The Lone Wolf Series. Louis Joseph Vance
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XXIII
MADAME OMBER
Before the echo of that crash ceased to reverberate from room to room, Lanyard slipped to one side of the doorway, from which point he could command the perspective of the salons together with a partial view of the front doors. And he was no more than there, in the shadow of the portières, when light from an electrolier flooded the reception-hall.
It showed him a single figure, that of a handsome woman, considerably beyond middle age but still a well-poised, vigorous, and commanding presence, in full evening dress of such magnificence as to suggest recent attendance at some State function.
Standing beneath the light, she was restoring a key to a brocaded hand-bag. This done, she turned her head and spoke indistinguishably over her shoulder. Promptly there came into view a second woman of about the same age, but even more strong and able of appearance — a serving-woman, in plain, dark garments, undoubtedly madame's maid.
Handing over the brocaded bag, madame unlatched the throat of her ermine cloak and surrendered it to the servant's care.
Her next words were audible, and reassuring in as far as they indicated ignorance of anything amiss.
"Thank you, Sidonie. You may go to bed now."
"Madame will not need me to undress her?"
"I'm not ready yet. When I am — I'm old enough to take care of myself. Besides, I prefer you to go to bed, Sidonie. It doesn't improve your temper to lose your beauty sleep."
"Many thanks, madame. Good night."
"Good night."
The maid moved off toward the main staircase, while her mistress turned deliberately through the salons toward the library.
At this, swinging back to the girl in a stride, and grasping her wrist to compel attention, Lanyard spoke in a rapid whisper, mouth close to her ear, but his solicitude so unselfish and so intense that for the moment he was altogether unconscious of either her allure or his passion.
"This way," he said, imperatively drawing her toward the window by which he had entered: "there's a balcony outside — a short drop to the ground." And unlatching the window, he urged her through it. "Try to leave by the back gateway — the one I showed you before — avoiding Ekstrom —— "
"But surely you are coming too?" she insisted, hanging back.
"Impossible: there's no time for us both to escape undetected. I shall keep madame interested only long enough for you to get away. But take this" — and he pressed his automatic into her hand. "No — take it; I've another," he lied, "and you may need it. Don't fear for me, but go — O my heart! — go!"
The footfalls of Madame Omber were sounding dangerously near, and without giving the girl more opportunity to protest, Lanyard closed the windows, shot the latch and stole like a cat round the farther side of the desk, pausing within a few feet of the screen and safe.
The desk-lamp was still burning, where the girl had left it behind the cinnabar screen; and Lanyard knew that the diffusion of its rays was enough to render his figure distinctly and immediately visible to one entering the doorway.
Now everything hung upon the temper of the house-holder, whether she would take that apparition quietly, deceived by Lanyard's mumming into believing she had only a poor thievish fool to deal with, or with a storm of bourgeois hysteria. In the latter event, Lanyard's hand was ready planted, palm down, on the top of the desk: should the woman attempt to give the alarm, a single bound would carry the adventurer across it in full flight for the front doors.
In the doorway the mistress of the house appeared and halted, her quick bright eyes shifting from the light on the floor to the dark figure of the thief. Then, in a stride, she found a switch and turned on the chandelier, a blaze of light.
As this happened, Lanyard cowered, lifting an elbow as though to guard his face — as though expecting to find himself under the muzzle of a revolver.
The gesture had the calculated effect of focussing the attention of the woman exclusively to him, after one swift glance round had shown her a room tenanted only by herself and a cringing thief. And immediately it was made manifest that, whether or not deceived, she meant to take the situation quietly, if in a strong hand.
Her eyes narrowed and the muscles of her square, almost masculine jaw hardened ominously as she looked the intruder up and down. Then a flicker of contempt modified the grimness of her countenance. She took three steps forward, pausing on the other side of the desk, her back to the doorway.
Lanyard trembled visibly….
"Well!" — the word boomed like the opening gun of an engagement — "Well, my man!" — the shrewd eyes swerved to the closed door of the safe and quickly back again — "you don't seem to have accomplished much!"
"For God's sake, madame!" Lanyard blurted in a husky, shaken voice, nothing like his own — "don't have me arrested! Give me a chance! I haven't taken anything. Don't call the flics!"
He checked, moving an uncertain hand towards his throat as if his tongue had gone dry.
"Come, come!" the woman answered, with a look almost of pity. "I haven't called anyone — as yet."
The fingers of one strong white hand were drumming gently on the top of the desk; then, with a movement so quick and sure that Lanyard himself could hardly have bettered it, they slipped down to a handle of a drawer, jerked it open, closed round the butt of a revolver, and presented it at the adventurer's head.
Automatically he raised both hands.
"Don't shoot!" he cried. "I'm not armed —— "
"Is that the truth?"
"You've only to search me, madame!"
"Thanks!" Madame's accents now discovered a trace of dry humour. "I'll leave that to you. Turn out your pockets on the desk there — and, remember, I'll stand no nonsense!"
The weapon covered Lanyard steadily, leaving him no choice but to obey. As it happened, he was glad of the excuse to listen for sounds to tell how the girl was faring in her flight, and made a pretence of trembling fingers cover the slowness with which he complied.
But he heard nothing.
When he had visibly turned every pocket inside out, and their contents lay upon the desk, the woman looked the exhibits over incuriously.
"Put them back," she said curtly. "And then fetch that chair over there — the one in the corner. I've a notion I'd like to talk to you. That's the usual thing, isn't it?"
"How?" Lanyard demanded with a vacant stare.
"In all the criminal novels I've ever read, the law-abiding householder always sits down and has a sociable chat with the house-breaker — before calling in the police. I'm afraid that's part of the price you've got to pay for my hospitality."
She paused, eyeing Lanyard inquisitively while he restored his belongings to his pockets. "Now, get that chair!" she ordered; and waited, standing, until she had been obeyed. "That's it — there! Sit down."
Leaning against the desk, her revolver held negligently, the speaker favoured Lanyard with a more leisurely inspection; the harshness of her stare was softened, and the anger which at first had darkened her countenance was gone by the time she chose to pursue her catechism.
"What's your name? No — don't answer! I saw your eyes waver, and I'm not interested in a makeshift alias. But it's the stock question, you know…. Do you care for a cigar?"
She opened a mahogany humidor on the desk.
"No, thanks."
"Right — according to Hoyle: the criminal always refuses to smoke in these scenes. But let's forget the book and write our own lines.