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Roy Glashan's Library
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The Popular Magazine, 20 Jan 1924,
with "The Green Lash of the Hapsburgs"
James Francis Dwyer
JAMES FRANCIS DWYER (1874-1952) was an Australian writer. Born in Camden Park, New South Wales, Dwyer worked as a postal assistant until he was convicted in a scheme to make fraudulent postal orders and sentenced to seven years imprisonment in 1899. In prison, Dwyer began writing, and with the help of another inmate and a prison guard, had his work published in The Bulletin. After completing his sentence, he relocated to London and then New York, where he established a successful career as a writer of short stories and novels. Dwyer later moved to France, where he wrote his autobiography, Leg-Irons on Wings, in 1949. Dwyer wrote over 1,000 short stories during his career, and was the first Australian-born person to become a millionaire from writing. —Wikipedia
Mr. Robert Henry Blane, alias The Texan Wasp, meets an old friend and two erstwhile enemies in Lyons. They all have reason to bless his name before the day is spent, but The Just-So Kid has to buy the supper.
ONCE a very great American traveler wrote these words: "When I am away from the United States I find the Saturday afternoons the longest of all and the hardest to pass. On those afternoons all the stored memories of other Saturdays parade before me."
Robert Henry Blane, known as The Texan Wasp, sitting on the balcony of the Savoy Hotel, overlooking the Cours du Midi of the ancient town of Lyons, was aware of the parade of his dead Saturdays. They saddened him a little. In endless number they marched before a mental saluting post.
There were Saturday afternoons spent in Texas in the long ago. The fat Saturday afternoons of imperial youth. Fishing, swimming, and baseball. They swaggered by; hot, luscious hours lived with all the intensity that growing strength can bring.
Later afternoons at Happy Valley, the home of Kenney Blane who rode like a centaur and possessed the grace and charm of Prince Florizel. Wonderful Saturdays when the fierce throb of the weekly toil was geared down to meet the crystal quiet of the day of rest. The eyes of The Wasp grew soft as he thought of Kenney Blane.
And the parade went on. Saturday afternoons in Boston during college days. Walks in the Back Bay Fens in the golden springtime with Betty Allerton. Afternoons with her on the river in the summer when they rode through a golden future on wing-tipped words. Silent strolls with Betty in the sweet, soft sadness of late September days when speech was throttled by the Spirit of the Fall that came on:
"... swaying feet
With wind-blown skirts, loose hair of russet brown
Crowned with bright berries of the bittersweet."
The Texan Wasp roused himself and went into the street. From the Cours du Midi, immediately before the hotel, came the first bleatings of a fair that had been brought into being with much hammering and noise. Cake sellers and vendors of fried potatoes lifted tentative voices to the early visitors. Pasty-faced spinners from the hundred thousand silk looms of Lyons were boarding the flying boats; grimy metal workers were forming themselves into sweaty knots before the shooting galleries where it was possible for a marksman to put a shot through a small hole that started mechanism which produced a parade of French soldiers in the Ruhr or a thrilling panorama of the colonial troops in Morocco. Yes, and at the rate of ten shots for a franc, the youth of Lyons could shoot at ten metal-made German generals who were rushed swiftly by, crouching as they ran. A great sport for the youth who had never seen war. An artist had made the running generals. The giggling girls from the looms urged their swaggering steadies to blaze at them.
Robert Henry Blane found peace in the growing riot of the Cours. He refused an invitation to pay ten sous for the handshake and the photograph of a low-grade moron who was exhibited as a human spider; he dodged the barker of a woman who was supposed to possess only one ear that was situated in the center of her forehead, but a dyed-haired lady who was the proprietress of the "Buffalo Bill Shooting Gallery" fell upon him with a squeak of delight. She thrust aside a tough-looking person and begged the American to test her rifles. Were not all the Americans splendid shots? Did not they have the famous Buffalo Beel after whom she had named her gallery? And had not the dyed one the pleasure of meeting Buffalo Beel? It is the truth! It was at Marseilles when he was there with his great circus! What a man he was with his curls! Buffalo Beel talked with her! Ah, she was younger then. He had told her she was pretty. And she was, too!
"Madame is still pretty," murmured the gallant Texan.
The dyed-haired one squeaked with delight. Again she thrust the tough-looking person out of the way. What did he mean by pushing himself forward when a rich American wished to try the little guns?
The tough-looking person made a snarling objection. He intimated that he didn't care three centimes for Americans. He glared resentfully at The Wasp. The desire to fight blazed in the little shifty eyes that looked as if they were trying to eliminate by their restless movements the very small space that separated them from each other.
The Texan Wasp smiled. He told the tough one that it was not his fighting day. Tuesdays and Thursdays, yes, but not on Saturday afternoons. Pax was his motto for Saturday afternoons.
This information increased the temper of the tough. He stood off and made remarks. He had seen Americans fight at Belleau. Well, they didn't impress him. Not noticeably.
The Texan Wasp picked up a rifle and sent ten pellets through the blackened center of a scoring card. The dyed-haired one clucked with delight as she pulled the string that brought the hacked cardboard to the counter. She drowned the snarls of the tough with her remarks. Ah, Buffalo Beel could do things like that! Oui! Pop, pop, pop! Good, monsieur! Some of her customers stared so long at the target before firing that you would think it a girl in a bathing dress on the beach at Deauville!
And was Buffalo Beel still alive? Ah, mon Dieu! He had died! What a world of trouble it was! She seized the chance to make profit out of the news. She shrieked it to the crowd around the gallery. Monsieur Buffalo Beel in whose honor she had named the shooting gallery was dead! She had just heard from the rich American whose shots ate the heart of the bull's-eye. She had spoken with Monsieur Buffalo Beel! Oui! He had curls like a woman, and he had said that she was pretty!
Robert Henry Blane moved on while she was prattling.
There was the booth of the strong men. It was under the management of Monsieur Jacques Béranger, wearer of the <medaille militaire and lacking a leg that he had left at Douaumont when the Brandenburgers pushed the hardest. A great talker was Monsieur Jacques. Standing alone upon the platform he announced that he was the possessor of four champions. There was a Russian wrestler from Libau. Ah, a very devil of a man! There was an Italian who could lift more than a steam crane. Bigger than Maciste! They could see for themselves when he stepped upon the platform. There was a Frenchman who was unsurpassed with singlesticks. And last, but not least, was the American. Ah, the grand boxer who would meet all comers. James Dewey Casey, champion ring master of the American army!"
Robert Henry Blane gave a little grunt of surprise, a grunt that was drowned by the unholy clatter of the improvised band that signaled the coming of the four champions. In single file they emerged from the dressing tent. In the lead was the Russian, whose bare torso showed enough scratches to suggest that he had either a bobcat training partner or a bad-tempered spouse. Behind the Russian came the Italian weight lifter and the French swordsman, and at the rear of the procession walked James Dewey Casey, the little American fighter known as "The Just-So Kid" that Robert Henry Blane had known at Monte Carlo, Paris, and Seville in the days gone by.
The Texan Wasp had a desire to unloose a war whoop but he controlled his delight. He would wait for a moment and see what happened. The pleasure that he received from seeing the little pugilist had lifted the Saturday-afternoon gloom that encompassed him. He had last sojourned with The Just-So Kid in sunny Seville prior to the disagreement that had taken place between The Wasp and the chief of the Scarlet Jackals.
Monsieur Jacques called for challengers. They answered readily. A burly sailor from a Rhone boat challenged the Russian. He was tossed a small stick in conformance with the ritual. An amateur weight lifter stepped forward and pointed to the Italian. A local singlestick champion picked upon the Frenchman. The Just-So Kid alone lacked a challenger.
Monsieur Jacques tapped the little American upon the shoulder. Was there no one brave enough to tackle Monsieur Casey? Were they all afraid of the little American? And that in Lyons, the city of brave men?
The Texan Wasp, hiding himself carefully behind a canvas wind screen, looked at the crowd. Suddenly he caught the eye of the tough who had made biting remarks about the fighting capacity of Americans. For an instant Robert Henry Blane and the fellow stared at each other, then the gray eyes of the Texan shifted quickly to The Just-So Kid and a smile slipped swiftly across his face.
The tough snarled. He jabbered excitedly. What was there in it for him? Five francs or less! Why should he fight if there was no money?
The Texan Wasp reached for his wallet. The remarks of the tough had drawn attention to him. The eyes of the crowd were turned his way. The four champions were watching. The Just-So Kid was grinning recognition.
Robert Henry Blane took from his wallet a thousand-franc bill, the fine, expansive note that is nearly four times the size of an American bill. He waved the money toward Monsieur Jacques. "My friend here," he said, indicating the tough, "is willing to fight if there is a purse. He tells me that he just gobbles up Americans, so I'm putting up a thousand francs to see him do it."
IN the uproar that followed, as the crowd fought to
enter the tent, a lean-faced, babbling idiot of about
eighteen years of age tugged at the sleeve of The Texan
Wasp. The fool tried to explain himself. He had been to the
hotel and the concierge had described Monsieur Blane.
"What is it?" questioned The Wasp. "What do you want me for?"
"A lady—the beautiful one wishes to speak to you," gurgled the idiot.
Robert Henry Blane laughed. "Where is the lady?" he asked.
The fool dropped his voice. "In the Rue Rabelais," he answered. "Here, she sent you this note."
The Wasp, swept forward by the pushing crowd that sought admittance to the combats, snatched the note from the hand of the messenger and read it hurriedly. For a moment it puzzled him. He did not recognize the signature of the writer, then memory whisked him back to a night in Venice in the long ago when he had solved a cryptogram for a woman who was lovelier than Halcyone, a woman who seemed to be the very spirit of beauty which Venice cherished through the centuries. The signature was that of Valerie Caselli, the extraordinary adventuress, who had attempted to hand him over to No. 37 when the great man hunter was close on his trail.
There was a strange pathos in the note. The idiot clung to his sleeve as he read it. It ran:
The morning paper says that there is a Robert H. Blane at the Savoy. I wonder is it Robert Henry Blane of Texas? If it is then the god of good luck has blessed me! I have escaped from the prison of Budapest and I want help. I want it badly! Please, please come to me! I am ill and I wish to reach the place I love before I die. Valerie Caselli.
It was impossible for The Wasp to turn. The news that a rich American had offered a thousand francs as a prize in a boxing bout flamed across the fairground and the massed fans behind the Texan swept him forward. Barkers stopped barking and rushed pell-mell for the tent. Never had such a thing happened before. Even the dyed-haired lady who claimed the acquaintance of Buffalo Bill came running, skirts streaming in the wind. The action of The Wasp made the tent of the strong men a gigantic vacuum that sucked in humans.
Robert Henry Blane gripped the wrist of the youth who brought the message. "Stay by me till this is over," he cried. "I'll go with you after the fight."
The tent bulged as the fans stuffed it. The challenges thrown to the wrestler, the weight lifter, and the swordsman were forgotten. The crowd yelled for the boxing bout.
A clever manager was Monsieur Jacques. He tied the thousand-franc bill to the end of the gas pipe that hung above the center of the ring. The tinted sheet of the Banque de France waved in the breeze produced by the inpouring crowd.
The tent filled. It shuddered like an overstuffed sausage. It reeked with a thousand odors that fought among themselves for supremacy. Smells of garlic, of goat cheese, of sour wine, of black mud from the Rhone that caked the shoes of the spectators.
Robert Henry Blane, sitting high up on the bare planks, the hungry-looking idiot at his side, recalled a remark of Stevenson who said Adventure kicked his shins at every street crossing. Upon the balcony of his hotel he, Blane, had thought the afternoon dull. It had made his mind an empty parade ground in which the dead Saturdays marched like mutes at a funeral. He had stepped out onto a fairground and, lo and behold, things buzzed amazingly.
He waved a greeting to The Just-So Kid as the little fighter hopped through the ropes and squatted on the stool in his corner. Then, while the preliminary arrangements were being attended to, The Wasp let his mind loose upon the matter of Valerie Caselli. He forgot the crowd, the odors, the two fighters waiting for the word. He shut his eyes and pictured the woman who had spoken to him before Florian's on the Piazza San Marco. He saw again the startling wonder of her face lit up by the great violet eyes. What a woman she was! He recalled the strange, ethereal beauty of her features. A miasmic beauty; a beauty that seemed to be part of the City of the Lagoons.
He thought over her life. She had been born to tread the path of deceit and deviltry. In her blood was the yeast of discontent, the discontent that spurred her toward prison cells and disgrace. The Texan Wasp recalled the last news he had of her. The great man hunter, No. 37, had landed her in a small cell at Budapest, a cold, damp cell through the walls of which came a slight seepage from the Danube that swept the outer bastions.
Robert Henry Blane was brought out of his trance by a great roar from the crowd. The fight was on. In the ring was a charging buffalo with flailing fists that were vainly attempting to connect with a vulnerable section of a Pan-like youngster who darted out of the path like a startled dragon fly, but who gave with the right of way a beautiful collection of jabs and uppercuts that infuriated the unscientific tough and delighted the audience.
The spectators were on their feet. It was a fight that their artistic Gallic souls loved. In it were evasion, elusiveness, a cleverness that mocked, a grace and littleness that were particularly French, and this was pitted against a clumsy brutality that was hateful in its expression.
The Just-So Kid moved like a prince of swordsmen. He thrust out a smiling face and grinned as the tough missed. He weaved in and out of flying fists and drove his own gloved hands hard on the body and face of his antagonist. The thousand-franc bill tied to the gas pipe was blown backward and forward by the wind of strife. Yells of delight burst from the tent and spread over the fairground.
A clash of the cymbals announced the end of the round. The fighters went to their corners. The hunger-worried idiot pulled at the sleeve of The Texan Wasp. "Come," he whispered. 'Come now! The beautiful lady is waiting."
"Wait," said the Texan. "It is not over."
"But she told me to hurry!" whispered the fool. "She asked me to run quick. We must go "
His words were drowned in the uproar. The two fighters were on their feet again; the dancing, smiling Just-So Kid side-stepping, ducking, driving straight lefts and rights into the face of the half-crazed tough.
The little American was the poetry of combat. His actions possessed that stamp of unstrained effort that is loved by the French. There was a shrug behind his blows; the unspoken, "It's quite easy to do it," that goes with the rapier thrust of the accomplished swordsman.
The tough stood for an instant and dropped his guard. It was the end. The Just-So Kid surged in on him, something happened that few eyes could follow, then Monsieur Jacques was chanting the count.
Robert Henry Blane, with the idiot clinging to him, shouldered his way to the ring. The Just-So Kid had been given the thousand-franc bill. He grasped the hand of the Texan and babbled his thanks.
"Golly! You saved my life again!" he cried. "I wanted to pitch this job but I didn't have a sou! Let me get into my duds an' come along with you!"
"Then be quick about it," said The Wasp. "I've sidetracked a call from a damsel in distress while waiting to see you beat that chap. And her messenger is persistent. Listen to him."
"The beautiful lady is waiting," moaned the idiot. "Come quick!"
ROBERT HENRY BLANE and James Dewey Casey were compelled
to walk fast to keep up with the lean idiot who had
brought the note from Valerie Caselli. The Wasp suggested
the advisability of taking a taxicab, but the messenger
objected to the wait. Speed, to him, existed in legs alone,
and he urged the two Americans forward. At a half trot he
hurried them along the Quai Gailleton that runs beside the
Rhone, paced them across the fine stone bridge—the
Pont de la Guillotière—and led them by the Prefecture
into the Rue Rabelais.
"Is the lady sick?" gasped The Just-So Kid.
The Texan Wasp laughed. "By this chap's actions I should think she was very ill," he answered. "He's slowing up now, so we must be nearly there."
The idiot stopped before a door in an old wall. He beckoned the two Americans and whispered instructions. "Keep close to me," he said. "We must go into the house this way. We must not be seen."
The Wasp gripped his lean shoulder and asked a question. "Why cannot we go in by the front door?" he asked.
"There are watchers there," whispered the fool. "They are watching her. She cannot leave. This way is across the roof and she cannot climb. Come!"
"Jimmy," said Robert Henry Blane, "if you would like to run away and spend a little of that prize money you are at liberty to do so. This little visit might land you in trouble and——"
"I'd like to stay with you," interrupted the fighter. "I'm sort of used to rough stuff. I've been on half the fairgrounds of France this last six months an' old Ma Trouble has her big top on every one of 'em."
The Wasp grinned. "As you like," he said. "It suits me because I was putting in a dull Saturday afternoon, but you seem to have been leading an active life."
The idiot led the way through a yard in which rusted sections of machinery were piled in a crazy confusion. Parts of engines torn from river boats, broken propellers, old boilers on which rust was feasting royally. Weeds, gangling and impudent, shot up between the clumps of iron.
The idiot reached a staircase, the wooden treads of which had been rotted by the winter fogs that had drifted in from the Rhone. He beckoned the two men forward. His weak face was alight with excitement. Hurriedly he climbed the scrofulous boards. Up and up, the river itself showing through breaks in the crumbling wall. Robert Henry Blane was reminded of the desires of Valerie Caselli expressed to him on the evening he had visited her place in the Calle dei Fabri at Venice. She had told him that she desired one of the wonderful palaces on the Grand Canal! She had mentioned two as her choice. The Palazzo Loredan and the Rezzonico. She had told him that she liked the latter because Robert Browning had died there.
"Jimmy," he said, turning to The Just-So Kid, "don't you ever think you can fight Dempsey?"
"Me?" cried the little fighter. "Why if I saw him in the mob on the Cours du Midi when that Frenchy was throwin' off challenges I'd just faint."
"Good boy," said The Wasp. "Modesty is the greatest left hook that any one ever carried."
The stairs brought them to the roof. The idiot, half crouching, led them across it to a point where a gulf some three feet wide, separated the ledge from the roof of an adjoining house. With a queer goat-like spring he hopped across and beckoned the two to follow.
The Just-So Kid peered down into the gulch between the two houses. It was fully fifty feet of a drop. He turned and grinned at Robert Henry Blane. "Do you know our little Alpine guide?" he asked.
"I know the lady," said The Wasp. "Possibly this explains why she cannot leave. They have her boxed up and she cannot jump this. Well, I'm going on."
The Wasp jumped across the intervening space and the little fighter followed. The idiot gurgled his approval. At a jog trot he led them across the roof, found a trapdoor, hurriedly lifted it and bade them descend. His manner had about it that curiously expressed pleasure of a dog who has led his master to a find of importance. He drooled with delight. His queer hands scratched in a doglike manner as he pulled the trapdoor into place.
"Hurry," he murmured. "We have been a long time! A very long time, and the beautiful lady told me to be quick."
The Americans dropped down two flights of uncarpeted stairs to the first floor. The idiot knocked at the folding doors facing the first landing, there came a soft, "Enter," from within, and next moment Robert Henry Blane was in the presence of the wonderful woman for whom he had solved the riddle of the gold buried by Marino Falieri, the unlucky Doge of Venice.
She had changed little. The prison cell in Budapest through whose walls the globules of moisture trickled had not robbed her of her wonderful charm. Rather, and The "Wasp thought this curious, the prison had increased the strange, miasmic beauty that he remembered. For just a moment he was puzzled, then he understood. The days of Valerie Caselli were numbered. The startling pallor of the face was heightened by two little hectic spots that burned upon her cheeks. Vivid, pulsing spots that possessed a living brilliancy which they seemed to share with the light in the great violet eyes. The prison cell at Budapest had done its work. The trickling globules that had oozed in from the flowing river had found the weak point in the constitution of the adventuress. She was doomed.
"I knew you would come," she murmured, motioning The Wasp to a seat beside her. "Oh, I knew! I acted badly to you, but I—I knew you would not remember the worst in me. You Americans forgive. It is a great gift. We do not, and—and hate kills us. I am dying! Yes, yes! I am dying, and it is hate that has killed me! Not a prison cell. Not cold! Not poor food! No! No! It is hate! All day and all night for four years I have hated royally and the hate has sapped my life. I am already dead!"
She glanced inquiringly at The Just-So Kid and Robert Henry Blane introduced the little fighter. The eyes of James Dewey Casey showed his approval of the woman's beauty. He sat watching her intently. Behind, close to the door, the idiot gurgled softly to himself. He had carried out instructions and he was pleased.
The woman lifted herself on the chaise longue and spoke in a hurried whisper. A penetrating whisper that had the quality of a whip. Her words were addressed to Robert Henry Blane. The little pugilist and the idiot were forgotten.
"I escaped from prison!" she cried. "I escaped because I was dying and I did not wish to die in a little coffin of stone that was wet and slimy! A horrible coffin! I could not sleep! I thought that some night —some night when the awful darkness of that place was thicker and blacker than ever, that the river would sweep in on me! It sent the little drops of water to tell me! They cried out a warning as they dropped to the floor! It was dreadful! The river was higher than the floor of my cell—the jailers told me! I could not breathe! I would gasp all through the long nights!"
She paused, her big eyes, unnaturally bright, fixed upon Robert Henry Blane. Again, for a fleeting instant, the Texan saw the look that he had noted in Venice years before. It was like the reflection of her innermost soul, a soul into which had come a consuming hate. For the fraction of a second it remained, then the wonderful and entrancing beauty of her face blotted it out.
"I escaped with the help of others," whispered the woman. "Others who possessed power. I bargained with them through a jailer. They made an agreement with me. I crept out in the night. The persons sent by those with whom I made the agreement hurried me across the Danube to Budapest-Kelenfold where we caught the express for Trieste. You see I had to come here. Here to Lyons, because—because here in Lyons was the thing with which I had to pay. I had secreted it here before that devil of a man hunter had thrown me into the damp cell. Listen! I had given it to the idiot to mind! I had thrust it into his hands three minutes before No. 37 arrested me! I had said, 'Keep it for me till I come back!' and he kept it. The fools had not thought of searching him. He buried it in the yard and it stayed there through all the long days."
The poor fool knew that he was under discussion. He came shambling from the door and sat at the foot of the chaise longue. His eyes showed a doglike devotion to the adventuress.
The woman thrust a shapely hand beneath her pillow. Her fingers brought out a chamois bag which she held upon her lap. A little silence crept into the room. From afar came the shouts of the Saturday-afternoon bathers in the river.
Valerie Caselli spoke at last. "I wonder," she murmured, "I wonder, my adventurous friend from Texas, if you ever heard of The Green Lash of the Hapsburgs?"
The gray eyes of The Texan Wasp shifted from the face of the woman to the chamois bag upon her lap. For a second his habitual control deserted him. Her question was just a little startling.
A smile flitted across the face of the woman. "I see you have heard," she said softly. "How much have you heard, Monsieur Blane?"
"Just a little," answered The Wasp. "Just a rumor. There was said to be in the imperial jewels of the Hapsburgs something that was never mentioned, something very valuable."
"Just so, my dear American. Continue."
"I heard a fool story," went on The Wasp. "A crazy story, I thought. The empress, when she died, left a belt of stones with a note to the Emperor Francis Joseph. The note made him put the thing away."
Valerie Caselli laughed softly. "You have the outline of the tale," she said. "Just the outline. It was right of you to think it a crazy story. You had not the proof. You had not seen. I had heard the story often without believing. They told me that the emperor had given something to the empress. She had not thanked him as he thought he should be thanked. What did he do? He lifted up the string of jewels and he struck her with them. Struck her across the face. They broke. She picked them up and kept them. When she died they were found with a little note. The note said: 'I give back to the emperor his lash.' That's all! His lash! That is why the belt was never seen. Many people knew of it, but few saw it. And it was very valuable, my friend from Texas."
She had lowered her voice. Her long, shapely fingers caressed the chamois bag. She played with the curiosity of the handsome Texan who watched every movement.
"The Green Lash of the Hapsburgs!" she murmured softly. "A rather romantic name, don't you think? Listen! I dreamed of those jewels for years! They were in my thoughts night and day! Possibly it was because of the incident that I wanted them! Because an emperor struck an empress with them, and—and because she left a stinging note to bite him during the years after her death. Leaving him his lash! Ah, I loved the bitterness that was in her! I wanted the Lash! I craved it! I plotted and schemed! I went on my knees! I dragged my soul in the mud! And—and "
The idiot interrupted with a gurgling cry that sounded like a warning. The woman silenced him.
"And I got it, Monsieur Blane!" she whispered. "I got it! The getting of it landed me in the slimy cell of the prison at Budapest, but I held to it. Held to it with the help of an idiot who kept it for me! It was clever of me to pick an idiot, was it not? He buried it in the yard and he looked at it now and then whenever my order flitted into his poor mind."
The wonderful, beautifully modeled fingers of Valerie Caselli strayed over the chamois bag. They seemed to have a perverse desire to stir the curiosity of the Texan. Now and then they would touch the draw strings as if they would unloose the treasure within, but each time that the disclosure seemed imminent they slipped away. The white hands, cut off from the body by great medieval sleeves of slashed velvet, seemed to live a life of their own; a life that delighted in teasing the inquisitiveness of Robert Henry Blane.
Suddenly the woman leaned forward. With a quick, dramatic movement she tore the mouth of the bag open. A flash of gorgeous green blazed before the eyes of The Wasp. The thing unrolled on the woman's lap. It squirmed in the rays of the afternoon sun. It gobbled the fire in the sunbeams, and flung it out again through cunningly cut stomachs that magnified the flame!
The white fingers took the thing and spread it across the velvet wrapper. It seemed to writhe. It was made curiously alive by the fire that glittered in the great stones. It suggested the mythical snakes that Alexander the Great is supposed to have found in the Valley of Jordan, and whose backs possessed such a wonderful sheen that his soldiers believed that they were coated with emeralds!
It drew the heads of Robert Henry Blane and The Just-So Kid toward it. It had drawn the heads of ten thousand persons in the same manner. It bred cupidity; it spawned avarice; it lit the hot fires of choking greed! The great, green stones that had been gathered from spots that were leagues and leagues apart—the mines of Canjargum in India, the stony slopes of Transbaikalia, and the world-famous mines of Muzo and Coquez in Colombia—had been polished on the copper wheels of the cunning jewel cutters of Amsterdam till their chromium-tinted surfaces blazed like the eyes of basilisks!
The woman uttered the name of the thing like a wonder witch muttering over a brew. "The Green Lash of the Hapsburgs," she murmured, and the long, delicate fingers stroked the girdle of green wealth as she spoke. The stones flung soft shadows on the fingers as they passed down the length of the marvelous cincture, shadows of the faintest green—the visionary green we see on trees before the leaves bud.
Robert Henry Blane took hold of himself and brutally dragged his eyes away from the feast. He looked at the wonder face of the adventuress. The hectic spots upon the cheeks blazed more than ever; the brilliancy of the violet eyes was more manifest. The malady that clutched the beautiful Valerie Caselli fed on the excitement which the sight of the green girdle produced.
"It is very wonderful," said the Texan. "I have never seen anything half so magnificent."
"And it is mine," murmured the woman exultantly.
Again silence fell. The idiot clawed himself along the carpeted floor and patted the girdle with dirty fingers blunted by toil.
The Just-So Kid sighed softly. The great emeralds hypnotized the little fighter.
Valerie Caselli leaned forward and addressed The Texan Wasp. She clutched the girdle with her two hands.
"In that agreement I made when I was in the prison at Budapest, I was to give a portion of this away," she began. "Half of it. There are sixty-four stones; I was to pay thirty-two for my freedom. It was all arranged. I was to come here and get it from the idiot, then I was to make the division."
"And now?" asked The Wasp as the woman paused.
"Now they want all!" she cried. "The people who helped me want all! They wish me to give it up to them as it is! I—I have dragged myself in the mud to get it! I have stamped on my soul! I have brought death within counting distance, and—and they——"
A fit of coughing made the adventuress pause. She dabbed her lips with a fragment of Venetian lace. The Wasp waited.
"You see I am near death," went on the woman. "The wet prison cell did it. It was dreadful. Now—now I want to go back to the city I love so that I can die there. I cannot die here! This place is commercial! I want to go to the city of beauty—the city of joy. My city! I want to go there and—and take this with me, but they will not let me! I am a prisoner! That is why I sent for you!"
Robert Henry Blane could not control the smile that her words produced. He sat and let his eyes roam softly from the face of the woman to the girdle of enormous emeralds on her lap. He was disposed to sympathize with her in her illness but he was a trifle amused at her childish willfulness; at the greed that consumed her, and the fixed belief that he was the person who could help her in her trouble.
"How are you a prisoner?" he asked. "What is there to stop you from taking the train to Venice?"
Valerie Caselli smiled sadly. She waved a hand toward the velvet curtains that were drawn across the windows looking out over the Rue Rabelais. "Look for yourself," she said. "No, let the boy show you! There is a peephole cut in the curtain."
The Texan Wasp rose and followed the idiot to the window. The gurgling fool pointed to a little circular hole in the heavy curtain. The American placed his eye to it. It gave him a view of the sidewalk on the far side of the small street that runs between the Rue Garibaldi and the Quai de la Guillotière, the latter being the stone promenade between the bridge of the same name and the Pont Lafayette that crosses the Rhone.
Robert Henry Blane studied the sidewalk. For years he had made close and careful observations on an art that is possessed by few. It was the Art of Lounging. The Wasp had discovered that not one man in a million, detailed to observe any person, place, or object can dissimulate his interest in the human quarry or in the dead objective. The ability to hide their concern is beyond them. Although he had never read Socrates he had come to the same conclusion as the Greek philosopher who asserted that the Art of Dissimulation is one of the rarest gifts.
The Wasp examined the pedestrians that passed. Examined them with keen eyes that had the faculty of reading the motive that was behind every little action. For a long time he stared through the spy hole into the street. Then he turned to the extraordinarily beautiful woman who was waiting in silence for his comment.
"Two men passed who are interested in the house," he said.
"You are wise, my dear friend," murmured Valerie Caselli. "Very wise. You have picked them?"
"I know them," said The Wasp quietly. "Possibly I would not have recognized them if I had met them on the street. Watching from here made it different. The man with a limp "
The adventuress laughed softly, and Robert Henry Blane paused. "The man with a limp?" she repeated. "My dear friend from Texas, if you will go out and smash him in the face as you did a man on the Piazza San Marco on the evening I first met you I will give you the biggest emerald in this girdle! And you know him?"
"He was the head of a bunch of scoundrels that I knew in Naples," said The Wasp.
"He is with a bigger bunch of scoundrels now," said the woman. "He is a sort of sub-chief in the league with whom I made the bargain that got me out of prison. It is a league of devils!"
She dropped her voice and leaned forward. Fear—a dreadful shivering horrible fear showed in the glorious eyes. "They kill!" she whispered. "They kill for fun! They murder for amusement. They call themselves 'The League of Death!'"
In the little silence that followed the woman's statement the mind of Robert Henry Blane flung him back to a narrow street in the old city of Carcassonne. To his nostrils there came again the odor of crushed marigolds, the biting, damnable odor that had throttled him and flung him into the dark abyss of unconsciousness. A queer hate surged up within him, a hate of the murderous crew who made murder a pastime. For the moment he felt strangely and, to him, unreasonably resentful of all crime. He wondered why. Possibly the thoughts of Betty Allerton and the memories of those strolls through the Back Bay Fens on still, soft September days had cleansed his soul. He was a little puzzled.
The woman sensed some change. She suddenly flung herself forward and thrust out her white, shapely arms appealingly. "Listen, dear friend!" she cried. "I am dying! I know I am! I feel it! Help me! I cannot die here! The autumn is coming! The leaves are falling, and a chill creeps over me! Ah, help me to go southward so that I can die in the sun! You—you told me that I seemed to possess the spirit of Venice! Do you remember? Help me to get there—to get there to die!"
The fists of The Just-So Kid were clenched as the woman finished her appeal. A fighting look came into the eyes of James Dewey Casey. He made a gurgling remark that was incomprehensible to the woman but which made her turn suddenly and look at him. A glance told her that she had the full sympathy and the undivided support of the little pugilist from Brooklyn.
"Ah, men are kind!" she murmured softly, and the great violet eyes were wet as she looked at The Just-So Kid. "They are always ready to help! It is different with women! You—you will help me, monsieur?"
"Sure!" snapped the small pugilist. "If there's any one stoppin' you from takin' the rattler to any old place you want to go to just let me see him! Where's this burg, Venice, that you want to go to anyhow?"
Robert Henry Blane smiled softly. He liked the manner in which James Dewey Casey had offered his services. There was no ability to bargain for rewards in the mind of The just-So Kid.
"When do you wish to leave?" asked The Wasp.
"There is a train leaving just before midnight that would get me to Lausanne in time to catch the Simplon-Orient Express!" gasped the woman. "The express passes through at six thirty-five and I would—oh, I would be at Venice at seven-thirty! In Venice at seven-thirty! Oh, God is good! You will help! Say that you will help!"
For a moment the vision of herself arriving in the City of Everlasting Joy at the hour when the mystery and wonder of the place is most poignant overcame her. She leaned toward the two Americans and whispered softly of the clanging bells of San Giorgio dei Greci that boom across the waters; of the soft, gray mists that roll in from the Adriatic, of the burst of light that night brings to "the sea city with arms of marble and the thousand girdles of green."
"Ah, you will come and bring me?" she murmured, her voice like the dying whisper of a summer zephyr. "I cannot walk! You —you will have to carry me across the roofs by the way in which you came. I will not go out through the door. Not even with you, my friend. They kill—they kill for pleasure."
"We will come," said The Wasp. "At eleven we will be here."
"Sure," said The Just-So Kid. "We'll be here."
AT Morateur's, the most distinctive restaurant in Lyons,
Robert Henry Blane entertained Monsieur James Dewey Casey
to dinner on the evening of their unlooked-for reunion. The
Wasp was the idol of the little fighter and he hung upon
the words of the handsome Texan. The manner in which Mr.
Blane handled head waiters and their ilk specially appealed
to the pugilist. A pompous maître d'hôtel had fallen
upon the two the moment they had taken their seats and The
Wasp's treatment of the fellow made The Just-So Kid writhe
with laughter.
The maître d'hôtel was pushing his wares. He loudly recommended crabs and The Wasp interrupted his song concerning the excellence of the crustaceans.
"Have they tails?" asked The Wasp, with gravity.
The maître d'hôtel was taken back.
"Tails?" he murmured. "Why, I don't know, monsieur."
"Go and find out," said the imperturbable Texan. "It is a matter of great interest to me."
The flurried head waiter disappeared and Robert Henry Blane addressed The Just-So Kid. "Now you will have time to look over the bill of fare before he comes back," he said. "I find that a foolish head waiter standing around annoys folks, so I make a practice of sending them away on ridiculous errands."
The head waiter returned, and Mr. Casey tried to hide his laughter as the flustered fellow reported. "The crabs have tails, monsieur," he said solemnly.
"Thank you," said The Wasp. "They are not for us. Years ago I promised my mother that I would not eat a crab with a tail. Now Jimmy, what are you going to eat?"
The Just-So Kid had put a strong forefinger on "Beefsteak à la Bordelaise. and he kept it there as if fearful that the annoyed head waiter might wish to rob him of his choice. "I'm bettin' on this," he said decisively, then in a half whisper to Robert Henry Blane he murmured: "Say, isn't this the burg where Lyonnaise potatoes were born?"
"Sure," replied The Wasp. "Will you have some?"
The Just-So Kid nodded and the Texan explained to the maître d'hôtel. The fellow, annoyed with Robert Henry Blane, remarked sulkily: "We call them potatoes à l'Americaine."
"Wouldn't that bite yer?" said the little fighter. "Everything now is labeled American! Why I remember me mother makin' Lyonnaise potatoes when I—"
The small pugilist stopped abruptly and stared at a table immediately behind The Texan Wasp. His face showed concern.
"What is wrong?" questioned Blane.
"There's a guy got me lamped," growled The Just-So Kid. "And he doesn't look friendly neither. Say, I think he's the geek I tripped up one night in Monte Carlo when he was tryin' to stop you from catchin' a train!"
Robert Henry Blane turned and found himself face to face with No. 37! The great man hunter was sitting alone at a small alcove table where he was partly hidden from the diners in the room.
"Robert Henry Blane!" he said softly. "Now that's curious. I was attracted by the voice of your friend. It seemed to recall something. Where did I meet him?"
The Just-So Kid, under the concentrated gaze of the cold, merciless eyes that looked like brown-tinted and hard-frozen hailstones, glanced at the door. The little fighter saw danger, not physical but legal, in the lipless line that represented the mouth of the great sleuth. The law, to James Dewey Casey, was a proposition that could not be knocked out by a swift hook to the chin, so he took no chances. He meditated a masterly retreat that would leave the cold-faced one a little doubtful as to whether he had ever seen a Pan-like person with a smiling, humorous countenance.
Robert Henry Blane saw the intention of the fighter and spoke softly. "It's all right, Jimmy," he said. "Don't worry." Then to No. 37 he remarked: "Let me introduce you to my good friend, James Dewey Casey of Brooklyn "
"New York," corrected the little fighter. "I never say Brooklyn on the posters. Lots of 'em know of New York but none of 'em know of Brooklyn."
"Of New York," continued The Wasp. "Monsieur Casey is the lightweight champion of the American army, and this afternoon he vanquished the best man in Lyons. You have met him before, I think. You were running for a train one night at Monte Carlo and I think you kicked him in the shins. That's the idea he has in his mind."
The man hunter grunted noisily. "I remember now," he growled. "If he hadn't got in the way I'd have grabbed you, Blane. I guessed your move to jump on the top of the express. It was the little chap that fooled me. He brought me down an awful wallop and pretended that he didn't know you."
"Jimmy is a good boy," said The Wasp. "Some day you must see him fight. Won't you sit over at this table?"
"I have eaten," said the sleuth.
"Then have a liqueur," suggested The Wasp. "A sip of Cointreau or Benedictine? Something to keep us company."
The great man hunter rose slowly and moved himself to the table occupied by the two Americans. He accepted a cigar from The Wasp, one of the cigars made out of fine Algerian tobacco that Robert Henry Blane loved. No. 37 took it with a grim smile. "I found a few of that mark in your rooms once, Blane," he said. "I smoked them. You had cleared out a few hours before I arrived."
"A wretched habit of mine," said The Wasp airily. He turned to the little fighter. "James," he said, "here comes our food."
The great sleuth sat and watched the two Americans as they ate. Robert Henry Blane loved food and he was pleased that the man hunter remained silent while he, Blane, was devoting his whole attention to the very excellent chicken en casserole served by the restaurant. The Wasp had an idea—a very masterful and pushing idea —that he would have trouble with No. 37 before the night was over.
The Just-So Kid finished his steak and potatoes. The Wasp absorbed the last morsel of his chicken. Mr. Dewey refused a salad; they both agreed on black coffee and liqueurs.
Robert Henry Blane addressed the man hunter. "Nice town, Lyons," he observed.
"Very nice town," admitted the detective.
"Nice silk trade," observed The Wasp.
"So they tell me," said the sleuth. His cold eyes were fixed upon the handsome face of the Texan.
"Big metal industry," remarked Robert Henry Blane.
The eyes of No. 37 narrowed. "Yes, I suppose so," he said quietly.
"Good jewelry trade," murmured The Wasp.
The sleuth did not answer. His cold eyes were upon the careless, devil-may-care of a man from Houston. Robert Henry Blane smoked quietly, utterly indifferent to the keen glances of the man he addressed.
After a long interval of silence the man hunter spoke. "What is the objective?" he asked irritably. "What are you driving at?"
The Wasp laughed. "It is this," he said quietly. "You were not at that table when my friend and I entered the room. You followed us in. I am in the habit of noting every one in a room when I enter it. The little alcove table where you were sitting was empty."
The silence grew painful to The Just-So Kid. He had a desire to shake the detective who sat smoking quietly, his frozen eyes upon The Wasp. Robert Henry Blane seemed unaware of the scrutiny. He lifted his liqueur glass, examined it with the eye of a connoisseur and sipped slowly of its green contents—the oily, perfumed, veritable chartreuse brewed before the monks were driven bag and baggage out of the valley that their liqueur had made famous.
The detective spoke at last. "You are right," he said slowly. "I did follow you in. I had lost a trail and when I saw you I thought I might pick it up again. I did intend to speak to you, then I thought to watch you for a moment. I was wrong. I am in your debt and I should have played square."
"Why should your trail have anything to do with me?" asked The Wasp.
"Now that's curious," said the sleuth. "It's just a case of association. The person I wish to find is not likely to be known to you at present, but years ago you met her. It was in Venice. I happened to butt in at the moment, and you fooled me. I got a handful of black mud in the face that nearly blinded me."
An amused smile flitted over the handsome face of the Texan. For an instant his mind framed the incident in the cellar of the house on the Rio della Madonetta at Venice when No. 37 had surprised The Wasp as he was searching for the glorious golden ducats of the long-dead Doge. He had scooped up a handful of the smelly mud from the canal and had flung it in the face of the man hunter.
"Why should the person I met in Venice have any dealings with me to-day in Lyons?" he asked coldly.
"I don't know," answered the sleuth. "I see no logical reason for it, and yet I get what your people call hunches. Lots of folk say that I can smell like a dog. Possibly you've heard that tale? Well, I can't! But I do get hunches. Mighty good hunches. Mighty good hunches. They're unexplainable. Some day I'm going to write a book about them. Some day when I retire. I've got a cottage in a valley that is sweeter than anything you ever saw, and some day when I am tired I am going there to live. Then I'll write the book and grow tomatoes. I'm awfully interested in tomatoes. I think you'll figure in the book, Blane. Quite a lot, I'm afraid."
The vision of himself sitting quietly in the cottage in the valley and writing of his exploits softened the face of "The Man Without a Name," as the Continental criminals called the extraordinary sleuth. The Wasp was a little surprised. The cold Lariat of the Law was really human.
Robert Henry Blane looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. There were hours between the moment and the appointment with Valerie Caselli, but the Texan thought of the difficulty of getting rid of the sleuth. There was a burlike quality about the man hunter.
The Wasp called for his bill. He checked it carefully and paid. The detective watched him quietly.
"I hope the book will be a success," said the Texan, gathering up his change and turning again to No. 37. "They tell me that detective tales go well. I don't know, because I never read them. I suppose it is like everything else in life; a firsthand knowledge of a thing satisfies. And tomatoes are good. I should think there would be a lot of fun in growing tomatoes. Well, we're off! Jimmy and I have an appointment."
The great man hunter straightened himself. "Blane," he said softly, "I'm going with you."
The Wasp had made a motion to rise from the table as the detective spoke. With a look of intense surprise upon his face he slipped back into his seat. He waved aside the boy who held his velours hat and cane.
"You are going—what the devil do you mean?" he asked irritably. The old scar on the jaw showed itself as he hurled the question at the sleuth.
"What I said," growled No. 37. "I have a great desire to keep you company for the evening. It's one of my hunches. Don't get mad! I'm going, that's all about it."
"I am afraid," said The Wasp, speaking quietly and coldly, "that the reminiscences of a famous detective will never be written if you hang to your decision. And the little tomatoes will lack the tender care of a guiding hand."
"Listen, Blane," said the sleuth. "Listen, like a good fellow. I'm hired to do things and I try to do them. Just now we're friendly, but no friendship ever stopped me from doing what I thought right. Possibly this hunch I have is a fool hunch, but I always give them rope. Logic is a fine thing for people who lack imagination but it's no good for folk like me. I've got no base for my desire to stay with you. None at all. And you must have a base to be logical. I tell you I've got a hunch. I'll write the book, don't you worry."
Robert Henry Blane fingered the little silver goblet that had contained his liqueur. His gray eyes were upon the cold face of the man who was the terror of criminals. He pondered over the words of the sleuth. The man had rounded up evildoers till his fame had spread from the smelly streets behind the Galata Quay at Constantinople to the dark hutches of the Limehouse "snow" dealers. And his dreams were of a quiet cottage where he would write a book and raise tomatoes! To the mind of the adventurous Texan the ambitions of the man hunter were amusing. He forgot for an instant the assertion of No. 37 that he, the detective, would stay with him for the evening, and he let himself picture The Man Without a Name growing tomatoes. The picture swept away his anger and brought a smile to his face.
The man hunter noted the change. "I'm going to stay with you," he repeated doggedly. "I've said it."
Robert Henry Blane thrust his handsome face across the table. There was a whimsical smile around the mouth; the sprite of mirth danced in the gray eyes. "Really you cannot," he said softly. "We have an appointment with a lady. Jimmy and I made the arrangement this afternoon. Didn't we, Jimmy?"
The astounded Just-So Kid nodded his head. He had gathered up a fair amount of information while the two had been talking, and the brazen announcement of The Wasp appalled him. He nearly choked.
"Do I know the lady?" inquired No. 37.
"Oh, yes," answered The Wasp. "You know her well. I heard you once tell her the history of her life when she wouldn't come over quick enough with some information you desired. I was hidden in the house listening to the discussion. You told her that tne Spanish police were looking for a woman who knew something of the death of a wealthy Canadian on the Madrid-Hendaye express. Oh, yes, you know her! You had the dope about another affair that took place in Ostend and drove the Dutch police to the verge of lunacy. You called her the Countess Brudeliere, but I know her as Valerie Caselli! Listen, my friend! I have given my word that I will call for her this evening and see her on a train that will connect at Lausanne with the Simplon-Orient express! She is dying! I would give her three days of life, less perhaps. She wishes to die in Venice—to die in the sun, and I, with Jimmy here, promised to see her off. Now you have the story!"
THE choking silence that followed the announcement
of Robert Henry Blane thrust out an invisible claw and
clutched at the coat of the head waiter. The fellow
shuffled closer to the table where sat the three men. The
silence drew him like the odor of a bone would draw a
hungry dog.
No. 37 placed his half-smoked cigar upon the ash tray, clutched the closed fist of one hand with the stubby fingers of the other and spoke. "Let's stop fooling," he growled. "I'm after the woman you have just named! Talk sense! She has escaped from jail and —well, there are other matters beside her escape."
"So I believe," said The Wasp coolly.
The man hunter's eyes swept the face of the Texan. "Why, you know what she's got!" he cried angrily. "I can see it in your manner!"
"You can see nothing!" snapped Blane. "I've told a straight tale. Jimmy and I are going to see her off. It's the fall, and I always get sentimental in the fall. When she told me she wished to die in the sun— well, she was already in Venice!"
No. 37 glanced around the room. The skulking head waiter caught his eye and retreated hurriedly. One of the sleuth's strong hands reached into his breast pocket. He brought forth a bulky pocketbook, opened it, found a folded newspaper clipping and pushed the cutting across the table to the big American.
"Read that," he said quietly. "T am pledged to restore that to the Imperial Museum. It has been a five-year hunt."
Robert Henry Blane unfolded the clipping and read it slowly. It was in German and it was a carefully compiled history of The Green Lash of the Hapsburgs. A wonderful, compact and colorful history of the sixty-four stones that made the glorious cincture. It had been written by an Austrian named Zumbusch, in whose care the girdle had rested after it had been removed from the Trésor Imperial to the Musée de 1'Histoire de l'Art.
A painter in words was Zumbusch. Color oozed from his sentences. It welled up from the little spaces that divided his prismatic phrases. The thing read like a saga. It had all the sonorous quality of a chapter from the Book of Kings. It possessed the thrilling quality of those wonderful lines that tell how the ships of Tarshish returned once in three years, "bringing gold and silver, ivory, and apes, and peacocks."
Robert Henry Blane forgot the man hunter and the little fighter. The story dripped romance. It flung up pictures of jungles, of wind-swept tundras, of dead marshes whose poisonous air throbbed with the sounds of far-off drums. It was a tale of treachery, of slinking murder. A tale that lifted itself up like a hooded cobra and hissed of death!
A tale of emeralds! A tale of the great green stones that made the girdle of Elizabeth of Bavaria! Devilish stones, according to the writer. Outlaws of the jewel kingdom that were rounded up and brought, bloody and untamed, to the dark shops of Amsterdam where the copper wheels of the cunning jewelers bit facets in their green hides! Ropes of platinum and gold to hold them together! Locks and bars and soldiers to guard them! Green devils, every one of them! Then, old Franz Josef toddling through the big rooms of the Palais de Schoenbrunn with the thing in his weak hands! A sneer crept into the words of Zumbusch, the historian: "Sixty-four kicking green devils that had lived on blood and death were presented to an empress!" He saw something of Austria's ruin in the matter. Saw it in his own queer way. But he had made a tale of it! A great tale! It brought a glow to the eyes of Robert Henry Blane. He sighed softly as he folded up the clipping and returned it to the sleuth.
"The reward," said the man hunter, speaking slowly, "is five hundred thousand kronen in gold. In gold, mind you! Listen, Blane, that thing should not be at large! Do you know what I mean? It shouldn't be in the hands of one person! It's bad! It makes murder and suicide! It should be locked up in a big, cold museum with scores of stupid guards around it! It should be—damn it! What am I talking about? I'm going to get the woman that has it! She's here in Lyons! I've trailed her here from Trieste! She can't get away! I tell you that I'll have her under lock and key inside twenty-four hours!"
A note of triumph flamed in the words of the man hunter. The nose bred of battles and the chin that had thrust peace to the winds were pushed belligerently across the table toward Robert Henry Blane. The skulking head waiter wondered stupidly about the outcome. Would the sacred quiet of Morateur's with its spineless waiters and obsequiously yielding carpets be violently outraged?
The face of Robert Henry Blane showed no excitement as he spoke in answer to the challenge of the sleuth. His cool gray eyes looked unblinkingly at the merciless countenance of the other. "I have told you what I intend to do," he said quietly. "I have promised a dying woman that I would see her to the train this evening. A bigger jailer than you has already laid his hands on her! She is as good as dead, and your little man-made law doesn't amount to a row of pins!"
"But I want her!" growled the sleuth. "She has fooled me and——"
"Others have fooled you!" interrupted The Wasp. "There is a man in Lyons tonight that fooled you worse than Valerie Caselli ever did! Listen! You know a lot about me, but I know something of you! You are not as infallible as a lot of folk think! Do you remember a wet day at the prefecture of Bordeaux? A wet day when some one sneaked away from you, dodged through the Place Richelieu and swam the Garonne? You thought that he was drowned but—ah, I see that you remember!"
The great man hunter controlled himself with difficulty. The cold eyes shone with the light that weak sunshine brings to block ice. It was the hate flame of injured righteous pride.
The name of the man who had fooled him came from the thin lips of the sleuth like the soft hiss of a Gaboon viper. "Louis the Limper!" he cried.
"Louis the Limper," repeated The Wasp. The shadow of a smile passed over the face of the Texan.
"Go on!" ordered the man hunter. "Go on! I am listening!"
"Now I thought," said Robert Henry Blane, "that if you had a choice about tonight's prey that you would sooner grab off Louis the Limper than Valerie Caselli? Am I right?"
The round, heavy head of the sleuth—the head that showed not the slightest trace of imagination, rocked slowly on its thick throat. He agreed.
"Then I have the power to give you the party you seek if you leave Valerie Caselli alone," said The Wasp. "It is curious that I should have the power. This Louis the Limper has been very successful since he took French leave of you at Bordeaux. I was told to-day that he is a subchief in the league that you are interested in. Did you know?"
"No," grunted the sleuth.
"Then regard me, the oracle!" mocked Robert Henry Blane. "This Louis is a small boss in The League of Death, and the league has a disagreement with Valerie Caselli. Louis himself is actually on guard to see that she doesn't get out of Lyons."
The detective, silent and tense, watched the handsome Texan. The light of hate, in which pride had been grilled and toasted, was more evident.
"Let's come to an agreement," said The Wasp. "Which one do you want?"
"Louis Scafferelli!" cried the man hunter. "Louis the Limper!"
"And Valerie Caselli goes free?"
No. 37 hesitated. "There is the matter of the girdle," he growled. "She can't get away with that! She's a thief and——"
"She is dying," interrupted The Wasp.
"But I've spent years trailing that thing!" protested the sleuth. "That girdle shouldn't be at large!"
Robert Henry Blane looked at his watch. "Come quick!" he ordered. "I offered you Louis the Limper! You can take him or leave him! If you don't like him, say so. I've promised Valerie Caselli that I would see her off to-night for Venice and I have a habit of keeping my word. I'd be sorry to have a row with you but—"
The Wasp paused. No. 37 rose, took his hat from a waiting boy and followed The Just-So Kid and the tall Texan out into the night.
ROBERT HENRY BLANE, No. 37, and The Just-So Kid
taxicabbed across the Lafayette Bridge from the Rue
Carnot. They did not speak. The great man hunter sat with
arms folded, his eyes upon the floor of the cab; The Wasp
hummed a little tune from "La Boheme;" the small fighter
stared out of the dark streets and the swift waters of the
Rhone.
The taxi, at the direction of The Wasp, turned into the Rue Garibaldi and came slowly down the dark little street in which Valerie Caselli was a prisoner. The detective had come to life now. He sensed the nearness of his prey. His cold eyes were on the street down which the cab lurched slowly. He seemed to bristle like a bloodhound.
The street was practically deserted. A cold autumnal breeze came up from the swift-flowing river and made dreary music in the plane trees. The hard-riding scout winds of winter were streaming down from the northland. The Wasp thought of the adventuress and her wild desire to die in the sun. He too, Texan born and bred, loved the warm places. He smiled softly as he remembered a little rhyme of the long ago, a rhyme that he had written for Betty Allerton in those colorful days in Boston:
"Oh, Betty, dear, the winter's here,
There's awful snow and frost on
The little trails that pierce the Fens
We walked in good old Boston."
The taxi reached the quay near the river. The driver halted for instructions. The detective turned to Robert Henry Blane.
"I expected to find our friend on the street," whispered The Wasp. "It seems that he is not there. We had better hunt."
The three dismounted from the cab and Robert Henry Blane led the way back in the shadow of the wall that surrounded the junk yard—the yard through which the idiot boy had led the two Americans during the afternoon. Into the mind of The Wasp had come a little doubt as to the wisdom he had displayed in leaving the adventuress unguarded after making a promise to help her. Louis the Limper was a gentleman who flirted daily with "Monsieur Paris," the humorous nickname which the French have given to the guillotine, because that appalling piece of machinery resides in the capital when it is not "on the road." An extra murder or two to The Limper would have as much effect upon the color of his soul as a splash of ink upon the Black Stone of Mecca.
The Wasp reached the door in the wall through which the idiot had led him some hours before. It was ajar. The Texan pushed it softly and the three entered the yard that was filled with the rusted sections of engines, boilers, and machines of all kinds. To the left, faintly visible against the sky that was illuminated by the lights of the city, was the crumbling wall that hid the staircase up which the boy had led the Texan and The Just-So Kid to the roofs.
The Wasp started toward the stairs. He quickened his steps. A queer sense of impending trouble came to him. The quiet of the yard, the absence of the watchers in the street, and the whistling wind from the river made him a little nervous regarding the strange adventuress whose days were numbered. He had a wild desire that she should have her wish. He thought that it would give her a little joy to see the City of the Lagoons—the City of Joy where the pigeons swarm upon the sunny Piazza San Marco when snow and sleet hold the north-land.
The three were within a few feet of the stairs when the quiet of the night was broken by an angry snarl. It came from the roof and it resembled the snarl of a sleeping mastiff who awakens suddenly to find that an impudent cur is getting away with a bone that he has put away for his supper.
Blane halted. From the top of the stairs there came the sounds of struggle. Snarls, curses, the soft thud of blows, the crunching of feet on the leprous treads came to the three. A fight was taking place at the very head of the rickety ladder!
The Wasp led the rush upward. Immediately on his heels was No. 37. Behind the two raced The Just-So Kid, held in the rear by the breadth of the sleuth.
The fight moved from the stairway to the roof. The climbing three heard the sounds recede, the crunch of feet upon the pebbly roof superseding the noises made by the shoes on the rotting boards.
Blane was the first upon the roof. The glow of the city made the fighters faintly visible. A pair of drunken forms weaved backward and forward, clinched, broke apart, stumbled, flailed their arms wildly, and shouted insanely. They were silhouetted against the sky, a pair of jangled marionettes whose arms and legs seemed to be controlled by strings that came down from a low-hanging star.
There was a flash of light as an arm struck with a queer stabbing motion. One of the marionettes went backward, heels digging bravely in an effort to correct the balance. The stabber followed. The flash of phosphorescent light appeared again, then The Wasp fired. A knife clattered to the ground, a curse came slowly as if to keep time with the knees that bent ever so sluggishly and dropped the knife wielder on the pebbly roof!
The big Texan was the first to speak. "Show a light!" he cried. "The devil has knifed the idiot!"
No. 37 turned a flash light on the limp youth and grunted as the ray disclosed the amount of the damage. "Got him in the arm," he said. "Nothing serious. The second jab would have killed him if you hadn't potted our friend. No, Louis is not dead. Hold this flash while I frisk him."
The Just-So Kid held the flash light while the sleuth ran his hands over the body of the disabled Louis the Limper. The bullet from the Texan's revolver had picked the limping leg of the crook as its objective, and the near assassin swore fiercely as the man hunter searched his pockets.
"Take it easy!" growled the detective. "Remember me, don't you? Walked away from me without saying good-by at—hello, what's this?"
The great man hunter rose with a quick jerk of his strong body, and as he did so the flash light bit hungrily at something within his hands. The white gleam of the light seemed to stir a sleeping dragon, a green-eyed dragon whose wicked eyes met the inquisitive ray with a poisonous flash of glorious color—the living, leaping color that came from a mass of huddled emeralds the sleuth had dragged from the pocket of Louis the Limper!
The voice of No. 37, harsh and cold, cried out a warning. "Back, Blane!" he cried. "They're mine! Don't come near! You made the agreement! I was to have this fellow and everything on him! Keep off or I'll kill you!" '
There was a moment of tense silence, then Robert Henry Blane laughed softly. "I'll stand by the bargain," he said. "Turn your popgun off me."
The sleuth slipped The Green Lash of the Hapsburgs into a big coat pocket, dropped on his knees and handcuffed Louis the Limper. A very calm and competent person was the great hunter of criminals.
"If you and your friends wish to go and see what has happened to the lady I'11 look after these two," he said quietly. "Move along and I'll whistle for a cop. I'm glad I met you, Blane. Somehow I thought everything would come right. In spite of all the crooked stuff there's a law of compensation in the world."
THE Texan Wasp and The Just-So Kid found Valerie Caselli
in a state of collapse. They revived her with difficulty
and she chattered wildly of the theft. Louis the Limper had
come in through the roof, had nearly strangled her, and had
wrenched from her the wonderful girdle.
"Don't worry," said Robert Henry Blane, "the gentle Louis didn't hold it long."
"Why? How?" gasped the woman. "Where is it?"
"It is in the possession of one of our friends," answered The Wasp. "A very bright chap in his way. He sends his good wishes for your health. Kind old bird at times. We left him up on the roof whistling loud enough to bring every cop in Lyons to his side. Yes, he's a wise one."
"Who—who do you mean?" cried the adventuress.
"No. 37," laughed the Texan. "Yes, it's true! Better hurry a little! We'll have to move to get that train."
There was no further need to urge the adventuress to hurry after the Texan had carelessly outlined the happenings on the roof. The terror produced by the nearness of the great man hunter made her forget the loss of the wonderful jewels. She clung to The Wasp as he placed his strong arms around her and gently carried her down the stairs to a carriage that The Just-So Kid had found. She babbled childishly. There was something dreadfully pathetic about her. Blane wondered at her talk. She was like a tired infant that wanted to go somewhere and sleep.
"I am longing for the sun," she whispered. "Oh, the sweet, sweet sun! Oh, I will pray for you because you are so kind! Yes, and I will pray for Monsieur Jimmy too! It is unbelievable! I am going to Venice, to Venice, the city that I love!"
The Wasp and The Just-So Kid installed her in a quiet compartment of the Lausanne train. They bought her flowers and papers. They rented three pillows for her tired head and they waited till the train pulled out of the station.
"I feel like a mourner," said Robert Henry Blane as the tail light of the express drove into the night. "I'd like something to eat and drink, Jimmy. You have money, haven't you?"
"I haven't smashed that thousand-franc bill yet," replied the fighter.
"Well, there's a shooting gallery over here on the Cours du Midi," explained The Wasp. "I'll try ten shots with you. The loser pays for the supper."
"I'm on," said The Kid.
The lady who owned the Buffalo Bill Shooting Gallery nearly wept with delight as Robert Henry Blane sent nine little bits of lead through a hole which his first shot had bored in the black heart of the cardboard target. It was done in the manner of Buffalo Beel! Her friend, Buffalo Beel! And he was dead! Ah, mon Dieu, it was a sad world!
"Jimmy," said The Wasp, after The Just-So Kid had vainly endeavored to equal the feat of his friend, "will you pay the lady? I haven't a sou. I went and wrapped my pocketbook in a paper that I handed to Mademoiselle Caselli. I know Venice. It's a poor place to be broke in. You see, you cannot walk away from the jolly town."
The Just-So Kid looked up into the handsome face of the tall adventurer from Houston, Texas. "I always said you were a prince!" he growled. "Golly, you are!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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