be waiting," she told him simply--"watching every post for word from
you. I shan't worry, only for you."
He got up slowly from his chair, and stood half choking with
unutterable words.
"I know no way to thank you," he managed to say at last.
"For what?"
"For everything--kindness, charity, sympathy--"
"What are those things?" she demanded with a nervous little laugh.
"Words! Just words that you and I use to hide behind, like timid
children..." She rose suddenly and offered him her hand. "But I don't
think it's any use, my friend, I'm quite sure that neither of us is
deceived. No: say nothing more; the time is not yet and--we both can
wait. Only know I understand ... Go now"--her fingers tightened round
his--"but don't stay away any longer than you must, don't be influenced
by silly traditions, false and foolish standards when you think of me.
Go now"--she freed her hand and turned away--"but oh, come safely back
to me, my dear!"
XII
TRAVELS WITH AN ASSASSIN
Under a sky whose misty silver pulsed with waves of violet light and
dim glimmerings of gold, Lanyard, grey with the dust and weariness of
twenty leagues of heavy walking, trudged into the sleeping streets of
the town of Tournemire.
In the railway station--whose buvette served him such listless
refreshment as one may find at railway lunch-counters and nowhere else
the world over--a train was waiting with an apathetic crew and a
sprinkling of sleepy passengers, for the most part farm and village
folk of the department. There was nowhere in evidence any figure
resembling that of an agent de police.
Lanyard made enquiry, found that the train was destined for Le Vigan,
on the eastern slope of the Cévennes, and purchased a ticket for that
point.
Making himself as comfortable as might be in a depressingly third-rate
second-class compartment (there was no first class, and the third was
far too richly flavoured for his stomach) he cultivated a doze as the
train pulled out. But, driven as provincial trains habitually are, in a
high spirit of devil-may-care, its first stop woke him up with a series
of savage, back-breaking jolts which were translated into jerks when it
started on again and fiendishly reiterated at every suspicion of a
way-station on the course. So that he presently abandoned all hope of
sleep and sought solace in tobacco and the shifting views afforded by
the windows. Penetrating the upper valley of the Cernon, the railroad
skirted the southern boundary of the Causse Larzac, then laboriously
climbed up to the plateau itself; and Lanyard roused to the fact that
he was approaching familiar ground from a new angle: the next stop
would be Combe-Redonde.
The day was still in its infancy when that halt was made. Aside from
the station agent, not a soul waited upon the platform. But one or two
passengers were set down and, as the engine began to snort anew, a man
darted from behind the tiny structure that housed ticket-office and
waiting-room, galloped heavily across the platform, and with nothing to
spare threw himself into the compartment immediately behind that
wherein Lanyard sat alone.
This manoeuvre was performed so briskly and unexpectedly that Lanyard
caught barely a glimpse of the fellow; but one glimpse was enough to
convince him he had been wrong in assuming that Monsieur Albert Dupont
had sneaked back to Paris to hide from the authorities after failing to
assassinate André Duchemin more than three weeks ago.
But why--assuming one were not misled by a chance likeness to that
heavy but athletic figure so well-remembered--why had Dupont lingered
so long in the neighbourhood, in hourly peril of arrest? And why this
sudden departure in the chill break of dawn, a move so timed and
executed that it wore every sign of haste and fear?
No reasonable explanation offered in solution of either of these
riddles; unless, indeed, it were reasonable to believe that lust for
vengeance was the ruling passion in the Dupont nature, that the
creature had hung about the château in hope of getting another chance
at Duchemin, and had decided to give it up only on discovering
--inexplicably, at this hour--that the latter had stolen
away under cover of night. But Lanyard didn't believe that. Neither did
he believe that Dupont had had any hand in the robbery of night before
last, and was now in tardy flight. In truth, he didn't know what to
think, and the wildest flights of an imagination provoked by this
mystery were tame and timid in contrast with the truth as he was later
to learn it.
To an amateur in sensations there was true piquancy in the thought that
one was travelling in company with a thug who had already had two tries
for one's life and would not hesitate to essay a third; in the same
coach, separated only by the thin partition between the compartments,
safe only in the thug's unconsciousness of one's proximity! And this
without the privilege of denouncing the man to the police; for to do so
now would be to enmesh in the toils of the law not only Albert Dupont,
would-be assassin, but André Duchemin, charged with stealing the
Montalais jewels.
Lanyard would have given something for a peep-hole in the partition, to
be able to study the countenance of Dupont unaware that he was under
scrutiny. But he had to content himself with keeping vigil at the
windows, making sure that Dupont did not drop off at some one of those
many way-stations which the train was so scrupulous never to slight.
Monsieur Dupont, however, did not budge a foot out of his compartment
before the end of the run; and then Lanyard, purposely delaying, saw
Dupont get down from the compartment astern and make for the
booking-office at Le Vigan without a glance to right or
left--evidencing not the remotest interest in his late company on the
train, but rather a complete indifference, an absolute assurance that
he had nothing now to fear, and with this a preoccupation of mind so
thoroughgoing that Lanyard was able to edge up behind him, when he
paused at the guichet, and eavesdrop on his consultation with the clerk
of the ticket bureau.
Dupont desired ardently to proceed to Lyons with the least avoidable
delay. Under such conditions, according to the Indicateur des Chemins
de Fer, his best available route was via Nimes, where the next express
from Le Vigan made close connection with a northbound train rapide, due
to arrive in Lyons late in the afternoon.
There was, however, this drawback; or so the clerk declared after a
dubious summing up of the disreputable Dupont ensemble: whereas one
might travel any class as far as Nimes, the rapide for Lyons carried
only passengers of the first class.
But, said Dupont, with other blasphemy, all the world knew that the
sacred rapides had no sacred accommodations for sacred passengers of
the second and third class. Was he not the peer of any sacred
first-class pig that ever travelled by train in France? If not, he
proved the contrary to his own satisfaction by paying for his ticket
from an imposing accumulation of French bank-notes.
Then, with half an hour to wait, he lumbered into the buvette and
gorged, while Lanyard--having secured his own transportation for Lyons
by the some route--skulked in the offing and kept a close eye on the
gourmand.
Having eaten ferociously, Dupont came out, slouched into a seat on a
bench and, his thick limbs a-sprawl, consumed cigarette after cigarette
in most absolute abstraction of mind.
Observed thus, off his guard and at tolerably close range, with his
face clean of soot, he projected a personality so forbidding that
Lanyard marvelled at the guilelessness which must have influenced the
ladies of Château de Montalais to accept the man at his own valuation
and give him a place in their household.
The face of fat features was of porcine cast; the forehead low and
slanted sharply back into bristles of black hair, the snout long and
blunt, the lips flabby, the chin retreating, the jowls pendulous; the
eyes a pig's, little, cunning, and predaceous; the complexion sallow
and pimply from unholy living, with an incongruous over-layer of
sunburn. A type to inspire distrust, one would think, at sight; a
nature as repellant as a snake's, and ten times as deadly; in every
line and lineament, in every move and gesture, an Apache of the
Apaches...
As for the baleful reflections with which Dupont was patently concerned
to the exclusion of all considerations of either surveillance or
environment, Lanyard found himself so inquisitive that he had never a
thought but to follow and study the fellow till he surprised his
secret, if possible--at least so long as it might seem safe to do so.
Moreover, nothing could have suited his own purpose better than to
proceed to Paris by way of Lyons.
Nothing hindered the carrying out of his design. Still lost in thought
and inattentive, Dupont entrained for Nimes and at that station changed
to the rapide for Lyons, where duly at four o'clock--with Lanyard still
a discreet shadow--he alighted in the Gare de Perrache.
Here again fortune favoured the voluntary sleuth. The station was well
thronged, a circumstance which enabled him to keep inconspicuously
close to his victim. Furthermore, Dupont was obviously looking for
somebody, and so distracted. Presently a shabby, furtive little rat of
a man nudged his elbow, and Dupont followed him to a corner, where they
confabulated in undertones for many minutes; while Lanyard loitered
just outside their normal range of vision. An unnecessary precaution:
they were unafraid of observation, interested only in their private
concerns. The little man did most of the talking; Dupont seeming
content with a listening rôle, and gratified by what he heard. He
nodded frequently, and once or twice a grim smile enhanced the ugliness
of his mouth, a smile terrible in its contained savagery, fit to make
one's blood run cold, that cruelly relished in anticipation the success
of some evil scheme.
Not to be able to hear a word was exasperating to a degree....
The smaller villain produced something--a slip of paper--from a
waistcoat pocket, and handed it to Dupont, who examined it with
disfavour, shaking his head repeatedly to the other's recommendations.
Of a sudden he ended the argument by thrusting the slip back into the
hands of the jackal, growled a few words of imperative instruction,
jerked his thumb toward the ticket bureau, and without more ado turned
and strode from the terminus.
Alone, the little man rolled appealing eyes heavenward. Then he
shrugged in resignation, and trotted over to the guichet. Lanyard, now
with no fear of being recognised, ranged alongside and listened openly.
It seemed that, booked for Paris on the rapide to leave at one-twelve
in the morning, this lesser rascal had been assigned a certain
sleeping-car berth. Business of displaying the ticket: identified by
Lanyard as the object over which the conference had split. Now,
however, it appeared that a friend was to journey to Paris by the same
train, but in another sleeping-car. It was greatly desired by both that
they be separated no farther than necessity might dictate, that this
reservation might be exchanged for another in the same carriage with
the friend.
Thus far without interruption from the clerk of the ticket bureau. But
here ensued inevitably the violent French altercation between the two
human beings on either side of the guichet. Then, as suddenly as it had
arisen, the squall blew over, an amicable settlement was arrived at,
the exchange of reservation was effected, the small scoundrel, with ten
thousand thanks and profuse assurances of deathless esteem, departed
grinning.
Lanyard secured the rejected berth and went about his business
profoundly mystified, but not downhearted. Beyond shadow of fair doubt
Dupont was up to some new devilment, but Lanyard would be surprised if
its nature failed to develop on the train or at latest upon its arrival
in Paris the next morning. For the present he was weary of the sight of
the fat Apache, glad to believe he had seen the last of him for some
hours; he had much to do on his own part, nothing less in fact than
utterly to obliterate from human ken the personality of André Duchemin.
This affair involved several purchases; for he was travelling light
indeed, having left even his rucksack at the Château de Montalais.
Nevertheless it was no later than seven in the evening when he left a
room which he had engaged in a hotel so pretentious and heavily
patronised that he was lost in its ebb and flow of life, an
inconsiderable and unconsidered bit of flotsam--and left it a changed
man.
The pointed beard of Monsieur Duchemin was no more; and a little stain,
artfully applied, had toned the newly exposed flesh to match the tan of
the rest. The rough tweed walking-suit had been replaced by a modest
and commonplace blue serge, the cap and heavy brown boots by a straw
boater and plain black shoes, the loose-throated flannel shirt by one
of plain linen with stiff cuffs and a fold collar and neat foulard tie.
So easily was Madame de Sévénié's buccaneer metamorphosed into the
semblance of a Government clerk!
But this was by no means all. The papers of André Duchemin were crisp
black ashes in the fireplace of the room which Lanyard had just
quitted, all but the letter of credit; and this last was enclosed in an
envelope, to be sent to London by registered post with a covering note
to request that the unpaid balance be forwarded in French bank-notes to
Monsieur Paul Martin, poste restante, Paris; Paul Martin being the name
which appeared on an entirely new set of papers of identification which
Lanyard had thoughtfully secreted in the lining of the tweed coat
before leaving London.
If Lanyard wanted better testimony than that supplied by his bedroom
mirror to the thoroughness of the transformation in his looks, he had
it unsought, and that twice within an hour.
The first time was when, leaving the hotel to seek the post office and
despatch his letter to London, he found himself suddenly face to face
with Dupont, who was seated at a café table near the hotel entrance and
narrowly scrutinising all who passed in and out; covering this
occupation with affected interest in the gossip of his companion, the
little rat man of the Gare de Perrache.
At this rencontre Lanyard knew a momentary shock of doubt; perhaps he
hadn't been so clever as he had thought himself in trailing Dupont all
the way from Combe-Re-donde to Lyons. But the beady little eyes of a
pig comprehended him in a glance, and rejected him as of positively no
interest to Albert Dupont, a complete stranger and a cheap one at that.
So he fared serenely on his way, and Dupont gave him never another
thought.
Returning, Lanyard was favoured with even less attention; an error in
judgment which enabled him to remark that Dupont was in an ugly temper,
sullen and snappy, it might be because of a disappointment of some
sort, possibly in consequence of the liberal potations indicated by the
tall stack of little saucers at his elbow. As for the lesser villain,
he was already silly with drink.
One would have been glad of a chance to eavesdrop again upon those two;
but there was no vacant place within earshot of their table. Besides
Lanyard wanted his dinner. So he re-entered the hotel and sought its
restaurant, where the untiring Long Arm of Coincidence took him by the
hand and led him to a table immediately adjoining one occupied
exclusively by Monsieur le Comte de Lorgnes.
And this one in turn looked Lanyard up and down but, detecting in him
not the remotest flavour of reminiscence, returned divided attention to
a soup and the door of the restaurant, which he was watching just as
closely and impatiently as Dupont, outside, was watching the main
entrance, and apparently with as little reward for his pains.
But now, Lanyard told himself, one knew what had dragged Dupont in such
hot haste to Lyons. Somehow word had reached him, probably by
telegraph, that monsieur le comte was waiting there to keep a
rendezvous. And if you asked him, Lanyard would confess his firm
conviction that the other party to the rendezvous would prove to be the
person (or persons) who had effected the burglary at Château de
Montalais.
So he settled to keep an eye on monsieur le comte, and promised himself
an interesting evening.
But as time passed it became evident that there had been a hitch
somewhere; de Lorgnes was only human, he couldn't rendezvous all by
himself alone, and nobody turned up to help him out. He was fretting
when Lanyard first saw him; before his dinner was half served his nerve
was giving way. Continually his distracted gaze sought the door only to
turn back in disappointment to his plate. Everlastingly he consulted
his watch. His appetite failed, the hand that too often carried a glass
to his lips shook so that drops of wine spattered the cloth like blood;
he could not even keep a cigarette alive, but burned more matches than
tobacco. A heavy sweat bedewed his forehead; the ruddy colour of that
plump countenance grew sadly faded, the good-natured features drawn and
pinched with worry. By nine o'clock the man was hag-ridden by fear of
the unknown, by terror of learning what fault had developed in the
calculations of his confrères.
Efforts to fix his mind on an evening newspaper failed miserably. And
this was not for lack of interest in the news it published to the
citizens of Lyons. For Lanyard had a copy of the same sheet, and knew
that Eve had loyally kept her promise; a brief despatch from Millau
told of the simultaneous disappearance of one André Duchemin and the
jewels of Madame de Montalais, and added that the police were already
active in the case.
At length, unable longer to endure the growing tension of anxiety and
keep up a pretence of eating, de Lorgnes called for his addition and
fled the restaurant. Lanyard finished his own meal in haste, and
arrived in the foyer of the hotel in time to see de Lorgnes settle his
account at the bureau and hear him instruct a porter to have his
luggage ready for the one-twelve rapide for Paris. In the meantime,
anybody who might enquire for Monsieur le Comte de Lorgnes should be
directed to seek him in the café.
Thither Lanyard dutifully repaired; and wasted the rest of that
evening, which he had thought would prove so amusing, watching Dupont
and company watch de Lorgnes, to whom Dupont's barely dissembled
interest plainly meant nothing at all, but whose mental anguish grew to
be all but unbearable. Nor did the quantities of veeskysoda consumed by
the unhappy nobleman help him bear it, though undoubtedly he assured
himself it did. By midnight he was more than half-fuddled and wholly in
despair. Half an hour later he finished his eighth veeskysoda and wove
an unsteady but most dignified way back to the foyer of the hotel.
Immediately Dupont and his fellow, both markedly the worse for wear,
paid and left the café.
Lanyard returned to his room to get a new-bought travelling bag, and
started for the train afoot, a neat brown paper parcel under one arm.
On the way he made occasion to cross the Saône by one of its dozen
bridges, and paused in the middle of the span to meditate upon the
witchery of the night. When he moved on the brown paper parcel was
bearing merrily downstream the mortal remains of André Duchemin, that
is to say his discarded clothing.
In the Gare de Perrache Lanyard witnessed an affecting farewell scene
between the little man and Dupont. Not much to his surprise he
discovered that the former was not travelling to Paris that night,
after all; it was on Dupont's account alone that he had taken so much
trouble to secure the change of reservation.
And when Monsieur le Comte de Lorgnes had wavered through the gateway
in tow of a luggage-laden porter; and Dupont had torn himself away from
his fond familiar and lurched after the count; and Lanyard, after a
little wait, had followed in turn: he was able to see for himself that
Dupont had contrived to be berthed in the same carriage with de
Lorgnes; proving that he did not mean to let the count out of sight,
day or night.
Well weary, Lanyard proceeded to his own compartment, in the car ahead,
and turned in. A busy day, and not altogether unprofitable; whatever
expectations had been thwarted in this mild outcome, one had learned
much; and to-morrow one would resume the chase anew and, one rather
fancied, learn a deal more.
But he was not of those who sleep well on trains. In spite of his
extreme fatigue he woke up every time the rapide stopped. He was awake
at Dijon, at four in the morning, and again at Laroche, about a quarter
after six. There, peering out of the window to identify the station, he
was startled to see the broad, round-shouldered back of Albert Dupont
making away across the rails--leaving the train!
It was not feasible to dress and pursue, even had it been wise. And
Lanyard was vexed. Dupont, he felt, was hardly playing fair, after
giving one every reason to believe he meant to go through to Paris. And
what under heaven did the brute think to accomplish in Laroche? Was he
still after the Comte de Lorgnes? Then the latter must likewise have
fled the train! Or else ...
Something sinister in the slant of the Dupont shoulders, as he
vanished, something indescribably evil in his furtive yet heavy tread
of a beast of prey, struck a thrill of horror into the mind of Lanyard.
He shuddered, and warned himself he must learn to hold his imagination
in better check.
The newspapers of Paris, that day, had a sensation that crushed into
insignificance the news from Château de Montalais: in a compartment
which he had occupied alone on the night rapide from Lyons, a man had
been found with his throat cut, his clothing ripped to rags, even his
luggage slashed to ribbons.
Whether through chance or intention, every possible clue to the
victim's identity was missing.
XIII
ATHENAIS
In London, about noon of that day, a gentleman whom Lanyard most often
thought of by the name of Wertheimer deciphered a code message whose
contempt for customary telegraphic brevity was quite characteristic of
the sender, indeed a better voucher for his bona fides than the
initials appended in place of a signature. With some editing in the
way of punctuation, it follows:
"Dear old bean:--Please advise Prefecture de Police without revealing
your source of information, unidentified man found murdered on rapide
arriving Gare de Lyon eight-thirty this morning stopped yesterday Hôtel
Terminus, Lyons, under name of Comte de Lorgnes. During entire evening
before entraining he was shadowed by two Apaches, one of whom, passing
as Albert Dupont--probably recent and temporary alias--booked through
to Paris occupying berth in same carriage with Lorgnes, but detrained
Laroche six-fifteen, murder remaining undiscovered till arrival in
Paris. [An admirably succinct sketch of the physical Dupont is here
deleted.] 'In return for gift of this opportunity to place Préfecture
under obligations, please do me a service. As stranger in Paris I crave
passionately to review Night Life of Great City but am naturally timid
about going about alone after dark. Only society of beautiful,
accomplished, well-informed and agreeable lady of proved discretion can
put me thoroughly at ease. If you can recommend one such to me by
telegraph, stipulating her amiability must begin to function this
evening, you may depend on my not hesitating to ask further favours as
occasion may arise. Presume you have heard your old friend Duchemin,
now missing, is suspected of looting jewels of Madame de Montalais,
Château de Montalais, near Millau. He counts on your discretion to
preserve secret of his innocence pending further advices. Paul Martin
here stopping Hotel Chatham. Toodle-oo.
"M. L."
A telegram from London addressed to M. Paul Martin, Hotel Chatham,
Paris, was delivered late in the afternoon: