THE DIARY
Coquenil's effort during the next month might be set forth in great detail.
It may also be told briefly, which is better, since the result rather than
the means is of moment.
The detective began by admitting the practical worthlessness of the
evidence in hand against this formidable adversary, and he abandoned, for
the moment, his purpose of proving that De Heidelmann-Bruck had killed
Martinez. Under the circumstances there was no way of proving it, for how
can the wheels of justice be made to turn against an individual who
absolutely controls the manner of their turning, who is able to remove
annoying magistrates with a snap of his fingers, and can use the full power
of government, the whole authority of the Prime Minister of France and the
Minister of Justice for his personal convenience and protection?
The case was so extraordinary and unprecedented that it could obviously be
met only (if at all) by extraordinary and unprecedented measures. Such
measures Coquenil proceeded to conceive and carry out, realizing fully
that, in so doing, he was taking his life in his hands. His first intuition
had come true, he was facing a great criminal and must either destroy or be
destroyed; it was to be a ruthless fight to a finish between Paul Coquenil
and the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck.
And, true to his intuitions, as he had been from the start, M. Paul
resolved to seek the special and deadly arm that he needed against this
sinister enemy in the baron's immediate _entourage;_ in fact, in his own
house and home. That was the detective's task, to be received, unsuspected,
as an inmate of De Heidelmann-Bruck's great establishment on the Rue de
Varennes, the very center of the ancient nobility of Paris.
In this purpose he finally succeeded, after what wiles and pains need not
be stated, being hired at moderate wages as a stable helper, with a small
room over the carriage house, and miscellaneous duties that included much
drudgery in cleaning the baron's numerous automobiles. It may truthfully be
said that no more willing pair of arms ever rubbed and scrubbed their
aristocratic brasses.
The next thing was to gain the confidence, then the complicity of one of
the men servants in the _hôtel_ itself, so that he might be given access to
the baron's private apartments at the opportune moment. In the horde of
hirelings about a great man there is always one whose ear is open to
temptation, and the baron's household was no exception to this rule.
Coquenil (known now as Jacques and looking the stable man to perfection)
found a dignified flunky in black side whiskers and white-silk stockings
who was not above accepting some hundred-franc notes in return for sure
information as to the master's absences from home and for necessary
assistance in the way of keys and other things.
Thus it came to pass that on a certain night in August, about two in the
morning, Paul Coquenil found himself alone in the baron's spacious, silent
library before a massive safe. The opening of this safe is another matter
that need not be gone into--a desperate case justifies desperate risk, and
an experienced burglar chaser naturally becomes a bit of a burglar
himself; at any rate, the safe swung open in due course, without accident
or interference, and the detective stood before it.
All this Coquenil had done on a chance, without positive knowledge, save
for the assurance of the black-whiskered valet that the baron wrote
frequently in a diary which he kept locked in the safe. Whether this was
true, and, if so, whether the baron had been mad enough to put down with
his own hand a record of his own wickedness, were matters of pure
conjecture. Coquenil was convinced that this journal would contain what he
wanted; he did not believe that a man like De Heidelmann-Bruck would keep a
diary simply to fill in with insipidities. If he kept it at all, it would
be because it pleased him to analyze, fearlessly, his own extraordinary
doings, good or bad. The very fact that the baron was different from
ordinary men, a law unto himself, made it likely that he would disregard
what ordinary men would call prudence in a matter like this; there is no
such word as imprudence for one who is practically all-powerful, and, if it
tickled the baron's fancy to keep a journal of crime, it was tolerably
certain he would keep it.
The event proved that he did keep it. On one of the shelves of the safe,
among valuable papers and securities, the detective found a thick book
bound in black leather and fastened with heavy gold clasps. It was the
diary.
With a thrill of triumph, Coquenil seized upon the volume, then, closing
the safe carefully, without touching anything else, he returned to his room
in the stable. His purpose was accomplished, and now he had only one
thought--to leave the _hôtel_ as quickly as possible; it would be a matter
of a few moments to pack his modest belongings, then he could rouse the
doorkeeper and be off with his bag and the precious record.
As he started to act on this decision, however, and steal softly down to
the courtyard, the detective paused and looked at his watch. It was not yet
three o'clock, and M. Paul, in the real burglar spirit, reflected that his
departure with a bag, at this unseasonable hour, might arouse the
doorkeeper's suspicion; whereas, if he waited until half past five, the
gate would be open and he could go out unnoticed. So he decided to wait.
After all, there was no danger, the baron was away from Paris, and no one
would enter the library before seven or eight.
While he waited, Coquenil opened the diary and began to read. There were
some four hundred neatly written pages, brief separate entries without
dates, separate thoughts as it were, and, as he turned through them he
found himself more and more absorbed until, presently, he forgot time,
place, danger, everything; an hour passed, two hours, and still the
detective read on while his candle guttered down to the stick and the
brightening day filled his mean stable room; he was absolutely lost in a
most extraordinary human document, in one of those terrible utterances,
shameless and fearless, that are flung out, once in a century or so, from
the hot somber depths of a man's being.
I
I have kept this diary because it amuses me, because I am not
afraid, because my nature craves and demands some honest expression
somewhere. If these pages were read I should be destroyed. I
understand that, but I am in constant danger of being destroyed,
anyway. I might be killed by an automobile accident. A small artery
in my brain might snap. My heart might stop beating for various
reasons. And it is no more likely that this diary will be found
and read (with the precautions I have taken) than that one of these
other things will happen. Besides, I have no fear, since I regard
my own life and all other lives as of absolutely trifling
importance.
II
I say here to myself what thousands of serious and successful men
all over the world are saying to themselves, what the enormous
majority of men must say to themselves, that is, that I am (and
they are) constantly committing crimes and we are therefore
criminals. Some of us kill, some steal, some seduce virgins, some
take our friends' wives, but most of us, in one way or another,
deliberately and repeatedly break the law, so we are criminals.
III
Half the great men of this world are great criminals. The Napoleons
of war murder thousands, the Napoleons of trade and finance plunder
tens of thousands. It is the same among beasts and fishes, among
birds and insects, probably among angels and devils, everywhere we
find one inexorable law, resistless as gravitation, that impels the
strong to plunder and destroy the weak.
IV
It is five years since I committed what would be called a monstrous
and cowardly crime. As a matter of fact, I did what my intelligence
recognized as necessary and what was therefore my duty. However,
let us call it a crime. I have been interested to watch for any
consequences or effects of this crime in myself and I have
discovered none. I study my face carefully and fail to find any
marks of wickedness. My eyes are clear and beautiful, my skin is
remarkably free from lines. I am in splendid health, I eat well,
sleep well, and enjoy life. My nerves are absolutely steady. I have
never felt the slightest twinge of remorse. I have a keen sense of
humor. I look five years younger than I am and ten years younger
than men who have drudged virtuously and uncomplainingly on the
"Thy-will-be-done" plan. I am certainly a better man, better
looking, better feeling, stronger in every way than I was before I
committed this crime. It is absolute nonsense, therefore, to say
that sin or crime (I mean intelligent sin or crime) put an ugly
stamp on a man. The ugly stamp comes from bad health, bad
surroundings, bad conditions of life, and these can usually be
changed by money. _Which I have!_
V
Last night (July 4th) I shot a man (Martinez) at the Ansonia Hotel.
I observed my sensations carefully and must say that they were of a
most commonplace character. There was no danger in the adventure,
nothing difficult about it; in fact, it was far less exciting than
shooting moose in the Maine woods or tracking grizzlies in the
Rockies or going after tigers in India. There is really nothing so
tame as shooting a man!
VI
There is no necessary connection between crime and vice. Some of
the most vicious men--I mean gluttons, drunkards, degenerates, drug
fiends, etc. have never committed any crimes of importance. On the
other hand, I am satisfied that great criminals are usually free
from vices. It must be so, for vices weaken the will and dull the
brain. I take a little wine at my meals, but never to excess, and I
never was drunk in my life. I smoke three or four cigars a day and
occasionally a cigarette, that is all. And I never gamble. No doubt
there are vicious criminals, but they would probably have been
vicious if they had not been criminals.
VII
I have the most tremendous admiration for myself, for my courage,
for my intelligence, for the use I have made of my opportunities. I
started as the son of a broken-down nobleman, my material assets
being a trumpery title. My best chance was to marry one of the vain
and shallow rich women of America, and by many brilliant maneuvers
in a most difficult and delicate campaign, I succeeded in marrying
the very richest of them. She was a widow with an enormous fortune
that her husband (a rapacious brute) had wrung from the toil of
thousands in torturing mines. Following his method, I disposed of
the woman, then of her daughter, and came into possession of the
fortune. It would have been a silly thing to leave such vast
potential power to a chit of a girl unable to use it or appreciate
it. I have used it as a master, as a man of brain, as a gentleman.
I have made myself a force throughout Europe, I have overthrown
ministries, averted wars, built up great industries, helped the
development of literature and art; in short, I have made amends for
the brutality and dishonesty of the lady's first husband. I believe
his name was Mike!
VIII
I am afraid of this girl's dreams! I can control her body, and when
she is awake, I can more or less control her mind. But I cannot
control her dreams. Sometimes, when I look into the depths of her
strange, beautiful eyes, it seems to me she knows things or half
knows them with some other self. I am afraid of her dreams!
Coquenil had reached this point in his reading and was pressing on through
the pages, utterly oblivious to everything, when a harsh voice broke in
upon him: "You seem to have an interesting book, my friend?"
Looking up with a start, M. Paul saw De Heidelmann-Bruck himself standing
in the open doorway. His hands were thrust carelessly in his coat pockets
and a mocking smile played about his lips, the smile that Coquenil had
learned to fear.
"It's more than interesting, it's marvelous, it's unbelievable," answered
the detective quietly. "Please shut that door. There's a draught coming
in."
As he spoke he sneezed twice and reached naturally toward his coat as if
for a handkerchief.
"No, no! None of that!" warned the other sharply. "Hands up!" And Coquenil
obeyed. "My pistol is on you in this side pocket. If you move, I'll shoot
through the cloth."
"That's a cowboy trick; you must have traveled in the Far West," said M.
Paul lightly.
"Stand over there!" came the order. "Face against the wall! Hands high! Now
keep still!"
Coquenil did as he was bidden. He stood against the wall while quick
fingers went through his clothes, he felt his pistol taken from him, then
something soft and wet pressed under his nostrils. He gasped and a
sweetish, sickening breath filled his lungs, he tried to struggle, but
iron arms held him helpless. He felt himself drifting into unconsciousness
and strove vainly against it. He knew he had lost the battle, there was
nothing to hope for from this man--nothing. Well--it had been a finish
fight and--one or the other had to go. _He_ was the one, he was
going--going. He--he couldn't fix his thoughts. What queer lights! Hey,
Caesar! How silly! Caesar was dead--Oh! he must tell Papa Tignol that--a
man shouldn't swear so with a--red--nose. Stop! this must be the--_end_
and----
With a last rally of his darkening consciousness, Coquenil called up his
mother's face and, looking at it through the eyes of his soul, he spoke to
her across the miles, in a wild, voiceless cry: "I did the best I could,
little mother, the--the best I--could."
Then utter blackness!