“You! You!” exclaimed the banker. “Was it you who brought me here?”
“I? By no means,” protested Wiseman, in a rough, jerky voice that reminded me of his brother, “on the contrary, it was your letter that brought me here.”
“My letter?”
“A letter signed by you, in which you offered---”
“I never wrote to you,” declared Mon. Alderman.
“You did not write to me!”
Instinctively, Wiseman was put on his guard, not against the banker, but against the unknown enemy who had drawn him into this trap. A second time, he looked in our direction, then walked toward the door. But Mon. Alderman barred his passage.
“Well, where are you going, Wiseman?”
“There is something about this affair I don’t like. I am going home. Good evening.”
“One moment!”
“No need of that, Mon. Alderman. I have nothing to say to you.”
“But I have something to say to you, and this is a good time to say it.”
“Let me pass.”
“No, you will not pass.”
Wiseman recoiled before the resolute attitude of the banker, as he muttered:
“Well, then, be quick about it.”
One thing astonished me; and I have no doubt my two companions experienced a similar feeling. Why was Salvador not there? Was he not a necessary party at this conference? Or was he satisfied to let these two adversaries fight it out between themselves? At all events, his absence was a great disappointment, although it did not detract from the dramatic strength of the situation.
After a moment, Mon. Alderman approached Wiseman and, face to face, eye to eye, said:
“Now, after all these years and when you have nothing more to fear, you can answer me candidly: What have you done with Louis Ives?”
“What a question! AS if I knew anything about him!”
“You do know! You and your brother were his constant companions, almost lived with him in this very house. You knew all about his plans and his work. And the last night I ever saw Louis Ives, when I parted with him at my door, I saw two men slinking away in the shadows of the trees. That, I am ready to swear to.”
“Well, what has that to do with me?”
“The two men were you and your brother.”
“Prove it.”
“The best proof is that, two days later, you yourself showed me the papers and the plans that belonged to Ives and offered to sell them. How did these papers come into your possession?”
“I have already told you, Mon. Alderman, that we found them on Louis Ives’s table, the morning after his disappearance.”
“That is a lie!”
“Prove it.”
“The law will prove it.”
“Why did you not appeal to the law?”
“Why? Ah! Why---,” stammered the banker, with a slight display of emotion.
“You know very well, Mon. Alderman, if you had the least certainty of our guilt, our little threat would not have stopped you.”
“What threat? Those letters? Do you suppose I ever gave those letters a moment’s thought?”
“If you did not care for the letters, why did you offer me thousands of francs for their return? And why did you have my brother and me tracked like wild beasts?”
“To recover the plans.”
“Nonsense! You wanted the letters. You knew that as soon as you had the letters in your possession, you could denounce us. Oh! no, I couldn’t part with them!”
He laughed heartily, but stopped suddenly, and said:
“But, enough of this! We are merely going over old ground. We make no headway. We had better let things stand as they are.”
“We will not let them stand as they are,” said the banker, “and since you have referred to the letters, let me tell you that you will not leave this house until you deliver up those letters.”
“I shall go when I please.”
“You will not.”
“Be careful, Mon. Alderman. I warn you---”
“I say, you shall not go.”
“We will see about that,” cried Wiseman, in such a rage that Madame Alderman could not suppress a cry of fear. Wiseman must have heard it, for he now tried to force his way out. Mon. Alderman pushed him back. Then I saw him put his hand into his coat pocket.
“For the last time, let me pass,” he cried.
“The letters, first!”
Wiseman drew a revolver and, pointing it at Mon. Alderman, said:
“Yes or no?”
The banker stooped quickly. There was the sound of a pistol-shot. The weapon fell from Wiseman’s hand. I was amazed. The shot was fired close to me. It was Blanc who had fired it at Wiseman, causing him to drop the revolver. In a moment, Blanc was standing between the two men, facing Wiseman; he said to him, with a sneer:
“You were lucky, my friend, very lucky. I fired at your hand and struck only the revolver.”
Both of them looked at him, surprised. Then he turned to the banker, and said:
“I beg your pardon, monsieur, for meddling in your business; but, really, you play a very poor game. Let me hold the cards.”
Turning again to Wiseman, Blanc said:
“It’s between us two, comrade, and play fair, if you please. Hearts are trumps, and I play the seven.”
Then Blanc held up, before Wiseman’s bewildered eyes, the little iron plate, marked with the seven red spots. It was a terrible shock to Wiseman. With livid features, staring eyes, and an air of intense agony, the man seemed to be hypnotized at the sight of it.
“Who are you?” he gasped.
“One who meddles in other people’s business, down to the very bottom.”
“What do you want?”
“What you brought here tonight.”
“I brought nothing.”
“Yes, you did, or you wouldn’t have come. This morning, you received an invitation to come here at nine o’clock, and bring with you all the papers held by you. You are here. Where are the papers?”
There was in Blanc’s voice and manner a tone of authority that I did not understand; his manner was usually quite mild and conciliatory. Absolutely conquered, Wiseman placed his hand on one of his pockets, and said:
“The papers are here.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“All that you took from Louis Ives and afterwards sold to Major von Lieben?”
“Yes.”
“Are these the copies or the originals?”
“I have the originals.”
“How much do you want for them?”
“One hundred thousand francs.”
“You are crazy,” said Blanc. “Why, the major gave you only twenty thousand, and that was like money thrown into the sea, as the boat was a failure at the preliminary trials.”
“They didn’t understand the plans.”
“The plans are not complete.”
“Then, why do you ask me for them?”
“Because I want them. I offer you five thousand francs--not a sou more.”
“Ten thousand. Not a sou less.”
“Agreed,” said Blanc, who now turned to Mon. Alderman, and said:
“Monsieur will kindly sign a check for the amount.”
“But....I haven’t got---”
“Your check-book? Here it is.”
Astounded, Mon. Alderman examined the check-book that Blanc handed to him.
“It is mine,” he gasped. “How does that happen?”
“No idle words, monsieur, if you please. You have merely to sign.”
The banker took out his fountain pen, filled out the check and signed it. Wiseman held out his hand for it.
“Put down your hand,” said Blanc, “there is something more." Then, to the banker, he said: “You asked for some letters, did you not?”
“Yes, a package of letters.”
“Where are they, Wiseman?”
“I haven’t got them.”
------------------
“Where are they, Wiseman?”
“I don’t know. My brother had charge of them.”
“They are hidden in this room.”
“In that case, you know where they are.”
“How should I know?”
“Was it not you who found the hiding-place? You appear to be as well informed....as Salvador.”
“The letters are not in the hiding-place.”
“They are.”
“Open it.”
Wiseman looked at him, defiantly. Were not Blanc and Salvador the same person? Everything pointed to that conclusion. If so, Wiseman risked nothing in disclosing a hiding-place already known.
“Open it,” repeated Blanc.
“I have not got the seven of hearts.”
“Yes, here it is,” said Blanc, handing him the iron plate. Wiseman recoiled in terror, and cried:
“No, no, I will not.”
“Never mind,” replied Blanc, as he walked toward the bearded king, climbed on a chair and applied the seven of hearts to the lower part of the sword in such a manner that the edges of the iron plate coincided exactly with the two edges of the sword. Then, with the assistance of an awl which he introduced alternately into each of the seven holes, he pressed upon seven of the little mosaic stones. As he pressed upon the seventh one, a clicking sound was heard, and the entire bust of the King turned upon a pivot, disclosing a large opening lined with steel. It was really a fire-proof safe.
“You can see, Wiseman, he safe is empty.”
“So I see. Then, my brother has taken out the letters.”
Blanc stepped down from the chair, approached Wiseman, and said:
“Now, no more nonsense with me. There is another hiding-place. Where is it?”
“There is none.”
“Is it money you want? How much?”
“Ten thousand.”
“Monsieur Alderman, are those letters worth then thousand francs to you?”
“Yes,” said the banker, firmly.
Wiseman closed the safe, took the seven of hearts and placed it again on the sword at the same spot. He thrust the awl into each of the seven holes. There was the same clicking sound, but this time, strange to relate, it was only a portion of the safe that revolved on the pivot, disclosing quite a small safe that was built within the door of the larger one. The packet of letters was here, tied with a tape, and sealed. Wiseman handed the packet to Blanc. The latter turned to the banker, and asked:
“Is the check ready, Monsieur Alderman?”
“Yes.”
“And you have also the last document that you received from Louis Ives--the one that completes the plans of the sub-marine?”
“Yes.”
The exchange was made. Blanc pocketed the document and the checks, and offered the packet of letters to Mon. Alderman.
“This is what you wanted, Monsieur.”
The banker hesitated a moment, as if he were afraid to touch those cursed letters that he had sought so eagerly. Then, with a nervous movement, he took them. Close to me, I heard a moan. I grasped Madame Alderman’s hand. It was cold.
“I believe, monsieur,” said Blanc to the banker, “that our business is ended. Oh! no thanks. It was only by a mere chance that I have been able to do you a good turn. Good-night.”
Mon. Alderman retired. He carried with him the letters written by his wife to Louis Ives.
“Marvellous!” exclaimed Blanc, delighted. “Everything is coming our way. Now, we have only to close our little affair, comrade. You have the papers?”
“Here they are--all of them.”
Blanc examined them carefully, and then placed them in his pocket.
“Quite right. You have kept your word,” he said.
“But---”
“But what?”
“The two checks? The money?” said Wiseman, eagerly.
“Well, you have a great deal of assurance, my man. How dare you ask such a thing?”
“I ask only what is due to me.”
“Can you ask pay for returning papers that you stole? Well, I think not!”
Wiseman was beside himself. He trembled with rage; his eyes were bloodshot.
“The money....the twenty thousand....” he stammered.
“Impossible! I need it myself.”
“The money!”
“Come, be reasonable, and don’t get excited. It won’t do you any good.”
Blanc seized his arm so forcibly, that Wiseman uttered a cry of pain. Blanc continued:
“Now, you can go. The air will do you good. Perhaps you want me to show you the way. Ah! yes, we will go together to the vacant lot near here, and I will show you a little mound of earth and stones and under it---”
“That is false! That is false!”
“Oh! no, it is true. That little iron plate with the seven spots on it came from there. Louis Ives always carried it, and you buried it with the body--and with some other things that will prove very interesting to a judge and jury.”
Wiseman covered his face with his hands, and muttered:
“All right, I am beaten. Say no more. But I want to ask you one question. I should like to know---”
“What is it?”
“Was there a little casket in the large safe?”
“Yes.”
“Was it there on the night of 22 June?”
“Yes.”
“What did it contain?”
“Everything that the Wiseman brothers had put in it--a very pretty collection of diamonds and pearls picked up here and there by the said brothers.”
“And did you take it?”
“Of course I did. Do you blame me?”
“I understand....it was the disappearance of that casket that caused my brother to kill himself.”
“Probably. The disappearance of your correspondence was not a sufficient motive. But the disappearance of the casket....Is that all you wish to ask me?”
“One thing more: your name?”
“You ask that with an idea of seeking revenge.”
“Parbleu! The tables may be turned. Today, you are on top. To-morrow---”
“It will be you.”
“I hope so. Your name?”
“Maximilian Buchanan.”
“Maximilian Buchanan!”
The man staggered, as though stunned by a heavy blow. Those two words had deprived him of all hope.
Blanc laughed, and said:
“Ah! did you imagine that a Monsieur Durand or Dupont could manage an affair like this? No, it required the skill and cunning of Maximilian Buchanan. And now that you have my name, go and prepare your revenge. Maximilian Buchanan will wait for you.”
Then he pushed the bewildered Wiseman through the door.
“Blanc! Blanc!” I cried, pushing aside the curtain. He ran to me.
“What? What’s the matter?”
“Madame Alderman is ill.”
He hastened to her, caused her to inhale some salts, and, while caring for her, questioned me:
“Well, what did it?”
“The letters of Louis Ives that you gave to her husband.”
He struck his forehead and said:
“Did she think that I could do such a thing!...But, of course she would. Imbecile that I am!”
Madame Alderman was now revived. Blanc took from his pocket a small package exactly similar to the one that Mon. Alderman had carried away.
“Here are your letters, Madame. These are the genuine letters.”
“But....the others?”
“The others are the same, rewritten by me and carefully worded. Your husband will not find anything objectionable in them, and will never suspect the substitution since they were taken from the safe in his presence.”
“But the handwriting---”
“There is no handwriting that cannot be imitated.”
She thanked him in the same words she might have used to a man in her own social circle, so I concluded that she had not w
itnessed the final scene between Wiseman and Maximilian Buchanan. But the surprising revelation caused me considerable embarrassment. Buchanan! My club companion was none other than Maximilian Buchanan. I could not realize it. But he said, quite at his ease:
“You can say farewell to Jean Blanc.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, Jean Blanc is going on a long journey. I shall send him to Morocco. There, he may find a death worth of him. I may say that that is his expectation.”
“But Maximilian Buchanan will remain?”
“Oh! Decidedly. Maximilian Buchanan is simply at the threshold of his career, and he expects---”
I was impelled by curiosity to interrupt him, and, leading him away from the hearing of Madame Alderman, I asked:
“Did you discover the smaller safe yourself--the one that held the letters?”
“Yes, after a great deal of trouble. I found it yesterday afternoon while you were asleep. And yet, God knows it was simple enough! But the simplest things are the ones that usually escape our notice.” Then, showing me the seven-of-hearts, he added: “Of course I had guessed that, in order to open the larger safe, this card must be placed on the sword of the mosaic king.”
“How did you guess that?”
“Quite easily. Through private information, I knew that fact when I came here on the evening of 22 June---”
“After you left me---”
“Yes, after turning the subject of our conversation to stories of crime and robbery which were sure to reduce you to such a nervous condition that you would not leave your bed, but would allow me to complete my search uninterrupted.”
“The scheme worked perfectly.”
“Well, I knew when I came here that there was a casket concealed in a safe with a secret lock, and that the seven-of-hearts was the key to that lock. I had merely to place the card upon the spot that was obviously intended for it. An hour’s examination showed me where the spot was.”
“One hour!”
“Observe the fellow in mosaic.”
“The old emperor?”
“That old emperor is an exact representation of the king of hearts on all playing cards.”
“That’s right. But how does the seven of hearts open the larger safe at one time and the smaller safe at another time? And why did you open only the larger safe in the first instance? I mean on the night of 22 June.”
Maximilian The Master Thief Page 12