“In order to do that,” continued Florence, without heeding the interruption, “he had simply to construct a bridge, a plank or a ladder, between the balcony of the kitchen and the ledge of the window, and as the jewel-case---”
“But I repeat that the window was fastened,” exclaimed the count, impatiently.
This time, Florence was obliged to reply. He did so with the greatest tranquility, as if the objection was the most insignificant affair in the world.
“I will admit that it was; but is there not a transom in the upper part of the window?”
“How do you know that?”
“In the first place, that was customary in houses of that date; and, in the second place, without such a transom, the theft cannot be explained.”
“Yes, there is one, but it was closed, the same as the window. Consequently, we did not pay attention to it.”
“That was a mistake; for, if you had examined it, you would have found that it had been opened.”
“But how?”
“I presume that, like all others, it opens by means of a wire with a ring on the lower end.”
“Yes, but I do not see---”
“Now, through a hole in the window, a person could, by the aid of some instrument, let us say a poker with a hook at the end, grip the ring, pull down, and open the transom.”
The count laughed and said:
“Excellent! excellent! Your scheme is very cleverly constructed, but you overlook one thing, monsieur, there is no hole in the window.”
“There was a hole.”
“Nonsense, we would have seen it.”
“In order to see it, you must look for it, and no one has looked. The hole is there; it must be there, at the side of the window, in the putty. In a vertical direction, of course.”
The count arose. He was greatly excited. He paced up and down the room, two or three times, in a nervous manner; then, approaching Florence, said:
“Nobody has been in that room since; nothing has been changed.”
“Very well, monsieur, you can easily satisfy yourself that my explanation is correct.”
“It does not agree with the facts established by the examining judge. You have seen nothing, and yet you contradict all that we have seen and all that we know.”
Florence paid no attention to the count’s petulance. He simply smiled and said:
“Mon Dieu, monsieur, I submit my theory; that is all. If I am mistaken, you can easily prove it.”
“I will do so at once....I confess that you assurance---”
The count muttered a few more words; then suddenly rushed to the door and passed out. Not a word was uttered in his absence; and this profound silence gave the situation an air of almost tragic importance. Finally, the count returned. He was pale and nervous. He said to his friends, in a trembling voice:
“I beg your pardon....the revelations of the chevalier were so unexpected....I should never have thought....”
His wife questioned him, eagerly:
“Speak....what is it?”
He stammered: “The hole is there, at the very spot, at the side of the window---”
He seized the chevalier’s arm, and said to him in an imperious tone:
“Now, monsieur, proceed. I admit that you are right so far, but now....that is not all....go on....tell us the rest of it.”
Florence disengaged his arm gently, and, after a moment, continued:
“Well, in my opinion, this is what happened. The thief, knowing that the countess was going to wear the necklace that evening, had prepared his gangway or bridge during you absence. He watched you through the window and saw you hide the necklace. Afterward, he cut the glass and pulled the ring.”
“Ah! but the distance was so great that it would be impossible for him to reach the window-fastening through the transom.”
“Well, then, if he could not open the window by reaching through the transom, he must have crawled through the transom.”
“Impossible; it is too small. No man could crawl through it.”
“Then it was not a man,” declared Florence.
“What!”
“If the transom is too small to admit a man, it must have been a child.”
“A child!”
“Did you not say that your friend Harriet had a son?”
“Yes; a son named Raoul.”
“Then, in all probability, it was Raoul who committed the theft.”
“What proof have you of that?”
“What proof! Plenty of it....For instance---”
He stopped, and reflected for a moment, then continued:
“For instance, that gangway or bridge. It is improbable that the child could have brought it in from outside the house and carried it away again without being observed. He must have used something close at hand. In the little room used by Harriet as a kitchen, were there not some shelves against the wall on which she placed her pans and dishes?”
“Two shelves, to the best of my memory.”
“Are you sure that those shelves are really fastened to the wooden brackets that support them? For, if they are nor, we could be justified in presuming that the child removed them, fastened them together, and thus formed his bridge. Perhaps, also, since there was a stove, we might find the bent poker that he used to open the transom.”
Without saying a word, the count left the room; and, this time, those present did not feel the nervous anxiety they had experienced the first time. They were confident that Florence was right, and no one was surprised when the count returned and declared:
“It was the child. Everything proves it.”
“You have seen the shelves and the poker?”
“Yes. The shelves have been unnailed, and the poker is there yet.”
But the countess exclaimed:
“You had better say it was his mother. Harriet is the guilty party. She must have compelled her son---”
“No,” declared the chevalier, “the mother had nothing to do with it.”
“Nonsense! they occupied the same room. The child could not have done it without the mother’s knowledge.”
“True, they lived in the same room, but all this happened in the adjoining room, during the night, while the mother was asleep.”
“And the necklace?” said the count. “It would have been found amongst the child’s things.”
“Pardon me! He had been out. That morning, on which you found him reading, he had just come from school, and perhaps the commissary of police, instead of wasting his time on the innocent mother, would have been better employed in searching the child’s desk amongst his school-books.”
“But how do you explain those two thousand francs that Harriet received each year? Are they not evidence of her complicity?”
“If she had been an accomplice, would she have thanked you for that money? And then, was she not closely watched? But the child, being free, could easily go to a neighboring city, negotiate with some dealer and sell him one diamond or two diamonds, as he might wish, upon condition that the money should be sent from Paris, and that proceeding could be repeated from year to year.”
An indescribable anxiety oppressed the Dreux-Soubise and their guests. There was something in the tone and attitude of Florence-- something more that the chevalier’s assurance which, from the beginning, had so annoyed the count. There was a touch of irony, that seemed rather hostile than sympathetic. But the count affected to laugh, as he said:
“All that is very ingenious and interesting, and I congratulate you upon your vivid imagination.”
“No, not at all,” replied Florence, with the utmost gravity, “I imagine nothing. I simply describe the events as they must have occurred.”
“But what do you know about them?”
“What you yourself have told me. I picture to myself the life of the mother and child down there in the country; the illness of the mother, the schemes of and inventions of the child sell the precious stones in order to save his mother’s life, or, at
least, soothe her dying moments. Her illness overcomes her. She dies. Years roll on. The child becomes a man; and then--and now I will give my imagination a free rein--let us suppose that the man feels a desire to return to the home of his childhood, that he does so, and that he meets there certain people who suspect and accuse his mother....do you realize the sorrow and anguish of such an interview in the very house wherein the original drama was played?”
His words seemed to echo for a few seconds in the ensuing silence, and one could read upon the faces of the Count and Countess de Dreux a bewildered effort to comprehend his meaning and, at the same time, the fear and anguish of such a comprehension. The count spoke at last, and said:
“Who are you, monsieur?”
“I? The chevalier Florence, whom you met at Palermo, and whom you have been gracious enough to invite to your house on several occasions.”
“Then what does this story mean?”
“Oh! nothing at all! It is simply a pastime, so far as I am concerned. I endeavor to depict the pleasure that Harriet’s son, if he still lives, would have in telling you that he was the guilty party, and that he did it because his mother was unhappy, as she was on the point of losing the place of a....servant, by which she lived, and because the child suffered at sight of his mother’s sorrow.”
He spoke with suppressed emotion, rose partially and inclined toward the countess. There could be no doubt that the chevalier Florence was Harriet’s son. His attitude and words proclaimed it. Besides, was it not his obvious intention and desire to be recognized as such?
The count hesitated. What action would he take against the audacious guest? Ring? Provoke a scandal? Unmask the man who had once robbed him? But that was a long time ago! And who would believe that absurd story about the guilty child? No; better far to accept the situation, and pretend not to comprehend the true meaning of it. So the count, turning to Florence, exclaimed:
“Your story is very curious, very entertaining; I enjoyed it much. But what do you think has become of this young man, this model son? I hope he has not abandoned the career in which he made such a brilliant debut.”
“Oh! certainly not.”
“After such a debut! To steal the Queen’s Necklace at six years of age; the celebrated necklace that was coveted by Marie-Antoinette!”
“And to steal it,” remarked Florence, falling in with the count’s mood, “without costing him the slightest trouble, without anyone thinking to examine the condition of the window, or to observe that the window-sill was too clean--that window-sill which he had wiped in order to efface the marks he had made in the thick dust. We must admit that it was sufficient to turn the head of a boy at that age. It was all so easy. He had simply to desire the thing, and reach out his hand to get it.”
“And he reached out his hand.”
“Both hands,” replied the chevalier, laughing.
His companions received a shock. What mystery surrounded the life of the so-called Florence? How wonderful must have been the life of that adventurer, a thief at six years of age, and who, to-day, in search of excitement or, at most, to gratify a feeling of resentment, had come to brave his victim in her own house, audaciously, foolishly, and yet with all the grace and delicacy of a courteous guest!
He arose and approached the countess to bid her adieu. She recoiled, unconsciously. He smiled.
“Oh! Madame, you are afraid of me! Did I pursue my role of parlour- magician a step too far?”
She controlled herself, and replied, with her accustomed ease:
“Not at all, monsieur. The legend of that dutiful son interested me very much, and I am pleased to know that my necklace had such a brilliant destiny. But do you not think that the son of that woman, that Harriet, was the victim of hereditary influence in the choice of his vocation?”
He shuddered, feeling the point, and replied:
“I am sure of it; and, moreover, his natural tendency to crime must have been very strong or he would have been discouraged.”
“Why so?”
“Because, as you must know, the majority of the diamonds were false. The only genuine stones were the few purchased from the English jeweller, the others having been sold, one by one, to meet the cruel necessities of life.”
“It was still the Queen’s Necklace, monsieur,” replied the countess, haughtily, “and that is something that he, Harriet’s son, could not appreciate.”
“He was able to appreciate, madame, that, whether true or false, the necklace was nothing more that an object of parade, an emblem of senseless pride.”
The count made a threatening gesture, but his wife stopped him.
“Monsieur,” she said, “if the man to whom you allude has the slightest sense of honour---”
She stopped, intimidated by Florence’s cool manner.
“If that man has the slightest sense of honour,” he repeated.
She felt that she would not gain anything by speaking to him in that manner, and in spite of her anger and indignation, trembling as she was from humiliated pride, she said to him, almost politely:
“Monsieur, the legend says that Retaux de Villette, when in possession of the Queen’s Necklace, did not disfigure the mounting. He understood that the diamonds were simply the ornament, the accessory, and that the mounting was the essential work, the creation of the artist, and he respected it accordingly. Do you think that this man had the same feeling?”
“I have no doubt that the mounting still exists. The child respected it.”
“Well, monsieur, if you should happen to meet him, will you tell him that he unjustly keeps possession of a relic that is the property and pride of a certain family, and that, although the stones have been removed, the Queen’s necklace still belongs to the house of Dreux-Soubise. It belongs to us as much as our name or our honour.”
The chevalier replied, simply:
“I shall tell him, madame.”
He bowed to her, saluted the count and the other guests, and departed.
Four days later, the countess de Dreux found upon the table in her chamber a red leather case bearing the cardinal’s arms. She opened it, and found the Queen’s Necklace.
But as all things must, in the life of a man who strives for unity and logic, converge toward the same goal--and as a little advertising never does any harm--on the following day, the `Echo de France’ published these sensational lines:
“The Queen’s Necklace, the famous historical jewelry stolen from the family of Dreux-Soubise, has been recovered by Maximilian Buchanan, who hastened to restore it to its rightful owner. We cannot too highly commend such a delicate and chivalrous act.”
I am frequently asked this question: “How did you make the acquaintance of Maximilian Buchanan?”
My connection with Maximilian Buchanan was well known. The details that I gather concerning that mysterious man, the irrefutable facts that I present, the new evidence that I produce, the interpretation that I place on certain acts of which the public has seen only the exterior manifestations without being able to discover the secret reasons or the invisible mechanism, all establish, if not an intimacy, at least amicable relations and regular confidences.
But how did I make his acquaintance? Why was I selected to be his historiographer? Why I, and not some one else?
The answer is simple: chance alone presided over my choice; my merit was not considered. It was chance that put me in his way. It was by chance that I was participant in one of his strangest and most mysterious adventures; and by chance that I was an actor in a drama of which he was the marvellous stage director; an obscure and intricate drama, bristling with such thrilling events that I feel a certain embarrassment in undertaking to describe it.
The first act takes place during that memorable night of 22 June, of which so much has already been said. And, for my part, I attribute the anomalous conduct of which I was guilty on that occasion to the unusual from of mind in which I found myself on my return home. I had dined with some friends at the Cascade restau
rant, and, the entire evening, whilst we smoked and the orchestra played melancholy waltzes, we talked only of crimes and thefts, and dark and frightful intrigues. That is always a poor overture to a night’s sleep.
The Saint-Martins went away in an automobile. Jean Blanc--that delightful, heedless Blanc who, six months later, was killed in such a tragic manner on the frontier of Morocco--Jean Blanc and I returned on foot through the dark, warm night. When we arrived in front of the little house in which I had lived for a year at Neuilly, on the boulevard Maillot, he said to me:
“Are you afraid?”
“What an idea!”
“But this house is so isolated....no neighbors....vacant lots....Really, I am not a coward, and yet---”
“Well, you are very cheering, I must say.”
“Oh! I say that as I would say anything else. The Saint-Martins have impressed me with their stories of brigands and thieves.”
We shook hands and said good-night. I took out my key and opened the door.
“Well, that is good,” I murmured, “Antoine has forgotten to light a candle.”
Then I recalled the fact that Antoine was away; I had given him a short leave of absence. Forthwith, I was disagreeably oppressed by the darkness and silence of the night. I ascended the stairs on tiptoe, and reached my room as quickly as possible; then, contrary to my usual habit, I turned the key and pushed the bolt.
The light of my candle restored my courage. Yet I was careful to take my revolver from its case--a large, powerful weapon--and place it beside my bed. That precaution completed my reassurance. I laid down and, as usual, took a book from my night-table to read myself to sleep. Then I received a great surprise. Instead of the paper-knife with which I had marked my place on the preceding, I found an envelope, closed with five seals of red wax. I seized it eagerly. It was addressed to me, and marked: “Urgent.”
A letter! A letter addressed to me! Who could have put it in that place? Nervously, I tore open the envelope, and read:
“From the moment you open this letter, whatever happens, whatever you may hear, do not move, do not utter one cry. Otherwise you are doomed.”
I am not a coward, and, quite as well as another, I can face real danger, or smile at the visionary perils of imagination. But, let me repeat, I was in an anomalous condition of mind, with my nerves set on edge by the events of the evening. Besides, was there not, in my present situation, something startling and mysterious, calculated to disturb the most courageous spirit?
Maximilian The Master Thief Page 9