Kitabı oku: «The Broken Thread», sayfa 13
Chapter Twenty Five
The Beginning of the Revenge
Raife’s mind was already perturbed by the reflections it had undergone. The thought of Herrion searching for Lesigne outside his flat was more than he could tolerate. Hastily dressing, he let himself out of the door of the second flat, and, calling a taxi, drove to Doctor Malsano’s rooms.
No one can, for long, be the associate of thieves without acquiring their cunning. To play eavesdropper is a common precaution on the part of thieves. Raife overheard the doctor talking to Denoir, and the words had a sinister sound in his ears. It was the doctor speaking. “You shall have your revenge all right. I will see to that.”
Denoir’s high-pitched voice responded. “Yes, doctor, that big brute of an Englishman hit me. Hit me with his fists. I would like to shoot him.” Raife rang a bell, and the doctor opened the door. There was surprise on the face of the ex-officer when Raife confronted them. To show surprise was not part of the doctor’s stock-in-trade. So, with urbanity, he greeted his guest. “Ah, Mr Vachelle! You are a late visitor. Come in. To what do I owe the honour?”
Rather curtly, Raife replied: “I must talk to you to-night, doctor. Something has occurred.”
“Does it concern Mr Denoir?”
“No. It does not concern him.”
“Very well, I bid you good-night, Mr Denoir,” said the doctor, turning to that gentleman.
Mr Denoir retired, bowing low to both the other men.
“Come in, Mr Vachelle, or, as I may call you in here, Sir Raife,” added the doctor.
Raife was not in the mood to be trifled with and snapped out: “I’m not so sure of that. I heard what you said to that fellow Denoir just now.”
“Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re” was the doctor’s motto in business, and unctuously he replied: “Ah! that was nothing. The fellow was in a rage. You thrashed him and, naturally, he doesn’t like it. I only said that to soothe him. He knows a good deal, and can be dangerous, you know. So I thought it best to soothe him. You quite understand, don’t you, Sir Raife?”
Somehow, when the doctor undertook to explain a thing away, it all seemed so reasonable. Raife’s anger vanished in a smile. When they were seated and some of the doctor’s best cognac had been produced, Raife told how he had heard and seen the detective, Herrion, outside his door, and overheard him ask for Lesigne.
The doctor raised his eyebrows and smiled.
Raife continued: “I must give it up. I can’t have that clever little fellow hounding me down. It will never do. You can bet he’s been hunting for me all over Europe. He’ll find me, too.”
The doctor soothed the young man, as he would soothe a child. “Now, Sir Raife, don’t you fear. They call him a Scarlet Pimpernel, don’t they? He’s been trying to catch me for a dozen years. He hasn’t succeeded, and he won’t. Ha! ha!” Raife left late and returned in a taxi to his flat. Once he was in his room his spirit returned to him, and he determined, at all costs, to abandon his hateful life and return to his own form of civilisation.
In the morning he was busy packing a bag, and the floor was strewn with articles of clothing, when Gilda entered, exclaiming: “Hullo, Raife! Packing up? Where are you going?”
His mood remained determined, and he almost snarled: “Going? I’ve gone, it seems to me. Gone clean to the devil! I’m going away.”
Then came the appeal from Gilda. The appeal that he never could resist, and to which he had fallen so many times. She did not use many words. Her utter helplessness was the strong point of it all, and her complete love and trust in him. He sat in a huge chair with his head between his hands gazing vacantly in front of him. She knelt and looked up into those eyes that could glare with the fierce hate of passion, or shed the soft lovelight. She looked for the lovelight she had met there before, and she did not look in vain.
What Doctor Malsano had, for once, failed to accomplish, Gilda had again achieved. Raife was again conquered by the mysterious influence of this beautiful girl. He sprang to his feet and caught her in his arms, showering kisses on her forehead. “Gilda! Gilda! It’s got to be. Whilst you live I am yours. Yours to live and die for – to sink or swim for you.”
Then, hysterically, he almost shouted: “To hell with Herrion! I have started, and I will finish.” He slung each article of clothing back in its receptacle, and, turning to Gilda, said more restrainedly, “We will go into the country to-day, and revel in our flowers and trees, our sky and clouds. I am giving you my life. It is yours. My reason tells me that it can only end in trouble. I don’t care. Life is only possible to me when you are around. Now let us hie into the country and ‘make the most of what we yet may have to spend, before we, too’ – ”
Gilda threw herself into his arms and closed his lips with her hands – those clever, skilful hands, clever in crime, yet dainty as the hands of a queen of beauty. “Don’t quote those lines. They make me sad, and I want to be so happy with you to-day, Raife. Where shall we go?”
Raife considered for a moment and then said: “It will be running a risk, but I feel like running risks to-day. Let us go to Versailles. Let us watch all the splendour of those glorious days when men and women were brave in love and war, and dared to fight for honour.”
A pang went through him as he made this last allusion to “honour.” What was honour to him now? He had surrendered to a code, that did not count for honour among his equals, or those even who once might have been his inferiors. Quick disguise was a part of the craft of the career he had entered upon. He felt that he was less a buccaneer than a privateer. He was plundering the enemy, less for his personal profit than from the spirit of sheer devilment and adventure. There was no profit to him outside Gilda’s companionship.
On the brightest day of early summer they walked in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. The most perfect palace of the days when regal prodigality made France at the same time the most luxurious and the most poverty-stricken country in Europe, displayed its splendour in the full flood of warm sunshine. The fountains played and sparkled in a torrent of spray that suggested myriads of tiny precious stones. The air was perfumed with thousands of blossoms from the ornamental flower beds. The groups of statuary stood in bold relief, here against the warm blue sky or silver cloud, there against a bank of stately trees, rich in luxuriant foliage. Gay throngs of smartly-dressed women and children, mingled with the more sombre-clad men, who promenaded with all “la joie de vivre” that belongs to the Parisian on his own happy hunting ground.
Raife and Gilda, safe in their skilled disguises, mixed with the crowd, and revelled in the beauty and movement around them.
The day of the grand coup was approaching, when the house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées was to be plundered. This was to be the day when Raife was to exhibit those qualities of “agility, courage and daring” for which, in the language of Malsano’s insidious flattery, his countrymen were famous. Both Raife and Gilda felt that their next adventure was fraught with danger, and Raife had consented that Gilda on this occasion should assist in the operations. They therefore made the most of this joyous day at Versailles. It was evening when they decided to seek one of the more obscure little cabarets for their dinner. They were sauntering down an avenue with the long line of trees throwing shadows across the close-cropped grass, when a motor-car passed slowly by in the heavy rows of traffic. Raife looked at the occupant and recognised the Baroness von Sassniltz, his mother’s friend, whose jewels Gilda almost succeeded in stealing from the safe in the library at Aldborough Park. The baroness looked hard at Raife, but apparently did not see through his disguise.
The conflict of emotions which had disturbed him during the night and morning were now renewed. Gilda did not notice the car which carried the Baroness von Sassniltz, but, with the intuition of a lover, she did notice that Raife’s manner had drifted into an abstracted mood. He was thinking of his own anomalous position. He was worshipping at the shrine of a woman, whom he had detected in the act of “burgling” the jewels of his mother’s friend. This took place in his own house, and not only had he allowed her to escape, but he was here to-day with her expecting to participate with her in a crime of a similar nature. The situation was hideous, and all the glory of the day in Versailles had departed.
They walked along in silence for a while, until a passing taxicab arrested his attention, and he responded to the interrogative look of the driver by hailing it. They entered the taxi, and in response to the driver’s query, “Where shall I drive, monsieur?” he said: “Drive to the cabaret of ‘Le Sans Souci,’ at the end of the avenue, then to the left and about three miles along the main road. You will see it by a group of poplars, with a garden and a small lake in front.”
They had been to this little inn before, many times, and the blue-skirted and white-aproned old landlady was accustomed to their visits, and understood not only their simple requirements, but their desire for quietude. They sat in the simple, clean little room, with its dainty curtains, white napery and shining cutlery. The old lady fussed around for a while, chatting gaily, as is the wont of French landladies, whilst the bouillabaisse, cutlets, and superlative omelette were being prepared.
An old punt lay moored at the foot of some moss-covered steps leading to the lake. Pond lilies and chickweed covered the surface of the shallows that led from the steps to the deeper waters, which flickered in the moonlight. Clumps of willows and ash threw their shadows and reflected in the silent pool. Raife took the pole of this ancient, dilapidated punt and steered Gilda, who sat on a narrow seat of rough wood that constituted the only seat. Her neat, grey costume, rich in material but unobtrusive, contrasted with the ashen grey-greens of the old roughly-hewn punt. Thus, he standing up piloting the strange craft, took her over the warm waters, until reaching a deep pool which his pole failed to fathom they came to a rest. Here and there a ghostly bat, after the manner of a miniature vampire, flickered through the air, chasing the lesser night insects whose hum harmonised with the rest of that which was silence.
It was sylvan and, to an extent, idyllic, but it is dangerous to be associated with crime. The convert to crime, religion or politics, is ever the more impressionable, and his actions are liable to outstrip the prudence of those who have inherited the traditions of their creed. The gloom of the situation and the memory of his lost hopes and ambitions attacked Raife, and, in a despairing mood, he perceived the ease with which all could be ended by a quick death in this silent pool. He and Gilda together could complete the tragedy of their lives. He had no doubt that she would consent to suicide, but why should he consult her in the matter? To overturn the punt would be easy, for it was a crazy old craft, and thus, entwined, they would sink to the depths, to oblivion.
A voice came across the water. It travelled clearly, as sound will travel across still water on a quiet night. “Monsieur, votre dîner! C’est servi!” It was a cheery, pleasant voice, and it announced that dinner was served.
Neither seemed to hear the call. Gilda was in one off her trance moods, and Raife was contemplating his last crime. Again the voice floated over the lake. “Sir, your dinner is served.” Raife awakened from his own trance and leisurely paddled the punt from the deep pool to shallow water. From the depths of his determination to the shallows of the commonplace he was aroused by the old landlady of the cabaret, who was calling him back to life. His resonant voice responded, as he poled the punt vigorously to the moss and lichen-covered steps. “Eh bien, madame, nous arriverons au moment.” His voice was quite cheery now, and he hailed her again. “All right, we shall be there in a moment.” He moored the punt to the rusty iron ring attached to the steps. Gilda seemed to be still in a trance mood. Raife answered the old lady’s pleasant railleries. The taxi-driver, who had been ordered to wait, peeped into the room unobserved from the kitchen. His wants had been served. To himself he reflected: “Queer couple. They’re handsome enough, but there’s some trouble, I wager.”
Dinner was served, and death was forgotten.
Chapter Twenty Six
Sir Raife Remington, Baronet and Burglar
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 Elysées. 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 Elysées 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 Elysées, 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.
