The Triumphs of Eugène Valmont

I knew, when I looked at him, that practically I was looking at his master, for I have known many cases where even the personal appearance of the two was almost identical, which may have given rise to the English phrase, 'Like master, like man.' The servant was a little more haughty, a little less kind, a little more exclusive, a little less confidential, a little more condescending, a little less human, a little more Tory, and altogether a little less pleasant and easy person to deal with.

'Sir,' he began, when I had waved him to a seat, 'I am a very rich man, and can afford to pay well for the commission I request you to undertake. To ask you to name your own terms may seem unbusinesslike, so I may say at the outset I am not a business man. The service I shall ask will involve the utmost secrecy, and for that I am willing to pay. It may expose you to risk of limb or liberty, and for that I am willing to pay. It will probably necessitate the expenditure of a large sum of money; that sum is at your disposal.'

Here he paused; he had spoken slowly and impressively, with a touch of arrogance in his tone which aroused to his prejudice, the combativeness latent in my nature. However, at this juncture I merely bowed my head, and replied in accents almost as supercilious as his own:—

'The task must either be unworthy or unwelcome. In mentioning first the compensation, you are inverting the natural order of things. You should state at the outset what you expect me to do, then, if I accept the commission, it is time to discuss the details of expenditure.'

Either he had not looked for such a reply, or was loath to open his budget, for he remained a few moments with eyes bent upon the floor, and lips compressed in silence. At last he went on, without change of inflection, without any diminution of that air of condescension, which had so exasperated me in the beginning, and which was preparing a downfall for himself that would rudely shake the cold dignity which encompassed him like a cloak:—

'It is difficult for a father to confide in a complete stranger the vagaries of a beloved son, and before doing so you must pledge your word that my communication will be regarded as strictly confidential.'

'Cela va sans dire.'

'I do not understand French,' said Mr. Sanderson severely, as if the use of the phrase were an insult to him.

I replied nonchalantly,—

'It means, as a matter of course; that goes without saying. Whatever you care to tell me about your son will be mentioned to no one. Pray proceed, without further circumlocution, for my time is valuable.'

'My son was always a little wild and impatient of control. Although everything he could wish was at his disposal here at home, he chose to visit America, where he fell into bad company. I assure you there is no real harm in the boy, but he became implicated with others, and has suffered severely for his recklessness. For five years he has been an inmate of a prison in the West. He was known and convicted under the name of Wyoming Ed.'

'What was his crime?'

'His alleged crime was the stopping, and robbing, of a railway train.'

'For how long was he sentenced?'

'He was sentenced for life.'

'What do you wish me to do?'

'Every appeal has been made to the governor of the State in an endeavour to obtain a pardon. These appeals have failed. I am informed that if money enough is expended it may be possible to arrange my son's escape.'

'In other words, you wish me to bribe the officials of the jail?'

'I assure you the lad is innocent.'

For the first time a quiver of human emotion came into the old man's voice.

'Then, if you can prove that, why not apply for a new trial?'

'Unfortunately, the circumstances of the case, of his arrest on the train itself, the number of witnesses against him, give me no hope that a new trial would end in a different verdict, even if a new trial could be obtained, which I am informed is not possible. Every legal means tending to his liberation has already been tried.'

'I see. And now you are determined to adopt illegal means? I refuse to have anything to do with the malpractice you propose. You objected to a phrase in French, Mr. Sanderson, perhaps one in Latin will please you better. It is "Veritas praevalebit," which means, "Truth will prevail." I shall set your mind entirely at rest regarding your son. Your son at this moment occupies a humble, if honourable, position in the great house from which you came, and he hopes in time worthily to fill his father's shoes, as you have filled the shoes of your father. You are not a rich man, but a servant. Your son never was in America, and never will go there. It is your master's son, the heir to great English estates, who became the Wyoming Ed of the Western prison. Even from what you say, I do not in the least doubt he was justly convicted, and you may go back to your master and tell him so. You came here to conceal the shameful secret of a wealthy and noble house; you may return knowing that secret has been revealed, and that the circumstances in which you so solemnly bound me to secrecy never existed. Sir, that is the penalty of lying.'

The old man's contempt for me had been something to be felt, so palpable was it. The armour of icy reserve had been so complete that actually I had expected to see him rise with undiminished hauteur, and leave the room, disdaining further parley with one who had insulted him. Doubtless that is the way in which his master would have acted, but even in the underling I was unprepared for the instantaneous crumbling of this monument of pomp and pride. A few moments after I began to speak in terms as severe as his own, his trembling hands grasped the arms of the chair in which he sat, and his ever-widening eyes, which came to regard me with something like superstitious dread as I went on, showed me I had launched my random arrow straight at the bull's-eye of fact. His face grew mottled and green rather than pale. When at last I accused him of lying, he arose slowly, shaking like a man with a palsy, but, unable to support himself erect, sank helplessly back into his chair again. His head fell forward to the table before him, and he sobbed aloud.

'God help me!' he cried, 'it is not my own secret I am trying to guard.'

I sprang to the door, and turned the key in the lock so that by no chance might we be interrupted; then, going to the sideboard, I poured him out a liqueur glass full of the finest Cognac ever imported from south of the Loire, and tapping him on the shoulder, said brusquely:—

'Here, drink this. The case is no worse than it was half an hour ago. I shall not betray the secret.'

He tossed off the brandy, and with some effort regained his self-control.

'I have done my errand badly,' he wailed. 'I don't know what I have said that has led you to so accurate a statement of the real situation, but I have been a blundering fool. God forgive me, when so much depended on my making no mistake.'

'Don't let that trouble you,' I replied; 'nothing you said gave me the slightest clue.'

'You called me a liar,' he continued, 'and that is a hard word from one man to another, but I would not lie for myself, and when I do it for one I revere and respect, my only regret is that I have done it without avail.'

'My dear sir,' I assured him, 'the fault is not with yourself at all. You were simply attempting the impossible. Stripped and bare, your proposal amounts to this. I am to betake myself to the United States, and there commit a crime, or a series of crimes, in bribing sworn officials to turn traitor to their duty and permit a convict to escape.'

'You put it very harshly, sir. You must admit that, especially in new countries, there is lawlessness within the law as well as outside of it. The real criminals in the robbery of the railway train escaped; my young master, poor fellow, was caught. His father, one of the proudest men in England, has grown prematurely old under the burden of this terrible dishonour. He is broken-hearted, and a dying man, yet he presents an impassive front to the world, with all the ancient courage of his race. My young master is an only son, and failing his appearance, should his father die, title and estate will pass to strangers. Our helplessness in this situation adds to its horror. We dare not make any public move. My old master is one with such influence among the governing class of this country, of which he has long been a member, that the average Englishman, if his name were mentioned, would think his power limitless. Yet that power he dare not exert to save his own son from a felon's life and death. However much he or another may suffer, publicity must be avoided, and this is a secret which cannot safely be shared with more than those who know it now.'

'How many know it?'

'In this country, three persons. In an American prison, one.'

'Have you kept up communication with the young man?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Direct?'

'No; through a third person. My young master has implored his father not to write to him direct.'

'This go-between, as we may call him, is the third person in the secret? Who is he?'

'That I dare not tell you!'

'Mr. Sanderson, it would be much better for your master and his son that you should be more open with me. These half-confidences are misleading. Has the son made any suggestion regarding his release?'

'Oh yes, but not the suggestion I have put before you. His latest letter was to the effect that within six months or so there is to be an election for governor. He proposes that a large sum of money shall be used to influence this election so that a man pledged to pardon him may sit in the governor's chair.'

'I see. And this sum of money is to be paid to the third person you referred to?'

'Yes.'

'May I take it that this third person is the one to whom various sums have been paid during the last five years in order to bribe the governor to pardon the young man?'

Sanderson hesitated a moment before answering; in fact, he appeared so torn between inclination and duty; anxious to give me whatever information I deemed necessary, yet hemmed in by the instructions with which his master had limited him, that at last I waved my hand and said:—

'You need not reply, Mr. Sanderson. That third party is the crux of the situation. I strongly suspect him of blackmail. If you would but name him, and allow me to lure him to these rooms, I possess a little private prison of my own into which I could thrust him, and I venture to say that before he had passed a week in darkness, on bread and water, we should have the truth about this business.'

Look you now the illogical nature of an Englishman! Poor old Sanderson, who had come to me with a proposal to break the law of America, seemed horror-stricken when I airily suggested the immuring of a man in a dungeon here in England. He gazed at me in amazement, then cast his eyes furtively about him, as if afraid a trap door would drop beneath him, and land him in my private oubliette.

'Do not be alarmed, Mr. Sanderson, you are perfectly safe. You are beginning at the wrong end of this business, and it seems to me five years of contributions to this third party without any result might have opened the eyes of even the most influential nobleman in England, not to mention those of his faithful servant.'

'Indeed, sir,' said Sanderson, 'I must confess to you that I have long had a suspicion of this third person, but my master has clung to him as his only hope, and if this third person were interfered with, I may tell you that he has deposited in London at some place unknown to us, a full history of the case, and if it should happen that he disappears for more than a week at a time, this record will be brought to light.'

'My dear Mr. Sanderson, that device is as old as Noah and his ark. I should chance that. Let me lay this fellow by the heels, and I will guarantee that no publicity follows.'

Sanderson sadly shook his head.

'Everything might happen as you say, sir, but all that would put us no further forward. The only point is the liberation of my young master. It is possible that the person unmentioned, whom we may call Number Three, has been cheating us throughout, but that is a matter of no consequence.'

'Pardon me, but I think it is. Suppose your young master here, and at liberty. This Number Three would continue to maintain the power over him which he seems to have held over his father for the last five years.'

'I think we can prevent that, sir, if my plan is carried out.'

'The scheme for bribing the American officials is yours, then?'

'Yes, sir, and I may say I am taking a great deal upon myself in coming to you. I am, in fact, disobeying the implied commands of my master, but I have seen him pay money, and very large sums of money, to this Number Three for the last five years and nothing has come of it. My master is an unsuspicious man, who has seen little of the real world, and thinks everyone as honest as himself.'

'Well, that may be, Mr. Sanderson, but permit me to suggest that the one who proposes a scheme of bribery, and, to put it mildly, an evasion of the law, shows some knowledge of the lower levels of this world, and is not quite in a position to plume himself on his own honesty.'

'I am coming to that, Mr. Valmont. My master knows nothing whatever of my plan. He has given me the huge sum of money demanded by Number Three, and he supposes that amount has been already paid over. As a matter of fact, it has not been paid over, and will not be until my suggestion has been carried out, and failed. In fact, I am about to use this money, all of it if necessary, if you will undertake the commission. I have paid Number Three his usual monthly allowance, and will continue to do so. I have told him my master has his proposal under consideration; that there are still six months to come and go upon, and that my master is not one who decides in a hurry.'

'Number Three says there is an election in six months for governor. What is the name of the state?'

Sanderson informed me. I walked to my book-case, and took down a current American Year Book, consulted it, and returned to the table.

'There is no election in that State, Mr. Sanderson, for eighteen months. Number Three is simply a blackmailer, as I have suspected.'

'Quite so, sir,' replied Sanderson, taking a newspaper from his pocket. 'I read in this paper an account of a man immured in a Spanish dungeon. His friends arranged it with the officials in this way: The prisoner was certified to have died, and his body was turned over to his relatives. Now, if that could be done in America, it would serve two purposes. It would be the easiest way to get my young master out of the jail. It would remain a matter of record that he had died, therefore there could be no search for him, as would be the case if he simply escaped. If you were so good as to undertake this task you might perhaps see my young master in his cell, and ask him to write to this Number Three with whom he is in constant communication, telling him he was very ill. Then you could arrange with the prison doctor that this person was informed of my young master's death.'

'Very well, we can try that, but a blackmailer is not so easily thrown off the scent. Once he has tasted blood he is a human man-eating tiger. But still, there is always my private dungeon in the background, and if your plan for silencing him fails, I guarantee that my more drastic and equally illegal method will be a success.'

It will be seen that my scruples concerning the acceptance of this commission, and my first dislike for the old man had both faded away during the conversation which I have set down in the preceding chapter. I saw him under the stress of deep emotion, and latterly began to realise the tremendous chances he was taking in contravening the will of his imperious master. If the large sum of money was long withheld from the blackmailer, Douglas Sanderson ran the risk of Number Three opening up communication direct with his master. Investigation would show that the old servant had come perilously near laying himself open to a charge of breach of trust, and even of defalcation with regard to the money, and all this danger he was heroically incurring for the unselfish purpose of serving the interests of his employer. During our long interview old Sanderson gradually became a hero in my eyes, and entirely in opposition to the resolution I had made at the beginning, I accepted his commission at the end of it.

Nevertheless, my American experiences are those of which I am least proud, and all I care to say upon the subject is that my expedition proved completely successful. The late convict was my companion on the Arontic, the first steamship sailing for England after we reached New York from the west. Of course I knew that two or three years roughing it in mining camps and on ranches, followed by five years in prison, must have produced a radical effect not only on the character, but also in the personal appearance of a man who had undergone these privations. Nevertheless, making due allowance for all this, I could not but fear that the ancient English family, of which this young man was the hope and pride, would be exceedingly disappointed with him. In spite of the change which grooming and the wearing of a civilised costume made, Wyoming Ed still looked much more the criminal than the gentleman. I considered myself in honour bound not to make any inquiries of the young man regarding his parentage. Of course, if I had wished to possess myself of the secret, I had but to touch a button under the table when Sanderson left my rooms in the Imperial Flats, which would have caused him to be shadowed and run to earth. I may also add that the ex-prisoner volunteered no particulars about himself or his family. Only once on board ship did he attempt to obtain some information from me as we walked up and down the deck together.

'You are acting for someone else, I suppose?' he said.

'Yes.'

'For someone in England?'

'Yes.'

'He put up the money, did he?'

'Yes.'

There was a pause, during which we took two or three turns in silence.

'Of course, there's no secret about it,' he said at last. 'I expected help from the other side, but Colonel Jim has been so mighty long about it, I was afraid he'd forgotten me.'

'Who is Colonel Jim?'

'Colonel Jim Baxter. Wasn't it him gave you the money?'

'I never heard of the man before.'

'Then who put up the coin?'

'Douglas Sanderson,' I replied, looking at him sidewise as I mentioned the name. It had apparently no effect upon him. He wrinkled his brow for a moment, then said:—

'Well, if you never heard of Baxter, I never heard of Sanderson.'

This led me to suspect that Douglas Sanderson did not give me his own name, and doubtless the address with which he had furnished me was merely temporary. I did not cable to him from America regarding the success of the expedition, because I could not be certain it was a success until I was safely on English ground, and not even then, to tell the truth. Anyhow, I wished to leave no trail behind me, but the moment the Arontic reached Liverpool, I telegraphed Sanderson to meet us that evening at my flat.

He was waiting for me when Wyoming Ed and I entered together. The old man was quite evidently in a state of nervous tension. He had been walking up and down the room with hands clenched behind his back, and now stood at the end farthest from the door as he heard us approach, with his hands still clasped behind his back, and an expression of deep anxiety upon his rugged face. All the electric lamps were turned on, and the room was bright as day.

'Have you not brought him with you?' he cried.

'Brought him with me?' I echoed. 'Here is Wyoming Ed!'

The old man glared at him for a moment or two stupefied, then moaned:—

'Oh, my God, my God, that is not the man!'

I turned to my short-haired fellow traveller.

'You told me you were Wyoming Ed!'

He laughed uneasily.

'Well, in a manner of speaking, so I have been for the last five years, but I wasn't Wyoming Ed before that. Say, old man, are you acting for Colonel Jim Baxter?'

Sanderson, on whom a dozen years seemed to have fallen since we entered the room, appeared unable to speak, and merely shook his head in a hopeless sort of way.

'I say, boys,' ejaculated the ex-convict, with an uneasy laugh, half-comic, half-bewildered, 'this is a sort of mix-up, isn't it? I wish Colonel Jim was here to explain. I say, Boss,' he cried suddenly, turning sharp on me, 'this here misfit's not my fault. I didn't change the children in the cradle. You don't intend to send me back to that hell-hole, do you?'

'No,' I said, 'not if you tell the truth. Sit down.'

The late prisoner seated himself in a chair as close to the door as possible, hitching a little nearer as he sat down. His face had taken on a sharp, crafty aspect like that of a trapped rat.

'You are perfectly safe,' I assured him. 'Sit over here by the table. Even if you bolted through that door, you couldn't get out of this flat. Mr. Sanderson, take a chair.'

The old man sank despondently into the one nearest at hand. I pressed a button, and when my servant entered, I said to him:—

'Bring some Cognac and Scotch whisky, glasses, and two syphons of soda.'

'You haven't got any Kentucky or Canadian?' asked the prisoner, moistening his lips. The jail whiteness in his face was now accentuated by the pallor of fear, and the haunted look of the escaped convict glimmered from his eyes. In spite of the comfort I had attempted to bestow upon him, he knew that he had been rescued in mistake for another, and for the first time since he left prison realised he was among strangers, and not among friends. In his trouble he turned to the beverage of his native continent.

'Bring a bottle of Canadian whisky,' I said to the servant, who disappeared, and shortly returned with what I had ordered. I locked the door after him, and put the key in my pocket.

'What am I to call you?' I asked the ex-convict.

With a forced laugh he said; 'You can call me Jack for short.'

'Very well, Jack, help yourself,' and he poured out a very liberal glass of the Dominion liquor, refusing to dilute it with soda. Sanderson took Scotch, and I helped myself to a petit verre of brandy.

'Now, Jack,' I began, 'I may tell you plainly that if I wished to send you back to prison, I could not do so without incriminating myself. You are legally dead, and you have now a chance to begin life anew, an opportunity of which I hope you will take advantage. If you were to apply three weeks from today at the prison doors, they would not dare admit you. You are dead. Does that console you?'

'Well, squire, you can bet your bottom dollar I never thought I'd be pleased to hear I was dead, but I'm glad if it's all fixed as you say, and you can bet your last pair of boots I'm going to keep out of the jug in future if I can.'

'That's right. Now, I can promise that if you answer all my questions truthfully, you shall be given money enough to afford you a new beginning in life.'

'Good enough,' said Jack briefly.

'You were known in prison as Wyoming Ed?'

'Yes, sir.'

'If that was not your name, why did you use it?'

'Because Colonel Jim, on the train, asked me to do that. He said it would give him a pull in England to get me free.'

'Did you know Wyoming Ed?'

'Yes, sir, he was one of us three that held up the train.'

'What became of him?'

'He was shot dead.'

'By one of the passengers?'

There was silence, during which the old man groaned, and bowed his head. Jack was studying the floor. Then he looked up at me and said:—

'You don't expect me to give a pal away, do you?'

'As that pal has given you away for the last five years, it seems to me you need not show very much consideration for him.'

'I'm not so sure he did.'

'I am; but never mind that point. Colonel Jim Baxter shot Wyoming Ed and killed him. Why?'

'See here, my friend, you're going a little too fast. I didn't say that.'

He reached somewhat defiantly for the bottle from Canada.

'Pardon me,' I said, rising quietly, and taking possession of the bottle myself, 'it grieves me more than I can say to restrict my hospitality. I have never done such a thing in my life before, but this is not a drinking bout; it is a very serious conference. The whisky you have already taken has given you a bogus courage, and a false view of things. Are you going to tell me the truth, or are you not?'