A tempting idea!
For that matter, what real risk would I run? Clotilde would stand up for me, and even if she didn’t, it would merely look as if I were playing a practical joke.
By God, I would try it....
They were certainly trustful, my little neighbours: only one lock. I must tell them to have a bolt put on.... Hello! they had left the key in the lock. That was Natalie’s precaution, no doubt. But a useless one. Did she imagine that a key would keep anyone out? In my bag was a pair of pliers, as delicate as a surgeon’s, made purposely to catch the end of a key. A little twist and the door would open. Ah....
The room was dark, and I turned up my collar to prevent any gleam of my white shirt betraying my presence. My slippers glided soundlessly over the floor. The quiet breathing of the girls rose and fell undisturbed, while the pencil of light from my electric flash played over the desk where Natalie’s typing was piled high. Poor girl! What a life, to go on for ever typing plays that would never reach the stage.
Here was Clotilde’s table, as neat as a pin. There was a pretty girl for you, and as mysterious as she was pretty!
I had never been able to tell whether she loved me or not. Sometimes, when her eyes met mine, I thought that she did. But I never could be sure.
There was only one drawer in the table, and it was carefully closed. But a closed drawer and an open drawer are the same to me, if I have a minute or two without interruption.... Let’s see what Clotilde keeps in hers.
It slipped open without a creak. A few little notebooks piled carefully in one corner. A small firm handwriting that covered all the pages. Dates here and there: it was Clotilde’s diary. Should I do the decent thing? Whoever heard of a burglar doing the decent thing? I glanced at the last pages... they were all about me! I had been right then in thinking she loved me. But I could never have believed Clotilde was capable of such ardour! A dear girl.... I felt that I owed her my love in return. Yet I had been mad enough to brush aside her fresh beauty and pure devotion for that soiled hypocrite Helena! No, I had no right to read Clotilde’s diary. Back it went into the drawer. And back I crept to my own room — and my evil dreams!
Not a sound in their room as I had shut the door behind me. I was not so clumsy after all.
The success of my experiment gave me a feeling of satisfaction. It was months since I had been so at peace. Dr. Paul was right: what I needed was a little sport. It was merely a question of choosing the right sport. To-night, at last, I should sleep well....
Thursday: Went back to the court-house to-day. At the head of the stairs, just as I was coming through the swinging doors, I ran into Gorshman.
“Is this the way you take care of yourself?” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here when you are supposed to be knocking a ball over the hills?”
“I feel better to-day.”
He looked at me closely.
“You don’t look so haggard as you did yesterday,” he said. “Did you follow the doctor’s orders about a good dinner last night?”
Gorshman never has any tact. And this time he rubbed it in.
“Ah!” he said, running his little pink tongue greedily over his lips, “a good dinner is the best tonic I know. There’s nothing in the world I like better than that good comfortable feeling when I finish my dessert and settle back to sip black coffee. There aren’t many pleasures in this life, and the best of all is eating. And, when you know where to go, it doesn’t cost so much as some people think it does. Take myself, for example: I have as good a dinner as anybody could wish every night, and it seldom costs me over two hundred francs, including wine. Why, only last night..” He gave me the details of the menu he had gone through. Then he went back in his memory and described all the lobster newburgs, the pâtés de foie gras, the roast capons cooked in sherry, and the filets mignons he had eaten last winter.
“And fish! Do you like fish? There is a little restaurant in the rue Rochefoucauld, where they serve a sole that beats anything you can get in Marseilles. You must go there some day. Tell the proprietor I sent you.”
“Thanks. I shall certainly do that, Gorshman.”
His voice assumed a reflective tone:
“What else is there for me to do? I live alone. I have no wife, no sweetheart. Women, as far as I’m concerned, are a nuisance, and I don’t want to be bothered with them. So I have to find something to do with my evenings. I usually go out about seven. I stop on the Champs-Elysées for a cocktail, and then go for dinner. And you can bet it is always a good one; dinner is half my life. After that, I drop in at a theatre, and get home about two in the morning. It may sound like a stupid life, but I enjoy it. When I get older I shall probably live differently; meanwhile, I do as I please. I hate to be tied down to anything or anybody. You may not believe me, but I have never even seen my janitor. I have an apartment on the ground floor and don’t have to pass the janitor’s quarters. I have a valet who lives out and comes each day.... I like to be free....”
But I was no longer listening to Gorshman. An idea had just taken root in my mind. I was not the pupil of Lady Helena for nothing.
“You little fool,” I was thinking, “you deserve to be robbed.”
It would certainly be a good joke to do a neat job of burglary in Gorshman’s rooms. Then we should see if he would still have a good appetite the next day, and if a fine dinner would still be the best tonic in the world!
For, after all, I couldn’t go on breaking in my own door and Clotilde’s indefinitely, just for the sake of my health. Sooner or later I should have to try some place else. Why isn’t Gorshman’s apartment as good as any? It would be easy after what he had just told me.
“Where do you live, Gorshman?”
“A long way from here, on the other side of Passy — in a street where not even a taxi ever passes. I get up late, you see, and I need a quiet neighbourhood so that I can sleep.”
Humph! How could he help being the prey of burglars? If I didn’t do it, somebody else would....
I might better take it on myself. Besides, the doctor had ordered me to take up sport, hadn’t he? Was I to die, in order to spare Gorshman’s feelings?
You who read this may imagine that my former years of honesty would have kept me from carrying out my plan. You are wrong. My honesty had nothing to do with this. I was not a thief, but merely a burglar, as the old song used to say. I had no desire to steal. I would carry off my booty, of course. But I would return it — a few days later, or a few weeks later, whenever it was most convenient.
That would be true sport; anything else merely crime.
Mr. Flow was dead, was he? Mr. Flow was buried under the mask of Sir Douglas Sherfield? Well, Antonin Rose, lawyer, was about to resurrect Mr. Flow.
What would you say to that, Durin? What a lesson to you, Mr. Flow! I can be as skilful as you — but I would look for no profit from my exploits. Between us there would yawn the gulf that separates the professional from the amateur. You had been a rascal trying to sneak a living from the world; I would work for glory and for fun.
And what would you say, Helena? Would your Rudy seem nobler to you then than your infamous Durin?
Yes, I admit it! I craved Helena’s admiration.
II.
A FEW SPORTING PASSES
SEVEN O’CLOCK. GORSHMAN would be drinking his cocktail on the Champs-Elysées, if what he had told me was true. To be on the safe side, I decided to wait until eight. The front door of his apartment-house would still be open at that hour. I would merely have to walk in and force the door of his apartment. That would be the dangerous part of the job. I might be discovered by some other tenant or an unexpected visitor. I would have to work fast and sure.
Hailing a taxi, I drove to the railroad station at the Quai d’Orsay. Five minutes loitering in the waiting-room, and I returned to the street, lost in a crowd of incoming passengers, Lady Helena’s bag in my hand.
Another taxi to Passy. Gorshman was right; it was a quiet street. Not a shop in it. B
ut, for all the quiet, he would not sleep so well that night!
I stepped boldly into the main hall, which was deserted. Gorshman’s card indicated his door. Thanks to Providence — or perhaps the devil — it was a double panel, which would make it easier to open. I slipped Durin’s pet tool into the crack; the bolt yielded. One minute gone so far — not more. But my temples were moist with sweat.
The lock turned at the first twist of my hook; another half minute. The door swung silently inwards, I slipped through, closed it softly behind me.
Ouf! I leaned up against the door to get my breath. Dr. Paul to the contrary, I no longer was so sure that sport was the best thing for my health. I felt pale. And my knees were shaking.
My one longing, at that moment, was to be as far away from there as possible. My dreary but honest little room in the rue des Bernardins looked cosier, in my mind’s eye, than I had ever seen it before!
But I was ashamed of such cowardly thoughts. What would Helena say?...
I listened. Was I sure there was no one in the apartment? Had Gorshman’s valet left for the night? And Gorshman himself? Suppose he was late in starting out?
Not a sound. My flashlight made a rapid survey of the room. My young friend certainly lived in luxury; everything of the best. A little stuffy, but good quality. Too much Italian Renaissance in his reception-room; I felt sure the living-room would be Louis XVI, and his study done in Empire style, with gilded bronze.
With an apartment like that, I too could make fifty thousand a year.
But this was not the time to think about the injustice of fate. A good burglar must work fast. The first rule, and it covers all the rest. Three doors led out of the reception-room: the little one in the corner would probably open into the butler’s pantry and kitchen; I was not interested in that. The one on the right no doubt would admit me to the living-room, and the one on the left to the bedroom. I entered the living-room. Humph! Louis XVI, and not a thing worth taking. On into the study. Empire it was. Hello! What’s that heavy piece of furniture between the windows? The manufacturers of safes for rich young gentlemen hide their triple and quadruple layers of steel nowadays under exquisite cabinet-work. Durin’s saw once more would prove its worth.
I give you my word, it’s a pleasure to use a tool like that one. In ten minutes I had as neat a hole as you could ask for.... Too many foreign bonds, my dear Gorshman. I must borrow them for a few days. And a bag of gold? I shall put that in the bank — my bank. Ah! An envelope full of bank-notes. You had better let me take care of them for you. All that will fit very nicely into Lady Helena’s bag....
It was time to think about making my escape.
A splendid idea of Gorshman’s to live on the ground floor; I could slip out through the window. A glance around first to see that nothing was forgotten. The table, covered with papers... uninteresting. The file, ditto. Otherwise, nothing. A typewriter.... Ah, why not a little joke?
I sat down at the machine and, inserting a sheet of Gorshman’s engraved paper, wrote:
“FLOW.”
“Mr. Flow, on his way through Paris, presents his respects to Mr. Joseph Gorshman. He leaves him his furniture, which he regrets is not worth the trouble of even offering at auction. He also leaves him his works of art, which would be of no use to a man of taste. He is taking the gold and securities, but he will return them in the near future, and acknowledge receipt of them herewith.
And at the bottom of the page I typed:
“Received from Mr. Joseph Gorshman ten thousand francs (fcs. 10,000) in gold, which I shall return to him on demand, in legal tender, together with a bundle of foreign bonds, of a total nominal value of approximately six hundred thousand francs (fcs. 600,000).”
Enough time squandered in joking! I pushed up the window; the street was empty and silent. I swung one leg over the sill....
A few minutes later I hailed a taxi in the rue Raynouard, and drove to the Gare du Nord, where I bought a ticket for Brussels. Of course, I had no intention of using it, and went home by subway.
Nothing is more thrilling than to be the only person who holds the key to a mystery everyone is trying to solve. After my little burglary, I spent several glorious days. When Gorshman went home, at one in the morning, he woke up the whole apartment-house by his cries. Then he telephoned to the nearest police station, the prefecture of police, the detective bureau, and the newspapers. In less than half an hour twenty reporters and several detectives had crowded into his study. He showed them the disembowelled safe, and naively allowed them to make copies of Mr. Flow’s receipt. Detective Captain Petit-Jean examined the safe, and said that there was no doubt about its being Mr. Flow’s handiwork; he recognized the distinctive cut of the saw.
The morning papers published a column and a half. It was the news of the day. Paris woke up in a roar of laughter.
When I arrived at the court-house everybody was talking of the Gorshman burglary. He appeared soon. He was both miserable and flattered. He repeated all the details so many times that his listeners gradually drifted away.
I found myself alone with Gorshman, and it seemed a good opportunity to give him a little bad advice.
“If I were in your place,” I said, “I would offer a reward of a hundred thousand francs for information leading to the arrest of Mr. Flow.”
“I thought of that,” sighed Gorshman. “But a man like that holds his accomplices, if he has any, in the palm of his hand, and none of them would dare betray him. That’s what Detective Petit-Jean said to me just now. He’s hotter about it than I am. It seems that this Mr. Flow has been slipping through his fingers for five years.... But he is even more surprised than he is angry. ‘I thought we were never going to hear of Mr. Flow again,’ he said, ‘and now here he is starting all over again. I must have been mistaken.’...”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I tried to get him to explain, but he acted as if he had already said too much. He’s one of the shrewdest men in the service, you know. An hour after he got on the case, he knew just how many people had bought tickets in each station in Paris for places outside of France. He telephoned to Brussels, London and all the frontiers. Detectives searched the trains. But no Mr. Flow.”
“But nobody knows what Flow looks like. How could they tell whether he was on the train or not?”
“Petit-Jean says he knows him, and knows how to identify him. As I said, Mr. Flow was not on any of the trains to Brussels. But at the Gare du Nord last night they sold one first-class ticket to Brussels which was never collected. Mr. Flow probably got off the train somewhere along the line. He must have planned every step of the burglary a long time in advance. The taxi driver remembered he had taken a man to my apartment at eight o’clock, after picking him up at the Quai d’Orsay station. Mr. Flow must have arrived at the station about a quarter of eight. He went directly to my apartment, stole everything I had, and left immediately from the Gare du Nord. A damned business-like job! I couldn’t help admiring the man had he robbed anybody but myself!”
“Yes,” I said, “he’s a hard one to beat. Petit-Jean will never get his hands on that fellow.”
“I suspect he thinks so himself. He’s really trusting now to luck. And he says luck is often on the side of the police.”
“That may be, but it looks as if luck is deserting him this time. Hard luck for you, old man! But, come to think of it, perhaps Mr. Flow will keep his promise and send your cash back to you—”
“Yes,” exclaimed Gorshman, “but he doesn’t mention twenty-five thousand francs in bills he carried off with the rest. My God, if he would give me back my bonds, he could keep the twenty-five thousand francs as a present. That’s only a detail. But I can’t help worrying. I’ll never see them again.”
“Who knows?” I asked. “He’s not just an ordinary burglar. He has a sense of humour. If I were in your place I would try to get under his skin, and get people laughing with you instead of at you.”
&
nbsp; “How?”
“I’d put a note in the papers something like this:
“Mr. Joseph Gorshman thanks Mr. Flow for his all too brief visit. He takes the liberty of requesting him to return his bonds, and to accept, with his compliments, the twenty-five thousand francs in bills, which he overlooked in his receipt.”
“Everybody would make fun of me,” objected Gorshman.
“They’re doing that now. If I were you I’d take a chance.”
“Well, it wouldn’t do any harm to try.”
He went to the press-room in the court-house, and wrote a note for the reporters, who grinned when they saw it, but lost no time in telephoning it to their papers. For the word had gone out that anything about Mr. Flow was news. The public was more interested in him than in news about André Tardieu or Herbert Hoover.
Gorshman’s notice had no sooner appeared than a typewritten answer was received by every city editor in Paris:
“Mr. Flow thanks Mr. Joseph Gorshman cordially for his kindness. As he is a gentleman himself, and always keeps his promises, he will be glad to return his little loan in a few days.”
The papers printed this also. But they took good care to suggest that it undoubtedly was the work of a practical joker.
All this was balm to my soul. Dr. Paul should now take a look at his case of nervous depression. It was good advice he had given me: a little sport was restoring my health.... Here was I, Antonin Rose, young lawyer, starving to death, who never would make anything of himself. But I had outwitted the police, the Press, Gorshman, everybody. I alone knew the secret of Mr. Flow. And I, single-handed, had earned twenty-five thousand francs. Gorshman had been afraid to ask me to dinner the night before. He made a mistake. It would have cost him less than a hundred francs. Now he was offering me, of his own accord, twenty-five bills of a thousand each. A trifle.... I could have plenty more if I wanted them. Meanwhile, I felt like a new man. “Happiness in crime.” No, not crime — sport.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 474