The joy day of Versailles and all the phantom pleasures had passed.
There was only one thing which confronted the gang. It was a momentous
occasion. Raife had sold his soul, his very being, and a crime was to
be committed. He was to take the leading part--although he did not
really realise it--in the burglary in the Avenue des Champs Elysees.
They were sitting in the flat in the Rue Lafayette. Gilda was at the
piano. Raife was reading some English newspapers. Malsano was present,
and Denoir occupied a chair. To-morrow was the day, or rather the
night, that had been decided upon for the great event. To-morrow Raife
was to descend to the depths of complete crime. It was idiotic. There
was no reason for this thing; but he was impelled by a super-dominant
fate, which led him to a doom that he could not avoid. They talked
together and discussed all the details of the affair.
Gilda left the piano and sat silently in a chair. Her mind was not her
own. Simply obedient to the will of Malsano, she sat there and looked
at Raife, the one person who could carry her from the throes of her
present situation. Raife was inert. He, in turn, was influenced by the
environment that had dragged him down from a high position to that of a
common criminal. Malsano smiled with the confidence of a practised
criminal. He and Denoir had made their compact, which Raife had
overheard at the doctor's rooms in the Rue Malmaison. With the
completeness that accompanied all his plans, Raife Remington's sacrifice
was assured. A paragraph in the newspaper arrested his attention. It
read: "The mysterious disappearance of Sir Raife Remington, Bart., about
a year ago has led to curious complications. It will be remembered that
his hat and coat were found on the cliffs at Cromer. In a pocket was a
letter apparently written by the demented man, from which it was
inferred that Sir Raife Remington had committed suicide. A paragraph
appeared in the Paris edition of the _New York Herald_ some time ago to
the effect that Sir Raife had left Marseilles for the United States.
Detective-Inspector Herrion ascertained that this paragraph had been
inserted by a member of a gang of continental thieves, and there seems
little doubt that either the baronet has committed suicide or had been
made away with. His estates are extensive, and there are complications
as to the disposition of affairs. It is rumoured that Aldborough Park,
which has been the residence of the Remingtons--or Reymingtounes--since
the days of the Tudors, will be placed on the market for sale, as the
ancient baronetage becomes extinct with the death of Sir Raife
Remington."
This paragraph brought consternation to, his mind, and he realised, for
a while, the madness of his present actions. Malsano's presence was
sufficient to alter the trend of his mind, and the result was a
volte-face. He crossed the room, and, taking a number of liqueur
glasses and a decanter from a sideboard, he filled the glasses. Having
handed one to each person, he drank in a debonair manner, "Success to
the crime to be committed."
Malsano smiled, Denoir sneered, and Gilda winced. There were four rings
of an electric bell in the room in which they sat. They were sudden,
sharp, and in rapid succession. The three men leapt to their feet and
made for the extra exit of the flat, which gave no indication from the
outside as to the nature of the door. This danger signal had been
well-planned by Malsano for emergencies, and all details of their
actions had been rehearsed.
Gilda was left alone, and in the briefest while was transformed from a
beautiful, smartly-clad girl into an aged old crony, wearing the blue
cotton frock and white apron of female servitude. She had barely
completed the transformation when the outside bell rang three times.
Snatching up a broom she went to the door. Lesigne was there,
breathless. In hurried accents he gasped: "Are they here, or have they
gone? That fellow, Herrion, the English detective, has chased me. Let
me get through and away quickly, Mams'elle. I hope I have not
frightened you, but it is serious."
Gilda had closed the door quickly and accompanied Lesigne to the second
exit. As he went out, leaving Gilda alone again "to face the music," he
bowed gracefully, and, with his hand on his heart, whispered:
"Mams'elle, your disguise is perfect. Even so you still look
beautiful--charmante!"
'Twas thus that Gilda fascinated all whom she met. Alone in the flat,
and with danger threatened and imminent, she remained cool. Quickly she
disturbed the furniture and made it evident that she was sweeping and
dusting the room. Within a minute there was a ring of the bell. It was
the ring she had expected and prepared for. The "old crony" opened the
door and was confronted by Detective-Inspector Herrion and another man.
The other man announced brusquely: "I am an agent of the police. You
have a man here--a man named Lesigne. Never mind what his other names
are. I must enter. Where is he? Tell me at once, or it will be the
worse for you. Yes, understand me, for you!"
Gilda trembled with well-simulated apprehension, stammering: "Mais non,
monsieur. There is no one here, sir. This is the flat, the apartment
of Monsieur Vachelle. I am alone cleaning things up. But enter, sir,
and you shall see."
The two police officers entered, and searched each room. In the front
room Herrion noticed the four liqueur glasses and the decanter of
cognac. Approaching the table on which they stood, he held one of the
glasses in his hand and remarked: "So, so! Monsieur Vachelle has had
company. Who has been visiting Monsieur Vachelle? Tell me."
Gilda protested. "Indeed, sir, I do not know. Monsieur Vachelle left
early this morning. I think he has gone to the country, but I do not
know for certain. Why should he tell me? I am only here to clean and
tidy his rooms. Monsieur is a gentleman. I am only a servant."
Herrion stared hard at her, saying: "So, Monsieur Vachelle is a
gentleman, is he, and you are only a servant?"
Gilda felt the force of that penetrating glance and stooped to dust a
chair. The two police officers were eventually satisfied that Lesigne
was not there, and as for Monsieur Vachelle, they knew nothing of him,
good or evil. So they departed. When they were gone, Gilda collapsed
and wept bitterly.
The pleasures of Paris continue through the day and night. London is
almost a silent city at night, except for the traffic of Fleet Street,
the Post Office, and the Markets. Paris is the pleasure city of the
world, and it does not attract notice that people should be wandering
about in the small hours of the morning. There are not many dark hours
in a June night in Paris. The Avenue of the Champs Elysees is wide, and
well lit. On the night of the contemplated burglary there seemed to be
more than the usual number of people about, and the four persons who
sauntered up and down, awaiting opportunity, were kept on the
tenterhooks of expectancy rather longer than they had expected. At
length there was a lull in the traffic, and Raife entered the basement
and prepared a scaling ladder that was to take him to the window
immediately over the great front door of the mansion. It was a corner
house, and Raife's objective point could only be reached by means of a
gutter-pipe which would lead him to a second window around the corner.
It was a dangerous undertaking and called for all those qualities that
Doctor Malsano had flatteringly endowed Raife with. Hand over hand he
crept, swaying to and fro from the insecure and creaking pipe, which
threatened to give way under the weight of twelve stone of lithe and
living humanity. As he progressed bit by bit, foot by foot, his mind
reverted to Gilda's dexterous descent by the silk rope from the library
at Aldborough Park into the shadow of the rhododendron bushes. Beneath
him were spiked railings and stone pavement. The thought of Gilda, at
that moment, unsteadied his nerve, and his grip of the pipe, loosened.
He glanced round, and, across the road, he descried Gilda, with hands
clasped and a look of terror which was plain to him under the flickering
light, in spite of the disguise she wore. Almost at his feet were
Malsano and Denoir, and the expression on their upturned faces was even
more manifest. It was malevolent, a cynical sneer. With a final effort
Raife reached the window and lowered himself to the balcony outside. By
a well considered arrangement the window yielded easily. The bolt slid
aside and he entered.
This, then, was the situation. The owner of Aldborough Park and 20,000
pounds a year, had entered the mansion in the Avenue des Champs Elysees,
in the dead of night as a common burglar, impelled by the fascination of
a woman who exercised a mysterious: and baneful influence over his
career.
Always in the background was the malevolent figure of Doctor Malsano,
that evil-omened person, who thrived on villainy and lived on crime.