Alias The Lone Wolf - Louis Joseph Vance
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"But your servants..."
"Well, monsieur, what of them?"
"For one thing, they sleep sincerely."
"There are sound-proof walls between their part of the house and this.
More than that, they are forbidden to intrude, no matter what may
happen, unless I summon them."
"But in the morning, Liane, when they regard this wreckage... I am
afraid they will think me a tempestuous lover!"
"They will find me a tempestuous mistress," promised Liane Delorme,
"when I question them about that open door."
XVIII
BROTHER AND SISTER
The storm had passed off, an ardent noonday sun was collaborating with
a coquettish breeze to make gay the window awnings of the chamber where
Lanyard, in borrowed pyjamas and dressing-gown of silk, lay luxuriously
bedded, listening to the purr of wide-awake Paris and, with an
excellent cigar to chew on, ruminating upon the problematic issue of
his latest turn of fortune, and not in the least downhearted about it.
Before turning in he had soaked and steamed most of the ache out of
bone and muscle in the hottest water his flesh would suffer; and six
hours unbroken slumber had done wonders toward lessening the distress
his exertions last night had occasioned in the frail new tissues of his
wound. Now, fresh from a cold shower following a second hot bath, and
further comforted by a petit dejeuner served in bed, he felt measurably
sane again, and sound in wind and limb as well, barring a few deep
bruises whose soreness would need several days to heal.
A pleasant languour, like a light opiate, infused his consciousness;
yet he was by no means mentally inactive.
The morning papers were scattered over the counterpane. Lanyard had
diligently scanned all the stories that told of the identification of
the murdered man of the Lyons rapide as the Comte de Lorgnes; and
inasmuch as these were of one voice in praising the Prefecture for that
famous feat of detective work, and not one line suggested that it did
not deserve undivided credit, Lanyard had nothing to complain of there.
As for the Montalais robbery it was not even mentioned. The restricted
size imposed upon French newspapers by the paper shortage of those days
crowded out of their columns everything but news in true sense, and
there could be none of that in connection with the Montalais affair
until either Andre Duchemin had been arrested or the jewels recovered
from the real thief or thieves. And Lanyard was human enough to be
almost as willing to have the first happen as the last, if it were not
given to him to be the prime factor in their restoration.
For the time being--if he must confess the truth--he was actually
rather enjoying himself, rather exhilarated than otherwise by the
swiftly shifting scenes and characters of his unfolding investigations
and by the brisk sword-play of wits in which he was called upon
constantly to engage; both essential ingredients of the wine of life
according to the one recipe he knew.
And then a review of recent events seemed to warrant the belief that,
all things considered, he had thus far made fair progress toward his
goal.
While it was true he did not as yet know what had become of the
Montalais jewels, he had gathered together an accumulation of evidence
which, however circumstantial and hypothetical, established acceptably
to his intelligence a number of interesting inferences, to wit:
That Dupont had not left the neighbourhood of the Chateau de Montalais,
after haunting it for upwards of a month, without definite knowledge
that he would gain nothing by staying on, or without an equally
definite objective, some motive more inspiring than such simple
sensuousness as he might find in assassinating inoffensive folk
indiscriminately.
That his attempt upon the life of Liane Delorme within twenty-four
hours of the murder of de Lorgnes indicated conviction on his part that
the two were coupled in some enterprise inimical to his personal
interests.
That in spite of his mask of a stupid pig Dumont was proving himself
mentally as well as physically an adversary worthy of all respect, and
was--what was worse--still to be reckoned with.
That, as Lanyard had suspected all along, the Monk party had been
visited upon the Chateau de Montalais through no vagary of chance
whatever but as part of a deliberate design whose ulterior motive had
transpired only with the disappearance of the jewels--to Dupont's vast
but understandable vexation of spirit.
That the several members of the Monk party had been working in entire
accord, as a close corporation; in which case the person whom the Comte
de Lorgnes had expected to meet in Lyons must have been Monk Phinuit or
Jules.
Consequently that at least one of the three last named had been the
actual perpetrator of the robbery; and by the same token, that Liane
had lied in asserting that Monk and retinue had sailed for America
nearly a week prior to its commission.
That Liane herself had not so suddenly decided to leave France, where
she was after a fashion somebody, and journey to America, where she
would be nobody, except in stress of mortal fear lest the fate that
had befallen de Lorgnes befall her in turn--as would surely have been
the case last night but for Lanyard.
That she must therefore have had a tolerably accurate knowledge either
of Dupont's identity or of the opposition interests which that one so
ably represented; and thus was better informed than poor de Lorgnes, to
whom Dupont had been unknown; which argued that Liane's role in the
intrigue was that of a principal, whereas de Lorgnes had figured only
as a subordinate.
That even if the woman did mean well toward Lanyard she was bound by
stronger ties to others, whom she must consider first, and who were
hardly likely to prove so well disposed; that her protestations of
friendship and gratitude must be valued accordingly.
Summing up, Lanyard told himself he could hardly be said to have let
grass grow under his feet since leaving Chateau de Montalais.
Now he found himself with a solitary care to nurse, the question: What
had her pillow advised Liane Delorme?
He was going to be exceedingly interested to learn what she, in the
maturity of her judgement, had decided to do about this man who
ingenuously suggested that she requite him for saving her life by
helping him recover the Montalais jewels.
On the other hand, since Lanyard had quite decided what he meant to do
about Liane in any event, her decision really didn't matter much; and
he refused to fret himself trying to forecast it. Whatever it might
turn out to be, it would find him prepared, he couldn't be surprised.
There Lanyard was wrong. Liane was amply able to surprise him, and did.
Ultimately he felt constrained to concede a touch to genius in the
woman; her methods were her own and never poor in boldness and
imagination.
It was without ceremony that she walked in on him at length, having
kept him waiting so long that he had begun to wonder if she meant to
try on anything as crude as abandoning him, and posting off to
Cherbourg without a word to seek fancied immunity in New York, while he
remained in an empty house without money, papers of identification, or
even fit clothing for the street; for, on coming out of his bath,
Lanyard had found all of these things missing, the valet de chambre
presumably having made off with his evening clothes, to have them
pressed and repaired.
Liane was dressed for travelling, becomingly if with a sobriety that
went oddly with her cultivated beaute du diable, and wore besides a
habit of preoccupation which, one was left to assume, excused the
informality of her unannounced entrance.
"Well, my dear friend!" she said gravely, halting by the bedside.
"It's about time," Lanyard retorted.
"I was afraid you might be growing impatient," she confessed. "I have
had so much to do..."
"No doubt. But if you had neglected me much longer I should have come
to look for you regardless of consequences."
"How is that?" she enquired with knitted brows--"regardless of what
consequences?"
"Any damage one might do to the morale of your menage by toddling about
in the voluptuous deshabille in which you behold me--my sole present
apology for a wardrobe."
She found only the shadow of a smile for such frivolity. "I have sent
for clothing for you," she said absently. "It should be here any minute
now. We only wait for that."
"You mean you have sent to the Chatham for my things?"
"But certainly not, monsieur!" Liane Delorme lied without perceptible
effort. "That would have been too injudicious. It appears you were not
mistaken in thinking you were recognized as Andre Duchemin last night.
Agents of the Prefecture have been all day watching at the Chatham,
awaiting your return."
"How sad for them!" In as much as he had every reason to believe this
to be outright falsehood, Lanyard didn't feel called upon to seem
downcast. "But if my clothing there is unavailable, I hardly see..."
"But naturally I have commissioned a person of good judgement to outfit
you from the shops. Your dress clothes--which seemed to suit you very
well last night--gave us your measurements. The rest is simplicity; my
orders were to get you everything you could possibly require."
"It's awfully sporting of you," Lanyard insisted. "Although it makes
one feel--you know--not quite respectable. However, if you will be so
gracious as to suggest that your valet de chambre return my pocketbook
and passports..."
"I have them here." The woman turned over the missing articles. "But,"
she demanded with an interest which was undissembled if tardy in
finding expression, "how are you feeling to-day?"
"Oh, quite fit, thank you."
"In good spirits, I know. But that wound--?"
Lanyard chose to make more of that than it deserved; one couldn't tell
when an interesting disability might prove useful. "I have to be a bit
careful," he confessed, covering the seat of injury with a tender hand,
"but it's nothing like so troublesome as it was last night."
"I am glad. You feel able to travel?"
"Travel?" Lanyard made a face of dismay. "But one is so delightfully at
ease here, and since the Prefecture cannot possibly suspect... Are you
then in such haste to be rid of me, Liane?"
"Not at all. It is my wish and intention to accompany you."
"Well, let us trust the world will be broad-minded about it.
And--pardon my not rising--won't you sit down and tell me what it is
all about."
"I have so little time, so many things to attend to."
Nevertheless, Liane found herself a chair and accepted a cigarette.
"Does one infer that we start on our travels to-day?"
"Within the hour; in fact, as soon as you are decently clothed."
"And where do we go, mademoiselle?"
"To Cherbourg, there to take steamer for New York."
Fortunately it was Lanyard's cue to register shock; it would have cost
him something to have kept secret his stupefaction. He sank back upon
his pillows and waggled feeble hands, while his respect for Liane grew
by bounds. She had succeeded in startling and mystifying him beyond
expression.
What dodge was this that cloaked itself in such anomalous semblance of
good faith? She had not known he was acquainted with her plan to leave
France; he had discounted a hundred devices to keep it from his
knowledge. And now she not only confessed it openly, but invited him to
go with her! In the name of unreason--why? She knew, for he had owned,
his possessing purpose. He did not for an instant believe Liane Delorme
would fly France and leave behind the Montalais jewels. Did she think
he did not suspect her of knowing more about them than she had chosen
to admit? Did she imagine that he was one of those who can see only
that which is in the distance? Did she do him the injustice to believe
him incapable of actually smelling out the jewels if ever he got within
range of them?
But conjecture was too idle, Liane was too deep for him; her intent
would declare itself when she willed it, not before, unless he could
lull her into a false sense of faith in him, trick her into betraying
herself by inadvertence.
"But, my dear friend, why America?"
"You recall asking me to help you last night? Did I not promise to do
what I could? Well, I am not one to forget my promise. I know
something, monsieur."
"I believe you do!"
"You gave me credit for having some little influence in this world of
Paris. I have used it. What I have learned--I shall not tell you how,
specifically--enables me to assure you that the Montalais jewels are on
their way to America."
"And I am to believe you make this journey to help me regain them?"
"What do you think, then?"
"I do not know what to think, mademoiselle. I am overwhelmed--abashed
and humbled by contemplation of such generosity."
"You see, you do not know me, monsieur. But you shall know me better
before we are finished."
"One does not question that." Nor did one! "But if I am to sail for
America to-day--"
"To-morrow, from Cherbourg, at eight in the morning."
"Well, to-morrow, then: but how am I to get my passport vised?"
"I have seen to that. If you will look over your papers, monsieur, you
will see that you are no longer Paul Martin alias Andre Duchemin, but
Paul Delorme, my invalid brother, still suffering from honourable
wounds sustained in the Great War and ordered abroad for his health."
To this Lanyard, hastily verifying her statement by running an eye
through the passport, found nothing more appropriate than a wondering
"Mon dieu!"
"So you see, everything is arranged. What have you to say?"
"Only that mademoiselle sweeps one off one's feet."
"Do you complain about that? You no longer doubt my devotion, my
gratitude?"
"Do not believe me capable of such stupidity!"
"That is very well, then. Now I must run." Liane Delorme threw away her
cigarette and rose. "I have a thousand things to do.... And, you
understand, we leave as soon as you are dressed?"
"Perfectly. By what train?"
"By no train. Don't you know there is a strike to-day? What have you
been reading in those newspapers? It is necessary that we motor to
Cherbourg."
"That is no little journey, dear sister."
"Three hundred and seventy kilometres?" Liane Delorme held this
equivalent of two-hundred and thirty English miles in supreme contempt.
"We shall make it in eight hours. We leave at four at latest, possibly
earlier; at midnight we are in Cherbourg. You shall see."
"If I survive..."
"Have no fear. My chauffeur drives superbly."
She was at the door when Lanyard stayed her with "One moment, Liane!"
With fingers resting lightly on the knob she turned.
"Speak English," he requested briefly. "What about Dupont?"
Simple mention of the man was enough to make the woman wince and lose
colour. Before she replied Lanyard saw the tip of her tongue furtively
moisten her lips.
"Well, and what of him?"
"Do you imagine he has had enough?"
"Who knows? I for one shall feel safe from him only when I knew he is
in the Sante or his grave."
"Suppose he tries to follow us to Cherbourg or to stop us on the
way..."
"How should he know?"
"Tell me who left the doors open for him last night, and I will answer
that question." The woman looked more than ever frightened, but shook
her head. "You didn't fail to question the servants this morning, yet
learned nothing?"
"It was impossible to fix the blame..."
"Have you used all your intelligence, I wonder?"
"What do you mean?"
"Have you reflected that, since Dupont got in after you came home, his
accomplice in your household is most probably one of those who were up
at that hour. Who were they?"
"Only two. The footman, Leon..."
"You trust him?"
"Not altogether. Now you make me think, I shall discharge him when I
leave, without notice."
"Wait. Who else?"
"Marthe, my maid."
"You have confidence in her loyalty?"
"Implicit. She has been with me for years."
Lanyard said "Open that door!" in a tone sharp with such authority that
Liane Delorme instinctively obeyed, and the woman whom Lanyard had seen
that morning coming down the stairs with the lighted candle entered
rather precipitately, carrying over one arm an evening wrap of gold
brocade and fur.
"Pardon, madame," she murmured, and paused. Aside from the awkwardness
of her entrance, she betrayed no confusion. "I was about to knock and
ask if madame wished me to pack this..."
"You know very well I shall need it," Liane said ominously. A look from
Lanyard checked a tirade, or more exactly compressed it into a single
word: "Imbecile!"
"Yes, madame."
Marthe hinted at rather than executed a courtesy and withdrew. Liane
shut the door behind her, and reapproached the bed, trembling with an
anger that rendered her forgetful, so that she relapsed into French.
"You think she was listening?"
"English, please!" To this Lanyard added a slight shrug..
"It is hard to believe," Liane averred unhappily. "After all these
years... I have been kind to that one, too!"
"Ah, well! At least you know now she will bear watching. You mean to
take her with you?"
"I did, until this happened. We quarrelled about it, last night. I
think she has a lover here in Paris and doesn't want to leave him."
"And now will you tell me that Dupont knows nothing of your intention
to motor to Cherbourg today?"
"No..." Disconsolate, Liane sank down into the chair and, resting an
elbow on the arm, clipped her chin in one hand. "Now I dare not go,"
she mused aloud. "Yet I must!... What am I to do?"
"Courage, little sister! It is I who have an idea." Liane lifted a gaze
of mute enquiry. "I think we are now agreed it rests between Marthe and
the footman Leon, this treachery." She assented. "Very well. Then let
them run the risks any further disloyalty may have prepared for us."
"I do not understand..."
"What automobile are you using for our trip this afternoon?"
"My limousine for you and me."
"And Marthe: how is she to make the journey?"
"In the touring car, which follows us with our luggage."
"It is fast, this touring car?"
"The best money can buy."
"Now tell me what you know about the chauffeur who drives the
limousine?"
"He is absolutely to be trusted."
"You have had him long in your employ?"
The woman hesitated, looked aside, bit her lip.
"As a matter of fact, monsieur," she said hastily, trying to cover her
loss of countenance with rapid speech--"it is the boy who drove us
through the Cevennes. Monsieur Monk asked me to keep him pending his
return to France, You understand, he is not to be away long--Monsieur
Monk--only a few weeks; so it would have been extravagant to take Jules
back to America for that little time. You see?"
Lanyard had the grace to keep a straight face. He nodded gravely.
"You make it all perfectly clear, little sister. And the driver of the
touring car: are you sure of him?"
"I think so. But you do not tell me what you have in mind."
"Simply this: At the last moment you will decide to take Leon with you.
Give him no more time than he needs to pack a handbag. Trump up some
excuse and let him follow with Marthe..."
"No difficulty about that. He is an excellent driver, Leon; he served
me as chauffeur--and made a good one, too--for a year before I took him
into the house, at his request; he said he was tired of driving. But if
the man I had meant to use is indisposed--trust me to see that he is--I
can call on Leon to take care of Marthe and our luggage in the touring
car."
"Excellent. Now presuming Dupont to be well informed, we may safely
bank on his attempting nothing before nightfall. Road traps can be too
easily perceived at a distance by daylight. Toward evening then, we
will let the touring car catch up. You will express a desire to
continue in it, because--because of any excuse that comes into your
head. At all events, we will exchange cars with Marthe and Leon,
leaving the latter to bring on the limousine while Jules drives for us.
Whatever happens then, we may feel sure the touring car will get off
lightly; for whether they're involved with Dupont or not, Leon and
Marthe are small fry, not the fish he's angling for."
"But will not Leon and Marthe suspect and refuse to follow?"
"Perhaps they may suspect, but they will follow out of curiosity, to
see how we fare, if for nothing else. You may lose a limousine, but you
can afford to risk that as long as you are not in it--eh, little
long-lost sister?"
"My dear brother!" Liane cried, deeply moved. She leaned forward and
caressed Lanyard's hand with sisterly warmth, in her admiration and
gratification loosing upon him the full candle-power of the violet eyes
in their most disastrous smile. "What a head to have in the family!"
"Take care!" Lanyard admonished. "I admit it's not half bad at times,
but if this battered old headpiece of mine is to be of any further
service to us, Liane, you must be careful not to turn it!"
XIX
SIX BOTTLES OF CHAMPAGNE
Once decided upon a course of action, Liane Delorme demonstrated that
she could move with energy and decision uncommon in her kind. Under her
masterly supervision, preparations accomplished themselves, as it were,
by magic.
It was, for example, nearer three than four o'clock when the expedition
for Cherbourg left the door of her town-house and Paris by way of the
Porte de Neuilly; the limousine leading with that polished pattern of a
chauffeur, Jules, at its wheel, as spick and span, firm of jaw and
imperturbable of eye as when Lanyard had first noticed him in Nant; the
touring car trailing, with the footman Leon as driver, and not at all
happy to find himself drafted in that capacity, if one might judge by a
sullen sort of uneasiness in his look.
Nothing was to be expected in the streets or suburbs, neither speed nor
any indication of the intentions (if any) of Dupont. Lanyard spared
himself the thankless trouble of watching to see if they were
followed--having little doubt they were--and took his ease by the side
of Liane Delorme.
Chatting of old times, or sitting in grateful silence when Liane
relapsed into abstraction--something which she did with a frequency
which testified to the heavy pressure of her thoughts--he kept an
appreciative eye on Jules, conceding at length that Liane's adjective,
superb, had been fitly applied to his driving. So long as he remained
at the wheel, they were not only in safe hands but might be sure of
losing nothing on the road.
It was in St. Germain-en-Laye that Lanyard first noticed the grey
touring car. But for mental selection of St. Germain as the likeliest
spot for Dupont to lay in waiting, and thanks also to an error of
judgment on the part of that one, he must have missed it; for there was
nothing strikingly sinister in the aspect of that long-bodied grey car
with the capacious hood betokening a motor of great power. But it stood
incongruously round the corner, in a mean side street, as if anxious to
escape observation; its juxtaposition to the door of a wine shop of the
lowest class was noticeable in a car of such high caste; and, what was
finally damning, the rat-faced man of Lyons was lounging in the door of
the wine shop, sucking at a cigarette and watching the traffic with an
all too listless eye shaded by the visor of a shabby cap.
Lanyard said nothing at the time, but later, when a long stretch of
straight road gave him the chance, verified his suspicions by looking
back to see the grey car lurking not less than a mile and a half
astern; the Delorme touring car driven by Leon keeping a quarter of a
mile in the rear of the limousine.
These relative positions remained approximately unchanged during most
of the light hours of that long evening, despite the terrific pace
which Jules set in the open country. Lanyard, keeping an eye on the
indicator, saw its hand register the equivalent of sixty English miles
an hour more frequently than not. It seldom dropped below fifty except
when passing through towns or villages. And more often than he liked
Lanyard watched it creep up to and past the mark seventy.
With such driving he was quite willing to believe that they would see
Cherbourg or Heaven by midnight if not before; always, of course,
providing...
For the first three hours Leon stood the pace well. Then nerves or
physical endurance began to fail, he dropped back, and the Delorme
touring car was thereafter seldom visible.
No more, for that matter, was the grey shadow. Lanyard's forecast
seemed to be borne out by its conduct: Dupont was biding his time and
would undoubtedly attempt nothing before nightfall. In the meantime he
was making no effort to do more than keep step with the limousine, but
at a decent distance. Only occasionally when, for this reason or that,
Jules was obliged to run at reduced speed for several minutes on end,
the grey car would draw into sight, always, however, about a mile
behind the Delorme touring car.
At about seven they dined on the wing, from the hamper which, with
Liane's jewel case in its leather disguise of a simple travelling bag,
constituted all the limousine's load of luggage. Lanyard passed
sandwiches through the front window to Jules, who munched them while
driving like a speed maniac, and with the same appalling nonchalance
washed them down with a tumbler of champagne. Then he discovered some
manner of sorcerous power over matches in the wind, lighted a
cigarette, and signalised his sense of refreshment by smoothly edging
the indicator needle up toward the eighty notch, where he held it
stationary until Lanyard and Liane with one accord begged him to
consider their appetites.