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

a little thrilled

by the piquancy of the situation; for the young Jew was the only man

who had ever wittingly met the Lone Wolf face to face….

 

Why then this sudden awkwardness and embarrassment on the part of the

agent?

 

Lanyard’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

 

In silence he produced a jewel-case of morocco leather and handed it

over to the Jew, then settled back in his chair, his attitude one of

lounging, but his mind as quick with distrust as the fingers that,

under cover of his cloak, rested close to a pocket containing his

automatic.

 

Accepting the box with a little bow, the Jew pressed the catch and

discovered its contents. But the richness of the treasure thus

disclosed did not seem to surprise him; and, indeed, he had more than

once been introduced with no more formality to plunder of far greater

value. Fitting a jeweller’s glass to his eye, he took up one after

another of the pieces and examined them under the lamplight. Presently

he replaced the last, shut down the cover of the box, turned a

thoughtful countenance to Lanyard, and made as if to speak, but

hesitated.

 

“Well?” the adventurer demanded impatiently.

 

“This, I take it,” said the Jew absently, tapping the box, “is the

jewellery of Madame Omber.”

 

“I took it,” Lanyard retorted good-naturedly—“not to put too fine a

point upon it!”

 

“I am sorry,” the other said slowly.

 

“Yes?”

 

“It is most unfortunate…”

 

“May one enquire what is most unfortunate?”

 

The Jew shrugged and with the tips of his fingers gently pushed the box

toward his customer. “This makes me very unhappy,” he admitted: “but I

have no choice in the matter, monsieur. As the agent of my principals I

am instructed to refuse you an offer for these valuables.”

 

“Why?”

 

Again the shrug, accompanied by a deprecatory grimace: “That is

difficult to say. No explanation was made me. My instructions were

simply to keep this appointment as usual, but to advise you it will be

impossible for my principals to continue their relations with you as

long as your affairs remain in their present status.”

 

“Their present status?” Lanyard repeated. “What does that mean, if you

please?”

 

“I cannot say monsieur. I can only repeat that which was said to me.”

 

After a moment Lanyard rose, took the box, and replaced it in his

pocket. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Your principals, of course,

understand that this action on their part definitely ends our

relations, rather than merely interrupts them at their whim?”

 

“I am desolated, monsieur, but … one must assume that they have

considered everything. You understand, it is a matter in which I am

wholly without discretion, I trust?”

 

“O quite!” Lanyard assented carelessly. He held out his hand.

“Good-bye, my friend.”

 

The Jew shook hands warmly.

 

“Good night, monsieur—and the best of luck!”

 

There was significance in his last words that Lanyard did not trouble

to analyze. Beyond doubt, the man knew more than he dared admit. And

the adventurer told himself he could shrewdly surmise most of that

which the other had felt constrained to leave unspoken.

 

Pressure from some quarter had been brought to bear upon that eminently

respectable firm of jewel dealers in Amsterdam to induce them to

discontinue their clandestine relations with the Lone Wolf, profitable

though these must have been.

 

Lanyard believed he could name the quarter whence this pressure was

being exerted, but before going further or coming to any momentous

decision, he was determined to know to a certainty who were arrayed

against him and how much importance he need attach to their antagonism.

If he failed in this, it would be the fault of the other side, not his

for want of readiness to accept its invitation.

 

In brief, he didn’t for an instant contemplate abandoning either his

rigid rule of solitude or his chosen career without a fight; but he

preferred not to fight in the dark.

 

Anger burned in him no less hotly than chagrin. It could hardly be

otherwise with one who, so long suffered to go his way without let or

hindrance, now suddenly, in the course of a few brief hours, found

himself brought up with a round turn—hemmed in and menaced on every

side by secret opposition and hostility.

 

He no longer feared to be watched; and the very fact that, as far as he

could see, he wasn’t watched, only added fuel to his resentment,

demonstrating as it did so patently the cynical assurance of the Pack

that they had him cornered, without alternative other than to supple

himself to their will.

 

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 maitred’h�tel.

 

“Ah-h, Monsieur Lanya_rrr_! 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 na�ve 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 Th�l�me 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 about their 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.

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