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The Popular Magazine, 20 Oct 1923, with "The Jeweled Ikon of the Czar"
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
Again Mr. Robert Henry Blane, alias The Texan Wasp, meets Europe's greatest man hunter, No. 37. And again The Wasp punctures the vanity of the detective whose anonymous designation is a word of awe and terror to every lawbreaker from Land's End to Archangel. This time the adventurer from Houston, Texas, chooses north Africa as the scene of his exploits. And Betty Allerton, of Boston, looks on.
MANY, many months had elapsed since the strange affair at Aynhoe Road, Hammersmith, when Robert Henry Blane, known as The Texan Wasp, had been instrumental in returning to the daughter of the Magyar lord the strange goblet that her father had staked and lost. In those months The Texan Wasp had wandered up and down and had met with many adventures. Curious and colorful adventures. There was an incident on the Edinburgh Express that had puzzled the police force of England, and of which Robert Henry Blane alone knew the true solution. There was the matter of "The Green Man of Brighton," a weird affair that had made headlines for the Continental press, the inside history of which was known to The Wasp and one other. And these happenings were not all. Dame Adventure had a special liking for the tall and handsome Texan and she chose him as a standard bearer on many occasions.
Curiously, in all the adventurous weeks that had passed since the Hammersmith affair The Texan Wasp had not met his arch-enemy, the man hunter, No. 37, whose working alias was known from one end of Europe to the other. That the great detective was alive and active was well known to Mr. Blane. In the news agencies of the underworld there were recorded from time to time quick throws of the lariat of the Law, sudden yankings of big criminals into the cold reception rooms of Justice, the carefully compiled evidence and the swift convictions that stamped the work as that of the master sleuth. The round-ups may have happened in Naples, Stockholm, Madrid or any other place, but the shrewd criminals who knew the handiwork of No. 37 listened to the details, nodded their heads and glanced around uneasily.
Robert Henry Blane heard these reports and smiled carelessly. He was absolutely fearless and he had such a firm belief in his own star that his nerve was not shaken by the tales told of the uncanny chaser of criminals who had sent Pierre Chabannier to the nickel mines of New Caledonia, rounded up the head of "The Eighteen Devils" and supplied many a free passage for famous criminals to the penal settlement at Cayenne. He heard the stories with a perverse delight. "The Red Apache," who had once tried to garrote The Wasp at Lucerne, had been sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment; Monsieur Ponsonnard, the gold trafficker, had also retired to a quiet prison at Toulouse; the strange adventuress, Valerie Caselli, that Mr. Blane had become acquainted with at Venice, received a term at Budapest. No. 37 made no false boast when he had remarked to the murderer, Nicholas Grahn, that he, Grahn, was one of the few outstanding cases on his list.
Robert Henry Blane moved southward with the coming of winter. He voyaged de luxe. From Paris to Marseilles he had ridden on the "Blue and Gold Special," the embodiment of railroad comfort, and he was whiling away a few hours in Marseilles before taking a steamer to Africa when a miracle happened. A most extraordinary miracle.
The Texan Wasp had strolled down the Cannebière—that wonderful street that American sailors dub "The Can o' Beer"—and he had halted for a few moments on the Vieux-Port to watch the tourists bargain with the owners of the little motor boats that carry the inquisitive to the dungeons of Chateau d'If that Dumas told of in "The Count of Monte Cristo." It was a morning for miracles. The water of the port sparkled bravely in the sunshine, the huge transporter bridge across the basin was transformed from an ugly monstrosity into a thing of beauty, and the enormous figure of Notre Dame de la Garde, under whose special care are the sailors of the Mediterranean, glowed like a mass of molten gold. It was one of those mornings that sometimes come to this tired old planet and bring with them strange memories that make us think such days were plentiful in the time when the world was young.
Robert Henry Blane had no premonition of the miraculous happening. It had occurred with a suddenness that startled him. An old-time horse carriage, the type to which the good folk of Marseilles cling persistently, pulled up on the cobbled water front and from the carriage sprang a girl who ran hurriedly toward one of the little motor boats tied to the sea wall.
The self-possession of The Texan Wasp was swept away. The girl became a magnet that held his eyes. The sight of her unloosed a flood of memories that rolled through his brain, momentarily stunning him. They were the stored memories of golden days; a splendid tidal wave that surged out of a long-dead past. In a single flashing instant he was made cognizant of days that were sweet and wonderful. Days in the Maine woods in lazy summer and dreamy fall; magic evenings in Boston—evenings of fun and laughter when all the world seemed a playground and troubles were unknown.
In the human mélange of the port the girl looked so thoroughly American that Robert Henry Blane experienced a curious pain as he noted the filth of the water-front loafers that stood near her. She was so clean and wholesome, so gloriously beautiful in the golden sunshine. Her sweet face, her dress, her little toque, her shapely shoes brought agony to him. Involuntarily he had taken a step forward, then halted. A voice within his brain had screamed out a warning. "Fool!" it cried. "You cannot speak to her! She is not of your world now! The way of the transgressor is hard and you must pay!"
As The Wasp, breathless and stunned, stood and watched the girl Fate played another little trick. The girl placed a leather satchel on the top of one of the iron snubbing posts while she opened her pocket-book, and a hawk-eyed gorilla of the port swooped upon it.
The thief made a rush for the narrow and filthy lanes leading up from the Quai du Port, but his rush was interrupted. A tall and athletic Texan hurled himself upon him and flung him backward upon the cobblestones. It was her satchel! It had been touched a thousand times by her little fingers! It was a sacred thing!
The fury of the attack surprised the crook and he lay for an instant without moving, his vicious, snakelike eyes upon Robert Henry Blane. Only for an instant though. He lifted himself from the stones with that swift, catlike spring used by the Parisian apache and hurled himself with lightning suddenness at the throat of The Texan Wasp.
Robert Henry Blane tried to avoid the rush but failed. Hands that were made to choke weak victims gripped the Texan's throat and the thug endeavored to administer the quick and terrible squeeze that is so fearfully effective.
The Texan Wasp sensed the power of the strangler's fingers and acted with amazing suddenness. A left fist was driven forward with all the concentrated power that can be put into a six-inch drive from the hip. It was a punch that would have carried away the fender of a street car. The thug crumpled, the sinewy fingers lost their throttling power, the fellow dropped upon his knees, then, with a tremendous effort, pulled himself together, rolled drunkenly across the street and dived into the network of little streets that make the old town.
Robert Henry Blane found that the girl was at his side. Some one had picked up the leather satchel dropped by the thief and handed it to her. The eyes of the man and the maid met. Blane's eyes were no more the inscrutable, cold eyes that baffled antagonists; they were moist and dim as they looked down into hers.
The girl spoke but Blane could not catch the little murmured words she uttered. Then, in the silence that followed the two found that they were the attraction of a hundred eyes. The quick struggle had drawn together all the loafers of the port and into the circle came the majesty of the law as represented by a French policeman with his eternal notebook and his capacity to ask a million questions in the shortest possible period of time.
What had happened? Mademoiselle had lost her pocketbook? Who had stolen it? Where was he? Why was he not held by monsieur? And the name of mademoiselle? Ah, Mademoiselle Betty Allerton, Grand Hôtel du Louvre, Rue Noailles! Américaine, of course?
"And the name of monsieur?"
The Texan Wasp took from his pocket-book the little identification card that the French police insist must be carried by all foreigners who remain more than two months in France. He did not wish to speak his name aloud. He hoped the fool policeman would not attempt to pronounce it as he copied it laboriously. On the night when he had met Betty Allerton in the grounds of the Casino at Monte Carlo he had denied that he was the Robert Henry Blane that she knew in Boston town in the days of long ago.
The policeman made a final entry and banged his book shut. Monsieur and mademoiselle would have to come to the nearest police station and prefer a charge against the unknown.
"Not now?" protested Robert Henry Blane.
"Yes, monsieur, now!"
The Texan Wasp looked at the girl, and a strange little smile spread over her face. "Oh, I cannot go!" she cried. "I ran away from the hotel where my auntie is staying. I wanted to make a visit to the Château d'If to see where the Count of Monte Cristo was imprisoned. I must go! Please make him put it off! Please!"
Robert Henry Blane turned upon the small policeman. In cold, dignified French the Texan explained that the father of mademoiselle, a distinguished American, had been taken suddenly ill at the Château d'If and that mademoiselle had been summoned in great haste. In the afternoon they would visit the prefecture, but not now. Monsieur, who was surely intelligent, could see that an immediate visit was impossible.
The policeman wavered. In some mysterious manner a twenty-franc bill found its way into the palm of his right hand. He wheeled and chased away the pop-eyed spectators, leaving Betty Allerton and Robert Henry Blane alone.
THE Texan Wasp hardly knew what he said in those first few
minutes that they were together. Later he tried to recall what
the girl had said, but he failed. Little sections of the chatter
were remembered but the greater part of the girl's talk had been
transformed into a sweet ripple of inarticulate sound that flowed
through his brain and soothed him immensely in the hours
following their parting.
The little scraps that he remembered exactly were important exchanges. Said Betty Allerton:
"I sent you a note when I saw you at Lucerne thanking you for what you did at Monte Carlo. Did you get the note? I thought to see you again but I didn't although I—I was on the Schweizerhof Quay every day."
Stammered The Texan Wasp: "I was called away hurriedly. Yes, yes, I got your note. What I did at Monte Carlo was nothing."
He recalled with a little jab of remorse his flight up the lake after outwitting No. 37 and the chief of "The Eighteen Devils."
What right had he to talk to the girl at his side?
Then again the sweet voice of the girl: "That was good of you to tell that little fib to the policeman. I had to see Château d'If this morning. Monte Cristo is my favorite character and we leave this afternoon. Auntie said it was too rough to go down to the harbor so I sneaked away from the hotel. Do you think it is too rough?"
He saw the desire to see the romantic prison in her eyes and he shook his head.
"And the visit to the prefecture?" she murmured.
"Forget about it," said Blane.
"But you might be worried after I leave?" she cried.
"I'm leaving too," laughed The Wasp.
"Immediately?"
"Yes; I go to Algiers by a boat leaving this afternoon."
Later he recalled how she had appeared to be a little startled when he told her of his destination. She had flushed, looked for a moment as if she intended to speak, then walked back to the spot where she had stood talking to the motor-boat owner at the moment the thief attempted to steal her satchel.
Robert Henry Blane followed her. He wondered if he had offended her. He had said that he was leaving for Algiers, and she had become strangely quiet. What was wrong with his statement?
An old weather-beaten sailor took the little hand of Miss Betty Allerton and helped her into the boat. She smiled up at Robert Henry Blane. "I cannot thank you enough for what you did in getting my satchel back," she said softly. "My passport and all my little bank drafts were in it. I would have been stranded completely if I had lost it."
The engine started and she waved her hand. "Good-by!" shouted The Wasp.
"Good-by! And thanks again!" cried the girl.
The motor boat shot off in the direction of the famous island where Mirabeau and Louis-Philippe-Egalité were imprisoned, and Robert Henry Blane, feeling a little sad, turned and walked swiftly up the Cannebière.
Opposite the Bourse a street urchin slipped a note into the Texan's hand and dived into the crowd. Blane unrolled the scrap of paper and read the message it carried. It was in French, and a rough translation would read:
Dogs should not bite dogs. Big thieves and little thieves are only thieves. One day soon the band to which I belong might repay you for your interference.
Robert Henry Blane tore the note into little scraps. It had evidently come from the strangler whose plans he had foiled on the water front and it was evident that the strangler or some of his friends knew Robert Henry Blane.
The Texan Wasp repeated the first sentence of the message. "Dogs should not bite dogs," he growled. "Well, he's right. Dogs shouldn't bite dogs!" Then after a long pause he added: "And they shouldn't speak to angels either!"
A nice old gentleman into whose ear Mr. Blane had hissed the concluding remark turned and politely asked if Mr. Blane had made an inquiry. The big American stammered an apology and walked swiftly toward his hotel. He was very angry with himself and yet he felt curiously pleased as he recalled the honeyed voice of Betty Allerton.
OUT from the Quai Joliette swung the Timgad carrying
The Texan Wasp to the countries of the sun. She swung by the
lighthouse and bucked a nor'easter that was sweeping the Gulf of
the Lion. Robert Henry Blane, clinging to a stanchion on the
sheltered side of the upper deck, thought of Betty Allerton as he
watched the old Mediterranean lash itself into a fury.
Mr. Blane was a little puzzled. Since he had parted from Miss Allerton some three hours before he had wondered over the expression that came upon her face when he had told her that he was going to Algiers. He had tried to analyze it. Again and again he had asked himself what there was in his simple statement to startle her. Why had her face flushed? Why did she appear disturbed by the news?
"It isn't possible," growled Robert Henry Blane, "that she and her aunt had planned to cross into Africa and that my—"
The half-uttered remark was never finished. Out from a passageway leading to the cabins de luxe stepped a trim figure in a traveling dress of blue gabardine, and The Texan Wasp stared in amazement.
Miss Betty Allerton was the less upset of the two. "When you told me that you were going to Algiers I didn't like to tell you that auntie and I had reserved cabins," she said sweetly. "I—I thought it was one of those statements that might make you change your mind. You—you understand? I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing."
Robert Henry Blane was beside her now. He even steadied her slightly as the Timgad met a thrust from a pig-snouted roller that had an ambition to capsize the boat. The world, to the tall and handsome Texan, had been suddenly transformed into a rose-and-purple wonderland in which everything was sweet and glorious. He was on a boat with the girl he had loved in the long ago! The girl who had told him that the world was his to conquer!
He shook himself, thinking it might be a dream. He recalled the evening at' Monte Carlo when he had denied his name to her. She had said that he resembled some one she knew in Boston town, "some one whose name was Bob." He, Blane, had told her that his name was not "Bob." What must the girl have thought of him! He recalled the care he had taken at the Vieux-Port to prevent her from seeing the name on his identification card, the name that she had known him by. And then, to add to the mental suffering that was his, there came to his mind the jeer in the note that had been thrust into his hand on the Cannebière: "Dogs should not bite dogs!"
The voice of honey dragged him out of the half stupor that remorse brought upon him. "Is it going to be rough?" asked the girl. "I mean very rough?"
He stammered out comforting assurances. There was always a little wind in the Gulf of the Lion but after that the passage would be perfectly quiet.
He brought her a chair and arranged it in the cosiest corner. He hung over her, listening to her chatter. Her auntie was a bad sailor. Very bad. But auntie had a desire for the sun and Algiers appealed. Besides auntie had many friends there. At Mustapha Supérieur, the aristocratic quartier of Algiers, lived many people that auntie knew. She mentioned their names. Robert Henry Blane was amazed. The Grand Duke and Grand Duchess Andrew were intimate friends of auntie. They had begged her and Miss Betty to come across and visit them.
An hour fled with amazing swiftness. Miss Allerton went back to the cabin leaving Robert Henry Blane to think over what she had said. He walked the deck and jeered at his own impertinence. He was an adventurer, a criminal adventurer as he had told Valerie Caselli at Venice, yet he had dared to think of a sweet and wonderful girl who had known him in the days when the trumpet of shame had not connected his name with deeds that were startling.
His remorse increased. He fled to the smoking room, fearful that she would see him again. He cursed the smallness of the boat. All the strange and extraordinary affairs with which his name had been associated paraded in his mind. What would "auntie," who was the friend of grand duchesses, think of the sensational stories that were told of one Robert Henry Blane of Houston, Texas, known to the underworld of Europe as The Texan Wasp? What a story could be poured into her ear by the king of man hunters, No. 37? What would she think of his doings at the Roost of the Ladrones; of his tactics at the Castle of the Black Rocks, of the extraordinary part he played in the matter of "The Green Man of Brighton" that had made headlines for the press of Europe?
The storm of self-reproach increased. The verses that he had written to Betty Allerton came and mocked him. He writhed in agony as he recalled the little words that she had babbled softly into his ear when pinning a rosette on his breast one day at Philadelphia when he had broken three records before the cheering crowds that lined the track.
He rose with the intention of seeking his cabin. The crossing was a matter of twenty-six hours; he would keep out of the way. The little harrows of contrition were raking the soul of Robert Henry Blane.
Near the door of the smoking room a big man with a large, hawk-like nose, who was bragging loudly to three friends lurched against The Wasp and vouchsafed no immediate apology for his action. His deliberate rudeness was evident. As Robert Henry Blane steadied himself after the collision the fellow muttered a remark about persons who were not used to ships and who did not know where they were going.
It was an unlucky remark to make to The Texan Wasp considering the mood he was in. The gray eyes flashed; the slight scar on the right jaw that was hardly noticeable at other times, showed white and livid. His right hand went out, gripped the coat sleeve of the big man, twisted it swiftly so that it became a handle to the fellow's person, then with a deft movement The Wasp sent him spinning across the room.
The Timgad plunged at the moment. The Wasp swayed to the dive; the man on the floor tried unavailingly to get to his feet. He cursed fluently as he reached for the leg of one of the fixed armchairs.
He dragged himself up after a great effort and stood for a moment regarding the tall Texan. A shrewd fellow in his way. Upon the floor he had contemplated the murder of Robert Henry Blane; on his feet he thought differently. The face of The Wasp was one that bit into false courage like acid into soft metal. The cold gray eyes would have halted The Cid.
"I'll remember monsieur at some other time," he stammered. "I will—"
"Apologize at once!" cried The Wasp.
The fellow paused for a moment then jerked out the necessary words as if frightened at the delay. "I apologize to monsieur," he gasped. "There was no harm intended."
Robert Henry Blane went to his cabin and he remained there till the Timgad docked. All the first-class passengers had left the ship before he went down the gangplank and he wondered what the girl had thought of his conduct. It was reasonable to think that he would have presented himself and offered his services in the matter of helping with the luggage.
Strangely enough he had a reminder of the meeting at the Vieux-Port as he mixed with the second and third-class passengers who were held back till the cabin occupants had landed. He thought he saw the hawk-faced gorilla who had attempted to steal the satchel of Miss Betty Allerton. Just for an instant he imagined that he saw the vicious, snakelike eyes of the sneak thief in the crowd, then the swarm of luggage-burdened folk swallowed him up.
THE Écho d'Alger and the Dépêche Algérienne told Robert Henry Blane much during the first hour of his arrival. Both papers recorded the arrival of the Comtesse de Chambon and her niece, Miss Betty Allerton of Boston, U.S.A., and the newspapers added that the comtesse and Miss Betty were to be the guests of the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess Andrew at the Villa Kairouan during their stay in the White City beloved by the poets of El Djezaïr.
The Texan Wasp whistled softly as he digested the information. He read and reread the paragraphs. "Auntie" was a comtesse! Miss Betty was the guest of a grand duke! Robert Henry Blane thought of routes out of town. The railway led to Tunis and Fez. He considered whether he would go east or west. He wondered what mad idea had brought him to Algiers. His sang-froid had deserted him. He was stampeded at the prospect of meeting the girl again.
The newspapers were filled with items regarding the grand duke. A clever chap. He had invested his funds in French securities long before the ruble took its wild rush into the financial garbage can and now with his great wealth he was resurrecting the days of the caliphs in the big villa at Mustapha Supérieur. The local papers were delighted with him. They told how he had been the boon companion of the dead Czar; how he had received from the unlucky Nicholas a jeweled ikon whose beauty and worth were unequaled in all the earth; how his presence in Algiers would bring to the city the very flower and cream of the fashionable world.
The Texan Wasp wondered a little about the worth of the jeweled ikon. It seemed attractive. He thought it silly of the Romanoff duke to parade the fact that he had the treasure in his villa.
Mr. Blane read on. The grand duke and grand duchess were giving a masked ball that was to be the greatest event in the White City since the days of the beys. Decorators had been brought down from Paris; strange dancers had been fetched by caravan from mysterious desert encampments—dancers that were said to eclipse the famous Ouled-Naïl; all that a Russian mind, barbaric and untrained, could think of to stir the palates of jaded guests would be on view at the Ville Kairouan. Even the jeweled ikon was to play its part. The grand duchess was to exhibit the wonderful creation of the court jewelers of Petrograd during the evening.
Robert Henry Blane flung down the paper and reached for a time-table of the line to Turk. He felt depressed. Fate had played him a scurvy trick. It had flung up before him the penalty for wrongdoing; he had been told in a forceful way that laws and conventions could not be outraged.
He rang for the porter to carry his baggage to the near-by station, then he descended to the office. At the counter was a young Arab in a smart white uniform who was busy describing in broken English the person who was to receive an unaddressed letter he carried.
The French clerk was irritable. "How am I to know the man?" he demanded.
The Arab waved the letter and endeavored to explain himself. "I have not the gentleman's name," he said, "but he must be here. I have made questions at the other hotels. He is an American and he is very tall."
The clerk glanced at The Texan Wasp, and the Arab, with a grin of delight, rushed at Robert Henry Blane.
"My lady did not know your name," he cried. "I am sure that it is for you. It is from the Villa Kairouan."
Robert Henry Blane tore open the envelope and hurriedly read the note inside. It ran:
I feel somehow that I have spoiled your trip. I looked for you before we disembarked, but I could not find you. It is difficult for me to come down to the city because auntie is afraid of the natives and will not go out of the grounds, yet I want to see you. I must see you. Once I told you that you resembled a man whom I shall always think of as fine and splendid, and, curiously, my belief in that man grows greater every day. There is a masked ball to-morrow evening. Come! Please do! I shall look for you.
Betty Allerton.
The Arab watched the face of The Texan Wasp as he read the message and he grinned delightedly. He knew that he had found his man.
"Is there an answer, sah?" he inquired.
For an instant Robert Henry Blane remained silent, then he waved the porter back up the stairs. "I am going to stay," he said. To the grinning Arab he remarked: "There is no answer."
AN African night of sapphire blue was given by the gods for
the masked ball at the Villa Kairouan. An arch of sky, tinted
with that subtle shade of indigo that only the African sky can
attain, sprang up from the heights of Mustapha Supérieur, reared
itself up to the little startled stars and vaulted out across the
Mediterranean toward Europe. It was a night for dancing, a night
for revelry, a night in which the magic of Islam could soak into
the soul of the young and romantic.
Ten thousand lights illuminated the great villa of the grand duke. Motor cars and carriages made an endless procession up the Rue Michelet. Bagdad lived again on the slopes above the city of Yousuf Zeri. Guests in gorgeous costumes passed through the great Moorish gates of the villa—guests in the costumes of Arab sheiks and Kabyle warriors, jugglers, snake charmers, dancing girls, and desert dwellers of all types.
On the wide terrace outside the ballroom, a tall, splendidly built cowboy, whose costume proved that he knew well what a real cowboy should wear, glanced inquiringly at a veiled Scheherezade whose bright eyes shone from behind the gossamer silk of the adjar that completely covered her face. The veiled beauty returned the glance of inquiry, and the cowboy, emboldened by the look, whistled softly a little rhyme that he had composed in the long ago. It was a rhyme of Boston town and it ran:
Oh, mother, if the sun don't shine,
And if the moon is moony,
There's some one down on Tremont Street
Who won't let me go loony.
Her name it goes from lip to lip—
The veiled Scheherazade laughed softly and the cowboy stopped whistling. "I was certain that it was you," said the girl, speaking in a soft whisper. "I have seen a thousand Europeans dressed as cowboys but you are the first man I have seen in Europe dressed as a cowboy who looked as if he had ever seen a cow. Tel! me, how did you get such a dandy costume in Algiers?"
"I borrowed it," answered The Texan Wasp.
"From whom?"
Robert Henry Blane laughed. "The owner would be pleased to know of your interest in it," he said. "He's a real cow-, boy from the Panhandle. I found him yesterday in the Kasbah and we forgathered. He was riding for an American circus that stranded at Naples, and now he's working his way back to Tampico on an oil tanker. This was his circus costume and I borrowed it for to-night."
"It is splendid!" cried Miss Betty Allerton. "Doesn't it—doesn't it make you—make you want to go home?"
"It does," said The Wasp. "It brought all sorts of thoughts to me. It's curious. I went aboard the tanker to get the rig and this chap showed me his saddle and bridle and I felt inclined to cry. He cried—the cowboy, I mean. He had brought a Texan pony over with the circus and when the outfit failed at Naples the authorities took the pony with the rest of the equipment in payment for the debt. I think something happened to the fool sheriff or whatever the Italian debt collector is called. I didn't ask any questions but I think some one who was leading the pony away got hurt. That's why my friend left hurriedly on the tanker. The things he says about Italy are unpublishable."
"I think it was dreadful to take his horse," murmured the girl.
A little silence fell upon the two. A Zouave band played softly. Little winds from far-off places—winds that carried the whispers of the hot sands of the desert beyond Laghouat came to the man and the maid.
"Will you dance?" asked Robert Henry Blane.
"Yes," breathed the girl.
In the crowded room there was no pair that possessed the grace and charm of Robert Henry Blane and Betty Allerton. The Texan was tall and superbly built, the girl from old Boston had a sweet charm that was indescribable.
They were curiously silent as they danced. To The Texan Wasp the fact that he was dancing with Betty Allerton was something that choked back speech and made small talk impossible. The girl found that the witchery and charm of the night brought a pleasant languor and a dislike to conversation. She was intensely happy.
They danced a second dance and a third. They were forgetful of everything and every one. A marshal of France sat with the grand duke and the grand duchess on a festooned dais at one end of the room, but his presence or that of a thousand other notables mattered little to Robert Henry Blane and Betty Allerton. The ball was theirs, the night was theirs, the city of the beys and all the wonder seas of sand that swept away toward the magic oases of the south were theirs.
Robert Henry Blane thought over the tact of the girl. She had not mentioned his name. He had denied his name to her at Monte Carlo and she had accepted the denial. As in Lucerne she had described him to the messenger who had brought the note to his hotel. He wondered over the strangeness of their meetings.
It was during the third dance that Robert Henry Blane was suddenly dragged back to the cold realities of life. The gold-and-purple veil that the night had drawn over a past filled with adventure was rent with a haste that startled him. At the end of the dais a group had gathered to view the jeweled ikon which the grand duchess was exhibiting, and from this group the two Americans had danced down the length of the room toward the great windows that looked out over the bay of Algiers to Cape Matifou.
Near the windows they had bumped ever so slightly a pair of dancers, the man costumed as a juggler, the lady in all the glory of a confection modeled on what was supposed to have been the court dress of Dido, Queen of Carthage. Possibly something in the build of the juggler made Robert Henry Blane seek the eyes that looked out from the black mask, and the glance of inquiry brought a shock to the American. The eyes that looked back to him were cold and merciless. They were the eyes of a human bloodhound; eyes that were like frozen hailstones from which pity and warmth had been relentlessly expelled. They flung the mind of The Texan Wasp back to far-off places. Before his eyes there flashed a picture of the hall of a house in Sulgrave Road, Hammersmith, where he watched the arrest of Nicholas Grahn. He saw again for a darting instant a packed music hall in Paris where he had looked across rows and rows of heads at a stern figure seated on the stage. He saw again the dark cellar of the Palazzo Falieri at Venice when some one had interrupted his search for the golden ducats of the unlucky doge. The eyes that looked at him from the slits in the juggler's mask were the eyes of Number 37, the man hunter without a peer in all Europe!
THE juggler and Queen Dido were swallowed up in a little knot
of dancers who had torn themselves away from the jeweled ikon,
and The Texan Wasp guided Miss Betty Allerton through the big
windows onto the terrace. Before them was the cool sweep of the
great lawn running down to the high wall that separated it from
the boulevard. It was dotted here and there with clumps of palm
trees under which nestled seats.
Robert Henry Blane was startled but not unnerved. For a moment after he had looked into the eyes of the great detective he wondered if he could have made a mistake in supposing that the juggler was Number 37, but as the minutes passed he told himself that there was no pair of eyes in all the world that possessed the strange hardness of those owned by the sleuth. He knew them. He had looked into those eyes at moments when danger had made mental negatives that could never be obliterated, and now, as he compared those prints of former meetings with the impression of the quick glance in the ballroom, he knew that there could be no mistake. The juggler was Number 37 without a doubt!
Blane, while still conversing with the girl at his side, tried to guess at the business that had brought the distinguished man hunter to the Villa Kairouan. Of course the sleuth might turn up anywhere, as a number of famous criminals had found to their sorrow, but the heights of Mustapha Supérieur, the aristocratic quarter of Algiers seemed a little off the beat. Why was he there?
A word sprang into the mind of The Texan Wasp and danced around in the space that he had cleared for an answer to his own query. The word was "ikon."
Mr. Blane smiled softly as the word pirouetted before his mental eyes. He had been so intensely occupied with thoughts of Miss Betty Allerton that he had forgotten the great treasure that was housed for the moment at the Villa Kairouan. He remembered what the local papers had said about the ikon. They had spoken of it as one of the most remarkable treasures in the world and had told that experts who had seen it were unable to put a money value upon it.
Then Number 37 was in Algiers on account of the ikon. The strange piece that had soothed the dead Czar was an attraction that might bring clever thieves to the heights above the white city of dreams and the great man hunter had arranged things so that he should be close to the tempting bait.
Miss Betty Allerton and Robert Henry Blane drifted off down the lawn. They found a seat beneath a cluster of date palms and The Wasp thrust the matter of the detective from his mind as the girl talked. What did he care for sleuths, no matter how famous they were? What did he care for ikons? He was Robert Henry Blane of Houston, Texas, and the night was his.
The girl spoke of America, of Boston, of home. There was a trace of wistfulness in the sweet flow of words.
"Always I am a little sad when I am away," she murmured. "Even when everything seems very beautiful and splendid as it does to-night. All this is wonderful and glorious but—but I would give anything I possess to be walking across Boston Common right now. Do you—do you have desires like that?"
"Often," admitted The Wasp. "It is more than seven years since I have seen America yet I have moments when I wish I could take the Atlantic at a single spring and land down in places that I knew. Mine are queer places—I mean the spots that I have a longing to see suddenly."
"How do you mean?" questioned the girl. "I mean how are they queer?"
"Well," stammered The Wasp, "they are just ordinary places. I never have a desire to hop right into the Metropolitan Museum or the Smithsonian Institute or any place like that, but I have an awful desire at times to see little places. Little places where something happened. There's a Harvey eating room at Albuquerque that I would like to see, that's one. And there's a little ranch on the Pecos that attracts me at times. And then—then there are other spots. There's a—there's a lake in Maine that comes to me in my sleep—"
He stopped abruptly. He thought that a little choked sob had come from the girl at his side. A silence fell upon them. A casuarina tree near the road sang softly as its leaves were rustled by the night wind.
After a long interval the girl spoke. She put a question in a whisper. "Then why don't you go back?" she asked softly. "If —if you have great longings to see places in your own country why do you not go home?"
There was another interval of silence before the man answered her question. "There are people who doubt me and I don't blame them," he said. "I went away because something happened and I don't think I will ever go back."
"The doubters are everywhere," said the girl softly, "but there are always some who believe. Some whose belief is so great that the doubts of a million are nothing in comparison to it. I am sure—I am sure that there are some—that there is at least one—one whose belief would make you feel that the silly chatter of the mob was nothing."
A soft silence fell upon the two after the girl had spoken. The African night held them in its soft, slow-breathing embrace. They looked out across the sea, the moonlit sea over which the hordes of Algerian pirates raced time and time again till an American admiral, one Stephen Decatur of Maryland, helped the French and British to put the cutthroats out of business. Robert Henry Blane was wondering if it were possible to go back. "Back where?" asked an accusing voice within his brain. "Where would you go? To Houston? Hardly! To Boston? No! Then where? Would you tell the good folk that you met how the underworld of Europe knew you as The Texan Wasp, the American dare-devil who had no knowledge of fear? Would you tell them of your escapades? Of the little war that existed between you and a great man hunter who was known as No. 37?"
Thoughts of the detective roused The Wasp. The famous sleuth was quite close to him as he sat dreaming of the great land beyond the ocean. Possibly the man hunter had recognized him in that swift glance in the ballroom, and, instead of a sight of the little ranch on the Pecos, he might, if he did not take care, have a glimpse of the penal settlements of Cayenne.
The girl sensed his uneasiness and rose to her feet. "Shall we go back to the ballroom?" she murmured.
The Texan Wasp acquiesced with a bow.
IN silence they walked up the sloping lawn to the terrace.
Robert Henry Blane felt that the echoes of her words still
lingered in the mimosa-scented air. The night winds refused to
let them die, and again and again he felt certain that he heard
her say: "I am sure that there are some—that there is at
least one—one whose belief would make you feel that the
silly chatter of the mob was nothing."
They had reached one of the great French windows opening on the terrace when the Zouave band stopped with a crash in the middle of a waltz. An order was hurled from the dais at the end of the room and the hum of conversation and laughter ceased instantly. Miss Betty Allerton paused at the window and as she stood looking into the suddenly hushed room her soft fingers fell upon the arm of Robert Henry Blane. Curiously The Wasp thought that there was something protective in the manner in which she touched his sleeve.
Some one upon the dais was speaking excitedly in French. In the intense stillness that had fallen upon the ballroom the words came clear to the ears of Robert Henry Blane and Betty Allerton. They were rather startling words. They told of a bold and sensational theft. The grand duchess had retired for a moment to her chamber, leaving the jeweled ikon in its box upon the dais. She had been absent less than five minutes but on her return she found that the priceless treasure had been stolen!
For an instant the calmness that seldom deserted The Texan Wasp left him completely. He was filled with bitter recriminations. He had come to the ball without an invitation! He had walked in with all his cool impudence, and servants had bowed before him. Now there would be questions and a general checking up. The long finger of suspicion would weave in and out among the guests searching for a person it could rest upon. Blane pictured the immediate events that would follow the announcement, and in that picture he saw Betty Allerton—Betty of the pure face and the glorious eyes watching in fear and trembling lest the weaving finger should rest upon the shoulder of the man she had known in the long ago in old Boston town. The heart of Robert Henry Blane became sick with foreboding.
The girl stepped back from the window and stood beside the tall Texan. Within the room a little hubbub of excited chatter followed the announcement. The usual number of amateur detectives were putting forward plans showing now the thief could be detected. Some one announced that the grand duchess had collapsed and had been carried to her bedroom.
Robert Henry Blane wondered what the juggler with the cold, pitiless eyes was doing? Where was No. 37? He glanced into the big room in an effort to locate him. The dancers had formed themselves into little groups and Blane thought that they looked curiously startled, curiously terrified. He smiled as he thought of that fixed belief that innocent people do not show guilt upon their faces. For just a second he glanced over the faces of the men close to the big window and he felt certain that any one of them would be chosen as the guilty person by an amateur detective.
"Possibly they all had an idea in their minds concerning the ikon," thought The Wasp. "They thought of theft but they lacked the nerve and now that some one has gone and pulled off the trick the guilty thought shows upon their faces."
Again the soft fingers of Betty Allerton touched his sleeve and brought to his mind the necessity for immediate action. The police would come in great droves from Algiers—the prying French police with their ridiculous hunger for papers and identifications. They would grill every guest. They would question the big Texan and they would have the assistance of the distinguished detective who would be willing to supply any information that the masquerading cowboy held back.
"Time to go, Bob," whispered a warning voice in the brain of The Texan Wasp. "Hit the trail, old-timer!"
Robert Henry Blane turned to the girl at his side. "I came here without an invitation," he said, "and I think my position would appear ridiculous if there was an inquiry. I think I had better go."
"Yes," murmured the girl.
"I am sorry," continued Blane. "Awfully sorry that the ikon has been stolen. It muddles up what was to me a wonderful evening."
Betty Allerton turned her head toward the lawn and spoke in a low voice. "I am sorry that I asked you to come," she said. "If—if you are annoyed I—I will never forgive myself."
The Texan Wasp laughed and the laugh contained all the contempt for danger that his adventurous soul possessed. "I will not be annoyed by any one," he said. "I seldom am annoyed. It is of you that I am thinking. You will probably be asked if you knew me and that will be disagreeable. They will ask my name."
"I do not know your—your name," whispered Betty Allerton. "You—you never told it to me. I—-I only know you as a man who resembles some one I knew—some one in whom I had great faith."
She put out her hand. Robert Henry Blane lifted her soft, cod fingers to his lips, kissed them lightly, then stepped quickly from the terrace to the lawn. The girl turned and entered the ballroom.
The Texan Wasp, on leaving Betty Allerton, had planned to cross the lawn in the shadow of the big trees, climb the front wall that separated the villa grounds from the boulevard and then make his way by unfrequented routes down the hillside to the town. For a moment he had conceived a hatred for the bold thief who had annexed the jeweled ikon but as he hurried across the lawn this hate fled. He told himself that the impudent unknown had served him a good turn. He admitted to himself that he had been treading on dangerous ground. The nearness of the girl of his dreams, the witchery of the African night, the scented winds, the soft music and all the sentiment-breeding charm of the land of Islam might have tempted him to make a fool of himself.
He considered the danger of sentiment. It was a quicksand that engulfed one's mental legs. "What is the use of me thinking I can ever go back?" he growled savagely as he hurried across the lawn. "I'm a social outlaw and I might just as well keep out of the way of decent people."
He was close to the boundary wall of the villa when the full realization of his danger came to him. If No. 37 had recognized him in the swift glance that they exchanged in the ballroom he, Blane, was certain that the master detective, who had a fine belief in the nerve of The Texan Wasp, would look no farther for the perpetrator of the theft. If the man hunter had not recognized him the danger of being apprehended was equally great as the efforts of the local police would surely be directed by him.
And the local police were thrust unpleasantly under the notice of The Texan Wasp at that moment. Up the hill came two roaring automobiles whose indecent headlights lit up the boulevard before the Villa Kairouan so that the tropical vegetation seemed startled as the fierce white light fell upon it. The Wasp, on the inner side of the wall, ducked smartly. The police had arrived with a swiftness that spoke well for the intelligence of the person who had telephoned a report of the theft. The Wasp thought of No. 37. It was surely the man hunter who had communicated the details that had brought the two packed automobiles charging up from the romantic city of El Djezaïr.
Orders were shouted by a commissioner in charge as the snorting machines halted. The villa was to be surrounded. No one was to enter or leave the place without the permission of the commissioner. Robert Henry Blane heard the thudding of heavy shoes as the police ran to take up their positions. The ikon of the dead Czar had stirred the city that Stephen Decatur had once attacked.
The Texan Wasp, finding escape by the front wall dangerous, turned and crept toward the right. He reached the wall that divided the Villa Kairouan from a neighboring palace built in the Moorish style.
It was a high wall made of soft, crumbling stone, but at every ten feet or so there had been made gaps in the stone and in these spaces eucalyptus trees, imported from Australia, had been planted with the idea of forming a shelter against the hot sirocco that blows from the desert in the summertime. The smooth white trunk of a big eucalyptus attracted the Texan. He hurriedly climbed it and he had barely reached the heavy foliage when the squad of police detailed off to guard that side of the villa passed beneath him. The night that had been filled with music and laughter was suddenly turned into a bedlam of shouted orders, with the clashing of steel, the tramp of heavy feet and the startled cries of women.
Mr. Blane, resting for a moment on the lowest limb of the tree, felt inclined to curse his own dilatoriness. He told himself that he should have fled with winged heels the moment he heard the announcement of the theft. He was in a ridiculous position. Although he had visited the villa without a thought of annexing the ikon he would surely be accused of the robbery if he was captured and brought face to face with No. 37.
Blane considered the chances of reaching the rear of the villa by means of the line of trees. They grew so close together that it was easy for him to swing himself from the limbs of one tree to the limbs of another, taking pains to see that there was no watchful patrol beneath him. The front of the villa was too well guarded and the bare and treeless lawn of the adjoining place could not be crossed with safety. The Wasp reasoned that there might be a possibility of escaping through the neighboring property if he could reach the outhouses of the Moorish palace, which, at the middle of the wall, came quite close to the dividing fence.
Very cautiously The Texan Wasp moved along the highway of the air. He was an athlete of more than ordinary skill. He possessed muscles of steel that served him well as he climbed out along the slippery limbs of the big trees and sprang from one to the other, gauging his movements with a nicety that would have done credit to the most accomplished chimpanzee. He tried to thrust all thoughts of Betty Allerton from his mind. His one consuming desire was to get away from the danger area that had been produced by the theft of the ikon.
With much care he reached a point where the small buildings connected with the Moorish palace came close to the wall. Mr. Blane examined them carefully and was on the point of dropping into the grounds adjoining the Villa Kairouan when there came an interruption. A rather strange interruption. From a tree immediately ahead came the rustling of leaves, the soft whimper of rubbing boughs, the very faint rustle of clothes that suggested the presence of another climber!
The Wasp crouched in a comfortable fork and waited. The unknown was moving slowly toward him, following the same high route as the American, but going in a different direction!
The Wasp wondered as to the fellow's identity. His first thought was of No. 37. He reasoned that the great man hunter, with his uncanny sense of location, had left the guarding of the villa to the local police and was hunting for a certain tall Texan in the treetops.
The thought did not improve the temper of The Wasp. The theft of the ikon had made him angry. He thought it an unkind interruption of an evening's pleasure. Fate had maliciously chased him from the presence of Betty Allerton by permitting a thief to annex the wonderful ikon that had once been the property of the Czar. Robert Henry Blane's face showed the queer fighting look that brought out the whiteness of the scar on the right jaw. There was an amazing story connected with that scar, a story of the Rio Grande that will never be forgotten.
The sounds made by the unseen climber became more distinct. The Wasp was now certain that it was the sleuth. There flashed into his brain the words of the little chemist who had asserted that No. 37 possessed the smelling faculties of a dog. A wave of hate for the detective swept over the Texan. He, Blane, had not stolen the ikon. Why should he be pursued? Why had the happening robbed him of the few hours of golden pleasure that were akin to the hours he had spent with Betty in the long ago?
Along a limb that led directly to the fork in which the Texan crouched came the unknown. Cautiously, carefully, and with the very minimum of noise he approached. The Wasp could hear his labored breathing. He could hear the noises made by dry twigs broken off by his passing. The moon had been temporarily hidden by a heavy cloud and it was dark in the center of the tree.
Then with a suddenness that was startling to both the unknown broke through a screen of leaves and came face to face with Robert Henry Blane!
In that first second The Texan Wasp knew that his guess regarding the identity of the tree climber was wrong. The unknown was masked but the costume was not that of the native juggler in which the American had seen No. 37. The man on the tree wore the Arab gandoura, the white wool gown worn beneath the burnoose. He had probably stripped off the outer garment so that he could have his limbs free.
The unknown was evidently under the belief that he had few friends at Mustapha Supérieur. With amazing swiftness he struck at the head of the cowboy and it was only the alertness of The Wasp that saved him from a stunning blow. A blackjack, strapped to the wrist of the other missed the head of Robert Henry Blane by such a narrow margin that the Texan's anger, simmering up to that moment, became white hot.
The Wasp forgot the proximity of the police and the great sleuth. Clinging to the tree with his left hand he unloosed a right uppercut that possessed the speed and force of a flying shell. It landed on the chin of the unknown, and as he lurched forward his hands lost their grip on the slippery limb. He fell against Blane, rolled from the limb, then, just as he slipped, his groping arms found the right leg of the Texan and clung to it with a tenacity that was remarkable.
The Wasp was jerked from the fork of the tree as the unknown attached himself. Mr. Blane's anger was multiplied a thousandfold by the happening. He tried manfully to disengage himself from the clutch of the other but his efforts were unavailing. The unknown, half unconscious from the blow on the chin, had still in his numbed brain an idea concerning the distance he was from the ground, and no octopus ever clung to a victim more tightly than he clung to the adventurous person from Houston.
The Texan Wasp was in a desperate position. The weight of the other was too great to withstand. He glanced downward. There was a drop of fifteen feet and if he fell he would in all probability strike the top of the stone wall and roll into the grounds adjoining the Villa Kairouan.
Mr. Blane made a little prayer to the black cat mascot in his pocket and let go his grip on the limb. With the fellow still clinging to his leg he dropped with amazing speed. The two hit the sloping side of the wall and caromed from it into a mass of tropical shrubs.
Luckily for The Wasp the unknown had acted as a sort of cushion and the fact that he had acted in this capacity did not improve the condition brought about by the uppercut to the jaw. He was unconscious as the Texan, kneeling beside him, tore away the mask that half concealed his face.
Robert Henry Blane received a little surprise as he looked at the face. The stunned man was the fellow with the large, hawk-like nose that had started the rumpus in the smoking room of the Timgad during the passage from Marseilles!
For a moment The Wasp stared at him then he hurriedly untied the silk scarf that bound the white gandoura to the fellow's waist. The American had an idea that made his muscular fingers move quickly. Fate had surely brought to him the man who had spoiled his evening. He pulled the woolen garment aside, grasped something that was tied securely to the body of the fellow, tore it from its fastenings and held it up to the rays of the moon that had just emerged from the cloud wrack as if called to illuminate the beauty of the object!
The jeweled ikon of the Czar sparkled in the soft light. A thousand precious stones set in burnished gold winked at the old moon. The glorious beauty of the piece made Robert Henry Blane forget for a moment the curious events of the evening. He stared at it like a person hypnotized. He moved it gently so that the rays of the moon fell upon the facets of the stones—glorious stones that ate the moonbeams and magnified them a thousand times within their transparent depths.
THE Texan Wasp roused himself from the little stupor brought
by the sight of the ikon. The thief was recovering from the
effects of the blow and the sudden drop from the tree. He
attempted to sit up but Mr. Blane thrust him backward. The Texan
was debating as to what he should do and the efforts of the other
to get to his feet did not please him.
"Hold your mules!" ordered The Wasp. "Rest where you are for a moment."
The man on the ground glared at the American with wicked eyes. He recognized Blane as the person who had tossed him across the smoking room of the Marseilles boat and the memory of this incident, coupled with the fact that the ikon was in the hands of the man who held him, brought a queer frenzy upon him. He mouthed curses and bit savagely at the hands of The Wasp as he was thrust backward.
"Very well," murmured Mr. Blane. "If you won't stay quiet I will have to truss you up. And, sensible fellow that you are, you have a rope handy for the purpose."
And the rope was really there. The thief, perfect in his Arab get-up, had worn around the haick, or headdress, the long length of plaited camel hair that every true Arab winds some twenty times around his head covering to keep it securely in place. The Wasp quickly and dexterously tied the arms and legs of the fellow, the thief cursing vigorously during the operation.
"Now, now, no threats!" said the Texan. "Little boys like you should not threaten their betters."
The other cursed more copiously, then he surprised The Wasp by a statement. "You infernal crook," he cried, "this is the second time within a week that you have interfered! We cautioned you! We told you that dogs shouldn't bite dogs."
"Ah," murmured The Wasp, "I remember those words. Was it your delightful bunch that sent me the warning?"
The other continued to struggle and curse. "We told you that we'd get even!" he gasped. "We'll kill you!"
The blasé Texan shut off further talk by tearing a strip from the woolen gauze that made the haick and with it constructing a very effectual gag. They were too close to the Villa Kairouan to allow the fellow free speech. From the other side of the wall came an occasional shouted inquiry and answer.
Once again the Texan considered the ikon. It was an extraordinary work of art. It thrilled him. In spite of the nearness of danger the charm of the thing brought new and wonderful feelings to him. Its beauty protested against the fate that would befall it if it fell into the hands of a "fence." It possessed a medieval charm that seemed to come out from it. It had been touched by the fingers of the great; it had gathered to itself a history that made one forget that it was only a thing, of gold and precious stones.
Robert Henry Blane stood up and looked around. He remembered her words—the words of the girl with the voice of honey. He heard them again. The sweet night breezes brought them to his ears. She had said: "Why do you not go home?"
The open door of a small outhouse attracted The Wasp as the words of Betty Allerton swept through his brain. On this business he was going to do nothing to shake the belief in him that she had expressed. Without a visible effort he stooped, picked up the thief in his strong arms and carried him into the little shed that had evidently been used as a storehouse for gardening implements.
He placed the fellow on the ground, hitching him to a staple so that he could not roll around, then he cleared a space on the dirty floor, folded a piece of canvas, laid the canvas down upon the cleared space, and upon it he placed gently the wonderful jeweled ikon of the Czar.
"I am going to leave you here," he said, addressing the gagged thief. "I suppose they'll find you in an hour or so. If there is one trait that annoys me it is impudence and I think you had the impertinence of a movie star to think you could get away with a thing like that. Why, big historic treasures of that kind have bells on them that ring when a thief grabs them! Do you understand? This thing has lived! It breathes! It is something sacred and wonderful that has taken to itself some peculiar sort of life. You're impertinent! Over in America we have a saying that runs, 'Don't bite off more than you can chew.' It's a wise motto. Remember it when you think of me. Good night."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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