the Rue Lucien Faure. It is one of those irregular streets which
one finds in the neighbourhood of docks in every city in the world.
Cordwainers, ships’ stores, cafés and strange foreign eating houses
jostle each other indiscriminately. At the farther end of the Rue
Lucien Faure, and facing Bassin à Flot No. 2, is a little cul de
sac known as Place Duquesne, an obscure honeycomb of high dingy
houses. It had often been pointed out to the authorities that the
Place Duquesne was a scandal to the neighbourhood; not that the
houses themselves were either better or worse than those of adjoining
streets, but that the inhabitants belonged almost entirely to the
criminal classes. A murderer, an apache, a blackmailer, a coiner,
hardly ever appeared in the Court of Justice without his habitation
being traced to this unsavoury retreat.
And the authorities did nothing. Indeed, Chief Inspector Tolozan, who
had that neighbourhood under his special supervision, said that he
preferred it as it was. He affirmed--not unreasonably--that it was
better to have all one’s birds in one nest rather than have them
scattered all over the wood. Tolozan, although a practical man, was
something of a visionary. He was of that speculative turn of mind
which revels in theories. The contemplation of crime moved him in
somewhat the same way that a sunset will affect a landscape painter.
He indulged in broad generalities, and it always gave him a mild
thrill of pleasure when the actions or behaviour of his protégés
substantiated his theories.
In a detached way, he had quite an affection for his “birds,”
as he called them. He knew their record, their characteristics,
their tendencies, their present occupation, if any, their place
of abode--which was generally the Place Duquesne. If old Granouz,
the forger, moved from the attic in No. 17 to the basement in No.
11, Monsieur Tolozan would sense the reason of this change. And he
never interfered until the last minute. He allowed Carros to work
three months on that very ingenious plant for counterfeiting one
franc notes. He waited till the plates were quite complete before he
stepped in with his quiet:
“Now, _mon brave_, it distresses me to interfere....”
He admired the plates enormously, and in the van on the way to the
police court he sighed many times, and ruminated upon what he called
“the accident of crime.” One of his pet theories was that no man
was entirely criminal. Somewhere at some time it had all been just
touch and go. With better fortune the facile Carros might now be
the director of an insurance company, or perhaps an eminent pianist.
Another saying of his, which he was very fond of repeating, was this:
“The law does not sit in judgment on people. Laws are only made for
the protection of the citizen.”
His colleagues were inclined to laugh at “Papa Tolozan,” as they
called him, but they were bound to respect his thoroughness and
conscientiousness, and they treated his passion for philosophic
speculation as merely the harmless eccentricity of an urbane and
charming character. Perhaps in this attitude toward crime there have
always been two schools of thought, the one which regards it--like
Tolozan--as “the accident,” the other, as represented by the forceful
Muguet of the Council of Jurisprudence at Bayonne, who insists that
crime is an ineradicable trait, an inheritance, a fate. In spite of
their divergence of outlook these two were great friends, and many
and long were the arguments they enjoyed over a glass of vermouth and
seltzer at a quiet café they sometimes favoured in the Cours du Pavé,
when business brought them together. Muguet would invariably clinch
the argument with a staccato:
“Well, come now, what about old Laissac?”
Then he would slap his leg and laugh. Here, indeed, was a hard case.
Here, indeed, was an irreconcilable, an _intransigeant_, an ingrained
criminal, and as this story principally concerns old Laissac it may
be as well to describe him a little in detail at once. He was at that
time fifty-seven years of age. Twenty-one years and ten months of
that period had been passed in penitentiaries, prisons, and convict
establishments. He was already an old man, but a wiry, energetic old
man, with a battered face seamed by years of vicious dissipations and
passions.
At the age of seventeen he had killed a Chinaman. The affair was
the outcome of a dockside _mêlée_, and many contended that Laissac
was not altogether responsible. However that may be, the examining
magistrate at that time was of opinion that there had been rather too
much of that sort of thing of late, and that an example must be made
of someone. Even the chink must be allowed some show of protection.
Laissac was sent to a penitentiary for two years. He returned an
avowed enemy of society. Since that day, he had been convicted
of burglary, larceny, passing of counterfeit coins, assault, and
drunkenness. These were only the crimes of which he had actually been
convicted, but everyone knew that they were only an infinitesimal
fraction of the crimes of which he was guilty.
He was a cunning old man. He had bashed one of his pals and maimed
him for life, and the man was afraid to give evidence against him. He
had treated at least two women with almost unspeakable cruelty. There
was no record of his ever having done a single action of kindliness
or unselfishness. He had, moreover, been a perverter and betrayer of
others. He bred crime with malicious enjoyment. He trained young men
in the tricks of the trade. He dealt in stolen property. He was a
centre, a focus, of criminal activity. One evening, Muguet remarked
to Tolozan, as they sipped their coffee:
“The law is too childish. That man has been working steadily all his
life to destroy and pervert society. He has a diseased mind. Why
aren’t we allowed to do away with him? If, as you say, the laws were
made to protect citizens, there’s only one way to protect ourselves
against a villain like Laissac--the guillotine.”
Tolozan shook his head slowly. “No, the law only allows capital
punishment in the case of murder.”
“I know that, my old cabbage. What I say is, why should society
bother to keep an old ruffian like that?”
Tolozan did not answer, and Muguet continued:
“Where is he now?”
“He lives in an attic in the Place Duquesne, No. 33.”
“Are you watching him?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Been to call on him?”
“I was there yesterday.”
“What was he doing?”
“Playing with a dog.”
Muguet slapped his leg, and threw back his head. Playing with a dog!
That was excellent! The greatest criminal in Bordeaux--playing with
a dog! Muguet didn’t know why it was so funny. Perhaps it was just
the vision of his old friend, Tolozan, solemnly sitting there and
announcing the fact that Laissac was playing with a dog, as though
it were a matter of profound significance. Tolozan looked slightly
annoyed and added:
“He’s very fond of dogs.”
This seemed to Muguet funnier still, and it was some moments before
he could steady his voice to say:
“Well, I’m glad he’s fond of something. Was there nothing you could
lay your hands on?”
“Nothing.”
It is certainly true that Muguet had a strong case in old Laissac to
confute his friend’s theories. Where was “the accident of crime” in
such a confirmed criminal?
It is also true old Laissac was playing with a dog, and at that very
moment. Whilst the representatives of law and order were discussing
him in the Café Basque he was tickling the ribs of his beloved
Sancho, and saying:
“Up, soldier. Courage, my old warrior.”
Sancho was a strange, forlorn-looking beast, not entirely retriever,
not wholly poodle, indeed not necessarily dog at all. He had large
sentimental eyes, and he worshipped his master with unquestioning
adoration. When his master was out, as he frequently was on strange
nocturnal adventures, he would lie on the mat by the door, his
nostrils snuggled between his paws, and watch the door. Directly his
master entered the house, Sancho would be aware of it. He would utter
one long whine of pleasure, and his skin would shake and tremble
with excitement. The reason of his perturbations this morning was
that part of the chimney had fallen down with a crash. The brickwork
had given way, and a little way up old Laissac could see a narrow
opening, revealing the leads on the adjoining roof. It was summer
time and such a disaster did not appal him unduly.
“Courage,” he said, “to-morrow that shall be set right. To-day and
to-night we have another omelette in the pan, old comrade. To-morrow
there will be ham bones for Sancho, and a nice bottle of fine
champagne for the breadwinner, eh? Lie down, boy, that’s only old
Grognard!”
The dog went into his corner, and a most strange-looking old man
entered the room. He had thin white hair, a narrow horse-like face
with prominent eyes. His face appeared much too thin and small
for the rest of his body, which had unexpected projections and
convolutions. From his movements it was immediately apparent that his
left side was paralyzed. On the left breast of his shabby green coat
was a medal for saving lives. The medal recorded that, at the age of
twenty-six, he had plunged into the Garonne, and saved the lives of
two boys. He sat down and produced a sheet of dirty paper.
“Everything is in order,” he said dolefully.
“Good,” said Laissac. “Show us the plan.”
“This is the garage and the room above where you enter. The chauffeur
left with Madame Delannelle and her maid for Pau this morning. They
will be away three weeks or more. Monsieur Delannelle sleeps in this
room on the first floor; but, as you know, he is a drug fiend. From
eleven o’clock till four in the morning he is in a coma. Lisette and
the other maid sleep on the top floor. Lisette will see that this
other woman gets a little of the white powder in her cider before she
retires. There is no one else in the house. There is no dog.”
“It appears a modest enterprise.”
“It is as easy as opening a bottle of white oil. The door of the room
above the garage, connecting with the first landing in the house, is
locked and the key taken away, but it is a very old-fashioned lock.
You could open it with a bone toothpick, master.”
“H’m. I suppose Lisette expects something out of this?”
The old man sniggered, and blew his nose on a red handkerchief.
“She’s doing it for love.”
“You mean--young Leon Briteuil?”
“Yes, now this is the point, master. Are you going to crack this
crib yourself, or would you like young Briteuil to go along? He’s a
promising lad, and he would be proud to be in a job with you.”
“What stuff is there, there?”
“In the second drawer on the left-hand side in a bureau in the salon
is a cash box, where Monsieur keeps the money from his rents. He owns
a lot of small property. There ought to be about ten thousand francs.
Madame has taken most of her jewels, but there are a few trinkets in
a jewel case in the bedroom. For the rest, there is a collection of
old coins in a cabinet, some of them gold. That is in the library,
here, see? And the usual silver plate and trinkets scattered about
the house. Altogether a useful haul, too much for one man to carry.”
“Very well, I’ll take the young--tell him to be at the Place du Pont,
the other side of the river, at twelve-thirty. If he fails or makes
the slightest slip, I’ll break his face. Tell him that. That’s all.”
“Right you are, master.”
Young Briteuil was not quite the lion-hearted person he liked to
pose as, and this message frightened him. Long before the fateful
hour of the appointment, he was dreading the association of the
infamous Laissac more than the hazardous adventure upon which he was
committed. He would have rather made the attempt by himself. He was
neat with his fingers and had been quite successful pilfering little
articles from the big stores, but he had never yet experienced the
thrill of housebreaking.
Moreover, he felt bitterly that the arrangement was unjust. It was
he who had manœuvred the whole field of operations, he with his
spurious lovemaking to the middle-aged coquettish Lisette. There was
a small fortune to be picked up, but because he was pledged to the
gang of which Laissac was the chief, his award would probably amount
to a capful of sous. Laissac had the handling of the loot, and he
would say that it realized anything he fancied. Grognard had to have
his commission also. The whole thing was grossly unfair. He deeply
regretted that he had not kept the courting of Lisette a secret.
Visions of unholy orgies danced before his eyes. However, there
it was, and he had to make the best of it. He was politeness and
humility itself when he met old Laissac at the corner of the Place
du Pont punctually at the hour appointed. Laissac was in one of his
sullen moods and they trudged in silence out to the northern suburb
where the villa of Monsieur Delannelle was situated.
The night was reasonably dark and fine. As they got nearer and nearer
to their destination, and Laissac became more and more unresponsive,
the younger man’s nerves began to get on edge. He was becoming
distinctly jumpy, and, as people will in such a condition, he
carried things to the opposite extreme. He pretended to be extremely
light-hearted, and to treat the affair as a most trivial exploit. He
even assumed an air of flippancy, but in this attitude he was not
encouraged by his companion, who on more than one occasion told him
to keep his ugly mouth shut.
“You won’t be so merry when you get inside,” he said.
“But there is no danger, no danger at all,” laughed the young man
unconvincingly.
“There’s always danger in our job,” growled Laissac. “It’s the things
you don’t expect that you’ve got to look out for. You can make every
preparation, think of every eventuality, and then suddenly, presto!
a bullet from some unknown quarter. The gendarmes may have had wind
of it all the time. Monsieur Delannelle may not have indulged in
his dope for once. He may be sitting up with a loaded gun. The girl
Lisette may be an informer. The other girl may have heard and given
the game away. Madame and the chauffeur may return at any moment.
People have punctures sometimes. You can even get through the job
and then be nabbed at the corner of the street, or the next morning,
or the following week. There’s a hundred things likely to give you
away. Inspector Tolozan himself may be hiding in the garden with a
half-dozen of his thicknecks. Don’t you persuade yourself it’s a soft
thing, my white-livered cockerel.”
This speech did not raise Leon’s spirits. When they reached the wall
adjoining the garage, he was trembling like a leaf, and his teeth
began to chatter.
“I could do with a nip of brandy,” he said sullenly in a changed
voice.
The old criminal looked at him contemptuously, and produced a flask
from some mysterious pocket. He took a swig, and then handed it to
his companion. He allowed him a little gulp, and then snatched the
flask away.
“Now, up you go,” he said. Leon knew then that escape was impossible.
Old Laissac held out his hands for him to rest his heel upon. He did
so, and found himself jerked to the top of the wall. The old man
scrambled up after him somehow. They then dropped down quietly on
to some sacking in the corner of the yard. The garage and the house
were in complete darkness. The night was unnaturally still, the kind
of night when every little sound becomes unduly magnified. Laissac
regarded the dim structure of the garage with a professional eye.
Leon was listening for sounds, and imagining eyes peering at them
through the shutters ... perhaps a pistol or two already covering
them. His heart was beating rapidly. He had never imagined it was
going to be such a nerve-racking business. Curse the old man! Why
didn’t he let him have his full whack at the brandy?
A sudden temptation crept over him. The old man was peering forward.
He would hit him suddenly on the back of the head and then bolt. Yes,
he would. He knew he would never have the courage to force his way
into that sinister place of unknown terrors. He would rather die out
here in the yard.
“Come on,” said Laissac, advancing cautiously toward the door of the
garage.
Leon slunk behind him, watching for his opportunity. He had no
weapon, nothing but his hands, and he knew that in a struggle with
Laissac he would probably be worsted. The tidy concrete floor of the
yard held out no hope of promiscuous weapons. Once he thought: “I
will strike him suddenly on the back of the head with all my might.
As he falls I’ll strike him again. When he’s on the ground I’ll kick
his brains out....”
To such a desperate pass can fear drive a man! Laissac stood by
the wood frame of the garage door looking up and judging the best
way to make an entrance of the window above. While he was doing so
Leon stared round, and his eye alighted on a short dark object near
the wall. It was a piece of iron piping. He sidled toward it, and
surreptitiously picked it up. At that exact instant Laissac glanced
round at him abruptly and whispered:
“What are you doing?”
Now must this desperate venture be brought to a head. He stumbled
toward Laissac, mumbling vaguely:
“I thought this might be useful.”
Leon was left-handed and he gripped the iron piping in that hand.
Laissac was facing him, and he must be put off his guard. He mumbled:
“What’s the orders, master?”
He doubtless hoped from this that Laissac would turn round and
look up again. He made no allowance for that animal instinct of
self-preservation which is most strongly marked in men of low
mentality. Without a word old Laissac sprang at him. He wanted to
scream with fear, but instead he struck wildly with the iron. He
felt it hit something ineffectually. A blow on the face staggered
him. In the agony of recovery he realized that his weapon had been
wrenched from his hands! Now, indeed, he would scream, and rouse the
neighbourhood to save him from this monster. If he could only get his
voice! If he could only get his voice! Curse this old devil! Where is
he? Spare me! Spare me! Oh, no, no ... oh, God!
Old Laissac stuffed the body behind a bin where rubbish was
put, in the corner of the yard. The struggle had been curiously
silent and quick. The only sound had been the thud of the iron on
his treacherous assistant’s skull, a few low growls and blows.
Fortunately, the young man had been too paralyzed with fear to call
out. Laissac stood in the shadow of the wall and waited. Had the
struggle attracted any attention? Would it be as well to abandon
the enterprise? He thought it all out dispassionately. An owl, with
a deep mellow note, sailed majestically away toward a neighbouring
church. Perhaps it was rather foolish. If he were caught, and the
body discovered--that would be the end of Papa Laissac! That would be
a great misfortune. Everyone would miss him so, and he still had life
and fun in him. He laughed bitterly. Yes, perhaps he had better steal
quietly away. He moved over to the outer wall.
Then a strange revulsion came over him, perhaps a deep bitterness
with life, or a gambler’s lure. Perhaps it was only professional
vanity. He had come here to burgle this villa, and he disliked being
thwarted. Besides it was such a soft thing, all the dispositions so
carefully laid. He had already thought out the way to mount to the
bedroom above the door. In half an hour he might be richer by many
thousand francs, and he had been getting rather hard up of late. That
young fool would be one less to pay. He shrugged his broad shoulders,
and crept back to the garage door.
In ten minutes time he had not only entered the room above the garage
but had forced the old-fashioned lock, and entered the passage
connecting with the house. He was perfectly cool now, his senses
keenly alert. He went down on his hands and knees and listened. He
waited some time, focussing in his mind the exact disposition of the
rooms as shown in the plan old Grognard had shown him. He crawled
along the corridor like a large gorilla. At the second door on the
left he heard the heavy, stentorian breathing of a man inside the
room. Monsieur Delannelle, good! It sounded like the breathing of a
man under the influence of drugs or drink.
After that, with greater confidence, he made his way downstairs to
the salon. With unerring precision he located the drawer in the
bureau where the cash box was kept. The box was smaller than he
expected and he decided to take it away rather than to indulge in
the rather noisy business of forcing the lock. He slipped it into
a sack. Guided by his electric torch, he made a rapid round of the
reception rooms. He took most of the collection of old coins from the
cabinet in the library and a few more silver trinkets. Young Briteuil
would certainly have been useful carrying all this bulkier stuff.
Rather unfortunate, but still it served the young fool right. He,
Laissac, was not going to encumber himself with plate ... a few small
and easily negotiable pieces were all he desired, sufficient to keep
him in old brandy, and Sancho in succulent ham bones for a few months
to come. A modest and simple fellow, old Laissac.
The sack was soon sufficiently full. He paused by the table in the
dining room and helped himself to another swig of brandy, then he
blinked his eyes. What else was there? Oh, yes, Grognard had said
that there were a few of Madame’s jewels in the jewel case. But that
was in the bedroom where Monsieur Delannelle was sleeping, that was a
different matter, and yet after all, perhaps, a pity not to have the
jewels!
H’m, Monsieur Delannelle was in one of his drug stupours. It must
be about two o’clock. They said he never woke till five or six. Why
not? Besides what was a drugged man? He couldn’t give any trouble. If
he tried to, Laissac could easily knock him over the head as he had
young Briteuil--might just as well have those few extra jewels. His
senses tingled rather more acutely as he once more crept upstairs.
He pressed his ear to the keyhole of Monsieur Delannelle’s bedroom.
The master of the house was still sleeping.
He turned the handle quietly, listened, then stole into the room,
closing the door after him. Now for it. He kept the play of his
electric torch turned from the bed. The sleeper was breathing in an
ugly, irregular way. He swept the light along the wall, and located
the dressing-table--satinwood and silver fittings. A new piece of
furniture--curse it! The top right-hand drawer was locked. And that
was the drawer which the woman said contained the jewel case. Dare he
force the lock? Was it worth it? He had done very well. Why not clear
off now? Madame had probably taken everything of worth. He hesitated
and looked in the direction of the sleeper. Rich guzzling old pig!
Why should he have all these comforts and luxuries whilst Laissac
had to work hard and at such risk for his living? Be damned to him.
He put down his sack and took a small steel tool out of his breast
pocket. It was necessary to make a certain amount of noise, but after
all the man in the bed wasn’t much better than a corpse. Laissac went
down on his knees and applied himself to his task.
The minutes passed. Confound it! It was a very obstinate lock. He
was becoming quite immersed in its intricacy when something abruptly
jarred his sensibilities. It was a question of silence. The sleeper
was no longer snoring or breathing violently. In fact he was making
no noise at all. Laissac was aware of a queer tremor creeping down
his spine for the first time that evening. He was a fool not to have
cleared out after taking the cash box. He had overdone it. The man
in bed was awake and watching him! What was the best thing to do?
Perhaps the fool had a revolver! If there was any trouble he must
fight. He couldn’t allow himself to be taken, with that body down
below stuffed behind the dust-bin. Why didn’t the tormentor call out
or challenge him? Laissac crept lower and twisted his body into a
crouching position.
By this action he saved his life, for there was a sudden blinding
flash, and a bullet struck the dressing-table just at the place
where his head had been. This snapping of the tension was almost
a relief. It was a joy to revert to the primitive instincts of
self-preservation. At the foot of the bed an eiderdown had fallen.
Instinct drove him to snatch this up. He scrumpled it up into the
rough form of a body and thrust it with his right hand over the
end of the bed. Another bullet went through it and struck the
dressing-table again. But as this happened, Laissac, who had crept to
the left side of the bed sprang across it and gripped the sleeper’s
throat. The struggle was of momentary duration. The revolver dropped
to the floor. The man addicted to drugs gasped, spluttered, then
his frame shook violently and he crumpled into an inert mass upon
the bed. A blind fury was upon Laissac. He struck the still cold
thing again and again, then a revulsion of terror came over him. He
crouched in the darkness, sweating with fear.