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THE THIN RED LINE.
by
ARTHUR GRIFFITHS,
Author of "The Chronicles of Newgate," "Fast and Loose,"
etc., etc.
In Two Volumes.
London: Chapman and Hall
Limited
1886
VOL. I
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.
THE COMMISSARY IS CALLED
CHAPTER II.
ARREST AND INTERROGATION
CHAPTER III.
THE MOUSETRAP
CHAPTER IV.
A SPIDER'S WEB
CHAPTER V.
THE WAR FEVER
CHAPTER VI.
ON DANGEROUS GROUND
CHAPTER VII.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
CHAPTER VIII.
A SOUTHERN PEARL
CHAPTER IX.
OFF TO THE WARS
CHAPTER X.
A GENERAL ACTION
CHAPTER XI.
AFTER THE BATTLE
CHAPTER XII.
CATCHING A TARTAR
CHAPTER XIII.
"NOT WAR"
CHAPTER XIV.
THE GOLDEN HORN
CHAPTER XV.
THE LAST OF LORD LYDSTONE
CHAPTER XVI.
HARD POUNDING
CHAPTER XVII.
A COSTLY VICTORY
CHAPTER XVIII.
A NOVEMBER GALE
CHAPTER XIX.
UNCLE AND NEPHEW
CHAPTER XX.
RED TAPE
CHAPTER XXI.
AGAIN ON THE ROCK
CHAPTER XXII.
MR. HOBSON CALLS
CHAPTER XXIII.
WAR TO THE KNIFE
CHAPTER XXIV.
MOTHER CHARCOAL'S
VOL. II.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER I.
SECRET SERVICE
CHAPTER II.
AMONG THE COSSACKS
CHAPTER III.
A PURVEYOR OF NEWS
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHITEHALL
CHAPTER V.
MR. FAULKS TALKS
CHAPTER VI.
MARIQUITA'S QUEST
CHAPTER VII.
INSIDE THE FORTRESS
CHAPTER VIII.
FROM THE DEAD
CHAPTER IX.
IN PARIS
CHAPTER X.
SUSPENSE
CHAPTER XI.
AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN
CHAPTER XII.
IN LINCOLN'S INN
CHAPTER XIII.
HUSBAND AND WIFE
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SCALES REMOVED
CHAPTER XV.
L'ENVOI
BLUE BLOOD
* * * * *
THE THIN RED LINE.
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I.
THE COMMISSARY IS CALLED.
In the Paris of the first half of this century there was no darker,
dingier, or more forbidding quarter than that which lay north of the
Rue de Rivoli, round about the great central market, commonly called
the Halles.
The worst part of it, perhaps, was the Rue Assiette d'Etain, or
Tinplate Street. All day evil-looking loafers lounged about its
doorways, nodding lazily to the passing workmen, who, blue-bloused,
with silk cap on head, each with his loa under his arm, came to take
their meals at the wine-shop at the corner; or gossiping with the
porters, male and female, while the one followed closely his usual
trade as a cobbler, and the other attended to her soup.
By day there was little traffic. Occasionally a long dray, on a
gigantic pair of wheels, drawn by a long string of white Normandy
horses in single file, with blue harness and jangling bells, filled up
the roadway. Costermongers trundled their barrows along with strange,
unmusical cries. Now and again an empty cab returning to its stable,
with weary horse and semi-somnolent coachman, crawled through the
street.
But at night it was otherwise. Many vehicles came dashing down
Tinplate Street: carriages, public and private, of every variety, from
the rattletrap cab hired off the stand, or the decent coach from the
livery stable, to the smart spick-and-span brougham, with its
well-appointed horses and servants in neat livery. They all set down
at the same door, and took up from it at any hour between midnight and
dawn, waiting patiently in file in the wide street round the corner,
till the summons came as each carriage was required.
As seen in the daytime, there was nothing strange about the door, or
the house to which it gave access. The place purported to be an
hotel--a seedy, out-at-elbows, seemingly little-frequented hotel,
rejoicing in the altogether inappropriate name of the Hôtel Paradis,
or the Paradise Hotel. Its outward appearance was calculated to repel
rather than invite customers; no one would be likely to lodge there
who could go elsewhere. It had habitually a deserted look, with all
its blinds and casements close shut, as though its lodgers slept
through the day, or had gone away, never to return.
But this was only by day. At night the street-door stood wide open,
and a porter was on duty at the foot of the staircase within. He was
on the inner side of a stout oaken door, in which was a small window,
opening with a trap. Through this he reconnoitred all arrivals,
taking stock of their appearance, and only giving admission when
satisfied as to what he saw.
The Hôtel Paradis, in plain English, was a gambling-house, largely
patronised, yet with an evil reputation. It was well known to, and
constantly watched by, the police, who were always at hand, although
they seldom interfered with the hotel.
But when the porter's wife came shrieking into the street early one
summer's morning, with wildest terror depicted in her face, and
shaking like a jelly, the police felt bound to come to the front.
"Has madame seen a ghost?" asked a stern official in a cocked hat and
sword, accosting her abruptly.
"No, no! Fetch the commissary, quick! A crime has been committed--a
terrible crime!" she gasped.
This was business, and the police-officer knew what he had to do.
"Run, Jules," he said to a colleague. "You know where M. Bontoux
lives. Tell him he is wanted at the Hôtel Paradis." Then, turning to
the woman, he said, "Now, madame, explain yourself."
"It is a murder, I am afraid. A gentleman has been stabbed."
"What gentleman? Where?"
"In the drawing-room, upstairs. I don't know his name, but he came
here frequently. My husband will perhaps be able to tell you; he is
there."
"Lead on," said the police-officer; "take me to the place. I will see
to it myself."
They passed into the hotel through the inner portal, and up the stairs
to the first floor, where the principal rooms were situated--three of
them furnished and decorated magnificently, altogether out of keeping
with the miserable exterior of the house, having enormous mirrors from
ceiling to floor, gilt cornices, damask hangings, marble console
tables, and chairs and sofas in marqueterie and buhl. The first room
evidently served for reception; there was a sideboard in one corner,
on which were the remains of a succulent repast, and dozens of empty
bottles. The second and third rooms were more especially devoted to
the business of the establishment. Long tables, covered with green
cloth, filled up the centre of each, and were strewed with cards, dice
and their boxes, croupier's rakes, and other implements of gaming.
The third room had been the scene of the crime. There upon the floor
lay the body of a man, a well-dressed man, wearing the white
kerseymere trousers, the light waistcoat, and long-tailed green coat
which were then in vogue. His clothes were all spotted and bedrabbled
with gore; his shirt was torn open, and plainly revealed the great
gaping wound from which his life's blood was quickly ebbing away.
The wounded man's head rested on the knee of the night porter, a
personage wearing a kind of livery, a strongly built, truculent-looking
villain, whose duties, no doubt, comprised the putting of people out as
well as the letting them into the house.
"Oh, Anatole! my cherished one!" began the porter's wife. "Here are
the police. Tell us then, how this occurred."
"I will tell all I know," replied her husband, looking at the
police-officer. "This morning, when the clients had nearly all gone,
and I was sitting half asleep in the lodge, I heard--"
"Stop," said the police-officer, "not another word. Keep all you have
to say for the commissary. He is already on the stairs."
The next minute M. Bontoux entered, accompanied by his clerk and the
official doctor of the quarter.
"A crime," said the commissary, slowly, and with as much dignity as
was possible in a middle-aged gentleman pulled from his bed at
daybreak, and compelled to dress in a hurry. "A crime," he repeated.
"Of that there can be no doubt. But let us establish the fact
formally. Where are the witnesses?"
The porter, having relinquished the care of the wounded man to the
doctor, stood up slowly and saluted the commissary.
"Very well; tell us what you know. Sit down"--this to the clerk.
"Produce your writing-materials and prepare the report."
"It must have been about four this morning, but I was very drowsy, and
the gentlemen had nearly all gone," said the night porter, speaking
fluently, "when I was disturbed by the noise of a quarrel, a fight, up
here in the principal drawing-room. While I was still rubbing my eyes,
for I was very drowsy, and fancied I was dreaming, I heard a scream, a
second, and a third, followed by a heavy fall on the floor. I rushed
upstairs then, and found this poor gentleman as you see him."
"Alone?"
"Quite alone."
"But there must have been other people here. Did they come down the
stairs past you?"
"No, sir; they must have escaped by that window. It was open--"
The commissary looked at the police-officer, who nodded intelligently.
"I had already noticed it, Mr. Commissary. The window gives upon a low
roof, which communicates with the back street. Escape would be quite
easy from that side."
"Well," said the commissary, "and you found this gentleman? Do you
know him? His name? Have you ever seen him before?"
"He is M. le Baron d'Enot; he is a constant visitor at the house. Very
fortunate, I believe, and I heard he won largely last night."
"Ah!" said the commissary. This fact was important, as affording a
reason for the crime. "And do you suspect any one? Have you any idea
who was here at the last?"
"I scarcely noticed the gentlemen as they went away; it would be
impossible for me, therefore, to say who remained."
"Then there is no clue--"
"Hush! Mr. Commissary." It was the doctor's exclamation. "The victim
is still alive, and is trying, I think, to speak." Evidence given at
the point of death has extreme value in every country, under every
kind of law. The commissary therefore bent his head, closely attentive
to catch any words the dying man might utter.
"Water! water!" he gasped out. "Revenge me; it was a foul and cowardly
blow."
"Who struck you, can you tell us? Do you know him?" inquired the
commissary, eagerly.
"Yes. I--know--" The voice grew visibly weaker; it sank into a
whisper, and could speak only in monosyllables.
"His name--quick!"
"There--were--three--I had no chance--Gas--coigne--"
"Strange name--not French?"
The dying man shook his head.
"Gasc--tell--Engl--"
It was the last supreme effort. With a long, deep groan, the poor
fellow fell back dead.
"How unfortunate!" cried the commissary, "to die just when he would
have told us all. These few words will scarcely suffice to identify
the murderers. Can any one help us?"
M. Bontoux looked round.
"The name he mentioned I know," said the night-porter, quickly. "This
M. Gascoigne came here frequently. He is an Englishman."
"So I gathered from the dead man's words. Do you know his domicile in
Paris?"
"Rue St. Honoré, Hôtel Versailles and St. Cloud. I have seen him enter
it more than once, with his wife. He has lived there some months."
"We must, if possible, lay hands on him at once. You, Jules, hasten
with another police-agent to the Rue St. Honoré; he may have gone
straight to his hotel."
"And if we find him?"
"Arrest him and take him straight to the Préfecture. I will follow.
There, there! lose no time."
"I am already gone," said the police-officer as he ran downstairs.