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

and incredulous,

with a brave and generous gesture she offered him her hand.

 

“Mr. Lanyard, I promise….”

 

To every woman, even the least lovely, her hour of beauty: it had not

entered Lanyard’s mind to think this woman beautiful until that moment.

Of her exotic charm, of the allure of her pensive, plaintive prettiness,

he had been well aware; even as he had been unable to deny to himself

that he was all for her, that he loved her with all the strength that

was his; but not till now had he understood that she was the one woman

whose loveliness to him would darken the fairness of all others.

 

And for a little, holding her tremulous hand upon his finger-tips as

though he feared to bruise it with a ruder contact, he could not take

his eyes from her.

 

Then reverently he bowed his head and touched his lips to that hand …

and felt it snatched swiftly away, and started back, aghast, the idyll

roughly dissipated, the castle of his dreams falling in thunders round

his ears.

 

In the studio-skylight overhead a pane of glass had fallen in with a

shattering crash as ominous as the Trump of Doom.

XIV RIVE DROIT

Falling without presage upon the slumberous hush enveloping the little

house marooned in that dead back-water of Paris, the shock of that

alarm drove the girl back from the table to the nearest wall, and for a

moment held her there, transfixed in panic.

 

To the wide, staring eyes that questioned his so urgently, Lanyard

promptly nodded grave reassurance. He hadn’t stirred since his first,

involuntary and almost imperceptible start, and before the last

fragment of splintered glass had tinkled on the floor above, he was

calming her in the most matter-of-fact manner.

 

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “It’s nothing—merely Solon’s skylight

gone smash!”

 

“You call that nothing!” she cried gustily. “What caused it, then?”

 

“My negligence,” he admitted gloomily. “I might have known that wide

spread of glass with the studio electrics on, full-blaze, would give

the show away completely. The house is known to be unoccupied; and it

wasn’t to be expected that both the police and Popinot’s crew would

overlook so shining a mark…. And it’s all my fault, my oversight: I

should have thought of it before…. High time I was quitting a game

I’ve no longer the wit to play by the rules!”

 

“But the police would never…!”

 

“Certainly not. This is Popinot’s gentle method of letting us know he’s

on the job. But I’ll just have a look, to make sure…. No: stop where

you are, please. I’d rather go alone.”

 

He swung alertly through to the hall window, pausing there only long

enough for an instantaneous glance through the draperies—a fugitive

survey that discovered the impasse Stanislas no more abandoned to the

wind and rain, but tenanted visibly by one at least who lounged beneath

the lonely lamp-post, a shoulder against it: a featureless civilian

silhouette with attention fixed to the little house.

 

But Lanyard didn’t doubt this one had a dozen fellows stationed within

call….

 

Springing up the stairs, he paused prudently at the top-most step, one

quick glance showing him the huge rent gaping black in the skylight,

the second the missile of destruction lying amid a litter of broken

glass—a brick wrapped in newspaper, by the look of it.

 

Swooping forward, he retrieved this, darted back from the exposed space

beneath the shattered skylight, and had no more than cleared the

threshold than a second something fell through the gap and buried

itself in the parquetry. This was a bullet fired from the roof of one

of the adjoining buildings: confirming his prior reasoning that the

first missile must have fallen from a height, rather than have been

thrown up from the street, to have wrought such destruction with those

tough, thick panes of clouded glass….

 

Swearing softly to himself, he descended to the kitchen.

 

“As I thought,” he said coolly, exhibiting his find.

 

“They’re on the roof of the next house—though they’ve posted a sentry

in the street, of course.”

 

“But that second thump—?” the girl demanded.

 

“A bullet,” he said, placing the bundle on the table and cutting the

string that bound it: “they were on the quivive and fired when I showed

myself beneath the skylight.”

 

“But I heard no report,” she objected.

 

“A Maxim silencer on the gun, I fancy,” he explained, unwrapping the

brick and smoothing out the newspaper…. “Glad you thought to put on

your hat before you came down,” he added, with an approving glance for

the girl; “it won’t be safe to go up to the studio again—of course.”

 

His nonchalance was far less real than it seemed, but helped to steady

one who was holding herself together with a struggle, on the verge of

nervous collapse.

 

“But what are we to do now?” she stammered. “If they’ve surrounded the

house—!”

 

“Don’t worry: there’s more than one way out,” he responded, frowning at

the newspaper; “I wouldn’t have picked this place out, otherwise. Nor

would Solon have rented it in the first instance had it lacked an

emergency exit, in event of creditors…. Ah—thought so!”

 

“What—?”

 

“Troyon’s is gone,” he said, without looking up. “This is tonight’s

Presse…. ‘_Totally destroyed by a fire which started at six-thirty

this morning and in less than half an hour had reduced the ancient

structure to a heap of smoking ashes_’! …” He ran his eye quickly

down the column, selecting salient phrases: “‘_Believed to have been of

incendiary origin though the premises were uninsured_’—that’s an

intelligent guess!… ‘_Narrow escape of guests in their

‘_whatyemaycallems…._’Three lives believed to have been lost … one

body recovered charred almost beyond recognition_’—but later

identified as Roddy—poor devil! … ‘_Two guests missing, Monsieur

Lanyard, the well-known connoisseur of art, who occupied the room

adjoining that of the unfortunate detective, and Mademoiselle Bannon,

daughter of the American millionaire, who himself escaped only by a

miracle with his secretary Monsieur Greggs, the latter being overcome

by fumes_’—what a shame!… ‘_Police and firemen searching the

ruins_’—hm-hm—’ _extraordinary interest manifested by the Pr�fecture

indicates a suspicion that the building may have been fired to conceal

some crime of a political nature_.’”

 

Crushing the newspaper between his hands, he tossed it into a corner.

“That’s all of importance. Thoughtful of Popinot to let me know, this

way! The Pr�fecture, of course, is humming like a wasp’s-nest with the

mystery of that telegram, signed with Roddy’s name and handed in at the

Bourse an hour or so before he was ‘burned to death.’ Too bad I didn’t

know then what I do now; if I’d even remotely suspected Greggs’

association with the Pack was via Bannon…. But what’s the use? I did

my possible, knowing the odds were heavy against success.”

 

“What was written on the paper?” the girl demanded obliquely.

 

He made his eyes blank: “Written on the paper—?”

 

“I saw something in red ink at the head of the column. You tried to

hide it from me, but I saw…. What was it?”

 

“Oh—that!” he laughed contemptuously: “just Popinot’s impudence—an

invitation to come out and be a good target.”

 

She shook her head impatiently: “You’re not telling me the truth. It

was something else, or you wouldn’t have been so anxious to hide it.”

 

“Oh, but I assure you—!”

 

“You can’t. Be honest with me, Mr. Lanyard. It was an offer to let you

off if you’d give me up to Bannon—wasn’t it?”

 

“Something like that,” he assented sheepishly—“too absurd for

consideration…. But now we’re due to clear out of this before they

find a way in. Not that they’re likely to risk a raid until they’ve

tried starving us out; but it would be as well to put a good distance

between us before they find out we’ve decamped.”

 

He shrugged into his borrowed raincoat, buttoned it to his chin, and

turned down the brim of his felt hat; but when he looked up at the girl

again, he found she hadn’t moved; rather, she remained as one spellbound,

staring less at than through him, her expression inscrutable.

 

“Well,” he ventured—“if you’re quite ready, Miss Shannon—?”

 

“Mr. Lanyard,” she demanded almost sharply—“what was the full wording

of that message?”

 

“If you must know—”

 

“I must!”

 

He lifted a depreciative shoulder. “If you like, I’ll read it to

you—or, rather, translate it from the thieves’ argot Popinot

complimented me by using.”

 

“Not necessary,” she said tersely. “I’ll take your word for it….

But you must tell me the truth.”

 

“As you will…. Popinot delicately suggested that if I leave you here,

to be reunited to your alleged parent—if I’ll trust to his word of

honour, that is, and walk out of the house alone, he’ll give me

twenty-four hours in which to leave Paris.”

 

“Then only I stand between you and—”

 

“My dear young woman!” he protested hastily. “Please don’t run away

with any absurd notion like that. Do you imagine I’d consent to treat

with such canaille under any circumstances?”

 

“All the same,” she continued stubbornly, “I’m the stumbling-block.

You’re risking your life for me—”

 

“I’m not,” he insisted almost angrily.

 

“You are,” she returned with quiet conviction.

 

“Well!” he laughed—“have it your own way!…”

 

“But it’s my life, isn’t it? I really don’t see how you’re going to

prevent my risking it for anything that may seem to me worth the risk!”

 

But she wouldn’t laugh; only her countenance, suddenly bereft of its

mutinous expression, softened winningly—and her eyes grew very kind to

him.

 

“As long as it’s understood I understand—very well,” she said quietly;

“I’ll do as you wish, Mr. Lanyard.”

 

“Good!” he cried cheerfully. “I wish, by your leave, to take you out to

dinner…. This way, please!”

 

Leading through the scullery, he unbarred a low, arched door in one of

the walls, discovering the black mouth of a narrow and tunnel-like

passageway.

 

With a word of caution, flash-lamp in his left hand, pistol in right,

Lanyard stepped out into the darkness.

 

In two minutes he was back, with a look of relief.

 

“All clear,” he reported; “I felt pretty sure Popinot knew nothing of

this way out—else we’d have entertained uninvited guests long since.

Now, half a minute….”

 

The electric meter occupied a place on the wall of the scullery not far

from the door. Prying open its cover, he unscrewed and removed the fuse

plug, plunging the entire house in complete darkness.

 

“That’ll keep ‘em guessing a while!” he explained with a chuckle.

“They’ll hesitate a long time before rushing a dark house infested by a

desperate armed man—if I know anything about that mongrel lot!…

Besides, when they do get their courage up, the lack of light will

stave off discovery of this way of escape…. And now, one word more.”

 

A flash of the lamp located her hand. Calmly he possessed himself of it,

if without opposition.

 

“I’ve brought you into trouble enough, as it is, through my stupidity,”

he said; “but for that, this place should have been a refuge to us

until we were quite ready to leave Paris. So now we mustn’t forget,

before we go out to run God-only-knows-what gauntlet, to fix a

rendezvous in event of separation…. Popinot, for instance, may have

drawn a cordon around the block; we can’t tell until we’re in the

street; if he has, you must leave me to entertain them until you’re

safe beyond their reach…. Oh, don’t worry: I’m perfectly well able to

take care of myself….But afterwards, we must know where to find each

other.