Chapter Twenty Four. How the Grand Coup was Planned.

Raife’s flat in the Rue Lafayette, Paris, was, like most things in which Doctor Malsano was concerned, cunningly contrived. Two adjacent flats had been converted into one in such a manner that it was easy to enter by one door and leave by another, each out of view of the other. The people who foregathered there were not of the type that would have been welcome at Aldborough Park or Green Street, Mayfair. Here, for the first time, Raife met the Apache fellow at close quarters. His impulse was to thrash him, but Mr Lesigne had most ingratiating manners, and quickly assured Raife that he was on his side now, and, if it were necessary to do any spying, it would be in Raife’s interests, and not on him. For diplomatic reasons, to avoid suspicion, Malsano lived by himself, and rarely appeared in public, as was his custom, preferring to direct operations rather than participate in them. For the same reason it was considered advisable that Gilda Tempest should occupy an apartment by herself.

Raife and Gilda found time to make many excursions together, to Versailles, and various rural spots where there was, relatively, a small chance of being recognised. On these occasions there was a certain charm in Gilda’s companionship which enthralled the young man, and he was quite content to suffer the ill-effects of her pernicious society. At night, in varying disguises, they spent much time at cafés, sitting at the tables of the boulevards, sipping wine and liqueurs. That waywardness, that Raife’s mother had been afraid of, asserted itself, and his love of adventure led him to participate in some of the minor divertissements that the doctor planned for his own profit. In no circumstances did Raife share in the plunder of these coups, nor would he allow Gilda to act as decoy, or take active part in them. What he did was with a sense of abandoned devilment. The restraint that Raife was exercising over Gilda was weakening the doctor’s power over her, and he determined that it was time for him to bring about a still more complete downfall of his enemy.

Among the members of the gang who called at Raife’s flat when occasion required, was an ex-officer of dragoons, who had seen some service along the north coast of Africa. He was an extraordinary mixture of braggadocio, and a certain suavity of manner which had considerable charm until it was discovered that, whereas he could swear like a trooper, he did lie like a pickpocket. In the natural sequence of events he and Raife fell foul of one another. The quarrel culminated when Raife discovered him at the flat paying court to Gilda, who resented the attentions that were being forced upon her. The combat did not last long, for Monsieur Denoir was not versed in boxing, and his incompetence was soon made evident to him. It was a dangerous thing for Raife to quarrel with a man of this type, but the whole conditions of his recent life had made him quite reckless of consequences. Monsieur Denoir, with a fine exhibition of graciousness, made amends, and awaited time and opportunity. He did not have to wait long, for he found a ready ally in the doctor.

Gilda and Raife were seated at their favourite table at the Café Buonaventure, on a fine warm evening. Through a mirror Gilda’s keen and practised eyes saw a little old gentleman with grey hair and spectacles surveying the tables. He was at the far end of the room. They were seated among a crowd of merry, talkative folk, outside the café.

“Quick, Raife, we must go at once,” she said, suddenly. With an exhibition of that cat-like speed that she displayed when she slid down the silken rope from the library window at Aldborough Park, she threw a coin on the table, and slid around a corner, half dragging him with her.

“What’s the matter, Gilda?” he asked.

“That little ‘old gentleman’ at the end of the room was Herrion, and I expect he’s looking for you.”

It had not occurred to Raife before, that he was being hunted, not by an “Apache fellow,” but by the smartest detective on the Continent. His pride returned to him for a while, and he felt inclined to go and shake Herrion by the hand—if Herrion would let him. That was indeed a question. Who would shake him by the hand now?

By a devious route they returned to the flat. Raife was very silent. Gilda played and sang to him, but it was of no avail, his moodiness lasted for the rest of the evening. She rallied him on his silence and, crossing the room to where he sat on a lounge, said: “Raife, tell me why you are so silent. Did that man Herrion upset you?”

He answered, wearily: “Yes, he did. It has set me thinking, Gilda. I fear I have not done the right thing. It is not right that I should be ‘wanted’ by a man like Herrion.”

Then Gilda was alarmed. This man was all she wanted to atone for a life of misery. He must not be allowed to reflect. He was hers and must remain hers.

A knock at the door terminated the scene for a time. Lesigne entered and presented a note to Raife from Doctor Malsano. Whilst he was reading the note, which was lengthy and called for a reply, she beckoned Lesigne into another room. She spoke hurriedly, and with authority.

“Lesigne, you must get this notice into the New York Herald, Paris edition. I don’t know how, but you must do it—pay for it—do it, somehow.”

The little Lesigne bowed and smiled. “Mams’elle Gilda, what you tell me, that I will do, if it cost me—yes, if it cost me my life. I am devoted to your service.”

Gilda was well aware of the little man’s devotion. Whilst he was speaking, she was writing:

“Sir Raife Remington and party left Marseilles to-day, en route for the United States.”

She smiled as she handed it to Lesigne, and gave him some money to meet any contingent expense. Herrion would not miss this announcement, and it would serve to put him on a wrong trail.

Doctor Malsano’s letter was important. It planned a big coup at a house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. Paris is a city of fine streets and avenues, and amongst the finest is the Avenue des Champs Elysées. With a clever mixture of flattery and badinage, Malsano lured his victim into taking a leading part in this crowning work of his folly. The houses of the Champs Elysées are rich, and this brave stroke called for all the organisation and resource of the band. Malsano himself would direct operations. Denoir would be there, and to complete—Gilda would be there. It was difficult and called for agility, courage and daring. Raife, who possessed all these qualities, was to take the leading and more active part, but he would be well supported.

Detective-Inspector Herrion was in his room in the obscure little Hôtel Villon. He was reading the Paris edition of the New York Herald, and his face wore a puzzled expression. The notice that attracted his attention read as follows:

“Sir Raife Remington and party left Marseilles to-day, en route for the United States.”

He reflected: “It’s fifty to one Remington didn’t put that notice in. I wonder who did. It would take a lot of people in. It’s clever enough for that blackguard, Malsano. After that note on the cliffs, at Cromer, he isn’t going to tell us he’s alive, at least, not in that way.” He took the telephone and rang up the New York Herald office. He told them who he was. Then he read the notice and asked: “Where did you get that notice from?”

An American voice replied asking him to hold the wire. “The man who took it in is not on duty, but the office-boy describes him as a little man, dark, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a big, black necktie. He looked like an artist from the Quartier Latin.”

Herrion answered: “Thanks, that will do. I think I know the man.”

Replacing the receiver he smiled rather than spoke to himself. “I thought so. It’s Malsano’s work, and the man who took it was Lesigne. I must find an excuse to arrest that fellow Lesigne. Malsano’s been too clever for me, up to now.”

Mr Herrion took his hat, strolled along the boulevards, and made his way to the Prefecture of Police. Here he described Lesigne, and put it, tentatively, that he was a dangerous fellow, and that whereas he, Herrion, could not actually prove anything criminal against him, at the same time, he was satisfied that the man was an active agent among a bunch of criminals. His arrest would serve a useful purpose. The arrest was not made, for Doctor Malsano had other uses for Lesigne, and he had left Paris.

The plans for the burglary in the Champs Elysées were progressing, but they formed no part of Raife’s work in the matter. He was to supply the “agility, courage and daring” on the night, and he readily consented to act such a part. In his present mood he was prepared with all those qualities. In the meantime, he had leisure to enjoy Gilda’s company. After the fright when Gilda had seen Detective-Inspector Herrion, in his disguise, at the Café Buonaventure, they avoided the boulevards, and took trips into the country. They preferred the country that has been made famous by the great French painters, Corot, Daubigny, and the other founders of the Barbison school. Here, among a simple peasantry, in wood and dale, they wandered together, this extraordinary couple, who, starting with all that beauteous man and womanhood could endow them with, were both involved in crime. The crime was not of their making, yet they were almost unconsciously made the active agents.

It was evening time on one of these happy days, and the sun had set, leaving the fierce glow of brilliant orange, merging into crimson and carmine, flecked with lilac clouds, until high in the heavens, the azure depth was tinged with emerald. Low in the foreground, subdued, yet vivid siennas, with scarlet poppy blossom here and there, welded into deep purples, silhouetted against the vivid sky. They sat on a knoll among the wild flowers, hand in hand, and, as is often the wont of lovers, they spoke little. Raife’s past life was, for the present, a closed book. He thrust thought from him, and appeared content as long as he was in Gilda’s company. She appeared to have no memory of the past as long as he was with her. A tiny cabaret was generally to be found conveniently near, and supplied all the refreshment they needed. The mystery of this handsome couple, who seemed to be in a semi-trance, caused speculation, as the worthy woman, or sometimes her husband, brought the simple food and wine that made their meal. Then, outside the cabaret, they would sit at a table, sipping coffee and liqueurs until the moon shed her silver light and wrapped the world in the subdued glow that has ever been the chosen accompaniment of lovers. Then, late back to the flat, where Gilda sang French love-songs, until the arrival of the braggadocio Denoir, or a missive from Malsano brought them back from the quiet delights of their prolonged love-dream.

At night, away from the influence of Gilda’s fascinating presence, Raife’s mind was subject to storms of emotion. Where was he trending? To what further depths was he descending? His thoughts sometimes led to Hilda—his wife whom he had deserted. His mother’s dignified and beautiful face would appear to him as in a vision. His happy boyhood days at school, college, and Aldborough Park, crowded before him.

Then he remembered the fateful day when he had met Gilda, with his friend Edward Mutimer, on the front, at Southport. The unexpected reunion at Nice. Then the nightmare haunted him. The nightmare of that night when he had discovered Gilda as a burglar in the library at Aldborough Park. These and a score more of incidents rushed to his mind. Surely no man’s life in so short a time had been crowded with so much incident. Through it all, he was compelled, by some fate, to act against his convictions. What was this evil genius that haunted him? He would break away whilst there yet was time.

On such a night he had retired early, and was restlessly tossing on his bed when he heard a familiar voice outside the front door of the flat. The concierge was talking to some one, who was enquiring for a Monsieur Désigné. The concierge said: “There is no one of that name living here, sir, and I do not remember seeing any one such as you describe.”

“Who lives in this flat?” asked the voice.

The concierge replied: “Monsieur Vachelle, sir, a very quiet gentleman, sir. I think he is from Brittany, sir. He speaks French, but with a slight provincial accent.”

Monsieur Henri Vachelle was the assumed name under which Raife was living in the Rue Lafayette.

Springing from his bed, he hastily pushed aside a sliding panel, by means of which he was able to see, through a combination of mirrors, who was in the passage. It was true. He was not mistaken. The concierge was talking to Detective-inspector Herrion.