The Prisoner in the Mask

by Dennis Wheatley

  While Angela had been speaking, she had taken from a large reticule she had brought with her the food she had mentioned together with an envelope containing what had been a pat of butter. As he gave it an amused glance, she said:

  ‘This is not for you to eat, but for your poor eye.’ Then, when she had fetched water and bathed his face, she made a small poultice of it over his closed and purple optic. Having finished her ministrations she stayed with him a while and, among other things, spoke of Syveton’s bitterness at the collapse of the conspiracy. She said that for months he had been devoting his entire time to it and neglecting his business interests. In fact, although he said little about it, and refused to cut down his expensive establishment, she was rather worried by the idea that he might be getting into financial difficulties. Then a little before two o’clock she told him that later in the day Syveton would bring him food and the latest news, and left him.

  Through the afternoon he slept again; then he got up and made an investigation of the resources of the apartment. To his disappointment they were extremely meagre. There were no books in it or anything else with which he could take his thoughts off his anxiety about de Vendôme. There were no edible stores in the kitchen and the only thing of that kind he came upon was half a box of candied fruits and some nougat and chocolates in a cupboard in the sitting-room. But there he did find as well four bottles of champagne and some small decanters containing liqueurs. Having opened one of the bottles he went back to bed and waited for his host.

  Syveton arrived by way of the door in the garden wall about half an hour after darkness had fallen. With him he brought enough food to last a couple of days, three bottles of red wine and a fat sheaf of newspapers.

  De Quesnoy restrained his impatience sufficiently to offer him a glass of his own champagne, and on his declining, asked quickly: ‘What of the Prince? Have you found out where they took him?’

  ‘Alas no,’ Syveton replied with a shake of his square, powerful head. ‘The others were taken back to St. Cyr and are all under close arrest; but I have a full list of their names, and his is not among them.’

  ‘Perhaps, then, he escaped after all!’ the Count exclaimed, his grey eyes lighting up.

  ‘It certainly seems possible. The more so as the government controlled Press makes no mention of his arrest; or even of his having been present at the party. At all events, for the moment we are acting on the assumption that he got away.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand. What action can you take?’

  ‘This morning we held an emergency meeting of the Committee. It was unanimously agreed that pending an official statement mentioning him we must do our utmost to keep his name out of this. The public takes no great exception to bands of young royalists and communists breaking one another’s heads and sometimes being killed in street affrays; but they regard shooting at the police in a very different light.’

  ‘I see your point. As the police were only obeying orders the Prince’s popularity would suffer a very severe setback should it come out that he participated in a fight in which three policemen lost their lives.’

  ‘Exactly. So we have issued instructions to the monarchist Press that whatever stories their reporters may bring in about the party having been held in honour of de Vendôme they should not print them; and that should the government Press start rumours that he was present they are to deny them.’

  ‘That is certainly very sound. In fact, providing he has not been caught and his hiding-place is kept secret, his cause is not irretrievably lost after all. When the others are court-martialled the police will give evidence about Dampierre’s proposing his health as King of France, but if it cannot be proved that de Vendôme incited the act by his presence he cannot be held responsible for it. He will have some awkward explaining to do about not having returned to St. Cyr last night; but if only we could get in touch with him. I don’t doubt we could provide him with a plausible story to get over that. What a pity that my goose is cooked for good as far as St. Cyr is concerned; otherwise I could have said that he had received a telegram saying that his mother was dangerously ill, and that as the term ends tomorrow I had taken the responsibility of giving him permission to go off to Spain at once.’

  ‘My poor Count.’ Syveton shook his head. ‘Your goose is cooked indeed; and not only with the Army. For you France, too, is finished; and once we have got you out of the country you will never be able to return.’

  As he spoke he opened out one of the evening papers, and added: ‘I felt that since you would have to know the worst in the course of the next few days there was little to be gained by our making excuses to keep the newspapers from you. I can only say how distressed both the Committee and I are that this wretched business should fall so heavily upon you, and deprive us of the further help of so brave and valuable a colleague.’

  On the front page of the paper there was a photograph of the Count, and a bold caption: ‘WANTED FOR MURDER! LT.-COLONEL THE COUNT DE QUESNOY’.

  Below, in the letter-press, the principal blame for the whole affair was fastened squarely upon him. It was stated that he had been suspected for some time of organising an anti-Republican group among his students at St. Cyr, and had invited some thirty of them to an end-of-term dinner in Versailles the previous evening. The police, having reason to believe that a plot was to be hatched there for the assassination of Prime Minister Combes, had posted men in an adjacent room to listen to the proceedings. Having satisfied themselves that the gathering was of a treasonable nature the senior police officer had ordered the arrest of all present. A pitched battle had followed in which three policemen and four officer cadets had been killed. The Count had been seen to shoot two of the policemen at point-blank range, and had then escaped. Fighting had continued for some time until the police had got the upper hand and a number of arrests had been made.

  De Quesnoy threw the papers down in disgust. ‘There’s hardly a word of truth in it. I shot no policemen; although I admit that I injured several. But why this business about plotting to assassinate Combes; and why am I singled out as the villain of the piece?’

  ‘There are two possible explanations,’ Syveton suggested. ‘In this affair, as no mention has yet been made of the Prince, yours is the only name known to the public. The instinct of all journalists is to build their story round an individual, and you can imagine the avidity with which these Socialist scribblers would seize on the chance to vilify a nobleman like yourself. The other possibility is that it is government inspired. That they know the real origin of the party is certain; but if, as we now suppose, they are not even sure that the Prince was there, they would be wasting powder and shot in accusing him. But they know you were; and the War Minister must be furious with you for now turning out to be a monarchist after deceiving him all these months into believing you to be a staunch republican. As all the Press of the Left are running much the same story, I think the odds are that General André is behind it, and is preparing the ground to deprive you of your head if they can catch you.’

  ‘Your last theory sounds the most plausible. And what have the Press of the Right to say?’

  ‘They have panned the whole thing down as far as possible, and written of the dinner as a happy and law-abiding gathering brutally invaded and broken up by the police. But, of course, they could not ignore the fact that three policemen were killed and that you were the senior officer present. I will leave you the papers, and you can run through the different versions they give of the affair at your leisure.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied the Count glumly. ‘I think, though, that I have already gathered from you a clear enough view of my situation. Of course, last night I was quite well aware that a mine had exploded under me, but I have been worrying a lot about de Vendôme; so until now I’ve hardly faced up to what this will mean to myself. At best it means exile from France for ever, and soldiering in future with some foreign army—perhaps in the Balkans or in South America. I would not mind so much if I had been able
to play a part in restoring an honourable and dignified government to France; but it is a bit hard that my career should have been ruined through the over-enthusiasm of a crowd of irresponsible youngsters.’

  Syveton opened another bottle of wine and stayed on for an hour endeavouring to cheer him up. They had never talked so intimately before, and when he had gone de Quesnoy admitted to himself that there was something quite likeable about his host.

  Before, he had always been prejudiced by his imaginings of what Angela had suffered during the first few months of her marriage; but that was years ago, and he realised now that it must largely have been due to her ignorance coupled with her husband’s impatience and lack of understanding of how to treat a young girl. The fact that he had later attempted to exploit her was, too, as Angela had remarked herself, by no means exceptional in the sort of married lives lived by many wealthy Parisians. That at times he became a slave to his passions there could be little doubt, as his reputation for seducing young working girls was by no means an enviable one; but that apart, he had a kindly disposition, a considerable intelligence and was animated by a fervid patriotism.

  Hoping that de Vendôme, after spending the day in hiding, might turn up there that night, the Count waited up on the lookout till past three in the morning; but he was again disappointed. On Wednesday he again slept late and he had not been awake for much over an hour when Angela arrived with some books and the morning papers for him.

  The stories they carried differed little from those in the evening papers of the day before, except that three of the Liberal journals published a rumour that the Duke de Vendôme had been involved. But the Press of both Left and Right maintained their policy of making no mention of him; and to his anxious friends his whereabouts remained a mystery until that evening.

  As on the previous night, shortly after dusk had fallen, Syveton came to the pavilion; and he said at once, ‘Count, I’m afraid I have bad news for you.’

  ‘It can now only be one of two things,’ sighed de Quesnoy. ‘Either the police are downstairs waiting to arrest me, or the Prince has been caught.’

  ‘He was caught the night before last. In fact he never got away. We were right in our original assumption that it was he who was seen taking the waiter’s overcoat, and was then seized as he tried to cross the courtyard.’

  ‘I have feared that all along. I could not see how it could possibly have been anyone else; apart from the outside chance that the man was an ordinary thief, and a confused version of the episode was given to your agent. Has this come out in the evening papers?’

  ‘No, no! There is nothing fresh in them, except that one of the Centre journals has unearthed the fact that the Prince disappeared from St. Cyr two days before the college was due to break up. No, this information comes from Laveriac, the Prince is in the Cherche-Midi. That came to the General’s knowledge only through his chancing to overhear a few sentences exchanged between his Chief and General André; so it is being regarded as a matter of the highest possible secrecy.’

  ‘I wonder why?’ mused the Count. ‘Since they’ve got him, and ample evidence that he allowed himself to be acclaimed King of France, and that he took a hand in the fighting, it seems extraordinary that they should refrain from doing anything about it. After all, it is bound to get out that he is a prisoner; so they will have to bring him to trial sooner or later.’

  Syveton shook his head. ‘I confess I am completely puzzled. The only thing I can suggest is that owing to his great popularity they fear really serious riots, perhaps even a revolution, if he is brought to trial. After the Dreyfus business the very word “trial” sends a shudder through any French government. But I can hardly think they will give him his freedom and, as you say, they cannot detain him without trial indefinitely.’

  ‘I think you are probably right. They are afraid of the larger issues bringing him to trial might raise and are arguing over how to set about it. If so, the longer they argue the better, as far as we are concerned. The Cherche-Midi is a very old-fashioned prison, so we should find it much easier to get him out of it than we would out of the Santé; and that is where they will probably move him to when they have faked up a filthy enough case against him to feel that they can risk a trial.’

  ‘Yes; the Cherche-Midi is now used only by the military, and they rely more on bolts, bars and harsh discipline than on modern methods for prevention of escapes; but I expect special precautions are being taken to guard him. Of that I hope we will know more tomorrow. The Chaplain there is a fervent royalist, and we have asked him to find out all he can for us.’

  Again de Quesnoy spent a lonely twenty-four hours, broken only by a belated visit from Angela. At mid-day it had been pouring with rain, so there was no possible excuse for her to take a walk in the garden. At three o’clock it had cleared, so she had come out then, set old Simon a job in the conservatory at the back of the house, to keep him away from the pavilion, then slipped into it and upstairs.

  But she had no fresh news. A bloody riot the previous afternoon, in which a band of Camelots du Roi had endeavoured to rescue one of their leaders while he was being transferred from one prison to another, had taken precedence over the Versailles affair. It might even have died, had not de Quesnoy been associated with it and still at large. However, the paragraphs about it were smaller and the Press of the Right rebuked that of the Centre for associating de Vendôme’s name with it. Syveton when briefing his secret agents, had evidently made use of the Count’s casual mention of what he might have done had he still been at St. Cyr; for two of them stated that the Condesa de Cordoba y Coralles had suddenly been taken ill, and that the Prince had been given special leave to depart before the end of the term to go to his mother’s bedside.

  The amazement of the Count was, therefore, all the greater when Syveton came to him at six o’clock and, without speaking, held up an evening paper. It carried the headline: ‘DEATH OF THE DUKE DE VENDÔME.’

  16

  ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS

  The glaring headline was not based on rumour or any reporter’s story. Below it was printed an official statement under the signature of the Minister of War. The accounts already given of the riot and its origin by the Socialist Press were substantially confirmed; but, instead of four, it was stated that five officer cadets had lost their lives as a result of the fighting. Their names were given, de Vendôme’s among them.

  The statement went on to the effect that examinations of the surviving officer cadets during the past forty-eight hours had convinced the authorities that they had assembled for a treasonable purpose not of their own free will, but under pressure from their Chief Instructor, Lieut.-Colonel the Count de Quesnoy. The President of the Republic had, therefore, accepted a recommendation by the Minister of Justice that they should not be held collectively responsible for acts committed during the riot, but should be disciplined individually under the powers held by the War Minister. It ended with an announcement that a reward of five hundred louis d’or would be paid to anyone providing information which would lead to the apprehension of de Quesnoy.

  ‘What in God’s name does this mean?’ exclaimed the Count. ‘Can it possibly be true? I suppose the police might have bludgeoned the poor boy while taking him prisoner, and that he has since died of wounds. Yet I can hardly believe that.’

  ‘Nor I,’ replied Syveton. ‘My agent who went to Versailles secured an eye-witness account of the capture of the officer taken in the courtyard. He was grabbed from behind before he could put up a struggle; and it seems certain that he could have been no one but the Prince. Besides, if he had been seriously injured he would have been taken to hospital, not to the Cherche-Midi.’

  ‘Have you yet been able to check up on Laveriac’s information that de Vendôme is being held there?’

  In view of how he came by it, I see no reason to doubt it. I have, too, seen Father Pierre, the chaplain there, and I had from him the story of a curious happening at the prison on Monday night. The chief ward
er told him that at about one o’clock in the morning Captain Mollin, who is one of General Andre’s A.D.C.s, arrived and had the Governor of the Prison got out of bed. They spent some time in private conversation, then Mollin had some police bring in from a prison van a man whose hands were tied behind him and with a sack over his head. The prisoner was put in a special cell that has an ante-room to it. Two warders were detailed to occupy the ante-room, with strict orders not to communicate with the prisoner and that only one of them should leave at a time.’

  ‘That settles it,’ nodded de Quesnoy. ‘Such precautions would only be taken to conceal the identity of a Prisoner of State. It must have been de Vendôme. God be thanked, then, that he is alive. But what devilish game are the Government up to in announcing his death?’

  Syveton passed a hand over his broad forehead. ‘It is impossible to say for certain; but it looks to me as if they have decided to adopt a policy dictated by the fears we felt they might have when we talked of the matter last night.’

  ‘You mean they are afraid that if they brought the Prince to trial that might start a revolution?’

  ‘Yes; and their statement about how they mean to deal with the other officers fits in. They could not bring them to trial without the Prince becoming the central figure of the case. They would have to produce him and that, equally, might lead to a monarchist uprising.’

  ‘You are right. And, of course, as their trial might mean some of them being condemned to death, or at best long prison sentences for them all, none of them will be fools enough to demand a trial. They will consider themselves mighty lucky in being allowed to keep their commissions and get off with anything General André cares to give them. But what about de Vendôme? Evil as Combes and André may be we are past the days when such men could have Prisoners of State murdered, and they can’t keep him a prisoner indefinitely without its getting out. His friends would start an agitation that would bring down the government. There is his mother too; and he is a cousin of the King of Spain. The King would intervene and there would be a first-class diplomatic incident.’