Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  It was no longer Albert Rose who was thinking, but Mr. Flow himself.

  And Mr. Flow found a solution, aided by the memory of the hotel clerk Helena had left in her room at Dieppe guarding an unpaid bill, while she had joined me in the car.

  “Come up to my room,” I said to the inspector when we reached the hotel.

  The room was on the third floor. I dropped my hat on the bed and turned on the lights. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “They haven’t brought up my baggage yet.” Taking down the receiver from the telephone on the wall, I called: “Hello! hello! Yes, this is room 52. Why haven’t my bags been brought up? What’s that?... Yes, right away. I am waiting for them. I want the tan bag.” And I hung up.

  “Won’t you sit down?” I asked the inspector. “I hope you’ll excuse me if I wash up.”

  Taking off my coat, I rolled up my sleeves to the elbows and washed my hands. I was quietly wiping them on a towel when the phone rang again.

  “The moleskin bag? Yes, that’s it. And the tan one.... What’d you say? Two tan bags? Wait a minute. I’ll be right there.”

  With the towel still in my hands, I crossed the room in front of the detective, who made no gesture to stop me. From his face I realized that he was already beginning to fear he had made a blunder. Down the stairs I went, three at a time, and across the lobby as if on a pressing errand. At the curb stood a bicycle. I leaped on it and was off across the square.

  I was just turning the corner into a side street when I heard cries: “Stop him! Stop thief!” A clatter of feet sounded behind me, and the ringing of a bicycle bell. At the first crossing, I made another sharp turn and came out on the wharves along the narrow basin. On the other side of the bridge, I could abandon the bicycle and lose myself in the narrow swarming streets and dives of the waterfront.

  It was a good plan, but the bridge swung open a moment before I reached it. I jammed on the brakes and drew myself up. The crowd was close behind me now, and I could clearly distinguish voices shouting: “Catch him! It’s the burglar, Flow!”

  My admirers no doubt wanted to have a closer look at me. But had they wanted to tear me to pieces, they could not have bayed more furiously at my heels. The excitement of the hunt was on them, and for the first time I understood the emotions of the fox when the hounds are in full pursuit. Every man in the crowd was eager to be in at the death.

  I had no time to choose. Throwing my weight to one side, I toppled into the harbor, bicycle and all. At the age of six, I used to swim the Marne with my father when we spent the summers in a little cottage near Meaux.... Drawing a long breath, I dove under a tug and came up for air between two barges. The cries of the mob had grown louder now and spread out along the wharf. Rowboats put out from the pier, and the police ran across the scows like rats. The shouting overhead had become almost a chant: “Flow!... Flow!... It’s the burglar, Flow!”

  Meanwhile Mr. Flow was making out as best he could.... Obviously it would be folly for him to land on the concrete steps or climb up one of the iron ladders on the wharf. Swimming rapidly and quietly, he made his way through the barges and slipped among a fleet of pleasure yachts. The one nearest him was about to put out to sea; he heard the crew tramping on the deck and the shouting of orders. His hand brushed a rope ladder hanging over the side, and he was up it like a monkey. Ah, if he could only creep down into the hold and not see day again until under more favorable skies! Sea-stories were full of such adventures, in which the hero found food and safety. But, unfortunately, this was no movie scenario, as Lady Helena had already pointed out to me, and instead of disappearing in the hold where no one would be thoughtless enough to disturb me, I found myself thrown by circumstances, and the movements of the yacht, down a handsome mahogany stairway. I picked myself up at the foot of the steps in a narrow, brilliantly lighted dining-saloon, where the table was luxuriously set and decorated with flowers. Six places! That was too many for me. I was about to retreat up the stairs when I heard a step and caught sight of a steward’s uniform above me. Opening the first door my hand fell on, I entered a stateroom with two berths, one above the other, and both snowed under piles of dresses, scarves, and lingerie. On the floor, hat boxes and paper bundles — no doubt final purchases before sailing. Impossible to hide here! A door at the right... the bathroom, fragrant with powder. Another door (all of these doors facing each other in a corridor that ran along the dining-saloon) this last one at the end of the corridor. A tiny cabin no bigger than your hand and simply furnished; two bunks, some linen, and several lace-trimmed aprons... the maid’s room.

  The sound of voices reached me from the dining-saloon. Doors opened and shut. I settled into my corner like a hunted beast, but far from cowed. My claws were ready. The ferocious hunt, the cries, the mob lusting for my blood, had stirred a madness in me. I had already risked death by drowning. My clothes torn, my body running with water, I had saved my skin. And to keep it I was prepared to commit... but I did not dare examine my thoughts.

  Luckily, I was left undisturbed. The maid was probably on deck, following the fruitless search for me. And the guests at the table were too thrilled by the excitement outside to imagine that the man a whole city was hunting for might be a few feet away from them. As dinner began, the conversation turned exclusively on Mr. Flow. Through the partition I could hear all that passed, and I realized suddenly that I was ravenously hungry. The rattle of dishes and popping of corks sharpened my discomfort. But if I suffered physically, the remarks that I heard made in two feminine voices were a salve to my vanity and refreshed me — if I dare use the word — morally. As for the men, they were boors who hoped that I was damn well drowned this time. There was one in particular, named Sam (apparently the owner of the yacht, for it was he who gave orders to the steward) who distinguished himself by his overbearing manner. He interrupted the ladies’ enthusiasm for me to announce that a burglar like Mr. Flow ought to be treated more severely than a murderer. “A murderer is not so dangerous,” he argued, “because at least you people have the sense to be afraid of him. But you encourage fellows like Flow. They amuse you, and the papers play up to them. When the juries and judges are indulgent with them, it is because all the women in the country made fools of themselves. If this man Flow fell into my hands, I’d kill him like a rat.”

  This was hardly reassuring for me, but I felt that I had two good friends on board. And in such cases, two women are worth six men.

  Especially as these women did not let themselves be talked down. Georgette took my defense with great warmth and the scorn with which she answered Sam should have turned him into a cinder in his seat. (If he was her husband, I felt sorry for him! )

  “You protest too much, my dear Sam,” she said. “I smell jealousy. Men like you, who have inherited successful businesses, and never had to develop any brains or courage to keep them going, can’t help hating men who have both. It’s the same reason that makes old maids hate married women.”

  Sam’s growled reply was indistinguishable.

  The other woman, whom they called Adelaide, had a more solemn and deliberate way of speaking. Her voice was a throaty contralto, and she talked like a professor, proving that burglary was one of the highest of the arts. She placed it above that of acting, for example, which was an idle amusement for morons, and infinitely above the tricks by which some men won their fortunes. A burglar, at least, staked his freedom and often his life on the success of his art.

  Georgette applauded, Sam’s voice boomed in disagreement, and for a moment I feared they were coming to blows.

  “You can say what you like,” exclaimed Georgette, “but you can’t deny that he is original in his methods!” (A dig for Sam, no doubt.)

  The gentle rolling of the boat and the trembling of the propeller had long since told me that we had left the harbor. So far as my pursuers in the city were concerned, I could breathe easily. But with Sam on my hands, I was not much better off than before.

  My plan of action, however, was quickly laid out. The dine
rs had risen from the table, and were returning to the deck. I heard Georgette say to Sam: “No, I’d rather be alone. Go ahead and play with the rest! What difference would it have made to you if we had waited a little longer?”

  “But the tide was right! Are you women crazy to want to put off our sailing for this crook Flow!”

  “I wanted to see him.”

  “But you know he got drowned!”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  A door slammed, the door of the stateroom from which I was separated by the bath, and I heard Georgette moving restlessly about. At that moment I was scribbling a note with a pad and pencil I had found on the lower bunk. I continued hurriedly, and then paused.... Georgette was alone. I stuffed the note in my pocket, tiptoed through the bathroom, and opened the door into her stateroom. She was in the act of thrusting her slim white arms into a silken négligée.

  Georgette (I learned afterwards that she was the wife of the famous sparkplug manufacturer, Didier-Saxe, whose trade-mark, the Goddess, I had seen a thousand times in Paris) was a tempting little blonde, whose bobbed hair rustled about her head with each of her quick movements. A charming profile, the nose slightly turned up, and tender light blue eyes.

  I had just time to prevent her from crying out, and checked her fear by whispering: “Take pity on Mr. Flow!”

  For a moment we looked at each other in silence. Her eyes widened in surprise as she examined me. The terror that had appeared on her face at my entrance vanished, and she said slowly, “Oh!...”

  Finally she sank down on her berth:

  “So... so you are Mr. Flow!”

  “I am Mr. Flow. You wanted to see me, I believe. And here I am.”

  She ran to the door and pushed the bolt. Then she seated herself again on the berth:

  “How young you are!” She said at length.

  My long bath had freed me from my make-up, and restored my own personality.

  “I began young,” I explained. “I had hardly left school when..

  “I know all about you,” she interrupted. “I have read all the accounts of your career. But I expected somebody much more terrifying than you are. You don’t look wicked at all!... But, come to think of it, how did you get here?”

  “I wanted to see you, Madame.”

  “How charming! They said you were like that. And I am really glad you were not drowned, you know. But you are soaked to the skin!”

  “A little...”

  Someone knocked briskly at the door, and Georgette started. Then, with a sign to me not to move, she called out in an irritated tone:

  “What is it?”

  “It’s me, Trompette.”

  “I am in bed. I won’t need you again tonight. What are the men doing?”

  “They are starting to play poker in the smoking-room, Madame.”

  “Very well.... Good-night, Trompette.”

  And in a whisper, she added to me:

  “My maid.”

  “I am starved,” I whispered back.

  She called after Trompette:

  “Bring me a chicken wing and some champagne before you go to bed, Trompette.”

  “They say that poor man was drowned, Madame,” said Trompette, before starting down the corridor.

  “I am flooding your stateroom,” I said, when Trompette was safely out of hearing.

  “Oh, Trompette will take care of that. We’ll give you a change of clothes.”

  I started to express my gratitude, but her thoughts were still running along practical lines:

  “Now, where are we going to put you? We are on a cruise to the Spanish coast, and we’ll probably stop at Saint Sebastian, if there is a bull-fight there. But how shall we hide you in the meantime? My husband sleeps in here, and you heard his opinion of you, I imagine. Of course, there’s an empty berth over Trompette’s, and nobody ever goes into her cabin....”

  She reflected for a moment, and then added: “No, I am afraid that wouldn’t do.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “We could take Trompette into the secret. She seemed to feel sorry for me.”

  “Trompette is a nice girl,” said Georgette, “and I promised her mother that I would take good care of her....”

  “But what sort of man do you think I am?” I protested. “I assure you that Trompette would be as safe...”

  “No doubt,” said Georgette dryly. “I gather that you prefer fashionable ladies.”

  I made no reply, but my silence was conceited enough. Trompette was knocking at the door. Georgette pushed me into the bathroom and opened to the maid. “Did Monsieur Saxe ask you any questions?”

  “Yes, Madame. I told him you were asleep, because I thought Madame wished to be left alone.”

  “You did quite right. Is the champagne chilled? Put it down there. By the way, Trompette, I was thinking about Mr. Flow. I don’t believe he was drowned at all. He may have climbed on board some ship....”

  “I hope so for his sake, Madame.”

  “He might even be on board here. Wouldn’t that frighten you?”

  “I should say it would! I’ll dream about it all night.”

  “But if he were here, and you knew it, would you give him up to the police?”

  “Of course not... I think he is just too marvellous! Have they heard what became of him?”

  “Would you like to know? Well — here he is!” Georgette pushed open the door of the bathroom. Trompette retreated with a little cry, staring at me as if I had been the Devil himself. The mixture of terror and awe in her gaze was reassuring.

  “Why!... why!...”

  “Well?” asked Georgette. “What have you to say?”

  “But he is all wet!... And he looks very nice, not like a burglar. Is he really Mr. Flow, or are you playing a joke on me?”

  At that moment the strain caused by the superhuman physical and moral effort I had made, broke, and I swayed dizzily. Had they not held me up, I should have fallen to the floor.

  “He can’t stay in those dripping clothes,” said Georgette.

  Together they changed my clothes, and rubbed me to restore the circulation.

  “Look, Madame, his skin is as white as a chicken.”

  The suggestion of chicken revived me.

  “Where is that wing?” I implored them.

  “The poor man is dying of hunger,” said Georgette compassionately.

  They waited on me like a child, cut my chicken for me, and poured large goblets of champagne down my throat. I was wearing a pajama coat of Georgette’s and a pair of white flannels of Sam’s. I felt completely refreshed now, and we talked and laughed in whispers.

  “You can tell he is rich,” said Trompette seriously. “Look at his hands; they are as well taken care of as yours, Madame. Think of him doing the things he has done! And they might have killed him.”

  Her eyes were shining with tears at the thought that I might have been killed.

  “Listen,” said Georgette. “We have no choice. He will have to sleep in your cabin. But you behave yourselves, both of you.”

  “Oh, Madame!”

  “You know what I told your mother.”

  “I wouldn’t think of doing anything bad, Madame.

  We are saving his life, aren’t we, and he couldn’t possibly... could you, Mr. Flow?”

  “I am very grateful to you both,” I said, “and I promise to do whatever you wish.”

  “Now you trot along and get to bed,” said Georgette, “and don’t bother me again. I have a headache.”

  Trompette left us with a little bow, and with great reluctance written on her features.

  “You will need some rest too, Mr. Flow,” added Georgette, “after your swim. You had also better go to bed.”

  I took both her hands in mine, leaned over them, and kissed them.

  “I should prefer to stay awhile,” I said, “unless your headache is worse, and tell you of my gratitude.”

  She smiled and sat down beside me.

  “My headache is forgotten,” s
he assured me. “It is not every evening that I have such exciting guests. Nor are all burglars so charming. And you are much more so than your name, Mr. Flow. Haven’t you any Christian name?”

  “You may call me whatever you wish,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Then I shall call you Carl. Would you like that?”

  “Carl it is!”

  And by way of baptism in my new name, I took her in my arms and kissed her. Her lips met mine greedily, and she clung to me with all the warmth and strength of her dainty body.

  “You are so brave,” she whispered. “I love you because you are so brave! Tell me about your life.”

  The combination of my plunge in the harbor and the champagne they had served me so generously was beginning to make me drowsy. But Georgette demanded tales of adventure, especially my adventures with great ladies. She mentioned names I had never heard before, and was convinced that I had made conquests of them all. She demanded details, and was astonished to learn that all the fashionable ladies whose names one reads in the society columns of the papers had not thrown themselves at my feet.

  “You would only have to nod to them,” she said, “and they would flock about you.... Tell me what you did in India.”

  I invented the most extravagant tales I could imagine, of rajahs, princesses, and diamonds, but nothing that I could say surprised her. She believed me capable of anything. I had never lied in my life as I did that evening, and each of my best lies was rewarded with a kiss. As the hours wore on and my eyes grew heavier with sleep, I realized that the gentleness and adoration of Georgette might make as heavy demands on me as Lady Helena’s tempestuous daring.

  “There is nothing to fear while they are playing poker,” she said. “You couldn’t drag the men away from the table, and Adelaide is as mad about the game as all the rest of them put together. We shall be very cozy here together, you will see. And I don’t think I am going to let you get off at Saint Sebastian, after all. I shall take you back with us!”