The Lone Wolf by Louis Joseph Vance (ebook reader browser txt) đź“–
- Author: Louis Joseph Vance
- Performer: -
Book online «The Lone Wolf by Louis Joseph Vance (ebook reader browser txt) 📖». Author Louis Joseph Vance
unblemished honour and integrity subjected to the insolent addresses of
a contemptible blackguard, emotions that might well have been expected
of the man Lanyard had once dreamed to become.
But now, since he had resigned that infatuate ambition and turned
apostate to all his vows, his part in character had been to laugh in
Wertheimer’s face and bid him go to the devil ere a worse thing befall
him. Instead of which, he had flown into fury. And as he sat brooding
over the wheel, he knew that, were the circumstances to be duplicated,
his demeanour would be the same.
Was it possible he had changed so absolutely in the course of that
short-lived spasm of reform?
He cried no to that: knowing well what he contemplated, that all his
plans were laid and serious mischance alone could prevent him from
putting them into effect, feeling himself once more quick with the
wanton, ruthless spirit of the Lone Wolf, invincibly self-sufficient,
strong and cunning.
When at length he roused from his reverie, it was to discover that his
haphazard course had taken him back toward the heart of Paris; and
presently, weary with futile cruising and being in the neighbourhood
of the Madeleine, he sought the cab-rank there, silenced his motor,
and relapsed into morose reflections so profound that nothing objective
had any place in his consciousness.
Thus it was that without his knowledge a brace of furtive thugs were
able to slouch down the rank, scrutinizing it covertly but in detail,
pause opposite Lanyard’s car under pretext of lighting cigarettes,
identify him to their satisfaction, and hastily take themselves off.
Not until they were quite disappeared did the driver of the cab ahead
dare warn him.
Lounging back, this last looked the adventurer over inquisitively.
“Is it, then,” he enquired civilly, when Lanyard at length looked
round, “that you are in the bad books of the good General Popinot, my
friend?”
“Eh—what’s that you say?” Lanyard asked, with a stare of blank
misapprehension.
The man nodded wisely. “He who is at odds with Popinot,” he observed,
sententious, “does well not to sleep in public. You did not see those
two who passed just now and took your number—rats of Montmartre, if I
know my Paris! You were dreaming, my friend, and it is my impression
that only the presence of those two flies over the way prevented your
immediate assassination. If I were you, I should go away very quickly,
and never stop till I had put stout walls between myself and Popinot.”
A chill of apprehension sent a shiver stealing down Lanyard’s spine.
“You’re sure?”
“But of a certainty, my old one!”
“A thousand thanks!”
Jumping down, the adventurer cranked the motor, sprang back to his
seat, and was off like a hunted hare….
And when, more than an hour later, he brought his panting car to a
pause in a quiet and empty back-street of the Auteuil quarter, after
a course that had involved the better part of Paris, it was with the
conviction that he had beyond question shaken off pursuit—had there
in fact been any attempt to follow him.
He took advantage of that secluded spot to substitute false numbers for
those he was licensed to display; then at a more sedate pace followed
the line of the fortifications northward as far as La Muette, where,
branching off, he sought and made a circuit of two sides of the private
park enclosing the h�tel of Madame Omber.
But the mansion showed no lights, and there was nothing in the aspect
of the property to lead him to believe that the chatelaine had as yet
returned to Paris.
Now the night was still young, but Lanyard had his cab to dispose of
and not a few other essential details to arrange before he could take
definite steps toward the reincarnation of the Lone Wolf.
Picking a most circumspect route across the river—via the Pont
Mirabeau—to the all-night telegraph bureau in the rue de Grenelle he
despatched a cryptic message to the Minister of War, then with the
same pains to avoid notice made back toward the rue des Acacias. But
it wasn’t possible to recross the Seine secretly—in effect, at least
—without returning the way he had come—a long detour that irked his
impatient spirit to contemplate.
Unwisely he elected to cross by way of the Pont des Invalides—how
unwisely was borne in upon him almost as soon as he turned from the
brilliant Quai de la Conf�rence into the darkling rue Fran�ois
Premier. He had won scarcely twenty yards from the corner when, with
a rush, its motor purring like some great tiger-cat, a powerful
touring-car swept up from behind, drew abreast, but instead of passing
checked speed until its pace was even with his own.
Struck by the strangeness of this manoeuvre, he looked quickly round,
to recognize the moon-like mask of De Morbihan grinning sardonically
at him over the steering-wheel of the black car.
A second hasty glance discovered four men in the tonneau. Lacking time
to identify them, Lanyard questioned their character as little as their
malign intent: Belleville bullies, beyond doubt, drafted from Popinot’s
batallions, with orders to bring in the Lone Wolf, dead or alive.
He had instant proof that his apprehensions were not exaggerated. Of a
sudden De Morbihan cut out the muffler and turned loose, full strength,
the electric horn. Between the harsh detonations of the exhaust and the
mad, blatant shrieks of the warning, a hideous clamour echoed and
re-echoed in that quiet street—a din in which the report of a
revolver-shot was drowned out and went unnoticed. Lanyard himself might
have been unaware of it, had he not caught out of the corner of his eye
a flash that spat out at him like a fiery serpent’s tongue, and heard
the crash of the window behind him as it fell inward, shattered.
That the shot had no immediate successor was due almost wholly to
Lanyard’s instant and instinctive action.
Even before the clash of broken glass registered on his consciousness,
he threw in the high-speed and shot away like a frightened greyhound.
So sudden was this move that it caught De Morbihan himself unprepared.
In an instant Lanyard had ten yards’ lead. In another he was spinning
on two wheels round an acute corner, into the rue Jean Goujon; and in
a third, as he shot through that short block to the avenue d’Antin,
had increased his lead to fifteen yards. But he could never hope to
better that: rather, the contrary. The pursuit had the more powerful
car, and it was captained by one said to be the most daring and
skilful motorist in France.
The considerations that dictated Lanyard’s simple strategy were sound
if unformulated: barring interference on the part of the
police—something he dared not count upon—his sole hope lay in open
flight and in keeping persistently to the better-lighted,
main-travelled thoroughfares, where a repetition of the attempt would
be inadvisable—at least, less probable. There was always a bare chance
of an accident—that De Morbihan’s car would burst a tire or be
pocketed by the traffic, enabling Lanyard to strike off into some maze
of dark side-streets, abandon the cab, and take to cover in good earnest.
But that was a forlorn hope at best, and he knew it. Moreover, an
accident was as apt to happen to him as to De Morbihan: given an
unsound tire or a puncture, or let him be delayed two seconds by
some traffic hindrance, and nothing short of a miracle could save
him….
As he swung from the avenue d’Antin into Rond Point des Champs �lys�es,
the nose of the pursuing car inched up on his right, effectually
blocking any attempt to strike off toward the east, to the Boulevards
and the centre of the city’s life by night. He had no choice but to fly
westwards.
He cut an arc round the sexpartite circle of the Rond Point that lost
no inch of advantage, and straightened out, ventre-ďż˝-terre, up the avenue
for the place de l’�toile, shooting madly in and out of the tide of more
leisurely traffic—and ever the motor of the touring-car purred
contentedly just at his elbow.
If there were police about, Lanyard saw nothing of them: not that he
would have dreamed of stopping or even of checking speed for anything
less than an immovable obstacle….
But as minutes sped it became apparent that there was to be no renewed
attempt upon his life for the time being. The pursuers could afford to
wait. They could afford to ape the patience of Death itself.
And it came then to Lanyard that he drove no more alone: Death was his
passenger.
Absorbed though he was with the control of his machine and the
ever-shifting problems of the road, he still found time to think quite
clearly of himself, to recognize the fact that he was very likely
looking his last on Paris … on life….
But a little longer, and the name of Michael Lanyard would be not even
a memory to those whose lives composed the untiring life of this broad
avenue.
Before him the Arc de Triomphe loomed ever larger and more darkly
beautiful against the field of midnight stars He wondered, would he
reach it alive….
He did: still the pursuit bided its time. But the hood of the
touring-car nosed him inexorably round the arch, away from the avenue
de la Grande Arm�e and into the avenue du Bois.
Only when in full course for Porte Dauphine did he appreciate De
Morbihan’s design. He was to be rushed out into the midnight
solitudes of the Bois de Boulogne and there run down and slain.
But now he began to nurse a feeble thrill of hope.
Once inside the park enclosure, he reckoned vaguely on some
opportunity to make sudden halt, abandon the car and, taking refuge
in the friendly obscurity of trees and shrubbery, either make good
his escape afoot or stand off the Apaches until police came to his
aid. With night to cloak his movements and with a clump of trees to
shelter in, he dared believe he would have a chance for his
life—whereas in naked streets any such attempt would prove simply
suicidal.
Infrequent glances over-shoulder showed no change in the gap between
his own and the car of the assassins. But his motor ran sweet and true:
humouring it, coaxing it, he contrived a little longer to hold his own.
Approaching the Porte Dauphine he became aware of two sergents de ville
standing in the middle of the way and wildly brandishing their arms. He
held on toward them relentlessly—it was their lives or his—and they
leaped aside barely in time to save themselves.
And as he slipped into the park like a hunted shadow, he fancied that
he heard a pistol-shot—whether directed at himself by the Apaches, or
fired by the police to emphasize their indignation, he couldn’t say.
But he was grateful enough it was a taxicab he drove, not a touring-car:
lacking the body of his vehicle to shield him, he little doubted that
a bullet would long since have found him.
In that dead hour the drives of the Bois were almost deserted. Between
the porte and the first carrefour he passed only one motor-car, a
limousine whose driver shouted something inarticulate as Lanyard
hummed past. The freedom from traffic dangers was a relief: but the
pursuit was creeping up, inch by inch, as he swung down the roadway
along the eastern border of the lake; and still he had found no
opening, had recognized no invitation in the
Comments (0)