The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales

by Maurice Leblanc

  To the driver of the first taxicab he met, Lanyard said “L’Abbaye,” then shutting himself within the conveyance, surrendered to the most morose reflections.

  Nothing of this mood was, however, apparent in his manner on alighting. He bore a countenance of amiable insouciance through the portals of this festal institution whose proudest boast and—incidentally—sole claim to uniquity is that it never opens its doors before midnight nor closes them before dawn.

  He had moved about with such celerity since entering his flat on the rue Roget that it was even now only two o’clock; an hour at which revelry might be expected to have reached its apogee in this, the soi-disant “smartest” place in Paris.

  A less sophisticated adventurer might have been flattered by the cordiality of his reception at the hands of that arbiter elegantiarum the maitre-d’hôtel.

  “Ah-h, Monsieur Lanyarrr! But it is long since we have been so favoured. However, I have kept your table for you.”

  “Have you, though?”

  “Could it be otherwise, after receipt of your honoured order?”

  “No,” said Lanyard coolly, “I presume not, if you value your peace of mind.”

  “Monsieur is alone?” This with an accent of disappointment.

  “Temporarily, it would seem so.”

  “But this way, if you please….”

  In the wake of the functionary, Lanyard traversed that frowsy anteroom where doubtful wasters are herded on suspicion in company with the corps of automatic Bacchanalians and figurantes, to the main restaurant, the inner sanctum toward which the naïve soul of the travel-bitten Anglo-Saxon aspires so ardently.

  It was not a large room; irregularly octagonal in shape, lined with wall-seats behind a close-set rank of tables; better lighted than most Parisian restaurants, that is to say, less glaringly; abominably ventilated; the open space in the middle of the floor reserved for a handful of haggard young professional dancers, their stunted bodies more or less costumed in brilliant colours, footing it with all the vivacity to be expected of five-francs per night per head; the tables occupied by parties Anglo-Saxon and French in the proportion of five to one, attended by a company of bored and apathetic waiters; a string orchestra ragging incessantly; a vicious buck-nigger on a dais shining with self-complacence while he vamped and shouted “Waitin’ foh th’ Robuht E. Lee”…

  Lanyard permitted himself to be penned in a corner behind a table, ordered champagne not because he wanted it but because it was etiquette, suppressed a yawn, lighted a cigarette, and reviewed the assemblage with a languid but shrewd glance.

  He saw only the company of every night; for even in the off-season there are always enough English-speaking people in Paris to make it possible for L’Abbaye Thêléme to keep open with profit: the inevitable assortment of respectable married couples with friends, the men chafing and wondering if possibly all this might seem less unattractive were they foot-loose and fancy-free, the women contriving to appear at ease with varying degrees of success, but one and all flushed with dubiety; the sprinkling of demi-mondaines not in the least concerned abouttheir social status; the handful of people who, having brought their fun with them, were having the good time they would have had anywhere; the scattering of plain drunks in evening dress…. Nowhere a face that Lanyard recognized definitely: no Mr. Bannon, no Comte Remy de Morbihan….

  He regarded this circumstance, however, with more vexation than surprise: De Morbihan would surely show up in time; meanwhile, it was annoying to be obliged to wait, to endure this martyrdom of ennui.

  He sipped his wine sparingly, without relish, considering the single subsidiary fact which did impress him with some wonder—that he was being left severely to himself; something which doesn’t often fall to the lot of the unattached male at L’Abbaye. Evidently an order had been issued with respect to him. Ordinarily he would have been grateful: tonight he was merely irritated: such neglect rendered him conspicuous….

  The fixed round of delirious divertissement unfolded as per schedule. The lights were lowered to provide a melodramatic atmosphere for that startling novelty, the Apache Dance. The coon shouted stridently. The dancers danced bravely on their poor, tired feet. An odious dwarf creature in a miniature outfit of evening clothes toddled from table to table, offensively soliciting stray francs—but shied from the gleam in Lanyard’s eyes. Lackeys made the rounds, presenting each guest with a handful of coloured, feather-weight celluloid balls, with which to bombard strangers across the room. The inevitable shamefaced Englishman departed in tow of an overdressed Frenchwoman with pride of conquest in her smirk. The equally inevitable alcoholic was dug out from under his table and thrown into a cab. An American girl insisted on climbing upon a table to dance, but swayed and had to be helped down, giggling foolishly. A Spanish dancing girl was afforded a clear floor for her specialty, which consisted in singing several verses understood by nobody, the choruses emphasized by frantic assaults on the hair of several variously surprised, indignant, and flattered male guests—among them Lanyard, who submitted with resignation….

  And then, just when he was on the point of consigning the Pack to the devil for inflicting upon him such cruel and inhuman punishment, the Spanish girl picked her way through the mob of dancers who invaded the floor promptly on her withdrawal, and paused beside his table.

  “You’re not angry, mon coco?” she pleaded with a provocative smile.

  Lanyard returned a smiling negative.

  “Then I may sit down with you and drink a glass of your wine?”

  “Can’t you see I’ve been saving the bottle for you?”

  The woman plumped herself promptly into the chair opposite the adventurer. He filled her glass.

  “But you are not happy tonight?” she demanded, staring over the brim as she sipped.

  “I am thoughtful,” he said.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I am saddened to contemplate the infirmities of my countrymen, these Americans who can’t rest in Paris until they find some place as deadly as any Broadway boasts, these English who adore beautiful Paris solely because here they may continue to get drunk publicly after half-past twelve!”

  “Ah, then it’s la barbe, is it not?” said the girl, gingerly stroking her faded, painted cheek.

  “It is true: I am bored.”

  “Then why not go where you’re wanted?” She drained her glass at a gulp and jumped up, swirling her skirts. “Your cab is waiting, monsieur—and perhaps you will find it more amusing with that Pack!”

  Flinging herself into the arms of another girl, she swung away, grinning impishly at Lanyard over her partner’s shoulder.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE HIGH HAND

  Evidently his first move toward departure was signalled; for as he passed out through L’Abbaye’s doors the carriage-porter darted forward and saluted.

  “Monsieur Lanyarr’?”

  “Yes?”

  “Monsieur’s car is waiting.”

  “Indeed?” Lanyard surveyed briefly a handsome black limousine that, at pause beside the curb, was champing its bits in the most spirited fashion. Then he smiled appreciatively. “All the same, I thank you for the compliment,” he said, and forthwith tipped the porter.

  But before entrusting himself to this gratuitous conveyance, he put himself to the trouble of inspecting the chauffeur—a capable-looking mechanic togged out in a rich black livery which, though relieved by a vast amount of silk braiding, was like the car guiltless of any sort of insignia.

  “I presume you know where I wish to go, my man?”

  The chauffeur touched his cap: “But naturally, monsieur.”

  “Then take me there, the quickest way you know.”

  Nodding acknowledgement of the porter’s salute, Lanyard sank gratefully back upon uncommonly luxurious
upholstery. The fatigue of the last thirty-six hours was beginning to tell on him a bit, though his youth was still so vital, so instinct with strength and vigour, that he could go as long again without sleep if need be.

  None the less he was glad of this opportunity to snatch a few minutes’ rest by way of preparation against the occult culmination of this adventure. No telling what might ensue of this violation of all those principles which had hitherto conserved his welfare! And he entertained a gloomy suspicion that he would be inclined to name another ass, who proposed as he did to beard this Pack in its den with nothing more than his wits and an automatic pistol to protect ten thousand-francs, the jewels of Madame Omber, the Huysman plans, and (possibly) his life.

  However, he stood committed to his folly, if folly it were: he would play the game as it lay.

  As for curiosity concerning his immediate destination, there was little enough of that in his temper; a single glance round on leaving the car would fix his whereabouts beyond dispute, so thorough was his knowledge of Paris.

  He contemplated briefly, with admiration, the simplicity with which that affair at L’Abbaye had been managed, finding no just cause to suspect anyone there of criminal complicity in the plans of the Pack: a forged order for a table to the maitre-d’hotel, ten francs to the carriage-porter and twenty more to the dancing woman to play parts in a putative practical joke—and the thing had been arranged without implicating a soul!…

  Of a sudden, ending a ride much shorter than Lanyard would have liked, the limousine swung in toward a curb.

  Bending forward, he unlatched the door and, glancing through the window, uttered a grunt of profound disgust.

  If this were the best that Pack could do…!

  He had hoped for something a trifle more original from men with wit and imagination enough to plot the earlier phases of this intrigue.

  The car had pulled up in front of an institution which he knew well—far too well, indeed, for his own good.

  None the less, he consented to get out.

  “Sure you’ve come to the right place?” he asked the chauffeur.

  Two fingers touching the visor of his cap: “But certainly, monsieur!”

  “Oh, all right!” Lanyard grumbled resignedly; and tossing the man a five-franc piece, applied his knuckles to the door of an outwardly commonplace hôtel particulier in the rue Chaptal between the impasse of the Grand Guignol and the rue Pigalle.

  Now the neophyte needs the introduction of a trusted sponsor before he can win admission to the club-house of the exclusive Circle of Friends of Humanity; but Lanyard’s knock secured him prompt and unquestioned right of way. The unfortunate fact is, he was a member in the best of standing; for this society of pseudo-altruistic aims was nothing more nor less than one of those several private gambling clubs of Paris which the French Government tolerates more or less openly, despite adequate restrictive legislation; and gambling was Lanyard’s ruling passion—a legacy from Bourke no less than the rest of his professional equipment.

  To every man his vice (the argument is Bourke’s, in defence of his failing). And perhaps the least mischievous vice a professional cracksman can indulge is that of gambling, since it can hardly drive him to lengths more desperate than those whereby he gains a livelihood.

  In the esteem of Paris, Count Remy de Morbihan himself was scarcely a more light-hearted plunger than Monsieur Lanyard.

  Naturally, with this reputation, he was always free of the handsome salons wherein the Friends of Humanity devoted themselves to roulette, auction bridge, baccarat and chemin-de-fer: and of this freedom he now proceeded to avail himself, with his hat just a shade aslant on his head, his hands in his pockets, a suspicion of a smile on his lips and a glint of the devil in his eyes—in all an expression accurately reflecting the latest phase of his humour, which was become largely one of contemptuous toleration, thanks to what he chose to consider an exhibition of insipid stupidity on the part of the Pack.

  Nor was this humour in any way modified when, in due course, he confirmed anticipation by discovering Monsieur le Comte Remy de Morbihan lounging beside one of the roulette tables, watching the play, and now and again risking a maximum on his own account.

  A flash of animation crossed the unlovely mask of the Count when he saw Lanyard approaching, and he greeted the adventurer with a gay little flirt of his pudgy dark hand.

  “Ah, my friend!” he cried. “It is you, then, who have changed your mind! But this is delightful!”

  “And what has become of your American friend?” Asked the adventurer.

  “He tired quickly, that one, and packed himself off to Troyon’s. Be sure I didn’t press him to continue the grand tour!”

  “Then you really did wish to see me tonight?” Lanyard enquired innocently.

  “Always—always, my dear Lanyard!” the Count declared, jumping up. “But come,” he insisted: “I’ve a word for your private ear, if these gentlemen will excuse us.”

  “Do!” Lanyard addressed in a confidential manner those he knew at the table, before turning away to the tug of the Count’s hand on his arm—“I think he means to pay up twenty pounds he owes me!”

  Some derisive laughter greeted this sally.

  “I mean that, however,” Lanyard informed the other cheerfully as they moved away to a corner where conversation without an audience was possible—“you ruined that Bank of England note, you know.”

  “Cheap at the price!” the Count protested, producing his bill-fold.

  “Five hundred francs for an introduction to Monsieur the Lone Wolf!”

  “Are you joking?” Lanyard asked blankly—and with a magnificent gesture abolished the proffered banknote.

  “Joking? I! But surely you don’t mean to deny—”

  “My friend,” Lanyard interrupted, “before we assert or deny anything, let us gather the rest of the players round the table and deal from a sealed deck. Meantime, let us rest on the understanding that I have found, at one end, a message scrawled on a bank-note hidden in a secret place, at the other end, yourself, Monsieur le Comte. Between and beyond these points exists a mystery, of which one anticipates elucidation.”

  “You shall have it,” De Morbihan promised. “But first, we must go to those others who await us.”

  “Not so fast!” Lanyard interposed. “What am I to understand? That you wish me to accompany you to the—ah—den of the Pack?”

  “Where else?” De Morbihan grinned.

  “But where is that?”

  “I am not permitted to say—”

  “Still, one has one’s eyes. Why not satisfy me here?”

  “Your eyes, by your leave, monsieur, will be blindfolded.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Pardon—it is an essential—”

  “Come, come, my friend: we are not in the Middle Ages!”

  “I have no discretion, monsieur. My confrères—”

  “I insist: there will be trust on both sides or no negotiations.”

  “But I assure you, my dear friend—”

  “My dear Count, it is useless: I am determined. Blindfold? I should say not! This is not—need I remind you again?—the Paris of Balzac and that wonderful Dumas of yours!”

  “What do you propose, then?” De Morbihan enquired, worrying his moustache.

  “What better place for the proposed conference than here?”

  “But not here!”

  “Why not? Everybody comes here: it will cause no gossip. I am here—I have come half-way; your friends must do as much on their part.”

  “It is not possible….”

  “Then, I beg you, tender them my regrets.”

  “Would you give us away?”

  “Never that: one makes gifts to one’s friends only. But my interest in yours is depreciating s
o rapidly that, should you delay much longer, it will be on sale for the sum of two sous.”

  “O—damn!” the Count complained peevishly.

  “With all the pleasure in life…. But now,” Lanyard went on, rising to end the interview, “you must forgive me for reminding you that the morning wanes apace. I shall be going home in another hour.”

  De Morbihan shrugged. “Out of my great affection for you,” he purred venomously, “I will do my possible. But I promise nothing.”

  “I have every confidence in your powers of moral suasion, monsieur,”

  Lanyard assured him cheerfully. “Au revoir!”

  And with this, not at all ill-pleased with himself, he strutted off to a table at which a high-strung session of chemin-de-fer was in process, possessed himself of a vacant chair, and in two minutes was so engrossed in the game that the Pack was quite forgotten.

  In fifteen minutes he had won thrice as many thousands of francs. Twenty minutes or half an hour later, a hand on his shoulder broke the grip of his besetting passion.

  “Our table is made up, my friend,” De Morbihan announced with his inextinguishable grin. “We’re waiting for you.”

  “Quite at your service.”

  Settling his score and finding himself considerably better off than he had imagined, he resigned his place gracefully, and suffered the Count to link arms and drag him away up the main staircase to the second storey, where smaller rooms were reserved for parties who preferred to gamble privately.

  “So it appears you succeeded!” he chaffed his conductor good-humouredly.

  “I have brought you the mountain,” De Morbihan assented.

  “One is grateful for small miracles….”

  But De Morbihan wouldn’t laugh at his own expense; for a moment, indeed, he seemed inclined to take umbrage at Lanyard’s levity. But the sudden squaring of his broad shoulders and the hardening of his features was quickly modified by an uneasy sidelong glance at his companion. And then they were at the door of the cabinet particulier.