The papers talked of nothing but me. In the cafes the arguments grew hot. “Do you think he will give the bonds back?” I heard women ask each other. “Such a man is capable of anything.”
All Paris waited for my next move — I, the mysterious, invisible, elusive; I, the Napoleon of burglary, as the reporter on one of the larger papers called me. Right you were, old man, the Napoleon of burglary, living in a furnished room in the rue des Bernardins! With secret amusement I mingled quietly with the crowd that was speculating on my disappearance! I had become a sort of Haroun-al-Raschid in my own way.
The next problem was how to get Gorshman’s bonds back to him. There was no use in exposing myself unnecessarily. And it would not be easy to send a bulky package to an address which had suddenly become familiar to everyone in Paris. At sight of the package, the clerk in the post office or messenger service would suspect me. And Petit-Jean’s men were certainly keeping Gorshman’s house under surveillance. Could I find a go-between? No, that would be too dangerous. So far I had operated alone; there must be no accomplices, no confidants. It was myself against the world.
Well, if Gorshman’s name and address had become too well known, why not use another address? He surely must have some relative with a different name who would gladly receive such a welcome package for him, and pass it on without delay. Besides, there were certain elementary precautions I could take.
The next day the Paris News published the following notice:
“This office received a communication last night, signed by Mr. Flow, informing us that the bonds recently stolen from Joseph Gorshman had been returned to the home of his uncle, Jeremy Brenner. On being questioned by reporters, the latter refused to give any details. He admitted, however, that the information supplied by our mysterious correspondent was correct, and that Gorshman once more has the bonds whose loss had become a matter of public interest.”
I saw Gorshman during the afternoon. He was smiling.
“What an adventure! And what a man! He’s cost me twenty-five thousand francs, but I’m getting my money’s worth in publicity. I certainly have been talked about for the past five days!” —
“At that, you’re paying five thousand francs a day for publicity.”
“You think that’s too steep?” he asked anxiously.
“No, it’s dirt cheap. You’re getting double column displays on all the first pages.” I sighed heavily. “You certainly are lucky.”
“What are you doing to-night? Why not have dinner with me?” asked Gorshman.
“Thank you, but... I have an engagement.”
“That’s too bad. Petit-Jean is coming along, and you might hear something of interest.”
“Petit-Jean, the detective?”
“Yes, Mr. Flow’s relentless enemy.”
“I’ll try to break my engagement. Where are you two going to be?”
“At Custot’s. It’s just a little restaurant in the rue du Maine. But if you’d like to see what a good cook can do with a duck, that’s the place to go.”
“Good! I’ll be there at eight o’clock, if I can get away.”
I went to Custot’s. Petit-Jean appeared reserved at the beginning of the meal. But we began with a double round of cocktails, and accompanied the dinner with a Burgundy, which was like a song on your throat. With the coffee appeared three wide-bellied glasses into which an 1830 cognac poured its golden flame. I drank sparingly. I could not afford to lose my head before my Nemesis, who once had been close on my trail and might have suspicions. It was he who led the hunt for me the summer before at Havre. It is true that I had been disguised as Mr. Hooker, but Petit-Jean might well have noted my nose and ears. Bertillon invented a method for recognizing criminals under the most skilful make-up, and all detectives were familiar with it. On guard, Antonin!
Without realizing it, however, Petit-Jean was beginning, little by little, to show the effects of what he had drunk. That treacherous Burgundy slipped over your tongue as smoothly as water! You would have thought at first that it was as innocent as water! But then the throat discovered an exquisite bouquet — and you found yourself wanting to taste it again. Several bottles disappeared, and as he twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers, Petit-Jean had become, not drunk, but a trifle more gay, a trifle more talkative than over his soup. An 1830 cognac would seduce Satan himself!
So Detective Petit-Jean began to monopolize the conversation. Several times he thought he had Mr. Flow in his hands! Twice, he had almost put him behind the bars; once, disguised as Mr. Hooker; the second time — well, he couldn’t tell us. We might cut his head off, but he couldn’t tell us that. Especially as there was a woman in the case, a woman he knew plenty about....
I shuddered. Did Petit-Jean suspect Helena?
Gorshman, who could not make head or tail of the detective’s qualified statements and vague hints, gave me a glance that said: “The old boy is getting tight.”
But Petit-Jean continued.
“Yes,” he nodded, “there’s a woman in it, and unless you could catch her red-handed, no one would ever dare arrest her. It would make such a row that the man who accused her would be fired from the service. You’d have to be ten times certain. No, we’ll never get her. And yet, I don’t think I am mistaken. Besides, she is going straight now. She is married. Not that I mean she wasn’t married before.”
Gorshman gave me another wink; his guest was obviously getting fuddled. But I understood, and what I understood terrified me. This little detective suspected Helena, formerly the wife of Sir Archibald Skarlett and now the wife of Sir Douglas Sherfield.
“I’m waiting for her,” he added. “I am like the spider in its web. But the fly is no longer on the wing.”
He laughed heartily, pleased with his own quip. The fly is no longer on the wing. Ah!...
“Yes, I am waiting for her. Who knows? She may try another flight. But even if I do get her, I shall never get him. How the devil could he have been in Paris the other night? I am sure — or at least the English police are sure — that he was at his home in Scotland.”
I leaned forward. It is always amusing to suggest the truth with an air of stupidity, like a yokel.
“Listen, M. Petit-Jean,” I said. “I have an idea about your Mr. Flow. Personally, I don’t believe he exists. What I mean is, people attribute to one man all the exploits of two, three, God knows how many burglars. It stands to reason that one man can’t be everywhere at the same time.”
Petit-Jean looked at me pityingly.
“Then how does it happen,” he asked, “that the two, three, ‘God knows how many’ burglars, all have exactly the same way of working? And” — he raised his forefinger, and spoke each syllable separately—” that they all have the same tool for forcing safes?”
“Why the same tool? Couldn’t it be several that are alike?”
“No,” said Petit-Jean emphatically. “Evidently you are not familiar with burglar tools. There cannot be several alike, just as there cannot be several revolvers alike. Does that surprise you?” He turned towards Gorshman. “Does that sound like nonsense to you?”
“Oh!...” said Gorshman, with a polite gesture.
I see you think I have had too much to drink....
But that doesn’t matter. Where was I?... Oh yes, I was saying that there cannot be two revolvers alike. They may come out of the same factory. They may even have been turned out by the same machines and finished by the same workman. Yet there will be certain differences, imperceptible, but definite enough so that a bullet fired from one will be scored differently from a bullet fired from the other. It’s the same with two saws. They never leave exactly the same marks. And I have never found the marks of more than one saw in these jobs — a unique saw — consequently there is only one Mr. Flow. This is not just an opinion of mine. It is the result of a microscopic examination, and is a scientific conclusion.”
“But suppose he lent his saw?” I suggested.
“My dear young man,” replie
d Petit-Jean ironically, “I suppose you will suggest next that he lends his hands? Well, the finger-prints I found last year at Deauville, Rouen and Paris, and that I have just found at the apartment of our friend here, are all made by the same hand.”
“And before that? Don’t you know that he began to operate long before last year?”
“Before that?” echoed Petit-Jean lugubriously. “Before that there were no finger-prints. Mr. Flow used gloves then, but now he seems to fear nothing.”
“That’s strange,” said Gorshman.
“It’s maddening, you mean! I felt so sure we had heard the last of him. And now here he is again. He thumbs his nose at us. He even sends your bonds back to you!”
“You mustn’t hold that against him,” protested Gorshman.
“No... but it’s annoying, just the same. Look at the position it guts me in! Everybody in Paris is laughing at me. And they all think he is a little gilded hero. They worship him!” The detective grew suddenly angry. “It’s your fault, when you come down to it. It’s the fault of all you people who let yourselves be robbed. Why don’t you take care of your things? Why don’t you fasten your doors securely? Anybody can climb in your windows. And your safes might as well be made of cardboard. Under conditions like that Mr. Flow is king; he would be a fool to fear anything. There’s only one house I defy him to enter. That’s my own. It can’t be burglarized. I have foreseen every possibility. No burglar will ever enter my house. I don’t need to worry about Mr. Flow.”
I watched Petit-Jean closely. He was beginning to irritate me. And it was a mistake on his part to irritate me. But I spoke in a joking tone.
“I don’t need to worry about him either. He’ll never come near my room; there’s nothing there to take.”
The inspector was a little huffed at this.
“Well, I couldn’t say quite the same as you. Of course, I haven’t got six hundred thousand francs, like M. Gorshman. I haven’t even twenty-five thousand. But I have my collection.”
“What collection?” asked Gorshman with interest.
“Just postage stamps. But if I wanted to sell them, I could get at least fifty thousand for them.”
He began enumerating the rare stamps he had.
“If that collection were stolen — this may sound foolish to you — if that collection were stolen, I think I couldn’t go on living. But I am not worried.”
“What have you done to feel so free from worry?”
“What have I done? In the first place, I have a good watch-dog nobody can get by. I live in the suburbs — at Alfort. The dog is always in the yard.”
“Humph! A burglar gives your dog a little piece of poisoned meat, and it’s good-bye watch-dog.”
“Yes, if the dog has not been trained to refuse anything offered him by a stranger, and to leap at the throat of anybody who tries to give him anything. That’s not all. Let anyone touch a door, a window, any opening in my house, and an alarm rings that will wake up the entire house and the neighbours as well. My house is never empty. I have three big sons who can deal with any prowler that comes along. Mr. Flow had better not get mixed up with one of them. I wouldn’t give much for his skin if he did.”
Petit-Jean suddenly discovered it was after midnight, and that his last train had gone. Never mind! He would take a taxi. He was sorry he had to leave us but he was due at headquarters early in the morning. We escorted him to his taxi, and he shouted his address to the driver in a voice of thunder.
It would certainly be a good joke on Petit-Jean to gee his well-guarded collection.
I was not a stamp collector myself. Apparently that was my misfortune, for collecting stamps is a craze which seems to fill the soul of many an honest man. But I had no desire to own the rare stamps of Haiti, which our dinner companion had been so proud of, nor any of the marvels from the East Indies.
I had no objection, however, to giving this complacent detective a good lesson, nor to taking up his challenge to Mr. Flow.
Besides, he knew entirely too much. It would be my task to divert his suspicions from the woman I hated, but who was still Helena to me.
It would also give me some satisfaction to make my enemy an object of ridicule. Mr. Flow would gain new glory, and become, if possible, still more popular with the public. And, finally, wouldn’t it be a matter of pride to burglarize a house that could not be burglarized.
After all, it was merely a matter of not being torn to pieces by the dog, in the first place, and of keeping it from barking; in the second place, of not setting off the alarm; and, lastly, of not arousing one of those formidable sons who — according to their proud father — would make a grease spot of me in the wink of an eye.
It would be a dangerous exploit, to be sure, but one that tempted me. Surely Mr. Flow could not let it be said there was anyone in the world who had no reason to fear him, or had taken every necessary precaution against him. And, if I was looking for sport, the least I could do was to display good sportsmanship myself.
But this was not the only thing that tempted me. At certain moments — and this was one — I felt I had actually become Mr. Flow himself. For the time being, he took possession of my mind and my heart. I craved to increase his reputation and his glory. My ambition was to prove myself worthy of him.... That is, until the final day when I should face him and defeat him on his own ground. For, some day, the issue would be fought out between us, in a battle in which Helena would be the living and inspiring reward.... Meanwhile, I was Durin himself, and Durin was I; we would work as one.
In this mood I resolved to pay a visit the next night to Petit-Jean’s home.
But why wait? Why not go now? I would be sure then that Petit-Jean would be sleeping the sleep of those that have drunk too well of 1830 cognac. A better chance would never come.
* * * *
My enemy’s house was nothing to wax enthusiastic over. One of those little cottages you see by the thousands in all suburbs. An iron fence around the yard. And behind the fence, the famous watch-dog trained not to accept titbits from strangers.
But my plan was already formed. In Lady Helena’s bag was a pharmaceutical compartment, stored with masks to put troublesome people to sleep — handy little masks that brought the fumes of chloroform to the wearer’s nose.
I would try a scientific experiment: would chloroform put dogs to sleep?
As I drew near, the dog reared himself on his hind legs, placing his paws on the fence and growling. With one hand, I seized his large collar, with the other clapped the saturated cotton over his muzzle....
Result of the experiment: chloroform does put dogs to sleep.
After waiting a moment in silence, I climbed the fence and dropped down into Petit-Jean’s garden. With guarded step I circled the house, looking for some possible entrance. The door and the windows were out of the question — and it began to look as if I had bitten off more than I could chew. A momentary fear made my hand tremble. But I was determined not to give up. We should see whether Mr. Flow was to be outdone by a little rule-of-thumb detective!
With one hand I felt my way along the dark wall, for I did not dare use my flash; I might be noticed by a neighbour. Ah! here was what I was looking for, the drain-pipe. It was not likely Petit-Jean had guarded his roof; from there it should be easy to enter the house.
But climbing a drain-pipe is not easy. I had not clambered up more than three yards when my strength gave out.
I slid quietly to the ground. It takes training to climb drain-pipes, and I had been — to say the least — off my diet. I lay prone on the ground to recover my breath.
All this was wasting time. It occurred to me that perhaps I would do better to wait until I had studied the -house by daylight. No! Mr. Flow would never start the same job twice. He had begun; he would carry it through, or die.
Suppose I took a look at that front door, which I knew was so well protected by the electric alarm? For once I might risk a single gleam from my flash. Ah, ha! Petit-Jean was not so cleve
r as he thought.
Above the door was a glass transom. The problem was to find out whether it opened. If it didn’t, I had won. For hadn’t Petit-Jean said he had wired all the openings? But obviously he would not attach an alarm to an immovable pane of glass. All I would need would be some means of reaching the transom. I could cut out the pane, and there would be an opening large enough for a lean man to wriggle through. Petit-Jean had left no ladder lying about in his yard. The man was not a genius, but neither was he a fool.
Fortunately, there were flower-boxes on the porch. In less than two minutes I had turned them into a pedestal to stand on. A quick examination showed that the transom had not been made to open. Good.... Under my diamond the pane came out in a single piece. A moment later I was inside the fortress.
Luck was with me. Why was it never with me at court, in my honest labours? It must have been written in the Book of Fate that I should succeed only in crime. Surely this was not my fault....
Yes, luck was with me. By the thin shaft of light from my flash, I saw that I was in Petit-Jean’s living-room. The furniture consisted of four armchairs, two straight-back chairs, a table with curved legs resting on lions’ paws, and set under a vast glass chandelier dangling with prisms — all the atrocities our grandfathers and grandmothers prized so highly!
And, lying open on the table, was the collection of postage stamps!
This was going too far: Petit-Jean was deliberately inviting disaster. It was my duty to teach him a lesson. I would take the stamps, but nothing else. This job was for pleasure only.
There was nothing now but to make my get-away, and that was simplicity itself. I had only to lift the lever that controlled the electric alarm, and turn back the night latch. The door opened and I slipped out.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 475
