
“At least it’s better than yours,” I exclaimed, in exasperation.
“I am not complaining of mine.... But listen to what I say. No one will ever know anything about it, you will have done several persons a great kindness... and you will have earned two thousand francs...”
His expression and manner had once more changed. The Durin of the two thousand francs was no longer the Durin of the one thousand. There was something... well, something irresistible about him now.
“Two thousand,” he repeated coldly, “and you shall have them this evening.”
He no longer glanced at my shoes. His thoughts seemed to be busy elsewhere.
“Will you do it?” he asked suddenly, as if he had just remembered that I was there.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll do it. Where do I get the money?”
“You will need a shave,” he answered. “Go to Gloria’s, at the corner of the rue Vivienne, and ask for Victor. Give him this note, with a two franc tip, and he will give you two thousand francs.... I shall look for you tomorrow, at this time. Meanwhile, don’t worry about breaking the rules of your profession — or if you do, remember that it’s for the honor of a lady!”
I left with the keys and a scrap of paper on which he had scribbled a few lines, of which all that I could distinguish were the words “two thousand francs.” And, for a moment, they were enough for me.
I had no trouble in finding Gloria’s, a fashionable barber-shop, near the Stock Exchange. Victor was in great demand and I had to wait. When my turn came, I slipped the note into his hand. He read it swiftly:
“Very good, sir,” he said, as he pinned the towel behind my neck. Then he ran his hand over my beard. “We’ll shave this off in a jiffy, sir.”
“Huh... that’s my beard!” I protested.
“But beards aren’t in style just now,” he said with a sly grin.
I sat bolt upright, to rescue my beard from the razor that I saw already gleaming in his hand. He leaned over and whispered in my ear:
“Orders from the Chief!”
I sank back on the head-rest and let him do as he wished. It seemed that Victor and I now had the same Chief.
When I stepped out of the chair, a strange face confronted me in the mirror. Victor had left nothing but a little Charlie Chaplin mustache under my nose. My fellow lawyers would never recognize me now. I stared at the mirror with a sudden misgiving. It was beginning to look as if I had disguised myself to pull off a crooked job. If this business turned out bad, and I got in trouble, I could never persuade any court now that I had acted innocently. Having once consented to this mark, I had presently joined the gang. But what gang?... I had no answer to this question.
I emptied my pockets to make up the two franc tip. Victor drew out his pocketbook and ostentatiously handed me two thousand francs in return.
“I think that’s the right amount, sir,” he said. “Don’t send me the orders from Deauville too late. I’ll be at the big race Saturday. You’ll find me at my usual place.”
He went with me as far as the door.
“And get yourself a good suit of clothes,” he whispered.
Victor apparently placed bets on the races. His clients were no doubt brokers and millionaires from the nearby Stock Exchange, and my shiny elbows would injure his reputation.
Two thousand francs! Two thousand francs!... I felt as if I could own the whole city. But I began modestly with a pair of shoes. Then I went to the biggest men’s clothing store on the Boulevards. Luckily I have a build that there’s never any trouble in fitting, and I found a suit that went on as if it had been measured for me. Two hours later, I stood before the mirror in my room, looking at a dapper young man in stylish clothes, and a toothbrush mustache. I felt elated and ridiculous at the same time.
But now that I had my costume, it was up to me to play my rôle. The hour had come. I entered the rue Chalgrin as dusk was falling, slipped under the marble entrance of the apartment house, and glided like a shadow past the superintendent’s door. The stairs were empty. Up a few steps, and I was on the first landing. The door to the right. My hand trembled as I pressed the key into the lock and turned. A click and the door opened. I stepped in and pushed it shut behind me. In the darkness I could hear myself breathing in quick, shallow breaths. For a moment I stood motionless, until the throbbing of my heart subsided. Then I scratched a match, not daring to turn the switch. On a little writing-table I caught sight of a candle beside a stick of gleaming, red sealing wax. I picked up the candle....
At that moment the sound of steps on the stairway outside the door reached my ears. Blowing out the match, I sank on a chair, my legs quivering. The steps continued downwards and were lost in the high-vaulted entrance; a tenant from upstairs going out for the evening. What a greenhorn I was at this sort of thing, and what a coward!
Yet, what had I to be afraid of? I was not a burglar. I had come here at the request of the tenant. I, Albert Rose, lawyer at the Court of Appeals, was not breaking any law. Yet my legs trembled as if I were committing a crime.
Gathering my courage, I switched on the lights and quietly set about my errand.... Ten minutes later, I was ready to leave. The papers in my brief-case and the traveling-bag in one hand — a little heavy for such a dainty bag, though! I closed the door and hurried down the stairs.
Luckily, I met no one. I took a taxi back to the rue des Bernardins and climbed the four flights of stairs to my room. The mysterious bag grew heavier with each step, and the perspiration was dripping from my brow when I set it down on the floor. Now that I was safe in my room again, I relaxed suddenly from the nervous tension that had carried me through the rifling of the apartment with outward calm. A sense of unutterable weariness came over me. Victor’s reference to “the Chief” had made it clear that there was more behind this than I had been told. But I had carried out my orders successfully, and for the present I did not care whose orders they were, nor what unknown purposes they might have served. I shoved the bag under the bed, spread my new clothes over the chair and dropped into a leaden sleep.
The next morning a sparrow was hopping on my window-sill, and the clear sunlight flooded my room, flashing on the nickel clasp of my brief-case and revealing the tawny flank of the bag under my bed. I plunged my head in a basin of water, and sat down to think.
Had I been too innocent the day before in taking Durin’s word for it that my mission was merely to do a favor for a prominent woman? Was Durin the Chief whose orders I was obeying, or was he merely a foil for someone behind him? What dangers did the possession of this handsome traveling-bag expose me to?
The traveling-bag was undoubtedly the key to the situation, as it was also — in spite of being pushed under my bed — the most conspicuous object in the room. In contrast with it, my few and shabby belongings looked even more poverty-stricken than ever. The first step was obviously to get the bag out of sight; and for that I had no other place than the bottom of my trunk.
Dragging the bag from its place under the bed, I lifted it now to a chair. Its weight struck me as more significant now than the night before, when my one thought had been to get it safely to my room without attracting attention. Certainly a few papers and toilet articles for traveling could not be so heavy as that! Curiosity burned within me as I set the bag down, and it was then that I noticed for the firs
t time that the clasp was loose....
My eyes became fixed on that loose clasp; it is such trifles that determine the fate of empires. Suppose for a second that I had not opened that bag, one sunny morning in June: all the rest of my life would have been different. I should have had an amusing little episode on the margin of my career as a lawyer, and that would have been all. As it was, my finger pressed the clasp....
The bag yawned open and revealed a lining of plum-colored silk. And in silk pockets, along the sides and bottom, lay a complete kit of burglar’s tools!
They were literally a treasure in themselves; nickel and silver, wrought with the finest craftsmanship, and adorned with exquisite modeling — works of art worthy of a Benvenuto Cellini. Pliers of all sizes, saws, awls, objects resembling corkscrews, whose use I suspected had something to do with the drilling of locks, levers, handles and various unknown tools, some as delicate as watch springs and enclosed in crystal cases. Not to mention a complete pharmaceutical outfit, absorbent cotton, chloroform and other dainty perfumes.... The rascal! So that was what my prisoner-valet wanted me to take care of for him!
I smiled at his audacity, but this game had gone now far enough and I determined to put an end to it.
Lifting up a tray in the bottom of the bag, I discovered a thick pile of papers, which I tossed on the bed. At last I was to know the truth!
The truth! Yes, it lay bare before my eyes. The photographs and papers that I turned over with curiosity, excitement and some fear, had nothing to do with the reputation of a fashionable lady; this was no record of a beautiful woman’s imprudence, as I had been tricked into believing. Instead I saw, in profile and full view, in all his dangerous rôles and bewildering transformations, the man who had outwitted the police of the world for ten years! The man whose incredible adventures had filled the front pages of newspapers on two hemispheres and who had been reported drowned by the papers after the wreck of the Britannic off Halifax. It was the MAN OF A HUNDRED FACES whose latest was that of Durin.... Durin arrested as a valet for having stolen his master’s stickpin.... Durin, who was my client....
At this thought, I was overcome with joy. As lawyer for a valet and petty thief, I was nobody; but as defense counsel for the Man of a Hundred Faces, my fortune was made!
Once more I scurried down the stairs, this time with the telltale bag in my hand. A taxi was rounding the corner as I reached the sidewalk and I hailed it.... I found Durin as calm as I was excited.
“Thank you,” he said without rising. “I know that you have carried out your mission. Did you bring the papers?”
“Yes!” I exclaimed. “But I am going to take the traveling-bag back to your friend Van Housen’s apartment.”
Durin glanced up at me, and an expression of sudden ferocity sharpened his piercing eyes.
“Why?”
“Because I have seen what’s in it! The next time you send strangers for your bag, you had better lock it!”
“There is no use trying to take it back,” he said. “It’s all right where it is. You don’t suppose I didn’t take precautions against it’s being put back there, do you? It was too compromising.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He smiled indulgently, and at the expression of assurance that came over his face, I could willingly have choked him.
“Durin,” I said, “you needn’t try to match wits with me. You have nothing to gain by it. I might as well tell you that there is already a feeling that there is some mystery about your case, and orders have been given for a further investigation. It won’t be long before the inspectors are on your trail, and there they will discover that the Man of a Hundred Faces, the man the English call Mr. Flow, was not drowned when the Britannic went down! But I shall defend you, and I shall save you!...”
“No, my friend, I am afraid not.... You will defend Durin, the valet. Without wishing to hurt your feelings, I would not have you think for a moment that the famous Mr. Flow would choose the young law clerk, Albert Rose, for his defense. He would need a seasoned lawyer, an ex-president of the Bar Association, like M. Henri Robert, or a former Cabinet Minister, like M. André Hesse, or a former President of France, like M. Millerand. You look disappointed.... It is too bad, but it cannot be helped; and for that reason let us hope, for the sake of the happy continuance of our relationship, that Mr. Flow stays dead.... Which will allow you to keep my case and my traveling-bag, as well as that handsome suit of clothes, which seem to fit you to perfection. My compliments! I see you have not wasted your time, and Victor is an artist. No one would recognize you. You will make a hit at Deauville.”
He surveyed me ironically. I rose from my chair, resolved to end the matter once for all.
“I shall defend neither the famous Mr. Flow,” I began, with all the dignity I could muster, “nor the bungling Durin, who can’t steal even a stickpin from his master without being caught like a school boy. The public has been duped by this Mr. Flow, but I find it easy enough to see through him. In two hours you will have your two thousand francs back, if I have to sell my soul to get them.”
I looked fearlessly into his eyes. The die was cast now. But he merely smiled, and I had an uncomfortable feeling that the whole scene was entertaining him.
“Don’t be childish,” he said quietly. “I admit that, even for a young law clerk, Durin is not a dazzling client. But that can’t be helped. The greatest generals have their moments of weakness. That little stickpin of Sir Archibald’s meant nothing to me, except the pleasure I had in stealing it from under the very nose of the baronet himself and ten of his friends, without one of them knowing what had happened. Unfortunately, I have a generous nature, and I made the mistake of giving the pin to the maid of a friend of Sir Archibald’s wife. The maid was honest and reported me. How could I guess that she would be honest?... But that is not important.... Where is the bag of tools?”
“In my taxi.”
“And you intend to take it back to the rue Chalgrin?”
“At once.”
“I advise you not to. I told you I had taken precautions. Haven’t you seen the papers this morning?”
“Why, no, to tell the truth, I was so busy....”
“Then read this.”
He handed me the morning paper, and pointed to a column on the first page:
RESURRECTION OF THE FAMOUS MR. FLOW
The Man of a Hundred Faces is not dead
I started with amazement.
“Read it,” he urged.
What I read made the flesh crawl on my spine.
The innumerable admirers of the celebrated Mr. Flow (the man who slips through the fingers of the police like water) may take fresh hope. He did not perish in the wreck of the Britannic, but escaped and has returned to France to continue his breathless exploits. The Secret Service has recently been notified that Mr. Flow, more alive and more daring than ever, is at present in Paris. Yesterday morning the police learned that he is passing under the name of Van Housen, and that he has been seen in restaurants and theaters.
Late last night word was received that Van Housen had rented a furnished apartment in the rue Chalgrin. A search was made at dawn, but it was learned from the superintendent that his tenant had not been in the apartment for two weeks.
“And I don’t think you’ll find anything in his rooms,” said the superintendent, “because one of his friends, whom I have seen with him frequently, came here during the night. He had the key to the apartment, and when he went out was carrying a bag that looked heavy.”
Van Housen had evidently learned that he was being trailed, and had sent his friend to collect any compromising belongings that he had left in the apartment.
“One thing that struck me as queer,” volunteered the Superintendent, “was that this friend, who had always worn a full beard, had shaved it all off except a little Charlie Chaplin mustache.”
There can be no doubt that the person in question was an accomplice. But the superintendent stated that he had recognized
him in spite of his change in appearance, and would be able to identify him without trouble!
The paper fell from my trembling hands.
“Pull yourself together,” said Durin, more calmly than ever. “It worries me to see you so pale.”
“I am ruined!” I exclaimed. “Did you tell the superintendent to make that statement?”
“It’s nothing to get frightened about. I shan’t desert you.”
“You scoundrel!”
“Come, come, my boy! Try to be practical. This is not so serious as you make out. Obviously, the superintendent lied. He never saw you with your beard on, and the only time you ever went to the apartment was when you brought away that bag. You and I know that that is the truth. But unfortunately nobody else would believe it! Your change in appearance throws suspicion on you, and that neat little mustache would convict you. You must realize that it is out of the question for you to go back to Van Housen’s rooms.”
“And to mine, too! Or anywhere, for that matter.... I may be arrested when I leave the prison!”
“Nonsense! You are letting your imagination run away with you. Did the guard pay any attention to you when you came in? He stamps the passes without bothering about the way the young law clerks shave their faces. Nobody pays any attention to a law clerk.... I shouldn’t think I’d have to remind you of that....”
“My God, I wish I were anywhere but here!..”
“Deauville, for example?”
“If you weren’t such a crook...”
“You won’t find many crooks who will make you a present of two thousand francs, buy you a new suit of clothes from head to foot, give you a little trip to the seashore and a chance to save a lady’s honor besides. But I am not asking you to overwhelm me with gratitude — merely to carry out your part of the bargain in return for the money you have received. I realize that you are not anxious to show that little mustache to your landlord or friends. But you can reassure yourself about that. I have already arranged for you to see Victor again. He will be waiting for you, not at Gloria’s this time, but in his own rooms. You said you had a taxi? Then make use of it! Victor’s address is 5 bis rue Notre-Dame des Victoires, third floor, first door on the right. By the way, can you speak English?”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 456
