Red Masquerade - Louis Joseph Vance
RED MASQUERADE
Being the Story of THE LONE WOLF'S DAUGHTER
BY
LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
1921
[Illustration: "_Prince Victor gave a gesture of pain and reluctance. 'Must
I tell you?_'"]
TO J. PARKER READ, JR., ESQ. THE CINEMA THAT WAS HIS
APOLOGY
This tale quite brazenly derives from the author's invention for motion
pictures which Mr. J. Parker Read, Jr., produced in the autumn of 1919
under the title of "The Lone Wolf's Daughter."
It is only fair to state, however, that the author has in this version
taken as many high-handed liberties with the version used by the photoplay
director as the latter took with the original.
The chance to get even for once was too tempting....
Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Company in the first instance, and then Mr.
Arthur T. Vance, editor of _The Pictorial Review_, in which the story was
published as a serial, were equally guilty of the encouragement which
results in its appearance in its present guise.
L.J.V.
Westport--31 December, 1920.
Books by Louis Joseph Vance
CYNTHIA-OF-THE-MINUTE
JOAN THURSDAY
NOBODY
NO MAN'S LAND
POOL OF FLAME
PRIVATE WAR
SHEEP'S CLOTHING
THE BANDBOX
THE BLACK BAG
THE BRASS BOWL
THE BRONZE BELL
THE DARK MIRROR
THE DAY OF DAYS
THE DESTROYING ANGEL
THE FORTUNE HUNTER
THE ROMANCE OF TERENCE O'ROURKE
TREY O' HEARTS
_Stories About "The Lone Wolf"_
THE LONE WOLF
THE FALSE FACES
RED MASQUERADE
ALIAS THE LONE WOLF
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE: A CHAPTER FROM THE YOUTH OF MONSIEUR MICHAEL LANYARD
I PLEBEIAN AND PRINCE
II THE PRINCESS SOFIA
III MONSIEUR QUIXOTE
IV THE FOOL AND HIS MONEY
V IMPOSTOR
VI THERESE
VII FAMILY REUNION
VIII GREEK VS. GREEK
IX PAID IN FULL
BOOK TWO: THE LONE WOLF'S DAUGHTER
I THE GIRL SOFIA
II MASKS AND FACES
III THE AGONY COLUMN
IV MUTINY
V HOUSE OF THE WOLF
VI THE MUMMER
VII THE FANTASTICS
VIII COUNCIL OF THE GODLESS
IX MRS. WARING
X VICTOR ET AL
XI HEARTBREAK
XII SUSPECT
XIII THE TURNIP
XIV CONFERENCE OF THE DAMNED
XV INTUITION
XVI THE CRYSTAL
XVII THE RAISED CHEQUE
XVIII ORDEAL
XIX UNMASKING
XX THE DEVIL TO PAY
XXI VENTRE A TERRE
XXII THE SEVEN BRASS HINGES
BOOK I
A CHAPTER FROM THE YOUTH OF MONSIEUR MICHAEL LANYARD
RED MASQUERADE
I
PLEBEIAN AND PRINCE
The gentleman was not in the least bored who might have been and was seen
on that wintry afternoon in Nineteen hundred, lounging with one shoulder to
a wall of the dingy salesroom and idly thumbing a catalogue of effects
about to be put up at auction; but his insouciance was so unaffected that
the inevitable innocent bystander might have been pardoned for perceiving
in him a pitiable victim of the utterest ennui.
In point of fact, he was privately relishing life with enviable gusto. In
those days he could and did: being alive was the most satisfying pastime he
could imagine, or cared to, who was a thundering success in his own conceit
and in fact as well; since all the world for whose regard he cared a
twopenny-bit admired, respected, and esteemed him in his public status, and
admired, respected, and feared him in his private capacity, and paid him
heavy tribute to boot.
More than that, he was young, still very young indeed, barely beyond the
threshold of his chosen career. To his eagerly exploring eye the future
unrolled itself in the likeness of an endless scroll illuminated with
adventures all piquant, picturesque, and profitable. With the happy
assurance of lucky young impudence he figured the world to himself as his
oyster; and if his method of helping himself to the succulent contents of
its stubborn shell might have been thought questionable (as unquestionably
it was) he was no more conscious of a conscience to give him qualms than he
was of pangs of indigestion. Whereas his digestive powers were superb....
This way of killing an empty afternoon, too, was much to his taste. The man
adored auctions. To his mind a most delectable flavour of discreet scandal
inhered in such collections of shabby properties from anonymous homes.
Nothing so piqued his imagination as some well-worn piece of furniture--say
an ancient escritoire with ink stains on its green baize writing-bed (dried
life-blood of love letters long since dead!) and all its pigeon-holes and
little drawers empty of everything but dust and the seductive smell of
secrets; or a dressing-table whose bewildered mirror, to-day reflecting
surroundings cold and strange, had once been quick and warm to the beauty
of eyes brilliant with delight or blurred with tears; or perchance a
bed....
And even aside from such stimuli to a lively and ingenious fancy, there was
always the chance that one might pick up some priceless treasure at an
auction sale, some rare work of art dim with desuetude and the disrespect
of ignorance: jewellery of quaintest old-time artistry; a misprized bit of
bronze; a book, it might be an overlooked copy of a first edition inscribed
by some immortal author to a forgotten love; or even--if one were in rare
luck--a picture, its pristine brilliance faded, the signature of the artist
illegible beneath the grime of years, evidence of its origin perceptible
only to the discerning eye--to such an eye, for instance, as Michael
Lanyard boasted. For paintings were his passion.
Already, indeed, at this early age, he was by way of being something of a
celebrity, in England and on the Continent, as a collector of the nicest
discrimination.
And then he found unfailing human interest in the attendance attracted by
auction sales; in the dealers, gentlemen generally of pronounced
idiosyncrasies; in the auctioneers themselves, robust fellows, wielding a
sort of rugged wit singular to their calling, masters of deep guile,
endowed with intuitions which enabled them at a glance or from the mere
intonation of a voice to discriminate between the serious-minded and those
frivolous souls who bid without meaning to buy, but as a rule for nothing
more than the curious satisfaction of being able to brag that they had been
outbid.
But it was in the ranks of the general public that one found most
amusement; seldom did a sale pass off undistinguished by at least one
incident uniquely revealing or provocative. And for such moments Lanyard
was always on the qui vive, but quietly, who knew that nothing so quickly
stifles spontaneity as self-consciousness. So, if he studied his company
closely, he was studious to do it covertly; as now, when he seemed
altogether engrossed in the catalogue, whereas his gaze was freely roving.
Thus far to-day a mere handful of people other than dealers had drifted in
to wait for the sale to begin--something for which the weather was largely
to blame, for the day was dismal with a clammy drizzle settling from a low
and leaden sky--and with a solitary exception these few were commonplace
folk.
This one Lanyard had marked down midway across the room, in the foremost
row of chairs beneath the salesman's pulpit: by his attire a person of
fashion (though his taste might have been thought a trace florid) who
carried himself with an air difficult of definition but distinctive enough
in its way.
Whoever he was and what his quality, he was unmistakably somebody of
consequence in his own reckoning, and sufficiently well-to-do to dress the
part he chose to play in life. Certainly he had a conscientious tailor and
a busy valet, both saturate with British tradition. Yet the man they served
was no Englishman.
Aside from his clothing, everything about him had an exotic tang, though
what precisely his racial antecedents might have been was rather a riddle;
a habit so thoroughly European went oddly with the hints of Asiatic strain
which one thought to detect in his lineaments. Nevertheless, it were
difficult otherwise to account for the faintly indicated slant of those
little black eyes, the blurred modelling of the nose, the high cheekbones,
and the thin thatch of coarse black hair which was plastered down with
abundant brilliantine above that mask of pallid features.
The grayish pallor of the man, indeed, was startling, so that Lanyard for
some time sought an adjective to suit it, and was content only when he hit
on the word _evil_. Indeed, evil seemed the inevitable and only word; none
other could possibly so well fit that strange personality.
His interest thus fixed, he awaited confidently what could hardly fail to
come, a moment of self-betrayal.
That fell more quickly than he had hoped. Of a sudden the decent quiet of
King Street, thus far accentuated rather than disturbed by the routine
grind of hansoms and four-wheelers, was enlivened by spirited hoofs whose
clatter stilled abruptly in front of the auction room.
Turning a speciously languid eye toward the weeping window, Lanyard had a
partial view of a handsomely appointed private equipage, a pair of spanking
bays, a liveried coachman on the box.
The carriage door slammed with a hollow clap; a footman furled an umbrella
and climbed to his place beside the driver. As the vehicle drew away, one
caught a glimpse of a crest upon the panel.
Two women entered the auction room.
II
THE PRINCESS SOFIA
These ladies were young, neither much older than Lanyard, both were very
much alive, openly betraying an infatuation with existence very like his
own, and both were lovely enough to excuse the exquisite insolence of their
young vitality.
As is frequently the case in such associations, since a pretty woman seldom
courts comparison with another of her own colouring, one was dark, the
other fair.
With the first, Lanyard was, like all London, on terms of visual
acquaintance. The reigning beauty of the hour, her portrait was enjoying a
vogue of its own in the public prints. Furthermore, Lady Diantha Mainwaring
was moderately the talk of the town, in those prim, remotely ante-bellum
days--thanks to high spirits and a whimsical tendency to flout the late
Victorian proprieties; something which, however, had yet to lead her into
any prank perilous to her good repute.
The other, a girl whose hair of golden bronze was well set off by Russian
sables, Lanyard did not know at all; but he knew at sight that she was far
too charming a creature to be neglected if ever opportunity offered to be
presented to her. And though the first article of his creed proscribed
women of such disastrous attractions as deadly dangerous to his kind, he
chose without hesitation to forget all that, and at once began to cudgel
his wits for a way to scrape acquaintance with the companion of Lady
Diantha.
Their arrival created an interesting bustle, a buzz of comment, a craning
of necks--flattery accepted by the young women with ostensible unconcern, a
cliche of their caste. As they had entered in a humour keyed to the highest
pitch of gaiety consistent with good breeding, so with more half-stifled
laughter they settled into chairs well apart from all others but, as it
happened, in a direct line between Lanyard and the man whose repellent cast
of countenance had first taken his interest.
Thus it was that Lanyard, after eyeing the young women unobserved as long
as he liked, lifted his glance to discover upon that face a look that
amazed him.
It wasn't too much to say (he thought) that the man was transfigured by
malevolence, so that he blazed with it, so that hatred fairly flowed, an
invisible yet manifest current of poisoned fire, between him and the girl
with the hair of burnished bronze.
All the evil in him seemed to be concentrated in that glare. And yet its
object remained unconscious of it or, if at all sensitive, dissembled
superbly. The man was apparently no more present to her perceptions than
any other person there, except her companion.
Presently, becoming sensible of Lanyard's intrigued regard, the man looked
up, caught him in a stare and, mortally affronted, rewarded him with a look
of virulent enmity.
Not to be outdone, Lanyard gave a fleeting smile, a bare curving of lips
together with an almost imperceptible narrowing of amused eyes--goading the
other to the last stage of exasperation--then calmly ignored the fellow,
returning indifferent attention to the progress of the sale.
Since nothing was being offered at the moment to draw a bid from him, he
maintained a semblance of interest solely to cover his thoughts, meanwhile
lending a civil ear to the garrulous tongue of a dealer of his acquaintance
who, having edged nearer to indulge a failing for gossip, found a ready
auditor. For when Lanyard began to heed the sense of the other's words,
their subject was the companion of Lady Diantha Mainwaring.
"... Princess Sofia Vassilyevski, you know, the Russian beauty."
Lanyard lifted his eyebrows the fraction of an inch, meaning to say he
didn't know but at the same time didn't object to enlightenment.
"But you must have heard of her! For weeks all London has been talking
about her jewels, her escapades, her unhappy marriage."
"Married?" Lanyard made a sympathetic mouth. "And so young! Quel dommage!"
"But separated from her husband."
"Ah!" Lanyard brightened up. "And who, may one ask, is the husband?"
"Why, he's here, too--over there in the front row--chap with the waxed
moustache and putty-coloured face, staring at her now."
"Oh, that animal! And what right has he got to look like that?"
The buzz of the scandalmonger grew more confidential: "They say he's never
forgiven her for leaving him--though the Lord knows she had every reason,
if half they tell is true. They say he's mad about her still, gives her no
rest, follows her everywhere, is all the time begging her to return to
him--"
"But who the deuce is the beast?" Lanyard interrupted, impatiently. "You
know, I don't like his face."
"Prince Victor," the whisper pursued with relish--"by-blow, they say, of a
Russian grand duke and a Manchu princess--half Russian, half Chinese, all
devil!"
Without looking, Lanyard felt that Prince Victor's stare had again shifted
from the women, and that the mongrel son of the alleged grand duke was
aware he had become a subject of comment. So the eminent collector of works
of art elected to dismiss the subject with a negligent lift of one
shoulder.
"Ah, well! Daresay he can't help his ugly make-up. All the same, he's
spoiling my afternoon. Be a good fellow, do, and put him out."
The Briton chuckled a deprecating chuckle; meaning to say, he hoped Lanyard
was spoofing; but since one couldn't be sure, one's only wise course was to
play safe.
"Really, Monsieur Lanyard! I'm afraid one couldn't quite do _that_, you
know!"
III
MONSIEUR QUIXOTE
The sale dragged monotonously. The paintings offered were mostly of
mediocre value. The gathering was apathetic.
Lanyard bid in two or three sketches, more out of idleness than because he
wanted them, and succeeded admirably in seeming ignorant of the existence
of the Princess Sofia and the husband whose surface of a blackguard was so
harmonious with his reputation.
In time, however, a change was presaged by an abrupt muting of that
murmured conversation between the beautiful Russian and the almost equally
beautiful Englishwoman. An inquisitive look discovered the princess sitting
slightly forward and intently watching the auctioneer.
The pose of an animated, delightful child, hanging breathlessly upon the
progress of some fascinating game: one's gaze lingered approvingly upon a
bewitching profile with half-parted lips, saw that excitement was faintly
colouring the cheeks beneath shadowy and enigmatic eyes, remarked the sweet
spirit that poised that lovely head.
And then one looked farther, and saw the prince, like the princess,
absorbed in the business at the auction block, his slack elegance of the
raffish aristocrat forgotten, all his being tense with purpose, strung
taut--as taut at least as that soft body, only half-masculine in mould and
enervated by loose living, could ever be. One thought of a rather elderly
and unfit snake, stirred by the sting of some long-buried passion out of
the lassitude of years of slothful self-indulgence, poising to strike....
At the elbow of the auctioneer an attendant was placing on exhibition a
landscape that was either an excellent example of the work of Corot or an
imitation no less excellent. At that distance Lanyard felt inclined to dub
it genuine, though he knew well that Europe was sown thick with spurious
Corots, and would never have risked his judgment without closer inspection.
He was accordingly perplexed when, after a brief exhortation by the
auctioneer, discreetly noncommittal as to the antecedents of the
canvas--"attributed to Corot"--Prince Victor, who had been straining
forward like a hound in leash, half rose in his eagerness to offer:
"One thousand guineas!"
The entire company stirred as one and sat up sharply. Even the auctioneer
was momentarily stricken dumb. And for the first time the Princess Sofia
acknowledged the presence of her husband, and got from him that look of
white hatred with a sneer of triumph thrown in for good measure.
Though she affected indifference, Lanyard saw her slender body transiently
shaken by a shudder, it might have been of dread. But she was quick to pull
herself together, and the auctioneer had scarcely found his tongue--"One
thousand guineas for this magnificent canvas attributed to Corot"--when her
clear and youthful voice cut in:
"Two thousand guineas!"
This the prince capped with a monosyllable:
"Three!"
Stupefaction settled upon the audience. The auctioneer hesitated, blinked
astonished eyes, framed unspoken phrases with halting lips. Prince Victor,
again gave his wife the full value of his vindictive snarl. She would not
see, but it was plain that she was cruelly dismayed, that it cost her an
effort to rise to the topping bid:
"Thirty-five hundred guineas!"
"Four thousand!"
"Four thousand I am offered ..."
The auctioneer faltered, a spasm of honesty shook him, he proceeded:
"It is only fair, ladies and gentlemen, that I should state that this
canvas is not put up as an authentic Corot. It very possibly is such, in
fact"--the seizure was passing swiftly--"it bears every evidence of having
come from the brush of the master. But we cannot guarantee it. There is,
however, a gentleman present who is amply qualified to pass upon the merits
of this work. With his permission"--his eye sought Lanyard's--"I venture to
request the opinion of Monsieur Michael Lanyard, the noted connoisseur!"
Lanyard detached a deprecating smile from the pages of his catalogue, but
his contemplated response was cut short by Prince Victor.
"I am not aware," that one said, icily, "that the authenticity of this
painting is a material question. Nor have I any need of the opinion of this
gentleman, whatever his qualifications. I have bid four thousand guineas,
and insist that the sale proceed. If there are no further bids, the canvas
is mine."
The auctioneer shrugged, and offered Lanyard an apologetic bow. "I am
sorry--" he began.
"Four thousand guineas!" snapped the prince.
Resigned, the auctioneer resumed:
"Four thousand guineas offered. Are there any more bids? Going--"
"Forty-five hundred!"
Beyond reasonable doubt the princess had spurred herself mercilessly to
find sufficient courage to make this latest bid. Lanyard saw her in a
rigour of despair, hoping against hope. Only too surely something in the
picture, some association--heaven knew what!--was more precious to her,
almost, than life, though she had gone already to the limit of her means
and perhaps a bit beyond. If this bid failed, she was lost. Her anxiety was
pitiful.
"Five thousand!"
In the princess something snapped: she recoiled upon herself, sat crushed,
head drooping, white-gloved hands working in her lap. One detected an
appealing quiver on her lips, and noted, or imagined, a suspicious
brightness beneath the long dark lashes that swiftly screened her eyes. Her
young bosom moved convulsively. She was beaten, near to tears.
"Five thousand guineas ... going ... going ..."
The face of the prince was a mocking devil-mask in gray and black. Lanyard
found himself loathing it. Impossible to stand idle and see the creature
get the better of an unhappy girl ...
"Five thousand one hundred guineas!"
With his wits in a blur of amaze, Lanyard knew the echo of his own voice.
IV
THE FOOL AND HIS MONEY
One reflected rather bitterly on the many and obvious oversights of a
putatively all-wise Providence, in especial on its failure so to fashion
the body of man as to enable him on occasion to discipline his own flesh in
the most ignominious manner imaginable.
Lanyard could have kicked himself; that is to say, he wanted to, and
thought it rather a pity he couldn't, and publicly, at that. For the freak
he had just indulged was rank quixotism, something which had as much place
in the code of a man of his calling as milk of human kindness in the
management of a pawnshop.
On second thought, he wasn't so sure. It might have been that quixotism had
inspired his infatuate gesture, but it might quite as conceivably have been
everyday vanity or plain cussedness: a noble impulse to serve a pretty lady
in distress, a spontaneous device to engage her interest, or a low desire
to plague a personality as antipathetic to his own as that of a
rattlesnake.
In point of simple fact (he decided), his impelling motive had been a
mixture of all three.
In all three respects, furthermore, it proved notably successful; in the
two last named without delay.
The Princess Sofia at once took note of Lanyard, with wonder, some
misgivings, and a hint of admiration. For he was not only a personable
person in those days, with a suggestion of devil-may-care in his air that
measurably lifted the curse of his superficial foppishness, but he was
putting a spoke in Prince Victor's wheel. And whosoever did that, by
chance, out of sheer voluptuousness, or with malice prepense, won immediate
title to Sofia's favourable regard. If she couldn't thwart Victor herself,
she would be much obliged to anybody who could and did; and she was nothing
loath to betray her bias by looking kindly upon her self-appointed
champion.
A whispered communication from Lady Diantha did nothing to abate her overt
approbation.
As for Victor, his face of leaden gray took on a tinge of green; he quaked
with rage, and the glare he loosed on Lanyard made that young man wonder if
he were mistaken in believing that the eyes of the prince shone in that
dusky room with something nearly akin to the phosphorescence to be seen in
the eyes of an animal at night.
The notion was amusing: Lanyard paid it the tribute of a quiet smile, in
direct acknowledgment of which Prince Victor snarled:
"Six thousand guineas!"
"And a hundred," Lanyard added.
Brief pause prefaced a bid designed to squelch him completely:
"Ten thousand!"
In a fatigued voice he uttered: "One hundred more."
"Fifteen--!"
This time Lanyard contented himself with nodding to the auctioneer; and the
lips of the latter had barely parted to parrot the bid when Victor sprang
to his feet, his features working, his limbs shaking so that the legs of
the chair beside him, whose back he seized, chattered on the floor, while
the high-pitched voice broke into a screech:
"Twenty!"
And Lanyard said: "And one."
"Twenty thousand one hundred guineas!" chanted the auctioneer. "Are there
any more bids? You, sir--?" He aimed a respectful bow at Prince Victor, who
snubbed him with a sign of fury. "Going--going--gone! Sold to Monsieur
Lanyard for twenty thousand and one hundred guineas!"
And Lanyard had the satisfaction of seeing Prince Victor, after a vain
effort to master his emotion, snatch up his topper, clap it on his head,
and make for the door with footsteps whose stuttering haste was in poor
accord with the dignity of his exalted station.
But it was debatable whether this satisfaction plus the possession of a
questionable Corot was worth its cost. And Lanyard wasn't in the humour,
now that the heat of contest began to abate, to look to Princess Sofia for
promise of further reward. Even if he could have been guilty of such
impertinence, indeed, he must have forborne for very shame. After all (he
told himself) he hadn't figured very creditably, permitting petty prejudice
to sway him as it had. He felt singularly sure he had played the gratuitous
ass in this affair, and he didn't in the least desire to see the reflection
of a like conviction in the eyes of a pretty young woman with a flair for
the ridiculous.
He dissembled his diminished self-esteem, however, most successfully, as he
proceeded to the desk of the auctioneer's clerk, filled in a cheque for the
amount of his purchase, and gave instructions for its delivery.
Whether by intention or inadvertence, he was followed from the auction room
by the Princess Sofia and Lady Diantha Mainwaring; and just outside the
entrance he found Prince Victor waiting with all the air of a gentleman
impatient for a cab to happen along and pick him up out of the drizzle.