The Lone Wolf Series. Louis Joseph Vance
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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 Préfecture 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 Préfecture, 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