Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  This sequel to Leroux’s last novel, Mister Flow, was wrongly ascribed to Leroux for many years. Le Collier de Lady Helena was in fact written by Louis Latzarus (1878-1942), a French jounralist and popular romance author, who was perhaps aided by notes that Leroux had donated to Charles de Richter. The novel was serialised under the title ‘Lady Helena’ in Le Journal (from February to late March 1929) and published in book form as Le Collier de Lady Helena in Paris in 1946.

  The narrative opens with some extracts from the diary of Antonin Rose, a young lawyer. He seems disgruntled and peevish, berating his lack of affluent clients that could provide him with the sort of lifestyle he sees others in his profession enjoy. Failing that, he would settle for a notorious criminal whose case would put Rose’s name in the news too and lead to even greater cases. As it is, he has to ‘count the coppers’ each day to get by and lives in a ‘dismal room…up a dingy flight of stairs.’ He is undernourished, poorly dressed and very bitter. A doctor advises him to take up golf for his health, but that is out of his reach and is not, in any case, the one sport he is good at.

  What makes Rose feel even bitterer is that he had his chance to attain the riches he craves only the previous year, but out of honesty, he missed his opportunity. The person who could have led him to these riches was none other than the well known burglar, Mister Flow, who taught Rose that very sport he excels at – crime: ‘A sport in which I was a master.’ Hidden in that shabby room he rents is his burglar’s tool kit, just waiting to help him gain those riches he craves. It was given to him by Lady Helena, a woman that he both despises for her amoral lifestyle and adores passionately:

  ‘Her soul is the essence of evil…Yet in spite of that, I love her. At a sign from her, I would hasten wherever she wished.’

  Helena is already spoken for, however; she has married Mister Flow, who is now passing as Sir Douglas Sherfield and they live in luxury in a Scottish castle, on funds that Rose has been accused of stealing. He feels they see him as the ‘stupid little Frenchman’ for falling for their machinations.

  Rose pulls out the bag of tools and after practicing with them, he decides he will take up a sport after all…this sport that he is so adept at — robbery by stealth. He targets Gorshman, an affluent lawyer that has unwittingly patronised him, planning to steal goods from his opulent apartment and the return them a little afterwards. He does not want to rob him, merely to ‘play’ with Gorshman. Moreover, he will adopt the identity of the most famous of all burglars who as far as the public is concerned, has ‘died’ – Mister Flow.

  The burglary goes well and exhilarated by his success, he leaves a note in the apartment leaving the compliments of Mister Flow for Gorshman. In the days that follow, Rose manages to persuade Gorshman to pay a form of ransom for his cash and bonds, so that Rose will end up keeping 25,000 francs for himself. Rose’s new adventure soon includes a cat-and-mouse game with a Surete detective, Petit-Jean, who has for years been trying to catch Mister Flow. This culminates in a decision by Rose to burgle the detective’s home, a modest house, but one with numerous security features to protect both the family and Petit-Jean’s valuable stamp collection. Once again, he succeeds and this time, he returns the stamp collection intact, with no ‘premium’ charged, to the humiliated policeman.

  Rose – or should that be Mister Flow? – becomes more and more audacious, burgling the home of a millionaire, teasing the male inhabitants and flirting with the pretty females whilst he robs them. After stealing the equivalent of at least ten million francs, the authorities become even more resolute in their efforts to detain Mister Flow. Women are falling in love with the fictitious image of Mister Flow that the newspapers were promulgating and Rose is taking a huge risk by allowing himself to have romantic feelings for one of his beautiful female victims. Can he trust her not to betray him?

  CONTENTS

  I.

  II.

  III.

  IV.

  V.

  VI.

  VII.

  VIII.

  IX.

  X.

  XI.

  XII.

  XIII.

  XIV.

  XV.

  XVI.

  XVII.

  XVIII.

  I.

  A FEW PAGES FROM ANTONIN ROSE’S DIARY

  TUESDAY: MY GOD, what a life!...

  I dropped in at the court-house this morning — like every other morning — put on my gown, and walked briskly up and down the corridors, trying to look as if I were on my way to plead a case.

  But I doubt if anybody was deceived. They all know, from the most distinguished lawyers down to the youngest clerk just out of law-school, that Antonin Rose never has a case to plead — except insignificant ones that nobody else would take the trouble to handle. When they come up, the judge asks two or three questions of my client, who usually is some dud picked up on the streets, and the poor fellow mumbles some kind of answer. Then I start to speak. Sometimes the judge lets me say a few words, out of kindness. But usually he raises his hand: “Never mind! Never mind!” and pronounces sentence: two days, two weeks, perhaps two months, in prison.... The guards take my client away, and the next case is called. Around the court-house, that sort of thing is known as “putting ’em through the mill.”

  All I am expected to do is to keep quiet and let the mill grind out its sentences.

  Where are the widows and orphans in distress? Let me run to their aid!... The devil of it is I never can find a good rich widow in distress. There doesn’t seem to be one in the whole city of Paris — or if there is, she is not looking for me to be her counsel. I get the duds picked up on park benches; or the drunkard that can’t pay his rent, not to mention a lawyer’s fee. None of my clients have enough originality to do something sensational, which would get them in the papers. For if they couldn’t pay me in cash I’d be willing to take a little publicity instead... temporarily, of course.

  Meanwhile, it’s a hell of a life. A cup of coffee and a roll for lunch, and not much more for dinner; counting my coppers to see if I can afford to take the bus; and for ever dreaming of some big case that never comes my way. And all this just because I insist on being honest! For, after all, if I wanted to —

  If I wanted to.... I know the tricks of the game, tricks which would make me a millionaire in a few hours. I learned my lessons from a master, and I shall never forget them. On the job, I am as redoubtable, as clever, and as elusive as the greatest burglar alive... as Mr. Flow himself.

  God knows I proved that last summer. While Mr. Flow was in prison, didn’t I become Mr. Flow himself. Under his sinister influence, and just to please Helena....

  But as soon as I write Helena’s name, my heart — of course — begins to pound. I had never thought that a heart could sound so much like a set of cogs with half the teeth missing! Some nights I feel the end has come. That’s nonsense, I know, but probably I had better see a doctor anyway, and find out what the trouble is. I might ask one of the doctors around the court-house. It certainly isn’t right for me to have this agony that grips my temples, these long spells of insomnia, and this shattering pounding in my breast every time I think of Helena....

  I am disgusted with life — and that is the worst sign of all. I have sunk so low that I dread coming home to this dismal room in the rue des Bernardins. How in God’s name can I ever expect any client to climb this dingy flight of stairs? Or, if he did, to ring the grimy bell outside my door? And suppose both those miracles happened, what would he think when he saw me: a poor devil, thirty years old, whose shoes are run down at the heel, whose clothes are patched, and who is so poorly fed that his skin looks like a wet cigarette paper?

  Yet that’s the sort of man I am — I, Antonin Rose. Well, I had better go to bed. And sleep... if I can....

  Wednesday: Just as I thought — I am ill.

  At the court-house this morning I met young Gorshman, who used to be in law-school with me. He looks like a plump little pheasant, but he
is a good fellow, even if he is rich. He stopped me to ask, “What’s the matter, Rose? You look thin.”

  There was nothing surprising about that. If he had been eating my dinners every night, Gorshman wouldn’t have those round pink cheeks and that fat little chin that curls down over his collar! But I didn’t mention that. It is always foolish to complain in this world, and if I can’t make people envy me, the least I can do is not to make them pity me.

  So I answered casually that, as a matter of fact, I had not felt well the past few weeks, but that it was nothing serious.

  “You ought to see a doctor at once,” he said, in the tone of a man who has consulted specialists all his life.

  Dr. Paul happened to come down the corridor at that moment, and Gorshman called to him.

  “Here’s a patient for you, doctor,” he said, “my friend, Antonin Rose. He looks like a sick man to me, and he won’t take care of himself. What do you say, doctor, is he ill or isn’t he?”

  The famous doctor asked me a few questions with a friendly smile. How was my appetite?... Did I sleep well?... Did I cough in the morning? No? Did I feel blue, discouraged? Yes? It was obviously just a case of nervous depression. At my age, that was nothing to worry about. He’d get me out of that. Easiest thing in the world. To begin with, I must eat heartily, and build myself up. I looked a bit undernourished. Then, I must find some sort of recreation. Take up sport of some kind. Not too hard, of course! But regular, every day....” Golf, for example. I think a little golf is just the thing you need. And keep away from court for a few weeks. Otherwise—”

  “Otherwise, doctor?”

  “Well, at your age, of course, it’s not serious. These things always pass. But if you don’t take care of yourself, it may be a long time before you get well, and there may be permanent bad effects. But you can stop it now without any trouble. Good food and a round of golf every day. You certainly can’t say that I’m prescribing bad medicine.... But you’ll have to excuse me now. I have an engagement. No, no, you’re entirely welcome. Good-bye.”

  He hurried off. Gorshman tapped me on the shoulder. “That’s a relief to me, old man,” he said. “Your looks gave me a scare. But so long as the doc says it’s not serious — as a matter of fact, you’re in luck. I wish the doctor would tell me to eat all I wanted to and to play golf!”

  I forced a smile. But at that moment I could have strangled Gorshman. I itched to take him by the scruff of his pudgy little neck and shout in his ear: “It’s easy enough for you to eat good meals and play golf, isn’t it? You never saw the room I live in, did you? I suppose you think I’ve a golf course hidden in it! I’d like to see you try to eat a good meal when you’ve got barely enough for car-fare...”

  Apparently he realized from my expression that I was upset, or else he feared I was going to make a touch, for he grew embarrassed. He explained that he had a case coming up in a few minutes, and left — with best wishes for my health.

  Sport! It’s a simple matter for the doctor to advise it, but not so simple for me to act on such advice. The only sport I could take up is walking, which is free.

  But if walking would cure me, I shouldn’t be sick now. I didn’t need advice to do that. I’ve done nothing but walk for weeks. Look at my shoes!

  Besides, I have little taste for sports. I’m a lawyer, an indoor man, used to working at a desk. Physical exercise doesn’t tempt me; my line is mental. I may be foolish, but that’s the way I’m built.

  Nevertheless... No, I swore I would stay honest....

  But there is a sport, the most exciting of them all. I learned it thoroughly last summer. A sport, which is really an all-round one, for both mind and body are brought into play. A sport in which I was a master.

  Would I still know how — to — open a — door — without making a sound? Had I forgotten how to move about in a room where someone was sleeping, without disturbing his slumbers — without fear that the sleeper would sit bolt upright and shout — for — help? — Could — I still manipulate those little blades of steel that slip into a lock more softly than any key? Could I still make good use of Lady Helena’s kit of tools?

  For I still have that kit. It is still in the closet behind my bed.

  When I came home one evening last winter the janitor stopped me at the door.

  “A chauffeur left this bag — for — you, sir,” he told me.

  I looked at it and shrank — away as if — it had — been a rattlesnake. I recognized it at once; God knows I had carried that bag often enough! And she had said to me once: “Let the porter take my bag to the car, Mr. Hooker.”

  If I could only forget! —

  But I couldn’t leave Lady Helena’s bag in the janitor’s hands. Besides, it would be a pleasure to handle again those dainty tools that she had once held in her hands.... And perhaps I might even find a letter hidden within the bag, a note to me from the one woman on this earth whom I hate and adore, whose memory still lives in me, like a part of my own flesh.

  There are people who maintain that you cannot love what you do not respect. But I could tell them otherwise. There is no viler woman in the world than this woman. She is literally a demon. She has lived in theft and treachery without the slightest scruple; rather, she has revelled in them. She sold herself to that hideous old baronet, Sir Archibald Skarlett, and then engineered his murder, planning the crime so subtly that I could have been accused of it. Thanks to her, I might have been hanged in the court-yard of a Scottish prison. She made use of my love for her as if it were one of the tools in her burglar’s kit — which she would throw away when worn out. Rich now, as the result of her crimes, she has realized her dream of becoming the wife of her accomplice, that bandit, the only man she ever loved, the Man of a Hundred and One Masks, alias Mr. Flow, alias Durin, now transformed into Sir Douglas Sherfield.

  Do I despise her? The word is not strong enough. Her soul is the essence of evil, and it fills me with horror. Yet in spite of that, you understand, in spite of that, I love her. At a sign from her, I would hasten wherever she wished. O Helena, what do you will of me now?

  But I am writing nonsense. She no longer wishes anything of me, for she will never again have any need of her little lawyer. She is Lady Douglas Sherfield, the respected wife of a rich Canadian. I alone, in the world, know that Sir Douglas Sherfield is my former client Durin, and that Durin was Mr. Flow, the bandit. And I alone, in the world, can never tell the truth, without risk of being hanged on the other side of the Channel, or guillotined on this.

  She is happy. They have the necklace and the jewels that I am supposed to have stolen. They have the ancestral castle in Scotland, and millions in bank in England and India. They have nothing to do now but enjoy life, and laugh together at the memory of that “stupid little Frenchman,” who put their fortune into their hands and who is starving here. What use could they have for me to-day? They can laugh at me. And she, I know, will do so.

  Yet, if I am right, why did she send me her kit of tools?

  What if I should take a look at it?... I brought it out from its hiding-place, just as I had received it six months before. Nothing missing. And just as heavy as ever. You would never guess how heavy an honest man can find that little bag of tools the reporter’s call a “burglar’s kit.” One needs a lot of tools in that trade. And they were all here, including the famous saw for cutting safes, the invention of Durin’s genius.

  Even the letter to me was still there: a blank sheet of paper with a question mark on it.

  I had already puzzled over it many times. What did Helena mean by that enigmatic sign? Perhaps: “Won’t you ever use these tools again, Rudy?” For that was the name she gave me. Or: “What has become of you, my darling?” Or even: “Do you love me?”

  And there I was, back at the same tormenting question! Wondering if, after all, she were not capable of loving me and cherishing my love. And if someone had said yes at that moment, I should have felt a base and detestable joy — but a joy so great it would have fille
d the universe.

  Was my door well locked? Yes, nobody could get in now. That is, nobody except Mr. Flow, of course, or myself. The door was a heavy one, with a single panel, like the doors they used to put in poor people’s houses in the days of Charles X. The lock strong and simple; and I had reinforced it with a night bolt that could not be slipped back unless the lug was lifted out of its socket.

  I could not help smiling. All this was good to keep out honest folk, idiots, and “stupid little Frenchmen.” But in five minutes, with a few tools out of this bag, I — who had been out of training for a year — could open that door from the outside.

  I was tempted to try it....

  A moment later I was in the hall, the door locked and the safety-bolt dropped in place at a final turn of the key. Now, my keys in my pocket, and Helena’s shining implements in my hands —

  Good! The lock gave no sound. In two seconds it was ready to open when I wished. Now the bolt. It could not be slid back; I should have to pierce a hole in the wood — up a little and to the left. The ancient wood yielded like soft putty. Next, the little curved hook that lifted the lug from within.... The door swung open. It was plain that I could still do a good job. No one could have heard a sound, and I had not taken three minutes all told.

  But now that I was back in my room, and the door fastened — legally, so to speak — it seemed a shame that such a good job had been wasted, and that Antonin Rose had merely burglarized Antonin Rose; the poorest of men had broken into the room of a beggar.

  But I mustn’t boast about “a good job” too soon. Suppose there had been someone in the room: was I sure that I shouldn’t have aroused him? The only judge of a good burglary is the man that has been robbed. What I had just done was merely a rehearsal, which proved nothing.

  Suppose I tried the room next door?

  Natalie and Clotilde live there. They had been away for a time, but were back now, and every evening I could hear their typewriters rattling late into the night. Natalie was turning into an old maid. Apparently she was no longer in love with me at all — perhaps because Clotilde gave me too sweet a smile when we met on the stairs. I even suspected her of spying on me. If anybody in the house would hear Mr. Flow opening a door, or wake out of a sound sleep to call for help against an intruder, it would be Natalie. I could not feel convinced that I had retained my old skill until I had proved it by entering her room without waking her.