The Lone Wolf by Louis Joseph Vance (ebook reader browser txt) đ
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to make our third, it would be most amiable of you.â
âIâm sorry,â Lanyard excused himself; âbut as you see, I am only just
in from the railroad, a long and tiresome journey. You are very good,
but Iââ
âGood!â De Morbihan exclaimed with violence. âI? On the contrary, I am
a very selfish man; I seek but to afford myself the pleasure of your
company. You lead such a busy life, my friend, romping about Europe,
here one day, God-knows-where the next, that one must make oneâs best
of your spare moments. You will join us, surely?â
âReally I cannot tonight. Another time perhaps, if youâll excuse me.â
âBut it is always this way!â De Morbihan explained to his friends with
a vast show of mock indignation. ââAnother time, perhapsââhis
invariable excuse! I tell you, not two men in all Paris have any real
acquaintance with this gentleman whom all Paris knows! His reserve is
proverbialââas distant as Lanyard,â we say on the boulevards!â And
turning again to the adventurer, meeting his cold stare with the De
Morbihan grin of quenchless effronteryââAs you will, my friend!â he
granted. âBut should you change your mindâwell, youâll have no trouble
finding us. Ask any place along the regular route. We see far too
little of one another, monsieurâand I am most anxious to have a
little chat with you.â
âIt will be an honour,â Lanyard returned formallyâŠ.
In his heart he was pondering several most excruciating methods of
murdering the man. What did he mean? How much did he know? If he knew
anything, he must mean ill, for assuredly he could not be ignorant of
Roddyâs business, or that every other word he uttered was rivetting
suspicion on Lanyard of identity with the Lone Wolf, or that Roddy was
listening with all his ears and staring into the bargain!
Decidedly something must be done to silence this animal, should it turn
out he really did know anything!
It was only after profound reflection over his liqueur (while Roddy
devoured his Daily Mail and washed it down with a third bottle of Bass)
that Lanyard summoned the maitredâhïżœtel and asked for a room.
It would never do to fix the doubts of the detective by going elsewhere
that night. But, fortunately, Lanyard knew that warren which was
Troyonâs as no one else knew it; Roddy would find it hard to detain
him, should events seem to advise an early departure.
IV A STRATAGEMWhen the maitredâhïżœtel had shown him all over the establishment
(innocently enough, en route, furnishing him with a complete list of
his other guests and their rooms: memoranda readily registered by a
retentive memory) Lanyard chose the bedchamber next that occupied by
Roddy, in the second storey.
The consideration influencing this selection wasâof courseâthat, so
situated, he would be in position not only to keep an eye on the man
from Scotland Yard but also to determine whether or no Roddy were
disposed to keep an eye on him.
In those days Lanyardâs faith in himself was a beautiful thing. He
could not have enjoyed the immunity ascribed to the Lone Wolf as long
as he had without gaining a power of sturdy self-confidence in addition
to a certain amount of temperate contempt for spies of the law and all
their ways.
Against the peril inherent in this last, however, he was self-warned,
esteeming it the most fatal chink in the armour of the lawbreaker, this
disposition to underestimate the acumen of the police: far too many
promising young adventurers like himself were annually laid by the
heels in that snare of their own infatuate weaving. The mouse has every
right, if he likes, to despise the cat for a heavy-handed and
bloodthirsty beast, lacking wit and imagination, a creature of simple
force-majeure; but that mouse will not advisedly swagger in cat-haunted
territory; a blow of the paw is, when allâs said and done, a blow of
the pawâsomething to numb the wits of the wiliest mouse.
Considering Roddy, he believed it to be impossible to gauge the
limitations of that essentially British intelligenceâsomething as
self-contained as a London flat. One thing only was certain: Roddy
didnât always think in terms of beef and Bass; he was nobodyâs facile
fool; he could make a shrewd inference as well as strike a shrewd blow.
Reviewing the scene in the restaurant, Lanyard felt measurably
warranted in assuming not only that Roddy was interested in De
Morbihan, but that the Frenchman was well aware of that interest. And
he resented sincerely his inability to feel as confident that the
Count, with his gossip about the Lone Wolf, had been merely seeking to
divert Roddyâs interest to putatively larger game. It was just possible
that De Morbihanâs identification of Lanyard with that mysterious
personage, at least by innuendo, had been unintentional. But somehow
Lanyard didnât believe it had.
The two questions troubled him sorely: Did De Morbihan know, did he
merely suspect, or had he only loosed an aimless shot which chance had
sped to the right goal? Had the mind of Roddy proved fallow to that
suggestion, or had it, with its simple national tenacity, been
impatient of such side issues, or incredulous, and persisted in
focusing its processes upon the personality and activities of Monsieur
le Comte Remy de Morbihan? However, one would surely learn something
illuminating before very long. The business of a sleuth is to sleuth,
and sooner or later Roddy must surely make some move to indicate the
quarter wherein his real interest lay.
Just at present, reasoning from noises audible through the bolted door
that communicated with the adjoining bedchamber, the business of a
sleuth seemed to comprise going to bed. Lanyard, shaving and dressing,
could distinctly hear a tuneless voice contentedly humming âSally in
our Alley,â a rendition punctuated by one heavy thump and then another
and then by a heartfelt sigh of reliefâas Roddy kicked off his
bootsâand followed by the tapping of a pipe against grate-bars, the
squeal of a window lowered for ventilation, the click of an
electric-light, and the creaking of bed-springs.
Finally, and before Lanyard had finished dressing, the man from
Scotland Yard began placidly to snore.
Of course, he might well be bluffing; for Lanyard had taken pains to
let Roddy know that they were neighbours, by announcing his selection
in loud tones close to the communicating door.
But this was a question which the adventurer meant to have answered
before he went outâŠ.
It was hard upon twelve oâclock when the mirror on the dressing-table
assured him that he was at length point-device in the habit and apparel
of a gentleman of elegant nocturnal leisure. But if he approved the
figure he cut, it was mainly because clothes interested him and he
reckoned his own impeccable. Of their tenant he was feeling just then a
bit less sure than he had half-an-hour since; his regard was louring
and mistrustful. He was, in short, suffering reaction from the high
spirits engendered by his cross-Channel exploits, his successful
get-away, and the unusual circumstances attendant upon his return to
this memory-haunted mausoleum of an unhappy childhood. He even shivered
a trifle, as if under premonition of misfortune, and asked himself
heavily: Why not?
For, logically considered, a break in the run of his luck was due. Thus
far he had played, with a success almost too uniform, his dual rïżœle, by
day the amiable amateur of art, by night the nameless mystery that
prowled unseen and preyed unhindered. Could such success be reasonably
expected to attend him always? Should he count De Morbihanâs yarn a
warning? Black must turn up every so often in a run of red: every
gambler knows as much. And what was Michael Lanyard but a common
gambler, who persistently staked life and liberty against the blindly
impartial casts of Chance?
With one last look round to make certain there was nothing in the
calculated disorder of his room to incriminate him were it to be
searched in his absence, Lanyard enveloped himself in a long
full-skirted coat, clapped on an opera hat, and went out, noisily
locking the door. He might as well have left it wide, but it would
do no harm to pretend he didnât know the bedchamber keys at
Troyonâs were interchangeableâidentically the same keys, in fact,
that had been in service in the days of Marcel the wretched.
A single half-power electric bulb now modified the gloom of the
corridor; its fellow made a light blot on the darkness of the
courtyard. Even the windows of the conciergerie were black.
None the less, Lanyard tapped them smartly.
âCordon!â he demanded in a strident voice. â_Cordon, sâil vous
plait! _â
âEh? â A startled grunt from within the lodge was barely audible.
Then the latch clicked loudly at the end of the passageway.
Groping his way in the direction of this last sound, Lanyard found the
small side door ajar. He opened it, and hesitated a moment, looking out
as though questioning the weather; simultaneously his deft fingers
wedged the latch back with a thin slip of steel.
No rain, in fact, had fallen within the hour; but still the sky was
dense with a sullen rack, and still the sidewalks were inky wet.
The street was lonely and indifferently lighted, but a swift searching
reconnaissance discovered nothing that suggested a spy skulking in the
shelter of any of the nearer shadows.
Stepping out, he slammed the door and strode briskly round the corner,
as if making for the cab-rank that lines up along the Luxembourg
Gardens side of the rue de Medicis; his boot-heels made a cheerful
racket in that quiet hour; he was quite audibly going away from
Troyonâs.
But instead of holding on to the cab-rank, he turned the next corner,
and then the next, rounding the block; and presently, reapproaching the
entrance to Troyonâs, paused in the recess of a dark doorway and,
lifting one foot after another, slipped rubber caps over his heels.
Thereafter his progress was practically noiseless.
The smaller door yielded to his touch without a murmur. Inside, he
closed it gently, and stood a moment listening with all his sensesânot
with his ears alone but with every nerve and fibre of his beingâwith
his imagination, to boot. But there was never a sound or movement in
all the house that he could detect.
And no shadow could have made less noise than he, slipping cat-footed
across the courtyard and up the stairs, avoiding with super-developed
sensitiveness every lift that might complain beneath his tread. In a
trice he was again in the corridor leading to his bedchamber.
It was quite as gloomy and empty as it had been five minutes ago, yet
with a difference, a something in its atmosphere that made him nod
briefly in confirmation of that suspicion which had brought him back so
stealthily.
For one thing, Roddy had stopped snoring. And Lanyard smiled over the
thought that the man from Scotland Yard might profitably have copied
that trick of poor Bourkeâs, of snoring like the Seven Sleepers when
most completely awakeâŠ.
It was naturally no surprise to find his bedchamber door unlocked and
slightly ajar. Lanyard made sure of the readiness of his automatic,
strode into the room, and shut the door quietly but by no means
soundlessly.
He had left the shades down and the hangings drawn at both windows; and
since these had not been disturbed, something nearly approaching
complete darkness reigned in the room. But though promptly on entering
his fingers closed upon the wall-switch near the door, he refrained
from turning up the lights immediately, with a fancy
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