The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales

by Maurice Leblanc

  Against the peril inherent in this last, however, he was self-warned, esteeming it the most fatal chink in the armour of the lawbreaker, this disposition to underestimate the acumen of the police: far too many promising young adventurers like himself were annually laid by the heels in that snare of their own infatuate weaving. The mouse has every right, if he likes, to despise the cat for a heavy-handed and bloodthirsty beast, lacking wit and imagination, a creature of simple force-majeure; but that mouse will not advisedly swagger in cat-haunted territory; a blow of the paw is, when all’s said and done, a blow of the paw—something to numb the wits of the wiliest mouse.

  Considering Roddy, he believed it to be impossible to gauge the limitations of that essentially British intelligence—something as self-contained as a London flat. One thing only was certain: Roddy didn’t always think in terms of beef and Bass; he was nobody’s facile fool; he could make a shrewd inference as well as strike a shrewd blow.

  Reviewing the scene in the restaurant, Lanyard felt measurably warranted in assuming not only that Roddy was interested in De Morbihan, but that the Frenchman was well aware of that interest. And he resented sincerely his inability to feel as confident that the Count, with his gossip about the Lone Wolf, had been merely seeking to divert Roddy’s interest to putatively larger game. It was just possible that De Morbihan’s identification of Lanyard with that mysterious personage, at least by innuendo, had been unintentional. But somehow Lanyard didn’t believe it had.

  The two questions troubled him sorely: Did De Morbihan know, did he merely suspect, or had he only loosed an aimless shot which chance had sped to the right goal? Had the mind of Roddy proved fallow to that suggestion, or had it, with its simple national tenacity, been impatient of such side issues, or incredulous, and persisted in focusing its processes upon the personality and activities of Monsieur le Comte Remy de Morbihan? However, one would surely learn something illuminating before very long. The business of a sleuth is to sleuth, and sooner or later Roddy must surely make some move to indicate the quarter wherein his real interest lay.

  Just at present, reasoning from noises audible through the bolted door that communicated with the adjoining bed-chamber, the business of a sleuth seemed to comprise going to bed. Lanyard, shaving and dressing, could distinctly hear a tuneless voice contentedly humming “Sally in our Alley,” a rendition punctuated by one heavy thump and then another and then by a heartfelt sigh of relief—as Roddy kicked off his boots—and followed by the tapping of a pipe against grate-bars, the squeal of a window lowered for ventilation, the click of an electric-light, and the creaking of bed-springs.

  Finally, and before Lanyard had finished dressing, the man from

  Scotland Yard began placidly to snore.

  Of course, he might well be bluffing; for Lanyard had taken pains to let Roddy know that they were neighbours, by announcing his selection in loud tones close to the communicating door.

  But this was a question which the adventurer meant to have answered before he went out….

  It was hard upon twelve o’clock when the mirror on the dressing-table assured him that he was at length point-device in the habit and apparel of a gentleman of elegant nocturnal leisure. But if he approved the figure he cut, it was mainly because clothes interested him and he reckoned his own impeccable. Of their tenant he was feeling just then a bit less sure than he had half-an-hour since; his regard was louring and mistrustful. He was, in short, suffering reaction from the high spirits engendered by his cross-Channel exploits, his successful get-away, and the unusual circumstances attendant upon his return to this memory-haunted mausoleum of an unhappy childhood. He even shivered a trifle, as if under premonition of misfortune, and asked himself heavily: Why not?

  For, logically considered, a break in the run of his luck was due. Thus far he had played, with a success almost too uniform, his dual rôle, by day the amiable amateur of art, by night the nameless mystery that prowled unseen and preyed unhindered. Could such success be reasonably expected to attend him always? Should he count De Morbihan’s yarn a warning? Black must turn up every so often in a run of red: every gambler knows as much. And what was Michael Lanyard but a common gambler, who persistently staked life and liberty against the blindly impartial casts of Chance?

  With one last look round to make certain there was nothing in the calculated disorder of his room to incriminate him were it to be searched in his absence, Lanyard enveloped himself in a long full-skirted coat, clapped on an opera hat, and went out, noisily locking the door. He might as well have left it wide, but it would do no harm to pretend he didn’t know the bed-chamber keys at Troyon’s were interchangeable—identically the same keys, in fact, that had been in service in the days of Marcel the wretched.

  A single half-power electric bulb now modified the gloom of the corridor; its fellow made a light blot on the darkness of the courtyard. Even the windows of the conciergerie were black.

  None the less, Lanyard tapped them smartly.

  “Cordon!” he demanded in a strident voice. “Cordon, s’il vous plait!”

  “Eh?” A startled grunt from within the lodge was barely audible. Then the latch clicked loudly at the end of the passageway.

  Groping his way in the direction of this last sound, Lanyard found the small side door ajar. He opened it, and hesitated a moment, looking out as though questioning the weather; simultaneously his deft fingers wedged the latch back with a thin slip of steel.

  No rain, in fact, had fallen within the hour; but still the sky was dense with a sullen rack, and still the sidewalks were inky wet.

  The street was lonely and indifferently lighted, but a swift searching reconnaissance discovered nothing that suggested a spy skulking in the shelter of any of the nearer shadows.

  Stepping out, he slammed the door and strode briskly round the corner, as if making for the cab-rank that lines up along the Luxembourg Gardens side of the rue de Medicis; his boot-heels made a cheerful racket in that quiet hour; he was quite audibly going away from Troyon’s.

  But instead of holding on to the cab-rank, he turned the next corner, and then the next, rounding the block; and presently, reapproaching the entrance to Troyon’s, paused in the recess of a dark doorway and, lifting one foot after another, slipped rubber caps over his heels. Thereafter his progress was practically noiseless.

  The smaller door yielded to his touch without a murmur. Inside, he closed it gently, and stood a moment listening with all his senses—not with his ears alone but with every nerve and fibre of his being—with his imagination, to boot. But there was never a sound or movement in all the house that he could detect.

  And no shadow could have made less noise than he, slipping cat-footed across the courtyard and up the stairs, avoiding with super-developed sensitiveness every lift that might complain beneath his tread. In a trice he was again in the corridor leading to his bed-chamber.

  It was quite as gloomy and empty as it had been five minutes ago, yet with a difference, a something in its atmosphere that made him nod briefly in confirmation of that suspicion which had brought him back so stealthily.

  For one thing, Roddy had stopped snoring. And Lanyard smiled over the thought that the man from Scotland Yard might profitably have copied that trick of poor Bourke’s, of snoring like the Seven Sleepers when most completely awake….

  It was naturally no surprise to find his bed-chamber door unlocked and slightly ajar. Lanyard made sure of the readiness of his automatic, strode into the room, and shut the door quietly but by no means soundlessly.

  He had left the shades down and the hangings drawn at both windows; and since these had not been disturbed, something nearly approaching complete darkness reigned in the room. But though promptly on entering his fingers closed upon the wall-switch near the door, he refrained from turning up the lights immediately, with a fancy of impish inspiration that it would be amus
ing to learn what move Roddy would make when the tension became too much even for his trained nerves.

  Several seconds passed without the least sound disturbing the stillness.

  Lanyard himself grew a little impatient, finding that his sight failed to grow accustomed to the darkness because that last was too absolute, pressing against his staring eyeballs like a black fluid impenetrably opaque, as unbroken as the hush.

  Still, he waited: surely Roddy wouldn’t be able much longer to endure such suspense….

  And, surely enough, the silence was abruptly broken by a strange and moving sound, a hushed cry of alarm that was half a moan and half a sob.

  Lanyard himself was startled: for that was never Roddy’s voice!

  There was a noise of muffled and confused footsteps, as though someone had started in panic for the door, then stopped in terror.

  Words followed, the strangest he could have imagined, words spoken in a gentle and tremulous voice:

  “In pity’s name! who are you and what do you want?”

  Thunderstruck, Lanyard switched on the lights.

  At a distance of some six paces he saw, not Roddy, but a woman, and not a woman merely, but the girl he had met in the restaurant.

  CHAPTER V

  ANTICLIMAX

  The surprise was complete; none, indeed, was ever more so; but it’s a question which party thereto was the more affected.

  Lanyard stared with the eyes of stupefaction. To his fancy, this thing passed the compass of simple incredulity: it wasn’t merely improbable, it was preposterous; it was anticlimax exaggerated to the proportions of the grotesque.

  He had come prepared to surprise and bully rag the most astute police detective of whom he had any knowledge; he found himself surprised and discountenanced by this…!

  Confusion no less intense informed the girl’s expression; her eyes were fixed to his with a look of blank enquiry; her face, whose colouring had won his admiration two hours since, was colourless; her lips were just ajar; the fingers of one hand touched her cheek, indenting it.

  The other hand caught up before her the long skirts of a pretty robe-de-chambre, beneath whose edge a hand’s-breadth of white silk shimmered and the toe of a silken mule was visible. Thus she stood, poised for flight, attired only in a dressing-gown over what, one couldn’t help suspecting, was her night-dress: for her hair was down, and she was unquestionably all ready for her bed….But Bourke’s patient training had been wasted if this man proved one to remain long at loss. Rallying his wits quickly from their momentary rout, he reasserted command over them, and if he didn’t in the least understand, made a brave show of accepting this amazing accident as a commonplace.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Bannon—” he began with a formal bow.

  She interrupted with a gasp of wondering recognition: “Mr. Lanyard!”

  He inclined his head a second time: “Sorry to disturb you—”

  “But I don’t understand—”

  “Unfortunately,” he proceeded smoothly, “I forgot something when I went out, and had to come back for it.”

  “But—but—”

  “Yes?”

  Suddenly her eyes, for the first time detached from his, swept the room with a glance of wild dismay.

  “This room,” she breathed—“I don’t know it—”

  “It is mine.”

  “Yours! But—”

  “That is how I happened to—interrupt you.”

  The girl shrank back a pace—two paces—uttering a low-toned monosyllable of understanding, an “O!” abruptly gasped. Simultaneously her face and throat flamed scarlet.

  “Your room, Mr. Lanyard!”

  Her tone so convincingly voiced shame and horror that his heart misgave him. Not that alone, but the girl was very good to look upon. “I’m sure,” he began soothingly; “it doesn’t matter. You mistook a door—”

  “But you don’t understand!” She shuddered…. “This dreadful habit! And

  I was hoping I had outgrown it! How can I ever explain—?”

  “Believe me, Miss Bannon, you need explain nothing.”

  “But I must…I wish to…I can’t bear to let you think…But surely you can make allowances for sleepwalking!”

  To this appeal he could at first return nothing more intelligent than a dazed repetition of the phrase.

  So that was how…Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Ever since he had turned on the lights, he had been subjectively busy trying to invest her presence there with some plausible excuse. But somnambulism had never once entered his mind. And in his stupidity, at pains though he had been to render his words inoffensive, he had been guilty of constructive incivility.

  In his turn, Lanyard coloured warmly.

  “I beg your pardon,” he muttered.

  The girl paid no attention; she seemed self-absorbed, thinking only of herself and the anomalous position into which her infirmity had tricked her. When she did speak, her words came swiftly:

  “You see…I was so frightened! I found myself suddenly standing up in darkness, just as if I had jumped out of bed at some alarm; and then I heard somebody enter the room and shut the door stealthily…Oh, please understand me!”

  “But I do, Miss Bannon—quite.”

  “I am so ashamed—”

  “Please don’t consider it that way.”

  “But now that you know—you don’t think—”

  “My dear Miss Bannon!”

  “But it must be so hard to credit! Even I… Why, it’s more than a year since this last happened. Of course, as a child, it was almost a habit; they had to watch me all the time. Once… But that doesn’t matter. Iam so sorry.”

  “You really mustn’t worry,” Lanyard insisted. “It’s all quite natural—such things do happen—are happening all the time—”

  “But I don’t want you—”

  “I am nobody, Miss Bannon. Besides I shan’t mention the matter to a soul. And if ever I am fortunate enough to meet you again, I shall have forgotten it completely—believe me.”

  There was convincing sincerity in his tone. The girl looked down, as though abashed.

  “You are very good,” she murmured, moving toward the door.

  “I am very fortunate.”

  Her glance of surprise was question enough.

  “To be able to treasure this much of your confidence,” he explained with a tentative smile.

  She was near the door; he opened it for her, but cautioned her with a gesture and a whispered word: “Wait. I’ll make sure nobody’s about.”

  He stepped noiselessly into the hall and paused an instant, looking right and left, listening.

  The girl advanced to the threshold and there checked, hesitant, eyeing him anxiously.

  He nodded reassurance: “All right—coast’s clear!”

  But she delayed one moment more.

  “It’s you who are mistaken,” she whispered, colouring again beneath his regard, in which admiration could not well be lacking, “It is I who am fortunate—to have met a—gentleman.”

  Her diffident smile, together with the candour of her eyes, embarrassed him to such extent that for the moment he was unable to frame a reply.

  “Good night,” she whispered—“and thank you, thank you!”

  Her room was at the far end of the corridor. She gained its threshold in one swift dash, noiseless save for the silken whisper of her garments, turned, flashed him a final look that left him with the thought that novelists did not always exaggerate, that eyes could shine like stars….

  Her door closed softly.

  Lanyard shook his head as if to dissipate a swarm of annoying thoughts, and went back into his own bed-chamber.

  He was quite content with the explanation th
e girl had given, but being the slave of a methodical and pertinacious habit of mind, spent five busy minutes examining his room and all that it contained with a perseverance that would have done credit to a Frenchman searching for a mislaid sou.

  If pressed, he would have been put to it to name what he sought or thought to find. What he did find was that nothing had been tampered with and nothing more—not even so much as a dainty, lace-trimmed wisp of sheer linen bearing the lady’s monogram and exhaling a faint but individual perfume.

  Which, when he came to consider it, seemed hardly playing the game by the book.

  As for Roddy, Lanyard wasted several minutes, off and on, listening attentively at the communicating door; but if the detective had stopped snoring, his respiration was loud enough in that quiet hour, a sound of harsh monotony.

  True, that proved nothing; but Lanyard, after the fiasco of his first attempt to catch his enemy awake, was no more disposed to be hypercritical; he had his fill of being ingenious and profound. And when presently he again left Troyon’s (this time without troubling the repose of the concierge) it was with the reflection that, if Roddy were really playing ’possum, he was welcome to whatever he could find of interest in the quarters of Michael Lanyard.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE PACK GIVES TONGUE

  Lanyard’s first destination was that convenient little rez-de-chaussée apartment near the Trocadéro, at the junction of the rue Roget and the avenue de l’Alma; but his way thither was so roundabout that the best part of an hour was required for what might have been less than a twenty-minute taxicab course direct from Troyon’s. It was past one when he arrived, afoot, at the corner.

  Not that he grudged the time; for in Lanyard’s esteem Bourke’s epigram had come to have the weight and force of an axiom: “The more trouble you make for yourself, the less the good public will make for you.”