The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales

by Maurice Leblanc

  “But you seemed so frightened at first when you saw me—”

  “I was,” she confessed simply; “I thought you were Mr. Greggs.”

  “Greggs?”

  “Mr. Bannon’s private secretary—his right-hand man. He’s about your height and has a suit like the one you wear, and in that poor light—at the distance I didn’t notice you were clean-shaven—Greggs wears a moustache—”

  “Then it was Greggs murdered Roddy and tried to drug me! … By George, I’d like to know whether the police got there before Bannon, or somebody else, discovered the substitution. It was a telegram to the police, you know, I sent from the Bourse last night!”

  In his excitement Lanyard began to pace the floor rapidly; and now that he was no longer staring at her, the girl lifted her head and watched him closely as he moved to and fro, talking aloud—more to himself than to her.

  “I wish I knew! … And what a lucky thing, you did meet me! For if you’d gone on to the Gare du Nord and waited there….Well, it isn’t likely Bannon didn’t discover your flight before eight o’clock this morning, is it?”

  “I’m afraid not….”

  “And they’ve drawn the dead-line for me round every conceivable exit from Paris: Popinot’s Apaches are picketed everywhere. And if Bannon had found out about you in time, it would have needed only a word…”

  He paused and shuddered to think what might have ensued had that word been spoken and the girl been found waiting for her train in the Gare du Nord.

  “Mercifully, we’ve escaped that. And now, with any sort of luck, Bannon ought to be busy enough, trying to get his precious Mr. Greggs out of the Santé, to give us a chance. And a fighting chance is all I ask.”

  “Mr. Lanyard”—the girl bent toward him across the table with a gesture of eager interest—“have you any idea why he—why Mr. Bannon hates you so?”

  “But does he? I don’t know!”

  “If he doesn’t, why should he plot to cast suspicion of murder on you, and why be so anxious to know whether you were really the Lone Wolf? I saw his eyes light up when De Morbihan mentioned that name, after dinner; and if ever I saw hatred in a man’s face, it was in his as he watched you, when you weren’t looking.”

  “As far as I know, I never heard of him before,” Lanyard said carelessly. “I fancy it’s nothing more than the excitement of a man-hunt. Now that they’ve found me out, De Morbihan and his crew won’t rest until they’ve got my scalp.”

  “But why?”

  “Professional jealousy. We’re all crooks, all in the same boat, only I won’t row to their stroke. I’ve always played a lone hand successfully; now they insist on coming into the game and sharing my winnings. And I’ve told them where they could go.”

  “And because of that, they’re willing to—”

  “There’s nothing they wouldn’t do, Miss Shannon, to bring me to my knees or see me put out of the way, where my operations couldn’t hurt their pocketbooks. Well … all I ask is a fighting chance, and they shall have their way!”

  Her brows contracted. “I don’t understand…. You want a fighting chance—to surrender—to give in to their demands?”

  “In a way—yes. I want a fighting chance to do what I’d never in the world get them to credit—give it all up and leave them a free field.”

  And when still she searched his face with puzzled eyes, he insisted: “I mean it; I want to get away—clear out—chuck the game for good and all!”

  A little silence greeted this announcement. Lanyard, at pause near the table, resting a hand on it, bent to the girl’s upturned face a grave but candid regard. And the deeps of her eyes that never swerved from his were troubled strangely in his vision. He could by no means account for the light he seemed to see therein, a light that kindled while he watched like a tiny flame, feeble, fearful, vacillant, then as the moments passed steadied and grew stronger but ever leaped and danced; so that he, lost in the wonder of it and forgetful of himself, thought of it as the ardent face of a happy child dancing in the depths of some brown autumnal woodland….

  “You,” she breathed incredulously—“you mean, you’re going to stop—?”

  “I have stopped, Miss Shannon. The Lone Wolf has prowled for the last time. I didn’t know it until I woke up, an hour or so ago, but I’ve turned my last job.”

  He remarked her hands were small, in keeping with the slightness of her person, but somehow didn’t seem so—wore a look of strength and capability, befitting hands trained to a nurse’s duties; and saw them each tight-fisted but quivering as they rested on the table, as though their mistress struggled to suppress the manifestation of some emotion as powerful as unfathomable to him.

  “But why?” she demanded in bewilderment. “But why do you say that? What can have happened to make you—?”

  “Not fear of that Pack!” he laughed—“not that, I promise you.”

  “Oh, I know!” she said impatiently—“I know that very well. But still I don’t understand….”

  “If it won’t bore you, I’ll try to explain.” He drew up his chair and sat down again, facing her across the littered table. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever stopped to consider what an essentially stupid animal a crook must be. Most of them are stupid because they practise clumsily one of the most difficult professions imaginable, and inevitably fail at it, yet persist. They wouldn’t think of undertaking a job of civil engineering with no sort of preparation, but they’ll tackle a dangerous proposition in burglary without a thought, and pay for failure with years of imprisonment, and once out try it again. That’s one kind of criminal—the ninety-nine per-cent class—incurably stupid! There’s another class, men whose imagination forewarns them of dangers and whose mental training, technical equipment and sheer manual dexterity enable them to attack a formidable proposition like a modern safe—by way of illustration—and force its secret. They’re the successful criminals, like myself—but they’re no less stupid, no less failures, than the other ninety-nine in our every hundred, because they never stop to think. It never occurs to them that the same intelligence, applied to any one of the trades they must be masters of, would not only pay them better, but leave them their self-respect and rid them forever of the dread of arrest that haunts us all like the memory of some shameful act…. All of which is much more of a lecture than I meant to inflict upon you, Miss Shannon, and sums up to just this:I’ve stopped to think….”

  With this he stopped for breath as well, and momentarily was silent, his faint, twisted smile testifying to self-consciousness; but presently, seeing that she didn’t offer to interrupt, but continued to give him her attention so exclusively that it had the effect of fascination, he stumbled on, at first less confidently. “When I woke up it was as if, without my will, I had been thinking all this out in my sleep. I saw myself for the first time clearly, as I have been ever since I can remember—a crook, thoughtless, vain, rapacious, ruthless, skulking in shadows and thinking myself an amazingly fine fellow because, between coups, I would play the gentleman a bit, venture into the light and swagger in the haunts of the gratin! In my poor, perverted brain I thought there was something fine and thrilling and romantic in the career of a great criminal and myself a wonderful figure—an enemy of society!”

  “Why do you say this to me?” she demanded abruptly, out of a phase of profound thoughtfulness.

  He lifted an apologetic shoulder. “Because, I fancy, I’m no longer self-sufficient. I was all of that, twenty-four hours ago; but now I’m as lonesome as a lost child in a dark forest. I haven’t a friend in the world. I’m like a stray pup, grovelling for sympathy. And you are unfortunate enough to be the only person I can declare myself to. It’s going to be a fight—I know that too well!—and without something outside myself to struggle toward, I’ll be heavily handicapped. But if…” He faltered, with a look of wistful earnestness. �
�If I thought that you, perhaps, were a little interested, that I had your faith to respect and cherish … if I dared hope that you’d be glad to know I had won out against odds, it would mean a great deal to me, it might mean my salvation!”

  Watching her narrowly, hanging upon her decision with the anxiety of a man proscribed and hoping against hope for pardon, he saw her eyes cloud and shift from his, her lips parted but hesitant; and before she could speak, hastily interposed:

  “Please don’t say anything yet. First let me demonstrate my sincerity.

  So far I’ve done nothing to persuade you but—talk and talk and talk!

  Give me a chance to prove I mean what I say.”

  “How”—she enunciated only with visible effort and no longer met his appeal with an open countenance—“how can you do that?”

  “In the long run, by establishing myself in some honest way of life, however modest; but now, and principally, by making reparation for at least one crime I’ve committed that’s not irreparable.”

  He caught her quick glance of enquiry, and met it with a confident nod as he placed between them the morocco-bound jewel-case.

  “In London, yesterday,” he said quietly, “I brought off two big coups. One was deliberate, the other the inspiration of a moment. The one I’d planned for months was the theft of the Omber jewels—here.”

  He tapped the case and resumed in the same manner: “The other job needs a diagram: Not long ago a Frenchman named Huysman, living in Tours, was mysteriously murdered—a poor inventor, who had starved himself to perfect a stabilizator, an attachment to render aeroplanes practically fool-proof. His final trials created a sensation and he was on the eve of selling his invention to the Government when he was killed and his plans stolen. Circumstantial evidence pointed to an international spy named Ekstrom—Adolph Ekstrom, once Chief of the Aviation Corps of the German Army, cashiered for general blackguardism with a suspicion of treason to boot. However, Ekstrom kept out of sight; and presently the plans turned up in the German War Office. That was a big thing for Germany; already supreme with her dirigibles, the acquisition of the Huysman stabilizator promised her ten years’ lead over the world in the field of aeroplanes…. Now yesterday Ekstrom came to the surface in London with those self-same plans to sell to England. Chance threw him my way, and he mistook me for the man he’d expected to meet—Downing Street’s secret agent. Well—no matter how—I got the plans from him and brought them over with me, meaning to turn them over to France, to whom by rights they belong.”

  “Without consideration?” the girl enquired shrewdly.

  “Not exactly. I had meant to make no profit of the affair—I’m a bit squeamish about tainted money!—but under present conditions, if France insists on rewarding me with safe conduct out of the country, I shan’t refuse it…. Do you approve?”

  She nodded earnestly: “It would be worse than criminal to return them to Ekstrom….”

  “That’s my view of the matter.”

  “But these?” The girl rested her hand upon the jewel-case.

  “Those go back to Madame Omber. She has a home here in Paris that I know very well. In fact, the sole reason why I didn’t steal them here was that she left for England unexpectedly, just as I was all set to strike. Now I purpose making use of my knowledge to restore the jewels without risk of falling into the hands of the police. That will be an easy matter…. And that brings me to a great favour I would beg of you.”

  She gave him a look so unexpectedly kind that it staggered him. But he had himself well in hand.

  “You can’t now leave Paris before morning—thanks to my having overslept,” he explained. “There’s no honest way I know to raise money before the pawn-shops open. But I’m hoping that won’t be necessary; I’m hoping I can arrange matters without going to that extreme. Meanwhile, you agree that these jewels must be returned?”

  “Of course,” she affirmed gently.

  “Then … will you accompany me when I replace them? There won’t be any danger: I promise you that. Indeed, it would be more hazardous for you to wait for me elsewhere while I attended to the matter alone. And I’d like you to be convinced of my good faith.”

  “Don’t you think you can trust me for that as well?” she asked, with a flash of humour.

  “Trust you!”

  “To believe … Mr. Lanyard,” she told him gently but earnestly, “I do believe.”

  “You make me very happy,” he said … “but I’d like you to see for yourself…. And I’d be glad not to have to fret about your safety in my absence. As a bureau of espionage, Popinot’s brigade of Apaches is without a peer in Europe. I am positively afraid to leave you alone….”

  She was silent.

  “Will you come with me, Miss Shannon?”

  “That is your sole reason for asking this of me?” she insisted, eyeing him steadily.

  “That I wish you to believe in me—yes.”

  “Why?” she pursued, inexorable.

  “Because … I’ve already told you.”

  “That you want someone’s good opinion to cherish…. But why, of all people, me—whom you hardly know, of whom what little you do know is hardly reassuring?”

  He coloured, and boggled his answer…. “I can’t tell you,” he confessed in the end.

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  He stared at her miserably…. “I’ve no right….”

  “In spite of all I’ve said, in spite of the faith you so generously promise me, in your eyes I must still figure as a thief, a liar, an impostor—self-confessed. Men aren’t made over by mere protestations, nor even by their own efforts, in an hour, or a day, or a week. But give me a year: if I can live a year in honesty, and earn my bread, and so prove my strength—then, perhaps, I might find the courage, the—the effrontery to tell you why I want your good opinion…. Now I’ve said far more than I meant or had any right to. I hope,” he ventured pleadingly—“you’re not offended.”

  Only an instant longer could she maintain her direct and unflinching look. Then, his meaning would no more be ignored. Her lashes fell; a tide of crimson flooded her face; and with a quick movement, pushing her chair a little from the table, she turned aside. But she said nothing.

  He remained as he had been, bending eagerly toward her. And in the long minute that elapsed before either spoke again, both became oddly conscious of the silence brooding in that lonely little house, of their isolation from the world, of their common peril and mutual dependence.

  “I’m afraid,” Lanyard said, after a time—“I’m afraid I know what you must be thinking. One can’t do your intelligence the injustice to imagine that you haven’t understood me—read all that was in my mind and”—his voice fell—“in my heart. I own I was wrong to speak so transparently, to suggest my regard for you, at such a time, under such conditions. I am truly sorry, and beg you to consider unsaid all that I should not have said…. After all, what earthly difference can it make to you if one thief more decides suddenly to reform?”

  That brought her abruptly to her feet, to show him a face of glowing loveliness and eyes distractingly dimmed and softened.

  “No!” she implored him breathlessly—“please—you mustn’t spoil it! You’ve paid me the finest of compliments, and one I’m glad and grateful for … and would I might think I deserved! … You say you need a year to prove yourself? Then—I’ve no right to say this—and you must please not ask me what I mean—then I grant you that year. A year I shall wait to hear from you from the day we part, here in Paris…. And tonight, I will go with you, too, and gladly, since you wish it!”

  And then as he, having risen, stood at loss, thrilled, and incredulous, with a brave and generous gesture she offered him her hand.

  “Mr. Lanyard, I promise….”

  To every woman, even the least lovely, her hour
of beauty: it had not entered Lanyard’s mind to think this woman beautiful until that moment. Of her exotic charm, of the allure of her pensive, plaintive prettiness, he had been well aware; even as he had been unable to deny to himself that he was all for her, that he loved her with all the strength that was his; but not till now had he understood that she was the one woman whose loveliness to him would darken the fairness of all others.

  And for a little, holding her tremulous hand upon his finger-tips as though he feared to bruise it with a ruder contact, he could not take his eyes from her.

  Then reverently he bowed his head and touched his lips to that hand …and felt it snatched swiftly away, and started back, aghast, the idyll roughly dissipated, the castle of his dreams falling in thunders round his ears.

  In the studio-skylight overhead a pane of glass had fallen in with a shattering crash as ominous as the Trump of Doom.

  CHAPTER XIV

  RIVE DROIT

  Falling without presage upon the slumberous hush enveloping the little house marooned in that dead back-water of Paris, the shock of that alarm drove the girl back from the table to the nearest wall, and for a moment held her there, transfixed in panic.

  To the wide, staring eyes that questioned his so urgently, Lanyard promptly nodded grave reassurance. He hadn’t stirred since his first, involuntary and almost imperceptible start, and before the last fragment of splintered glass had tinkled on the floor above, he was calming her in the most matter-of-fact manner.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “It’s nothing—merely Solon’s skylight gone smash!”

  “You call that nothing!” she cried gustily. “What caused it, then?”