The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet 24 – Stevenson · Verses Across
Literature · Detective Fiction
The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet 24The Secret of the Cabinet
18
Literature · Detective Fiction
The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet 24
The Secret of the Cabinet
StevensonEnglish
Godfrey bade me good-bye at the dock and hastened away to the office to write his story, which, I could guess, would be concerned with the manners of Americans, especially with Grady's. As for me, that whiff of salt air had put an unaccustomed edge to my appetite, and I took a cab to Murray's, deciding to spend the remainder of the evening there, over a good dinner. Except in a certain mood, Murray's does not appeal to me; the pseudo-Grecian temple in the corner, with water cascading down its steps, the make-believe clouds which float across the ceiling, the tables of glass lighted from beneath--all this, ordinarily, seems trivial and banal; but occasionally, in an esoteric mood, I like Murray's, and can even find something picturesque and romantic in bright gowns, and gleaming shoulders, and handsome faces seen amid these bizarre surroundings. And then, of course, there is always the cooking, which leaves nothing to be desired.
I was in the right mood to-night for the enjoyment of the place, and I ambled through the dinner in a fashion so leisurely and trifled so long over coffee and cigarette that it was far past ten o'clock when I came out again into Forty-second Street. After an instant's hesitation, I decided to walk home, and turned back toward Broadway, already filling with the after-theatre crowd.
Often as I have seen it, Broadway at night is still a fascinating place to me, with its blazing signs, its changing crowds, its clanging street traffic, its bright shop-windows. Grady was right in saying that "gay Paree" had nothing like it; nor has any other city that I know. It is, indeed, unique and thoroughly American; and I walked along it that night in the most leisurely fashion, savouring it to the full; pausing, now and then, for a glance at a shop-window, and stopping at the Hoffman House--now denuded, alas! of its Bouguereau--to replenish my supply of cigarettes.
Reaching Madison Square, at last, I walked out under the trees, as I almost always do, to have a look at the Flatiron Building, white against the sky. Then I glanced up at the Metropolitan tower, higher but far less romantic in appearance, and saw by the big illuminated clock that it was nearly half-past eleven.
I crossed back over Broadway, at last, and turned down Twenty-third Street in the direction of the Marathon, when, just at the corner, I came face to face with three men as they swung around the corner in the same direction, and, with a little start, I recognised Grady and Simmonds, with M. Pigot between them. Evidently Grady had felt it incumbent upon himself to make good his promise in the most liberal manner, and to display the wonders of the Great White Way from end to end--the ceremony no doubt involving the introduction of the stranger to a number of typical American drinks--and the result of all this was that Grady's legs wobbled perceptibly. As a matter of racial comparison, I glanced at M. Pigot's, but they seemed in every way normal.
"Hello, Lester," said Simmonds, in a voice which showed that he had not wholly escaped the influences of the evening's celebration; and even Grady condescended to nod, from which I inferred that he was feeling very unusually happy.
"Hello, Simmonds," I answered, and, as I turned westward with them, he dropped back and; fell into step beside me.
"Piggott is certainly a wonder," he said. "A regular sport--wanted to see everything and taste everything. He says Paris ain't in the same class with this town."
"Where are you going now?" I asked.
"We're going round to the station. Piggott says he's got a sensation up his sleeve for us--it's got something to do with that cabinet."
"With the cabinet?"
"Yes--that shiny thing Godfrey got me to lock up in a cell."
"Simmonds," I said, seriously, "does Godfrey know about this?"
"No," said Simmonds, looking a little uncomfortable. "I told Grady we ought to 'phone him to come up, but the chief got mad and told me to mind my own business. Godfrey's been after him, you know, for a long time."
"Suppose I 'phone him," I suggested. "There'd be no objection to that, would there?"
"I won't object," said Simmonds, "and I don't know who else will, since nobody else will know about it."
"All right. And drag out the preliminaries as long as you can, to give him a chance to get up here."
Simmonds nodded.
"I'll do what I can," he agreed, "but I don't see what good it will do. The chief won't let him in, even if he does come up."
"We'll have to leave that to Godfrey. But he ought to be told. He's responsible for the cabinet being where it is."
"I know he is, and Piggott says it was a mighty wise thing to put it there, though I'm blessed if I know why. Hurry Godfrey along as much as you can. Good-night," and he followed his companions into the station.
There was a drugstore at the corner with a public telephone station, and two minutes later, I was asking to be connected with the city-room at the Record office.
No, said a supercilious voice, Mr. Godfrey was not there; he had left some time before; no, the speaker did not know where he was going, nor when he would be back.
"Look here," I said, "this is important. I want to talk to the city editor--and be quick about it."
There was an instant's astonished silence.
"What name?" asked the voice.
"Lester, of Royce and Lester--and you might tell your city editor that Godfrey is a close friend of mine."
The city editor seemed to understand, for I was switched on to him a moment later. But he was scarcely more satisfactory.
"We sent Godfrey up into Westchester to see a man," he said, "on a tip that looked pretty good. He started just as soon as he got his Pigot story written, and he ought to be back almost any time. Is there a message I can give him?"
"Yes--tell him Pigot is at the Twenty-third Street station, and that he'd better come up as soon as he can."
"Very good. I'll give him the message the moment he comes in."
"Thank you," I said, but the disappointment was a bitter one.
In the street again, I paused hesitatingly at the curb, my eyes on the red light of the police station. What was about to happen there? What was the sensation M. Pigot had up his sleeve? Had I any excuse for being present?
And then, remembering Grady's nod and his wobbly legs--remembering, too, that, at the worst, he could only put me out!--I turned toward the light, pushed open the door and entered.
There was no one in sight except the sergeant at the desk.
"My name is Lester," I said. "You have a cabinet here belonging to the estate of the late Philip Vantine."
"We've got a cabinet, all right; but I don't know who it belongs to."
"It belongs to Mr. Vantine's estate."
"Well, what about it?" he asked, looking at me to see if I was drunk. "You haven't come in here at midnight to tell me that, I hope?"
"No; but I'd like to see the cabinet a minute."
"You can't see it to-night. Come around to-morrow. Besides, I don't know you."
"Here's my card. Either Mr. Simmonds or Mr. Grady would know me. And to-morrow won't do."
The sergeant took the card, looked at it, and looked at me.
"Wait a minute," he said, at last, and disappeared through a door at the farther side of the room. He was gone three or four minutes, and the station-clock struck twelve as I stood there. I counted the sonorous, deliberate strokes, and then, in the silence that followed, my hands began to tremble with the suspense. Suppose Grady should refuse to see me? But at last the sergeant came back.
"Come along," he said, opening the gate in the railing and motioning me through. "Straight on through that door," he added, and sat down again at his desk.
With a desperate effort at careless unconcern, I opened the door and passed through. Then, involuntarily, I stopped. For there, in the middle of the floor, was the Boule cabinet, with M. Pigot standing beside it, and Grady and Simmonds sitting opposite, flung carelessly back in their chairs, and puffing at black cigars.
They all looked at me as I entered, Pigot with an evident contraction of the brows which showed how strongly his urbanity was strained; Simmonds with an affectation of surprise, and Grady with a bland and somewhat vacant smile. My heart rose when I saw that smile.
"Well, Mr. Lester," he said, "so you want to see this cabinet?"
"Yes," I answered; "it really belongs to the Vantine estate, you know; I'm going to put in a claim for it--that is, if you are not willing to surrender it without contest."
"Did you just happen to think of this in the middle of the night?" he inquired quizzically.
"No," I said, boldly; "but I saw you and Mr. Simmonds and this gentleman"--with a bow to M. Pigot--"turn in here a moment ago, and it occurred to me that the cabinet might have something to do with your visit. Of course, we don't want the cabinet injured. It is very valuable."
"Don't worry," said Grady, easily, "we're not going to injure it. And I think we'll be ready to surrender it to you at any time after to-night. Moosseer Piggott here wants to do a few tricks with it first. I suppose you have a certain right to be present--so, if you like sleight-of-hand, sit down."
I hastily sought a chair, my heart singing within me. Then I attempted to assume a mask of indifference, for M. Pigot was obviously annoyed at my presence, and I feared for a moment that his Gallic suavity would be strained to breaking. But Grady, if he noticed his guest's annoyance, paid no heed to it; and I began to suspect that the Frenchman's courtesy and good-breeding had ended by rubbing Grady the wrong way, they were in such painful contrast to his own hob-nailed manners. Whatever the cause, there was a certain malice in the smile he turned upon the Frenchman.
"And now, Moosseer Piggott," he said, settling back in his chair a little farther, "we're ready for the show."
"What I have to tell you, sir," began M. Pigot, in a voice as hard as steel and cold as ice, "has, understand well, to be told in confidence. It must remain between ourselves until the criminal is secured."
Grady's smile hardened a little. Perhaps he did not like the imperatives. At any rate, he ignored the hint.
"Understand, Mr. Lester?" he asked, looking at me, and I nodded.
I saw Pigot's eyes flame and his face flush with anger, for Grady's tone was almost insulting. For an instant I thought that he would refuse to proceed; but he controlled himself.
Standing there facing me, in the full light, it was possible for me to examine him much more closely than had been possible on board the boat, and I looked at him with interest. He was typically French, --smooth-shaven, with a face seamed with little wrinkles and very white, eyes shadowed by enormously bushy lashes, and close-cropped hair as white as his face. But what attracted me most was the mouth --a mouth at once delicate and humourous, a little large and with the lips full enough to betoken vigour, yet not too full for fineness. He was about sixty years of age, I guessed; and there was about him the air of a man who had passed through a hundred remarkable experiences, without once losing his aplomb. Certainly he was not going to lose it now.
"The story which I have to relate," he began in his careful English, clipping his words a little now and then, "has to do with the theft of the famous Michaelovitch diamonds. You may, perhaps, remember the case."
I remembered it, certainly, for the robbery had been conceived and carried out with such brilliancy and daring that its details had at once arrested my attention--to say nothing of the fact that the diamonds, which formed the celebrated collection belonging to the Grand Duke Michael, of Russia,--sojourning in Paris because unappreciated in his native land and also because of the supreme attraction of the French capital to one of his temperament--were valued at something like eight million francs.
"That theft," continued M. Pigot, "was accomplished in a manner at once so bold and so unique that we were certain it could be the work of but a single man--a rascal named Crochard, who calls himself also 'The Invincible'--a rascal who has given us very great trouble, but whom we have never been able to convict. In this case, we had against him no direct evidence; we subjected him to an interrogation and found that he had taken care to provide a perfect alibi; so we were compelled to release him. We knew that it would be quite useless to arrest him unless we should find some of the stolen jewels in his possession. He appeared as usual upon the boulevards, at the cafés, everywhere. He laughed in our faces. For us, it was not pleasant; but our law is strict. For us to accuse a man, to arrest him, and then to be compelled to own ourselves mistaken, is a very serious matter. But we did what we could. We kept Crochard under constant surveillance; we searched his rooms and those of his mistress not once but many times. On one occasion, when he passed the barrier at Vincennes, our agents fell upon him and searched him, under pretence of robbing him.
"He was, understand well, not for an instant deceived. He knew thoroughly what we were doing, for what we were searching. He knew also that nowhere in Europe would he dare to attempt to sell a single one of those jewels. We suspected that he would attempt to bring them to this country, and we warned your department of customs. For we knew that here he could sell all but the very largest not only almost without danger, but at a price far greater than he could obtain for them in Europe. We closed every avenue to him, as we thought--and then, all at once, he disappeared.
"For two weeks we heard nothing--then came the story of this man Drouet, killed by a stab on the hand. At once we recognised the work of Crochard, for he alone of living men possesses the secret of the poison of the Medici. It is a fearful secret, which, in his whole life, he had used but once--and that upon a man who had betrayed him."
M. Pigot paused and passed his hand across his forehead.
"We were at a loss to understand Crochard's connection with Drouet," M. Pigot continued. "Drouet, while a mere hanger-on of the cafés of the boulevards, was not a criminal. Then came the death of that creature Morel, in an effort to gain possession of this cabinet, and we began to understand. We made inquiries concerning the cabinet; we learned its history, and the secret of its construction, and we arrived at a certain conclusion. It was to ascertain if that conclusion is correct that I came to America."
"What is the conclusion?" queried Grady, who had listened to all this with a manifest impatience in strong contrast to my own absorbed interest.
For I had already guessed what the conclusion was, and my pulses were bounding with excitement. "Our theory," replied M. Pigot, without the slightest acceleration of speech, "is that the Michaelovitch diamonds are concealed in this cabinet. Everything points to it--and we shall soon see." As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a steel gauntlet, marvellously like the one Godfrey had used, and slipped it over his right hand. "When one attempts to fathom the secrets of L'Invincible" he said with a smile, "one must go armoured. Already three men have paid with their lives the penalty of their rashness." "Three men!" repeated Grady, wonderingly. "Three," and Pigot checked them off upon his fingers. "First the man who gave his name as d'Aurelle, but who was really a blackmailer named Drouet; second, M. Vantine, the connoisseur; and third, the creature Morel. Of these, the only one that really matters is M. Vantine; his death was most unfortunate, and I am sure that Crochard regrets it exceedingly. He might also regret my death, but, at any rate, I have no wish to be the fourth. Not I," and he adjusted the gauntlet carefully. "One moment, monsieur," I said, bursting in, unable to remain longer silent. "This is all so wonderful--so thrilling--will you not tell us more? For what were these three men searching? For the jewels?" "Monsieur is as familiar with the facts as I," he answered, in a sarcastic tone. "He knows that Drouet was killed while searching for a packet of letters, which would have compromised most seriously a great lady; he knows that M. Vantine was killed while endeavouring to open the drawer after its secret had been revealed to him by the maid of that same great lady, who was hoping to get a reward for them; Morel met death directly at the hands of Crochard because he was a traitor and deserved it." More and more fascinated, I stared at him. What secret was safe, I asked myself, from this astonishing man? Or was he merely piecing together the whole story from such fragments as he knew? "But even yet," I stammered, "I do not understand. We have opened the secret drawer of the cabinet--there was no poison. How could it have killed Drouet and Mr. Vantine?"
"Very simply," said M. Pigot, coldly. "Death came to Drouet and M. Vantine because the maid of Madame la Duchesse mistook her left hand for her right. The drawer which contained the letters is at the left of the cabinet--see," and he pressed the series of springs, caught the little handle, and pulled the drawer open. "You will notice that the letters are gone, for the drawer was opened by Madame la Duchesse herself, in the presence of M. Lestaire, who very gallantly permitted her to resume possession of them. The drawer which Drouet and M. Vantine opened," and here his voice became a little strident under the stress of great emotion, "is on the right side of the cabinet, exactly opposite the other, and opened by a similar combination. But there is one great difference. About the first drawer, there is nothing to harm any one; the other is guarded by the deadliest poison the world has ever known. Observe me, gentlemen!" Impelled by an excitement so intense as to be almost painful, I had risen from my chair and drawn near to him. As he spoke, he bent above the desk and pressed three fingers along the right edge. There was a sharp click, and a section of the inlay fell outward, forming a handle, just as I had seen it do on the other side of the desk. M. Pigot hesitated an instant--any man would have hesitated before that awful risk!--then, catching the handle firmly with his armoured hand, he drew it quickly out. There was a sharp clash, as of steel on steel, and the drawer stood open.
