Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  It was not until then that I realized I had forgotten to affix my official stamp to the job. It was an oversight, but not irreparable. I tore out the first page of the stamp album, scribbled “Mr. F.” in pencil, and dropped it in the letter-slot.

  I set off at a light step along the deserted streets, my booty under my arm. I laughed in sheer joy at the ease of my success. Petit-Jean’s words were still ringing in my ears: “No one can burglarize my house! I have foreseen every possibility. I defy Mr. Flow!”

  You had foreseen every possibility, my good gumshoe? Why, it had not even occurred to you that the pane in a transom could be cut! And you left your precious collection in an empty room. You were snoring upstairs while I was in your living-room. Yes, you were snoring loud. I heard you.

  In my exultant mood I did not even look for a vagrant taxi. I walked back to the city at a brisk pace, hardly noticing the distance.

  Once more Paris awoke in a roar of laughter. Mr. Flow was the hero of the day. What impertinence! To play his tricks on the very detective who was hunting him down! The papers had their fun at the expense of the “prince of detectives,” who had taken so many precautions, and had been outwitted with the help of three flower-boxes and a diamond glass-cutter.

  I took care to put in an appearance at court. This was not the time to make any change in my habits. I found Gorshman the centre of an amused crowd. As soon as he saw me, he called me to bear him out in what he was saying. Wasn’t it true that we had had dinner the night before with Petit-Jean? Hadn’t he announced in the restaurant that his house could not be burglarized?

  I assumed a sympathetic expression.

  “Yes, he announced it so loudly that apparently he was overheard.”

  “Do you mean,” asked one of the group, “that you think Mr. Flow was in the restaurant?”

  This suggestion disturbed me, and I hastened to add:

  “So far as that goes, I don’t believe in this Mr. Flow business. I told Petit-Jean last night that the police are making the mistake of giving one man credit for the exploits of two, three, God knows how many burglars.”

  “Yes,” said Gorshman, “but don’t forget that he insisted he had found the same finger-prints in each case. The finger-prints are absolute proof.”

  “Well, I’ll have to see them before I can believe.”

  “He didn’t leave any last night. Mr. Flow has put on his gloves again.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Petit-Jean himself. I saw him this morning. The poor fellow is sick. He knows Mr. Flow has made him look foolish, and also he has lost his beloved stamp collection. He is in despair over the loss of his Burmese stamps. People certainly are queer. Petit-Jean is really a pitiful sight. He says he has been disgraced and will have to resign. That’s all nonsense, of course, and I tried to buck him up, but all he did was groan. The joke is that he says he won’t know whether to be glad or not if Mr. Flow returns his album. ‘If he doesn’t give it back, I’ll die of grief,’ he said, ‘and if he does, I’ll die of rage.’ It’s enough to make you split your sides laughing.”

  “There’s only one hope for him — to find it himself.”

  “That’s what he says. But he admits he hasn’t a single clue, and doesn’t know where to start. It is impossible to unravel burglaries such as mine or Petit-Jean’s, conceived as practical jokes, unless you catch the burglar red-handed. There are only two ways to catch a thief: in the act or when getting rid of his booty. Or, of course, he might be betrayed by an accomplice. But this man works alone, and apparently does not belong to any gang. ‘They are certainly right,’ Petit-Jean said, ‘to call him the elusive Mr. Flow.’”

  So the police themselves were now praising my skill. I had thrown the cleverest of detectives into the very depths of discouragement.

  Two days later the Paris News published the following:

  “The famous collection of postage stamps stolen from Detective Petit-Jean was recovered yesterday. Or, to be more exact, it was returned.

  “About three in the afternoon, a well-dressed man, apparently about fifty years old, hailed a taxi in the rue de Chateaudun. According to the driver, Jules Chafourier, he told him to go to number 190 Boulevard Saint-Germain. There he got out, and requested the driver to wait a moment for him, handing him a carefully wrapped package, which he asked him to hold. Chafourier took the package. At the end of an hour, seeing no sign of his fare, he grew anxious and entered the apartment-house to find out what had happened to him. The janitor admitted he had seen the man described by Chafourier, but said the stranger had left at once for another number farther down the boulevard about which he had asked him.

  “Realizing that he had been tricked, the taxi-driver opened the package. He found an unsealed envelope containing a fifty-franc note and a sheet of paper on which the following had been typewritten: For the taxi-driver, with the apologies of Mr. Flow, and the request that he deliver this package as promptly as possible to the police.

  “Chafourier drove at once to the office of the chief of detectives, where he explained what had happened. The package contained Detective Petit-Jean’s postage-stamp album, from which apparently not a single stamp was missing. The celebrated Mr. Flow has perpetrated another of his jokes, and everyone might laugh heartily if we were not in such uncertainty as to whose turn comes next. We are informed that, since the burglary of his home, Detective Petit-Jean has been in a state of nervous prostration which has given serious concern to his doctors.

  “Other members of the detective bureau have taken up the search for the elusive thief, but they have no clue beyond the descriptions provided by the taxi-driver and the janitor. Both give approximately the same description: grey hair, reddish cheeks, and short moustache. Both also noticed a slight English accent. They disagree, however, on the question of height, the janitor maintaining that the stranger was tall, whereas the driver insists he was of medium height. But even this point, in the case of Mr. Flow, is probably not much more important than the colour of his hair and the cut of his moustache. The Man of a Hundred and One Masks is quite capable of inventing a new one....”

  The only detail in this story that interested me was that Petit-Jean was suffering from nervous prostration. Frankly, if this was true, I would not be overcome with grief. Petit-Jean knew too much for my comfort. In fact, the more I thought of it, the more surprised I was that he had not suspected me. If he had recalled that he talked to Antonin Rose about his house and collection a few hours before the burglary was committed... if he had established any connection between Antonin Rose and his former client, Durin... if he had remembered that, the year before, Antonin Rose had been at Black Rooks, in Scotland, when Sir Archibald Skarlett was murdered... and if these reflections had led him to put me under surveillance....

  It was certainly better for Petit-Jean to be occupied with his nervous prostration.

  For there were my finger-prints... if ever I fell under suspicion, it would be enough to compare my prints with those discovered the year before at Deauville and this year at Gorshman’s. My goose would be cooked!

  In the future I would never work without gloves. Yes, Mr. Flow had put on his gloves again! And, as an extra precaution, my fingers inside the gloves would be covered with a thin film of collodion. There would be no more finger-prints....

  And, if Petit-Jean only kept on being sick, there would be nothing to disturb my peace of mind.

  * * * * * *

  “They tell me he’s in bad shape,” said Gorshman, whom I ran into at court. “They haven’t dared let him know yet that the stamps have been returned. They’re afraid the excitement would be too much for him. Would you ever have thought that as vigorous and healthy a man as he would get sick because somebody swiped a collection of postage stamps?”

  “It’s probably not so much that,” I replied, “as the humiliation at having been beaten by his old foe. And if I remember aright what he said at dinner the other night, it may be that the whole theory he had built up a
bout Mr. Flow has crumbled. He is at a complete standstill.”

  “Worse than that. He is nearly crazy. They are going to send him down South, with one of his sons to look after him and see that he doesn’t commit suicide. When a man reaches the state of melancholy he is in, there is no telling what he will do.”

  * * * * *

  This was good news for me. I would not need to worry for a few months about the most dangerous of my opponents. Luck persisted in smiling on me. I could go on amusing myself, until... until, when and what was it I dreamed of?

  No matter how far away Helena was, she must have heard of my exploits. She certainly had guessed it was her Rudy who was mystifying Paris, and no doubt had been proud of me. Had I done enough? What more was needed to bring her to me?

  No — this was a stupid, preposterous notion! Was it really such an achievement to have opened Gorshman’s safe when he himself had made it so easy that even an inexperienced burglar could have worked in peace? And what had I done at Petit-Jean’s? I had piled three flower-boxes on top of each other and cut out a pane of glass. Nothing at all.... Risking imprisonment at hard labour for a collection of postage stamps — where was the glory in that? Only a fool would ever have thought of such a thing, and no doubt Durin had had a good laugh at my expense. If I really want to taunt the police, I should steal a million or two — ten million if I can find them.

  It is no harder to steal a million than a Burmese stamp. It is merely a question of picking the right house.

  I should have to look into that. In the west end of the city there were plenty of wealthy people. Paris was moving west. At la Muette, Passy and Neuilly, hundreds of handsome houses were going up! That was the place for me.

  What I should look for was the finest mansion I could find, where silver, jewels and works of art would be found in profusion. And if it belonged to some well-known man, so much the better.

  No more childish pranks, Mr. Flow, even if they were amusing! The time had come to be serious. It was now a question of relieving some smug bourgeois of a fortune. And when I returned it, I should then be great — great in proportion to the size of the fortune.

  What a sensation it would create if the Paris News ran a scare headline something like this: MR. FLOW STEALS TEN MILLION!

  That would make Helena’s head spin....

  But first I must find ten million to steal. And then I must return them, to show my contempt for money. What need had I for money? I had spent hardly five hundred francs out of the twenty-five thousand Gorshman had so kindly given me.

  Good old Gorshman, not very clever, perhaps, but a generous fellow! —

  A taxi — since my means now permitted it — and I was off for a little jaunt among the millionaires.

  III.

  MR. FLOW ADDS TO HIS REPUTATION AS A WIT

  IT WAS TWO in the morning. No longer is midnight the hour of crime. At midnight people are still coming home from the theatre, and the streets are full of automobiles. One must wait until the Parisian has had his bite to eat before going home. By two o’clock he is asleep.

  I stepped out of my taxi, Lady Helena’s bag in my hand, and added a good tip to my fare. I was in a light mood, for I had had a generous number of cocktails during the evening, and was “feeling cocky,” as Helena used to say. Just then I feared no one; I was ready to blackjack the first cop that bothered me.

  What fools the rich are! They do not even notice that a house is being built next to their own. For the next six months the wall around the mansion of the great sugar king, Edmond Chavrier, would have enough ladders leaning against it for a regiment to make an assault, if we were still in the Middle Ages.

  A swift glance up and down the street; it was empty. No late straggler, no policeman. Quick, over the wall!

  No shutters on the windows. Shutters were all right for little shopkeepers with nothing worth stealing. But M. Edmond Chavrier liked vast windows protected only by flowers.... Here was one wide open! Fine! There was no ^telling who might have been awakened while I was cutting out a pane, and set all the servants and electric alarms in the house buzzing.

  I dropped softly on to the floor inside. Where was I? A superb bedroom.... Anyone in the bed? Yes, a gentleman in orchid pyjamas, and a lady in lace-trimmed silk. Both asleep, like sensible people.

  Without delay I opened the bag, took out my sandals and a black mask.

  On the table lay a pocket-book containing papers bearing the name of Edgar Parmin. Probably a friend of Chavrier’s. A few thousand franc notes, which I slipped into my pocket. Two platinum and diamond watches.... What, was that all? Surely there must be a necklace and some rings somewhere!

  But there was nothing in the dressing-table drawer. And nothing in the mahogany chest of drawers. Perhaps in this old-fashioned wardrobe? “Damn! “... It creaked horribly.

  I heard a rustling from the bed. M. Edgar Parmin no doubt had wakened up. But, as I said, I was feeling cocky. I swung my light square on the bed and beheld my gentleman in the orchid pyjamas sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide with alarm. He appeared to be about forty years old. The light dazzled him; he started and stretched out his hand towards the little table at the head of the bed. A revolver? An alarm bell?

  “Sh! Don’t move!” I ordered, and in such an imperative tone that his hand stopped in mid-air.

  I moved towards him. On the little table stood a telephone, which I set on the floor. Apparently there was no electric button. Such things were used only in the houses of the poor. In M. Chavrier’s palace a private telephone served all needs. As an extra measure of safety, I stepped to the door and turned the key. All this time I continued to hold the light on M. Parmin’s face, which betrayed silent anxiety.

  Drawing up an armchair, I sat down, and said in a low voice:

  “You are M. Edgar Parmin, are you not?... Mr. Flow, at your service.”

  Did I imagine it, or did a smile begin to creep over the face of my involuntary host?

  “So,” I added, with a little broader English accent, “I see you begin to feel more at ease.”

  At this point Mme. Parmin opened her eyes and gave a cry of fright.

  “Under the circumstances,” I continued to her husband, “you will understand, sir, that I cannot talk freely before Madame. So will you be kind enough to tell her to faint — that is what all ladies are expected to do when they are placed in an embarrassing situation.”

  “Oh!...” gasped Mme. Parmin.

  “Hush, dear,” said M. Parmin. And he added: “It’s Mr. Flow.”

  Mme. Parmin at once ceased to moan “Oh!” and exclaimed “Ah!” in a tone that revealed more surprise than fear.... To be sure! I must not forget I was a hero. And Mme. Parmin knew I was not in the habit of killing people. Naturally, she felt reassured. Besides, this adventure would give her a good story to tell in the morning. “Yes, I saw him.... He said.. It was up to me to see that this charming young lady had something worth while to tell in the morning.

  “Madame Parmin,” I said, “I hope you will forgive me, but you really must faint. I am not in the habit of working while people watch me. I had to come to you in a hurry this delightful morning because I need ten million by three o’clock. It is already twelve minutes past two, and as yet I have found only a few thousand francs and a couple of watches, that’s all. Consequently, I must look for your necklace and rings. I assume they are in the little table by the side of the bed. I must take a look. But I can’t unless you faint. For I have never given anyone pain, and I am sure it would pain you....”

  What a charming woman, I thought to myself. Thirty years old? Possibly thirty-five. No, not thirty-five yet. Her large blue eyes had not left the two little holes in my mask, and I realized I was forgetting myself in gazing at her. This was a mistake; M. Parmin had treacherously leaned forward and was groping for the telephone....

  But not for long. One blow of the rubber blackjack I carried in my side pocket, and M. Parmin, who had received the blow firmly in the nape of the neck,
slid down on to the carpet. Mme. Parmin trembled with terror and, clasping her hands, implored: “Don’t kill me, please....”

  I shrugged my shoulders, and dropping my English accent, said:

  “It is certainly hard to find people with any sense! I told your husband I was Mr. Flow. What made him suppose he could outwit me? I am sorry to have to say so, Madame, but your husband is a fool. Please tell him so for me when he wakes up. I don’t think he will remain unconscious more than an hour.”

  “You are sure he is not dead?”

  “‘No, he is stupid, but alive.’ And I was on the point of saying, ‘ unluckily for you.’ You deserve a different sort of husband. Unfortunately, many beautiful women are tied to men like him. You have my deepest sympathy. But you see how topsy-turvy life is; it was you I wanted to see unconscious, and Fate has decreed it should be your husband.”

  “It seems to me you helped Fate quite a bit,” remarked Mme. Parmin, whose spirits were reviving now that she knew her husband was not dead.

  “True. But there is an old Latin proverb which says that fate guides those who obey it and drags down those who resist it. I did not resist. If your husband had been as wise as I am, he would be chatting with us now instead of being stretched out motionless, with that ludicrous violet tinge spoiling his complexion.”

  “Who are you?” asked Mme. Parmin, evidently bewildered.

  “I am Mr. Flow, Madame, and if I took off my mask you would see a very dissatisfied face. For I have a horror of using a blackjack. It is perhaps the first time I have ever done so — at least in France. Once in India I had to defend myself...”

  “Yes, I had heard you used to be in India. And against whom did you have to defend yourself?”

  “Against thieves.”

  The shadow of a smile passed over her exquisite face. “Indeed!” she said. “Of course, against thieves!”

  “I am not joking, Madame,” I assured her, “and I can see what is in your mind. I am not a thief. I will tell you what I am, for you will probably not dare ask me. I am an artist and a sportsman. I enact plays, which I have written myself. I might have been almost anything else. A good priest, who took a kindly interest in my education, dreamed of a brilliant legal career for me. He thought a man could escape his destiny. But he was wrong. We are the marionettes with which capricious gods amuse themselves.”