The Triumphs of Eugène Valmont

Jack pondered on this for a while, then he said:—

'Well, sir, I'm perfectly willing to tell you the truth as far as it concerns myself, but I don't want to rat on a friend.'

'As I have said, he isn't your friend. He told you to take the name of Wyoming Ed, so that he might blackmail the father of Wyoming Ed. He has done so for the last five years, living in luxury here in London, and not moving a finger to help you. In fact, nothing would appal him more than to learn that you are now in this country. By this time he has probably received the news from the prison doctor that you are dead, and so thinks himself safe for ever.'

'If you can prove that to me—' said Jack.

'I can and will,' I interrupted; then, turning to Sanderson, I demanded:—

'When are you to meet this man next?'

'Tonight, at nine o'clock,' he answered. 'His monthly payment is due, and he is clamouring for the large sum I told you of.'

'Where do you meet him? In London?'

'Yes.'

'At your master's town house?'

'Yes.'

'Will you take us there, and place us where we can see him and he can't see us?'

'Yes. I trust to your honour, Mr. Valmont. A closed carriage will call for me at eight, and you can accompany me. Still, after all, Mr Valmont, we have no assurance that he is the same person this young man refers to.'

'I am certain he is. He does not go under the name of Colonel Jim Baxter, I suppose?'

'No.'

The convict had been looking from one to the other of us during this colloquy. Suddenly he drew his chair up closer to the table.

'Look here,' he said, 'you fellows are square, I can see that, and after all's said and done, you're the man that got me out of clink. Now, I half suspicion you're right about Colonel Jim, but, anyhow, I'll tell you exactly what happened. Colonel Jim was a Britisher, and I suppose that's why he and Wyoming Ed chummed together a good deal. We called Jim Baxter Colonel, but he never said he was a colonel or anything else. I was told he belonged to the British army, and that something happened in India so that he had to light out He never talked about himself, but he was a mighty taking fellow when he laid out to please anybody. We called him Colonel because he was so straight in the back, and walked as if he were on parade. When this young English tenderfoot came out, he and the Colonel got to be as thick as thieves, and the Colonel won a good deal of money from him at cards, but that didn't make any difference in their friendship. The Colonel most always won when he played cards, and perhaps that's what started the talk about why he left the British army. He was the luckiest beggar I ever knew in that line of business. We all met in the rush to the new goldfields, which didn't pan out worth a cent, and one after another of the fellows quit and went somewhere else. But Wyoming Ed, he held on, even after Colonel Jim wanted to quit. As long as there were plenty of fellows there, Colonel Jim never lacked money, although he didn't dig it out of the ground, but when the population thinned down to only a few of us, then we all struck hard times. Now, I knew Colonel Jim was going to hold up a train. He asked me if I would join him, and I said I would if there wasn't too many in the gang. I'd been into that business afore, and I knew there was no greater danger than to have a whole mob of fellows. Three men can hold up a train better than three dozen. Everybody's scared except the express messenger, and it's generally easy to settle him, for he stands where the light is, and we shoot from the dark. Well, I thought at first Wyoming Ed was on to the scheme, because when we were waiting in the cut to signal the train he talked about us going on with her to San Francisco, but I thought he was only joking. I guess that Colonel Jim imagined that when it came to the pinch, Ed wouldn't back out and leave us in the lurch: he knew Ed was as brave as a lion. In the cut, where the train would be on the up grade, the Colonel got his lantern ready, lit it, and wrapped a thin red silk handkerchief round it. The express was timed to pass up there about midnight, but it was near one o'clock when her headlight came in sight. We knew all the passengers would be in bed in the sleepers, and asleep in the smoking car and the day coach. We didn't intend to meddle with them. The Colonel had brought a stick or two of dynamite from the mines, and was going to blow open the safe in the express car, and climb out with whatever was inside.

'The train stopped to the signal all right, and the Colonel fired a couple of shots just to let the engineer know we meant business. The engineer and fireman at once threw up their hands, then the Colonel turns to Ed, who was standing there like a man pole-axed, and says to him mighty sharp, just like if he was speaking to a regiment of soldiers:—

'"You keep these two men covered. Come on, Jack!" he says to me, and then we steps up to the door of the express car, which the fellow inside had got locked and bolted. The Colonel fires his revolver in through the lock, then flung his shoulder agin the door, and it went in with a crash, which was followed instantly by another crash, for the little expressman was game right through. He had put out the lights and was blazing away at the open door. The Colonel sprang for cover inside the car, and wasn't touched, but one of the shots took me just above the knee, and broke my leg, so I went down in a heap. The minute the Colonel counted seven shots he was on to that express messenger like a tiger, and had him tied up in a hard knot before you could shake a stick. Then, quick as a wink he struck a match, and lit the lamp. Plucky as the express messenger was, he looked scared to death, and now, when Colonel Jim held a pistol to his head, he gave up the keys and told him how to open the safe. I had fallen back against the corner of the car, inside, and was groaning with Pain. Colonel Jim was scooping out the money from the shelves of the safe, and stuffing it into a sack.

'"Are you hurt, Jack?" he cried.

'"Yes, my leg's broke."

'"Don't let that trouble you; we'll get you clear all right. Do you think you can ride your horse?"

'"I don't believe it," said I. "I guess I'm done for," and I thought I was.

'Colonel Jim never looked round, but he went through that safe in a way that'd make your hair curl, throwing aside the bulky packages after tearing them open, taking only cash, which he thrust into a bag he had with him, till he was loaded like a millionaire. Then suddenly he swore, for the train began to move.

'"What is that fool Ed doing?" he shouted, rising to his feet.

'At that minute Ed came in, pistol in each hand, and his face ablaze.

'"Here, you cursed thief!" he cried, "I didn't come with you to rob a train!"

'"Get outside, you fool!" roared Colonel Jim, "get outside and stop this train. Jack has got his leg broke. Don't come another step towards me, or I'll kill you!"

'But Ed, he walked right on, Colonel Jim backing, then there was a shot that rang like cannon fire in the closed car, and Ed fell forward on his face. Colonel Jim turned him over, and I saw he had been hit square in the middle of the forehead. The train was now going at good speed, and we were already miles away from where our horses were tied. I never heard a man swear like Colonel Jim. He went through the pockets of Ed, and took a bundle of papers that was inside his coat, and this he stuffed away in his own clothes. Then he turned to me, and his voice was like a lamb.

'"Jack, old man," he said, "I can't help you. They're going to nab you, but not for murder. The expressman there will be your witness. It isn't murder anyhow on my part, but self-defence. You saw he was coming at me when I warned him to keep away."

'All this he said in a loud voice, for the expressman to hear, then he bent over to me and whispered:—

'"I'll get the best lawyer I can for you, but I'm afraid they're bound to convict you, and if they do, I will spend every penny of this money to get you free. You call yourself Wyoming Ed at the trial. I've taken all this man's papers so that he can't be identified. And don't you worry if you're sentenced, for remember I'll be working night and day for you, and if money can get you out, you'll be got out, because these papers will help me to get the cash required. Ed's folks are rich in England, so they'll fork over to get you out if you pretend to be him." With that he bade me good-bye and jumped off the train. There, gentlemen, that's the whole story just as it happened, and that's why I thought it was Colonel Jim had sent you to get me free.'

There was not the slightest doubt in my mind that the convict had told the exact truth, and that night, at nine o'clock, he identified Major Renn as the former Colonel Jim Baxter. Sanderson placed us in a gallery where we could see, but could not hear. The old man seemed determined that we should not know where we were, and took every precaution to keep us in the dark. I suppose he put us out of earshot, so that if the Major mentioned the name of the nobleman we should not be any the wiser. We remained in the gallery for some time after the major had left before Sanderson came to us again, carrying with him a packet.

'The carriage is waiting at the door,' he said, 'and with your permission, Monsieur Valmont, I will accompany you to your flat.'

I smiled at the old man's extreme caution, but he continued very gravely:—

'It is not that, Monsieur Valmont. I wish to consult with you, and if you will accept it, I have another commission to offer.'

'Well,' said I, 'I hope it is not so unsavoury as the last.' But to this the old man made no response.

There was silence in the carriage as we drove back to my flat. Sanderson had taken the precaution of pulling down the blinds of the carriage, which he need not have troubled to do, for, as I have said, it would have been the simplest matter in the world for me to have discovered who his employer was, if I had desired to know. As a matter of fact, I do not know to this day whom he represented.

Once more in my room with the electric light turned on, I was shocked and astonished to see the expression on Sanderson's face. It was the face of a man who would grimly commit murder and hang for it. If ever the thirst for vengeance was portrayed on a human countenance, it was on his that night. He spoke very quietly, laying down the packet before him on the table.

'I think you will agree with me,' he said, 'that no punishment on earth is too severe for that creature calling himself Major Renn.'

'I'm willing to shoot him dead in the streets of London tomorrow,' said the convict, 'if you give the word.'

Sanderson went on implacably: 'He not only murdered the son, but for five years has kept the father in an agony of sorrow and apprehension, bleeding him of money all the time, which was the least of his crimes. Tomorrow I shall tell my master that his son has been dead these five years, and heavy as that blow must prove, it will be mitigated by the fact that his son died an honest and honourable man. I thank you for offering to kill this vile criminal. I intend that he shall die, but not so quickly or so mercifully.'

Here he untied the packet, and took from it a photograph, which he handed to the convict.

'Do you recognise that?'

'Oh yes; that's Wyoming Ed as he appeared at the mine; as, indeed, he appeared when he was shot.'

The photograph Sanderson then handed to me.

'An article that I read about you in the paper, Monsieur Valmont, said you could impersonate anybody. Can you impersonate this young man?'

'There's no difficulty in that,' I replied.

'Then will you do this? I wish you two to dress in that fashion. I shall give you particulars of the haunts of Major Renn. I want you to meet him together and separately, as often as you can, until you drive him mad or to suicide. He believes you to be dead,' said Sanderson, addressing Jack. 'I am certain he has the news, by his manner tonight. He is extremely anxious to get the lump sum of money which I have been holding back from him. You may address him, for he will recognise your voice as well as your person, but Monsieur Valmont had better not speak, as then he might know it was not the voice of my poor young master. I suggest that you meet him first together, always at night. The rest I leave in your hands, Monsieur Valmont.'

With that the old man rose and left us.

Perhaps I should stop this narration here, for I have often wondered if practically I am guilty of manslaughter.

We did not meet Major Renn together, but arranged that he should encounter Jack under one lamp-post, and me under the next. It was just after midnight, and the streets were practically deserted. The theatre crowds had gone, and the traffic was represented by the last 'buses, and a belated cab now and then. Major Renn came down the steps of his club, and under the first lamp-post, with the light shining full upon him, Jack the convict stepped forth.

'Colonel Jim,' he said, 'Ed and I are waiting for you. There were three in that robbery, and one was a traitor. His dead comrades ask the traitor to join them.'

The Major staggered back against the lamp-post, drew his hand across his brow, and muttered, Jack told me afterwards:—

'I must stop drinking! I must stop drinking!'

Then he pulled himself together, and walked rapidly towards the next lamp-post. I stood out square in front of him, but made no sound. He looked at me with distended eyes, while Jack shouted out in his boisterous voice, that had no doubt often echoed over the plain:—

'Come on, Wyoming Ed, and never mind him. He must follow.'

Then he gave a war whoop. The Major did not turn round, but continued to stare at me, breathing stertorously like a person with apoplexy. I slowly pushed back my hat, and on my brow he saw the red mark of a bullet hole. He threw up his hands and fell with a crash to the pavement.

'Heart failure' was the verdict of the coroner's jury.

8. Lady Alicia's Emeralds

Many Englishmen, if you speak to them of me, indulge themselves in a detraction that I hope they will not mind my saying is rarely graced by the delicacy of innuendo with which some of my own countrymen attempt to diminish whatever merit I may possess. Mr. Spenser Hale, of Scotland Yard, whose lack of imagination I have so often endeavoured to amend, alas! without perceptible success, was good enough to say, after I had begun these reminiscences, which he read with affected scorn, that I was wise in setting down my successes, because the life of Methuselah himself would not be long enough to chronicle my failures, and the man to whom this was said replied that it was only my artfulness, a word of which these people are very fond; that I intended to use my successes as bait, issue a small pamphlet filled with them, and then record my failures in a thousand volumes, after the plan of a Chinese encyclopaedia, selling these to the public on the instalment plan.

Ah, well; it is not for me to pass comment on such observations. Every profession is marred by its little jealousies, and why should the coterie of detection be exempt? I hope I may never follow an example so deleterious, and thus be tempted to express my contempt for the stupidity with which, as all persons know, the official detective system of England is imbued. I have had my failures, of course. Did I ever pretend to be otherwise than human? But what has been the cause of these failures? They have arisen through the conservatism of the English. When there is a mystery to be solved, the average Englishman almost invariably places it in the hands of the regular police. When these good people are utterly baffled; when their big boots have crushed out all evidences that the grounds may have had to offer to a discerning mind; when their clumsy hands have obliterated the clues which are everywhere around them, I am at last called in, and if I fail, they say:—

'What could you expect; he is a Frenchman.'

This was exactly what happened in the case of Lady Alicia's emeralds. For two months the regular police were not only befogged, but they blatantly sounded the alarm to every thief in Europe. All the pawnbrokers' shops of Great Britain were ransacked, as if a robber of so valuable a collection would be foolish enough to take it to a pawnbroker. Of course, the police say that they thought the thief would dismantle the cluster, and sell the gems separately. As to this necklace of emeralds, possessing as it does an historical value which is probably in excess of its intrinsic worth, what more natural than that the holder of it should open negotiations with its rightful owner, and thus make more money by quietly restoring it than by its dismemberment and sale piecemeal? But such a fuss was kicked up, such a furore created, that it is no wonder the receiver of the goods lay low, and said nothing. In vain were all ports giving access to the Continent watched; in vain were the police of France, Belgium, and Holland warned to look out for this treasure. Two valuable months were lost, and then the Marquis of Blair sent for me! I maintain that the case was hopeless from the moment I took it up.

It may be asked why the Marquis of Blair allowed the regular police to blunder along for two precious months, but anyone who is acquainted with that nobleman will not wonder that he clung so long to a forlorn hope. Very few members of the House of Peers are richer than Lord Blair, and still fewer more penurious. He maintained that, as he paid his taxes, he was entitled to protection from theft; that it was the duty of the Government to restore the gems, and if this proved impossible, to make compensation for them. This theory is not acceptable in the English Courts, and while Scotland Yard did all it could during those two months, what but failure was to be expected from its limited mental equipment?

When I arrived at the Manor of Blair, as his lordship's very ugly and somewhat modern mansion house is termed, I was instantly admitted to his presence. I had been summoned from London by a letter in his lordship's own hand, on which the postage was not paid. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived, and our first conference was what might be termed futile. It was take up entirely with haggling about terms, the marquis endeavouring to beat down the price of my services to a sum so insignificant that it would barely have paid my expenses from London to Blair and back. Such bargaining is intensely distasteful to me. When the marquis found all his offers declined with a politeness which left no opening for anger on his part, he endeavoured to induce me to take up the case on a commission contingent upon my recovery of the gems, and as I had declined this for the twentieth time, darkness had come on, and the gong rang for dinner. I dined alone in the salle à manger, which appeared to be set apart for those calling at the mansion on business, and the meagreness of the fare, together with the indifferent nature of the claret, strengthened my determination to return to London as early as possible next morning.

When the repast was finished, the dignified servingman said gravely to me,—

'The Lady Alicia asks if you will be good enough to give her a few moments in the drawing-room, sir.'

I followed the man to the drawing-room, and found the young lady seated at the piano, on which she was strumming idly and absentmindedly, but with a touch, nevertheless, that indicated advanced excellence in the art of music. She was not dressed as one who had just risen from the dining table, but was somewhat grimly and commonly attired, looking more like a cottager's daughter than a member of the great country family. Her head was small, and crowned with a mass of jet black hair. My first impression on entering the large, rather dimly lighted room was unfavourable, but that vanished instantly under the charm of a manner so graceful and vivacious, that in a moment I seemed to be standing in a brilliant Parisian salon rather than in the sombre drawing-room of an English country house. Every poise of her dainty head; every gesture of those small, perfect hands; every modulated tone of the voice, whether sparkling with laughter or caressing in confidential speech, reminded me of the grandes dames of my own land. It was strange to find this perfect human flower amidst the gloomy ugliness of a huge square house built in the time of the Georges; but I remembered now that the Blairs are the English equivalent of the de Bellairs of France, from which family sprang the fascinating Marquise de Bellairs, who adorned the Court of Louis XIV. Here, advancing towards me, was the very reincarnation of the lovely marquise, who gave lustre to this dull world nearly three hundred years ago. Ah, after all, what are the English but a conquered race! I often forget this, and I trust I never remind them of it, but it enables one to forgive them much. A vivid twentieth-century marquise was Lady Alicia, in all except attire. What a dream some of our Parisian dress artists could have made of her, and here she was immured in this dull English house in the high-necked costume of a labourer's wife. 'Welcome, Monsieur Valmont,' she cried, in French of almost faultless intonation. 'I am so glad you have arrived,' and she greeted me as if I were an old friend of the family. There was nothing of condescension in her manner; no display of her own affability, while at the same time teaching me my place, and the difference in our stations of life. I can stand the rudeness of the nobility, but I detest their condescension. No; Lady Alicia was a true de Bellairs, and in my confusion, bending over her slender hand, I said:—

'Madame la Marquise, it is a privilege to extend to you my most respectful salutations.'

She laughed at this quietly, with the melting laugh of the nightingale.

'Monsieur, you mistake my title. Although my uncle is a marquis, I am but Lady Alicia.'

'Your pardon, my lady. For the moment I was back in that scintillating Court which surrounded Louis le Grand.'

'How flatteringly you introduce yourself, monsieur. In the gallery upstairs there is a painting of the Marquise de Bellairs, and when I show it to your tomorrow, you will then understand how charmingly you have pleased a vain woman by your reference to that beautiful lady. But I must not talk in this frivolous strain, monsieur. There is serious business to be considered, and I assure you I looked forward to your coming, monsieur, with the eagerness of Sister Anne in the tower of Bluebeard.'

I fear my expression as I bowed to her must have betrayed my gratification at hearing these words, so confidentially uttered by lips so sweet, while the glance of her lovely eyes was even more eloquent than her words. Instantly I felt ashamed of my chaffering over terms with her uncle; instantly I forgot my resolution to depart on the morrow; instantly I resolved to be of what assistance I could to this dainty lady. Alas! the heart of Valmont is today as unprotected against the artillery of inspiring eyes as ever it was in his extreme youth.

'This house,' she continued vivaciously, 'has been practically in a state of siege for two months. I could take none of my usual walks in the gardens, on the lawns, or through the park, without some clumsy policeman in uniform crashing his way through the bushes, or some detective in plain clothes accosting me and questioning me under the pretence that he was a stranger who had lost his way. The lack of all subtlety in our police is something deplorable. I am sure the real criminal might have passed through their hands a dozen times unmolested, while our poor innocent servants, and the strangers within our gates, were made to feel that the stern eye of the law was upon them night and day.'

The face of the young lady was an entrancing picture of animated indignation as she gave utterance to this truism which her countrymen are so slow to appreciate. I experienced a glow of satisfaction.

'Yes,' she went on, 'they sent down from London an army of stupid men, who have kept our household in a state of abject terror for eight long weeks, and where are the emeralds?'

As she suddenly asked this question, in the most Parisian of accents, with a little outward spreading of the hand, a flash of the eye, and a toss of the head, the united effect was something indescribable through the limitations of the language I am compelled to use.