The Triumphs of Eugène Valmont

The Triumphs of Eugène Valmont Page 2

by Robert Barr

  2. _The Siamese Twin of a Bomb-Thrower_

  The events previously related in 'The Mystery of the Five HundredDiamonds' led to my dismissal by the French Government. It was notbecause I had arrested an innocent man; I had done that dozens oftimes before, with nothing said about it. It was not because I hadfollowed a wrong clue, or because I had failed to solve the mystery ofthe five hundred diamonds. Every detective follows a wrong clue nowand then, and every detective fails more often than he cares to admit.No. All these things would not have shaken my position, but thenewspapers were so fortunate as to find something humorous in thecase, and for weeks Paris rang with laughter over my exploits and mydefeat. The fact that the chief French detective had placed the mostcelebrated English detective into prison, and that each of them werebusily sleuth-hounding a bogus clue, deliberately flung across theirpath by an amateur, roused all France to great hilarity. TheGovernment was furious. The Englishman was released and I wasdismissed. Since the year 1893 I have been a resident of London.

  When a man is, as one might say, the guest of a country, it does notbecome him to criticise that country. I have studied this strangepeople with interest, and often with astonishment, and if I now setdown some of the differences between the English and the French, Itrust that no note of criticism of the former will appear, even whenmy sympathies are entirely with the latter. These differences havesunk deeply into my mind, because, during the first years of my stayin London my lack of understanding them was often a cause of my ownfailure when I thought I had success in hand. Many a time did I cometo the verge of starvation in Soho, through not appreciating thepeculiar trend of mind which causes an Englishman to do inexplicablethings--that is, of course, from my Gallic standpoint.

  For instance, an arrested man is presumed to be innocent until he isproved guilty. In England, if a murderer is caught red-handed over hisvictim, he is held guiltless until the judge sentences him. In Francewe make no such foolish assumption, and although I admit that innocentmen have sometimes been punished, my experience enables me to statevery emphatically that this happens not nearly so often as the publicimagines. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred an innocent man can atonce prove his innocence without the least difficulty. I hold it ishis duty towards the State to run the very slight risk of unjustimprisonment in order that obstacles may not be thrown in the way ofthe conviction of real criminals. But it is impossible to persuade anEnglishman of this. _Mon Dieu!_ I have tried it often enough.

  Never shall I forget the bitterness of my disappointment when Icaptured Felini, the Italian anarchist, in connection with theGreenwich Park murder. At this time--it gives me no shame to confessit--I was myself living in Soho, in a state of extreme poverty. Havingbeen employed so long by the French Government, I had formed theabsurd idea that the future depended on my getting, not exactly asimilar connection with Scotland Yard, but at least a subordinateposition on the police force which would enable me to prove mycapabilities, and lead to promotion. I had no knowledge, at that time,of the immense income which awaited me entirely outside the Governmentcircle. Whether it is contempt for the foreigner, as has often beenstated, or that native stolidity which spells complacency, the Britishofficial of any class rarely thinks it worth his while to discover thereal cause of things in France, or Germany, or Russia, but plodsheavily on from one mistake to another. Take, for example, thoseperiodical outbursts of hatred against England which appear in theContinental Press. They create a dangerous international situation,and more than once have brought Britain to the verge of a serious war.Britain sternly spends millions in defence and preparation, whereas,if she would place in my hand half a million pounds I would guaranteeto cause Britannia to be proclaimed an angel with white wings in everyEuropean country.

  When I attempted to arrive at some connection with Scotland Yard, Iwas invariably asked for my credentials. When I proclaimed that I hadbeen chief detective to the Republic of France, I could see that thisannouncement made a serious impression, but when I added that theGovernment of France had dismissed me without credentials,recommendation, or pension, official sympathy with officialism at onceturned the tables against me. And here I may be pardoned for pointingout another portentous dissimilarity between the two lands which Ithink is not at all to the credit of my countrymen.

  I was summarily dismissed. You may say it was because I failed, and itis true that in the case of the Queen's necklace I had undoubtedlyfailed, but, on the other hand, I had followed unerringly the cluewhich lay in my path, and although the conclusion was not inaccordance with the facts, it was in accordance with logic. No, I wasnot dismissed because I failed. I had failed on various occasionsbefore, as might happen to any man in any profession. I was dismissedbecause I made France for the moment the laughing-stock of Europe andAmerica. France dismissed me because France had been laughed at. NoFrenchman can endure the turning of a joke against him, but theEnglishman does not appear to care in the least. So far as failure isconcerned, never had any man failed so egregiously as I did withFelini, a slippery criminal who possessed all the bravery of aFrenchman and all the subtlety of an Italian. Three times he was in myhands--twice in Paris, once in Marseilles--and each time he escapedme; yet I was not dismissed.

  When I say that Signor Felini was as brave as a Frenchman, perhaps Ido him a little more than justice. He was desperately afraid of oneman, and that man was myself. Our last interview in France he is notlikely to forget, and although he eluded me, he took good care to getinto England as fast as train and boat could carry him, and neveragain, while I was at the head of the French detective force, did heset foot on French soil. He was an educated villain, a graduate of theUniversity of Turin, who spoke Spanish, French, and English as well ashis own language, and this education made him all the more dangerouswhen he turned his talents to crime.

  Now, I knew Felini's handiwork, either in murder or in housebreaking,as well as I know my own signature on a piece of white paper, and assoon as I saw the body of the murdered man in Greenwich Park I wascertain Felini was the murderer. The English authorities at that timelooked upon me with a tolerant, good-natured contempt.

  Inspector Standish assumed the manner of a man placing at my disposalplenty of rope with which I might entangle myself. He appeared tothink me excitable, and used soothing expressions as if I were afractious child to be calmed, rather than a sane equal to be reasonedwith. On many occasions I had the facts at my finger ends, while heremained in a state of most complacent ignorance, and though thisattitude of lowering himself to deal gently with one whom heevidently looked upon as an irresponsible lunatic was mostexasperating, I nevertheless claim great credit for having kept mytemper with him. However, it turned out to be impossible for me toovercome his insular prejudice. He always supposed me to be afrivolous, volatile person, and so I was unable to prove myself of anyvalue to him in his arduous duties.

  The Felini instance was my last endeavour to win his favour. InspectorStandish appeared in his most amiable mood when I was admitted to hispresence, and this in spite of the fact that all London was ringingwith the Greenwich Park tragedy, while the police possessed not thefaintest idea regarding the crime or its perpetrator. I judged fromInspector Standish's benevolent smile that I was somewhat excited whenI spoke to him, and perhaps used many gestures which seemedsuperfluous to a large man whom I should describe as immovable, andwho spoke slowly, with no motion of the hand, as if his utteranceswere the condensed wisdom of the ages.

  'Inspector Standish,' I cried, 'is it within your power to arrest aman on suspicion?'

  'Of course it is,' he replied; 'but we must harbour the suspicionbefore we make the arrest.'

  'Have confidence in me,' I exclaimed. 'The man who committed theGreenwich Park murder is an Italian named Felini.'

  I gave the address of the exact room in which he was to be found, withcautions regarding the elusive nature of this individual. I said thathe had been three times in my custody, and those three times he hadslipped through my fingers. I have since thought t
hat InspectorStandish did not credit a word I had spoken.

  'What is your proof against this Italian?' asked the Inspector slowly.

  'The proof is on the body of the murdered man, but, nevertheless, ifyou suddenly confront Felini with me without giving him any hint ofwhom he is going to meet, you shall have the evidence from his ownlips before he recovers from his surprise and fright.'

  Something of my confidence must have impressed the official, for theorder of arrest was made. Now, during the absence of the constablesent to bring in Felini, I explained to the inspector fully thedetails of my plan. Practically he did not listen to me, for his headwas bent over a writing-pad on which I thought he was taking down myremarks, but when I had finished he went on writing as before, so Isaw I had flattered myself unnecessarily. More than two hours passedbefore the constable returned, bringing with him the tremblingItalian. I swung round in front of him, and cried, in a menacingvoice:--

  'Felini! Regard me! You know Valmont too well to trifle with him! Whathave you to say of the murder in Greenwich Park?'

  I give you my word that the Italian collapsed, and would have fallento the floor in a heap had not the constables upheld him with handsunder each arm. His face became of a pasty whiteness, and he began tostammer his confession, when this incredible thing happened, whichcould not be believed in France. Inspector Standish held up hisfinger.

  'One moment,' he cautioned solemnly, 'remember that whatever you saywill be used against you!'

  The quick, beady black eyes of the Italian shot from Standish to me,and from me to Standish. In an instant his alert mind grasped thesituation. Metaphorically I had been waved aside. I was not there inany official capacity, and he saw in a moment with what an opaqueintellect he had to deal. The Italian closed his mouth like a steeltrap, and refused to utter a word. Shortly after he was liberated, asthere was no evidence against him. When at last complete proof was inthe tardy hands of the British authorities, the agile Felini was safein the Apennine mountains, and today is serving a life sentence inItaly for the assassination of a senator whose name I have forgotten.

  Is it any wonder that I threw up my hands in despair at finding myselfamongst such a people. But this was in the early days, and now that Ihave greater experience of the English, many of my first opinions havebeen modified.

  I mention all this to explain why, in a private capacity, I often didwhat no English official would dare to do. A people who will send apoliceman, without even a pistol to protect him, to arrest a desperatecriminal in the most dangerous quarter of London, cannot becomprehended by any native of France, Italy, Spain, or Germany. When Ibegan to succeed as a private detective in London, and had accumulatedmoney enough for my project, I determined not to be hampered by thisunexplainable softness of the English toward an accused person. Itherefore reconstructed my flat, and placed in the centre of it a darkroom strong as any Bastille cell. It was twelve feet square, andcontained no furniture except a number of shelves, a lavatory in onecorner, and a pallet on the floor. It was ventilated by two fluesfrom the centre of the ceiling, in one of which operated an electricfan, which, when the room was occupied, sent the foul air up thatflue, and drew down fresh air through the other. The entrance to thiscell opened out from my bedroom, and the most minute inspection wouldhave failed to reveal the door, which was of massive steel, and wasopened and shut by electric buttons that were partially concealed bythe head of my bed. Even if they had been discovered, they would haverevealed nothing, because the first turn of the button lit theelectric light at the head of my bed; the second turn put it out; andthis would happen as often as the button was turned to the right. Butturn it three times slowly to the left, and the steel door opened. Itsjuncture was completely concealed by panelling. I have brought many ascoundrel to reason within the impregnable walls of that small room.

  Those who know the building regulations of London will wonder how itwas possible for me to delude the Government inspector during theerection of this section of the Bastille in the midst of the modernmetropolis. It was the simplest thing in the world. Liberty of thesubject is the first great rule with the English people, and thus manya criminal is allowed to escape. Here was I laying plans for thecontravening of this first great rule, and to do so I took advantageof the second great rule of the English people, which is, thatproperty is sacred. I told the building authorities I was a rich manwith a great distrust of banks, and I wished to build in my flat asafe or strong-room in which to deposit my valuables. I built thensuch a room as may be found in every bank, and many private premisesof the City, and a tenant might have lived in my flat for a year andnever suspected the existence of this prison. A railway engine mighthave screeched its whistle within it, and not a sound would havepenetrated the apartments that surrounded it unless the door wereopen.

  But besides M. Eugene Valmont, dressed in elegant attire as if he werestill a boulevardier of Paris, occupier of the top floor in theImperial Flats, there was another Frenchman in London to whom I mustintroduce you, namely, Professor Paul Ducharme, who occupied a squalidback room in the cheapest and most undesirable quarter of Soho.Valmont flatters himself he is not yet middle-aged, but poor Ducharmedoes not need his sparse gray beard to proclaim his advancing years.Valmont vaunts an air of prosperity; Ducharme wears the shabbyhabiliments and the shoulder-stoop of hopeless poverty. He shufflescringingly along the street, a compatriot not to be proud of. Thereare so many Frenchmen anxious to give lessons in their language, thatmerely a small living is to be picked up by any one of them. You willnever see the spruce Valmont walking alongside the dejected Ducharme.

  'Ah!' you exclaim, 'Valmont in his prosperity has forgotten those lessfortunate of his nationality.'

  Pardon, my friends, it is not so. Behold, I proclaim to you, theexquisite Valmont and the threadbare Ducharme are one and the sameperson. That is why they do not promenade together. And, indeed, itrequires no great histrionic art on my part to act the role of themiserable Ducharme, for when I first came to London, I warded offstarvation in this wretched room, and my hand it was that nailed tothe door the painted sign 'Professor Paul Ducharme, Teacher of theFrench Language'. I never gave up the room, even when I becameprosperous and moved to Imperial Flats, with its concealed chamber ofhorrors unknown to British authority. I did not give up the Sohochamber principally for this reason: Paul Ducharme, if the truth wereknown about him, would have been regarded as a dangerous character;yet this was a character sometimes necessary for me to assume. He wasa member of the very inner circle of the International, an anarchistof the anarchists. This malign organisation has its real headquartersin London, and we who were officials connected with the Secret Serviceof the Continent have more than once cursed the complacency of theBritish Government which allows such a nest of vipers to existpractically unmolested. I confess that before I came to know theEnglish people as well as I do now, I thought that this complacencywas due to utter selfishness, because the anarchists never commit anoutrage in England. England is the one spot on the map of Europe wherean anarchist cannot be laid by the heels unless there is evidenceagainst him that will stand the test of open court. Anarchists takeadvantage of this fact, and plots are hatched in London which areexecuted in Paris, Berlin, Petersburg, or Madrid. I know now that thisleniency on the part of the British Government does not arise fromcraft, but from their unexplainable devotion to their shibboleth--'Theliberty of the subject.' Time and again France has demanded theextradition of an anarchist, always to be met with the question,--

  'Where is your proof?'

  I know many instances where our certainty was absolute, and also caseswhere we possessed legal proof as well, but legal proof which, for onereason or another, we dared not use in public; yet all this had noeffect on the British authorities. They would never give up even thevilest criminal except on publicly attested legal evidence, and noteven then, if the crime were political.

  During my term of office under the French Government, no part of myduties caused me more anxiety than that which per
tained to thepolitical secret societies. Of course, with a large portion of theSecret Service fund at my disposal, I was able to buy expertassistance, and even to get information from anarchists themselves.This latter device, however, was always more or less unreliable. Ihave never yet met an anarchist I could believe on oath, and when oneof them offered to sell exclusive information to the police, we rarelyknew whether he was merely trying to get a few francs to keep himselffrom starving, or whether he was giving us false particulars whichwould lead us into a trap. I have always regarded our dealings withnihilists, anarchists, or other secret associations for theperpetrating of murder as the most dangerous service a detective iscalled upon to perform. Yet it is absolutely necessary that theauthorities should know what is going on in these secret conclaves.There are three methods of getting this intelligence. First,periodical raids upon the suspected, accompanied by confiscation andsearch of all papers found. This method is much in favour with theRussian police. I have always regarded it as largely futile; first,because the anarchists are not such fools, speaking generally, as tocommit their purposes to writing; and, second, because it leads toreprisal. Each raid is usually followed by a fresh outbreak ofactivity on the part of those left free. The second method is to bribean anarchist to betray his comrades. I have never found any difficultyin getting these gentry to accept money. They are eternally in need,but I usually find the information they give in return to be eitherunimportant or inaccurate. There remains, then, the third method,which is to place a spy among them. The spy battalion is the forlornhope of the detective service. In one year I lost three men onanarchist duty, among the victims being my most valuable helper, HenriBrisson. Poor Brisson's fate was an example of how a man may follow aperilous occupation for months with safety, and then by a slightmistake bring disaster on himself. At the last gathering Brissonattended he received news of such immediate and fateful import that onemerging from the cellar where the gathering was held, he madedirectly for my residence instead of going to his own squalid room inthe Rue Falgarie. My concierge said that he arrived shortly after oneo'clock in the morning, and it would seem that at this hour he couldeasily have made himself acquainted with the fact that he wasfollowed. Still, as there was on his track that human panther, Felini,it is not strange poor Brisson failed to elude him.

  Arriving at the tall building in which my flat was then situated,Brisson rang the bell, and the concierge, as usual, in that strangestate of semi-somnolence which envelops concierges during the night,pulled the looped wire at the head of his bed, and unbolted the door.Brisson assuredly closed the huge door behind him, and yet the momentbefore he did so, Felini must have slipped in unnoticed to thestone-paved courtyard. If Brisson had not spoken and announcedhimself, the concierge would have been wide awake in an instant. If hehad given a name unknown to the concierge, the same result would haveensued. As it was he cried aloud 'Brisson,' whereupon the concierge ofthe famous chief of the French detective staff, Valmont, muttered'_Bon_! and was instantly asleep again.

  Now Felini had known Brisson well, but it was under the name ofRevensky, and as an exiled Russian. Brisson had spent all his earlyyears in Russia, and spoke the language like a native. The momentBrisson had uttered his true name he had pronounced his own deathwarrant. Felini followed him up to the first landing--my rooms were onthe second floor--and there placed his sign manual on the unfortunateman, which was the swift downward stroke of a long, narrow, sharpponiard, entering the body below the shoulders, and piercing theheart. The advantage presented by this terrible blow is that thevictim sinks instantly in a heap at the feet of his slayer, withoututtering a moan. The wound left is a scarcely perceptible blue markwhich rarely even bleeds. It was this mark I saw on the body of theMaire of Marseilles, and afterwards on one other in Paris besides poorBrisson. It was the mark found on the man in Greenwich Park; alwaysjust below the left shoulder-blade, struck from behind. Felini'scomrades claim that there was this nobility in his action, namely, heallowed the traitor to prove himself before he struck the blow. Ishould be sorry to take away this poor shred of credit from Felini'scharacter, but the reason he followed Brisson into the courtyard wasto give himself time to escape. He knew perfectly the ways of theconcierge. He knew that the body would lie there until the morning, asit actually did, and that this would give him hours in which to effecthis retreat. And this was the man whom British law warned not toincriminate himself! What a people! What a people!

  After Brisson's tragic death, I resolved to set no more valuable menon the track of the anarchists, but to place upon myself the task inmy moments of relaxation. I became very much interested in theunderground workings of the International. I joined the organisationunder the name of Paul Ducharme, a professor of advanced opinions, whobecause of them had been dismissed his situation in Nantes. As amatter of fact there had been such a Paul Ducharme, who had been sodismissed, but he had drowned himself in the Loire, at Orleans, as therecords show. I adopted the precaution of getting a photograph of thisfoolish old man from the police at Nantes, and made myself up toresemble him. It says much for my disguise that I was recognised asthe professor by a delegate from Nantes, at the annual Convention heldin Paris, which I attended, and although we conversed for some timetogether he never suspected that I was not the professor, whose fatewas known to no one but the police of Orleans. I gained much creditamong my comrades because of this encounter, which, during its firstfew moments, filled me with dismay, for the delegate from Nantes heldme up as an example of a man well off, who had deliberately sacrificedhis worldly position for the sake of principle. Shortly after this Iwas chosen delegate to carry a message to our comrades in London, andthis delicate undertaking passed off without mishap.

  It was perhaps natural then, that when I came to London after mydismissal by the French Government, I should assume the name andappearance of Paul Ducharme, and adopt the profession of Frenchteacher. This profession gave me great advantages. I could be absentfrom my rooms for hours at a time without attracting the leastattention, because a teacher goes wherever there are pupils. If any ofmy anarchist comrades saw me emerging shabbily from the grand ImperialFlats where Valmont lived, he greeted me affably, thinking I wascoming from a pupil.

  The sumptuous flat was therefore the office in which I received myrich clients, while the squalid room in Soho was often the workshop inwhich the tasks entrusted to me were brought to completion.

  * * * * *

  I now come to very modern days indeed, when I spent much time with theemissaries of the International.

  It will be remembered that the King of England made a round of visitsto European capitals, the far-reaching results of which in theinterest of peace we perhaps do not yet fully understand andappreciate. His visit to Paris was the beginning of the present_entente cordiale_, and I betray no confidence when I say that thisbrief official call at the French capital was the occasion of greatanxiety to the Government of my own country and also of that in whichI was domiciled. Anarchists are against all government, and would liketo see each one destroyed, not even excepting that of Great Britain.

  My task in connection with the visit of King Edward to Paris wasentirely unofficial. A nobleman, for whom on a previous occasion I hadbeen so happy as to solve a little mystery which troubled him,complimented me by calling at my flat about two weeks before theKing's entry into the French capital. I know I shall be pardoned if Ifail to mention this nobleman's name. I gathered that the intendedvisit of the King met with his disapproval. He asked if I knewanything, or could discover anything, of the purposes animating theanarchist clubs of Paris, and their attitude towards the royalfunction, which was now the chief topic in the newspapers. I repliedthat within four days I would be able to submit to him a completereport on the subject. He bowed coldly and withdrew. On the evening ofthe fourth day I permitted myself the happiness of waiting upon hislordship at his West End London mansion.

  'I have the honour to report to your lordship,' I began, 'that theanarchists of
Paris are somewhat divided in their opinions regardingHis Majesty's forthcoming progress through that city. A minority,contemptible in point of number, but important so far as the extremityof their opinions are concerned, has been trying--'

  'Excuse me,' interrupted the nobleman, with some severity of tone,'are they going to attempt to injure the King or not?'

  'They are not, your lordship,' I replied, with what, I trust, is myusual urbanity of manner, despite his curt interpolation. 'His mostgracious Majesty will suffer no molestation, and their reason forquiescence--'

  'Their reasons do not interest me,' put in his lordship gruffly. 'Youare sure of what you say?'

  'Perfectly sure, your lordship.'

  'No precautions need be taken?'

  'None in the least, your lordship.'

  'Very well,' concluded the nobleman shortly, 'if you tell my secretaryin the next room as you go out how much I owe you, he will hand you acheque,' and with that I was dismissed.

  I may say that, mixing as I do with the highest in two lands, andmeeting invariably such courtesy as I myself am always eager tobestow, a feeling almost of resentment arose at this cavaliertreatment. However, I merely bowed somewhat ceremoniously in silence,and availed myself of the opportunity in the next room to double mybill, which was paid without demur.

  Now, if this nobleman had but listened, he would have heard much thatmight interest an ordinary man, although I must say that during mythree conversations with him his mind seemed closed to all outwardimpressions save and except the grandeur of his line, which he tracedback unblemished into the northern part of my own country.

  The King's visit had come as a surprise to the anarchists, and theydid not quite know what to do about it. The Paris Reds were rather infavour of a demonstration, while London bade them, in God's name, tohold their hands, for, as they pointed out, England is the only refugein which an anarchist is safe until some particular crime can beimputed to him, and what is more, proven up to the hilt.

  It will be remembered that the visit of the King to Paris passed offwithout incident, as did the return visit of the President to London.On the surface all was peace and goodwill, but under the surfaceseethed plot and counterplot, and behind the scenes two greatgovernments were extremely anxious, and high officials in the SecretService spent sleepless nights. As no 'untoward incident' hadhappened, the vigilance of the authorities on both sides of theChannel relaxed at the very moment when, if they had known theiradversaries, it should have been redoubled. Always beware of theanarchist when he has been good: look out for the reaction. It annoyshim to be compelled to remain quiet when there is a grand opportunityfor strutting across the world's stage, and when he misses thepsychological moment, he is apt to turn 'nasty', as the English say.

  When it first became known that there was to be a Royal processionthrough the streets of Paris, a few fanatical hot-heads, both in thatcity and in London, wished to take action, but they were overruled bythe saner members of the organisation. It must not be supposed thatanarchists are a band of lunatics. There are able brains among them,and these born leaders as naturally assume control in the undergroundworld of anarchy as would have been the case if they had devoted theirtalents to affairs in ordinary life. They were men whose minds, at oneperiod, had taken the wrong turning. These people, although theycalmed the frenzy of the extremists, nevertheless regarded thepossible _rapprochement_ between England and France with graveapprehension. If France and England became as friendly as France andRussia, might not the refuge which England had given to anarchy becomea thing of the past? I may say here that my own weight as an anarchistwhile attending these meetings in disguise under the name of PaulDucharme was invariably thrown in to help the cause of moderation. Myrole, of course, was not to talk too much; not to make myselfprominent, yet in such a gathering a man cannot remain wholly aspectator. Care for my own safety led me to be as inconspicuous aspossible, for members of communities banded together against the lawsof the land in which they live, are extremely suspicious of oneanother, and an inadvertent word may cause disaster to the personspeaking it.

  Perhaps it was this conservatism on my part that caused my advice tobe sought after by the inner circle; what you might term the governingbody of the anarchists; for, strange as it may appear, thisorganisation, sworn to put down all law and order, was itself mostrigidly governed, with a Russian prince elected as its chairman, a manof striking ability, who, nevertheless, I believe, owed his electionmore to the fact that he was a nobleman than to the recognition of hisintrinsic worth. And another point which interested me much was thatthis prince ruled his obstreperous subjects after the fashion ofRussian despotism, rather than according to the liberal ideas of thecountry in which he was domiciled. I have known him more than onceruthlessly overturn the action of the majority, stamp his foot, smitehis huge fist on the table, and declare so and so should not be done,no matter what the vote was. And the thing was not done, either.

  At the more recent period of which I speak, the chairmanship of theLondon anarchists was held by a weak, vacillating man, and the mob hadgot somewhat out of hand. In the crisis that confronted us, I yearnedfor the firm fist and dominant boot of the uncompromising Russian. Ispoke only once during this time, and assured my listeners that theyhad nothing to fear from the coming friendship of the two nations. Isaid the Englishman was so wedded to his grotesque ideas regarding theliberty of the subject he so worshipped absolute legal evidence, thatwe would never find our comrades disappear mysteriously from Englandas had been the case in continental countries.

  Although restless during the exchange of visits between King andPresident, I believe I could have carried the English phalanx with me,if the international courtesies had ended there. But after it wasannounced that members of the British Parliament were to meet themembers of the French Legislature, the Paris circle became alarmed,and when that conference did not end the _entente_, but merely pavedthe way for a meeting of business men belonging to the two countriesin Paris, the French anarchists sent a delegate over to us, who made awild speech one night, waving continually the red flag. This arousedall our own malcontents to a frenzy. The French speaker practicallycharged the English contingent with cowardice; said that as they weresafe from molestation, they felt no sympathy for their comrades inParis, at any time liable to summary arrest and the torture of thesecret cross-examination. This Anglo-French love-feast must be waftedto the heavens in a halo of dynamite. The Paris anarchists weredetermined, and although they wished the co-operation of their Londonbrethren, yet if the speaker did not bring back with him assurance ofsuch co-operation, Paris would act on its own initiative.

  The Russian despot would have made short work of this blood-blindedrhetoric, but alas, he was absent, and an overwhelming vote in favourof force was carried and accepted by the trembling chairman. My French_confrere_ took back with him to Paris the unanimous consent of theEnglish comrades to whom he had appealed. All that was asked of theEnglish contingent was that it should arrange for the escape and safekeeping of the assassin who flung the bomb into the midst of theEnglish visitors, and after the oratorical madman had departed, I, tomy horror, was chosen to arrange for the safe transport and futurecustody of the bomb-thrower. It is not etiquette in anarchist circlesfor any member to decline whatever task is given him by the vote ofhis comrades. He knows the alternative, which is suicide. If hedeclines the task and still remains upon earth, the dilemma is solvedfor him, as the Italian Felini solved it through the back of myunfortunate helper Brisson. I therefore accepted the unwelcome officein silence, and received from the treasurer the money necessary forcarrying out the same.

  I realised for the first time since joining the anarchist associationyears before that I was in genuine danger. A single false step, asingle inadvertent word, might close the career of Eugene Valmont, andat the same moment terminate the existence of the quiet, inoffensivePaul Ducharme, teacher of the French language. I knew perfectly well Ishould be followed. The moment I received the money the Frenchdeleg
ate asked when they were to expect me in Paris. He wished to knowso that all the resources of their organisation might be placed at mydisposal. I replied calmly enough that I could not state definitely onwhat day I should leave England. There was plenty of time, as thebusiness men's representatives from London would not reach Paris foranother two weeks. I was well known to the majority of the Parisorganisation, and would present myself before them on the first nightof my arrival. The Paris delegate exhibited all the energy of a newrecruit, and he seemed dissatisfied with my vagueness, but I went onwithout heeding his displeasure. He was not personally known to me,nor I to him, but if I may say so, Paul Ducharme was well thought ofby all the rest of those present.

  I had learned a great lesson during the episode of the Queen'sNecklace, which resulted in my dismissal by the French Government. Ihad learned that if you expect pursuit it is always well to leave aclue for the pursuer to follow. Therefore I continued in a lowconversational tone:--

  'I shall want the whole of tomorrow for myself: I must notify mypupils of my absence. Even if my pupils leave me it will not so muchmatter. I can probably get others. But what does matter is mysecretarial work with Monsieur Valmont of the Imperial Flats. I amjust finishing for him the translation of a volume from French intoEnglish, and tomorrow I can complete the work, and get his permissionto leave for a fortnight. This man, who is a compatriot of my own,has given me employment ever since I came to London. From him I havereceived the bulk of my income, and if it had not been for hispatronage, I do not know what I should have done. I not only have nodesire to offend him, but I wish the secretarial work to continue whenI return to London.'

  There was a murmur of approval at this. It was generally recognisedthat a man's living should not be interfered with, if possible.Anarchists are not poverty-stricken individuals, as most people think,for many of them hold excellent situations, some occupying positionsof great trust, which is rarely betrayed.

  It is recognised that a man's duty, not only to himself, but to theorganisation, is to make all the money he can, and thus not be liableto fall back on the relief fund. This frank admission of my dependenceon Valmont made it all the more impossible that anyone there listeningshould suspect that it was Valmont himself who was addressing theconclave.

  'You will then take the night train tomorrow for Paris?' persisted theinquisitive French delegate.

  'Yes, and no. I shall take the night train, and it shall be for Paris,but not from Charing Cross, Victoria, or Waterloo. I shall travel onthe 8.30 Continental express from Liverpool Street to Harwich, crossto the Hook of Holland, and from there make my way to Paris throughHolland and Belgium. I wish to investigate that route as a possiblepath for our comrade to escape. After the blow is struck, Calais,Boulogne, Dieppe, and Havre will be closely watched. I shall perhapsbring him to London by way of Antwerp and the Hook.'

  These amiable disclosures were so fully in keeping with PaulDucharme's reputation for candour and caution that I saw they made anexcellent impression on my audience, and here the chairman intervened,putting an end to further cross-examination by saying they all had theutmost confidence in the judgment of Monsieur Paul Ducharme, and theParis delegate might advise his friends to be on the lookout for theLondon representative within the next three or four days.

  I left the meeting and went directly to my room in Soho, without eventaking the trouble to observe whether I was watched or not. There Istayed all night, and in the morning quitted Soho as Ducharme, with agray beard and bowed shoulders, walked west to the Imperial Flats,took the lift to the top, and, seeing the corridor was clear, letmyself in to my own flat. I departed from my flat promptly at sixo'clock, again as Paul Ducharme, carrying this time a bundle done upin brown paper under my arm, and proceeded directly to my room inSoho. Later I took a bus, still carrying my brown paper parcel, andreached Liverpool Street in ample time for the Continental train. By alittle private arrangement with the guard, I secured a compartment formyself, although up to the moment the train left the station, I couldnot be sure but that I might be compelled to take the trip to the Hookof Holland after all. If any one had insisted on coming into mycompartment, I should have crossed the North Sea that night. I knew Ishould be followed from Soho to the station, and that probably the spywould go as far as Harwich, and see me on the boat. It was doubtful ifhe would cross. I had chosen this route for the reason that we have noorganisation in Holland: the nearest circle is in Brussels, and ifthere had been time, the Brussels circle would have been warned tokeep an eye on me. There was, however, no time for a letter, andanarchists never use the telegraph, especially so far as the Continentis concerned, unless in cases of the greatest emergency. If theytelegraphed my description to Brussels the chances were it would notbe an anarchist who watched my landing, but a member of the Belgianpolice force.

  The 8.30 Continental express does not stop between Liverpool Streetand Parkeston Quay, which it is timed to reach three minutes beforeten. This gave me an hour and a half in which to change my apparel.The garments of the poor old professor I rolled up into a ball one byone and flung out through the open window, far into the marsh pastwhich we were flying in a pitch dark night. Coat, trousers, andwaistcoat rested in separate swamps at least ten miles apart. Graywhiskers and gray wig I tore into little pieces, and dropped the bitsout of the open window.

  I had taken the precaution to secure a compartment in the front ofthe train, and when it came to rest at Parkeston Quay Station, thecrowd, eager for the steamer, rushed past me, and I stepped out intothe midst of it, a dapper, well-dressed young man, with black beardand moustaches, my own closely cropped black hair covered by a newbowler hat. Anyone looking for Paul Ducharme would have paid smallattention to me, and to any friend of Valmont's I was equallyunrecognisable.

  I strolled in leisurely manner to the Great Eastern Hotel on the Quay,and asked the clerk if a portmanteau addressed to Mr. John Wilkins hadarrived that day from London. He said 'Yes,' whereupon I secured aroom for the night, as the last train had already left for themetropolis.

  Next morning, Mr. John Wilkins, accompanied by a brand new and ratherexpensive portmanteau, took the 8.57 train for Liverpool Street, wherehe arrived at half-past ten, stepped into a cab, and drove to theSavoy Restaurant, lunching there with the portmanteau deposited in thecloak room. When John Wilkins had finished an excellent lunch in aleisurely manner at the Cafe Parisien of the Savoy, and had paid hisbill, he did not go out into the Strand over the rubber-paved court bywhich he had entered, but went through the hotel and down the stairs,and so out into the thoroughfare facing the Embankment. Then turningto his right he reached the Embankment entrance of the Hotel Cecil.This leads into a long, dark corridor, at the end of which the liftmay be rung for. It does not come lower than the floor above unlessspecially summoned. In this dark corridor, which was empty, JohnWilkins took off the black beard and moustache, hid it in the insidepocket of his coat, and there went up into the lift a few momentslater to the office floor, I, Eugene Valmont, myself for the firsttime in several days.

  Even then I did not take a cab to my flat, but passed under the archedStrand front of the 'Cecil' in a cab, bound for the residence of thatnobleman who had formerly engaged me to see after the safety of theKing.

  You will say that this was all very elaborate precaution to take whena man was not even sure he was followed. To tell you the truth, I donot know to this day whether anyone watched me or not, nor do I care.I live in the present: when once the past is done with, it ceases toexist for me. It is quite possible, nay, entirely probable, that noone tracked me farther than Liverpool Street Station the night before,yet it was for lack of such precaution that my assistant Brissonreceived the Italian's dagger under his shoulder blade fifteen yearsbefore. The present moment is ever the critical time; the future ismerely for intelligent forethought. It was to prepare for the futurethat I was now in a cab on the way to my lord's residence. It was notthe French anarchists I feared during the contest in which I was aboutto become engaged, but the Paris p
olice. I knew French officialdom toowell not to understand the futility of going to the authorities thereand proclaiming my object. If I ventured to approach the chief ofpolice with the information that I, in London, had discovered what itwas his business in Paris to know, my reception would be far fromcordial, even though, or rather because, I announced myself as EugeneValmont. The exploits of Eugene had become part of the legends ofParis, and these legends were extremely distasteful to those men inpower. My doings have frequently been made the subject of feuilletonsin the columns of the Paris Press, and were, of course, exaggerated bythe imagination of the writers, yet, nevertheless, I admit I did somegood strokes of detection during my service with the FrenchGovernment. It is but natural, then, that the present authoritiesshould listen with some impatience when the name of Eugene Valmont ismentioned. I recognise this as quite in the order of things to beexpected, and am honest enough to confess that in my own time I oftenhearkened to narratives regarding the performances of Lecocq with adoubting shrug of the shoulders.

  Now, if the French police knew anything of this anarchist plot, whichwas quite within the bounds of possibility, and if I were insurreptitious communication with the anarchists, more especially withthe man who was to fling the bomb, there was every chance I might findmyself in the grip of French justice. I must, then, provide myselfwith credentials to show that I was acting, not against the peace andquiet of my country, but on the side of law and order. I thereforewished to get from the nobleman a commission in writing, similar tothat command which he had placed upon me during the King's visit. Thiscommission I should lodge at my bank in Paris, to be a voucher for meat the last extremity. I had no doubt his lordship would empower me toact in this instance as I had acted on two former occasions.

  * * * * *

  Perhaps if I had not lunched so well I might have approached hislordship with greater deference than was the case; but when orderinglunch I permitted a bottle of Chateau du Tertre, 1878, a mostdelicious claret, to be decanted carefully for my delectation at thetable, and this caused a genial glow to permeate throughout my system,inducing a mental optimism which left me ready to salute the greatestof earth on a plane of absolute equality. Besides, after all, I am thecitizen of a Republic.

  The nobleman received me with frigid correctness, implying disapprovalof my unauthorised visit, rather than expressing it. Our interview wasextremely brief.

  'I had the felicity of serving your lordship upon two occasions,' Ibegan.

  'They are well within my recollection,' he interrupted, 'but I do notremember sending for you a third time.'

  'I have taken the liberty of coming unrequested, my lord, because ofthe importance of the news I carry. I surmise that you are interestedin the promotion of friendship between France and England.'

  'Your surmise, sir, is incorrect. I care not a button about it. Myonly anxiety was for the safety of the King.'

  Even the superb claret was not enough to fortify me against words soharsh, and tones so discourteous, as those his lordship permittedhimself to use.

  'Sir,' said I, dropping the title in my rising anger, 'it may interestyou to know that a number of your countrymen run the risk of beingblown to eternity by an anarchist bomb in less than two weeks fromtoday. A party of business men, true representatives of a class towhich the pre-eminence of your Empire is due, are about to proceed--'

  'Pray spare me,' interpolated his lordship wearily, 'I have read thatsort of thing so often in the newspapers. If all these estimable Citymen are blown up, the Empire would doubtless miss them, as you hint,but I should not, and their fate does not interest me in the least,although you did me the credit of believing that it would. Thompson,you will show this person out? Sir, if I desire your presence here infuture I will send for you.'

  'You may send for the devil!' I cried, now thoroughly enraged, thewine getting the better of me.

  'You express my meaning more tersely than I cared to do,' he repliedcoldly, and that was the last I ever saw of him.

  Entering the cab I now drove to my flat, indignant at the reception Ihad met with. However, I knew the English people too well to malignthem for the action of one of their number, and resentment neverdwells long with me. Arriving at my rooms I looked through thenewspapers to learn all I could of the proposed business men'sexcursion to Paris, and in reading the names of those most prominentin carrying out the necessary arrangements, I came across that of W.Raymond White, which caused me to sit back in my chair and wrinkle mybrow in an endeavour to stir my memory. Unless I was much mistaken, Ihad been so happy as to oblige this gentleman some dozen or thirteenyears before. As I remembered him, he was a business man who engagedin large transactions with France, dealing especially in Lyons andthat district. His address was given in the newspaper as Old Change,so at once I resolved to see him. Although I could not recall thedetails of our previous meeting, if, indeed, he should turn out to bethe same person, yet the mere sight of the name had produced a mentalpleasure, as a chance chord struck may bring a grateful harmony to themind. I determined to get my credentials from Mr. White if possible,for his recommendation would in truth be much more valuable than thatof the gruff old nobleman to whom I had first applied, because, if Igot into trouble with the police of Paris, I was well enoughacquainted with the natural politeness of the authorities to know thata letter from one of the city's guests would secure my instantrelease.

  I took a hansom to the head of that narrow thoroughfare known as OldChange, and there dismissed my cab. I was so fortunate as to recogniseMr. White coming out of his office. A moment later, and I should havemissed him.

  'Mr. White,' I accosted him, 'I desire to enjoy both the pleasure andthe honour of introducing myself to you.'

  'Monsieur,' replied Mr. White with a smile, 'the introduction is notnecessary, and the pleasure and honour are mine. Unless I am very muchmistaken, this is Monsieur Valmont of Paris?'

  'Late of Paris,' I corrected.

  'Are you no longer in Government service then?'

  'For a little more than ten years I have been a resident of London.'

  'What, and have never let me know? That is something the diplomatistscall an unfriendly act, monsieur. Now, shall we return to my office,or go to a cafe?'

  'To your office, if you please, Mr. White. I come on rather importantbusiness.'

  Entering his private office the merchant closed the door, offered me achair, and sat down himself by his desk. From the first he hadaddressed me in French, which he spoke with an accent so pure that itdid my lonesome heart good to hear it.

  'I called upon you half a dozen years ago,' he went on, 'when I wasover in Paris on a festive occasion, where I hoped to secure yourcompany, but I could not learn definitely whether you were still withthe Government or not.'

  'It is the way of the French officialism,' I replied. 'If they knew mywhereabouts they would keep the knowledge to themselves.'

  'Well, if you have been ten years in London, Monsieur Valmont, we maynow perhaps have the pleasure of claiming you as an Englishman; so Ibeg you will accompany us on another festive occasion to Paris nextweek. Perhaps you have seen that a number of us are going over thereto make the welkin ring.'

  'Yes; I have read all about the business men's excursion to Paris, andit is with reference to this journey that I wish to consult you,' andhere I gave Mr. White in detail the plot of the anarchists against thegrowing cordiality of the two countries. The merchant listened quietlywithout interruption until I had finished; then he said,--'I supposeit will be rather useless to inform the police of Paris?'

  'Indeed, Mr. White, it is the police of Paris I fear more than theanarchists. They would resent information coming to them from theoutside, especially from an ex-official, the inference being that theywere not up to their own duties. Friction and delay would ensue untilthe deed was inevitable. It is quite on the cards that the police ofParis may have some inkling of the plot, and in that case, just beforethe event, they are reasonably certain to arrest the
wrong men. Ishall be moving about Paris, not as Eugene Valmont, but as PaulDucharme, the anarchist; therefore, there is some danger that as astranger and a suspect I may be laid by the heels at the criticalmoment. If you would be so good as to furnish me with credentialswhich I can deposit somewhere in Paris in case of need, I may thus beable to convince the authorities that they have taken the wrong man.'

  Mr. White, entirely unperturbed by the prospect of having a bomb thrownat him within two weeks, calmly wrote several documents, then turnedhis untroubled face to me, and said, in a very confidential, winningtone:--'Monsieur Valmont, you have stated the case with that clearcomprehensiveness pertaining to a nation which understands themeaning of words, and the correct adjustment of them; that felicity oflanguage which has given France the first place in the literature ofnations. Consequently, I think I see very clearly the delicacies ofthe situation. We may expect hindrances, rather than help, fromofficials on either side of the Channel. Secrecy is essential tosuccess. Have you spoken of this to anyone but me?'

  'Only to Lord Blank,' I replied; 'and now I deeply regret having madea confidant of him.'

  'That does not in the least matter,' said Mr. White, with a smile;'Lord Blank's mind is entirely occupied by his own greatness. Chemiststell me that you cannot add a new ingredient to a saturated solution;therefore your revelation will have made no impression upon hislordship's intellect. He has already forgotten all about it. Am Iright in supposing that everything hinges on the man who is to throwthe bomb?'

  'Quite right, sir. He may be venal, he may be traitorous, he may be acoward, he may be revengeful, he may be a drunkard. Before I am inconversation with him for ten minutes, I shall know what his weak spotis. It is upon that spot I must act, and my action must be delayedtill the very last moment; for, if he disappears too long before theevent, his first, second, or third substitute will instantly step intohis place.'

  'Precisely. So you cannot complete your plans until you have met thisman?'

  '_Parfaitement._'

  'Then I propose,' continued Mr. White, 'that we take no one into ourconfidence. In a case like this there is little use in going before acommittee. I can see that you do not need any advice, and my own partshall be to remain in the background, content to support the mostcompetent man that could have been chosen to grapple with a verydifficult crisis.'

  I bowed profoundly. There was a compliment in his glance as well as inhis words. Never before had I met so charming a man.

  'Here,' he continued, handing me one of the papers he had written, 'isa letter to whom it may concern, appointing you my agent for the nextthree weeks, and holding myself responsible for all you see fit to do.Here,' he went on, passing to me a second sheet, 'is a letter ofintroduction to Monsieur Largent, the manager of my bank in Paris, aman well known and highly respected in all circles, both official andcommercial. I suggest that you introduce yourself to him, and he willhold himself in readiness to respond to any call you may make, nightor day. I assure you that his mere presence before the authoritieswill at once remove any ordinary difficulty. And now,' he added,taking in hand the third slip of paper, speaking with some hesitation,and choosing his words with care, 'I come to a point which cannot beignored. Money is a magician's wand, which, like faith, will removemountains. It may also remove an anarchist hovering about the route ofa business man's procession.'

  He now handed to me what I saw was a draft on Paris for a thousandpounds.

  'I assure you, monsieur,' I protested, covered with confusion, 'thatno thought of money was in my mind when I took the liberty ofpresenting myself to you. I have already received more than I couldhave expected in the generous confidence you were good enough torepose in me, as exhibited by these credentials, and especially theletter to your banker. Thanks to the generosity of your countrymen, MrWhite, of which you are a most notable example, I am in no need ofmoney.'

  'Monsieur Valmont, I am delighted to hear that you have got on wellamongst us. This money is for two purposes. First, you will use whatyou need. I know Paris very well, monsieur, and have never found goldan embarrassment there. The second purpose is this: I suggest thatwhen you present the letter of introduction to Monsieur Largent, youwill casually place this amount to your account in his bank. He willthus see that besides writing you a letter of introduction, I transfera certain amount of my own balance to your credit. That will do you noharm with him, I assure you. And now, Monsieur Valmont, it onlyremains for me to thank you for the opportunity you have given me, andto assure you that I shall march from the Gare du Nord without atremor, knowing the outcome is in such capable custody.'

  And then this estimable man shook hands with me in action the mostcordial. I walked away from Old Change as if I trod upon air; afeeling vastly different from that with which I departed from theresidence of the old nobleman in the West End but a few hours before.

  * * * * *

  Next morning I was in Paris, and next night I attended the undergroundmeeting of the anarchists, held within a quarter of a mile of theLuxembourg. I was known to many there assembled, but my acquaintanceof course was not so large as with the London circle. They had halfexpected me the night before, knowing that even going by the Hook ofHolland I might have reached Paris in time for the conclave. I wasintroduced generally to the assemblage as the emissary from England,who was to assist the bomb-throwing brother to escape either to thatcountry, or to such other point of safety as I might choose. Noquestions were asked me regarding my doings of the day before, nor wasI required to divulge the plans for my fellow-member's escape. I wasresponsible; that was enough. If I failed through no fault of my own,it was but part of the ill-luck we were all prepared to face. If Ifailed through treachery, then a dagger in the back at the earliestpossible moment. We all knew the conditions of our sinister contract,and we all recognised that the least said the better.

  The cellar was dimly lighted by one oil lamp depending from theceiling. From this hung a cord attached to an extinguisher, and onejerk of the cord would put out the light. Then, while the main entrydoors were being battered down by police, the occupants of the roomescaped through one of three or four human rat-holes provided for thatpurpose.

  If any Parisian anarchist does me the honour to read these jottings, Ibeg to inform him that while I remained in office under the Governmentof France there was never a time when I did not know the exit of eachof these underground passages, and could during any night there wasconference have bagged the whole lot of those there assembled. It wasnever my purpose, however, to shake the anarchists' confidence intheir system, for that merely meant the removal of the gathering toanother spot, thus giving us the additional trouble of mapping outtheir new exits and entrances. When I did make a raid on anarchistheadquarters in Paris, it was always to secure some particular man. Ihad my emissaries in plain clothes stationed at each exit. In anycase, the rats were allowed to escape unmolested, sneaking forth withgreat caution into the night, but we always spotted the man we wanted,and almost invariably arrested him elsewhere, having followed him fromhis kennel. In each case my uniformed officers found a dark and emptycellar, and retired apparently baffled. But the coincidence that onthe night of every raid some member there present was secretlyarrested in another quarter of Paris, and perhaps given a free passageto Russia, never seemed to awaken suspicion in the minds of theconspirators.

  I think the London anarchists' method is much better, and I have everconsidered the English nihilist the most dangerous of this fraternity,for he is cool-headed and not carried away by his own enthusiasm, andconsequently rarely carried away by his own police. The authorities ofLondon meet no opposition in making a raid. They find a well-lightedroom containing a more or less shabby coterie playing cards at cheappine tables. There is no money visible, and, indeed, very little coinwould be brought to light if the whole party were searched; so thepolice are unable to convict the players under the Gambling Act.Besides, it is difficult in any case to obtain a conviction under theGambling Act,
because the accused has the sympathy of the wholecountry with him. It has always been to me one of the anomalies of theEnglish nature that a magistrate can keep a straight face while hefines some poor wretch for gambling, knowing that next race day (ifthe court is not sitting) the magistrate himself, in correct sportingcostume, with binoculars hanging at his hip, will be on the lawn bythe course backing his favourite horse.

  After my reception at the anarchists' club of Paris, I remained seatedunobtrusively on a bench waiting until routine business was finished,after which I expected an introduction to the man selected to throwthe bomb. I am a very sensitive person, and sitting there quietly Ibecame aware that I was being scrutinised with more than ordinaryintensity by someone, which gave me a feeling of uneasiness. At last,in the semi-obscurity opposite me I saw a pair of eyes as luminous asthose of a tiger peering fixedly at me. I returned the stare with suchcomposure as I could bring to my aid, and the man, as if fascinated bya look as steady as his own, leaned forward, and came more and moreinto the circle of light.

  Then I received a shock which it required my utmost self-control toconceal. The face, haggard and drawn, was none other than that ofAdolph Simard, who had been my second assistant in the Secret Serviceof France during my last year in office. He was a most capable andrising young man at that time, and, of course, he knew me well. Hadhe, then, penetrated my disguise? Such an event seemed impossible; hecould not have recognised my voice, for I had said nothing aloudsince entering the room, my few words to the president being spoken ina whisper. Simard's presence there bewildered me; by this time heshould be high up in the Secret Service. If he were now a spy, hewould, of course, wish to familiarise himself with every particular ofmy appearance, as in my hands lay the escape of the criminal. Yet, ifsuch were his mission, why did he attract the attention of all membersby this open-eyed scrutiny? That he recognised me as Valmont I had notthe least fear; my disguise was too perfect; and, even if I were therein my own proper person, I had not seen Simard, nor he me, for tenyears, and great changes occur in a man's appearance during so long aperiod. Yet I remembered with disquietude that Mr. White recognised me,and here tonight I had recognised Simard. I could not move my benchfarther back because it stood already against the wall.

  Simard, on the contrary, was seated on one of the few chairs in theroom, and this he periodically hitched forward, the better to continuehis examination, which now attracted the notice of others besidesmyself. As he came forward, I could not help admiring the completenessof his disguise so far as apparel was concerned. He was a perfectpicture of the Paris wastrel, and what was more, he wore on his head acap of the Apaches, the most dangerous band of cut-throats that haveever cursed a civilised city. I could understand that even amonglawless anarchists this badge of membership of the Apache band mightwell strike tenor. I felt that before the meeting adjourned I mustspeak with him, and I determined to begin our conversation by askinghim why he stared so fixedly at me. Yet even then I should have madelittle progress. I did not dare to hint that he belonged to the SecretService; nevertheless, if the authorities had this plot in charge, itwas absolutely necessary we should work together, or, at least, that Ishould know they were in the secret, and steer my course accordingly.The fact that Simard appeared with undisguised face was not soimportant as might appear to an outsider.

  It is always safer for a spy to preserve his natural appearance ifthat is possible, because a false beard or false moustache or wig runthe risk of being deranged or torn away. As I have said, an anarchistassemblage is simply a room filled with the atmosphere of suspicion. Ihave known instances where an innocent stranger was suddenly set uponin the midst of solemn proceedings by two or three impetuousfellow-members, who nearly jerked his own whiskers from his faceunder the impression that they were false. If Simard, therefore,appeared in his own scraggy beard and unkempt hair it meant that hecommunicated with headquarters by some circuitous route. I realised,therefore, that a very touchy bit of diplomacy awaited me if I was tolearn from himself his actual status. While I pondered over thisperplexity, it was suddenly dissolved by the action of the president,and another substituted for it.

  'Will Brother Simard come forward?' asked the president.

  My former subordinate removed his eyes from me, slowly rose from hischair, and shuffled up to the president's table.

  'Brother Ducharme,' said that official to me in a quiet tone, 'Iintroduce you to Brother Simard, whom you are commissioned to see intoa place of safety when he has dispersed the procession.'

  Simard turned his fishy goggle eyes upon me, and a grin disclosedwolf-like teeth. He held out his hand, which, rising to my feet, Itook. He gave me a flabby grasp, and all the time his inquiring eyestravelled over me.

  'You don't look up to much,' he said. 'What are you?'

  'I am a teacher of the French language in London.'

  'Umph!' growled Simard, evidently in no wise prepossessed by myappearance. 'I thought you weren't much of a fighter. The gendarmeswill make short work of this fellow,' he growled to the chairman.

  'Brother Ducharme is vouched for by the whole English circle,' repliedthe president firmly.

  'Oh, the English! I think very little of them. Still, it doesn'tmatter,' and with a shrug of the shoulders he shuffled to his seatagain, leaving me standing there in a very embarrassed state of mind;my brain in a whirl. That the man was present with his own face wasbewildering enough, but that he should be here under his own name wassimply astounding. I scarcely heard what the president said. It seemedto the effect that Simard would take me to his own room, where wemight talk over our plans. And now Simard rose again from his chair,and said to the president that if nothing more were wanted of him, weshould go. Accordingly we left the place of meeting together. Iwatched my comrade narrowly. There was now a trembling eagerness inhis action, and without a word he hurried me to the nearest cafe,where we sat down before a little iron table on the pavement.

  'Garcon!' he shouted harshly, 'bring me four absinthes. What will youdrink, Ducharme?',

  'A cafe-cognac, if you please.'

  'Bah!' cried Simard; 'better have absinthe.'

  Then he cursed the waiter for his slowness. When the absinthe came hegrasped the half-full glass and swallowed the liquid raw, a thing Ihad never seen done before. Into the next measure of the wormwood hepoured the water impetuously from the carafe, another thing I hadnever seen done before, and dropped two lumps of sugar into it. Overthe third glass he placed a flat perforated plated spoon, piled thesugar on this bridge, and now quite expertly allowed the water to dripthrough, the proper way of concocting this seductive mixture.Finishing his second glass he placed the perforated spoon over thefourth, and began now more calmly sipping the third while the waterdripped slowly into the last glass.

  Here before my eyes was enacted a more wonderful change than thegradual transformation of transparent absinthe into an opaqueopalescent liquid. Simard, under the influence of the drink, wasslowly becoming the Simard I had known ten years before. Remarkable!Absinthe having in earlier years made a beast of the man was nowforming a man out of the beast. His staring eyes took on an expressionof human comradeship. The whole mystery became perfectly clear to mewithout a question asked or an answer uttered. This man was no spy,but a genuine anarchist. However it happened, he had become a victimof absinthe, one of many with whom I was acquainted, although I nevermet any so far sunk as he. He was into his fourth glass, and hadordered two more when he began to speak.

  'Here's to us,' he cried, with something like a civilised smile on hisgaunt face. 'You're not offended at what I said in the meeting, Ihope?'

  'Oh, no,' I answered.

  'That's right. You see, I once belonged to the Secret Service, and ifmy chief was there today, we would soon find ourselves in a cooldungeon. We couldn't trip up Eugene Valmont.'

  At these words, spoken with sincerity, I sat up in my chair, and I amsure such an expression of enjoyment came into my face that if I hadnot instantly suppressed it, I might have betrayed m
yself.

  'Who was Eugene Valmont?' I asked, in a tone of assumed indifference.

  Mixing his fifth glass he nodded sagely.

  'You wouldn't ask that question if you'd been in Paris a dozen yearsago. He was the Government's chief detective, and he knew more ofanarchists, yes, and of Apaches, too, than either you or I do. He hadmore brains in his little finger than that whole lot babbling theretonight. But the Government being a fool, as all governments are,dismissed him, and because I was his assistant, they dismissed me aswell. They got rid of all his staff. Valmont disappeared. If I couldhave found him, I wouldn't be sitting here with you tonight; but hewas right to disappear. The Government did all they could against uswho had been his friends, and I for one came through starvation, andwas near throwing myself in the Seine, which sometimes I wish I haddone. Here, garcon, another absinthe. But by-and-by I came to like thegutter, and here I am. I'd rather have the gutter and absinthe thanthe Luxembourg without it. I've had my revenge on the Government manytimes since, for I knew their ways, and often have I circumvented thepolice. That's why they respect me among the anarchists. Do you knowhow I joined? I knew all their passwords, and walked right into one oftheir meetings, alone and in rags.

  '"Here am I," I said; "Adolph Simard, late second assistant to EugeneValmont, chief detective to the French Government."

  'There were twenty weapons covering me at once, but I laughed.

  '"I'm starving," I cried, "and I want something to eat, and moreespecially something to drink. In return for that I'll show you everyrat-hole you've got. Lift the president's chair, and there's atrap-door that leads to the Rue Blanc. I'm one of you, and I'll tellyou the tricks of the police."

  'Such was my initiation, and from that moment the police began to picktheir spies out of the Seine, and now they leave us alone. EvenValmont himself could do nothing against the anarchists since I havejoined them.'

  Oh, the incredible self-conceit of human nature! Here was this ruffianproclaiming the limitations of Valmont, who half an hour before hadshaken his hand within the innermost circle of his order! Yet my heartwarmed towards the wretch who had remembered me and my exploits.

  It now became my anxious and difficult task to lure Simard away fromthis cafe and its absinthe. Glass after glass of the poison hadbrought him up almost to his former intellectual level, but now itwas shoving him rapidly down the hill again. I must know where hisroom was situated, yet if I waited much longer the man would be in astate of drunken imbecility which would not only render it impossiblefor him to guide me to his room, but likely cause both of us to bearrested by the police. I tried persuasion, and he laughed at me; Itried threats, whereat he scowled and cursed me as a renegade fromEngland. At last the liquor overpowered him, and his head sunk on themetal table and the dark blue cap fell to the floor.

  * * * * *

  I was in despair, but now received a lesson which taught me that if aman leaves a city, even for a short time, he falls out of touch withits ways. I called the waiter, and said to him,--

  'Do you know my friend here?'

  'I do not know his name,' replied the garcon, 'but I have seen himmany times at this cafe. He is usually in this state when he hasmoney.'

  'Do you know where he lives? He promised to take me with him, and I ama stranger in Paris.'

  'Have no discontent, monsieur. Rest tranquil; I will intervene.'

  With this he stepped across the pavement in front of the cafe, intothe street, and gave utterance to a low, peculiar whistle. The cafewas now nearly deserted, for the hour was very late, or, rather, veryearly. When the waiter returned I whispered to him in some anxiety,--

  'Not the police, surely?'

  'But no!' he cried in scorn; 'certainly not the police.'

  He went on unconcernedly taking in the empty chairs and tables. A fewminutes later there swaggered up to the cafe two of the mostdisreputable, low-browed scoundrels I had ever seen, each wearing adark-blue cap, with a glazed peak over the eyes; caps exactly similarto the one which lay in front of Simard. The band of Apaches which nowpermeates all Paris has risen since my time, and Simard had beenmistaken an hour before in asserting that Valmont was familiar withtheir haunts. The present Chief of Police in Paris and some of hispredecessors confess there is a difficulty in dealing with thesepicked assassins, but I should very much like to take a hand in thegame on the side of law and order. However, that is not to be;therefore, the Apaches increase and prosper.

  The two vagabonds roughly smote Simard's cap on his prone head, and asroughly raised him to his feet.

  'He is a friend of mine,' I interposed, 'and promised to take me homewith him.'

  'Good! Follow us,' said one of them; and now I passed through themorning streets of Paris behind three cut-throats, yet knew that I wassafer than if broad daylight was in the thoroughfare, with a meridiansun shining down upon us. I was doubly safe, being in no fear of harmfrom midnight prowlers, and equally free from danger of arrest by thepolice. Every officer we met avoided us, and casually stepped to theother side of the street. We turned down a narrow lane, then through astill narrower one, which terminated at a courtyard. Entering a tallbuilding, we climbed up five flights of stairs to a landing, where oneof the scouts kicked open a door, into a room so miserable that therewas not even a lock to protect its poverty. Here they allowed theinsensible Simard to drop with a crash on the floor, thus they left usalone without even an adieu. The Apaches take care of their own--aftera fashion.

  I struck a match, and found part of a bougie stuck in the mouth of anabsinthe bottle, resting on a rough deal table. Lighting the bougie, Isurveyed the horrible apartment. A heap of rags lay in a corner, andthis was evidently Simard's bed. I hauled him to it, and there he layunconscious, himself a bundle of rags. I found one chair, or, rather,stool, for it had no back. I drew the table against the lockless door,blew out the light, sat on the stool, resting my arms on the table,and my head on my arms, and slept peacefully till long after daybreak.

  Simard awoke in the worst possible humour. He poured forth a greatvariety of abusive epithets at me. To make himself still moreagreeable, he turned back the rags on which he had slept, and broughtto the light a round, black object, like a small cannon-ball, which heinformed me was the picric bomb that was to scatter destruction amongmy English friends, for whom he expressed the greatest possibleloathing and contempt. Then sitting up, he began playing with thisinfernal machine, knowing, as well as I, that if he allowed it to dropthat was the end of us two.

  I shrugged my shoulders at this display, and affected a nonchalance Iwas far from feeling, but finally put an end to his dangerousamusement by telling him that if he came out with me I would pay forhis breakfast, and give him a drink of absinthe.

  The next few days were the most anxious of my life. Never before had Ilived on terms of intimacy with a picric bomb, that most deadly anduncertain of all explosive agencies. I speedily found that Simard wasso absinthe-soaked I could do nothing with him. He could not be bribedor cajoled or persuaded or threatened. Once, indeed, when he talkedwith drunken affection of Eugene Valmont, I conceived a wild notion ofdeclaring myself to him; but a moment's reflection showed the absoluteuselessness of this course. It was not one Simard with whom I had todeal, but half a dozen or more. There was Simard, sober, half sober,quarter sober, drunk, half drunk, quarter drunk, or wholly drunk. Anybargain I might make with the one Simard would not be kept by any ofthe other six. The only safe Simard was Simard insensible throughover-indulgence. I had resolved to get Simard insensibly drunk on themorning of the procession, but my plans were upset at a meeting of theanarchists, which luckily took place on an evening shortly after myarrival, and this gave me time to mature the plan which was actuallycarried out. Each member of the anarchists' club knew of Simard'sslavery to absinthe, and fears were expressed that he might proveincapable on the day of the procession, too late for a substitute totake his place. It was, therefore, proposed that one or two othersshould be stationed along the
route of the procession with bombs readyif Simard failed. This I strenuously opposed, and guaranteed thatSimard would be ready to launch his missile. I met with littledifficulty in persuading the company to agree, because, after all,every man among them feared he might be one of those selected, whichchoice was practically a sentence of death. I guaranteed that the bombwould be thrown, and this apparently was taken to mean that if Simarddid not do the deed, I would.

  This danger over, I next took the measurements, and estimated theweight, of the picric bomb. I then sought out a most amiable andexpert pyrotechnist, a capable workman of genius, who with his ownhand makes those dramatic firework arrangements which you sometimessee in Paris. As Eugene Valmont, I had rendered a great service tothis man, and he was not likely to have forgotten it. During one ofthe anarchist scares a stupid policeman had arrested him, and when Iintervened the man was just on the verge of being committed for life.France trembled in one of her panics, or, rather, Paris did, anddemanded victims. This blameless little workman had indeed contributedwith both material and advice, but any fool might have seen that hehad done this innocently. His assistance had been invoked and securedunder the pretence that his clients were promoting an amateur fireworkdisplay, which was true enough, but the display cost the lives ofthree men, and intentionally so. I cheered up the citizen in themoment of his utmost despair, and brought such proof of his innocenceto the knowledge of those above me that he was most reluctantlyacquitted. To this man I now went with my measurement of the bomb andthe estimate of its weight.

  'Sir,' said I, 'do you remember Eugene Valmont?'

  'Am I ever likely to forget him?' he replied, with a fervour thatpleased me.

  'He has sent me to you, and implores you to aid me, and that aid willwipe out the debt you owe him.'

  'Willingly, willingly,' cried the artisan, 'so long as it has nothingto do with the anarchists or the making of bombs.'

  'It has to do exactly with those two things. I wish you to make aninnocent bomb which will prevent an anarchist outrage.'

  At this the little man drew back, and his face became pale.

  'It is impossible,' he protested; 'I have had enough of innocentbombs. No, no, and in any case how can I be sure you come from EugeneValmont? No, monsieur, I am not to be trapped the second time.'

  At this I related rapidly all that Valmont had done for him, and evenrepeated Valmont's most intimate conversation with him. The man wasnonplussed, but remained firm.

  'I dare not do it,' he said.

  We were alone in his back shop. I walked to the door and thrust in thebolt; then, after a moment's pause, turned round, stretched forth myright hand dramatically, and cried,--'Behold, Eugene Valmont!'

  My friend staggered against the wall in his amazement, and I continuedin solemn tones,--'Eugene Valmont, who by this removal of his disguiseplaces his life in your hands as your life was in his. Now, monsieur,what will you do?'

  He replied,--'Monsieur Valmont, I shall do whatever you ask. If Irefused a moment ago, it was because I thought there was now in Franceno Eugene Valmont to rectify my mistake if I made one.'

  I resumed my disguise, and told him I wished an innocent substitutefor this picric bomb, and he at once suggested an earthenware globe,which would weigh the same as the bomb, and which could be coloured toresemble it exactly.

  'And now, Monsieur Valmont, do you wish smoke to issue from thisimitation bomb?'

  'Yes,' I said, 'in such quantity as you can compress within it.'

  'It is easily done,' he cried, with the enthusiasm of a true Frenchartist. 'And may I place within some little design of my own whichwill astonish your friends the English, and delight my friends theFrench?'

  'Monsieur,' said I, 'I am in your hands. I trust the project entirelyto your skill,' and thus it came about that four days later Isubstituted the bogus globe for the real one, and, unseen, dropped thepicric bomb from one of the bridges into the Seine.

  On the morning of the procession I was compelled to allow Simardseveral drinks of absinthe to bring him up to a point where he couldbe depended on, otherwise his anxiety and determination to fling thebomb, his frenzy against all government, made it certain that he wouldbetray both of us before the fateful moment came. My only fear wasthat I could not stop him drinking when once he began, but somehow ourdays of close companionship, loathsome as they were to me, seemed tohave had the effect of building up again the influence I held over himin former days, and his yielding more or less to my wishes appeared tobe quite unconscious on his part.

  The procession was composed entirely of carriages, each containingfour persons--two Englishmen sat on the back seats, with two Frenchmenin front of them. A thick crowd lined each side of the thoroughfare,cheering vociferously. Right into the middle of the procession Simardlaunched his bomb. There was no crash of explosion. The missile simplywent to pieces as if it were an earthenware jar, and there arose adense column of very white smoke. In the immediate vicinity thecheering stopped at once, and the sinister word 'bomb' passed from lipto lip in awed whispers. As the throwing had been unnoticed in themidst of the commotion, I held Simard firmly by the wrist, determinedhe should not draw attention to himself by his panic-stricken desirefor immediate flight.

  'Stand still, you fool!' I hissed into his ear and he obeyedtrembling.

  The pair of horses in front of which the bomb fell rose for a momenton their hind legs, and showed signs of bolting, but the coachman heldthem firmly, and uplifted his hand so that the procession behind himcame to a momentary pause. No one in the carriages moved a muscle,then suddenly the tension was broken by a great and simultaneouscheer. Wondering at this I turned my eyes from the frightened horsesto the column of pale smoke in front of us, and saw that in somemanner it had resolved itself into a gigantic calla lily, pure white,while from the base of this sprung the lilies of France, delicatelytinted. Of course, this could not have happened if there had been theleast wind, but the air was so still that the vibration of thecheering caused the huge lily to tremble gently as it stood theremarvellously poised; the lily of peace, surrounded by the lilies ofFrance! That was the design, and if you ask me how it was done, I canonly refer you to my pyrotechnist, and say that whatever a Frenchmanattempts to do he will accomplish artistically.

  And now these imperturbable English, who had been seated immobile whenthey thought a bomb was thrown, stood up in their carriages to get abetter view of this aerial phenomenon, cheering and waving their hats.The lily gradually thinned and dissolved in little patches of cloudthat floated away above our heads.

  'I cannot stay here longer,' groaned Simard, quaking, his nerves, likehimself, in rags. 'I see the ghosts of those I have killed floatingaround me.'

  'Come on, then, but do not hurry.'

  There was no difficulty in getting him to London, but it was absinthe,absinthe, all the way, and when we reached Charing Cross, I wascompelled to help him, partly insensible, into a cab. I took himdirect to Imperial Flats, and up into my own set of chambers, where Iopened my strong room, and flung him inside to sleep off hisintoxication, and subsist on bread and water when he became sober.

  I attended that night a meeting of the anarchists, and detailedaccurately the story of our escape from France. I knew we had beenwatched, and so skipped no detail. I reported that I had taken Simarddirectly to my compatriot's flat; to Eugene Valmont, the man who hadgiven me employment, and who had promised to do what he could forSimard, beginning by trying to break him of the absinthe habit, as hewas now a physical wreck through over-indulgence in that stimulant.

  It was curious to note the discussion which took place a few nightsafterwards regarding the failure of the picric bomb. Scientists amongus said that the bomb had been made too long; that a chemical reactionhad taken place which destroyed its power. A few superstitious onessaw a miracle in what had happened, and they forthwith left ourorganisation. Then again, things were made easier by the fact that theman who constructed the bomb, evidently terror-stricken at what he haddone, disappeared the da
y before the procession, and has never sincebeen heard of. The majority of the anarchists believed he had made abogus bomb, and had fled to escape their vengeance rather than toevade the justice of the law.

  Simard will need no purgatory in the next world. I kept him on breadand water for a month in my strong room, and at first he demandedabsinthe with threats, then grovelled, begging and praying for it.After that a period of depression and despair ensued, but finally hisnaturally strong constitution conquered, and began to build itself upagain. I took him from his prison one midnight, and gave him a bed inmy Soho room, taking care in bringing him away that he would neverrecognise the place where he had been incarcerated. In my dealingswith him I had always been that old man, Paul Ducharme. Next morning Isaid to him:--'You spoke of Eugene Valmont. I have learned that helives in London, and I advise you to call upon him. Perhaps he can getyou something to do.'

  Simard was overjoyed, and two hours later, as Eugene Valmont, Ireceived him in my flat, and made him my assistant on the spot. Fromthat time forward, Paul Ducharme, language teacher, disappeared fromthe earth, and Simard abandoned his two A's--anarchy and absinthe.

 

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