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

you,” he advised cheerfully. “Lucia’s accustomed

to keeping late hours with me; and who ever heard of a young and

pretty woman being bored on the third day of her first visit to Paris?”

 

He pronounced the name with the hard C of the Italian tongue, as though

it were spelled Luchia.

 

“To be sure,” laughed the Frenchman; “one suspects it will be long

before mademoiselle loses interest in the rue de la Paix.”

 

“You may well, when such beautiful things come from it,” said the girl.

“See what we found there to-day.”

 

She slipped a ring from her hand and passed it to De Morbihan.

 

There followed silence for an instant, then an exclamation from the

Frenchman:

 

“But it is superb! Accept, mademoiselle, my compliments. It is worthy

even of you.”

 

She flushed prettily as she nodded smiling acknowledgement.

 

“Ah, you Americans!” De Morbihan sighed. “You fill us with envy: you

have the souls of poets and the wealth of princes!”

 

“But we must come to Paris to find beautiful things for our

women-folk!”

 

“Take care, though, lest you go too far, Monsieur Bannon.”

 

“How so—too far?”

 

“You might attract the attention of the Lone Wolf. They say he’s on

the prowl once more.”

 

The American laughed a trace contemptuously. Lanyard’s fingers

tightened on his knife and fork; otherwise he made no sign. A sidelong

glance into a mirror at his elbow showed Roddy still absorbed in the

Daily Mail.

 

The girl bent forward with a look of eager interest.

 

“The Lone Wolf? Who is that?”

 

“You don’t know him in America, mademoiselle?”

 

“No….”

 

“The Lone Wolf, my dear Lucia,” the valetudinarian explained in a dryly

humourous tone, “is the sobriquet fastened by some imaginative French

reporter upon a celebrated criminal who seems to have made himself

something of a pest over here, these last few years. Nobody knows

anything definite about him, apparently, but he operates in a most

individual way and keeps the police busy trying to guess where he’ll

strike next.”

 

The girl breathed an incredulous exclamation.

 

“But I assure you!” De Morbihan protested. “The rogue has had a

wonderfully successful career, thanks to his dispensing with

confederates and confining his depredations to jewels and similar

valuables, portable and easy to convert into cash. Yet,” he added,

nodding sagely, “one isn’t afraid to predict his race is almost run.”

“You don’t tell me!” the older man exclaimed. “Have they picked up the

scent—at last?”

 

“The man is known,” De Morbihan affirmed.

 

By now the conversation had caught the interest of several loitering

waiters, who were listening open-mouthed. Even Roddy seemed a bit

startled, and for once forgot to make business with his newspaper; but

his wondering stare was exclusively for De Morbihan.

 

Lanyard put down knife and fork, swallowed a final mouthful of Haut

Brion, and lighted a cigarette with the hand of a man who knew not the

meaning of nerves.

 

“Gar�on!” he called quietly; and ordered coffee and cigars, with a

liqueur to follow….

 

“Known!” the American exclaimed. “They’ve caught him, eh?”

 

“I didn’t say that,” De Morbihan laughed; “but the mystery is no

more—in certain quarters.”

 

“Who is he, then?”

 

“That—monsieur will pardon me—I’m not yet free to state. Indeed, I

may be indiscreet in saying as much as I do. Yet, among friends…”

 

His shrug implied that, as far as he was concerned, waiters were

unhuman and the other guests of the establishment non-existent.

 

“But,” the American persisted, “perhaps you can tell us how they got on

his track?”

 

“It wasn’t difficult,” said De Morbihan: “indeed, quite simple. This

tone of depreciation is becoming, for it was my part to suggest the

solution to my friend, the Chief of the S�ret�. He had been annoyed and

distressed, had even spoken of handing in his resignation because of

his inability to cope with this gentleman, the Lone Wolf. And since he

is my friend, I too was distressed on his behalf, and badgered my poor

wits until they chanced upon an idea which led us to the light.”

 

“You won’t tell us?” the girl protested, with a little moue of

disappointment, as the Frenchman paused provokingly.

 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t. And yet—why not? As I say, it was elementary

reasoning—a mere matter of logical deduction and elimination. One made

up one’s mind the Lone Wolf must be a certain sort of man; the rest was

simply sifting France for the man to fit the theory, and then watching

him until he gave himself away.”

 

“You don’t imagine we’re going to let you stop there?” The American

demanded in an aggrieved tone.

 

“No? I must continue? Very well: I confess to some little pride. It was

a feat. He is cunning, that one!”

 

De Morbihan paused and shifted sideways in his chair, grinning like a

mischievous child.

 

By this manoeuvre, thanks to the arrangement of mirrors lining the

walls, he commanded an indirect view of Lanyard; a fact of which the

latter was not unaware, though his expression remained unchanged as he

sat—with a corner of his eye reserved for Roddy—speculating whether

De Morbihan were telling the truth or only boasting for his own

glorification.

 

“Do go on—please!” the girl begged prettily.

 

“I can deny you nothing, mademoiselle…. Well, then! From what little

was known of this mysterious creature, one readily inferred he must be

a bachelor, with no close friends. That is clear, I trust?”

 

“Too deep for me, my friend,” the elderly man confessed.

 

“Impenetrable reticence,” the Count expounded, sententious—and

enjoying himself hugely—“isn’t possible in the human relations. Sooner

or later one is doomed to share one’s secrets, however reluctantly,

even unconsciously, with a wife, a mistress, a child, or with some

trusted friend. And a secret between two is—a prolific breeder of

platitudes! Granted this line of reasoning, the Lone Wolf is of

necessity not only unmarried but practically friendless. Other

attributes of his will obviously comprise youth, courage, imagination,

a rather high order of intelligence, and a social position—let us say,

rather, an ostensible business—enabling him to travel at will hither

and yon without exciting comment. So far, good! My friend the Chief of

the S�ret� forthwith commissioned his agents to seek such an one, and

by this means several fine fish were enmeshed in the net of suspicion,

carefully scrutinized, and one by one let go—all except one, the

veritable man. Him they sedulously watched, shadowing him across Europe

and back again. He was in Berlin at the time of the famous Rheinart

robbery, though he compassed that coup without detection; he was in

Vienna when the British embassy there was looted, but escaped by a

clever ruse and managed to dispose of his plunder before the agents of

the S�ret� could lay hands on him; recently he has been in London, and

there he made love to, and ran away with, the diamonds of a certain

lady of some eminence. You have heard of Madame Omber, eh?” Now by

Roddy’s expression it was plain that, if Madame Omber’s name wasn’t

strange in his hearing, at least he found this news about her most

surprising. He was frankly staring, with a slackened jaw and with

stupefaction in his blank blue eyes.

 

Lanyard gently pinched the small end of a cigar, dipped it into his

coffee, and lighted it with not so much as a suspicion of tremor. His

brain, however, was working rapidly in effort to determine whether De

Morbihan meant this for warning, or was simply narrating an amusing

yarn founded on advance information and amplified by an ingenious

imagination. For by now the news of the Omber affair must have thrilled

many a Continental telegraph-wire….

 

“Madame Omber—of course!” the American agreed thoughtfully.

“Everyone has heard of her wonderful jewels. The real marvel is that

the Lone Wolf neglected so shining a mark as long as he did.”

 

“But truly so, monsieur!”

 

“And they caught him at it, eh?”

 

“Not precisely: but he left a clue—and London, to boot—with such

haste as would seem to indicate he knew his cunning hand had, for once,

slipped.”

 

“Then they’ll nab him soon?”

 

“Ah, monsieur, one must say no more!” De Morbihan protested. “Rest

assured the Chief of the S�ret� has laid his plans: his web is spun,

and so artfully that I think our unsociable outlaw will soon be making

friends in the Prison of the Sant�…. But now we must adjourn. One is

sorry. It has been so very pleasant….”

 

A waiter conjured the bill from some recess of his waistcoat and served

it on a clean plate to the American. Another ran bawling for the

vestiaire. Roddy glued his gaze afresh to the Daily Mail. The party

rose.

 

Lanyard noticed that the American signed instead of settling the bill

with cash, indicating that he resided at Troyon’s as well as dined

there. And the adventurer found time to reflect that it was odd for

such as he to seek that particular establishment in preference to the

palatial modern hostelries of the Rive Droit—before De Morbihan,

ostensibly for the first time espying Lanyard, plunged across the room

with both hands outstretched and a cry of joyous surprise not really

justified by their rather slight acquaintanceship.

 

“Ah! Ah!” he clamoured vivaciously. “It is Monsieur Lanyard, who knows

all about paintings! But this is delightful, my friend—one grand

pleasure! You must know my friends…. But come!”

 

And seizing Lanyard’s hands, when that one somewhat reluctantly rose in

response to this surprisingly over-exuberant greeting, he dragged him

willy-nilly from behind his table.

 

“And you are American, too. Certainly you must know one another.

Mademoiselle Bannon—with your permission—my friend, Monsieur Lanyard.

And Monsieur Bannon—an old, dear friend, with whom you will share a

passion for the beauties of art.”

 

The hand of the American, when Lanyard clasped it, was cold, as cold as

ice; and as their eyes met that abominable cough laid hold of the man,

as it were by the nape of his neck, and shook him viciously. Before it

had finished with him, his sensitively coloured face was purple, and he

was gasping, breathless—and infuriated.

 

“Monsieur Bannon,” De Morbihan explained disconnectedly—“it is most

distressing—I tell him he should not stop in Paris at this season—”

 

“It is nothing!” the American interposed brusquely between paroxysms.

 

“But our winter climate, monsieur—it is not fit for those in the prime

of health—”

 

“It is I who am unfit!” Bannon snapped, pressing a handkerchief to his

lips—“unfit to live!” he amended venomously.

 

Lanyard murmured some conventional expression of sympathy. Through it

all he was conscious of the regard of the girl. Her soft brown eyes

met his candidly, with a look cool in its composure, straightforward in

its enquiry, neither bold nor mock-demure. And if they were the first

to fall, it was with an effect of curiosity sated, without hint of

discomfiture…. And somehow the adventurer felt himself measured,

classified, filed away.

 

Between amusement and pique he continued to stare while the elderly

American recovered his breath and De Morbihan jabbered on with

unfailing vivacity; and he thought that this closer scrutiny discovered

in her face contours suggesting maturity of thought beyond her apparent

years—which were somewhat less than the sum of Lanyard’s—and with

this the suggestion of an elusive, provoking quality of wistful

languor, a hint of patient melancholy….

 

“We are off for a glimpse of Montmartre,” De Morbihan was

explaining—“Monsieur Bannon and I. He has not seen Paris in twenty

years, he tells me. Well, it will be amusing to show him what changes

have taken place in all that time. One regrets mademoiselle is too

fatigued to accompany us.