XIV
Rive Droit
Falling without presage upon the slumberous hush enveloping the little house marooned in that dead backwater of Paris, the shock of that alarm drove the girl back from the table to the nearest wall, and for a moment held her there, transfixed in panic.
To the wide, staring eyes that questioned his so urgently, Lanyard promptly nodded grave reassurance. He hadn’t stirred since his first, involuntary and almost imperceptible start, and before the last fragment of splintered glass had tinkled on the floor above, he was calming her in the most matter-of-fact manner.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “It’s nothing—merely Solon’s skylight gone smash!”
“You call that nothing!” she cried gustily. “What caused it, then?”
“My negligence,” he admitted gloomily. “I might have known that wide spread of glass with the studio electrics on, full-blaze, would give the show away completely. The house is known to be unoccupied; and it wasn’t to be expected that both the police and Popinot’s crew would overlook so shining a mark. … And it’s all my fault, my oversight: I should have thought of it before. … High time I was quitting a game I’ve no longer the wit to play by the rules!”
“But the police would never … !”
“Certainly not. This is Popinot’s gentle method of letting us know he’s on the job. But I’ll just have a look, to make sure. … No: stop where you are, please. I’d rather go alone.”
He swung alertly through to the hall window, pausing there only long enough for an instantaneous glance through the draperies—a fugitive survey that discovered the impasse Stanislas no more abandoned to the wind and rain, but tenanted visibly by one at least who lounged beneath the lonely lamppost, a shoulder against it: a featureless civilian silhouette with attention fixed to the little house.
But Lanyard didn’t doubt this one had a dozen fellows stationed within call. …
Springing up the stairs, he paused prudently at the topmost step, one quick glance showing him the huge rent gaping black in the skylight, the second the missile of destruction lying amid a litter of broken glass—a brick wrapped in newspaper, by the look of it.
Swooping forward, he retrieved this, darted back from the exposed space beneath the shattered skylight, and had no more than cleared the threshold than a second something fell through the gap and buried itself in the parquetry. This was a bullet fired from the roof of one of the adjoining buildings: confirming his prior reasoning that the first missile must have fallen from a height, rather than have been thrown up from the street, to have wrought such destruction with those tough, thick panes of clouded glass. …
Swearing softly to himself, he descended to the kitchen.
“As I thought,” he said coolly, exhibiting his find. “They’re on the roof of the next house—though they’ve posted a sentry in the street, of course.”
“But that second thump—?” the girl demanded.
“A bullet,” he said, placing the bundle on the table and cutting the string that bound it: “they were on the quivive and fired when I showed myself beneath the skylight.”
“But I heard no report,” she objected.
“A Maxim silencer on the gun, I fancy,” he explained, unwrapping the brick and smoothing out the newspaper. … “Glad you thought to put on your hat before you came down,” he added, with an approving glance for the girl; “it won’t be safe to go up to the studio again—of course.”
His nonchalance was far less real than it seemed, but helped to steady one who was holding herself together with a struggle, on the verge of nervous collapse.
“But what are we to do now?” she stammered. “If they’ve surrounded the house—!”
“Don’t worry: there’s more than one way out,” he responded, frowning at the newspaper; “I wouldn’t have picked this place out, otherwise. Nor would Solon have rented it in the first instance had it lacked an emergency exit, in event of creditors. … Ah—thought so!”
“What—?”
“Troyon’s is gone,” he said, without looking up. “This is tonight’s Presse. … ‘Totally destroyed by a fire which started at six-thirty this morning and in less than half an hour had reduced the ancient structure to a heap of smoking ashes’! …” He ran his eye quickly down the column, selecting salient phrases: “ ‘Believed to have been of incendiary origin though the premises were uninsured’—that’s an intelligent guess! … ‘Narrow escape of guests in their’ whatyemaycallems. … ‘Three lives believed to have been lost … one body recovered charred almost beyond recognition’—but later identified as Roddy—poor devil! … ‘Two guests missing, Monsieur Lanyard, the well-known connoisseur of art, who occupied the room adjoining that of the unfortunate detective, and Mademoiselle Bannon, daughter of the American millionaire, who himself escaped only by a miracle with his secretary Monsieur Greggs, the latter being overcome by fumes’—what a shame! … ‘Police and firemen searching the ruins’—hm-hm—‘extraordinary interest manifested by the Préfecture indicates a suspicion that the building may have been fired to conceal some crime of a political nature.’ ”
Crushing the newspaper between his hands, he tossed it into a corner. “That’s all of importance. Thoughtful of Popinot to let me know, this way! The Préfecture, of course, is humming like a wasp’s-nest with the mystery of that telegram, signed with Roddy’s name and handed in at the Bourse an hour or so before he was ‘burned to death.’ Too bad I didn’t know then what I do now; if I’d even remotely suspected Greggs’ association with the Pack was via Bannon. … But what’s the use? I did my possible, knowing the odds were heavy against success.”
“What was written on the paper?” the girl demanded obliquely.
He made his eyes blank: “Written on the paper—?”
“I saw something in red ink at the head of the column. You tried to hide it from me, but I saw. … What was it?”
“Oh—that!” he laughed contemptuously: “just Popinot’s impudence—an invitation to come out and be a good target.”
She shook her head impatiently: “You’re not telling me the truth. It was something else, or you wouldn’t have been so anxious to
