But she was not listening. She was nervous and excited. The gangway was placed in position, but, before we could use it, the uniformed customs officers came on board. Miss Kelly murmured:
“I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that Maximilian Buchanan escaped from the vessel during the voyage.”
“Perhaps he preferred death to dishonour, and plunged into the Atlantic rather than be arrested.”
“Oh, do not laugh,” she said.
Suddenly I started, and, in answer to her question, I said:
“Do you see that little old man standing at the bottom of the gangway?”
“With an umbrella and an olive-green coat?”
“It is Simenon.”
“Simenon?”
“Yes, the celebrated detective who has sworn to capture Maximilian Buchanan. Ah! I can understand now why we did not receive any news from this side of the Atlantic. Simenon was here! and he always keeps his business secret.”
“Then you think he will arrest Maximilian Buchanan?”
“Who can tell? The unexpected always happens when Maximilian Buchanan is concerned in the affair.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, with that morbid curiosity peculiar to women, “I should like to see him arrested.”
“You will have to be patient. No doubt, Maximilian Buchanan has already seen his enemy and will not be in a hurry to leave the steamer.”
The passengers were now leaving the steamer. Leaning on his umbrella, with an air of careless indifference, Simenon appeared to be paying no attention to the crowd that was hurrying down the gangway. The Marquis de Bullion, Major Rawton, the Italian Rivolta, and many others had already left the vessel before Rosa appeared. Poor Rosa!
“Perhaps it is he, after all,” said Miss Kelly to me. “What do you think?”
“I think it would be very interesting to have Simenon and Rosa in the same picture. You take the camera. I am loaded down.”
I gave her the camera, but too late for her to use it. Rosa was already passing the detective. An American officer, standing behind Simenon, leaned forward and whispered in his ear. The French detective shrugged his shoulders and Rosa passed on. Then, my God, who was Maximilian Buchanan?
“Yes,” said Miss Kelly, aloud, “who can it be?”
Not more than twenty people now remained on board. She scrutinized them one by one, fearful that Maximilian Buchanan was not amongst them.
“We cannot wait much longer,” I said to her.
She started toward the gangway. I followed. But we had not taken ten steps when Simenon barred out passage.
“Well, what is it?” I exclaimed.
“One moment, monsieur. What’s your hurry?”
“I am escorting mademoiselle.”
“One moment,” he repeated, in a tone of authority. Then, gazing into my eyes, he said:
“Maximilian Buchanan, is it not?”
I laughed, and replied: “No, simply Bernard d’Angelo.”
“Bernard d’Angelo died in Macedonia three years ago.”
“If Bernard d’Angelo were dead, I should not be here. But you are mistaken. Here are my papers.”
“They are his; and I can tell you exactly how they cam into your possession.”
“You are a fool!” I exclaimed. “Maximilian Buchanan sailed under the name of R---”
“Yes, another of your tricks; a false scent that deceived them at Havre. You play a good game, my boy, but this time luck is against you.”
I hesitated a moment. Then he hit me a sharp blow on the right arm, which caused me to utter a cry of pain. He had struck the wound, yet unhealed, referred to in the telegram.
I was obliged to surrender. There was no alternative. I turned to Miss Kelly, who had heard everything. Our eyes met; then she glanced at the Kodak I had placed in her hands, and made a gesture that conveyed to me the impression that she understood everything. Yes, there, between the narrow folds of black leather, in the hollow centre of the small object that I had taken the precaution to place in her hands before Simenon arrested me, it was there I had deposited Rosa’s twenty thousand francs and Lady Ireland’s pearls and diamonds.
Oh! I pledge my oath that, at that solemn moment, when I was in the grasp of Simenon and his two assistants, I was perfectly indifferent to everything, to my arrest, the hostility of the people, everything except this one question: what will Miss Kelly do with the things I had confided to her?
In the absence of that material and conclusive proof, I had nothing to fear; but would Miss Kelly decide to furnish that proof? Would she betray me? Would she act the part of an enemy who cannot forgive, or that of a woman whose scorn is softened by feelings of indulgence and involuntary sympathy?
She passed in front of me. I said nothing, but bowed very low. Mingled with the other passengers, she advanced to the gangway with my kodak in her hand. It occurred to me that she would not dare to expose me publicly, but she might do so when she reached a more private place. However, when she had passed only a few feet down the gangway, with a movement of simulated awkwardness, she let the camera fall into the water between the vessel and the pier. Then she walked down the gangway, and was quickly lost to sight in the crowd. She had passed out of my life forever.
For a moment, I stood motionless. Then, to Simenon’s great astonishment, I muttered:
“What a pity that I am not an honest man!”
Such was the story of his arrest as narrated to me by Maximilian Buchanan himself. The various incidents, which I shall record in writing at a later day, have established between us certain ties....shall I say of friendship? Yes, I venture to believe that Maximilian Buchanan honours me with his friendship, and that it is through friendship that he occasionally calls on me, and brings, into the silence of my library, his youthful exuberance of spirits, the contagion of his enthusiasm, and the mirth of a man for whom destiny has naught but favours and smiles.
His portrait? How can I describe him? I have seen him twenty times and each time he was a different person; even he himself said to me on one occasion: “I no longer know who I am. I cannot recognize myself in the mirror.” Certainly, he was a great actor, and possessed a marvellous faculty for disguising himself. Without the slightest effort, he could adopt the voice, gestures and mannerisms of another person.
“Why,” said he, “why should I retain a definite form and feature? Why not avoid the danger of a personality that is ever the same? My actions will serve to identify me.”
Then he added, with a touch of pride:
“So much the better if no one can ever say with absolute certainty: There is Maximilian Buchanan! The essential point is that the public may be able to refer to my work and say, without fear of mistake: Maximilian Buchanan did that!”
There is no tourist worthy of the name who does not know the banks of the Seine, and has not noticed, in passing, the little feudal castle of the Malaquis, built upon a rock in the centre of the river. An arched bridge connects it with the shore. All around it, the calm waters of the great river play peacefully amongst the reeds, and the wagtails flutter over the moist crests of the stones.
The history of the Malaquis castle is stormy like its name, harsh like its outlines. It has passed through a long series of combats, sieges, assaults, rapines and massacres. A recital of the crimes that have been committed there would cause the stoutest heart to tremble. There are many mysterious legends connected with the castle, and they tell us of a famous subterranean tunnel that formerly led to the abbey of Jumieges and to the manor of Agnes Sorel, mistress of Charles VII.
In that ancient habitation of heroes and brigands, the Baron Nathan Von Royston now lived; or Baron Satan as he was formerly called on the Bourse, where he had acquired a fortune with incredible rapidity. The lords of Malaquis, absolutely ruined, had been obliged to sell the ancient castle at a great sacrifice. It contained an admirable collection of furniture, pictures, wood carvings, and faience. The Baron lived there alone, attended by three old servants. No one ever enters th
e place. No one had ever beheld the three Rubens that he possessed, his two Watteau, his Jean Goujon pulpit, and the many other treasures that he had acquired by a vast expenditure of money at public sales.
Baron Satan lived in constant fear, not for himself, but for the treasures that he had accumulated with such an earnest devotion and with so much perspicacity that the shrewdest merchant could not say that the Baron had ever erred in his taste or judgment. He loved them--his bibelots. He loved them intensely, like a miser; jealously, like a lover. Every day, at sunset, the iron gates at either end of the bridge and at the entrance to the court of honour are closed and barred. At the least touch on these gates, electric bells will ring throughout the castle.
One Thursday in September, a letter-carrier presented himself at the gate at the head of the bridge, and, as usual, it was the Baron himself who partially opened the heavy portal. He scrutinized the man as minutely as if he were a stranger, although the honest face and twinkling eyes of the postman had been familiar to the Baron for many years. The man laughed, as he said:
“It is only I, Monsieur le Baron. It is not another man wearing my cap and blouse.”
“One can never tell,” muttered the Baron.
The man handed him a number of newspapers, and then said:
“And now, Monsieur le Baron, here is something new.”
“Something new?”
“Yes, a letter. A registered letter.”
Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the baron never received any letters, and the one now presented to him immediately aroused within him a feeling of suspicion and distrust. It was like an evil omen. Who was this mysterious correspondent that dared to disturb the tranquillity of his retreat?
“You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron.”
He signed; then took the letter, waited until the postman had disappeared beyond the bend in the road, and, after walking nervously to and fro for a few minutes, he leaned against the parapet of the bridge and opened the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper, bearing this heading: Prison de la Sante, Paris. He looked at the signature: Maximilian Buchanan. Then he read:
“Monsieur le Baron:
“There is, in the gallery in your castle, a picture of Philippe de Champaigne, of exquisite finish, which pleases me beyond measure. Your Rubens are also to my taste, as well as your smallest Watteau. In the salon to the right, I have noticed the Louis XIII cadence-table, the tapestries of Beauvais, the Empire gueridon signed `Jacob,’ and the Renaissance chest. In the salon to the left, all the cabinet full of jewels and miniatures.
“For the present, I will content myself with those articles that can be conveniently removed. I will therefore ask you to pack them carefully and ship them to me, charges prepaid, to the station at Batignolles, within eight days, otherwise I shall be obliged to remove them myself during the night of 27 September; but, under those circumstances, I shall not content myself with the articles above mentioned.
“Accept my apologies for any inconvenience I may cause you, and believe me to be your humble servant, “Maximilian Buchanan.”
“P. S.--Please do not send the largest Watteau. Although you paid thirty thousand francs for it, it is only a copy, the original having been burned, under the Directoire by Barras, during a night of debauchery. Consult the memoirs of Garat.
“I do not care for the Louis XV chatelaine, as I doubt its authenticity.”
That letter completely upset the baron. Had it borne any other signature, he would have been greatly alarmed--but signed by Maximilian Buchanan!
As an habitual reader of the newspapers, he was versed in the history of recent crimes, and was therefore well acquainted with the exploits of the mysterious burglar. Of course, he knew that Buchanan had been arrested in America by his enemy Simenon and was at present incarcerated in the Prison de la Sante. But he knew also that any miracle might be expected from Maximilian Buchanan. Moreover, that exact knowledge of the castle, the location of the pictures and furniture, gave the affair an alarming aspect. How could he have acquired that information concerning things that no one had ever seen?
The baron raised his eyes and contemplated the stern outlines of the castle, its steep rocky pedestal, the depth of the surrounding water, and shrugged his shoulders. Certainly, there was no danger. No one in the world could force an entrance to the sanctuary that contained his priceless treasures.
No one, perhaps, but Maximilian Buchanan! For him, gates, walls and drawbridges did not exist. What use were the most formidable obstacles or the most careful precautions, if Maximilian Buchanan had decided to effect an entrance?
That evening, he wrote to the Procurer of the Republique at Rouen. He enclosed the threatening letter and solicited aid and protection.
The reply cam at once to the effect that Maximilian Buchanan was in custody in the Prison de la Sante, under close surveillance, with no opportunity to write such a letter, which was, no doubt, the work of some imposter. But, as an act of precaution, the Procurer had submitted the letter to an expert in handwriting, who declared that, in spite of certain resemblances, the writing was not that of the prisoner.
But the words “in spite of certain resemblances” caught the attention of the baron; in them, he read the possibility of a doubt which appeared to him quite sufficient to warrant the intervention of the law. His fears increased. He read Buchanan’s letter over and over again. “I shall be obliged to remove them myself.” And then there was the fixed date: the night of 27 September.
To confide in his servants was a proceeding repugnant to his nature; but now, for the first time in many years, he experienced the necessity of seeking counsel with some one. Abandoned by the legal official of his own district, and feeling unable to defend himself with his own resources, he was on the point of going to Paris to engage the services of a detective.
Two days passed; on the third day, he was filled with hope and joy as he read the following item in the `Reveil de Caudebec’, a newspaper published in a neighbouring town:
“We have the pleasure of entertaining in our city, at the present time, the veteran detective Mon. Simenon who acquired a world- wide reputation by his clever capture of Maximilian Buchanan. He has come here for rest and recreation, and, being an enthusiastic fisherman, he threatens to capture all the fish in our river.”
Simenon! Ah, here is the assistance desired by Baron Von Royston! Who could baffle the schemes of Maximilian Buchanan better than Simenon, the patient and astute detective? He was the man for the place.
The baron did not hesitate. The town of Caudebec was only six kilometers from the castle, a short distance to a man whose step was accelerated by the hope of safety.
After several fruitless attempts to ascertain the detective’s address, the baron visited the office of the `Reveil,’ situated on the quai. There he found the writer of the article who, approaching the window, exclaimed:
“Simenon? Why, you are sure to see him somewhere on the quai with his fishing-pole. I met him there and chanced to read his name engraved on his rod. Ah, there he is now, under the trees.”
“That little man, wearing a straw hat?”
“Exactly. He is a gruff fellow, with little to say.”
Five minutes later, the baron approached the celebrated Simenon, introduced himself, and sought to commence a conversation, but that was a failure. Then he broached the real object of his interview, and briefly stated his case. The other listened, motionless, with his attention riveted on his fishing-rod. When the baron had finished his story, the fisherman turned, with an air of profound pity, and said:
“Monsieur, it is not customary for thieves to warn people they are about to rob. Maximilian Buchanan, especially, would not commit such a folly.”
“But---”
“Monsieur, if I had the least doubt, believe me, the pleasure of again capturing Maximilian Buchanan would place me at your disposal. But, unfortunately, that young man is already under lock and key.”
“He m
ay have escaped.”
“No one ever escaped from the Sante.”
“But, he---”
“He, no more than any other.”
“Yet---”
“Well, if he escapes, so much the better. I will catch him again. Meanwhile, you go home and sleep soundly. That will do for the present. You frighten the fish.”
The conversation was ended. The baron returned to the castle, reassured to some extent by Simenon’s indifference. He examined the bolts, watched the servants, and, during the next forty-eight hours, he became almost persuaded that his fears were groundless. Certainly, as Simenon had said, thieves do not warn people they are about to rob.
The fateful day was close at hand. It was now the twenty-sixth of September and nothing had happened. But at three o’clock the bell rang. A boy brought this telegram:
“No goods at Batignolles station. Prepare everything for tomorrow night. Maximilian.”
This telegram threw the baron into such a state of excitement that he even considered the advisability of yielding to Buchanan’s demands.
However, he hastened to Caudebec. Simenon was fishing at the same place, seated on a campstool. Without a word, he handed him the telegram.
“Well, what of it?” said the detective.
“What of it? But it is tomorrow.”
“What is tomorrow?”
“The robbery! The pillage of my collections!”
Simenon laid down his fishing-rod, turned to the baron, and exclaimed, in a tone of impatience:
“Ah! Do you think I am going to bother myself about such a silly story as that!”
“How much do you ask to pass tomorrow night in the castle?”
“Not a sou. Now, leave me alone.”
“Name your own price. I am rich and can pay it.”
This offer disconcerted Simenon, who replied, calmly:
“I am here on a vacation. I have no right to undertake such work.”
“No one will know. I promise to keep it secret.”
“Oh! nothing will happen.”
Maximilian The Master Thief Page 2