Through the Wall Part 69

"I've decided the thing"--he frowned--"it's all settled. I have sent word by Tignol to the Brazilian emba.s.sy that I will accept that position in Rio Janeiro. It's still open, and--mother," he went on eagerly, "I'm going to take you with me."

Her face brightened under its beautiful crown of silver-white hair, but she shook her head.

"I couldn't go, Paul; I could never bear that long sea journey, and I should be unhappy away from these dear old mountains. If you go, you must go alone. I don't say you mustn't go, I only ask you to think, _to think_."

"I have thought," he answered impatiently. "I've done nothing but think, ever since Ernestine sent that telegram."

"You have thought about me," she chided. "Have you thought about the case?

Have you thought that, if you give it up, an innocent man will suffer and a guilty man will go unpunished?"

"Hah! The guilty man! It's a jolly sure thing _he'll_ go unpunished, whatever I do."

"I don't believe it," cried the old lady, springing forward excitedly in her invalid's chair, "such wickedness _cannot_ go unpunished. No, my boy, you can conquer, you _will_ conquer."

"I can't fight the whole of France," he retorted sharply. "You don't understand this man's power, mother; I might as well try to conquer the devil."

"I don't ask you to do that," she laughed, "but--isn't there _anything_ you can think of? You've always won out in the past, and--what is this man's intelligence to yours?" She paused and then went on more earnestly: "Paul, I'm so proud of you, and--you _can't_ rest under this wrong that has been done you. I want the Government to make amends for putting you off the force. I want them to publicly recognize your splendid services. And they will, my son, they must, if you will only go ahead now, and--there I'm getting foolish." She brushed away some springing tears. "Come, we'll talk of something else."

Nothing more was said about the case, but the seed was sown, and as the evening pa.s.sed, the wise old lady remarked that her son fell into moody silences and strode about restlessly. And, knowing the signs, she left him to his thoughts.

When bedtime came, Paul kissed her tenderly good night and then turned to withdraw, but he paused at the door, and with a look that she remembered well from the days of his boyhood transgressions, a look of mingled frankness and shamefacedness, he came back to her bedside.

"Mother," he said, "I want to be perfectly honest about this thing; I told you there is nothing that I could do against this man; as a matter of fact, there is one thing that I could _possibly_ do. It's a long shot, with the odds all against me, and, if I should fail, he would do me up, that's sure; still, I must admit that I see a chance, one small chance of--landing him.

I thought I'd tell you because--well, I thought I'd tell you."

"My boy!" she cried. "My brave boy! I'm happy now. All I wanted was to have you think this thing over alone, and--decide alone. Good night, Paul! G.o.d bless you and--help you!"

"Good night, mother," he said fondly. "I will decide before to-morrow, and--whatever I do, I--I'll remember what you say."

Then he went to his room and for hours through the night Ernestine, watching by the patient, saw his light burning.

The next morning he came again to his mother's bedside with his old buoyant smile, and after loving greetings, he said simply: "It's all right, little mother, I see my way. I'm going to take the chance, and," he nodded confidently, "between you and me, it isn't such a slim chance, either."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE DIARY

Coquenil's effort during the next month might be set forth in great detail.

It may also be told briefly, which is better, since the result rather than the means is of moment.

The detective began by admitting the practical worthlessness of the evidence in hand against this formidable adversary, and he abandoned, for the moment, his purpose of proving that De Heidelmann-Bruck had killed Martinez. Under the circ.u.mstances there was no way of proving it, for how can the wheels of justice be made to turn against an individual who absolutely controls the manner of their turning, who is able to remove annoying magistrates with a snap of his fingers, and can use the full power of government, the whole authority of the Prime Minister of France and the Minister of Justice for his personal convenience and protection?

The case was so extraordinary and unprecedented that it could obviously be met only (if at all) by extraordinary and unprecedented measures. Such measures Coquenil proceeded to conceive and carry out, realizing fully that, in so doing, he was taking his life in his hands. His first intuition had come true, he was facing a great criminal and must either destroy or be destroyed; it was to be a ruthless fight to a finish between Paul Coquenil and the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck.

And, true to his intuitions, as he had been from the start, M. Paul resolved to seek the special and deadly arm that he needed against this sinister enemy in the baron's immediate _entourage;_ in fact, in his own house and home. That was the detective's task, to be received, unsuspected, as an inmate of De Heidelmann-Bruck's great establishment on the Rue de Varennes, the very center of the ancient n.o.bility of Paris.

In this purpose he finally succeeded, after what wiles and pains need not be stated, being hired at moderate wages as a stable helper, with a small room over the carriage house, and miscellaneous duties that included much drudgery in cleaning the baron's numerous automobiles. It may truthfully be said that no more willing pair of arms ever rubbed and scrubbed their aristocratic bra.s.ses.

The next thing was to gain the confidence, then the complicity of one of the men servants in the _hotel_ itself, so that he might be given access to the baron's private apartments at the opportune moment. In the horde of hirelings about a great man there is always one whose ear is open to temptation, and the baron's household was no exception to this rule.

Coquenil (known now as Jacques and looking the stable man to perfection) found a dignified flunky in black side whiskers and white-silk stockings who was not above accepting some hundred-franc notes in return for sure information as to the master's absences from home and for necessary a.s.sistance in the way of keys and other things.

Thus it came to pa.s.s that on a certain night in August, about two in the morning, Paul Coquenil found himself alone in the baron's s.p.a.cious, silent library before a ma.s.sive safe. The opening of this safe is another matter that need not be gone into--a desperate case justifies desperate risk, and an experienced burglar chaser naturally becomes a bit of a burglar himself; at any rate, the safe swung open in due course, without accident or interference, and the detective stood before it.

All this Coquenil had done on a chance, without positive knowledge, save for the a.s.surance of the black-whiskered valet that the baron wrote frequently in a diary which he kept locked in the safe. Whether this was true, and, if so, whether the baron had been mad enough to put down with his own hand a record of his own wickedness, were matters of pure conjecture. Coquenil was convinced that this journal would contain what he wanted; he did not believe that a man like De Heidelmann-Bruck would keep a diary simply to fill in with insipidities. If he kept it at all, it would be because it pleased him to a.n.a.lyze, fearlessly, his own extraordinary doings, good or bad. The very fact that the baron was different from ordinary men, a law unto himself, made it likely that he would disregard what ordinary men would call prudence in a matter like this; there is no such word as imprudence for one who is practically all-powerful, and, if it tickled the baron's fancy to keep a journal of crime, it was tolerably certain he would keep it.

The event proved that he did keep it. On one of the shelves of the safe, among valuable papers and securities, the detective found a thick book bound in black leather and fastened with heavy gold clasps. It was the diary.

With a thrill of triumph, Coquenil seized upon the volume, then, closing the safe carefully, without touching anything else, he returned to his room in the stable. His purpose was accomplished, and now he had only one thought--to leave the _hotel_ as quickly as possible; it would be a matter of a few moments to pack his modest belongings, then he could rouse the doorkeeper and be off with his bag and the precious record.

As he started to act on this decision, however, and steal softly down to the courtyard, the detective paused and looked at his watch. It was not yet three o'clock, and M. Paul, in the real burglar spirit, reflected that his departure with a bag, at this unseasonable hour, might arouse the doorkeeper's suspicion; whereas, if he waited until half past five, the gate would be open and he could go out unnoticed. So he decided to wait.

After all, there was no danger, the baron was away from Paris, and no one would enter the library before seven or eight.

While he waited, Coquenil opened the diary and began to read. There were some four hundred neatly written pages, brief separate entries without dates, separate thoughts as it were, and, as he turned through them he found himself more and more absorbed until, presently, he forgot time, place, danger, everything; an hour pa.s.sed, two hours, and still the detective read on while his candle guttered down to the stick and the brightening day filled his mean stable room; he was absolutely lost in a most extraordinary human doc.u.ment, in one of those terrible utterances, shameless and fearless, that are flung out, once in a century or so, from the hot somber depths of a man's being.

I

I have kept this diary because it amuses me, because I am not afraid, because my nature craves and demands some honest expression somewhere. If these pages were read I should be destroyed. I understand that, but I am in constant danger of being destroyed, anyway. I might be killed by an automobile accident. A small artery in my brain might snap. My heart might stop beating for various reasons. And it is no more likely that this diary will be found and read (with the precautions I have taken) than that one of these other things will happen. Besides, I have no fear, since I regard my own life and all other lives as of absolutely trifling importance.

II

I say here to myself what thousands of serious and successful men all over the world are saying to themselves, what the enormous majority of men must say to themselves, that is, that I am (and they are) constantly committing crimes and we are therefore criminals. Some of us kill, some steal, some seduce virgins, some take our friends' wives, but most of us, in one way or another, deliberately and repeatedly break the law, so we are criminals.

III

Half the great men of this world are great criminals. The Napoleons of war murder thousands, the Napoleons of trade and finance plunder tens of thousands. It is the same among beasts and fishes, among birds and insects, probably among angels and devils, everywhere we find one inexorable law, resistless as gravitation, that impels the strong to plunder and destroy the weak.

IV

It is five years since I committed what would be called a monstrous and cowardly crime. As a matter of fact, I did what my intelligence recognized as necessary and what was therefore my duty. However, let us call it a crime. I have been interested to watch for any consequences or effects of this crime in myself and I have discovered none. I study my face carefully and fail to find any marks of wickedness. My eyes are clear and beautiful, my skin is remarkably free from lines. I am in splendid health, I eat well, sleep well, and enjoy life. My nerves are absolutely steady. I have never felt the slightest twinge of remorse. I have a keen sense of humor. I look five years younger than I am and ten years younger than men who have drudged virtuously and uncomplainingly on the "Thy-will-be-done" plan. I am certainly a better man, better looking, better feeling, stronger in every way than I was before I committed this crime. It is absolute nonsense, therefore, to say that sin or crime (I mean intelligent sin or crime) put an ugly stamp on a man. The ugly stamp comes from bad health, bad surroundings, bad conditions of life, and these can usually be changed by money. _Which I have!_

V

Last night (July 4th) I shot a man (Martinez) at the Ansonia Hotel.

I observed my sensations carefully and must say that they were of a most commonplace character. There was no danger in the adventure, nothing difficult about it; in fact, it was far less exciting than shooting moose in the Maine woods or tracking grizzlies in the Rockies or going after tigers in India. There is really nothing so tame as shooting a man!

VI

There is no necessary connection between crime and vice. Some of the most vicious men--I mean gluttons, drunkards, degenerates, drug fiends, etc. have never committed any crimes of importance. On the other hand, I am satisfied that great criminals are usually free from vices. It must be so, for vices weaken the will and dull the brain. I take a little wine at my meals, but never to excess, and I never was drunk in my life. I smoke three or four cigars a day and occasionally a cigarette, that is all. And I never gamble. No doubt there are vicious criminals, but they would probably have been vicious if they had not been criminals.

VII

I have the most tremendous admiration for myself, for my courage, for my intelligence, for the use I have made of my opportunities. I started as the son of a broken-down n.o.bleman, my material a.s.sets being a trumpery t.i.tle. My best chance was to marry one of the vain and shallow rich women of America, and by many brilliant maneuvers in a most difficult and delicate campaign, I succeeded in marrying the very richest of them. She was a widow with an enormous fortune that her husband (a rapacious brute) had wrung from the toil of thousands in torturing mines. Following his method, I disposed of the woman, then of her daughter, and came into possession of the fortune. It would have been a silly thing to leave such vast potential power to a chit of a girl unable to use it or appreciate it. I have used it as a master, as a man of brain, as a gentleman.

I have made myself a force throughout Europe, I have overthrown ministries, averted wars, built up great industries, helped the development of literature and art; in short, I have made amends for the brutality and dishonesty of the lady's first husband. I believe his name was Mike!

VIII