The Lone Wolf by Louis Joseph Vance (good ebook reader .txt) 📕

conclusions when strangers dining in the

restaurant—as on the night before, by way of illustration—strangers

who wore all the hall-marks of police detectives from England—catechised

one about a person whose description was the portrait of Bourke, and

promised a hundred-franc note for information concerning the habits and

whereabouts of that person, if seen.

 

Marcel added, while Bourke gasped for breath, that the gentleman in

question had spoken to him alone, in the absence of other waiters, and

had been fobbed off with a lie.

 

But why—Bourke wanted to know—had Marcel lied to save him, when the

truth would have earned him a hundred francs?

 

“Because,” Marcel explained coolly, “I, too, am a thief. Monsieur will

perceive it was a matter of professional honour.”

 

Now the Irish have their faults, but ingratitude is not of their number.

 

Bourke, packing hastily to leave Paris, France and Europe by the

fastest feasible route, still found time to question Marcel briefly;

and what he learned from the boy about his antecedents so worked with

gratitude upon the sentimental nature of the Celt, that when on the

third day following the Cunarder Carpathia left Naples for New York,

she carried not only a gentleman whose brilliant black hair and glowing

pink complexion rendered him a bit too conspicuous among her

first-cabin passengers for his own comfort, but also in the second

cabin his valet—a boy of sixteen who looked eighteen.

 

The gentleman’s name on the passenger-list didn’t, of course, in the

least resemble Bourke. His valet’s was given as Michael Lanyard.

 

The origin of this name is obscure; Michael being easily corrupted into

good Irish Mickey may safely be attributed to Bourke; Lanyard has a

tang of the sea which suggests a reminiscence of some sea-tale prized

by the pseudo Marcel Troyon.

 

In New York began the second stage in the education of a professional

criminal. The boy must have searched far for a preceptor of more sound

attainments than Bourke. It is, however, only fair to say that Bourke

must have looked as far for an apter pupil. Under his tutelage, Michael

Lanyard learned many things; he became a mathematician of considerable

promise, an expert mechanician, a connoisseur of armour-plate and

explosives in their more pacific applications, and he learned to grade

precious stones with a glance. Also, because Bourke was born of

gentlefolk, he learned to speak English, what clothes to wear and when

to wear them, and the civilized practice with knife and fork at table.

And because Bourke was a diplomatist of sorts, Marcel acquired the

knack of being at ease in every grade of society: he came to know that

a self-made millionaire, taken the right way, is as approachable as one

whose millions date back even unto the third generation; he could order

a dinner at Sherry’s as readily as drinks at Sharkey’s. Most valuable

accomplishment of all, he learned to laugh. In the way of by-products

he picked up a working acquaintance with American, English and German

slang—French slang he already knew as a mother-tongue—considerable

geographical knowledge of the capitals of Europe, America and Illinois,

a taste that discriminated between tobacco and the stuff sold as such

in France, and a genuine passion for good paintings.

 

Finally Bourke drilled into his apprentice the three cardinal

principles of successful cracksmanship: to know his ground thoroughly

before venturing upon it; to strike and retreat with the swift

precision of a hawk; to be friendless.

 

And the last of these was the greatest.

 

“You’re a promising lad,” he said—so often that Lanyard would almost

wince from that formula of introduction—“a promising lad, though it’s

sad I should be to say it, instead of proud as I am. For I’ve made you:

but for me you’d long since have matriculated at La Tour Pointue and

graduated with the canaille of the Sant�. And in time you may become a

first-chop operator, which I’m not and never will be; but if you do,

‘twill be through fighting shy of two things. The first of them’s

Woman, and the second is Man. To make a friend of a man you must lower

your guard. Ordinarily ‘tis fatal. As for Woman, remember this, m’lad:

to let love into your life you must open a door no mortal hand can

close. And God only knows what’ll follow in. If ever you find you’ve

fallen in love and can’t fall out, cut the game on the instant, or

you’ll end wearing stripes or broad arrows—the same as myself would,

if this cursed cough wasn’t going to be the death of me…. No, m’lad:

take a fool’s advice (you’ll never get better) and when you’re shut of

me, which will be soon, I’m thinking, take the Lonesome Road and stick

to the middle of it. ‘He travels the fastest that travels alone’ is a

true saying, but ‘tis only half the truth: he travels the farthest into

the bargain…. Yet the Lonesome Road has its drawbacks, lad—it’s

damned lonely!”

 

Bourke died in Switzerland, of consumption, in the winter of

1910—Lanyard at his side till the end.

 

Then the boy set his face against the world: alone, lonely, and

remembering.

II RETURN

His return to Troyon’s, whereas an enterprise which Lanyard had been

contemplating for several years—in fact, ever since the death of

Bourke—came to pass at length almost purely as an affair of impulse.

 

He had come through from London by the afternoon service—via

Boulogne—travelling light, with nothing but a brace of handbags and

his life in his hands. Two coups to his credit since the previous

midnight had made the shift advisable, though only one of them, the

later, rendered it urgent.

 

Scotland Yard would, he reckoned, require at least twenty-four hours to

unlimber for action on the Omber affair; but the other, the theft of

the Huysman plans, though not consummated before noon, must have set

the Chancelleries of at least three Powers by the ears before Lanyard

was fairly entrained at Charing Cross.

 

Now his opinion of Scotland Yard was low; its emissaries must operate

gingerly to keep within the laws they serve. But the agents of the

various Continental secret services have a way of making their own laws

as they go along: and for these Lanyard entertained a respect little

short of profound.

 

He would not have been surprised had he ran foul of trouble on the pier

at Folkestone. Boulogne, as well, figured in his imagination as a

crucial point: its harbour lights, heaving up over the grim grey waste,

peered through the deepening violet dusk to find him on the packet’s

deck, responding to their curious stare with one no less insistently

inquiring…. But it wasn’t until in the gauntlet of the Gare du Nord

itself that he found anything to shy at.

 

Dropping from train to platform, he surrendered his luggage to a ready

facteur, and followed the man through the crush, elbowed and

shouldered, offended by the pervasive reek of chilled steam and

coal-gas, and dazzled by the brilliant glare of the overhanging

electric arcs.

 

Almost the first face he saw turned his way was that of Roddy.

 

The man from Scotland Yard was stationed at one side of the platform

gates. Opposite him stood another known by sight to Lanyard—a highly

decorative official from the Pr�fecture de Police. Both were scanning

narrowly every face in the tide that churned between them.

 

Wondering if through some fatal freak of fortuity these were acting

under late telegraphic advice from London, Lanyard held himself well in

hand: the first sign of intent to hinder him would prove the signal for

a spectacular demonstration of the ungentle art of not getting caught

with the goods on. And for twenty seconds, while the crowd milled

slowly through the narrow exit, he was as near to betraying himself as

he had ever been—nearer, for he had marked down the point on Roddy’s

jaw where his first blow would fall, and just where to plant a

coup-de-savate most surely to incapacitate the minion of the

Pr�fecture; and all the while was looking the two over with a manner of

the most calm and impersonal curiosity.

 

But beyond an almost imperceptible narrowing of Roddy’s eyes when they

met his own, as if the Englishman were struggling with a faulty memory,

neither police agent betrayed the least recognition.

 

And then Lanyard was outside the station, his facteur introducing him

to a ramshackle taxicab.

 

No need to speculate whether or not Roddy were gazing after him; in the

ragged animal who held the door while Lanyard fumbled for his facteur’s

tip, he recognized a runner for the Pr�fecture; and beyond question

there were many such about. If any lingering doubt should trouble

Roddy’s mind he need only ask, “Such-and-such an one took what cab and

for what destination?” to be instantly and accurately informed.

 

In such case to go directly to his apartment, that handy little

rez-de-chauss�e near the Trocad�ro, was obviously inadvisable. Without

apparent hesitation Lanyard directed the driver to the Hotel Lutetia,

tossed the ragged spy a sou, and was off to the tune of a slammed door

and a motor that sorely needed overhauling….

 

The rain, which had welcomed the train a few miles from Paris, was in

the city torrential. Few wayfarers braved the swimming sidewalks, and

the little clusters of chairs and tables beneath permanent caf�

awnings were one and all neglected. But in the roadways an amazing

concourse of vehicles, mostly motor-driven, skimmed, skidded, and shot

over burnished asphalting all, of course, at top-speed—else this were

not Paris. Lanyard thought of insects on the surface of some dark

forest pool….

 

The roof of the cab rang like a drumhead; the driver blinked through

the back-splatter from his rubber apron; now and again the tyres lost

grip on the treacherous going and provided instants of lively suspense.

Lanyard lowered a window to release the musty odour peculiar to French

taxis, got well peppered with moisture, and promptly put it up again.

Then insensibly he relaxed, in the toils of memories roused by the

reflection that this night fairly duplicated that which had welcomed

him to Paris, twenty years ago.

 

It was then that, for the first time in several months, he thought

definitely of Troyon’s.

 

And it was then that Chance ordained that his taxicab should skid. On

the point of leaving the Ile de la Cit� by way of the Pont St. Michel,

it suddenly (one might pardonably have believed) went mad, darting

crabwise from the middle of the road to the right-hand footway with

evident design to climb the rail and make an end to everything in the

Seine. The driver regained control barely in time to avert a tragedy,

and had no more than accomplished this much when a bit of broken glass

gutted one of the rear tyres, which promptly gave up the ghost with a

roar like that of a lusty young cannon.

 

At this the driver (apparently a person of religious bias) said

something heartfelt about the sacred name of his pipe and, crawling

from under the apron, turned aft to assess damages.

 

On his own part Lanyard swore in sound Saxon, opened the door, and

delivered himself to the pelting shower.

 

“Well?” he enquired after watching the driver muzzle the eviscerated

tyre for some eloquent moments.

 

Turning up a distorted face, the other gesticulated with profane

abandon, by way of good measure interpolating a few disconnected words

and phrases. Lanyard gathered that this was the second accident of the

same nature since noon that the cab consequently lacked a spare tyre,

and that short of a trip to the garage the accident was irremediable.

So he said (intelligently) it couldn’t be helped, paid the man and over

tipped precisely as though