THE MANUFACTURE OF A VILLAIN
“Here’s crime,” I said darkly, as I touched glasses with O’Flather.
The man with the bull-dog face and the brindled hair knotched his sandy
eyebrows in interrogation.
“Down with the police,” I went on, taking a gloomy gulp of grenadine.
“Wot d’ye mean?” said my boon companion, suspending the operation of a
syphon to regard me suspiciously.
“O’Flather,” I lowered my voice to a mysterious whisper--“have you
never longed to revel in violence and blood? Have you never longed to
be a villain?”
“Can’t say as I have,” said O’Flather, somewhat relieved, proceeding to
sample the brandy and soda I had ordered for him.
“Is there no one you hate?” I suggested; “hate with a deadly hatred. No
one you wish to be revenged on, terribly revenged on?”
“Can’t say as there is,” said the fat man thoughtfully. “But wait; yes,
by the blasting blazes, there’s the skirt wot put my show on the blink.
I’d give a month in chokey to get even with her.”
“What would you do if you met her?” I demanded.
“Wot would I do?” he snarled, and his cod-mouth opened to show those
teeth like copper and verdigris clenched in venomous hate; “I’d do her
up, that’s wot I would do.” He banged his big, fat fist down on the
table. “I’d pound her face in. I’d beat her to a jelly. I’d leave about
as much life in her as a sick fly.”
“Did you never find out where she went?” I asked.
“Nary a trace,” he said vindictively. “I hiked it over here to see if
I could get on her tracks. They say if you wait long enough by the
Caffay-day-la-Pay corner all the folks you’ve ever known will come
along some day. Well, I’ve been waiting round there doing the guide
business, but nary a trace.”
“What would you say if I told you where she is?”
“I should say you was a good pal.”
“Well, then, O’Flather, I saw her only this morning.”
“The blazes! Tell me where an’ I’ll start after her right now.”
“Easy on, my lad. Don’t get excited. Let’s talk the matter over coolly.
I’m sure it’s the girl I saw in the doorway of your Exhibition that
night. It struck me as so odd I inquired her name. Let me see; it was
Guin ... Guin ... Ah! Guinoval.”
“By Christmas, that’s her; that’s her; curse her. Where is she?”
“Wait a bit; wait a bit, O’Flather. Revenge is a beautiful thing. I
believe in it. If a man hits you hit him back, only harder. But while
I approve your motive, I deprecate your method. It’s too primitive, my
dear man, too brutally primitive.”
“Wot d’ye mean? D’ye think it’s too much to beat her up after the dirty
trick she played me?”
“Keep cool, O’Flather. Have a little imagination. There are other ways
that you could hurt her far more than by resorting to crude violence.
She’s a very honest girl, I believe. Sets a great deal on her
reputation. Well, then, instead of striking at the girl, strike at her
reputation.”
“But how? Wotter you getting at?”
“It’s simple enough. These days the popular form of villainy is White
Slavery. Become a White Slaver. What’s to prevent you abducting the
girl, having her taken to that Establishment you so strenuously
represent--your Crystal Palace? Once within those doors it’s pretty
hard for her to get out again. You have her at your mercy and the
Institution ought to pay you handsomely.”
“But it’s a risky business. You know them French judges have no mercy
on a foreigner. If I was caught I’d get it in the neck.”
“Don’t do the actual abduction yourself. You’re too fat and too
conspicuous to do the job yourself. Besides, she knows you. Get three
of these bullies that hang around the Crystal Palace to do it for you.
You wait there till they come with the girl.”
“But how would they know her?”
“That’s true. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, O’Flather, being a bit
of a villain myself, and ready to help a pal; I’ll go with your cadets,
or whatever they are, and point out the girl. You engage your men.
We’ll all go down in a taxi. The chauffeur must understand that he’s
to ask no questions. When the girl comes along I point her out. Gaston
rushes in with a chloroformed rag. Alphonse and Achille grab her arms.
Presto! in a moment she’s in the taxi. In ten minutes she’s in your
Crystal Palace. Is it not easy?”
“Seems so,” he said thoughtfully. “I think I could get the men for
to-night. Won’t two do? Sure it needs three?”
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully; “it might be better even with four, but I
think three will do. I’ve found that she goes to work every morning
about two o’clock, and takes the same road always. It’s dark then,
and the road’s almost deserted. I can be at the Place de l’Opera at
half-past one, when you can meet me with your men and a taxi. How will
that do?”
“Right O! I’ll be there. To-night then. Half-past one. And say! tell me
before you go whereabouts this abduction business is going to be done.
It don’t matter to me, but you might be a little more confidential.
Where’s she working?”
“She’s working in the _Halles_ and she goes by the name of Séraphine
Guinoval.”
* * * * *
The night was come, and though I arrived punctually at the rendezvous
O’Flather and his myrmidons were there before me. The fat man was
tremendously excited and fearfully nervous. His hand shook so that he
spoiled two cigarettes before he got one rolled decently. He sank his
voice to a hoarse whisper.
His accomplices were of the usual type of _souteneurs_--little, dark,
dapperly-dressed men with lantern-jawed faces, small black moustaches
and cigarettes in their cynical mouths. Their manner was sullenly cool
and contemptuous--a contempt that seemed to extend to their patron.
There was no time to lose. We all bundled into the waiting taxi.
“Good luck to ye,” said O’Flather. “I’ll be off now and wait. The boys
know where to take the jade. Once they get her into the taxi the rest
is easy. I’ll be waiting there to give her the glad hand; and extend,
so to say, the hospitality of the mansion. You’re sure you know where
to drop on her?”
“Sure. She’s as regular as clock-work, passing the same corner and
always alone. Rely on that part of it. The rest lies with your
satellites and with you.”
“All right,” he chuckled malevolently. “The thing’s as good as done. So
long now. See you to-morrow same place.”
The taxi darted off, and the last I saw of my villain was his immense
bull-dog face lividly glowering in the up-turned fur collar of his
coat, and his ham-like hand waved in farewell.
We were embarked on the venture now, and even I felt a thrill as I
looked at the dark, dissolute faces of the men by my side. At that
moment the affair began to seem far more serious than I had bargained
for, and I almost wished myself out of it. But it was too late to turn
back. I must play my part in the plot.
I had selected a narrow pavement and a dark doorway as the scene of
operations. It would be very easy for three men lurking there to
rush any passer-by into a taxi at the edge of the pavement without
attracting attention. As I explained, I could see my three braves
agreed with me. They shrugged their shoulders.
“_Parbleu!_ It’s too easy,” they said, and retiring into the doorway
they lit fresh cigarettes.
How slowly the time seemed to pass! I paced up and down the pavement
anxiously. Several times I felt like bolting. The false beard I had
donned was so uncomfortable; and, after all, I began to think, it
was rather tough on my _belle-mère_. There in the darkened doorway
I could see the glow of three cigarettes, and I could imagine the
contemptuous, sneering eyes behind them. Hunching forward, the
chauffeur seemed asleep. The street was silent, dark, deserted. Then
suddenly I heard a step ... it was her.
Yes, there was no doubt. Passing under a distant lamp I had a
convincing glimpse of her. I could not mistake the massive figure
waddling along in the black serge costume of the market women, with the
black shawl over her shoulders, the black umbrella in the hand. She was
hatless too, and carried a satchel. All this I saw in a vivid moment
ere I turned to my bullies and whispered huskily:
“Ready there, boys! She comes.”
My excitement seemed to communicate itself to them. Their cigarettes
dropped, and Alphonse peered out almost nervously.
“_Sapristi!_ that her?” he exclaimed hoarsely. “You are sure, Monsieur?”
“Yes, yes; sure, sure. She’s a _large_ girl.”
He shrugged his shoulders as if to say: “Monsieur, our patron, he has a
droll taste among the women, _par exemple_. But that is not our affair.
Steady there Gaston and Alphonse! Get ready for the spring.”
The three men were tense and _couchant_; the chauffeur snored steadily;
the unsuspecting footsteps drew nearer and nearer. Crossing the street,
I stood in the shadow on the other side.
What happened in the next half minute I can only surmise. I saw three
dark shadows launch themselves on another shadow. I heard a scream of
surprise that was instantly choked by a hairy masculine hand. I heard
another hoarse yell as a pair of strong teeth met in that masculine
hand. I heard volleys of fierce profane Gallic expletives, grunts,
groans, yelps of pain and the unmistakable whacking of an umbrella.
Evidently my desperadoes weren’t having it all their own way. The
bigger shadow seemed to be holding the smaller ones at bay, striking
with whirling blows at them every time they tried to rush in. The
smaller shadows seemed to be less and less inclined to rush in; each
was evidently nursing some sore and grievous hurt, and the joy of
battle did not glow in them. There is no doubt they would have retired
discomfited had not their doughty antagonist suddenly tripped and
fallen with a resounding thump backwards. Then with a mutual yell of
triumph they all knelt on her chest.
She was down now, but not defeated. Still she fought from the ground,
but their united weight was too much for her. She fell exhausted. Then
with main strength they hauled, pushed, lifted her into the taxi, and
piling in after her, panting and bleeding from a score of wounds, they
sat on her as fearfully as one might sit on an exhausted wild cat. The
taxi glided away, and I saw them no more.
As to the sequel, I found it all in the columns of the _Matin_ two
mornings after. Herewith is a general translation:
“Madame Séraphine Guinoval is a buxom brunette who carries on a
flourishing business in Les Halles. To look at her no one would
suspect her of inspiring an ardent and reckless passion; yet early
yesterday morning Madame Guinoval was the victim of an abduction such
as might have occurred in the pages of romance.
“It was while she was going to her work in the very early morning
that the too fascinating fair one was set upon by three young
apaches and conveyed to a well-known temple of Venus. Madame Guinoval
appears to have given a good account of herself, judging from the
condition of her assailants as they confronted the magistrate this
morning. All three suffer from bites, one received as he sat on the
lady’s head; their faces are scratched as by a vigorous young cougar;
two have eyes in mourning, while each claims to have received severe
bodily injuries. A more sorry trio of kidnappers never was seen.
“But their plight is nothing to that of the instigator of the plot--a
certain Irish American, known as the Colonel Offlazaire, a well-known
_boulevardier_. He, it seems, became so infatuated with the charms of
the fair _Marchande d’escargots_ that with the impetuous gallantry
of his race he was determined to possess her at all costs. Alas!
luckless, lovelorn swain! He is now being patched up in the hospital.
“The real trouble began, it seems, when they got the Guinoval safely
within that pension for young ladies kept by Madame Lebrun on the
rue Montmartre. They put her in a dark room and turned the key in
the door. Then to her entered the Chevalier Offlazaire, locked the
door, and turned on the light. He then must have entered into a
violent argument with the fair one, for presently were heard sounds
of commotion from behind the closed door, a man’s voice pleading for
mercy, and the smashing of furniture. So fierce, indeed, did the
turmoil become, that presently the proprietress of the establishment,
supported by a bodyguard of her fair pensionnaires, felt constrained
to open the door with her private key.
“Not a moment too soon! For the unfortunate Chevalier Colonel was
already _hors de combat_, while over him, the personification of
outraged virtue, poised the amazonian Séraphine, whirling a chair
around her head in a berserker rage. Terrified, Madame Lebrun and her
protégées fled screaming; then the infuriated lady of the _Halles_
proceeded to reduce the establishment to ruins. Very little that was
breakable escaped that flail-like chair swung by outraged virtue.
Particularly did she devote her attention to the room known as the
Crystal Palace, where she smashed all the mirrors that compose
the walls, and then ended by reducing to ruins the magnificent
candelabra. Her frenzy of destruction was only interrupted by the
arrival of the police.
“In consequence of the serio-comic character of the affair, and its
disastrous effects on those who promoted it, the magistrate was
inclined to be lenient. A nominal fine of fifty francs was imposed on
each of the three accomplices, while the illustrious O’Flather was
fined two hundred francs, and found himself so ridiculously notorious
that he departed for pastures new.”
(As for Madame Guinoval, I think she enjoyed the whole thing
immensely.)