The Lone Wolf, Louis Joseph Vance [best historical fiction books of all time txt] 📗

compliment,” he said, and forthwith tipped the porter.

 

But before entrusting himself to this gratuitous conveyance, he put

himself to the trouble of inspecting the chauffeur—a capable-looking

mechanic togged out in a rich black livery which, though relieved by a

vast amount of silk braiding, was like the car guiltless of any sort

of insignia.

 

“I presume you know where I wish to go, my man?”

 

The chauffeur touched his cap: “But naturally, monsieur.”

 

“Then take me there, the quickest way you know.”

 

Nodding acknowledgement of the porter’s salute, Lanyard sank

gratefully back upon uncommonly luxurious upholstery. The fatigue of

the last thirty-six hours was beginning to tell on him a bit, though

his youth was still so vital, so instinct with strength and vigour,

that he could go as long again without sleep if need be.

 

None the less he was glad of this opportunity to snatch a few minutes’

rest by way of preparation against the occult culmination of this

adventure. No telling what might ensue of this violation of all those

principles which had hitherto conserved his welfare! And he

entertained a gloomy suspicion that he would be inclined to name

another ass, who proposed as he did to beard this Pack in its den with

nothing more than his wits and an automatic pistol to protect ten

thousand-francs, the jewels of Madame Omber, the Huysman plans, and

(possibly) his life.

 

However, he stood committed to his folly, if folly it were: he would

play the game as it lay.

 

As for curiosity concerning his immediate destination, there was

little enough of that in his temper; a single glance round on leaving

the car would fix his whereabouts beyond dispute, so thorough was his

knowledge of Paris.

 

He contemplated briefly, with admiration, the simplicity with which

that affair at L’Abbaye had been managed, finding no just cause to

suspect anyone there of criminal complicity in the plans of the Pack:

a forged order for a table to the maitred’hotel, ten francs to the

carriage-porter and twenty more to the dancing woman to play parts in

a putative practical joke—and the thing had been arranged without

implicating a soul!…

 

Of a sudden, ending a ride much shorter than Lanyard would have liked,

the limousine swung in toward a curb.

 

Bending forward, he unlatched the door and, glancing through the

window, uttered a grunt of profound disgust.

 

If this were the best that Pack could do…!

 

He had hoped for something a trifle more original from men with wit

and imagination enough to plot the earlier phases of this intrigue.

 

The car had pulled up in front of an institution which he knew

well—far too well, indeed, for his own good.

 

None the less, he consented to get out.

 

“Sure you’ve come to the right place?” he asked the chauffeur.

 

Two fingers touching the visor of his cap: “But certainly, monsieur!”

 

“Oh, all right!” Lanyard grumbled resignedly; and tossing the man a

five-franc piece, applied his knuckles to the door of an outwardly

commonplace h�tel particulier in the rue Chaptal between the impasse

of the Grand Guignol and the rue Pigalle.

 

Now the neophyte needs the introduction of a trusted sponsor before he

can win admission to the club-house of the exclusive Circle of Friends

of Humanity; but Lanyard’s knock secured him prompt and unquestioned

right of way. The unfortunate fact is, he was a member in the best of

standing; for this society of pseudo-altruistic aims was nothing more

nor less than one of those several private gambling clubs of Paris

which the French Government tolerates more or less openly, despite

adequate restrictive legislation; and gambling was Lanyard’s ruling

passion—a legacy from Bourke no less than the rest of his professional

equipment.

 

To every man his vice (the argument is Bourke’s, in defence of his

failing). And perhaps the least mischievous vice a professional

cracksman can indulge is that of gambling, since it can hardly drive

him to lengths more desperate than those whereby he gains a livelihood.

 

In the esteem of Paris, Count Remy de Morbihan himself was scarcely a

more light-hearted plunger than Monsieur Lanyard.

 

Naturally, with this reputation, he was always free of the handsome

salons wherein the Friends of Humanity devoted themselves to roulette,

auction bridge, baccarat and chemin-de-fer: and of this freedom he now

proceeded to avail himself, with his hat just a shade aslant on his

head, his hands in his pockets, a suspicion of a smile on his lips

and a glint of the devil in his eyes—in all an expression accurately

reflecting the latest phase of his humour, which was become largely one

of contemptuous toleration, thanks to what he chose to consider an

exhibition of insipid stupidity on the part of the Pack.

 

Nor was this humour in any way modified when, in due course, he

confirmed anticipation by discovering Monsieur le Comte Remy de

Morbihan lounging beside one of the roulette tables, watching the play,

and now and again risking a maximum on his own account.

 

A flash of animation crossed the unlovely mask of the Count when he saw

Lanyard approaching, and he greeted the adventurer with a gay little

flirt of his pudgy dark hand.

 

“Ah, my friend!” he cried. “It is you, then, who have changed your

mind! But this is delightful!”

 

“And what has become of your American friend?” Asked the adventurer.

 

“He tired quickly, that one, and packed himself off to Troyon’s. Be

sure I didn’t press him to continue the grand tour!”

 

“Then you really did wish to see me tonight?” Lanyard enquired

innocently.

 

“Always—always, my dear Lanyard!” the Count declared, jumping up.

“But come,” he insisted: “I’ve a word for your private ear, if these

gentlemen will excuse us.”

 

“Do!” Lanyard addressed in a confidential manner those he knew at the

table, before turning away to the tug of the Count’s hand on his

arm—“I think he means to pay up twenty pounds he owes me!”

 

Some derisive laughter greeted this sally.

 

“I mean that, however,” Lanyard informed the other cheerfully as they

moved away to a corner where conversation without an audience was

possible—“you ruined that Bank of England note, you know.”

 

“Cheap at the price!” the Count protested, producing his bill-fold.

“Five hundred francs for an introduction to Monsieur the Lone Wolf!”

 

“Are you joking?” Lanyard asked blankly—and with a magnificent gesture

abolished the proffered banknote.

 

“Joking? I! But surely you don’t mean to deny—”

 

“My friend,” Lanyard interrupted, “before we assert or deny anything,

let us gather the rest of the players round the table and deal from a

sealed deck. Meantime, let us rest on the understanding that I have

found, at one end, a message scrawled on a banknote hidden in a secret

place, at the other end, yourself, Monsieur le Comte. Between and

beyond these points exists a mystery, of which one anticipates

elucidation.”

 

“You shall have it,” De Morbihan promised. “But first, we must go to

those others who await us.”

 

“Not so fast!” Lanyard interposed. “What am I to understand? That you

wish me to accompany you to the—ah—den of the Pack?”

 

“Where else?” De Morbihan grinned.

 

“But where is that?”

 

“I am not permitted to say—”

 

“Still, one has one’s eyes. Why not satisfy me here?”

 

“Your eyes, by your leave, monsieur, will be blindfolded.”

 

“Impossible.”

 

“Pardon—it is an essential—”

 

“Come, come, my friend: we are not in the Middle Ages!”

 

“I have no discretion, monsieur. My confr�res—”

 

“I insist: there will be trust on both sides or no negotiations.”

 

“But I assure you, my dear friend—”

 

“My dear Count, it is useless: I am determined. Blindfold? I should say

not! This is not—need I remind you again?—the Paris of Balzac and

that wonderful Dumas of yours!”

 

“What do you propose, then?” De Morbihan enquired, worrying his

moustache.

 

“What better place for the proposed conference than here?”

 

“But not here!”

 

“Why not? Everybody comes here: it will cause no gossip. I am here—I

have come half-way; your friends must do as much on their part.”

 

“It is not possible….”

 

“Then, I beg you, tender them my regrets.”

 

“Would you give us away?”

 

“Never that: one makes gifts to one’s friends only. But my interest in

yours is depreciating so rapidly that, should you delay much longer, it

will be on sale for the sum of two sous.”

 

“O—damn!” the Count complained peevishly.

 

“With all the pleasure in life…. But now,” Lanyard went on, rising to

end the interview, “you must forgive me for reminding you that the

morning wanes apace. I shall be going home in another hour.”

 

De Morbihan shrugged. “Out of my great affection for you,” he purred

venomously, “I will do my possible. But I promise nothing.”

 

“I have every confidence in your powers of moral suasion, monsieur,”

Lanyard assured him cheerfully. “Au revoir!”

 

And with this, not at all ill-pleased with himself, he strutted off to

a table at which a high-strung session of chemin-de-fer was in process,

possessed himself of a vacant chair, and in two minutes was so

engrossed in the game that the Pack was quite forgotten.

 

In fifteen minutes he had won thrice as many thousands of francs.

Twenty minutes or half an hour later, a hand on his shoulder broke the

grip of his besetting passion.

 

“Our table is made up, my friend,” De Morbihan announced with his

inextinguishable grin. “We’re waiting for you.”

 

“Quite at your service.”

 

Settling his score and finding himself considerably better off than he

had imagined, he resigned his place gracefully, and suffered the Count

to link arms and drag him away up the main staircase to the second

storey, where smaller rooms were reserved for parties who preferred to

gamble privately.

 

“So it appears you succeeded!” he chaffed his conductor good-humouredly.

 

“I have brought you the mountain,” De Morbihan assented.

 

“One is grateful for small miracles….”

 

But De Morbihan wouldn’t laugh at his own expense; for a moment, indeed,

he seemed inclined to take umbrage at Lanyard’s levity. But the sudden

squaring of his broad shoulders and the hardening of his features was

quickly modified by an uneasy sidelong glance at his companion. And

then they were at the door of the cabinet particulier.

 

De Morbihan rapped, turned the knob, and stood aside, bowing politely.

 

With a nod acknowledging the courtesy, Lanyard consented to precede

him, and entered a room of intimate proportions, furnished chiefly with

a green-covered card-table and five easy-chairs, of which three were

occupied—two by men in evening dress, the third by one in a

well-tailored lounge suit of dark grey.

 

Now all three men wore visors of black velvet.

 

Lanyard looked from one to the other and chuckled quietly.

 

With an aggrieved air De Morbihan launched into introductions:

 

“Messieurs, I have the honour to present to you our confr�re, Monsieur

Lanyard, best known as ‘The Lone Wolf.’ Monsieur Lanyard—the Council

of our Association, known to you as ‘The Pack.’”

 

The three rose and bowed ceremoniously, Lanyard returned a cool,

good-natured nod. Then he laughed again and more openly:

 

“A pack of knaves!”

 

“Monsieur doubtless feels at ease?” one retorted

acidly.

 

“In your company, Popinot? But hardly!” Lanyard returned in light

contempt.

 

The fellow thus indicated, a burly rogue of a Frenchman in rusty and

baggy evening clothes, started and flushed scarlet beneath his mask;

but the man next him dropped a restraining hand upon his arm, and

Popinot, with a shrug, sank back into his chair.

 

“Upon my word!” Lanyard