The Lone Wolf by Louis Joseph Vance

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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 compliment," he said, and forthwith tipped the porter.

But before entrusting himself to this gratuitous conveyance, he put
himself to the trouble of inspecting the chauffeur--a capable-looking
mechanic togged out in a rich black livery which, though relieved by a
vast amount of silk braiding, was like the car guiltless of any sort
of insignia.

"I presume you know where I wish to go, my man?"

The chauffeur touched his cap: "But naturally, monsieur."

"Then take me there, the quickest way you know."

Nodding acknowledgement of the porter's salute, Lanyard sank
gratefully back upon uncommonly luxurious upholstery. The fatigue of
the last thirty-six hours was beginning to tell on him a bit, though
his youth was still so vital, so instinct with strength and vigour,
that he could go as long again without sleep if need be.

None the less he was glad of this opportunity to snatch a few minutes'
rest by way of preparation against the occult culmination of this
adventure. No telling what might ensue of this violation of all those
principles which had hitherto conserved his welfare! And he
entertained a gloomy suspicion that he would be inclined to name
another ass, who proposed as he did to beard this Pack in its den with
nothing more than his wits and an automatic pistol to protect ten
thousand-francs, the jewels of Madame Omber, the Huysman plans, and
(possibly) his life.

However, he stood committed to his folly, if folly it were: he would
play the game as it lay.

As for curiosity concerning his immediate destination, there was
little enough of that in his temper; a single glance round on leaving
the car would fix his whereabouts beyond dispute, so thorough was his
knowledge of Paris.

He contemplated briefly, with admiration, the simplicity with which
that affair at L'Abbaye had been managed, finding no just cause to
suspect anyone there of criminal complicity in the plans of the Pack:
a forged order for a table to the maitre-d'hotel, ten francs to the
carriage-porter and twenty more to the dancing woman to play parts in
a putative practical joke--and the thing had been arranged without
implicating a soul!...

Of a sudden, ending a ride much shorter than Lanyard would have liked,
the limousine swung in toward a curb.

Bending forward, he unlatched the door and, glancing through the
window, uttered a grunt of profound disgust.

If this were the best that Pack could do...!

He had hoped for something a trifle more original from men with wit
and imagination enough to plot the earlier phases of this intrigue.

The car had pulled up in front of an institution which he knew
well--far too well, indeed, for his own good.

None the less, he consented to get out.

"Sure you've come to the right place?" he asked the chauffeur.

Two fingers touching the visor of his cap: "But certainly, monsieur!"

"Oh, all right!" Lanyard grumbled resignedly; and tossing the man a
five-franc piece, applied his knuckles to the door of an outwardly
commonplace hotel particulier in the rue Chaptal between the impasse
of the Grand Guignol and the rue Pigalle.

Now the neophyte needs the introduction of a trusted sponsor before he
can win admission to the club-house of the exclusive Circle of Friends
of Humanity; but Lanyard's knock secured him prompt and unquestioned
right of way. The unfortunate fact is, he was a member in the best of
standing; for this society of pseudo-altruistic aims was nothing more
nor less than one of those several private gambling clubs of Paris
which the French Government tolerates more or less openly, despite
adequate restrictive legislation; and gambling was Lanyard's ruling
passion--a legacy from Bourke no less than the rest of his professional
equipment.

To every man his vice (the argument is Bourke's, in defence of his
failing). And perhaps the least mischievous vice a professional
cracksman can indulge is that of gambling, since it can hardly drive
him to lengths more desperate than those whereby he gains a livelihood.

In the esteem of Paris, Count Remy de Morbihan himself was scarcely a
more light-hearted plunger than Monsieur Lanyard.

Naturally, with this reputation, he was always free of the handsome
salons wherein the Friends of Humanity devoted themselves to roulette,
auction bridge, baccarat and chemin-de-fer: and of this freedom he now
proceeded to avail himself, with his hat just a shade aslant on his
head, his hands in his pockets, a suspicion of a smile on his lips
and a glint of the devil in his eyes--in all an expression accurately
reflecting the latest phase of his humour, which was become largely one
of contemptuous toleration, thanks to what he chose to consider an
exhibition of insipid stupidity on the part of the Pack.

Nor was this humour in any way modified when, in due course, he
confirmed anticipation by discovering Monsieur le Comte Remy de
Morbihan lounging beside one of the roulette tables, watching the play,
and now and again risking a maximum on his own account.

A flash of animation crossed the unlovely mask of the Count when he saw
Lanyard approaching, and he greeted the adventurer with a gay little
flirt of his pudgy dark hand.

"Ah, my friend!" he cried. "It is you, then, who have changed your
mind! But this is delightful!"

"And what has become of your American friend?" Asked the adventurer.

"He tired quickly, that one, and packed himself off to Troyon's. Be
sure I didn't press him to continue the grand tour!"

"Then you really did wish to see me to-night?" Lanyard enquired
innocently.

"Always--always, my dear Lanyard!" the Count declared, jumping up.
"But come," he insisted: "I've a word for your private ear, if these
gentlemen will excuse us."

"Do!" Lanyard addressed in a confidential manner those he knew at the
table, before turning away to the tug of the Count's hand on his
arm--"I think he means to pay up twenty pounds he owes me!"

Some derisive laughter greeted this sally.

"I mean that, however," Lanyard informed the other cheerfully as they
moved away to a corner where conversation without an audience was
possible--"you ruined that Bank of England note, you know."

"Cheap at the price!" the Count protested, producing his bill-fold.
"Five hundred francs for an introduction to Monsieur the Lone Wolf!"

"Are you joking?" Lanyard asked blankly--and with a magnificent gesture
abolished the proffered banknote.

"Joking? I! But surely you don't mean to deny--"

"My friend," Lanyard interrupted, "before we assert or deny anything,
let us gather the rest of the players round the table and deal from a
sealed deck. Meantime, let us rest on the understanding that I have
found, at one end, a message scrawled on a bank-note hidden in a secret
place, at the other end, yourself, Monsieur le Comte. Between and
beyond these points exists a mystery, of which one anticipates
elucidation."

"You shall have it," De Morbihan promised. "But first, we must go to
those others who await us."

"Not so fast!" Lanyard interposed. "What am I to understand? That you
wish me to accompany you to the--ah--den of the Pack?"

"Where else?" De Morbihan grinned.

"But where is that?"

"I am not permitted to say--"

"Still, one has one's eyes. Why not satisfy me here?"

"Your eyes, by your leave, monsieur, will be blindfolded."

"Impossible."

"Pardon--it is an essential--"

"Come, come, my friend: we are not in the Middle Ages!"

"I have no discretion, monsieur. My confreres--"

"I insist: there will be trust on both sides or no negotiations."

"But I assure you, my dear friend--"

"My dear Count, it is useless: I am determined. Blindfold? I should say
not! This is not--need I remind you again?--the Paris of Balzac and
that wonderful Dumas of yours!"

"What do you propose, then?" De Morbihan enquired, worrying his
moustache.

"What better place for the proposed conference than here?"

"But not here!"

"Why not? Everybody comes here: it will cause no gossip. I am here--I
have come half-way; your friends must do as much on their part."

"It is not possible...."

"Then, I beg you, tender them my regrets."

"Would you give us away?"

"Never that: one makes gifts to one's friends only. But my interest in
yours is depreciating so rapidly that, should you delay much longer, it
will be on sale for the sum of two sous."

"O--damn!" the Count complained peevishly.

"With all the pleasure in life.... But now," Lanyard went on, rising to
end the interview, "you must forgive me for reminding you that the
morning wanes apace. I shall be going home in another hour."

De Morbihan shrugged. "Out of my great affection for you," he purred
venomously, "I will do my possible. But I promise nothing."

"I have every confidence in your powers of moral suasion, monsieur,"
Lanyard assured him cheerfully. "Au revoir!"

And with this, not at all ill-pleased with himself, he strutted off to
a table at which a high-strung session of chemin-de-fer was in process,
possessed himself of a vacant chair, and in two minutes was so
engrossed in the game that the Pack was quite forgotten.

In fifteen minutes he had won thrice as many thousands of francs.
Twenty minutes or half an hour later, a hand on his shoulder broke the
grip of his besetting passion.

"Our table is made up, my friend," De Morbihan announced with his
inextinguishable grin. "We're waiting for you."

"Quite at your service."

Settling his score and finding himself considerably better off than he
had imagined, he resigned his place gracefully, and suffered the Count
to link arms and drag him away up the main staircase to the second
storey, where smaller rooms were reserved for parties who preferred to
gamble privately.

"So it appears you succeeded!" he chaffed his conductor good-humouredly.

"I have brought you the mountain," De Morbihan assented.

"One is grateful for small miracles...."

But De Morbihan wouldn't laugh at his own expense; for a moment, indeed,
he seemed inclined to take umbrage at Lanyard's levity. But the sudden
squaring of his broad shoulders and the hardening of his features was
quickly modified by an uneasy sidelong glance at his companion. And
then they were at the door of the cabinet particulier.

De Morbihan rapped, turned the knob, and stood aside, bowing politely.

With a nod acknowledging the courtesy, Lanyard consented to precede
him, and entered a room of intimate proportions, furnished chiefly with
a green-covered card-table and five easy-chairs, of which three were
occupied--two by men in evening dress, the third by one in a
well-tailored lounge suit of dark grey.

Now all three men wore visors of black velvet.

Lanyard looked from one to the other and chuckled quietly.

With an aggrieved air De Morbihan launched into introductions:

"Messieurs, I have the honour to present to you our confrere, Monsieur
Lanyard, best known as 'The Lone Wolf.' Monsieur Lanyard--the Council
of our Association, known to you as 'The Pack.'"

The three rose and bowed ceremoniously, Lanyard returned a cool,
good-natured nod. Then he laughed again and more openly:

"A pack of knaves!"

"Monsieur doubtless feels at ease?" one retorted
acidly.

"In your company, Popinot? But hardly!" Lanyard returned in light
contempt.

The fellow thus indicated, a burly rogue of a Frenchman in rusty and
baggy evening clothes, started and flushed scarlet beneath his mask;
but the man next him dropped a restraining hand upon his arm, and
Popinot, with a shrug, sank back into his chair.

"Upon my word!" Lanyard declared gracelessly, "it's as good as a play!
Are you sure, Monsieur le Comte, there's no mistake--that these gay
masqueraders haven't lost their way to the stage of the Grand Guignol?"

"Damn!" muttered the Count. "Take care, my friend! You go too far!"

"You really think so? But you amaze me! You can't in reason expect me
to take you seriously, gentlemen!"

"If you don't, it will prove serious business for you!" growled the one
he had called Popinot.

"You mean that? But you are magnificent, all of you! We lack only the
solitary illumination of a candle-end--a grinning skull--a cup of blood
upon the table--to make the farce complete! But as it is.... Messieurs,
you must be rarely uncomfortable, and feeling as foolish as you look,
into the bargain! Moreover, I'm no child. ... Popinot, why not
disembarrass your amiable features? And you, Mr. Wertheimer, I'm sure,
will feel more at ease with an open countenance--as the saying runs,"
he said, nodding to the man beside Popinot. "As for this gentleman,"
he concluded, eyeing the third, "I haven't the pleasure of his
acquaintance."

With a short laugh, Wertheimer unmasked and exposed a face of decidedly
English type, fair and well-modelled, betraying only the faintest
traces of Semitic cast to account for his surname. And with this
example, Popinot snatched off his own black visor--and glared at
Lanyard: in his shabby dress, the incarnate essence of bourgeoisie
outraged. But the third, he of the grey lounge suit, remained
motionless; only his eyes clashed coldly with the adventurer's.

He seemed a man little if at all Lanyard's senior, and built upon much
the same lines. A close-clipped black moustache ornamented his upper
lip. His chin was square and strong with character. The cut of his
clothing was conspicuously neither English nor Continental.

"I don't know you, sir," Lanyard continued slowly, puzzled to account
for a feeling of familiarity with this person, whom he could have sworn
he had never met before.

"But you won't let your friends here outdo you in civility, I trust?"

"If you mean you want me to unmask, I won't," the other returned
brusquely, in fair French but with a decided transatlantic intonation.

"American, eh?"

"Native-born, if it interests you."

"Have I ever met you before?"

"You have not."

"My dear Count," Lanyard said, turning to De Morbihan, "do me the
favour to introduce this gentleman."

"Your dear Count will do nothing like that, Mr. Lanyard. If you need a
name to call me by, Smith's good enough."

The incisive force of his enunciation assorted consistently with the
general habit of the man. Lanyard recognized a nature no more pliable
than his own. Idle to waste time bickering with this one....

"It doesn't matter," he said shortly; and drawing back a chair, sat
down. "If it did, I should insist--or else decline the honour of
receiving the addresses of this cosmopolitan committee. Truly,
messieurs, you flatter me. Here we have Mr. Wertheimer, representing
the swell-mobsmen across Channel; Monsieur le Comte standing for the
gratin of Paris; Popinot, spokesman for our friends the Apaches; and
the well-known Mr. Goodenough Smith, ambassador of the gun-men of New
York--no doubt. I presume one is to understand you wait upon me as
representing the fine flower of the European underworld?"

"You're to understand that I, for one, don't relish your impudence,"
the stout Popinot snapped.

"Sorry.... But I have already indicated my inability to take you
seriously."

"Why not?" the American demanded ominously. "You'd be sore enough if we
took you as a joke, wouldn't you?"

"You misapprehend, Mr.--ah--Smith: it is my first aim and wish that you
do not take me in any manner, shape or form. It is you, remember, who
requested this interview and--er--dressed your parts so strikingly!"

"What are we to understand by that?" De Morbihan interposed.

"This, messieurs--if you must know." Lanyard dropped for the moment his
tone of raillery and bent forward, emphasizing his points by tapping
the table with a forefinger. "Through some oversight of mine or
cleverness of yours--I can't say which--perhaps both--you have
succeeded in penetrating my secret. What then? You become envious of my
success. In short, I stand in your light: I'm always getting away with
something you might have lifted if you'd only had wit enough to think
of it first. As your American accomplice, Mr. Mysterious Smith, would
say, I 'cramp your style.'"

"You learned that on Broadway," the American commented shrewdly.

"Possibly.... To continue: so you get together, and bite your nails
until you concoct a plan to frighten me into my profits. I've no
doubt you're prepared to allow me to retain one-half the proceeds of
my operations, should I elect to ally myself with you?"

"That's the suggestion we are empowered to make," De Morbihan
admitted.

"In other words, you need me. You say to yourselves: 'We'll pretend
to be the head of a criminal syndicate, such as the silly novelists
are forever writing about, and we'll threaten to put him out of
business unless he comes to our terms.' But you overlook one important
fact: that you are not mentally equipped to get away with this amusing
impersonation! What! Do you expect me to accept you as leading spirits
of a gigantic criminal system--you, Popinot, who live by standing
between the police and your murderous rats of Belleville, or you,
Wertheimer, sneak-thief and black-mailer of timid women, or you, De
Morbihan, because you eke out your income by showing a handful of
second-storey men where to seek plunder in the homes of your friends!"

He made a gesture of impatience, and lounged back to wait the answer
to this indictment. His gaze, ranging the four faces, encountered but
one that was not darkly flushed with resentment; and this was the
American's.

"Aren't you overlooking me?" this last suggested gently.

"On the contrary: I refuse to recognize you as long as you lack
courage to show your face."

"As you will, my friend," the American chuckled. "Make your profit out
of that any way you like."

Lanyard sat up again: "Well, I've stated your case, messieurs. It
amounts to simple, clumsy blackmail. I'm to split my earnings with
you, or you'll denounce me to the police. That's about it, isn't it?"

"Not of necessity," De Morbihan softly purred, twisting his moustache.

"For my part," Popinot declared hotly, "I engage that Monsieur of the
High Hand, here, will either work with us or conduct no more
operations in Paris."

"Or in New York," the American amended.

"England is yet to be heard from," Lanyard suggested mockingly.

To this Wertheimer replied, almost with diffidence: "If you ask me, I
don't think you'd find it so jolly pleasant over there, if you mean to
cut up nasty at this end."

"Then what am I to infer? If you're afraid to lay an information against
me--and it wouldn't be wise, I admit--you'll merely cause me to be
assassinated, eh?"

"Not of necessity," the Count murmured in the same thoughtful tone and
manner--as one holding a hidden trump.

"There are so many ways of arranging these matters,"
Wertheimer ventured.

"None the less, if I refuse, you declare war?"

"Something like that," the American admitted.

"In that case--I am now able to state my position definitely." Lanyard
got up and grinned provokingly down at the group. "You can--all four of
you--go plumb to hell!"

"My dear friend!" the Count cried, shocked--"you forget--"

"I forget nothing!" Lanyard cut in coldly--"and my decision is final.
Consider yourselves at liberty to go ahead and do your damnedest! But
don't forget that it is you who are the aggressors. Already you've had
the insolence to interfere with my arrangements: you began offensive
operations before you declared war. So now if you're hit beneath the
belt, you mustn't complain: you've asked for it!"

"Now just what _do_ you mean by that?" the American drawled ironically.

"I leave you to figure it out for yourselves. But I will say this: I
confidently expect you to decide to live and let live, and shall be
sorry, as you'll certainly be sorry, if you force my hand."

He opened the door, turned, and saluted them with sarcastic punctilio.

"I have the honour to bid adieu to Messieurs the Council of--'The
Pack'!"

IX

DISASTER

Having fulfilled his purpose of making himself acquainted with the
personnel of the opposition, Lanyard slammed the door in its face,
thrust his hands in his pockets, and sauntered down stairs, chuckling,
his nose in the air, on the best of terms with himself.

True, the fat was in the fire and well a-blaze: he had to look to
himself now, and go warily in the shadow of their enmity. But it was
something to have faced down those four, and he wasn't seriously
impressed by any one of them.

Popinot, perhaps, was the most dangerous in Lanyard's esteem; a
vindictive animal, that Popinot; and the creatures he controlled, a
murderous lot, drug-ridden, drink bedevilled, vicious little rats of
Belleville, who'd knife a man for the price of an absinthe. But Popinot
wouldn't move without leave from De Morbihan, and unless Lanyard's
calculations were seriously miscast, De Morbihan would restrain both
himself and his associates until thoroughly convinced Lanyard was
impregnable against every form of persuasion. Murder was something a
bit out of De Morbihan's line--something, at least, which he might be
counted on to hold in reserve. And by the time he was ready to employ
it, Lanyard would be well beyond his reach. Wertheimer, too, would
deprecate violence until all else failed; his half-caste type was as
cowardly as it was blackguard; and cowards kill only impulsively,
before they've had time to weigh consequences. There remained "Smith,"
enigma; a man apparently gifted with both intelligence and
character.... But if so, what the deuce was _he_ doing in such company?

Still, there he was: and the association damned him beyond
consideration. His sorts were all of a piece, beneath the consideration
of men of spirit....

At this point, the self-complacence bred of his contempt for Messrs.
de Morbihan et Cie. bred in its turn a thought that brought the
adventurer up standing.

The devil! Who was he, Michael Lanyard, that held himself above such
vermin, yet lived in such a way as practically to invite their
advances? What right was his to resent their opening the door to
confraternity, as long as he trod paths so closely parallel to theirs
that only a sophist might discriminate them? What comforting
distinction was to be drawn between on the one hand a blackmailer like
Wertheimer, a chevalier-d'industrie like De Morbihan, or a patron of
Apaches like Popinot, and on the other himself whose bread was eaten in
the sweat of thievery?

He drew a long face; whistled softly; shook his head; and smiled a wry
smile.

"Glad I didn't think of that two minutes ago, or I'd never have had the
cheek..."

Without warning, incongruously and, in his understanding, inexplicably,
he found himself beset by recurrent memory of the girl, Lucia Bannon.

For an instant he saw her again, quite vividly, as last he had seen
her: turning at the door of her bed-chamber to look back at him, a
vision of perturbing charm in her rose-silk dressing-gown, with rich
hair loosened, cheeks softly glowing, eyes brilliant with an emotion
illegible to her one beholder....

What had been the message of those eyes, flashed down the dimly lighted
length of that corridor at Troyon's, ere she vanished?

Adieu? Or au revoir? ...

She had termed him, naively enough, and a gentleman.

But if she knew--suspected--even dreamed--that he was what he was?...

He shook his head again, but now impatiently, with a scowl and a
grumble:

"What's the matter with me anyway? Mooning over a girl I never saw
before to-night! As if it matters a whoop in Hepsidam what she
thinks!... Or is it possible I'm beginning to develop a rudimentary
conscience, at this late day? Me!..."

If there were anything in this hypothesis, the growing-pains of that
late-blooming conscience were soon enough numbed by the hypnotic spell
of clattering chips, an ivory ball singing in an ebony race, and
croaking croupiers.

For Lanyard's chair at the table of chemin-de-fer had been filled by
another and, too impatient to wait a vacancy, he wandered on to the
salon dedicated to roulette, tested his luck by staking a note of five
hundred francs on the black, won, and incontinently subsided into a
chair and an oblivion that endured for the space of three-quarters of
an hour.

At the end of that period he found himself minus his heavy winnings at
chemin-de-fer and ten thousand francs of his reserve fund to boot.

By way of lining for his pockets there remained precisely the sum which
he had brought into Paris that same evening, less subsequent general
disbursements.

The experience was nothing novel in his history. He rose less resentful
than regretful that his ill-luck obliged him to quit just when play was
most interesting, and resignedly sought the cloak-room for his coat and
hat.

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