With such a sweet assurance ringing in his ears, de Quesnoy could only agree and, realising that Angela was still in a state bordering on nervous exhaustion, he soon afterwards urged her to go straight to bed, then took his leave of her.
On his way home he felt at first only elation that she was at last firmly pledged to him; yet after a while it wore off a little. The thought of a stolen honeymoon with her, perhaps even before Christmas, was as heady as a draught of strong wine, but he could not help feeling dubious about the long period which must elapse before they could make a life permanently together.
Since she was so averse as yet to presenting him to her parents, it would prove most embarrassing for her if he ran into her with them at some social function. To avoid the possibility of such a contretemps meant that he must refrain from entering London society through such friends as would normally have introduced him into it if he went to live there. In consequence, except for occasional stolen holidays with Angela, it looked as if for two years or more he would be at a loose end, drifting for short spells from one place on the Continent to another, unable to settle to anything, and driven nearly mad by boredom.
It occurred to him that it would be better for his peace of mind to forgo those stolen holidays and spend the next two years in the army of one of the South American Republics. But to do that would be to deprive Angela of the stolen holidays too; so he decided that he must resign himself to this far from satisfactory state of affairs until the annulment at last came through.
For him Friday, Saturday and Sunday seemed to drag on for ever; but at last Monday dawned and, as he had done on the previous Monday, he went disguised as a middle-aged asthmatic to the Chamber of Deputies.
All France was waiting to learn the result of the critical debate that was to take place; so although de Quesnoy had gone early he had difficulty in squeezing his way into the Public Gallery. As soon as the Chamber was opened a flood of Deputies streamed into it, pushing and shoving to obtain seats on the best benches. When Combes and André entered there were boos and catcalls from all parts of the Chamber.
André rose to make his defence. Old, ill-looking and evidently without hope that he might ride the storm, he stammered out a succession of feeble excuses for having made use of the Grand Orient, and platitudes about the necessity of converting the Army to Republican principles. He was constantly interrupted and eventually howled down. Even the Ministerial Republicans, the Radicals and the Socialist leader Millerand attacked him.
Once more Jules Jaurès sprang to his defence. He castigated the Army as the last stronghold of Monarchist and Catholic ideals; declared that the State would never be safe from a coup d’état by the Generals until the old aristocratic element had been eliminated from the commissioned ranks; and asserted that to reduce the Army to its proper status of an obedient and willing servant of the Government any and all measures were justifiable.
For once his magnificent oratory failed to sway the Chamber. The majority of its members were that day concerned with facts, not theories, and realised that André had exposed France to a swift defeat by Germany. Again came the cries of ‘Traitor! Resign! Down with the Government! Vote them out! Vote them out! Vote them out!’
A division was called. The Deputies streamed towards the lobbies. Then Syveton left his place among the leading Deputies of the Right, crossed the floor of the Chamber, went up to André and slapped the old General a succession of violent blows with the flat of the hand across his face.
Silence suddenly descended on the Chamber. André was an aged, physically feeble man, Syveton still in the full vigour of robust middle age. Someone cried ‘Shame!’ then there came shouts of ‘Bully! Apache! Canaille! Coward! Hit a man who can hit you back!’
A moment later it became clear that Syveton’s brutal act had had a profound psychological effect on many of his fellow Deputies. At least a score of those who had been heading for the Opposition lobby turned away and, to show their sympathy for the humiliated General, gave their vote in his support. The result was that on the vote of confidence the Government, which would unquestionably have been defeated, secured a majority.
Almost sick with rage, de Quesnoy left the gallery and, having pocketed his spectacles and asthma pad, again went through the tiresome business of having a barber whom he had never before patronised shampoo the powder out of his beard and hair.
It was ten days now since he had provided the ammunition for what should have been a decisive attack upon his enemies; but the direction of it had been out of his hands. There was no more that he could do; so he resigned himself to the thought that, having brought the Combes régime into grievous difficulties and ensured that André would never again dare to use the Grand Orient as an intelligence service to further his iniquitous vendetta, he must rest content.
That night, lying in bed in his room at the Pension Smirnoff, he decided that next day he would get in touch with Van Ryn, and put in train the arrangements by which he could, the following day, be shipped in his crate to England. Angela would soon be arriving there. Even if they had to wait for a while longer before they could be formally united, at least he would be able to see her frequently; to enjoy once more freedom from fear of arrest and to live again among pleasant people with the comforts that a considerable income could provide.
Next morning, at about nine o’clock, he left his room. As he came down the stairs he saw Madame Smirnoff in conversation with two men in the little square hall at the bottom of the fight. He was two-thirds of the way down when one of the men looked up. Next moment the man pulled a revolver from his pocket and shouted:
‘Stay where you are! Monsieur le Comte de Quesnoy, I hold a warrant for your arrest.’
24
ON THE RUN
Taking the rules of roulette as a fair guide to the laws of chance, de Quesnoy had been lucky. On average in the game, zero comes up only once in thirty-seven spins, and he had been wanted by the Police in Paris for eighty-six days without once having been challenged. When, too, zero does turn up, those players who have put their money on even chances still have half a chance. Their bets remain on the table until the next spin of the wheel decides whether they lose their money or get it back.
Even now that Vasili Petrovitch had been identified as Colonel the Comte de Quesnoy, if he could keep his freedom for the next ten minutes there was still half a chance that he might keep it long enough to get out of France. But the wheel had been rigged against him. A yard away a loaded revolver was pointed at his chest.
Now that de Vendôme had secured evidence that would clear the Count of a charge of murder, arrest, at worst, could mean no more for him personally than a prison sentence; but it could do immense harm to the cause which he had served so selflessly.
His arrest would mean headlines in the Press and front-page articles digging up all that was known, or could plausibly be invented, about the de Vendôme conspiracy. It would provide the journals of the Left and Centre with a heaven-sent chance to prate of the dangers of a Monarchist coup d’état, and to urge the necessity of Republicanising the Army as a safeguard against it. The scandal of the fiches had roused public indignation to fever pitch, but the only chance now remaining that the Government would fall was that the pressure of public opinion on individual Deputies should be maintained. The resurrection of the de Vendôme affair could cause it to cease overnight, and thus secure the Government a new lease of life.
Knowing that, de Quesnoy decided in an instant to gamble his life. He staked it against the half-chance that he would not only get the better of the two detectives but also escape from Paris before he could be arrested. Instead of turning and attempting flight he took one more step down the stairs. His left foot shot out. It caught the wrist of the man who menaced him a sharp crack. The revolver flew from the detective’s hand, described a parabola in mid-air, and landed on the hall table behind him with a resounding crash.
Grabbing at his injured wrist with his unhurt hand the man gave a yelp of p
ain. Madame Smirnoff screamed. The other detective swore and pulled out his revolver. As he cocked it de Quesnoy spun round and dashed up the stairs. On the top step he tripped. It saved his life. As he came down on his hands and knees a bullet sang over his head. Jerking himself up, he swerved sideways, crossed the landing in two uneven strides and dived into the side passage. A second bullet thudded into the wall just behind him. Madame Smirnoff screamed again. Next moment he had reached the door of his room; but, as was his custom, on leaving he had locked it.
Turning slightly, he flung himself sideways against it. The lock snapped, the door flew open and he was precipitated into the room. As he recovered his balance the pounding footsteps of the men who were after him came thundering across the landing. Only by gaining half a minute could he possibly hope to get away. Slamming the door shut, he grabbed at the painted deal washstand. As he jerked it forward, the water he had used to wash in slopped over his hands and forearms. Another heave and he threw it over behind the door. The china basin shot out of its circular slot in the wooden top. With the dishes for soap and sponge, and the tooth glass, it shattered against the wall. But the overturned washstand was just weighty enough to keep the door from being forced open for the all-important half-minute. Leaping on to the bed, he jumped down on its far side, flung open the window and scrambled out on to the ledge.
Now he had cause to thank his gods that, when in May Madame Smirnoff had offered him a choice of three vacant rooms he had, as a precaution against having to get out in a hurry, chosen this room at the back on the first floor rather than a bigger and better furnished one on the second. As he hung by his hands from the window-sill his toes dangled eight feet from the ground. A drop from that height could easily result in a broken ankle, and below him, menacingly, were the hard flags of a small paved yard. Praying for a safe landing, he released his hold on the sill.
The second his feet hit the stone he let his knees go. They doubled under him, jerking savagely at the muscles round the knee-caps; then he was pitched violently forward and struck his forehead a frightful blow against the wall of the house. Stars and circles flamed in the pall of blackness that suddenly shut off his vision. For several precious seconds he was to all intents and purposes knocked out. But, like a punch-drunk yet still game boxer who manages to regain his feet after a count of eight, he staggered up, turned and reeled towards the entrance of the yard.
Shouts now came from above, for the two detectives had reached the window. But fate threw up another Zero. Two lines of washing were hanging across the yard. When he had blundered through the nearest he was temporarily hidden by a wide expanse of sheets. The man with the revolver could only guess at his position, and once again he escaped being shot in the back. A moment later his sight had cleared sufficiently for him to see where he was going. Ducking beneath a pair of frilly drawers, he made a dash for the yard gate, wrenched it open and staggered through it.
It gave on to a long, narrow alley between brick walls. Turning right, he sped with flying feet down the seventy yards to its exit. There he pulled up, breathless, still half dazed, and with his leg muscles hurting atrociously. At a swift walk he emerged into the street. On one side it had a row of mean shops, on the other the railway tracks behind the Gare Montparnasse. Hurrying through the crowd of shoppers, he turned into the Rue du Maine, continued along it for a quarter of a mile and, now satisfied that he was safe from pursuit, entered the Montparnasse Cemetery. After following one of the narrower paths for a few minutes, he found a secluded spot among a group of large old family mausoleums and there sat down to recover his wind and wits.
His head ached intolerably, which made clear thinking difficult, and he could form no theory to account for the police having run him to earth. It was ten days since he had bought the fiches from Bidegain, and during that time he had on several occasions put in an appearance at both the headquarters of the Grand Orient and the billiards saloon which was the favourite haunt of the Masons who lived in Montparnasse. At neither had any of them shown the least suspicion that he might be connected with the affair.
It was, of course, possible that on Bidegain’s arrival in Brussels he might have been indiscreet about the source of his new wealth and that Masons there, learning of it, had passed the information on to their brethren in Paris. Yet Bidegain knew him only as Petrovitch, and while the Masons might have brought a charge against him for complicity in the theft of their papers, that could not account for the detective’s having called on him to surrender himself as de Quesnoy. Besides, it seemed much more probable that, instead of taking such a step, they would have hired an Apache to exact a private vengeance.
It could be that the secret agents of the Bloc des Gauches were keeping the leaders of the Right under observation; that de Villeneuve had been shadowed to the Café Nicole, and de Quesnoy recognised when they had met there. But that meeting, too, had been ten days ago; so if he had been identified and followed back to the Pension Smirnoff, why had the police waited until now to take action?
The most plausible theory seemed to be that someone who knew him well had spotted him the day before in the Public Gallery of the Chamber, tracked him to his hide-out, and then informed the police; although it seemed difficult to believe that anyone could have penetrated such an elaborate disguise as he had been wearing at the time.
Whatever the truth of the matter, the salient fact was that the police again knew for certain that he was in Paris, and by now would be organising all their resources to spread a net for him.
The thought was a disturbing one, but it did not cause him any great perturbation, because he had already taken precautions against just such an emergency. At least an hour must elapse before they could inform any considerable number of their men that they had him on the run and, unless he was exceptionally unlucky, well before the net was spread he could be safely hidden in his packing case. After dark he would come out and telephone Van Ryn or Plimsol, using the simple code phrase they had agreed on, ‘Please send off the parcel’. That night he would sleep in his crate, and the following afternoon should see it landed at Dover. He had just reached this highly satisfactory conclusion to his programme when he was suddenly struck by an awful thought. The key to the coach-house in which the crate was hidden was still under the loose board in his bedroom at the Pension.
To go back for it was out of the question. As a matter of routine the police would post a man to keep watch there, just in case he was tempted to return in the hope of collecting money, or papers, that he had had to leave behind. In any case, by now they would be ransacking the room. Experienced searchers could not fail to find the loose board beneath the bed, and below it his reserve of cash and the key.
Fortunately the key had no label or other indication of the whereabouts of the lock it had been made to fit; so it would not provide a clue to his intentions, or lead to the discovery of the packing case. But the awful thing was that to him it was irretrievably lost. That meant that until he could secure a duplicate of it he would be in the gravest danger.
As soon as the Sûreté sent out a general call to keep a lookout for him, it would be known to thousands of policemen that he had been living under the name of Petrovitch. Among the police there were many Masons. Some of them would be certain to flash the news to Grand Orient headquarters that the recently initiated Brother Petrovitch had turned out to be the Royalist conspirator de Quesnoy. There his acquaintance with Bidegain was known; so they would realise at once that it was he who had persuaded Bidegain to betray them and had enabled de Villeneuve to denounce André. Thirsting for revenge, they would lose not a moment in putting the word out to every Mason in Paris to keep his eyes skinned for the fugitive.
The result must be that, from mid-day, not only the whole police force of the capital, but civilians in almost every street, would be peering into the faces of every likely passer-by in the hope of identifying him. Had he been able to go to earth in his crate before the hunt was properly under way, they would have looked fo
r him in vain. Now, he had many hours of daylight before him and no place in which to hide.
There was only one place in Paris where he could lie low with little risk during the daytime. That was the pavilion in the Syveteons’ garden. But even if he could cross Paris and reach it without being caught, he would be no nearer getting into the crate on which he had been counting as his magic carpet to safety.
Van Ryn had the other key to the coach-house; so that when he had the word that de Quesnoy was going to earth in the crate he could have it collected the following morning. The only course now was to get him to have another key cut. But, as the police knew the Van Ryn-Dupont connection, now that they were in full cry after the Count it was certain that they would have Van Ryn watched. De Quesnoy felt that even to explain what had happened over the telephone might result in his plan for escaping from France leaking out, and that for Van Ryn and himself to meet, so that he could receive the new key when it had been cut, would be extremely likely to lead to his arrest.
After some moments of most anxious thought, he decided that he must have a go-between, and that it would be much less risky to ask Angela to fulfil this rôle than either Laveriac or de Villeneuve. It might have been through one of the latter that he had been traced, but since his return to Paris no third person could ever have been aware of his meetings with the Syvetons. Without anyone having the least suspicion that she was acting for him, Angela could walk into Van Ryn’s office, ask him to have a duplicate key cut at once, and arrange for it to be delivered to her later in the day.
To pursue such a plan he must let Angela know his desperate plight and what he wished her to do for him; but he must run no risk of anyone’s learning that he was in communication with her. Again the thought of the pavilion came to him. If he could reach it he could both see her in secret and lie doggo there all day, thus killing two birds with one stone.
The Prisoner in the Mask Page 42