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The Popular Magazine, 7 Dec 1923, with "The Lone Bandit of Vizzavona"
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
Robert Henry Blane of Houston, Texas, alias The Wasp, finds himself beholden to No. 37 for the first time in his life. At the suggestion of the great man hunter he journeys to Corsica and becomes a bandit for a day.
THE wandering gaze of Robert Henry Blane, alias The Texan Wasp, was arrested by the statue on the square. A score of times during the preceding three days the gray eyes of The Wasp had given it a careless glance; now it clutched him, compelling him to study it with a curious intentness that was altogether foreign to his general tastes. Ordinarily statues of the great did not attract the adventurous Texan, but this rather amazing masterpiece of Barye had suddenly reared itself up before his eyes and demanded notice.
Robert Henry Blane was at Ajaccio, the capital of Corsica, famous as the birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte, and it was the thrilling statue on the Place du Diamant that had suddenly gripped the attention of the handsome American. Riding out toward the Sea of Dreams is the emperor in the garb of a Roman consul, while at each corner of the splendid base walks a brother Bonaparte, similarly attired. A group of five, an emperor, three kings, and a prince born in the little sleepy town.
The Texan Wasp slowly examined the figures. The mounted Man of Destiny, a little short, but imperial looking; the four brothers who were taken up in the toga of genius worn by Napoleon and swept into the seats of the mighty. He stared for a long while at the strange group, then he uttered a soft comment.
"One thing that can be said about the little beggar," he murmured, "he did run with his pack. Always thought of the family when there were any crowns or thrones or secondhand togas to be given away."
The remark made Robert Henry Blane review his own family connections; and for an instant the sunny square was blotted out. A dreamy look appeared in the gray eyes, softening them greatly. The thoughts of The Texan Wasp had rushed out across the leagues of ocean to his home town. In that instant he had soared out across the Mediterranean and Atlantic, over the splendid cotton fields of the South to the town on Buffalo Bayou that he loved.
He reviewed the Blanes—the Blanes that he knew. Uncles, aunts, cousins and second cousins. They paraded before his mental eyes. There was "Big Abner" Blane, his uncle, known as the best rider in the Panhandle. Men used to say that "cows didn't know as much about themselves and their calves as Abner Blane knew about them." There was "Handsome Kenney" Blane, the boss of Happy Valley, who rode like a centaur. The eyes of The Texan Wasp grew softer still as he thought of Kenney.
Other Blanes. Aunts and cousins. The mental eyes of The Wasp darted over the Lone Star State, halting for fractional instants at places on the Pecos and Red Rivers where lived Blanes; at San Antonio, Dallas, and El Paso where the name was worn by worthy folk. With a little twinge of regret he recalled a verse that had been written about his people. He remembered that he had chanted it to Betty Allerton on a summer night in Boston in the long ago. It ran:
"For ridin' straight an' ridin' fair.
For nerve an' strength an' for actin' square;
For throwin' a rope an' for shootin' quick,
Then a Blane from Texas is my pick."
A sudden moisture dimmed the eyes of The Texan Wasp. He rose, shrugged his shoulders and walked swiftly across the Place. The thoughts of his kinsfolk hurt. And years ago he had proudly recited that verse to Betty Allerton!
He reviewed with a little bitterness his reason for visiting Corsica. There had occurred in Milan a most amazing happening which the press of Italy had reported with flaring headlines. It was alluded to as "The Affair of the Three Marfiorios" and public interest in it was so great that two journals, Corriere della Sera of Milan, and La Tribuna of Rome had each offered fifty thousand lire to any person who put forward a solution.
Robert Henry Blane was at Rapallo when the public interest reached its highest point. And to the adventurous Blane came a curious message. Beneath the door of his hotel room was slipped a note in pencil, a queer note. It was in a simple cipher which The Wasp decoded with ease, and it read:
In payment of a debt, "The Affair of the Three Marfiorios" is booked against you. Change your camp before night.
Mr. Blane took the advice given by the unknown. He left immediately for Pisa, and at Pisa he had the pleasure of reading in the Gazzetta del Popolo that the hotel he had occupied at Rapallo had been raided by the Italian secret service on the night of his departure.
On the second morning at Pisa a beggar shuffled up to Robert Henry Blane on the pleasant Lungarno and slipped another note into his hand. It was in the same easily read cipher and ran:
In payment of a debt. Move on and move quickly. Don't return to your hotel.
The Texan Wasp, surprised at the intelligence of the note writer, did not return to his hotel. He slipped down to Bocca d'Arno, where the Arno gurgles into the wine-colored Ligurian Sea. A square-beamed schooner carrying a great red sail on which was painted a crimson Lion of Venice was floundering seaward. The Wasp had himself rowed out to her, seized a rope and pulled himself onto the deck that reeked of pitch, olive oil, sour wine, and garlic.
"Where to?" asked Mr. Blane, as the barefooted skipper examined him with little eyes that hid like criminals behind brows of stiff hair.
"To Corsica, signore," answered the man. "Ajaccio."
"Then you have a passenger," said The Wasp. "My doctor has just ordered me to sea, and I'm a high private when it comes to obeying orders."
Robert Henry Blane walking away from the splendid statue on the Place du Diamant thought over the mysterious notes. Who had sent them? Who was in his debt? All sorts of queer figures stepped out of the cells of memory, but as he reviewed the forlorn pensioners to whom he had given charity he knew that the question remained unanswered. The unknown had information— definite, flat-footed information which he had given without making any stipulation as to a reward. The writer of the notes had given the tip in a careless, gentlemanly fashion. The Wasp thought that Big Abner Blane or the hard-riding Kenney Blane of Happy Valley might have acted in the same manner. Again his thoughts were of his relatives in the Lone Star State.
The Wasp followed the Rue St. Charles till he came to the Place Letitia, and there he halted. In the Place Letitia there is an old house that has been visited by the great of all the world. A very extraordinary house. It was the home of a wonderful woman who was the wife of a small lawyer and who bore a son who was a genius. He left no home of his own, but over the door of the mother's house is an inscription running:
IN THIS HOUSE ON 15TH AUGUST, 1760,
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE WAS BORN.
The Texan Wasp crossed the street. A little group of visitors was on the point of being escorted through the old residence by the daughter of the guardian. Robert Henry Blane joined the group. A soldier of fortune himself, he thought he would like to see the interior of the house in which the greatest soldier of fortune was born. And on that sudden resolve hinged a great deal. It led to a happening which linked Texas and Corsica.
Robert Henry Blane followed the guide through the house of dead memories. Through the music room, the salon, the bedroom of the wonderful mother where stand the fragments of the couch on which Napoleon was born. A strange house.
The group reached the study where great visitors' books, filled with the signatures of kings, princes, presidents, generals, and common folk are ranged on the desk once used by the father of the Man of Destiny. The guide suggested that the visitors should sign.
A giggling school-teacher from Maine wrote her name. An English officer painfully inscribed his rank with numerous cryptic letters that told the initiated he was a Knight Commander of the Bath and of various other things. The pen was handed to The Texan Wasp.
Mr. Blane, the epitome of courtesy, offered his place to a large boastful man immediately behind him. The boastful person suggested that the tall Texan should sign first, and The Wasp, in a bold, dashing hand, wrote: "Robert Henry Blane, Houston, Texas, U.S.A."
The boastful person followed, signed for himself and the overdressed lady who accompanied him, then, as the party drifted toward the street he addressed The Wasp.
"I noticed your name and home town," he said loudly. "I knew a Blane from your State."
The Wasp looked the speaker over. The big man carried those earmarks that tell of undisciplined wealth. The fellow was as common as a tree toad, but Fate had chosen him to wear a fragment of the golden mantle of Midas.
He went on speaking, indifferent to the silence of the tall Texan. "The man I knew was Abner Blane," he said. "That was many years ago. Any relation?"
"I have an uncle called Abner Blane," answered The Wasp.
"Then it must be him," said the big man. "I knew him quite well but then—then—then—"
He paused with a suddenness that startled The Wasp. Something in connection with his dealings with Abner Blane had come suddenly into the mind of the boastfully rich person. Caution, asleep for an instant, had suddenly awakened and told him that he was talking too much. Words, half born, fled gurgling down his fat throat. The sickly wash of fear crept over his flat face.
The overdressed woman who accompanied the big man supplied him with the means of retreat. She called, and with a spluttering apology he ran toward her, took her arm, stepped out of the door and hurried off.
The Texan Wasp, a little puzzled, lingered near the old house. He chatted with the guardian and the old man told of matters connected with the Bonaparte family. He showed the Texan the ivy tree that had grown from the sprig brought from the grave of Napoleon III. at Chislehurst, and Mr. Blane pretended that he was greatly interested.
"A friend of mine passed through here the other day," said The Wasp. "I'm wondering if he came here. I forgot to look for his signature in the visitors' book."
"Come back and we'll see," said the guardian promptly.
The two returned to the study. The Guardian dragged the big volume forward. "Monsieur can look for himself," he murmured.
The eyes of The Texan Wasp sprang at the page on which the big man who once knew Abner Blane had inscribed his signature. He pounced upon the name, and again, for the third time that morning, the thoughts of Robert Henry Blane went winging swiftly to the State he loved. The name that he stared at hurled him through space. It swept him westward to the warm, sweet South that was the fountain of pleasant memories. In an instant he was transported to his home town, Houston. He was speaking to Abner Blane in the parlor of the Hotel Bristol. He saw his grim, sun-tanned uncle; he even saw himself—a tall, athletic college boy, a little awkward, ill at ease, and depressed. He had been hurriedly called home from college by the death of his father and Big Abner Blane was telling him what had caused the death.
The Wasp, staring at the name on the page, heard again the slow-spoken words of his Uncle Abner. They drummed in his ears in the quiet room of the Maison de Napoleon at Ajaccio. He was a little startled at the vividness with which memory flung the scene before him.
"Your father died of a broken heart," Big Abner had said. "He and I and Peter Tyrrel of Galveston were trimmed by a crook and your father couldn't stand it. He thought of you starting off without a red cent and it knocked him over. You see, we were trimmed so sweetly and so nicely that there was no chance to get even. If a man stole a hoss from us we could have plugged him, but this steel-fronted crook stole something from us that the old-timers knew nothing about, so that they made no laws as to how he should be dealt with. He stole oil! He stole a gusher! He grabbed from us by a low-down dirty trick a well that is spoutin' out millions of barrels of oil! Old-timers didn't know anything of oil thieves. They knew how to deal with a feller who stole a hoss but the oil thief wasn't around in their day. Besides, a hoss thief would stay close. He'd sneak into Oklahoma or New Mexico or some place handy where you could get a shot at him if you weren't too lazy, but an oil thief isn't game enough to stick around. He beats it to New York and farther. This yellow hound who robbed your father, Peter Tyrrel and me beat it to Europe. I went to New York to inquire. His name is Roswell A. Thatcher and if you ever meet him plug him on sight! I'll buy you the best lawyer that's in the country."
Robert Henry Blane jerked himself with an effort out of the dazed condition into which the rush of memories had flung him. He stared at the name in the book. It was Roswell A. Thatcher! He recalled with a grim smile the last remark made to him by Big Abner as he, The Wasp, was stepping aboard the train that carried him from the city he loved.
"I might have known he was no good," said the big cattleman. "His initials spell 'rat.' Seems as if his parents smelled him."
IN a desire to keep himself completely out of the limelight
The Texan Wasp had taken up his residence in the little Hôtel de
France, a middle-class hotel in the center of Ajaccio, but on the
evening that he found the name of Roswell A. Thatcher in the
visitor's book at the house of Napoleon he arrayed himself in his
dress clothes, called for one of the crazy carriages on the Place
du Diamant and drove up the hill to the Grand Hotel d'Ajaccio et
Continental. The word "grand," as Robert Henry Blane knew, is
used carelessly by the hotel keepers of Europe, but he also knew
that Roswell A. Thatcher would pick the Continental and no other
as his place of residence.
The Wasp's surmise was correct. Mr. Roswell A. Thatcher was in the dining room with a party of new-found friends, and, furthermore, he wished every one to know that he was there. The friends were English; they knew as much about oil as a head-hunting Dyak knows about table manners, and to them Mr. Thatcher was telling the romance of his life.
The Texan Wasp took a small table behind the oil man and listened. Mr. Thatcher was swimming in oil. He made the room redolent with it. He ran before the eyes of his listeners pictures of gushers, of million-barrel wells, of fields of inexhaustible wealth. The British guests sat with hanging jaws and listened.
"Why I—I—" chortled the English officer that had booked the alphabet behind his name at the Napoleon home that morning, "I thought that you—you had to dip the jolly stuff out of the ground with buckets, you know."
Roswell A. Thatcher placed his fat thumb on the lever of a soda siphon and pressed it. "My wells squirt it out like that!" he cried, as the aerated water foamed into his glass. "Toss the stuff to the clouds! Liquid gold! Why, my wells, gentlemen, are so rich that I could buy up this little island of Corsica and use it as a European home! I might do so. To-morrow I'm going to run over the place with my caravan of cars. Got four cars over here. You see there's my wife and I, a boy, four servants, a governess and four shoffers."
There was a moment of silence. The hypnotized guests chewed stupidly, envy playing the mischief with their digestion. Robert Henry Blane, back turned to the oil king, ate slowly and listened. Mr. Blane thought of Big Abner and the story that Big Abner had told in the parlor of the old Bristol at Houston.
A timid little man plucked up enough courage to ask the oil king his route and again Roswell A. Thatcher stepped on the gas. He was going to do Corsica from Cap Corse to Bonifacio. The Thatcher cars guided by their four "shoffers" would leave their tracks on all the highways of the island.
The timid man lisped another question: "Do you go by Vizzavona?" he asked.
The oil man gulped his champagne and nodded. "I will go by Vizzavona to-morrow," he said. "Why?"
"The—the bandit," spluttered the little man. "This terrible fellow, Donati. He's—he's very active just now."
Roswell A. Thatcher laughed loudly. "That tin-pot Jesse James would bolt for the scrub if he saw my caravan!" he cried. "You see, sir, I'm an American, and small bandits don't like grabbin' Americans. Some time back, if you remember, a chap named Raisuli grabbed an American citizen in Morocco and we had so many war boats round that place in a few days that the fish hadn't room to exercise."
The little man, pessimistic to the last, gurgled something about the bloodthirstiness of the wild Donati, who hid in a cave on the steep slopes of Monte d'Oro where the most famous bandits of Corsica, the Donelli brothers, had held out for many years.
Roswell A. Thatcher, a little annoyed by the small person whose remarks showed an inability to appraise the greatness of his entertainer, lit a fat cigar.and spoke loudly from the smoke screen he produced.
"Gettin' oil is not a baby's game!" he cried, and the words rolled out and beat down the small talk at adjoining tables. "I've been in the toughest spots in the good old U. S. A. Uh-huh! Met men that could shoot the back molars out o' a buzzard, an' —well, I'm still here, ain't I? Ain't I here?"
The timid man was appalled at the tone in which the question was asked. "Why, yes," he stammered. "You—you—you are certainly here. I only mentioned Donati as a bad lot."
"Well, that's all right," growled the oil king. "I'm here, an' if your little Corsican Jesse James tries to hold up my caravan he'll find out that Roswell A. Thatcher is a cross between a seventy-five an' a mad hippopotamus! Get that!"
In the silence that followed The Texan Wasp called for his bill, paid it quietly and slipped out into the soft night. Mr. Blane seemed amused. He hummed an air from "Carmen," the music of which he had heard in golden Seville on the night when he and No. 37 raided the den of the Scarlet Jackals.
The Wasp walked down the slope toward the little town. His thoughts were of Roswell A. Thatcher, of Big Abner Blane, of his father. Now and then Betty Allerton danced into the conscious area as he remembered with a little feeling of uneasiness how he had recited to her the verse about the Blanes of Texas. He was filled with a momentary dislike to the lines. He wondered if Betty Allerton had remembered them. If she had remembered what would she now think of the couplet:
For ridin' straight an' ridin' fair,
For nerve an' strength an' for actin' square...
He entered the little hotel and found, to his surprise, a note addressed to himself thrust in the wire letter-rack outside the cage of the concierge. He tore it open and glanced at it. In the same simple code as the letters that he had received at Rapallo and Pisa was another warning. It began in the same queer fashion as the others, the words, "In payment of a debt." prefacing a short warning that ran: "They're on your trail and might flush you at any moment."
Robert Henry Blane, a little puzzled, climbed to his room. It overlooked the Place du Diamant and the moonlight fell upon the statue of the Man of Destiny riding seaward with his four brothers in attendance. He thought that the Blanes of Texas had that same desire to run with their pack. Once Big Abner Blane had fought off a bunch of, Mexican desperadoes while Kenney Blane and the father of The Wasp were disabled on the ground. And Big Abner had gone to New York in an effort to find Roswell A. Thatcher, the oil thief, who had robbed the Blanes and who was now motoring around Europe in a fleet of high-priced cars paid for with money that he had swindled out of Abner, Pete Tyrrel, and the father of The Wasp.
Robert Henry Blane sat for a long time at the window. He was planning a route. He was considering his own safety and some matters of family pride. The statue of Napoleon and his four brothers helped.
THE road between Bocognano and Vizzavona brings to the
traveler the most wonderful scenery of Corsica. Deep down in the
valley below the road flows the Gravone, while soaring into the
heavens are the Col de Vizzavona and Monte d'Oro.
The maquis, the thick jungle growth of Corsica, creeps down to the highway, an impenetrable network of brier. Far up the slope are fields of round boulders, clinging like large bugs to the side of the mountain. Over all is the strange stillness of La Corse, the stillness that hints of ambuscades—the silence that suggests a glass ball waiting tremulously for tie crack of a pistol.
A man sitting on the fringe of the maquis rose and surveyed the highroad that led to Ajaccio. A very picturesque and dashing person was the watcher. He wore a red shirt, corduroy trousers and large top boots. A big black sombrero covered his head, while his face, except for his cool and fearless eyes, was concealed by a brown silk handkerchief folded diagonally and knotted securely behind his head. He was tall and well built and when he moved to examine the serpentine road his movements suggested the possession of muscles that were more than ordinarily elastic.
Round a bend in the road, far down the valley, flashed the head of a caravan. A caravan of wealth. The morning sun licked the wind shield of a big touring car and heliographed the man on the fringe of the maquis. Running on the tread of the first car came a second, followed by a third and a fourth. Into the silent valley of the Gravone had come the petrol-driven battery of petrol-made dollars. Roswell A. Thatcher, the oil king, was, to use his own words, "giving the little island of Old Man Napoleon the once-over."
The watcher on the hillside amused himself as the distant caravan climbed the slope. He found a shady seat and watched a battle between two large black ants. One of the ants had stepped out early, found a grain of wheat on the highway and was manfully lugging it home. The other fellow, who looked as if he had just got out of bed, had met the worker and attempted to tear from him the grain that he had carried over all the dusty hummocks of the road.
The worker gave battle. He was a little tired after his efforts, but he was game. He dropped the wheat and fought furiously. The red-shirted man watched, glancing now and then at the procession of cars that slowly climbed toward him.
The loafing ant, more vigorous than the worker, upset the rightful owner of the grain of wheat, grabbed the prize and rushed off with it, leaving the other a little stunned, running round in circles looking vainly for his prize. The red-shirted man grunted. With the nose of a revolver he knocked the pirate ant away from the grain of wheat, then gently helped the rightful owner toward the point where it lay. The quiet eyes showed a little pleasure as the worker ant, recognizing the property that he had lost, seized it and carried it off with apparent delight.
The red-shirted man rose and stepped behind a clump of bushes. The soft throb of climbing cars echoed from the slopes of Monte d'Oro. The loud voice of Roswell A. Thatcher bludgeoned the silence. The red-shirted man hitched up a belt, took a firmer grip on the short-snouted automatics and stepped out into the road. The highway rested on a whittled-down shoulder of the mountain. Above the road rose the shrub-matted slope of the mountain, far below ran the river.
Redshirt gave a short order in French. "Arrêtez!" he cried, and the suggestion to halt was backed by a careless wave of the gun gripped in his right hand. He seemed perfectly at ease, and perhaps his rather nonchalant manner prompted Roswell A. Thatcher to attempt his imitation of a human who was something between a seventy-five and a mad hippopotamus. The oil king reached for his arsenal.
Roswell A. Thatcher had bought while passing through Paris on his way to Corsica the most expensive Panama hat in the city. At that instant it attracted the attention of Redshirt. He evidently thought it lacked ventilation so he promptly put two holes in the top of it. A third bullet struck the brim. The hat was whipped off the head of the oil king and tossed into the dusty roadway. Mr. Thatcher promptly threw his hands over his head.
Redshirt glanced at the other cars. Four chauffeurs and two menservants looked as if they were in the throes of setting-up exercises, their hands thrust heavenward. Mrs. Thatcher, two female servants, the governess, and a boy of ten stared with unblinking eyes at the bandit.
The gentleman of the road, in soft-spoken French, ordered the four chauffeurs to put down their hands and drive their machines slowly forward. They made no movement to obey, and the governess, who seemed the least concerned of the party, made an explanation. "They do not understand you," she said softly, speaking in the tongue he had used. "Couldn't you tell them in English?"
For a moment the red-shirted highwayman stood irresolute. He seemed to be considering the advice given by the governess. He looked at her with his cool eyes. She blushed slightly under his gaze.
"Are you the only person who speaks French?" he asked, still holding the Gallic tongue.
"Yes, sir," she answered. "I am the governess for Master Percy and I also act as interpreter." She glanced at the road over which they had come. The bandit smiled at her evident belief that help would arrive.
"But mademoiselle is an American?" questioned Redshirt.
The girl bowed her shapely little head.
"Oh, yes!" she cried. "I am an American out and out."
For a moment she regarded the highway then spoke impulsively: "I'm an American from the Mexican border; that is why I am not afraid of you. If—if I had a gun I—I—"
She paused and the polite bandit urged her to further speech. "Go on," he said.
"I would shoot you!" cried the girl. "In Texas we would not allow a bandit like you to stick up people on the highroad."
The red-shirted man repeated her words softly. They seemed to have a strange charm for him. He said them aloud, then he asked a question. "Where did mademoiselle learn French?" he asked.
"In Barataria," answered the girl still sparring for time. "You possibly do not know of it. It is the country of the Cajuns and every one speaks French."
At this point Roswell A. Thatcher decided to interrupt the conversation. His arms, held high above his head, had assumed a weight that appalled him. Juvenile flies, seemingly aware of his helplessness, played leap-fly on his bald head. The bandit, in walking toward the girl, had stepped upon the high-priced Panama hat. The soul of the oil king was ablaze.
"Miss Tyrrel!" he screamed. "Cut out the silly yap an' tell this road pirate who I am! Do you get me? What has Barataria to do with this? I heard the word, Miss Tyrrell! Now get busy! Tell him I've got friends in the cabinet at Washington, an' unless he pulls off an' lets me move along mighty quick the United States government will make him jazz at the end of a rope. Tell him what they have done to fellers o' his kidney! Serve it to him hot!"
Redshirt had listened quietly to the angry speech, then he surprised Roswell A. Thatcher. He turned to the chauffeur of the leading car and addressed him in suave English. "Move your car along slowly," he said gently. "Swing to the right after you pass that red rock then drive her straight at the bushes." To the oil king he murmured: "Keep your hands up! You are a long way from Washington at this moment, so be careful. By the time the U.S. government got help to you I'd wager you'd be doing nonstop flights between Paradise and the milky way. Now step."
Roswell A. Thatcher was moved nearly to tears as the cars, in obedience to the order of the highwayman, turned from the road and charged the matted briers of the slope. The thorny shrubs clawed at the varnished sides of the machines. Aggressive, discolored stumps horned the glazed sides of the caravan. Wild and anarchistic limbs smashed the wind shields, battered the lamps and laid hands upon the upholstery. The bandit was unmoved. When a chauffeur, startled at the crash of glass or the sound made by a gouging stump, halted for an instant, the nonchalant highwayman waved him forward.
Through the jungle plunged the caravan of Roswell A. Thatcher, the oil king himself walking with uplifted arms in front of the red-shirted road agent. Mrs. Thatcher, the boy, and the governess rode in the first car; two female servants occupied the second; the pair of pop-eyed valets sat up like statues in the third. The fourth and last car carried baggage and food, and the driver of this car, having visions of long imprisonment and torture, made an attempt to escape. He sprang from his seat and made a wild rush toward the highway.
Redshirt was prompt to accept the challenge. He wheeled and fired. The chauffeur squealed like a rabbit and dropped upon his face. He lay there, legs and arms spread-eagled, and the bandit grinned as he watched him squirming.
The laugh roused the ire of the girl. "You are a coward to wound him!" she cried.
The tall man spoke softly. "He's not wounded," he said, then after a pause he added: "Don't be too ready to think the worst of me. It's hard to get an idea out of your head once you get it in." In a changed voice he addressed himself to the squirming chauffeur: "Get up and come back to your car!" he ordered. "Next time you make a break I'll clip a few inches off your long ears."
The chauffeur, discovering that he was not wounded, picked himself up and hurried back to his machine. The caravan proceeded. Roswell A. Thatcher was certain that his arms weighed more than the Washington Monument. The sun beat upon his bald head; the small flies had told hundreds of their friends of the free recreation ground provided by the oil king.
The leading car, directed by the bandit, came to the opening of a natural corral made by unscalable rocks. Redshirt waved the chauffeur forward. "Move in and park your car," he said. Then, as the four cars swung into the inclosure he ordered the occupants to dismount and enter a disused shelter built of rocky shale, a place that had once been occupied by the timber getters on the mountain. All entered except Roswell A. Thatcher. As the bandit closed the rough door he gave his prisoners a little advice. "Make yourselves at home for a little while," he said cheerfully. "You won't be injured. I'm going to have a private chat with my friend here. Any one who tries to escape is liable to get hurt."
The red-shirted highwayman directed the oil king to step briskly before him up the side of the mountain. The perspiring magnate protested but the other was deaf to the stream of objections that were unloosed. He seemed to care nothing for Thatcher's threats regarding the indignation that his capture would rouse in the United States.
He showed no fear of cabinet friends, ambassadors, consular officials and what not that the petrol prince trotted out. He simply waved his gun in a manner that Thatcher thought extremely careless and said "Step it out, son. The sooner you get there the sooner your troubles will be over."
Roswell A. Thatcher thought the remark ominous. He stammeringly inquired what was wanted of him. Redshirt ignored the questions. He thrust the oil man before him up the rocky slope.
Briers, cactus, second-growth pine and trailing creepers made the way difficult for Thatcher. He puffed like a winded buffalo. Perspiration streamed from him. He seemed to have an oil plant in his interior that was forcing a greasy fluid through every pore of his body. He begged now and then for a moment to get his breath, but the long-legged bandit, to whom fatigue evidently was unknown, denied him a rest. Up and up they went so that the highway lay like a twisting snake far below them. The profound silence was broken only by the heavy breathing of the oil man or his spluttered comments as the vicious creepers clawed at his clumsy feet.
They reached a shelf of red granite and the bandit directed his prisoner to follow it to the right. Thatcher did so, but after proceeding some twenty yards or so he gave a little yelp of fear and stopped abruptly. The shelf of rock led to a point where the mountainside had been ripped away by a tremendous landslide, and a straight drop of some hundreds of feet waited for the unwary pedestrian. The oil king's gurgling suggested that a hurriedly erected guillotine within his throat was chopping all the words that tried to pass it into small pieces.
And the horror of the place was increased in a curious way. The platform had been used as the starting point of a steel cable—a "timber wire"—which the timber getters who had cleared the slopes of Corsican pines had used in swinging their logs down to the road. To a rough drum, made from a huge tree trunk, one end of the rusted cable was fastened securely, and from this drum the wire sprang recklessly out over the cliff and soared away through space. A terrifying thing in its way. It swept out and downward, bellying slightly as its weight increased, defying the effort of the windlass at the receiving end far down the mountain to hold it taut. At the foot of the cliff trees rose up and whipped vainly with their topmost branches at the thread of steel, but it rose clear of them, continuing on its way till it grounded with an artistic sweep on the lower drum, just discernible close to the white strip that represented the highway from Ajaccio to Vizzavona.
To Roswell A. Thatcher the timber wire had an awesome and stomach-disturbing appearance. It seemed medieval and dreadful. His mind recalled a cinema film of the Middle Ages where great ropes stretched across chasms. The film had been responsible for a dozen nightmares. He glued himself to the rocky wall behind him, moistening his lips as he stared at the unconcerned bandit. He, Thatcher, had two great fears, a fear of snakes and a fear of heights.
Redshirt gripped the wire with a strong left hand and spoke softly. "I was mooching round here yesterday and found this," he said quietly. "It pleased me a lot. When I was a kid they had little ones at county fairs. You could soar through space for a hundred yards or so for a nickel. This one here—"
"You—you are not a Corsican!" interrupted the oil king. "You—you said a nick—nickel!"
The eyes that showed above the cloth mask hardened. "Did I?" murmured the bandit. "Well it doesn't really matter what I am. The point just now is what I intend to do. I was telling you that I found this wire yesterday and it sort of made me feel like a kid again. I had a wild desire to put a loop over the cable and take a swoop down the mountain. I guess there's some of us that always remain kids while some of us grow old. Now this wire, shooting out like the tail of a swallow, would attract me if I was ninety years of age."
Roswell A. Thatcher's stomach rolled over and tried vainly for peace on the other side. Every nerve in his body became a fibrous Torquemada that grilled him exquisitely. A lifetime's horror of high places beat him fiat against the cliff. When a little boy in Sunday school he had been made ill at times by the minister picturing a paradise higher than Pikes Peak with the godly carelessly winging it from one rosy cloud bank to another.
"One thing stopped me from doing a glide right then and there," continued the bandit. "Do you know what it was?"
"No, I—I don't," gurgled the oil king.
"Can't you guess?"
"I—I can't guess," stammered Mr. Thatcher.
"I didn't know if the wire would hold my weight," said the red-shirted person, looking longingly at the thread of steel that shot recklessly out into space. "You see, this part of the mountain has been cleared of timber for some time and this wire has been rusting here in the sun and the rain."
There came a long silence. Into the mind of Roswell A. Thatcher came a crazy impulse to rush forward and push the bandit from the edge of the cliff where he stood lovingly regarding the flying hawser. But the oil king found it impossible to move one inch nearer the cliff. The irregular rocks in the wall against which he pressed himself found soft beds in the mattress of fat with which he had cushioned himself.
The eyes of the red-shirted man took in the flabby figure of the oil king. They ran over the moonlike face, dropped down the staircase of jowls to the barrel-like body with its stomach that showed the hatred of restraint that we connect with Balkan states. The legs were ridiculous members. A Parisian tailor had plotted and planned over their coverings and had wept when he saw Thatcher in the suit.
"What is your weight?" asked the bandit.
Roswell A. Thatcher took a gulp of the mountain air and gave an explosive answer. "Two hundred and four pounds," he gasped.
"I thought you went over two hundred," said the other softly. "I guessed you as fully that when I stopped your car. I thought then that you were my man for this little job.
"What—what little job?" cried the oil king.
For a full half minute the bandit let the question go unanswered. To the straining ears of the prisoner the query seemed to go echoing up against the rocks. He had a half-crazy notion that the wretched wire that leaped out into space was listening to the answer that the bandit would give.
"The job of testing this wire," said Redshirt calmly. "I would be a fool to tackle it without finding out if it would hold me. I run about one hundred and seventy. Thirty-odd pounds lighter than you. Now if it carries you—"
The oil king made a curious noise that suggested cardiac trouble. "The chauffeurs!" he cried. "The—the chauffeurs would—would test it!"
"They are not heavy enough," said the bandit solemnly. "It is your weight that makes you the ideal person for the job."
The ratlike intelligence of Roswell A. Thatcher made another effort. "Take two—two chauffeurs!" he whined. "I will pay them! I—I have plenty of money. Tons of—of money! They—they will do it! See, I—I have the money with me!"
His fat fingers clawed at the inside pockets of his vest. He dragged out two pocket-books that bulged with papers. The horror of the heights had bit into his soul and the desire to protect his wealth had been swept away by the rusted hawser that soared away down into the valley.
One of the pocketbooks dropped from his shaking hands and rolled toward the edge of the cliff. The bandit caught it. Without speaking he opened it and coolly examined the contents. Roswell A. Thatcher was unable to make a protest. He was reduced to a state of fear that was pitiable.
Very slowly the bandit read and sorted out the papers in the wallet. He made them into various piles, placing little stones on each pile so that the wind would not carry them away. He seemed much interested.
"Give me the other wallet," he ordered. "Don't move from where you are. I just want to find out how you are fixed. These chauffeurs are costly chaps. They want an awful lot for their work. I know them."
"They—they will take a couple of hundred francs!" gasped the oil king. "They will! You—you ask them!"
Again a soft chuckle came from beneath the cloth that hid the face of the bandit. "Oh, we don't want to be pikers," he said softly. "You're buying substitutes, aren't you? Well, why be mean? You've got it. Let me just calculate what we can raise out of all this in Ajaccio. I can send one of the cars back to collect."
The bandit worked in silence on the mass of papers. He sorted out letters of credit, bunches of travelers' checks, wads of the large thousand-franc bills of France. He fingered lovingly some of the fine green "frogskins" of Uncle Sam that he found in the back section of one of the pocketbooks. The American bills seemed to thrill him.
With a stub of pencil he checked up the amounts of the travelers' checks and the letters of credit. He added the total to the actual cash and whistled softly. "Why," he murmured, "we can buy these ducks at any figure they bid! We have a pile of cash here! This is about the first time in my life that I could look a chauffeur boldly in the face and say, 'Name your figure.' When we pick up this change at Ajaccio well have fully half a million francs to bid 'em with. You have a pen?"
Roswell A. Thatcher made a protest. "You mustn't!" he cried. "That—that game won't do! I tell you I—I am an American citizen and—and I'll bring the whole caboodle of the United States around your ears. I—I won't sign anything!"
The bandit rose and advanced upon the oil king. A right hand went out like a flash and gripped the wet collar of Mr. Thatcher. A voice out of which all trace of humor had fled thundered in the ears of the terror-stricken fat man.
"If you bleat again I'll truss you up and hook you to the wire right now!" roared Redshirt. "One more whimper and it's all aboard for you! And don't say any more about the United States. Do you get me? I am also a citizen of the United States and I never heard of Uncle Sam losing his sleep over a real low-lived skunk like you! I'll bet there's some one at Washington that's got tabs on you and before they sent a battleship to Corsica they'd look up those tabs. Uncle is no fool and he's heard a lot of whimpers from crooks like you who are afraid to live in the places where they were born. Now sign up all these checks and do it lively. I'm in a hurry."
The red-shirted bandit led the governess and the youngest of the chauffeurs toward one of the cars parked in the corral. He had tossed the flabby oil king into the hut with the other prisoners. Redshirt carried in his hand a bunch of checks that Roswell A. Thatcher had signed.
Out of hearing of the persons confined in the shelter the bandit spoke, reverting to French so that his remarks would not be understandable to the chauffeur.
"I heard our friend, Mr. Thatcher, call you Miss Tyrrel," he said. "Is it possible that your father's first name is Peter?"
The girl swung swiftly upon him, her face flushing as she did so. "Why, yes!" she cried. "How did you know?"
"He lived once in Galveston," said the bandit. "Did he not?"
The face of the girl showed amazement and the quick eye of the red-shirted man thought that he detected a little fear. The slightest shadow of fear. "Yes, yes," she stammered. "He—he did live once in Galveston."
She had halted and faced her questioner. The chauffeur was attending to the engine of the car and could not hear what was said. The bandit put a question in English.
"Miss Tyrrel," he said softly, "I would like to know how it comes about that Peter Tyrrel's daughter is in the employ of Roswell A. Thatcher? It seems strange to me. Pardon my curiosity. You see I have a little task for you to do and I would like to know before I start you on the work."
"My father had no personal dealings with Mr. Thatcher," said the girl.
"No, but he was a partner of those who had the personal dealings," remarked the bandit. "He was the partner and was part-owner of the property that our fat friend got away with."
The girl stared at the cool eyes of the red-shirted man. Her own eyes showed the astonishment and fear that had sprung upon her under the cross-examination. "Who are you?" she gasped. "Who are you? How do you—how do you know all this?"
"I am called The Lone Bandit of Vizzavona," said Redshirt. "How I know all this about your father would make a long story. Too long to tell here. The point I wish to know and upon which I am very curious, is how came you to accept employment from the man who robbed your father?"
"You—you are not a bandit!" gasped the girl. "You—you are an American! I know you are!"
The eyes of Redshirt twinkled under the accusation. "You haven't answered my question," he said. "How came it that you are working for Thatcher? What made you hire with him?"
"Hate," murmured the girl. "Just hate! Listen, I will tell you! I knew from the time I was at high school that Mr. Thatcher had robbed my father and his partner, Mr. Abner Blane. It had been told to me over and over again. My father could not speak of anything else. He told me day after day how rich we would have been if Mr. Thatcher had not stolen the oil field, and—and I had a curious desire to see this—this man who had ruined my daddy. Once I—thought—"
She paused and stood with hands clasped, looking up at the tall man before her.
"Go on," he said encouragingly.
"Once I thought if I saw him I—I could kill him!" she said softly. "I did! I dreamed of killing him! I went to New York to teach in a school and then I came to Paris to study. One day I read an advertisement in a morning paper. It said that Mr. Thatcher wanted an American governess to travel with his son. I applied for the position and was successful. You see I thought—I thought that some—some opportunity might turn up to even up the account. Down on the border where I was born we do not forget thieves!"
Her voice had died away to a soft whisper. The silence that followed her explanation was broken by the explosions of the engine. The throbbing roused the red-shirted man. Very slowly, and with an accent on the "I" he repeated her words. "Down on the border where I was born," he said, "we do not forget thieves."
The girl did not speak. She stared at the cool eyes that appeared above the cloth that covered the man's face. She seemed strangely fascinated. She was willing to do anything that he wished her to do. She could not tell why.
"Miss Tyrrel," began Redshirt, "I wish you to take these checks down to Ajaccio and cash them. There will be no trouble. They are all signed and here is a written order from Mr. Thatcher together with his passport and identification card. There will be no likelihood of a hitch. Take this bunch to the Banque de Commerce, these to Lanzini Brothers, and this lot to the Compagnie Frannot. If any questions are asked just say that you are employed by Mr. Thatcher and that he is waiting for you to bring back the money. And that is the exact truth. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
"And you will do it?"
Again she looked at the cool gray eyes that regarded her closely. "Yes, I will do it," she answered.
"Good," said Redshirt. "Now I will say a few words to this young man who will drive you down and back. I want the job to appear a profitable one to him. Chauffeurs are mercenary."
Redshirt spoke for a few minutes to the chauffeur, helped Miss Tyrrel into the machine, then led the way back to the highway.
He seemed perfectly unconcerned. He lifted his sombrero and waved a farewell to the girl as the car rolled from the shrub-covered slope onto the dusty stretch of roadway that led toward the birthplace of Napoleon.
"I will wait for you here," he said. "You will be back in under three hours, I am sure. And remember always what we do on the border. We do not forget thieves."
THE Lone Bandit of Vizzavona sat himself down in the black
shadow that lay like a blob of ink around the bole of a small,
thickly-leafed tree. He watched the car as it swept down the
hillside in the direction of Ajaccio. His thoughts were of the
bundles of checks that the girl carried.
He took out a stub of pencil and a scrap of paper and began to figure. He turned half a million francs into American currency at the rate the dollar stood at the moment. He divided the amount of franc-made dollars into three parts and wrote initials before each. It seemed to please him. He smiled as he checked his figures, and then spoke softly to himself. "I could never see the value of arithmetic unless a boy was going into a bank," he murmured, "yet the thing is useful in these days of fluctuating money. How would an American who never studied arithmetic be able to travel around the Continent nowadays?"
A great peace was on the countryside—"The Peace of God," as the Corsicans say. Soft little clouds drifted in from the Mediterranean like white airships and touched the lofty peak of Monte d'Oro that reared itself up to nearly eight thousand feet. From far down the valley the smoke of a charcoal burner's fire hung like a league of white baby ribbon dropped from the counter of a heavenly department store. The caves on the hillside caught the echo of goat bells brought by the wind from soft pastures in the valley of the Vecchio.
An hour passed. Two hours. A third drifted away as the shadows lengthened.
The bandit watched the road. He fancied that his ears caught the purring of an automobile. He straightened himself, his eyes glued on the spot where the caravan of Roswell A. Thatcher had swung into view some hours before.
"If there is no hitch about the payments," he murmured, "the young lady should be almost—"
He didn't finish the remark. The shoe of a person creeping on him from behind slipped on the pine needles and he turned. It was too late. The stalker had Redshirt covered by a revolver that seemed to have had early ambitions to assume the proportions of a Lewis gun, and in the harsh Italian dialect spoken by most of the country-bred Corsicans the newcomer ordered the roadside watcher to throw his hands up.
Redshirt obeyed promptly. He dropped the stub of pencil and the scrap of paper which he had been using in his calculations and jerked his arms above his head. The size of the revolver startled him. The appearance of the newcomer did more. The fellow was a terrifying person. He was bigger than a box-car, he wore a black mustache and beard that, if reaped, would have stuffed the mattresses of a hospital ward, while two wicked little eyes planted deep between a trellis work of hair-covered forehead showed a violent desire to see the overgrown revolver explode.
The black-bearded ogre advanced cautiously. With a non-working left hand he signaled his captive to tear the bandage from his face. Redshirt demurred. Now he was certain that an automobile was climbing the slope! He could hear it distinctly.
Redshirt begged that he might be allowed to keep the cloth upon his face. The black-bearded giant screamed with rage. In the corrupt Italian he shouted out questions and did not pause to obtain answers. Who was the vile pig who was poaching on his territory? Who was the masked dog who had got himself up to resemble the brave Donati, the Lone Bandit of Vizzavona? What citified hound from the little dirty alleys of Ajaccio had dolled himself up to resemble the terrible Donati, the pride of the hills? He foamed with rage. His little wicked eyes showed murder written in capitals. A forefinger as thick as a baby's ankle caressed the trigger of the young Lewis gun pointing at the head of Redshirt. The fellow's pride had been rubbed raw by the impudence of the interloper. He had built up a name of terror, and a nidderling from the lanes off the port of Ajaccio was attempting to grab the results of his rough stuff!
His anger made him deaf to the noise made by the approaching automobile. He confused it with the blood pounding through his big head. The impertinence of the pretender maddened him.
He leaped forward quickly and tore the bandage from the face of the impostor. He sprang back again, and, as he did so, the automobile containing Miss Tyrrel and the chauffeur swept around the bluff that had hidden it from view.
The real Donati turned to glance at the car. The barrel of the overgrown revolver was deflected for a moment from its target. The wicked little eyes forgot for a moment the assassination that they desired to see. The terrible outlaw backed down the slope.
That moment of relaxed attention was sufficient for Redshirt. Around about 1912 a long-legged college student set up a record for the standing broad jump when his university competed in the amateur athletic championships at Franklin Field. The long-legged one covered nine feet and a fraction of an inch on that day, but the same college boy, grown to manhood, beat his own record on the slopes of Monte d'Oro!
A flying body struck the real Donati. It hurled him upon his back. There rose curses, grunts, yells of pain. Four arms flailed away madly. The two men rolled over and over. Now Redshirt on top, now Donati; again Redshirt, again Donati. The black-bearded ogre was the bigger man, but Redshirt was ambitious. He seemed to want to win badly. He was hitting on all cylinders.
In the road the girl and the chauffeur watched.
There were no rules. Everything went. A fig for the Marquis! Shoes, teeth, knees, gouging—all in! Not pretty, certainly, but a time-saving method of fighting. No rounds, no seconds, no breathing spaces. Just two men trying to find out by the quickest method who was the better.
Donati clawed himself to his feet. Redshirt was after him. For a moment they were locked together. They broke apart. Donati staggered. Redshirt leaped in. A right fist ripped up from the hip and found the jaw on the black-bearded giant. He dropped in a heap.
Redshirt advanced toward the girl. He felt for the cloth that had covered his face, failed to find it, then smiled as he realized that his features were exposed to her gaze. The smile made him strangely handsome. It swept away the grim fighting look and enthroned the sprite of mirth in the gray eyes. A slight scar on the right jaw that had shown white and sinister during the battle was now hardly noticeable.
"How did you get on?" he asked quietly.
The girl handed over a large package without speaking. Her eyes were fixed upon the man's face.
"What is it?" he asked. "Did anything go wrong?"
"No, no," she murmured. "Everything is there."
"But you look startled?"
"You remind me of some—some one!" she cried.
"Who?" he asked.
"Some one who came once to see my father. He was a brother of my father's partner."
There was a moment's silence. Redshirt had torn the paper from the package and was looking carelessly at the close-packed bills within.
The girl spoke again. "His name was Kenney Blane of Happy Valley," she said softly.
Redshirt made no comment. He turned and walked to the spot where he had dropped the stub of pencil and the scrap of paper on the arrival of Donati. He picked them up, secured the big revolver of the giant, then addressed the owner of the weapon who was sitting upright.
"Beat it, bo!" he ordered. "Trek, son, and trek quickly!" He had spoken in English, but he remembered before the terrible Donati had time to think over the meaning of the words. In fluent Italian he urged Blackbeard to get up and limp for the horizon, pledging himself by the bones of Paoli and all the other patriots of the little island to rid Vizzavona of its scourge if the bandit stayed around.
Donati got to his feet, took one look at his conqueror and plunged without a protest into the maquis.
Redshirt spoke to the girl. "Will you please give me your father's address?" he said. "Is he still in Galveston?"
"No," she murmured. "He lives in New Orleans. The address is No. 609 Royal Street."
"Thanks," said Redshirt. "I will be writing him in a day or two. And I am grateful to you for what you have done for me. Now we must part. You and the chauffeur can go back to the hut and release our friends. I have emptied the tanks of the other cars, and I am taking this machine for my own use. I'm sorry that you will have to walk to Vizzavona, but it is only a short distance. And there is a good hotel there."
He sprang into the car and threw in the clutch. He waved his hand as he backed skillfully and turned the machine toward Ajaccio. "Some day," he cried, "I might meet you in the Vieux Carré in New Orleans. Good-by."
ROBERT HENRY BLANE, alias The Texan Wasp, sat upon the
Promenade des Anglais at Nice and watched the careless rich go
by. Fat English new-rich; the men jowly and stomachy, the women
overdressed and over-jeweled. Toy dogs with most of the women.
Wretched dwarf dogs as useless as their owners; liverish "Pekes,"
swaggering like bloated aldermen, clumsily-built griffons blinded
by their hair, boudoir "bulls" dragged off their cushions for the
parade.
Adventurers by the score. Sleek gentlemen, spatted and barbered. Knowing birds. Full of information about "systems" for Monte Carlo and "good things" for the races at the Var course. In their pockets a list of the moneyed Americans at the Negresco and Ruhl. On nodding terms with imitation counts, grand dukes and barons who squat all day in front of the Savoy and sip the cheapest drink that will give them the privilege of the chair and the striped umbrella above it.
Females, scouting females; piratical craft. Beating up and down, hoping always that an American millionaire will be attracted by their high heels and high color. Most of their other possessions—reputation, clothes, vitality, et cetera, on the "low" side.
Here and there the honest "mug." Some fellow, either alone or with a wife, who had really accumulated his roll by his own efforts. The Wasp picked them out. They were folk who looked as if they were a little ashamed to be loafing. They lacked the impudence and conceit of the con men and the con ladies. One huge man, who looked like a cattleman from the West, reminded Robert Henry Blane of his uncle, Big Abner.
The Texan Wasp thought of Uncle Abner and handsome Kenney Blane. Five days before a girl in Corsica had told him that he resembled Kenney Blane. He smiled grimly.
A loud-mouthed youngster yelled the Éclaireur. The Wasp bought a copy and glanced over it. A paragraph headed from "Our Own Correspondent at Ajaccio, Corsica," caught his attention. He read it hurriedly. It ran:
At Vizzavona yesterday three officers of the Italian Secret Police fought a battle with Donati, the outlaw known as "The Lone Bandit of Vizzavona!" Donati was wounded and made prisoner. It appears that the three Italian detectives had secret information that Donati was connected with the sensational happening at Milan known as "The Affair of the Three Marfiorios."
Donati was brought into Ajaccio and examined. His statement convinced the detectives that he had nothing whatever to do with the Milan matter. The reason for connecting the bandit with the Marfiorio sensation has been withheld.
Robert Henry Blane whistled softly. He was a little startled. Up before his eyes came the crisp notes of warning that he had received at Rapallo, Pisa and Ajaccio. The Italian police evidently had been following swiftly on his footsteps. They had apparently heard in some mysterious manner of his impersonation of the bandit, and they had grabbed Donati under the impression that the impersonation had continued.
The Wasp wondered about the warning notes. Strange notes, he thought them. Who had sent them? What debtor of his could gather such inside information regarding the doings of the swift-moving Italian police? He pondered over the opening sentence in each—"In payment of a debt." What debt?
The feet on the Promenade attracted the eyes of Robert Henry Blane. He watched them as he thought over the mystery of the warning notes. He studied the shoes. Shoes always attracted him. He had a fleeting desire to write a book about shoes. With his soft Austrian velours pulled over his eyes to shade them from the glare upon the Bay of Angels he watched the countless shoes. A glance at each told him many things about the wearer. Sometimes he lifted his head and checked his impression by a glance at the face; other times he felt so certain that he did not look up.
Then, suddenly, the hunting gray eyes of The Texan Wasp pounced upon a pair of shoes that were moving along the center of the Promenade! Strong, definite shoes. Shoes built for honest work. He stared at them without lifting his head. His left hand went slowly up and pulled the velours hat lower over his eyes. Straight ahead went the shoes. Regular strides; perfectly sure of themselves. No mincing steps. No faltering. They smote the pavement fairly and squarely. And into the mind of Robert Henry Blane came a mental picture of shoes that were awfully like those that fascinated him. There were the shoes of a sheriff in Deaf Smith County, Texas, and there were those that he had seen on the sill of a window in a back street of Seville! The shoes of the greatest man hunter in Europe, the shoes of No. 37!
An extraordinary morsel of information sprang into the mind of The Wasp. On that night in Seville he had performed a service for No. 37. "A big service," the man hunter had assured him. Then the little notes that had been sent in payment of a debt had come from the great sleuth! Why? Because No. 37 knew that The Wasp had no connection with the sensational affair at Milan.
Robert Henry Blane sprang to his feet. The broad back of the detective was some twenty yards away. His face was turned toward the sea. He was drinking in the beauty of the glorious bay.
The Wasp overtook him near the entrance of the Jetée Casino. He touched him on the shoulder. The great detective turned.
"I wanted to thank you for sending me those little notes," said Robert Henry Blane. "It was nice of you to think I was in your debt."
The cold, merciless eyes that looked like brown-tinted and hard-frozen hailstones examined the dashing Texan. For an instant a flash of pleasure showed within them, a fleeting joy at meeting the handsome adventurer face to face. It fled before The Wasp had time to register its presence, then the much-feared man hunter spoke.
"It's a pity that you and I are not friends, Blane," he said softly. "It's a great pity. I've got a liking for you. And just now"—he paused for a moment and looked out at the multicolored waters—"just now I've got a task that you would be useful at. A great task. The biggest task that a man could have given to him."
He paused and glanced at Robert Henry Blane. The Texan did not speak. For just a moment the two eyed each other as if appraising values, then the man hunter nodded and continued on his way.
The Texan Wasp returned to his seat and watched the shoes. He watched them till night fell on the queen city of the Riviera. He was thinking of the words of No. 37.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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