Red Masquerade - Louis Joseph Vance
Thus when young Mr. Karslake explained his uninvited if timely intervention
by stating that he was conducting her to the parent of whose existence she
had so recently been informed, he succeeded--not to put too fine a point
upon it--only in making it all seem a bit thick.
So for the time being Sofia contented herself with silent study of his face
as fitfully revealed by the passing lights of Shaftesbury Avenue.
A nice face (she thought) open and naive, perhaps a trace too much so; but,
viewed at close quarters, by no means so child-like as she had thought it,
and by no means wanting in evidences of quiet strength if one forgave the
funny little moustache which (now one came to, observe it seriously) was
precisely what lent that possibly deceptive look of innocence and
inconsequence, positively weakening the character of what might otherwise
have been a countenance to foster confidence.
As for Mr. Karslake, he endured this candid scrutiny with a faintly
apprehensive smile, but volunteered nothing more; so that, when the silence
in time acquired an accent of constraint, it was Sofia who had to break it,
not Mr. Karslake.
"I'm wondering about you," she explained quite gravely.
"One fancied as much, Princess Sofia."
She liked his way of saying that; the title seemed to fall naturally from
his lips, without a trace of irony. None the less, it wouldn't do to be too
readily influenced in his favour.
"Do you really know my father?"
"Rather!" said Mr. Karslake. "You see, I'm his secretary."
"How long--"
"Upward of eighteen months now."
"And how long have you known I was his daughter?"
Mr. Karslake, consulting a wrist-watch, permitted himself a quiet smile.
"Thirty-eight minutes," he announced--"say, thirty-nine."
"But how did you find out--?"
"Your father called me up--can't say from where--said he'd just learned you
were acting as cashier at the Cafe des Exiles, and would I be good enough
to take you firmly by the hand and lead you home."
"And how did he learn--?"
"That he didn't say. 'Fraid you'll have to ask him, Princess Sofia."
Genuinely diverted by the cross-examination, he awaited with unruffled good
humour the next question to be put by this amazingly collected and direct
young person. But Sofia hesitated. She didn't want to be rude, and Karslake
seemed to be telling a tolerably straight story; still, she couldn't
altogether believe in him as yet. She couldn't help it if his visit to the
restaurant had been a shade too opportune, his account of himself too
confoundedly pat.
No: she wasn't in the least afraid. Even if she were being kidnapped, she
wasn't afraid. She was so young, so absurdly confident in her ability to
take care of herself. On the other hand, intuition kept admonishing her
that in real life things simply didn't happen like this, so smoothly, so
fortunately; somehow, somewhere, in this curious affair, something must be
wrong.
"Please: what is my father's name?"
"Prince Victor Vassilyevski."
"You're sure it isn't Michael Lanyard?"
Now Mr. Karslake was genuinely startled and showed it. Sofia remarked that
he eyed her uneasily.
"My sainted aunt! Where did you get hold of that name?"
"Isn't it my father's?"
"Ye-es," the young man admitted, reluctantly; at least with something
strongly resembling reluctance. "But he doesn't use it any more."
"Why not?"
Mr. Karslake was silent, thoughtful. Sofia felt that she had scored and
with determination pressed her point.
"Do you mind telling me why he doesn't use that name, if it's his?"
"See here, Princess Sofia"--Karslake slewed round to face her squarely with
his most earnest and persuasive manner--"I am merely Prince Victor's
secretary, I'm not supposed to know all his secrets, and those I do know
I'm supposed not to talk about. I'd much rather you put that question to
Prince Victor yourself."
"I shall," Sofia announced with decision. "When am I to see him? To-night?"
"Of course. That is, I presume you will. I mean to say, Prince Victor
wasn't at home when I left, but if I know him he's sure to be when we
arrive. And I'm taking you there as directly as a motor can travel in this
blessed town."
Sofia looked out of the window. The car, having turned down Regent Street
from Piccadilly Circus, was now traversing sedate Pall Mall; and in another
moment it swung into the passage between St. James's Palace and Marlborough
House Chapel; and then they were in The Mall, with the Victoria Memorial
ahead, glowing against the dingy backing of Buckingham Palace.
Now, since all Sofia's reading had inculcated the belief that the
enterprising kidnapper always made off with his victim by way of dark
bystreets and unsavoury neighbourhoods, she felt somewhat reassured.
"Have we very far to go?"
"We're almost there now--Queen Anne's Gate."
A good enough address. Though that proved nothing. There was still plenty
of time, anything might happen....
Sofia shrugged, and settled back to await developments.
But there was nothing to warrant misgivings in the aspect of the dwelling
before which the car presently drew up. If it wasn't the palace Sofia had
unconsciously been looking forward to, it owned a solid, dull-faced dignity
that suited well the town-house of a person of quality, it measured up
quite acceptably to Sofia's notion of what was becoming to the condition of
a prince in exile--who naturally would live quietly, in view of the recent
revolution in Russia.
Without augmented fears, then, though still on the alert for anything that
might seem questionable, and more agitated with excitement than she let him
suspect, Sofia permitted Mr. Karslake to conduct her to the door.
He had barely touched the bell-button when this door opened, revealing a
vista of spacious entrance-hall.
To one side stood a manservant to whom Sofia paid no attention till the
sound of his name on Karslake's tongue struck an echo from her memory.
"Thanks, Nogam. Prince Victor home yet?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Tell him, please, when he comes in, we're waiting in the study."
"'Nk-you, sir."
The servant was the man whom Karslake had met in the Cafe des Exiles only a
few hours before. Catching Sofia's quick, questioning glance, Nogam paused
at respectful attention. And, even then, she was struck again with his
fidelity to the role in the social system for which Life had cast him. In
the cafe, that afternoon, he had cut a mildly incongruous figure,
unpretending but alien to that atmosphere; here, in the plain evening-dress
livery of his station, he blended perfectly into the picture.
Karslake gave his hat and stick to the man, then opened one wing of a great
double doorway, and with a bow invited Sofia to precede him. She faltered,
hazily conceiving that threshold in the guise of an inglorious Rubicon. But
she had already gone too far into this adventure to draw back now without
forfeiting her self-respect. With a deceptively firm step she entered a
room to wonder at.
Sombre shadows masked much of its magnificent proportions, but what Sofia
could see suggested less the study of a man of everyday interests than the
private museum of an Orientalist whose wealth knew no limits.
The air was warm and close, aromatic with the ghosts of ten thousand
perished perfumes. The quiet, when Karslake had closed the door, was
oppressive, as if some dark enchantment here had power to tame and silence
the growl of London that was never elsewhere in all the city for an instant
still.
On a great table of black teakwood inlaid with mother of pearl burned a
solitary lamp, a curious affair in filigree of brass, furnishing what
illumination there was. Its closely shaded rays made vaguely visible walls
dark with books, tier upon tier climbing to the ceiling; chairs of odd
shape, screens of glowing lacquer; tables and stands supporting caskets of
burning cinnabar, of ivory, of gold, of kaleidoscopic cloisonne; trays
heaped high with unset jewels; cabinets crowded with rare objects of
Eastern art; squat shapes of neglected gods brandishing weird weapons;
grotesque devil masks ferociously a-grin; chests of strange woods strangely
fashioned, strangely carved, and decorated with inlays of precious metals,
banded with huge straps of black iron, from which gushed in rainbow
profusion silks and brocades stiff with barbaric embroideries in gold- and
silver-thread and precious stones.
Confused by the impact upon her perceptions of so much that was unexpected
and bizarre, the girl looked round with an uncertain smile, and found
Karslake watching her with a manner of peculiar gravity and concern.
"Prince Victor is an extraordinary man," Karslake replied to her unspoken
comment; "probably the most learned Orientalist alive. Sometimes I think
the East has never had a secret he doesn't know."
He paused and drew nearer, with added earnestness in his regard.
"Princess Sofia," said he, diffidently, "if I may say something without
meaning to seem disrespectful--"
Perplexed, she encouraged him with one word: "Please."
"I'm afraid," Karslake ventured, "you will have many strange experiences in
this new life. Some of them, I fancy, you won't immediately understand,
some things may seem wrong to you, you may find yourself confronted with
conditions hard to accept ..."
He rested as if in doubt, and she fancied that he was listening intently,
almost apprehensively, for some signal of warning. But on her part Sofia
heard no sound.
Impressed and puzzled, she uttered a prompting "Yes?"
"I only want to say"--he employed a tone so low that she could barely hear
him--"if you don't mind--whatever happens--I'd be awf'ly glad if you'd
think of me as one who sincerely wants to be your friend."
"Why," she said in wonder--"thank you. I shall be glad--"
She checked in astonishment: a man was approaching from the general
direction of the door by which they had entered.
The effect was uncanny, as if the figure had materialized before her very
eyes, out of clear air, as if one of those many shadows had taken on shape
and substance while she looked.
The man himself was nothing unusual in general aspect, of no remarkable
stature, neither tall nor small, neither robust nor slender. His evening
clothes were without fault, but as much might be said of ten thousand men
who might be seen any night in the public rendezvous of leisured London.
His carriage had special distinction only in that he moved with a sort of
feline grace. Still, something elusive made him unlike any other man Sofia
had ever met, something arresting and not altogether prepossessing.
As he drew nearer and his features became more clearly defined by the
light, she was sensible of gazing into a face of unique cast. Of an odd
grayish pallor accentuated by hair so black that it might have been painted
on his skull with india-ink, the skin seemed to be as soft and smooth as a
child's, beardless and wholly without lustre. The mouth was sensuous yet
firm, with hard, full lips. Leaden pouches hung beneath heavy-lidded eyes
set at a noticeable angle. The eyes themselves were as black as night and
as lightless; the rays of the lamp struck no gleam from them; in spite of
this they were compelling, masterful, and disconcerting.
Karslake at once fell back, with a bow so low it was little less than an
obeisance.
"Prince Victor!"
The man nodded acknowledgment of this greeting without detaching attention
from the girl. His voice, slightly tremulous with emotion, uttered her
name: "Sofia?"
She collected herself with an effort. "I am Sofia," she replied almost
mechanically.
"And I, your father ..."
Prince Victor lifted hands of singular delicacy, slender and tapering,
whose long fingers were dressed with many curious rings.
A reluctance she could not understand hindered Sofia from going gladly into
those arms. She had to make herself yield. They tightened hungrily about
her. She closed her eyes and experienced a slight, invincible shudder.
"My child!"
The lips that touched her forehead astonished her with their warmth.
Instinctively she had expected them to be cool, as frigid as the effect of
that strange mask of which they formed a part.
Then, held at arm's-length, she submitted to an inspection whose sum was
enunciated with a strange smile of gratification:
"You are beautiful."
In embarrassment she murmured: "I am glad you think so--father."
"As beautiful as your mother--in her time the most beautiful creature in
the world--her image, a flawless reproduction, even to her colouring, the
shade of the hair, the eyes--so like the sea!"
"I am glad," the girl repeated, nervously.
"And until to-night I did not know you lived!"
She mustered up courage enough to ask: "How--?"
The heavy lids drooped lower over the illegible eyes. "My attention was
called to a newspaper advertisement signed by a firm of solicitors. I got
in touch with them--a matter of some difficulty, since it was after
business hours--and found out where to look for you. Then, prevented from
acting as quickly as I wished, myself, I sent Karslake here to bring you to
me."
"But, according to their letter, the solicitors thought I was in France, in
a convent!"
"When they advertised for me--yes. But by the time I enquired they were
better informed."
"But the advertisement was addressed to Michael Lanyard!"
The thin lips formed a faint smile. "That was once my name. I no longer use
it."
Against a feeling that she was adopting an attitude both undutiful and
unbecoming, Sofia persisted.
"Why?"
Prince Victor Vassilyevski gave a gesture of pain and reluctance.
"Must I tell you? Why not? You must know some day, as well now as later,
perhaps. Twenty years ago the name of Michael Lanyard was famous throughout
Europe--or shall I say infamous?--the name of the greatest thief of modern
times, otherwise known as 'The Lone Wolf'."
Involuntarily, Sofia stepped back, as if some shape of horror had been
suddenly thrust before her face.
"The Lone Wolf!" she echoed in a voice of dismay. "A thief! You!"
The man who called himself her father replied with a series of slow,
affirmative nods.
"That startles you?" he said in an indulgent voice. "Naturally. But you
will soon grow accustomed to the thought, you will condone that chapter in
my history, remembering I am no longer that man, no longer a thief, that
for many years now my record has been without reproach. You will remember
that there is more joy in Heaven over the one sinner who repents ... You
will forgive the father, if only for your mother's sake."
"For my mother's sake--?"
"What the Lone Wolf was in his day, your mother was in hers--the most
brilliant adventuress Europe ever knew."
"Oh!" cried the girl in semi-hysterical protest. "Oh, no, no! Impossible!"
"I assure you, it is quite true. Some day I may tell you her history--and
mine. For the present, you will do well to think no more about what I have
confessed. Repining can never mend the past. It is to-day and to-morrow you
must think of: that you are restored to me, and that I have not only the
means but a great hunger to make you happy, to gratify your slightest
whim."
"I want nothing!" Sofia insisted, wildly.
"You want sleep," Prince Victor corrected, fondly--"you want it badly. You
are nervous, overstrung, in no condition to understand the great good
fortune that has befallen you. But to-morrow you will see things in a
rosier light."
Apparently he had manipulated some signal unremarked by Sofia. The door
opened, framing the figure of the man Nogam. Without looking round, but
with an inscrutable smile, Prince Victor took the girl in his arms again
and held her close.
"You rang, sir?"
"Oh, are you there, Nogam? Is the apartment ready for the Princess Sofia?"
"Quite ready, sir."
"Be good enough to conduct her to it." Again Prince Victor kissed Sofia's
forehead, then let her go. "Good-night, my child."
Moving slowly toward the door, drooping, Sofia made inarticulate response.
She felt suddenly stupefied with fatigue. To think meant an effort that
mocked her flagging powers. A vast lassitude was weighing upon her, body
and spirit were faint in the enervation of an inexorable disconsolation.
VI
THE MUMMER
Alone with his secretary, Prince Victor Vassilyevski dropped indifferently
the guise of manner with which he had clothed himself for the benefit of
the woman whom he claimed as his own child. That semblance of shy affection
coloured by regrets for the past and modified by the native nobility of a
prince in exile--so becoming in a parent to whose bosom a daughter whom he
had never seen was suddenly restored--being of no more service for the
present, was incontinently discarded. In its stead Victor favoured Karslake
with a slow smile of understanding that broadened into an insuppressible
grin of successful malice, a grimace of crude exultation through which
peered out the impish savage mutinously imprisoned within a flimsy husk of
modern manner.
Suspecting this self-betrayal, he erased the grin swiftly, but not so
swiftly that Karslake failed to note it. And the young man, smiling amiably
and respectfully in return, was sensible of a thrill: yet another glimpse
had been given him into the mystery that slept behind that countenance
normally so impenetrable.
But he was studious to show nothing of his own emotion. It was his part to
be merely a mirror, to reflect rather than to feel, to be an instrument
infinitely supple and unfailing, never an independent intelligence. Not
otherwise could he count on holding his place in Victor's favour.
"You were quicker than I hoped."
"I had no trouble, sir," Karslake returned, cheerfully. "Things rather
played into my hands."
Victor dropped into a chair beside the table and lifted the lid of a small
golden casket. Helping himself to one of its store of cigarettes, he made
Karslake free of the remainder with a gracious hand. The secretary
demurred, producing his pocket case.
"If you don't mind, sir ..."
Victor moved a supercilious eyebrow. "Woodbines again?"
"Sorry, sir; I know they're pretty awful and all that, but they were all I
could get in France, and I contracted a taste for them I can't seem to
cure. I remember, while I lay in a hospital, hardly a whole bone in my
body, thanks to the Boche and his flying circus--it was that lot sent me
crashing, you know--the nurses used to tempt me with the finest Turkish;
but somehow I couldn't go them; I'd beg for Woodbines."
Prince Victor dismissed the subject curtly. "I am waiting to hear about
Sofia."
"Not much to tell, sir. There seemed to be a storm of sorts brewing when I
got there. The young woman was at her desk with a face like a thundercloud.
While I was trying to make up my mind what would be my best approach, she
jumped down, flew upstairs and, I gathered, kicked up a holy row. You see,
she'd seen that advertisement of Secretan & Sypher's, and smelt a rat."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing definite, sir: seemed to understand she was the daughter of
Princess Sofia Vassilyevski, only she objected to her father being anybody
but Michael Lanyard."
"Go on."
"After a bit she stampeded downstairs again, with the old girl and that
swine of a Dupont at her heels. I blocked him and gave Sofia a chance to
get outside. The whole establishment boiled out into the street after us,
yelling like fun, but I got the girl into the car ... and here we are."
But Prince Victor seemed to have lost interest. The glow ebbing from his
face, his lips tightening, the thick lids drooping low over his eyes, he
sat in apparent abstraction, aping the impassivity of the graven idols that
graced his study.
"I don't mind owning, sir," the younger man resumed, nervously, "she had me
sparring for wind when she put it to me point-blank her father's name was
Michael Lanyard."
Without moving Victor enquired in a dull voice: "What did you tell her?"
"That it was a name you had once used, sir, but.... Well, what you told
her, all except the Lone Wolf business. Don't mind telling you I was in a
rare funk till you capped my story so neatly."
He laughed and ventured with a hesitation quite boyish: "I say, Prince
Victor--if it's not an impertinent question--was there any truth in that? I
mean about your having been the Lone Wolf twenty years ago."
"Not a syllable," said Victor, dryly.
"Then your name never was Michael Lanyard?"
"Never, but ..."
During a long pause the secretary fidgeted inwardly but had the wisdom to
refrain from showing further inquisitiveness. He could see that strong
passions were working in Victor: a hand, extended upon the table, unclosed
and closed with a peculiar clutching action; the muscles contracted round
mouth and eyes, moulding the face into a cast of disquieting malevolence.
The voice, when at length it resumed, was bitter.
"But Michael Lanyard was my enemy ... and is to-day.... He became a lover
of Sofia's mother, he had a hand in overturning plans I had made, he
humiliated, mocked me.... And to-day he is interfering again.... But ..."
Victor sank back in his chair. Suddenly that unholy grin of his flashed and
faded.
"But now his impertinence fails, his insolence over-reaches itself. Now I
have the whip-hand and ... I shall use it!"
Vindictiveness that could find relief only in action mastered the man.
"Be good enough to take this dictation."
Karslake turned to the table and opened a portfolio of illuminated Spanish
leather.
"Ready, sir," he said, with pencil poised.
_"To Michael Lanyard, Intelligence Division, the War Office, Whitehall.
Sir: Your daughter Sofia is now with me. Permit me to suggest that, in
consideration of this situation, you cease to meddle with my affairs. Your
own intelligence must tell you nothing could be more fatal than an attempt
to communicate with her._"
"Sign on the typewriter with the initial _V_."
"Yes, sir."
"Type it on plain paper, use a plain envelope, be sure that neither has a
watermark, and get it off to-night without fail. Take a taxi to St. Pancras
station and post it there. If you make haste you can get it in a pillar-box
before the last collection."
"I shan't lose a minute, sir."
Karslake straightened up, folding the paper, and made for the door.
"One moment, Karslake.... This man, Nogam: where did you pick him up?"
"He used to buttle for my father, sir, but got into trouble--some domestic
unpleasantness, I believe--needed money, and raised a cheque. The old boy
let him off easy; but I've got the cheque, and Nogam knows it. The fellow's
perfectly trained and absolutely dependable, knows his place and his duties
and not another blessed thing. I'll send him in if you like."
Prince Victor uttered with dry accent: "Why?"
"Thought you might care to have a talk with him, sir."
"I have."
"Oh!" Mr. Karslake exclaimed--"I didn't know."
"Quite so," commented Prince Victor. "I shan't need you again to-night,
Karslake."
"Good-night, sir."
When the secretary had gone, Victor sat motionless, so still that his
breathing scarcely stirred his body, with a face absolutely imperturbable,
steadfastly gazing into that darkness which shrouded the workings of his
mind.
On the doorstep a shrill whistle sounded: Nogam calling Karslake's taxi.
Victor heard the vehicle roll in and stand panting at the curb, then the
slam of its door, the diminishing rumble of its departure.
The house door closed, and after a little the study door opened, and Nogam
halted on the threshold.
Unstirring Victor enquired: "What is it, Nogam?"
"I wished to enquire would there be anything more to-night, sir."
"Nothing."
"'Nk you, sir."
"But Nogam: in this house, regardless of the custom which may have obtained
in other establishments where you have served, you will always knock before
entering a room, and never enter until you obtain permission."
"But if I'm sure the room is empty, sir, and get no answer--?"
"Then you may enter any room but this. Never this, unless I am here--or Mr.
Karslake is--and you get leave."
"'Nk you, sir."
"Good-night."
As the door closed Victor extended a thin, effeminate hand to a casket of
ivory, searched with sensitive finger-tips its exquisite tracery until a
cunningly hidden spring responded and the lid, splitting in two, sank down
into its walls. In the pocket thus revealed were many pills, apparently
hand-moulded, of a grayish-brown substance, putty-soft.
Slowly Victor selected three, placed one after another upon his tongue, and
swallowed them.
He shut the casket and sat waiting.
Slowly the keenness of his countenance became blurred, as if the hand of an
unseen sculptor were rubbing down its features, doing away the veneer with
which Europe had overlaid the primitive Asiatic, which now showed on the
surface, in every detail of coarsely modelled nose, oblique eyes of animal
cunning, pendulous lips cruel and sensual.
By degrees a faint trace of colour began to flush Victor's cheeks, a smile
modified the set of his mouth, the heavy-lidded eyes lost their lustreless
opacity and glimmered with uncanny light.
He breathed deeply, evenly, with an evident relish. The action of the opium
was visibly renewing his powers. His expression, softening, became terrible
with brute tenderness and longing. Gazing into shadows in which he saw that
which he wished ardently to see, he stretched forth his arms, and his lips
moved, shaping a name: