The Lone Wolf, Louis Joseph Vance [best historical fiction books of all time txt] 📗
- Author: Louis Joseph Vance
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restaurant—as on the night before, by way of illustration—strangers
who wore all the hall-marks of police detectives from England—catechised
one about a person whose description was the portrait of Bourke, and
promised a hundred-franc note for information concerning the habits and
whereabouts of that person, if seen.
Marcel added, while Bourke gasped for breath, that the gentleman in
question had spoken to him alone, in the absence of other waiters, and
had been fobbed off with a lie.
But why—Bourke wanted to know—had Marcel lied to save him, when the
truth would have earned him a hundred francs?
“Because,” Marcel explained coolly, “I, too, am a thief. Monsieur will
perceive it was a matter of professional honour.”
Now the Irish have their faults, but ingratitude is not of their number.
Bourke, packing hastily to leave Paris, France and Europe by the
fastest feasible route, still found time to question Marcel briefly;
and what he learned from the boy about his antecedents so worked with
gratitude upon the sentimental nature of the Celt, that when on the
third day following the Cunarder Carpathia left Naples for New York,
she carried not only a gentleman whose brilliant black hair and glowing
pink complexion rendered him a bit too conspicuous among her
first-cabin passengers for his own comfort, but also in the second
cabin his valet—a boy of sixteen who looked eighteen.
The gentleman’s name on the passenger-list didn’t, of course, in the
least resemble Bourke. His valet’s was given as Michael Lanyard.
The origin of this name is obscure; Michael being easily corrupted into
good Irish Mickey may safely be attributed to Bourke; Lanyard has a
tang of the sea which suggests a reminiscence of some sea-tale prized
by the pseudo Marcel Troyon.
In New York began the second stage in the education of a professional
criminal. The boy must have searched far for a preceptor of more sound
attainments than Bourke. It is, however, only fair to say that Bourke
must have looked as far for an apter pupil. Under his tutelage, Michael
Lanyard learned many things; he became a mathematician of considerable
promise, an expert mechanician, a connoisseur of armour-plate and
explosives in their more pacific applications, and he learned to grade
precious stones with a glance. Also, because Bourke was born of
gentlefolk, he learned to speak English, what clothes to wear and when
to wear them, and the civilized practice with knife and fork at table.
And because Bourke was a diplomatist of sorts, Marcel acquired the
knack of being at ease in every grade of society: he came to know that
a self-made millionaire, taken the right way, is as approachable as one
whose millions date back even unto the third generation; he could order
a dinner at Sherry’s as readily as drinks at Sharkey’s. Most valuable
accomplishment of all, he learned to laugh. In the way of by-products
he picked up a working acquaintance with American, English and German
slang—French slang he already knew as a mother-tongue—considerable
geographical knowledge of the capitals of Europe, America and Illinois,
a taste that discriminated between tobacco and the stuff sold as such
in France, and a genuine passion for good paintings.
Finally Bourke drilled into his apprentice the three cardinal
principles of successful cracksmanship: to know his ground thoroughly
before venturing upon it; to strike and retreat with the swift
precision of a hawk; to be friendless.
And the last of these was the greatest.
“You’re a promising lad,” he said—so often that Lanyard would almost
wince from that formula of introduction—“a promising lad, though it’s
sad I should be to say it, instead of proud as I am. For I’ve made you:
but for me you’d long since have matriculated at La Tour Pointue and
graduated with the canaille of the Sant�. And in time you may become a
first-chop operator, which I’m not and never will be; but if you do,
‘twill be through fighting shy of two things. The first of them’s
Woman, and the second is Man. To make a friend of a man you must lower
your guard. Ordinarily ‘tis fatal. As for Woman, remember this, m’lad:
to let love into your life you must open a door no mortal hand can
close. And God only knows what’ll follow in. If ever you find you’ve
fallen in love and can’t fall out, cut the game on the instant, or
you’ll end wearing stripes or broad arrows—the same as myself would,
if this cursed cough wasn’t going to be the death of me…. No, m’lad:
take a fool’s advice (you’ll never get better) and when you’re shut of
me, which will be soon, I’m thinking, take the Lonesome Road and stick
to the middle of it. ‘He travels the fastest that travels alone’ is a
true saying, but ‘tis only half the truth: he travels the farthest into
the bargain…. Yet the Lonesome Road has its drawbacks, lad—it’s
damned lonely!”
Bourke died in Switzerland, of consumption, in the winter of
1910—Lanyard at his side till the end.
Then the boy set his face against the world: alone, lonely, and
remembering.
II RETURNHis return to Troyon’s, whereas an enterprise which Lanyard had been
contemplating for several years—in fact, ever since the death of
Bourke—came to pass at length almost purely as an affair of impulse.
He had come through from London by the afternoon service—via
Boulogne—travelling light, with nothing but a brace of handbags and
his life in his hands. Two coups to his credit since the previous
midnight had made the shift advisable, though only one of them, the
later, rendered it urgent.
Scotland Yard would, he reckoned, require at least twenty-four hours to
unlimber for action on the Omber affair; but the other, the theft of
the Huysman plans, though not consummated before noon, must have set
the Chancelleries of at least three Powers by the ears before Lanyard
was fairly entrained at Charing Cross.
Now his opinion of Scotland Yard was low; its emissaries must operate
gingerly to keep within the laws they serve. But the agents of the
various Continental secret services have a way of making their own laws
as they go along: and for these Lanyard entertained a respect little
short of profound.
He would not have been surprised had he ran foul of trouble on the pier
at Folkestone. Boulogne, as well, figured in his imagination as a
crucial point: its harbour lights, heaving up over the grim grey waste,
peered through the deepening violet dusk to find him on the packet’s
deck, responding to their curious stare with one no less insistently
inquiring…. But it wasn’t until in the gauntlet of the Gare du Nord
itself that he found anything to shy at.
Dropping from train to platform, he surrendered his luggage to a ready
facteur, and followed the man through the crush, elbowed and
shouldered, offended by the pervasive reek of chilled steam and
coal-gas, and dazzled by the brilliant glare of the overhanging
electric arcs.
Almost the first face he saw turned his way was that of Roddy.
The man from Scotland Yard was stationed at one side of the platform
gates. Opposite him stood another known by sight to Lanyard—a highly
decorative official from the Pr�fecture de Police. Both were scanning
narrowly every face in the tide that churned between them.
Wondering if through some fatal freak of fortuity these were acting
under late telegraphic advice from London, Lanyard held himself well in
hand: the first sign of intent to hinder him would prove the signal for
a spectacular demonstration of the ungentle art of not getting caught
with the goods on. And for twenty seconds, while the crowd milled
slowly through the narrow exit, he was as near to betraying himself as
he had ever been—nearer, for he had marked down the point on Roddy’s
jaw where his first blow would fall, and just where to plant a
coup-de-savate most surely to incapacitate the minion of the
Pr�fecture; and all the while was looking the two over with a manner of
the most calm and impersonal curiosity.
But beyond an almost imperceptible narrowing of Roddy’s eyes when they
met his own, as if the Englishman were struggling with a faulty memory,
neither police agent betrayed the least recognition.
And then Lanyard was outside the station, his facteur introducing him
to a ramshackle taxicab.
No need to speculate whether or not Roddy were gazing after him; in the
ragged animal who held the door while Lanyard fumbled for his facteur’s
tip, he recognized a runner for the Pr�fecture; and beyond question
there were many such about. If any lingering doubt should trouble
Roddy’s mind he need only ask, “Such-and-such an one took what cab and
for what destination?” to be instantly and accurately informed.
In such case to go directly to his apartment, that handy little
rez-de-chauss�e near the Trocad�ro, was obviously inadvisable. Without
apparent hesitation Lanyard directed the driver to the Hotel Lutetia,
tossed the ragged spy a sou, and was off to the tune of a slammed door
and a motor that sorely needed overhauling….
The rain, which had welcomed the train a few miles from Paris, was in
the city torrential. Few wayfarers braved the swimming sidewalks, and
the little clusters of chairs and tables beneath permanent caf�
awnings were one and all neglected. But in the roadways an amazing
concourse of vehicles, mostly motor-driven, skimmed, skidded, and shot
over burnished asphalting all, of course, at top-speed—else this were
not Paris. Lanyard thought of insects on the surface of some dark
forest pool….
The roof of the cab rang like a drumhead; the driver blinked through
the back-splatter from his rubber apron; now and again the tyres lost
grip on the treacherous going and provided instants of lively suspense.
Lanyard lowered a window to release the musty odour peculiar to French
taxis, got well peppered with moisture, and promptly put it up again.
Then insensibly he relaxed, in the toils of memories roused by the
reflection that this night fairly duplicated that which had welcomed
him to Paris, twenty years ago.
It was then that, for the first time in several months, he thought
definitely of Troyon’s.
And it was then that Chance ordained that his taxicab should skid. On
the point of leaving the Ile de la Cit� by way of the Pont St. Michel,
it suddenly (one might pardonably have believed) went mad, darting
crabwise from the middle of the road to the right-hand footway with
evident design to climb the rail and make an end to everything in the
Seine. The driver regained control barely in time to avert a tragedy,
and had no more than accomplished this much when a bit of broken glass
gutted one of the rear tyres, which promptly gave up the ghost with a
roar like that of a lusty young cannon.
At this the driver (apparently a person of religious bias) said
something heartfelt about the sacred name of his pipe and, crawling
from under the apron, turned aft to assess damages.
On his own part Lanyard swore in sound Saxon, opened the door, and
delivered himself to the pelting shower.
“Well?” he enquired after watching the driver muzzle the eviscerated
tyre for some eloquent moments.
Turning up a distorted face, the other gesticulated with profane
abandon, by way of good measure interpolating a few disconnected words
and phrases. Lanyard gathered that this was the second accident of the
same nature since noon that the cab consequently lacked a spare tyre,
and that short of a trip to the garage the accident was irremediable.
So he said (intelligently) it couldn’t be helped, paid the man and over
tipped precisely as though
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