The Lone Wolf by Louis Joseph Vance

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"As far as I know, I never heard of him before," Lanyard said
carelessly. "I fancy it's nothing more than the excitement of a
man-hunt. Now that they've found me out, De Morbihan and his crew won't
rest until they've got my scalp."

"But why?"

"Professional jealousy. We're all crooks, all in the same boat, only I
won't row to their stroke. I've always played a lone hand successfully;
now they insist on coming into the game and sharing my winnings. And
I've told them where they could go."

"And because of that, they're willing to----"

"There's nothing they wouldn't do, Miss Shannon, to bring me to my
knees or see me put out of the way, where my operations couldn't hurt
their pocketbooks. Well ... all I ask is a fighting chance, and they
shall have their way!"

Her brows contracted. "I don't understand.... You want a fighting
chance--to surrender--to give in to their demands?"

"In a way--yes. I want a fighting chance to do what I'd never in the
world get them to credit--give it all up and leave them a free field."

And when still she searched his face with puzzled eyes, he insisted:
"I mean it; I want to get away--clear out--chuck the game for good and
all!"

A little silence greeted this announcement. Lanyard, at pause near the
table, resting a hand on it, bent to the girl's upturned face a grave
but candid regard. And the deeps of her eyes that never swerved from
his were troubled strangely in his vision. He could by no means account
for the light he seemed to see therein, a light that kindled while he
watched like a tiny flame, feeble, fearful, vacillant, then as the
moments passed steadied and grew stronger but ever leaped and danced;
so that he, lost in the wonder of it and forgetful of himself, thought
of it as the ardent face of a happy child dancing in the depths of some
brown autumnal woodland....

"You," she breathed incredulously--"you mean, you're going to stop--?"

"I _have_ stopped, Miss Shannon. The Lone Wolf has prowled for the last
time. I didn't know it until I woke up, an hour or so ago, but I've
turned my last job."

He remarked her hands were small, in keeping with the slightness of her
person, but somehow didn't seem so--wore a look of strength and
capability, befitting hands trained to a nurse's duties; and saw them
each tight-fisted but quivering as they rested on the table, as though
their mistress struggled to suppress the manifestation of some emotion
as powerful as unfathomable to him.

"But why?" she demanded in bewilderment. "But why do you say that? What
can have happened to make you--?"

"Not fear of that Pack!" he laughed--"not that, I promise you."

"Oh, I know!" she said impatiently--"I know that very well. But still I
don't understand...."

"If it won't bore you, I'll try to explain." He drew up his chair and
sat down again, facing her across the littered table. "I don't suppose
you've ever stopped to consider what an essentially stupid animal a
crook must be. Most of them are stupid because they practise clumsily
one of the most difficult professions imaginable, and inevitably fail
at it, yet persist. They wouldn't think of undertaking a job of civil
engineering with no sort of preparation, but they'll tackle a
dangerous proposition in burglary without a thought, and pay for
failure with years of imprisonment, and once out try it again. That's
one kind of criminal--the ninety-nine per-cent class--incurably stupid!
There's another class, men whose imagination forewarns them of dangers
and whose mental training, technical equipment and sheer manual
dexterity enable them to attack a formidable proposition like a modern
safe--by way of illustration--and force its secret. They're the
successful criminals, like myself--but they're no less stupid, no less
failures, than the other ninety-nine in our every hundred, because they
never stop to think. It never occurs to them that the same
intelligence, applied to any one of the trades they must be masters of,
would not only pay them better, but leave them their self-respect and
rid them forever of the dread of arrest that haunts us all like the
memory of some shameful act.... All of which is much more of a lecture
than I meant to inflict upon you, Miss Shannon, and sums up to just
this: _I_'ve stopped to think...."

With this he stopped for breath as well, and momentarily was silent,
his faint, twisted smile testifying to self-consciousness; but
presently, seeing that she didn't offer to interrupt, but continued to
give him her attention so exclusively that it had the effect of
fascination, he stumbled on, at first less confidently. "When I woke up
it was as if, without my will, I had been thinking all this out in my
sleep. I saw myself for the first time clearly, as I have been ever
since I can remember--a crook, thoughtless, vain, rapacious, ruthless,
skulking in shadows and thinking myself an amazingly fine fellow
because, between coups, I would play the gentleman a bit, venture into
the light and swagger in the haunts of the gratin! In my poor,
perverted brain I thought there was something fine and thrilling and
romantic in the career of a great criminal and myself a wonderful
figure--an enemy of society!"

"Why do you say this to me?" she demanded abruptly, out of a phase of
profound thoughtfulness.

He lifted an apologetic shoulder. "Because, I fancy, I'm no longer
self-sufficient. _I_ was all of that, twenty-four hours ago; but now
I'm as lonesome as a lost child in a dark forest. I haven't a friend in
the world. I'm like a stray pup, grovelling for sympathy. And you are
unfortunate enough to be the only person I can declare myself to.
It's going to be a fight--I know that too well!--and without something
outside myself to struggle toward, I'll be heavily handicapped. But
if ..." He faltered, with a look of wistful earnestness. "If I thought
that you, perhaps, were a little interested, that I had your faith to
respect and cherish ... if I dared hope that you'd be glad to know I
had won out against odds, it would mean a great deal to me, it might
mean my salvation!"

Watching her narrowly, hanging upon her decision with the anxiety of a
man proscribed and hoping against hope for pardon, he saw her eyes
cloud and shift from his, her lips parted but hesitant; and before she
could speak, hastily interposed:

"Please don't say anything yet. First let me demonstrate my sincerity.
So far I've done nothing to persuade you but--talk and talk and talk!
Give me a chance to prove I mean what I say."

"How"--she enunciated only with visible effort and no longer met his
appeal with an open countenance--"how can you do that?"

"In the long run, by establishing myself in some honest way of life,
however modest; but now, and principally, by making reparation for at
least one crime I've committed that's not irreparable."

He caught her quick glance of enquiry, and met it with a confident nod
as he placed between them the morocco-bound jewel-case.

"In London, yesterday," he said quietly, "I brought off two big coups.
One was deliberate, the other the inspiration of a moment. The one I'd
planned for months was the theft of the Omber jewels--here."

He tapped the case and resumed in the same manner: "The other job needs
a diagram: Not long ago a Frenchman named Huysman, living in Tours, was
mysteriously murdered--a poor inventor, who had starved himself to
perfect a stabilizator, an attachment to render aeroplanes practically
fool-proof. His final trials created a sensation and he was on the eve
of selling his invention to the Government when he was killed and his
plans stolen. Circumstantial evidence pointed to an international spy
named Ekstrom--Adolph Ekstrom, once Chief of the Aviation Corps of the
German Army, cashiered for general blackguardism with a suspicion of
treason to boot. However, Ekstrom kept out of sight; and presently the
plans turned up in the German War Office. That was a big thing for
Germany; already supreme with her dirigibles, the acquisition of the
Huysman stabilizator promised her ten years' lead over the world in the
field of aeroplanes.... Now yesterday Ekstrom came to the surface in
London with those self-same plans to sell to England. Chance threw him
my way, and he mistook me for the man he'd expected to meet--Downing
Street's secret agent. Well--no matter how--I got the plans from him
and brought them over with me, meaning to turn them over to France, to
whom by rights they belong."

"Without consideration?" the girl enquired shrewdly.

"Not exactly. I had meant to make no profit of the affair--I'm a bit
squeamish about tainted money!--but under present conditions, if France
insists on rewarding me with safe conduct out of the country, I shan't
refuse it.... Do you approve?"

She nodded earnestly: "It would be worse than criminal to return them
to Ekstrom...."

"That's my view of the matter."

"But these?" The girl rested her hand upon the jewel-case.

"Those go back to Madame Omber. She has a home here in Paris that I
know very well. In fact, the sole reason why I didn't steal them here
was that she left for England unexpectedly, just as I was all set to
strike. Now I purpose making use of my knowledge to restore the jewels
without risk of falling into the hands of the police. That will be an
easy matter.... And that brings me to a great favour I would beg of
you."

She gave him a look so unexpectedly kind that it staggered him. But he
had himself well in hand.

"You can't now leave Paris before morning--thanks to my having
overslept," he explained. "There's no honest way I know to raise money
before the pawn-shops open. But I'm hoping that won't be necessary; I'm
hoping I can arrange matters without going to that extreme. Meanwhile,
you agree that these jewels must be returned?"

"Of course," she affirmed gently.

"Then ... will you accompany me when I replace them? There won't be any
danger: I promise you that. Indeed, it would be more hazardous for you
to wait for me elsewhere while I attended to the matter alone. And I'd
like you to be convinced of my good faith."

"Don't you think you can trust me for that as well?" she asked, with a
flash of humour.

"Trust you!"

"To believe ... Mr. Lanyard," she told him gently but earnestly, "I do
believe."

"You make me very happy," he said ... "but I'd like you to see for
yourself.... And I'd be glad not to have to fret about your safety in
my absence. As a bureau of espionage, Popinot's brigade of Apaches is
without a peer in Europe. I am positively afraid to leave you
alone...."

She was silent.

"Will you come with me, Miss Shannon?" "That is your sole reason for
asking this of me?" she insisted, eyeing him steadily.

"That I wish you to believe in me--yes."

"Why?" she pursued, inexorable.

"Because ... I've already told you."

"That you want someone's good opinion to cherish.... But why, of all
people, me--whom you hardly know, of whom what little you do know is
hardly reassuring?"

He coloured, and boggled his answer.... "I can't tell you," he
confessed in the end.

"Why can't you tell me?"

He stared at her miserably.... "I've no right...."

"In spite of all I've said, in spite of the faith you so generously
promise me, in your eyes I must still figure as a thief, a liar, an
impostor--self-confessed. Men aren't made over by mere protestations,
nor even by their own efforts, in an hour, or a day, or a week. But
give me a year: if I can live a year in honesty, and earn my bread,
and so prove my strength--then, perhaps, I might find the courage,
the--the effrontery to tell you why I want your good opinion.... Now
I've said far more than I meant or had any right to. I hope," he
ventured pleadingly--"you're not offended."

Only an instant longer could she maintain her direct and unflinching
look. Then, his meaning would no more be ignored. Her lashes fell; a
tide of crimson flooded her face; and with a quick movement, pushing
her chair a little from the table, she turned aside. But she said
nothing.

He remained as he had been, bending eagerly toward her. And in the long
minute that elapsed before either spoke again, both became oddly
conscious of the silence brooding in that lonely little house, of their
isolation from the world, of their common peril and mutual dependence.

"I'm afraid," Lanyard said, after a time--"I'm afraid I know what you
must be thinking. One can't do your intelligence the injustice to
imagine that you haven't understood me--read all that was in my mind
and"--his voice fell--"in my heart. I own I was wrong to speak so
transparently, to suggest my regard for you, at such a time, under
such conditions. I am truly sorry, and beg you to consider unsaid all
that I should not have said.... After all, what earthly difference can
it make to you if one thief more decides suddenly to reform?"

That brought her abruptly to her feet, to show him a face of glowing
loveliness and eyes distractingly dimmed and softened.

"No!" she implored him breathlessly--"please--you mustn't spoil it!
You've paid me the finest of compliments, and one I'm glad and grateful
for ... and would I might think I deserved! ... You say you need a year
to prove yourself? Then--I've no right to say this--and you must
please not ask me what I mean--then I grant you that year. A year I
shall wait to hear from you from the day we part, here in Paris.... And
to-night, I will go with you, too, and gladly, since you wish it!"

And then as he, having risen, stood at loss, thrilled, and incredulous,
with a brave and generous gesture she offered him her hand.

"Mr. Lanyard, I promise...."

To every woman, even the least lovely, her hour of beauty: it had not
entered Lanyard's mind to think this woman beautiful until that moment.
Of her exotic charm, of the allure of her pensive, plaintive prettiness,
he had been well aware; even as he had been unable to deny to himself
that he was all for her, that he loved her with all the strength that
was his; but not till now had he understood that she was the one woman
whose loveliness to him would darken the fairness of all others.

And for a little, holding her tremulous hand upon his finger-tips as
though he feared to bruise it with a ruder contact, he could not take
his eyes from her.

Then reverently he bowed his head and touched his lips to that hand ...
and felt it snatched swiftly away, and started back, aghast, the idyll
roughly dissipated, the castle of his dreams falling in thunders round
his ears.

In the studio-skylight overhead a pane of glass had fallen in with a
shattering crash as ominous as the Trump of Doom.

XIV

RIVE DROIT

Falling without presage upon the slumberous hush enveloping the little
house marooned in that dead back-water of Paris, the shock of that
alarm drove the girl back from the table to the nearest wall, and for a
moment held her there, transfixed in panic.

To the wide, staring eyes that questioned his so urgently, Lanyard
promptly nodded grave reassurance. He hadn't stirred since his first,
involuntary and almost imperceptible start, and before the last
fragment of splintered glass had tinkled on the floor above, he was
calming her in the most matter-of-fact manner.

"Don't be alarmed," he said. "It's nothing--merely Solon's skylight
gone smash!"

"You call that nothing!" she cried gustily. "What caused it, then?"

"My negligence," he admitted gloomily. "I might have known that wide
spread of glass with the studio electrics on, full-blaze, would give
the show away completely. The house is known to be unoccupied; and it
wasn't to be expected that both the police and Popinot's crew would
overlook so shining a mark.... And it's all my fault, my oversight: I
should have thought of it before.... High time I was quitting a game
I've no longer the wit to play by the rules!"

"But the police would never...!"

"Certainly not. This is Popinot's gentle method of letting us know he's
on the job. But I'll just have a look, to make sure.... No: stop where
you are, please. I'd rather go alone."

He swung alertly through to the hall window, pausing there only long
enough for an instantaneous glance through the draperies--a fugitive
survey that discovered the impasse Stanislas no more abandoned to the
wind and rain, but tenanted visibly by one at least who lounged beneath
the lonely lamp-post, a shoulder against it: a featureless civilian
silhouette with attention fixed to the little house.

But Lanyard didn't doubt this one had a dozen fellows stationed within
call....

Springing up the stairs, he paused prudently at the top-most step, one
quick glance showing him the huge rent gaping black in the skylight,
the second the missile of destruction lying amid a litter of broken
glass--a brick wrapped in newspaper, by the look of it.

Swooping forward, he retrieved this, darted back from the exposed space
beneath the shattered skylight, and had no more than cleared the
threshold than a second something fell through the gap and buried
itself in the parquetry. This was a bullet fired from the roof of one
of the adjoining buildings: confirming his prior reasoning that the
first missile must have fallen from a height, rather than have been
thrown up from the street, to have wrought such destruction with those
tough, thick panes of clouded glass....

Swearing softly to himself, he descended to the kitchen.

"As I thought," he said coolly, exhibiting his find.

"They're on the roof of the next house--though they've posted a sentry
in the street, of course."

"But that second thump--?" the girl demanded.

"A bullet," he said, placing the bundle on the table and cutting the
string that bound it: "they were on the quivive and fired when I showed
myself beneath the skylight."

"But I heard no report," she objected.

"A Maxim silencer on the gun, I fancy," he explained, unwrapping the
brick and smoothing out the newspaper.... "Glad you thought to put on
your hat before you came down," he added, with an approving glance for
the girl; "it won't be safe to go up to the studio again--of course."

His nonchalance was far less real than it seemed, but helped to steady
one who was holding herself together with a struggle, on the verge of
nervous collapse.

"But what are we to do now?" she stammered. "If they've surrounded the
house--!"

"Don't worry: there's more than one way out," he responded, frowning at
the newspaper; "I wouldn't have picked this place out, otherwise. Nor
would Solon have rented it in the first instance had it lacked an
emergency exit, in event of creditors.... Ah--thought so!"

"What--?"

"Troyon's is gone," he said, without looking up. "This is to-night's
Presse.... '_Totally destroyed by a fire which started at six-thirty
this morning and in less than half an hour had reduced the ancient
structure to a heap of smoking ashes_'! ..." He ran his eye quickly
down the column, selecting salient phrases: "'_Believed to have been of
incendiary origin though the premises were uninsured_'--that's an
intelligent guess!... '_Narrow escape of guests in their
'_whatyemaycallems...._'Three lives believed to have been lost ... one
body recovered charred almost beyond recognition_'--but later
identified as Roddy--poor devil! ... '_Two guests missing, Monsieur
Lanyard, the well-known connoisseur of art, who occupied the room
adjoining that of the unfortunate detective, and Mademoiselle Bannon,
daughter of the American millionaire, who himself escaped only by a
miracle with his secretary Monsieur Greggs, the latter being overcome
by fumes_'--what a shame!... '_Police and firemen searching the
ruins_'--hm-hm--' _extraordinary interest manifested by the Prefecture
indicates a suspicion that the building may have been fired to conceal
some crime of a political nature_.'"

Crushing the newspaper between his hands, he tossed it into a corner.
"That's all of importance. Thoughtful of Popinot to let me know, this
way! The Prefecture, of course, is humming like a wasp's-nest with the
mystery of that telegram, signed with Roddy's name and handed in at the
Bourse an hour or so before he was 'burned to death.' Too bad I didn't
know then what I do now; if I'd even remotely suspected Greggs'
association with the Pack was via Bannon.... But what's the use? I did
my possible, knowing the odds were heavy against success."

"What was written on the paper?" the girl demanded obliquely.

He made his eyes blank: "Written on the paper--?"

"I saw something in red ink at the head of the column. You tried to
hide it from me, but I saw.... What was it?"

"Oh--that!" he laughed contemptuously: "just Popinot's impudence--an
invitation to come out and be a good target."

She shook her head impatiently: "You're not telling me the truth. It
was something else, or you wouldn't have been so anxious to hide it."

"Oh, but I assure you--!"

"You can't. Be honest with me, Mr. Lanyard. It was an offer to let you
off if you'd give me up to Bannon--wasn't it?"

"Something like that," he assented sheepishly--"too absurd for
consideration.... But now we're due to clear out of this before they
find a way in. Not that they're likely to risk a raid until they've
tried starving us out; but it would be as well to put a good distance
between us before they find out we've decamped."

He shrugged into his borrowed raincoat, buttoned it to his chin, and
turned down the brim of his felt hat; but when he looked up at the girl
again, he found she hadn't moved; rather, she remained as one spellbound,
staring less at than through him, her expression inscrutable.

"Well," he ventured--"if you're quite ready, Miss Shannon--?"

"Mr. Lanyard," she demanded almost sharply--"what was the full wording
of that message?"

"If you must know--"

"I must!"

He lifted a depreciative shoulder. "If you like, I'll read it to
you--or, rather, translate it from the thieves' argot Popinot
complimented me by using."

"Not necessary," she said tersely. "I'll take your word for it....
But you must tell me the truth."

"As you will.... Popinot delicately suggested that if I leave you here,
to be reunited to your alleged parent--if I'll trust to his word of
honour, that is, and walk out of the house alone, he'll give me
twenty-four hours in which to leave Paris."

"Then only I stand between you and--"

"My dear young woman!" he protested hastily. "Please don't run away
with any absurd notion like that. Do you imagine I'd consent to treat
with such canaille under any circumstances?"

"All the same," she continued stubbornly, "I'm the stumbling-block.
You're risking your life for me--"

"I'm not," he insisted almost angrily.

"You are," she returned with quiet conviction.

"Well!" he laughed--"have it your own way!..."

"But it's _my_ life, isn't it? I really don't see how you're going to
prevent my risking it for anything that may seem to me worth the risk!"

But she wouldn't laugh; only her countenance, suddenly bereft of its
mutinous expression, softened winningly--and her eyes grew very kind to
him.

"As long as it's understood I understand--very well," she said quietly;
"I'll do as you wish, Mr. Lanyard."

"Good!" he cried cheerfully. "I wish, by your leave, to take you out to
dinner.... This way, please!"

Leading through the scullery, he unbarred a low, arched door in one of
the walls, discovering the black mouth of a narrow and tunnel-like
passageway.

With a word of caution, flash-lamp in his left hand, pistol in right,
Lanyard stepped out into the darkness.

In two minutes he was back, with a look of relief.

"All clear," he reported; "I felt pretty sure Popinot knew nothing of
this way out--else we'd have entertained uninvited guests long since.
Now, half a minute...."

The electric meter occupied a place on the wall of the scullery not far
from the door. Prying open its cover, he unscrewed and removed the fuse
plug, plunging the entire house in complete darkness.

"That'll keep 'em guessing a while!" he explained with a chuckle.
"They'll hesitate a long time before rushing a dark house infested by a
desperate armed man--if I know anything about that mongrel lot!...
Besides, when they do get their courage up, the lack of light will
stave off discovery of this way of escape.... And now, one word more."

A flash of the lamp located her hand. Calmly he possessed himself of it,
if without opposition.

"I've brought you into trouble enough, as it is, through my stupidity,"
he said; "but for that, this place should have been a refuge to us
until we were quite ready to leave Paris. So now we mustn't forget,
before we go out to run God-only-knows-what gauntlet, to fix a
rendezvous in event of separation.... Popinot, for instance, may have
drawn a cordon around the block; we can't tell until we're in the
street; if he has, you must leave me to entertain them until you're
safe beyond their reach.... Oh, don't worry: I'm perfectly well able to
take care of myself....But afterwards, we must know where to find each
other. Hotels, cafes and restaurants are out of the question: in the
first place, we've barely money enough for our dinner; besides, they'll
be watched closely; as for our embassies and consulates, they aren't
open at all hours, and will likewise be watched. There remain--unless
you can suggest something--only the churches; and I can think of none
better suited to our purposes than the Sacre-Cour."

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