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The Popular Magazine, 7 Oct 1923, with "The Cup Of The Magyars"
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
The trails of Mr. Robert Henry Blane, late of Houston, Texas, and No. 37, the man hunter, cross again in the thick of a London fog. And again the debonair adventurer from the Lone Star State takes occasion to dent the pride of Europe's greatest detective.
A THICK, stealthy fog occupied London. A fat and rather terrifying fog. Trafalgar Square was a receiving station for the white vapor squadrons that came rolling up from Tilbury, and the Fog King stuffed these wet masses into the Strand and Fleet Street, into the Haymarket and Piccadilly. The headlights of motor busses and taxicabs were changed into balls of illuminated floss; electric signs were blotted out; traffic noises were deadened. Pedestrians, groping their way homeward, thought of life insurance, unpaid debts, children, and other little subjects that come to the minds of persons doubtful as to their lease of life.
Robert Henry Blane, known as The Texan Wasp, sat at a corner table of a quiet restaurant in the Strand. A small but rather unusual restaurant that had a strange clientele. It was patronized by persons who knew food and who had the money to pay for it There was no swank, no chandeliers with a thousand lights, no overbearing head waiter, no fancy frills, but there was food. Splendid and wonderful food.
Mr. Blane, while the fog squadrons were rolling down the Strand, had attacked and mentally approved of a dish of stewed lampreys, that strange fish that attained fame through bringing about the death of an English king who ate of them not wisely but too well. The Wasp had followed the fish with a larded pheasant whose stuffing was the unfathomed secret of the huge chef, and he was on the point of making the acquaintance of a marvelous cheese soufflé when his attention was distracted. A perished, fog-drenched human slipped furtively through the door opening on the Strand, took in the room with round, weak eyes, then shambled hurriedly toward the corner occupied by Robert Henry Blane.
A waiter, converging on the same quarter with an assortment of liquids that Mr. Blane wished personally to blend, attempted to head off the outcast, but the fellow was too swift. He rushed forward, bringing the salty tang of the fog to wrestle with the delicious aroma of the soufflé.
"Pawden, guvnor!" he gasped, addressing the big American. "Might Hi harsk yer nime?"
The Texan Wasp looked at the wet, white face of the Whitechapel rat and answered with a smile. "Why certainly." he said. "My name is Harun-al-Rashid and I'm visiting London to inquire into the possible sale of Jordan almonds at Covent Garden market. I'm sorry I haven't got a card."
The interrogator was perplexed by the answer, and while he stood undecided the beverage-burdened waiter tried to skillfully butt him toward the door. But the fellow was persistent.
"Doan't kid me, guvnor!" he whined, breaking away from the waiter and rushing back to the table. "Corf up yer rile nime an' I'll tip yer summun."
"The caliph has spoken," said The Wasp.
"Is yer nime Bline?" cried the outcast. "Might yer nime be Mister Bline?"
"It might be," answered Robert Henry Blane. "And then again it might not."
The messenger wriggled from the grip of the waiter and stumbled back to the table. "I knew yer wus!" he cried. "The gent who give me this letter to 'and to yer says yer wus an American who looked like a dook an' that yer fed 'ere."
He burrowed under the headband of his greasy cap, pulled out an envelope and handed it to The Texan Wasp.
The big American took it, turned it over, then laid it beside his plate and turned to the soufflé. The rat stood on one leg and then on the other. He twisted his cap and ventured a remark. "An' yer does look like a dook!" he cried. "Blimey yer does! I've seen dooks an' I knows."
The Texan Wasp took a two-shilling piece from his pocket and handed it over. "I don't like dukes," he said quietly. "Good night."
Like Napoleon, Mr. Robert Henry Blane had a rule regarding letters. Good news could always wait; bad news need not be read at all. He finished the soufflé without glancing at the unopened letter. He ordered a Marnier rouge and lighted one of his own favorite cigars of Algerian tobacco, then amused himself by guessing at the name of his correspondent. He, Blane, had arrived in London the previous evening by the Dover-Ostend route from the Continent, and, unlike theatrical folk, out-of-town buyers, and small persons on their first trip, he had made no effort to have his presence in Fogland recorded in any way.
"Who is the mysterious person seeking Mister Bline?" he murmured, mimicking the accent of the messenger. "Who calls out of the fog?"
He drained the silver liqueur goblet, picked up the envelope and opened it.
The message it contained was written on the torn leaf of a betting book, and it ran:
Dear Bob:
I heard that you were in town. I suppose you thought me dead, but I'm still alive. Can you come and see me? Ring four times, count seven slowly, then ring once. If you get this to-night come over immediately. 1 want your help. Don't talk!
Darren.
21½ Aynhoe Road, Hammersmith.
Robert Henry Blane read the note a second time, then he took it word by word, repeating each word softly to himself. Surprised and startled, he stared at the big, awkward signature. It was certainly genuine. No one could have so successfully imitated the queer, clumsy penmanship of Ferdinand Darren, "Count of Pierrefond," the most famous—or rather infamous—gambler that the big resorts had ever seen.
Still gripping the note, The Texan Wasp hurriedly marshaled all the little scraps of news that concerned the disappearance of the great card wizard. For the moment he regretted that he had no authority to discuss with others the startling news that had come to him. He wished that be could call across to the next table where a very worldly gentleman sat wrestling with a woodcock and a bottle of Burgundy, and say: "Excuse me, but would you believe that 'Count' Ferdinand Darren is still alive? I thought that would surprise you! Well, he is! He's alive and well!"
Although ordinarily as close mouthed as a clam, at this particular moment he had a desire to share his wonderment. A wonderment that was a little awesome; a little terrifying.
Again he stared at the note. Ferdinand Darren was alive! The "Count of Pierrefond" was living in Hammersmith! In Hammersmith!
The word "Hammersmith" held the eye of Robert Henry Blane. Count Ferdinand Darren, who was known in the old days as the biggest plunger at Homburg and Biarritz, at Monte Carlo, Vevey and Aix-les-Bains, as the greatest punter at Longchamps, Kempton Park and Ascot, was hiding in Hammersmith, the haunt of the boarding-house keeper! Mr. Blane hummed a little verse as he considered the information:
"The pasteboards and horses are all very
fine,
They go with fine ladies and beautiful wine;
But watch for the morning when Fortune will frown
And
big-footed coppers will chase you round town."
The Wasp hurriedly marshaled all the little scraps of news that he had gathered up concerning the disappearance of the great gambler. Count Ferdinand Darren was one of the old breed of card wizards. In those golden days before the Great Squabble when the rouble, the mark and the Austrian crown sat up with the élite of currency, Count Ferdinand Darren made remarkable killings. He was one of the old-time picturesque wooers of Chance who made splendid copy for writers of sensational gambling stories. At Homburg he emptied the pockets of the Grand Duke Michael: at Aix-les-Bains, alone and single-handed, he outgeneraled to the tune of one hundred thousand francs a bunch of small crooks that lacked his nerve; and at Biarritz he took the word of a Spanish nobleman concerning the value of his family plate, staked half a million pesetas against the stuff and won the game. The don brought around the engraved junk on the following morning and handed it over. Darren examined it, assured the Spaniard that he had undervalued it, then with the remark: "It is a novelty for me to meet an honest person," he handed the plate back to the astonished grandee.
Then came the startling disappearance of Ferdinand Darren, "Count of Pierrefond." A Magyar lord, a wild devil from Czegléd, had a bout with the card wizard. Darren took everything but the Magyar's shoes, and then the wild man from Czegléd bragged of a drinking cup that his family owned since the days when Sobieski taught his followers to stab and thrust when chasing the Turks out of Hungary.
The story of the drinking cup interested Darren. He made an appointment to meet the Magyar in a pine grove near Cap-Martin, that sun-kissed spot between Monte Carlo and Mentone to which jaded gamblers drive to rest their nerves. They met at the appointed hour, went alone into the grove and played, their table the stump of a pine tree. Down on the white road there waited the carriage of the Magyar; Darren had come by train to the little station of Cap-Martin-Roquebrune.
The meeting was unlucky for the Magyar lord. Hours afterward he was found dead, the long blade of a hunting knife driven deep into his ribs. His body was strewn with playing cards and his clenched hands grasped quantities of the scented pine needles that perfume the air of the heaven-blessed resort. The carriage was still in the sunny road but the driver and Count Ferdinand Darren had both disappeared.
The police of Europe sought for Ferdinand Darren but they sought in vain. The tables knew him no more. All sorts of theories were put forward. Crime specialists reasoned that Darren had lured the driver down to the sea after killing his master and had pushed the fellow into the Mediterranean. Now and then came whispers from far-off race tracks, from Flemington, Lexington, from Randwick, Marianao and Rio, that told how Ferdinand Darren "Count of Pierrefond," had been seen, but these rumors were never believed. The police and Darren's old associates believed that the gambler had taken his own life after the affair at Cap-Martin.
The Texan Wasp placed the note in his pocket and called for his bill. He paid it, counted out an exact ten-per-cent tip for the waiter, then questioned the fellow as to his family.
"I have one child, a little girl of eight," answered the waiter.
The Wasp took from a handful of continental currency a fat Dutch gulden with the head of Wilhelmina, and the inscription "Koningin der Nederlanden," and added it to the tip. "That might make her a brooch," he said. "It was a very good meal. Good night."
The fog had thickened. It had become a cold, soupy
thing that dribbled down the faces of pedestrians. It made
the city strange and mysterious.
Robert. Henry Blane found a taxicab at the corner of Bedford Street and spoke to the chauffeur. "I want to get to the Olympia," he said. "Take it easy."
"I'll have to, guvnor," said the man. "It's thicker 'n gruel."
The taxi clung to the stern of a motor omnibus that bored a path for itself up the Haymarket to Piccadilly, then crept slowly westward along Knightsbridge and Kensington Road. The Texan Wasp was thinking of Ferdinand Darren. For nearly eight years nothing had been heard of the card wizard. Blane, like a thousand others, had thought him dead. Now out of the fog that enveloped London had come a message saying that he was alive. A curious message. Blane thought over the instructions concerning the ringing of the bell. "Ring four times, count seven slowly, then ring once," ran the instructions.
"He's particular about visitors," murmured The Wasp. "Well, no one wants a hempen collar even if they can get one for nothing."
The taxi stopped and the occupant inquired the reason. "Lorst, guvnor," answered the chauffeur. "I'm lookin' for a cop. If yer want a cop there's not one nearer 'n Great Marlborough Street Station, 'n if yer don't want one o' the blighters they're more plentiful than 'op leaves in Kent."
A tall, wet, and despondent-looking policeman was found at last. "The Holympia?" he repeated. "Two to the right. You're at the corner of 'Olland Road."
The taxi moved on, followed instructions and drew up before the big building. "There's no show on here to-night," said the chauffeur.
"No," answered The Wasp, as he paid, "that's why I came out. I thought the building would be lonely."
With great caution Mr. Blane found his way into Blythe Road and from there into Aynhoe Road. The locality was familiar to him.
He struck a match and examined the numbers. They started from Blythe Road and ran westward. The fog was now so thick that the big American had to feel his way along the walls and railings. Twice he collided with pedestrians who were steering by the same method.
The Wasp reached No. 21½. It was one of those straight-fronted London houses wedged so hard between others of its kind that the sensitive observer, viewing the open windows as so many mouths gasping for air, is filled with the belief that the house is being squashed to death. It gained a scant privacy through possessing a railed-off space the size of a burial allotment between its front wall and the sidewalk.
Obeying the instructions in the note Robert Henry Blane pressed the bell button four times, slowly counted seven, then pressed it again.
The door opened almost immediately but there was no one visible in the dimly lighted hall. The Texan stepped forward, the street door closed behind him, and as it banged shut the soft light in the hall was supplemented by one of startling radiance that flashed from the head of the stairs. It came from a shaded light of high power and it flooded the lower hall while leaving the landing above in complete darkness.
A voice from the landing asked The Texan Wasp to step forward, and as Blane looked up in an effort to locate the speaker there came a queer, gurgling laugh from above. It was a laugh that told of a momentary victory over fear, a great fear that waited always to throw the ash of terror into the face of its victim.
"It's you, all right!" came a voice from the landing. "By George, Blane, you haven't altered a bit since I last—last saw you. Just as handsome. Got—got younger, if anything."
The Texan Wasp smiled. "I can't see you so I cannot make any flattering return," he said.
"Come up," said the man on the landing. "It's—it's curious, but I never go downstairs. I live like one of those natives in New Guinea or somewhere. They roost in the trees like confounded crows and haul their ladders up at night. Jolly good idea. I can't haul the stairs up, but—but it would be dangerous for any one to climb them when I am asleep. I've got a few of the steps wired."
The Wasp halted in his ascent. "Is the connection turned off now?" he asked. "I'm rather particular about the fashion in which I leave the world. I'd like to go intact, so to speak."
Again came the hysterical laugh. "Oh, it's all serene now. Come straight up. I never connect it up till I'm going to bed. Got to, old man. Parlous times these. World all upside down and all that sort of thing."
The Texan Wasp climbed gingerly. He was a little doubtful about the mentality of Ferdinand Darren. His words and the queer laugh suggested that he was suffering from a mild form of lunacy.
Blane reached the landing and came face to face with the card wizard that the world thought dead. A queer figure was Ferdinand Darren. He was a tall man, over six feet in height, and this height was accentuated by a silk dressing gown that hung from his lean shoulders. He wore a pointed beard and mustache; his nose was big and predatory, his eyes, deep-sheltered under an abattis of brow, were keen and piercing, yet Robert Henry Blane knew as he encountered the other's glance that fear was enthroned within those eyes. A great consuming fear that was projected into the atmosphere itself. The Wasp felt it! It had a chilling effect upon him. He was inclined to glance behind him to see if something unnatural and terrible had followed him up the stairs.
Darren spoke. "I'm glad you got my note, Bob," he said in his queer, halting way. "Awfully glad. Thought I might miss you. Knew you—knew you would eat at the old place, so I described you. Wanted to see you bad. Sort of gave up yesterday. Had a notion to step into the other world without help, then I heard you were in London. 'Robert Henry Blane is the chap I want,' I told myself. 'He's got nerve.' By George, Blane you have got nerve! Wish I had it. You know—you know you're about the only man I ever saw that never got scared. Come in here, I want to tell you something."
Chattering in this strange disconnected way Darren led The Texan Wasp into an elaborately-furnished sitting room and pushed him into a seat. "Make yourself comfortable," he said. "Brandy and soda there at your elbow. Cigars too. Say, it's great to see you! You're the world to me! You see, I haven't been outside this house for seven years. Seven years! Think of it! I've forgotten what the world is like. Oh, Lord! Do they still play at Harry Grosnevor's and is the Lounge running?"
"Harry Grosnevor is dead and the Lounge has reformed," answered The Texan Wasp. "They have thés dansants now in the baccarat parlors."
"Great Scott!" cried the other. "Do you know I dream of places like Grosnevor's every night! I see myself facing piles of chips bigger than the Pyramid of Cheops and the cards breaking my way as if the devil had specially stacked them. Then—then I wake up and curse. Think of it! I haven't been out of this house for seven years! For seven years!"
There was a long pause after the card wizard spoke. He poured himself a glass of cognac and drank it raw. The Texan Wasp, regarding him keenly, knew that the gambler's nerve had gone completely. The whining note in his voice reminded Mr. Blane of the thin, squeaky tones of Pierre Chabannier, the little chemist that No. 37 had sent to the nickel mines of New Caledonia. He thought also of the voice of the old gold trafficker, Ponsonnard. The Wasp had studied voices and he thought that the seat of courage was in the larynx and not in the heart.
Darren drew his chair closer to the one in which Robert Henry Blane was sitting. His sharp fear-ridden eyes were on the face of the American. Three times he moistened his lips preparatory to making a statement, three times Fear leg-roped the words and they fell back with a gurgle. At last with a desperate effort he managed to control himself and speak.
"Blane, I'm in trouble," he began. "I'm being hounded. I can't stand it. That's—that's why I sent for you. You—you-know everything about the Cap-Martin affair?"
"Just what every one else knows," admitted The Wasp.
Darren wiped his face with his right hand. "If I tell you something try and believe it, Blane!" he cried. "Try and believe it! Listen! I'm not certain that I killed that brute!"
"You're not certain?" questioned The Wasp.
"No!" shouted the gambler. "I'm not certain! I—I won the drinking cup and—and he sprang at me. We rolled over and over and—and—"
Darren paused. A slight shuffling noise came from the street, the sound made by a pedestrian not altogether sure of his route. The long neck of the card wizard was thrust out as he listened, thrust out in a manner that made the cool and undisturbed Blane think that the noise in the street had become an invisible lariat that pulled at the head of Darren as the pedestrian shuffled by. He wondered as to the reason.
The shuffling sounds died away. The long neck relaxed. Darren moistened his lips and went on with his story.
"We fought in—in any old fashion," he whispered. "I don't know, but I thought we had no weapons. You see—you see he sprang at me the moment I flung down the winning card. He was crazy at losing the cup. It—it was an heirloom. One of those lucky cups. He told me a lot of stuff about it. It's—it's like that cup that somebody sang about. You know, 'If this goblet should break or fall, farewell to the Luck of Eden Hall!'
"We thumped and mauled each other then—then suddenly he rolled over and lay quiet! Just lay without moving. I thought it was a trick and I got up on my hands and knees and looked at him. He was dead! He had a knife driven into his ribs, but—but I didn't do it! I didn't, Blane! I never saw that knife before! Never!"
Robert Henry Blane studied the face of the card wizard. It was a weak face, furrowed with lines of fear and anxiety. "Do you think that some local inhabitant seeing a peaceful gambler attacked by a wild Hungarian came to your assistance and killed the fellow?" he inquired coldly.
The gambler poured himself another glass of cognac, drank it and stared for a few moments at The Texan Wasp before replying. "You read the account of the case?" he said. "I was supposed to have killed the Magyar and then pushed the driver into the Mediterranean. Well, I never saw the driver! Never! Do you hear me? I never saw the fellow!"
"But the cup?" questioned The Wasp. "Who got the cup?"
"I did," answered Darren. "I'll show it to you. It's—it's yours, Blane, if—if you 11 do something for me."
The gambler rose, moved a little water-color that concealed a wall safe, unlocked the steel door and brought forth a chamois bag. He untied the running string and took from the bag a short, bulky goblet which he handed to Robert Henry Blane.
The Wasp whistled softly as he sprang to his feet and clutched the vessel. Its barbaric beauty startled him. Its strong, savage lines appealed to him. It had come down from an age of strong men—wild men, hairy men who fought at close quarters with short stabbing swords, and, curiously, it carried a vision of its brutal human contemporaries with it. As Robert Henry Blane gripped it he had a quick fleeting dream picture of the men that Sobieski led, the long-haired, squat, wild-eyed stabbing mob that chased the Turk to the gates of Constantinople! The goblet thrilled him! It brought to his mind disjointed scraps of Romany drinking songs, mad chants of victory, queer haunting melodies that were a little weird, a little frightening, a little horrifying.
The vessel itself was of beaten gold raised on a support made of three claws. Unreal claws, clumsily carved, but carrying a vigor that was extraordinary. The back spur of each was thrust upward and inward, and these three spurs clutched tightly a ruby of amazing size! A tremendous ruby whose blazing heart gathered up the light and flung it in a red shower on the hands of Robert Henry Blane.
The Wasp, breathing softly, turned the goblet round and round. It was a wonderful vessel. It was a magic thing that swung him back into a primitive past. It brought dreams of blood and conquest, dreams of loot, of screaming women, of blazing villages and blood-soaked forests.
"Tilt it up!" cried the gambler. "Hold it up as if you were drinking out of it!"
Robert Henry Blane did so. He lifted the goblet in his right hand and looked up into the shining yellow interior. For an instant he looked, then he jerked it downward sharply with a little exclamation of wonder. The yellow interior had reflected his face but it was not the face he knew. His handsome features had been curiously distorted, strangely twisted so that they spoke of violence, of greed, of evil things.
The gambler, watching closely, laughed in his foolish, hysterical manner. "That's—that's the wonder of the cup," he gurgled. "It shows us what we—what we really look like. It was that about it that made me play for it. Wish you could see the face it makes at me. Makes me mad at times. It does!"
Blane handed back the goblet, and in silence the gambler put it back into its chamois covering and put it away. He returned to his seat and looked fixedly at The Texan Wasp.
"I'll get on with my tale," he mumbled. "Lot of it is old stuff to you. Inquest, verdict of murder against me, police hunt, rumors I had killed myself—you know all that. I—I had slipped up to London because London is one of the best cities in the world to hide in. The British are so infernally strange themselves that they take no notice of the oddities of others. I rented this house and I decided not to move out of the door. Do you—do you know why, Blane?"
The Texan Wasp shook his head. The gambler leaned forward and spoke in a frightened whisper.
"Because they put a devil on my trail!" he murmured. "His people did. The Magyar's folk, I mean. They put a fellow onto my heels who has never been known to miss. Sooner or later he gets the man he is hunting. He's the bloodhound that never bays. You may have heard of him. He's called by a number just like a jailbird. He's known as No. 37."
"I have heard of him," said Robert Henry Blane quietly. "They tell me he is very successful."
"He's leagues ahead of any gumshoe man Europe has seen," cried the gambler. "I know! He—he spoke to me at Homburg a few months before the Cap-Martin affair and—and the brute surprised me with what he knew about me. He had me written up with past performances as if I was the first favorite for the Derby. Knew the name of my nurse, godfather, size of my glove, favorite pastime, particular club, golf record, and all that sort of stuff that you see about public characters in the society papers."
The Wasp grinned. "And has he located you?" he asked.
"I don't know," stammered Darren. "I don't know whether it's he or some one else. That's—that's why I've sent for you. Listen, Blane! That cup—that Magyar cup is yours if you'll help me! Is it a bet?"
"Tell me," said The Wasp. "No, don't drink any more brandy. You've had enough."
The gambler laid down the glass, reached over and pulled out a small drawer of a mahogany desk. From it he took a packet of letters which he handed to Robert Henry Blane. The envelopes were similar—small, yellow envelopes of the poorest quality—and they carried neither stamps nor postmarks. Each was addressed "Count Ferdinand Darren;" the writing evidently that of an uneducated person.
"You might remember," said the gambler, "that when the Magyar lord was found dead his fingers were clutching little bunches of pine needles that he picked up in his death struggles? Now look at those letters. Every evening for the last fifteen days one has been stuck into the letter box on my door! One every evening! Look at them! Look at what is inside!"
The Texan Wasp took from the top envelope a sheet of folded paper. He spread it out and looked with a little surprise at what he saw. Fixed to the sheet of paper was a single pine needle—a brown, twisted pine needle that had been carefully glued to the sheet by a slight trail of gum and dried thoroughly before the paper was folded!
He opened the second and the third. Each contained the carefully affixed pine needle. Not a written word. Not a mark. Simply the single needle glued to the sheet!
For a moment The Wasp thought that the little reminders of the pine grove of Cap-Martin might have been twisted into the semblance of letters, and he hurriedly ran through the rest of the bundle. But it was not so. There was no attempt made to twist the pine needles into any likeness of a letter. They were simply gummed to the sheet, the care with which they were affixed proving that the sender had a high opinion of the hidden meaning they carried.
There were fifteen envelopes and The Wasp, after examining each in turn, looked at the gambler. Darren had again assumed the extraordinary listening attitude that he had taken once before during the telling of the happening at Cap-Martin. Only on this occasion the attitude was more strained. The long neck of the card wizard seemed as if it was being pulled out to a grotesque length as he listened to the sound of footsteps that came from the sidewalk in front of the house!
In the uncanny silence that was produced by the white shroud that covered the big city Robert Henry Blane also listened to the shuffling outside. The unseen pedestrian was evidently guiding himself by the iron railings that fenced the shallow strips of garden in front of the houses. There was a feeling of groping uncertainty carried by the footsteps, and The Texan Wasp, who had made a very intense study of sounds, visualized the person, building up every movement of the unknown in his mind's eye.
The shuffling noise ceased. Blane thought that the man outside was looking for a number. To The Wasp there came a picture of him thrusting a peering face close to a door to read the figures hidden by the fog.
The big Texan glanced at the card wizard. Darren was trying to speak, trying to express some thought that had come to him but which the dreadful fear would not allow him to mint into words.
"What is it?" cried The Wasp. "What is wrong?"
"It's him!" gurgled Darren. "It's him!"
"Who?"
"The—the fellow who brings the pine needles! He brings one every—every night at this hour!"
The Texan Wasp sprang to his feet. He ran to the
landing, and as he reached the head of the stairs he heard
the metallic click of the lid of the letter box that was
fastened to the door of the house!
The Wasp took the stairs by means of the banister. He was hatless and coatless but he didn't care. Suddenly into his mind there had sprung a desire to possess the barbaric goblet of the Magyar lord and this desire was backed up by a consuming curiosity to find out what sort of person called every evening at the house in Aynhoe Road and dropped into the letter box an envelope containing a single pine needle carefully glued to a sheet of white paper.
Blane tore at the heavy fastenings of the door, swung it open and dashed into the street. The fog blanket was appalling. The mysterious messenger was already hidden in the white depths.
The Wasp dropped upon his knees and placed his ear to the pavement. He thought he detected the patter of feet from the direction of Brook Green and he started in pursuit. He ran blindly, now on the sidewalk, now in the roadway. Luckily the street was deserted so the risk of colliding with a vehicle in the heavy fog was not great.
Blane reached Brook Green and paused for a second to listen. Back to him through the choking fog came the sound of running feet and the Texan followed like a hound.
The pursued fled across the Green into Rowan Road. The Wasp followed. The unknown turned southward in the direction of Hammersmith Road. The fellow was fleet and the fog hampered the big American, but thoughts of the cup of the Magyar lord spurred him on. A strange cup. He wondered by what necromancy it had reflected his face so that he started back from it in fear. There flashed through his brain the idea that he had first thought of months before, the idea of the incipient crime wrinkle which a very clever person could detect in the face of all young persons disposed to evil ways. The cup, by some peculiar fault in its construction, twisted the reflection of the person who looked into it so that he or she could see themselves as they would appear in the years to come!
The Wasp felt that he was gaining on the man in front. He knew that he was, then, suddenly, as he assured himself that this was so, his keen ears brought to him a piece of startling information. Some one else was pursuing the man in front!
The American paused for an instant to check this astonishing discovery. It was as his ears had told him. To the right, hidden by the fog, was another runner, a fleet-footed person who was running abreast of The Wasp and evidently pursuing the same person!
The Wasp, again in his stride, tried to answer the questions that sprang into his brain. Was the person to the right a confederate of the man in front? Were the two attempting to terrorize Ferdinand Darren? What did they desire from the old-time gambler? As if in answer to the questions there came up before the eyes of the running Texan a picture of the cup. These mysterious runners knew of the cup! It was a goblet that many might have heard of.
The pursued neared Hammersmith Road. The dull beat of the heavy traffic on the big thoroughfare rose through the fog. And out of this thick white wall there came a sudden yell, the gruff question of a much-annoyed person, a frightened protest, then the shrill call of a police whistle.
Swiftly Robert Henry Blane diagnosed what had happened to the pursued person. He had collided with a policeman near the corner of King Street and Rowan Road, the officer had made an effort to interrogate the runner, the fellow had broken away and the policeman had whistled as he started in pursuit.
Blane halted with remarkable suddenness. Not so the runner to the right. As the American stopped the other pursuer veered inward. The Wasp heard his quick breathing as he rushed by, then to the ears of the Texan came a shouted order which the unknown pursuer gave to the policeman hidden in the fog! It was a sharp swift command and it was given in a voice that Robert Henry Blane recognized!
"Use your whistle!" roared the mysterious runner. "Hang to him, officer! Whistle! Confound you! Whistle!"
The Texan Wasp thrust himself against a wall. The voice had startled him. It was the voice of an old enemy. The order to the policeman was given by the king of man hunters! It was given by No. 37!
Into the fog-choked stretch of Hammersmith Road went the noise of the chase. The Texan Wasp, a little stupefied and amazed, stood still and listened. The fugitive had turned eastward toward the heart of the city and from out of the fog came yells and cries, the curses of chauffeurs, the mad hooting of motor busses, the protesting, whining cries of harried pedestrians who were bumped in every direction by the ragtag and bobtail that came streaming from all directions to join in the man hunt.
The smothering fog fell upon the noises as The Wasp stood listening. The most violent sounds—the shrill calls of the police whistle, the shrieks of women—came back to him, then the lumbering grind of the slow-moving traffic took the lessening clamor into its woof and the noises were unrecognizable. The chase had swung out of the main artery and was heading toward Earls Court.
Robert Henry Blane, surprised and stunned, stood for a few minutes at the corner of Rowan Road and Hammersmith Road. He was wrestling with a problem. Who was the person who had clanged the letter box on the door of Darren's house? Why was No. 37 pursuing him? It was an amazing tangle.
He turned and slowly groped his way back along Rowan Road and across Brook Green to the house in Aynhoe Road. He rang the bell in the manner that the gambler had ordered and he was admitted with the same caution that had been exercised previously.
"Will you get the letter out of the box, Blane?" asked the gambler. "You didn't—didn't catch him, eh? I—I had hopes that you would have grabbed the beggar and broken his neck."
The Texan Wasp took from the letter box an envelope similar to the ones he had seen earlier in the night. It bore the name "Count Ferdinand Darren," written in the same illiterate hand. He carried it up the stairs and as he went up he decided not to tell Darren that he had recognized the voice of No. 37 in the mad chase. Darren was a wreck without being told that the man hunter was close to him.
The gambler looked at The Wasp with eyes in which the imps of terror danced a rigadoon. He tried to put a question and failed with much spasmodic swallowing.
"I chased some one into Hammersmith Road but he got away from me," explained The Wasp. "I'm not sure that he was the fellow that put the letter in your box, but he ran in a manner that suggested he had been up to something that was not quite regular."
There was silence for a few minutes, then the terrified gambler backed to the little wall safe that held the wonderful goblet. Again he took the precious cup from its hiding place and held it out to Robert Henry Blane. "It's yours if—if you stop that brute from baiting me!" he cried. "Take it now, Blane! Take it now!"
The Wasp thrust back the temptation to take the cup. Curiously there had grown within him a fierce desire to again look at his face in the shining yellow interior of the goblet. The vessel had startled him. He wanted to check up that glimpse of himself as the years would see him.
"Not now, Darren," he said. "But I'll take a hand in the hunt for your little tormentor. Don't worry. We'll land him if we're careful."
The gambler dropped into a chair and held his face in his hands. "I'm all in," he murmured. "I'm tired, Bob. Come—come again to-morrow night, will you? I'm going —going to bed."
The Texan Wasp found an advertising bureau in
Oxford Street and he hurriedly scribbled an ad for the
"Throb and Threat" column of the Morning Post.
It ran:
Pine Needles at Cap-Martin.
Why be whimsical? Meet me Hyde Park first bench to left from Stanhope Gate, eight o'clock. Will arrange matters satisfactorily for all.
Full Hand.
Having paid for this The Texan Wasp found his way through the fog to his little hotel in Norfolk Street, where, in a masterful manner, he induced a fat chef who was on his way to his couch to return to the sanded kitchen and prepare a tasty rarebit for Mr. Blane's supper. Robert Henry Blane had a way of handling men. The chef, grumpy at first, became so interested in The Wasp's appetite that he served the rarebit personally in one of those old-fashioned cubicles that our bashful grandfathers thought necessary to the privacy of a man's appetite.
As The Wasp ate he thought over the unusual happenings of the evening. He reviewed the checkered career of Ferdinand Darren, "Count of Pierrefond," pondered over the wordless messages sent by the unknown that he, Blane, had pursued through the fog. He thought of No. 37, the tireless hunter of wrongdoers, but most of all he thought of the golden goblet of the Magyar lord.
The goblet had annoyed him. The fear-stricken Darren had stated that it was a flaw in the make of the cup that enabled it to throw a distorted reflection of the face of the person looking into it, but the explanation did not please The Wasp. He was angry that it had shown his face—a face which the world admitted was a handsome one—in a most unpleasing way.
"I'd like to melt it down and sell it to a fence for old gold!" he growled. "It made me mighty mad."
He wondered how the goblet would reflect the faces of those who were innately good and into his mind came thoughts of Betty Allerton. How would the mysterious cup reflect the face of the Boston girl who liked him in the long ago? He sat staring at the dying embers in the grate of the eating room and between him and the fire there rose a mist out of which shone the dream face of the girl that he loved.
"Why—why, it would show her as she is and always will be," he muttered. "How could it show her different? I'm a fool."
He rose, a little depressed, and went to bed. He hated the golden goblet. He wished to possess it so that he might stamp it into a shapeless mass.
All through the night The Wasp dreamed of the curious cup of the Magyar lord. In his dreams he thought that he had again looked into its shining interior and again he had been shocked by the reflection of his own face. Then, into the dream, came Betty Allerton of Boston! The girl had placed her face close to that of Robert Henry Blane and she had induced him to look again into the goblet.
The nearness of the girl's face worked a miracle. The hateful reflection of himself that had startled The Wasp was blotted out, and in the shining yellow depths of the goblet he saw himself as the girl had once described him, "a handsome Galahad from Texas who would do great deeds."
A stiff wind had whipped the fog-curtain from
London and tossed it out into the North Sea. It was cold
but clear, and Robert Henry Blane walking up Piccadilly
after an early dinner wondered about the advertisement
he had placed in the Morning Post. He knew that the
"Personal Columns" of the London dailies have a great
attraction for persons with ill-assorted wits, and he
reasoned that the man who was annoying Darren by dropping
the anonymous letters into the gambler's mail box was of
those queer nervous criminals who would be especially
attracted by the little cryptograms published by those very
respectable organs who for a few shillings a line act as
go-betweens for persons who lack a postal address.
Mr. Blane walked down Park Lane, entered the park through Stanhope Gate and turned to his left. He glanced at his watch as he entered. It was exactly eight. A church clock—The Wasp thought it that of St. James'—checked his timepiece in a slow, approving manner.
The Wasp glanced ahead at the first bench from the gate. It was occupied. The poor light made it impossible for him to immediately inform himself of the character of the occupant, then as he approached he discovered that it was a woman. A very young woman sitting alone on one end of the green bench.
The tall American walked slowly by. He glanced at the young woman and the light of a park lamp now enabled him to see her features clearly. She was young and handsome, her dress was plainly that of a person of means and refinement. Furthermore she returned the glance of The Wasp in a manner that showed neither fear nor forwardness.
Robert Henry Blane walked as far as the Achilles Statue, turned suddenly and walked back. A strange belief had gripped him—a rather insane belief, he told himself. He felt certain that the young woman on the seat was there in response to the advertisement he had inserted in the Morning Post. It seemed a ridiculous idea but there was something in the manner in which she had returned his look of inquiry that brought him quickly back to the bench.
The Wasp touched his hat, murmured an apology and sat down on the end farthest from the occupant. His near view told him that the woman was younger than he had thought after the first glance. She was hardly twenty and in the soft misty light her beauty took on a strange quality. Robert Henry Blane felt certain that she was not English; there was about her the untamed beauty that goes with those born in hotter climes than England. There was something of the warmth of the Orient, something of a Romany feel. There came into his mind as he took a place on the bench the recollection of a girl that he had once seen in a little village in Normandy, a flashing sun-born gypsy girl who traveled alone with a tame bear, giving performances at little towns.
The roar of hard-driven motor busses came from Piccadilly and Knightsbridge. A few pedestrians passed; a park policeman sauntered slowly by. The distant church clock chimed the quarter.
Then Robert Henry Blane, looking straight ahead, spoke. "I placed an advertisement in the Morning Post," he said softly, "and I thought it might be seen by the person for whom it was intended. I asked him—I thought it was a man—to meet me on this bench at eight o'clock."
There were a few seconds of silence. The Wasp, still looking straight ahead, heard the soft breathing of the girl. His words appeared to have startled her.
"It—it was about pine needles and Cap-Martin?" she breathed.
"Just so," admitted The Wasp. "It was of pine needles and Cap-Martin."
A little choked cry came from the girl. "I read it," she stammered. "It was so strange and—and it seemed a message to me! Yes, yes! It brought me here!"
Robert Henry Blane, a little mystified, turned and looked at the speaker. He saw her plainly for the first time. Her big flashing eyes were fixed upon the American, her red lips were parted slightly, her bosom heaved under an excitement that was plainly evident. The Wasp was puzzled. He wondered if the girl had seen in the advertisement the possible opening of a romantic adventure.
The girl saw the shadow of doubt and annoyance in his face and she spoke hurriedly. "I—I had to come!" she cried. "I don't know what your advertisement really means, but—but my father was killed at Cap-Martin and—and when they found his body his hands were grasping little bunches of pine needles! And your nom de plume had to do with cards—with playing cards. My father was killed by a gambler! So you see why I came here!"
Robert Henry Blane held his surprise in check. His cool eyes were upon the face of the girl but they did not show the astonishment that her statement had brought. A well-controlled person was Mr. Blane and although the girl's explanation of her presence was extraordinary and startling he did not let her see that it was.
"Who was your father and when did all this take place?" he asked.
"My father was a lord from Czegléd named Antoine Vorömartry," she replied. "I am his daughter. Therese. It is over seven years since his murder."
The Texan Wasp whistled softly. Into the woof of the Darren matter had come an astonishing thread of flashing color. The little advertisement put out as a hopeful bait to catch the attention of the person who was hounding the gambler had brought into the affair the daughter of the murdered man! Robert Henry Blane was for the moment nonplused. He saw no way in which she could be useful to Darren and himself. He told himself to walk warily and tell little.
"I did not expect to meet you," he said quietly. "I am seeking another person and I thought—"
"But tell me what you know?" she interrupted, her face betraying the excitement and curiosity that clutched her. "Please! Please tell me!"
Again The Wasp considered the face of the girl. His estimate as to her age was correct. She was not more than twenty. He thought to spar for time by questioning her, "Where were you when your father met his death?" he asked. "What do you know of the affair? Tell me everything that you know about it then I might be inclined to talk about matters."
The girl was close to The Wasp now. She had moved along the bench to his side. He was aware of a faint perfume from her clothes, of her quick-drawn breath, of the shapely white hands, the fingers of which writhed around each other as she waited for information.
"My mother and I were at Mentone when my daddy was killed," she cried, the words toppling over each other in her hurry to impress the man as to the genuine interest she had in any information he possessed. "My daddy drove to Cap-Martin with our coachman to meet a gambler. They played for something that—that—was ours."
"What was it?" questioned The Wasp.
"Ah, it was something wonderful!" gasped the girl. "I cannot tell you all about it because you would not understand. You could not! It was a cup—a cup of gold that has been in our family for hundreds of years! It is the luck of our family! Without it we—"
The girl choked. Words failed her. With hands clasped together and her face thrust forward she sat looking at Robert Henry Blane.
After a long pause The Wasp prompted her to go on. "Yes?" he murmured.
"We are lost without it," sobbed the girl. "My mother has been ill for many years. Oh, if I could show her the cup that was stolen from my father I know that she would get well! You do not understand my people! We are Magyars and we believe in many things that you would laugh at. All the beliefs and hopes of my race were in that cup of gold. All! It was their angel! They had made it real! They had made it a live thing! And—and it is so beautiful that I know it is not destroyed! I know! It was so wonderful that no one could destroy it. When I read your advertisement I thought you might know something of the cup. I have a belief that it is not destroyed. It was so beautiful that no one could destroy it! And I want it now! I want it because my mother is ill. Speak to me! Tell me!"
In her excitement she reached over and clutched the arm of The Texan Wasp. The plaintive note in her voice rang in his ears. It was the soft, primitive note that is found in the voices of people who belong to old races from which a stern civilization has not yet extracted the little nuances of pure emotion. It carried the feel that one finds sometimes in the voices of the keening Irish, in the lament of the Highlanders, in the soft wailing of desert tribes. Her excitement had thrown her back to base; made her again one with the untamed folk of the great Alföld plain!
Robert Henry Blane, with thoughts of the Cup of the Magyars still rioting in his brain, was thrilled by her voice. The soft magic of it swept through his soul like a perfumed zephyr. Her pleading tones possessed a quality that brushed away the cold unromantic surroundings of rented chairs and stiff policemen. It carried him off to the scented wastes of the Near East. It brought to him the odor of crushed marigolds, the smell of musk, the soft singing of the casuarina trees, "the padded silence of the jungle." For a moment he, like the Caliph Al Mustasim, was riding the night winds in search of wonders!
But it was only for an instant. The practical, cool-headed Blane immediately took charge of the situation.
"Who do you think killed your father?" he questioned.
"The gambler, Darren!" answered the girl.
"He says he did not, and I think he is telling the truth."
"'He says he did not?'" murmured the girl, repeating the words uttered by the American. "Then—then you know him?"
"I know him," said The Wasp.
"And you believe what he says?"
"I'm inclined to."
The girl was silent for a minute, then she put a question in a strained whisper. "Who killed him?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"And the cup?" breathed the girl, her voice hardly audible. "Do you know of the cup?"
The Texan Wasp considered the question for a second; then he spoke. "Darren has the cup," he said softly. "I have seen it."
"When? When?" she gasped.
Robert Henry Blane told himself that he was rashly communicative but the girl's voice had a charm that was irresistible. "Last evening," he admitted. "I saw it for the first time. It is a wonderful goblet."
Again the soft hush fell upon them. The big black eyes of the girl were fixed upon the handsome face of Robert Henry Blane.
The Texan Wasp broke the silence. "Now I am going to do some questioning," he said. "Tell me about the driver of your father's carriage?"
"He was of our race," answered the girl. "He was a Magyar."
"And nothing has been seen of him since?"
"Nothing."
"His people? His friends? Have they heard nothing?"
"Nothing."
"How do you know?"
"Because his wife is living here in London," answered the girl. "She came to my mother about five months ago and begged for food. She was starving. My mother fed her because she is from our country. And she told us that she had not heard from her husband since that day."
Robert Henry Blane was alert now. The girl's statement regarding the wife of the Magyar coachman startled him. It was unexpected, unlooked for. It brought him a thrill that he could not altogether explain.
"Do you know her address?" he asked.
"Yes, she lives in a basement in Wellesley Road, Kentish Town."
"Listen," said The Wasp. "Last night I was promised something if I could solve a mystery. I've got a notion that it might be solved. Do you trust me?"
He was on his feet now, looking down at the girl. A splendid athletic figure, a face that possessed that curious air of dare-deviltry that made women glance shyly at him as he went by.
For a moment Mademoiselle Therese looked up at him, then she answered impulsively. "Why, yes!" she cried. "Of course I trust you! You—you are a gentleman."
"I'm not," said Mr. Blane with surprising promptness. "Yet I have good moments. Did you ever hear of a detective who is known as No. 37?"
"Yes. He was hunting for the murderer of my father."
"Well. I'd like to show him a point. Will you go with me to this place in Kentish Town? We can take a taxi."
"Certainly." answered the girl.
"Come!" cried The Wasp. "Let's go!"
The basement in Wellesley Road, Kentish Town,
was not an ideal residence. The Texan Wasp and the
girl descended a flight of wet steps, walked through
a long passage and knocked at a door in the rear.
After a short wait the door was unbolted and a sullen
face—unwashed, greasy and surrounded with tangled
masses of black hair—was thrust into the passage.
An ill-tempered inquiry as to the reason for the visit was cut short by the sight of the girl and next moment The Wasp and the daughter of the murdered Magyar were in the filthy living room. The wife of the long-lost coachman who had driven the carriage of the Czegléd lord on the day that he kept the appointment with Ferdinand Darren on the road to Cap-Martin, looked from the girl to The Texan Wasp, her cunning, close-set eyes seeking information. Mr. Blane told himself that she was not of the highest type of human development.
The girl introduced Robert Henry Blane as a friend and The Wasp was made immediately aware of the fact that his presence was not pleasing. The tousle-headed lady was nervous and irritable; the lines around her mouth tightened as if an invisible draw-string had been suddenly pulled to prevent any ambitious scrap of information from transforming itself into words.
Mr. Blane noted the change. He put a simple question in English but the woman pretended that she did not understand. She asked the girl to translate it into the Magyar dialect, and the draw-strings of secrecy around the hard mouth tightened as she listened.
Her negatives were flung out like verbal uppercuts. She had heard nothing of her husband since the day of the murder. Not a word! No, her friends had heard nothing! The devil who had killed the good master had killed her man!
Robert Henry Blane was silent for a moment. He felt certain that the woman understood English perfectly and that the translation only allowed her time to stiffen her denials. He determined on strategy. Once he had lived for a little while near Budapest and now he marshalled in his mind words that he had not used for many years. Suddenly he hurled a torrent of questions at her in her own tongue.
"Don't you know that your husband is here in London now?" he cried. "Haven't you seen him this week? Tell me? When did you hear from him?"
For the fraction of a second the little black eyes of the woman swung from the face of the American and glanced at the wall immediately behind him. It was but for a fleeting instant, then they were back again, the mouth a thin line of defiance to the attack. She folded her arms and her head rocked mandarin-like as she repeated her denials.
The Texan Wasp was puzzled. His cool gray eyes had noted the quick glance the woman had swung on the wall behind him. He wondered why. He tried to maneuver so that he could look at the place upon which the little beady eyes had fastened for a fleeting instant, but the task was difficult. The woman kept him under close observation.
The Wasp turned to the girl. "I'm sorry," he said. "I think I am wrong. Let me recompense this poor lady for my attack on her honesty. I'm sure that she knows nothing."
He took from his wallet a five-pound note and handed it to the girl. "Please give it to her so that I cannot see you," he whispered. "I hate to see myself as a donor of charity. Do you understand? Call her over to the window."
The girl obeyed. She beckoned the woman to the window and The Wasp, apparently intent only on increasing the distance between himself and the two so that he would not be a witness of the presentation, wheeled carelessly and glanced at the wall.
A broken mirror clung tenaciously to a twisted nail, and thrust in behind the mirror, the end alone protruding, was a yellow envelope! A yellow envelope of poor quality!
The envelope stirred the memory of Robert Henry Blane. It flung up before him a picture of the sitting room in Aynhoe Road where the terrified gambler had shown him the bundle of envelopes, each one of which contained a pine needle. It was a brother to those envelopes! It was of the same sickly yellow tint! One of the "penny-halfpenny a packet" type sold at cheap stationers!
Robert Henry Blane moved slowly toward the mirror. He stroked his hair with his hand and watched the reflection of the woman and the girl. He watched them intently. The sight of the five-pound note so astonished the tousle-headed one that for a moment she forgot the presence of the big Texan. And in the second that she was gasping her thanks to the girl Mr. Blane acted. With lightning-like swiftness he transferred the letter from the mirror to the inside of his soft hat, tucking it swiftly under the band before bidding the coachman's wife good night.
The Texan Wasp caught the hand of the girl
immediately after they ascended from the basement and
hurried her swiftly along Wellesley Road into Queen's
Crescent. "Quick!" he cried. "Run!"
"Why?" gasped the girl. "What is wrong?"
"She'll be after us!" answered The Wasp. "I stole a letter that I'll wager came from her precious hubby. Hurry! The money has stunned her for a minute but she'll recover in a few minutes."
The running couple turned the corner. The Wasp halted and pulled the envelope from his hat. Beneath a lamp he tore the scrap of paper from the inside and he and the startled girl read the penciled note. It was brief but it carried a vast amount of information to Robert Henry Blane. In the same illiterate hand that had written the words "Count Ferdinand Darren" on the envelopes dropped into the gambler's letter box, was penciled the following in the Magyar tongue:
Got new room at 50 Sulgrave Road, Shepherds Bush. Going after the mug to-night He's got it sure. I know.
Nicholas..
"Was that his name?" questioned The Wasp. "Nicholas?"
"Yes, yes!" cried the girl. "What does the note mean?"
"He's going to try and get the goblet from Darren!" answered the Texan. "When was this posted? To-day! He's trying tonight for it! To-night!"
An empty taxicab came rolling cityward down Maiden
Road from the direction of Hampstead and The Wasp helped
the girl into it. His thoughts were of the house in Aynhoe
Road, of the elaborate precautions that the gambler had
taken to prevent attack. He wondered about the wired stairs
and what would happen to the coachman if he attempted to
climb up them in search of the wonderful goblet.
"The Olympia!" he cried. "Hit it up!"
The chauffeur glanced down Queen's Crescent. A wild scream had come from the direction of Wellesley Road. A street lamp showed the running figure of a slatternly woman screaming as she ran.
"Some one wants yer, guvnor," said the grinning chauffeur. "A lady is comin' full steam."
"Drive on!" cried The Wasp. "She has nothing to do with me."
The chauffeur found the cold eye of the big American upon him and the grin slipped from his face. The taxi sprang forward and the running woman was left to howl her curses to the night.
Down Hampstead Road into Euston and Marylebone Roads rattled the taxicab. Robert Henry Blane fumed and fretted at each holdup in the traffic. Half of London—stupid, sprawling, disconnected London—lay between him and the house of Ferdinand Darren. He wondered what would be the upshot of the coachman's attempt to get the great goblet of the Magyar lord. The taxi rocked through Bayswater, along Holland Park Avenue, swung southward and stopped.
Robert Henry Blane jumped out. "I want you to stay here till I come back," he said. "Just sit in the cab and wait patiently. I will be as quick as I can but if I am hours away don't be worried."
The girl took the hand of The Texan Wasp and her big black eyes were alight with gratitude. "I—I know that you will find for me the cup of my fathers," she said softly. "I know! I must have it because the sight of it will keep my mother alive. You do not know our race! We are superstitious! We are strange and Oriental! Help me! If you can, please get it for me! It carries the good fortune of our family!"
"Wait for me," repeated The Wasp. "I might be long."
"Time is nothing," murmured the girl. "Help me! I will wait."
Robert Henry Blane took the same route to the house of Ferdinand Darren that he had taken on the previous evening. He hurried down Blythe Road into Aynhoe Road. Now it was easier to find the house, as the fog had lifted.
The Wasp looked at his watch as he reached No. 21½. It was ten-thirty. He wondered if the Magyar coachman had already made his attempt to get possession of the goblet. The house was in darkness, the street deserted.
Obeying the instructions given in the note he pressed the bell button four times, slowly counted seven, then pressed it again.
There was no response. For a few minutes the big American stood listening, then for the second time pressed the button in the prescribed manner. He heard the pealing bell in the rear of the house. Yet the door did not open!
Blane recalled the words uttered by the gambler on the previous evening. Darren had stated that he had not left the house for seven years!
Once more The Wasp pressed the bell according to the instructions given him. He listened intently. Not a sound came from within. To the keen ears of the listener on the doorstep there seemed to be in the quiet of the place an actual protest to his continued assaults upon the bell.
Blane stepped back onto the sidewalk. For a minute he stared at the upper windows of the house, then with a little exclamation of astonishment he turned and ran swiftly down the street in the opposite direction to that in which he had come. He was heading for Sulgrave Road in Shepherds Bush, the address given in the note that he had abstracted from the mirror in the home of the coachman's wife. To The Wasp had come a belief that the Magyar husband had already paid his threatened visit to the home of the gambler!
Down Shepherds Bush Road hurried The Texan Wasp. He swung through Melrose Gardens into Sulgrave Road, a barren, ugly street behind which runs the line of the Hammersmith and City Railway. The girl wished for the cup that had belonged to her father and Mr. Blane was possessed of a great desire to bring it to her. He, Blane, had been promised the wonderful goblet on the previous evening if he solved the riddle of the pine needles, and as he had the solution well within reach the cup was actually his property.
The Wasp found the house in which the coachman had a lodging. It was one of a bleak terrace, each house divided into three apartments.
The door of the lower hall was open and Blane stepped into the dark interior. He considered quickly the question of locating the lodger. There were no letter boxes in the hall. In London fashion the postman mounted the stairs and thrust the mail through the door openings—
The Wasp struck a match and glanced at the name on the lower flat. It was "Jones"—plain "Jones" with no initials.
"Bet the next one will be Brown and the top one Robinson," growled the American. "The nerve of that fellow in a city where a million people carry the name of Jones to stick up the word without any initials."
He cautiously climbed the stairs to the first floor and located the second door. Again he struck a match and glanced at the card tacked to the woodwork above the bell. The householders name, "Chapel." was printed on the card, but beneath this name, clumsily written in pencil, was another. The Wasp read it with a little thrill of pleasure. It was "Nicholas Grahn." Of the name Grahn he knew nothing, but the girl had said that the coachman's name was Nicholas!
The Wasp stood in the darkness of the landing and considered the means of reaching Nicholas. It was after eleven o'clock. The household was asleep and there was no certainty that the coachman was at home.
As the Texan stood debating the matter there came an interruption. Another person had entered the lower hall. A person who, like Robert Henry Blane was, evidently not familiar with the names of the occupants. A flashlight was turned for an instant on the name of the occupant of the lower flat, then The Wasp thrust himself back into the darkness of the landing as the person came up the stairs.
The unknown stood for a moment at the head of the stairs, then the spear of light flashed out from the torch upon the door. The bearer of the light stooped to examine the name and as he did so he thrust his face into the illuminated area. Robert Henry Blane saw him for a fleeting instant but the instant was sufficient. It was a face that Mr. Blane would never forget. Always the big Texan would remember the cold, merciless eyes that looked like frozen hailstones, the nose bred of battles and the chin that had thrust peace to the winds. The face that had shown for a second was the face of No. 371
As the torch was extinguished The Wasp crept close to a window on the landing opening on the rear toward the line of the Hammersmith and City Railway He crouched breathless and waited to see what the man hunter would do.
No. 37 had no scruples about rousing the inmates. He pressed the bell button and backed up this appeal for admittance by rapping loudly on the door. His heavy breathing came to the ears of The Wasp in the silence that followed.
From within the flat came sounds of movement, protesting scraps of conversation—irritable questions and answers. The door opened a few inches, a swath of light fell upon the broad form of the great detective. He was completely visible to Robert Henry Blane.
The detective drove his right shoe into the opening as the door swung back and his voice boomed through the stillness. "I want Nicholas Grahn!" he cried. "Step back! I am the Law!"
He disappeared within the flat and Robert Henry Blane was left on the landing with the words of the man hunter ringing in his ears. "I am the Law!" He repeated the words to himself. They seemed strange and curious. "I am the Law." It was an extraordinary statement.
The Wasp, not admitting fear, lifted the sash of the window on the landing. It opened out on the yard and beyond the yard were the lines of the railway. He tried to thrust the strange remark of the man hunter from his mind. The conceit of the fellow! "I am the Law."
The Wasp peered without. The landing was a dangerous place on which to wait. He thrust his hand into the darkness and discovered that a cement ledge some twelve inches in breadth ran along the wall of the house directly beneath the window.
He climbed through the opening and tested the strength of the ornamental ledge. Scraps of cement fell away but it seemed solid. Cautiously he lowered himself onto it, clinging with his hands to the window sill.
The door of the flat was again flung open. The landing was fully illuminated and The Wasp blessed the thought that had prompted him to find a safer hiding place. No. 37 strode out onto the landing, followed by the flat-holder, the flat-holder's wife, and their son. The chattering of the three last was deafening. Again and again they assured the man hunter that Nicholas Grahn, their new lodger, had not been home since morning. They were respectable people—this was their main assertion—they knew the vicar, they knew the police, the postmaster, the heart of Gapp's grocery on the corner, and they would never have taken a lodger who had trouble with the police. "The imperence o' the feller! What was the world a-comin' to?"
The man hunter cut their remarks short. He waved them back into their flat, telling them that he would wait till Mr. Grahn arrived. His voice showed displeasure. The three hurried back into their apartment, still muttering about their respectability and the injury to their standing that had been done by the lodger. No. 37 was left in the darkness of the landing. The Wasp clung to the window sill and hoped that Mr. Nicholas Grahn would not stay out all night. The ledge was not a very secure resting place.
A clock chimed midnight. Robert Henry Blane wondered about the girl he had left in the taxicab. He wondered about the silent sleuth not more than twelve feet away. No. 37 had not moved since the closing of the door upon the flat owner and his family. He had stood motionless at the head of the stairs, waiting for his man. A tireless hunter. Into the mind of The Wasp there echoed again and again the words he had used when entering the flat. "I am the Law!"
There came a sound of dragging feet in the lower hall. The Wasp listened. Some one was coming up the stairs!
A slow climber to judge by the sounds. The Wasp, listening intently, pictured the man hunter waiting at the stair head. He sensed in a way the joy which the great sleuth took in his work. He was the hunting animal waiting for his prey. A human panther with the law on his side.
There sprang out a spear of light that centered accurately on a frightened face, showing clearly the small, blinking eyes, the loose mouth, the unshaven chin, the big, low-placed ears. The man hunter spoke in a voice that was cold and emotionless. "Don't move. Nick Grahn! Stand steady, man, or I'll send you into kingdom come!"
There was the click of handcuffs, the shuffle of feet, the whimper of a trapped fool. The probing light danced over the captured man. The Wasp saw his manacled hands, the queer, humped shoulders, the cheap clothes. The torch squirted its light downward and he saw more. Nicholas Grahn was wounded. His right trousers leg had been cut away and the leg had been bound up!
No. 37 saw too. He put a string of questions to his prisoner. "Where? How? When?" They were hungry queries that called for immediate answers. The detective thrust his man against the wall. Grahn made noises that suggested the presence of iron fingers on his windpipe..
"I'll tell all!" he gasped. "Let me alone! I'll tell! I went after the cup! I did! Don't hit me! The hound had a trap on the stairs and it blew up. Nearly took my leg off! But I didn't kill him! I didn't! I swear I didn't! He—he died of fright! That's what he did! He died of fright!"
"Who?" cried the man hunter.
"Why. Darren!" gasped the prisoner. "I went to his—to his house at No. 21½ Aynhoe Road! I went after the cup—I went—why—why—what are yer arrestin' me for? What have you grabbed me for?"
The spear of light was on the face of Nicholas Grahn. and The Wasp saw the dreadful horror in the little eyes that were seeking the face of the man hunter in the darkness.
There was a moment's pause, then the detective spoke. "I've got you for the murder of Antoine Vorömartry at Cap-Martin over seven years ago," he said slowly. "You are one of the few long-outstanding accounts on my books. Come on! I'll look into the Darren business later."
The door of the flat was pushed open timidly, the landing was again illuminated so that Robert Henry Blane saw plainly the Magyar coachman being hustled down the stairs by the detective. The prisoner was making queer, disconnected remarks. At times he whimpered like an animal in pain.
Robert Henry Blane waited. Silence came down upon
the house. The flat-holder and his family went hack into
their apartment but their terrified whispers drifted out to
the keen ears of the Texan.
The Wasp climbed back through the window onto the landing. Cautiously he descended the stairs. He peered out into Sulgrave Road. The man hunter and his prisoner had disappeared. No. 37 had probably taken his capture up toward the tube station.
The Wasp thought of the cup. Hurriedly he reasoned out what had happened. Nicholas had forced his way into the house of the gambler. He had attempted to climb up the stairs and had been injured. The terrified gambler, according to the story told by Grahn, had expired from fright. The question that troubled The Wasp was whether the Magyar coachman had got possession of the goblet.
Mr. Blane thought that he had failed. Then where was the cup? The Wasp answered his own question. "Why," he murmured, "it must be still in the little wall safe behind the water color!"
At a run The Wasp started back for Aynhoe Road. The real owner of the goblet was waiting for it and be had promised her that he would bring it. He must not fail! Through the nearly deserted streets he tore full speed, indifferent to the notice he attracted from late homegoers.
He wondered what No. 37 would do. Probably telephone to the Hammersmith police station and tell them to send men around to Darren's residence. The Wasp wondered as to his chances of securing the cup. If the police were in possession it might be difficult. But he had promised the girl! He ran swiftly on.
Near the corner of Caithness Road, a block from the home of the gambler, he overtook two hurrying policemen. He slackened speed. The audacity and cold nerve which Robert Henry Blane, one time of Houston, Texas, possessed in quantities unknown to any other person, was immediate! v put into practice.
"Where is No. 21½ Aynhoe Road?" he demanded sharply. "I've been telephoned to get there as quick as possible. I'm from the Yard!"
"We're going there!" cried the pair. "Come right along, sir. Something has happened there. Chap's been killed, eh?"
"Robbery and murder!" snapped The Was£. "They've got the man. Let's hurry!"
Running abreast the three turned into Aynhoe Road and bore down upon the house. As they approached they knew that they were not the first comers. The house was illuminated, a policeman stood on the sidewalk hustling inquisitive night owls, another was on guard at the door. The Wasp prayed to the little black-cat mascot that he carried in his vest pocket.
The two officers and The Wasp ran up the steps. The policeman on guard looked at Robert Henry Blane. Blane ignored him.
"'Ow now?" growled the doorkeeper. "Who are you, pushin' yer wye in without as much——"
"He's from the Yard," interrupted one of the two. "We showed him the way."
The doorkeeper wilted under the eye of The Wasp. The American rushed up the stairs where a fat sergeant was poking stupidly at the shattered step that had exploded under the feet of Nicholas Grahn. The fat man looked up, saw Authority in the cool gray eyes that fell upon him, saluted and muttered something about the dead man being in the sitting room on the next floor.
Robert Henry Blane knew his way to the sitting room. It was the room where he had talked with Ferdinand Darren, "Count of Pierrefond," on the evening previous. With long strides he crossed the landing and entered.
The room was in disorder. Everything had been turned upside down. Ferdinand Darren, still wearing the long silk dressing gown, lay upon the couch. A tall, stupid-looking policeman stood watching the dead man, seemingly a little afraid lest the gambler should come to life suddenly and bite him.
The Texan Wasp acted swiftly. He returned the bobby's salute and spoke sharply. "Stand outside the door and keep every one out!" he cried. "I'm Inspector Blane from the Yard!"
The policeman stepped nimbly out onto the landing. The Wasp sprang to the little water color. He thrust it aside and seized the knob of the safe. It was locked.
Robert Henry Blane, perfectly cool, gave his full attention to the combination. No. 37 might be on his way to the house but the Texan was not disturbed by the man hunter's possible arrival. With ear close to the safe he listened as his muscular fingers twirled the knob. Before his mental eyes was the vision of the girl waiting—the girl who believed in him, the girl who blushingly told him that he was a gentleman! He smiled as he recalled her words. A gentleman!
The fat sergeant came to the door. The Wasp heard his throaty questions as the long policeman informed him in a whisper that "Inspector Bline had told him to keep every one out." Round and round went the knob. The Wasp asked himself who was it that had previously called him "Bline?" He remembered. It was the Whitechapel rat that brought the note from Darren. He spun the knob again. It was queer about the English. Their pronunciation of words was so ridiculous.
"Now my name," murmured The Wasp, "is so easy to—"
He stopped abruptly. The little door of the safe had opened. He was looking at the chamois bag within which was the Cup of the Magyars!
Hurriedly Robert Henry Blane transferred the cup to the pocket of his overcoat. He shut the safe and again twirled the knob and pushed back the little water color. With three long strides he reached the door. The fat sergeant was standing beside the tall policeman, the round eyes of the sergeant resembling the bulgy optics of a highly bred Pekingese.
The Wasp spoke sharply. "Sergeant," he cried, "can you pronounce my name? It's Blane!"
"Yes, sir! Bline, sir!" said the fat man.
"Not Bline, confound you!" cried The Wasp. "Blane! Blane! B-l-a-n-e! Now try again!"
"Bline!" cried the sergeant.
The Texan Wasp made a wry face. "Give me your notebook!" he cried. "Quick!"
The perspiring sergeant handed over his notebook and pencil, and The Wasp hurriedly wrote a message. It ran:
I thought that your "I am the Law" remark was a little chesty. Also the "You are one of the few outstanding accounts on my hooks." Chesty stuff, ho! Chesty stuff!
Always yours.
Robert Henry Blane.
"Show that to the biggest man that comes here to-night," he said, returning the book to the dumbfounded sergeant. "You'll know him when you see him. He's alive! And I'll wager he can say my name as an ordinary person should say it. Tell him I couldn't wait."
It was thirty minutes after leaving the house of
the dead gambler that Robert Henry Blane said good-by to
the girl, Therese Vorömartry, at the door of a little
red-brick house in Chelsea. The girl was beyond herself
with delight. She clutched the famous goblet to her bosom
and again and again she told the big American of the effect
the cup would have upon her mother.
"She will get well!" she murmured again and again. "Oh, I know! I know! And I have to thank you for it! Oh, how can I thank you?"
"It is nothing." said Robert Henry Blane. "Take it up to your mother. It belongs to your family. Tell me one thing before you go. Why does the cup distort the faces of those that look into it?"
"It only distorts the faces of bad people," whispered the girl "Of wicked people and—and enemies."
"But my face was not the same in it," protested The Texan.
"Oh, it should be!" cried the girl. "Oh, you must look again!"
She clutched the sleeve of Robert Henry Blane and pulled him into the little hall where a gas jet was burning. Hurriedly she took the cup from its chamois bag and tilted it high up before the face of the man. Her own face was close to his as he looked; her childish curiosity to see making her momentarily forgetful.
Robert Henry Blane looked. In the splendid yellow interior he saw his own face reflected beside that of the girl and there was nothing evil in the reflection. The look of greed and avarice that the cup had flung back to him on the previous evening was missing. A handsome, smiling Blane looked down at him from the shining depths of beaten gold.
"There!" cried the girl. "I knew you were good! I shall always think of you as—as a Sir Galahad who helped me through a great trouble. Good-by! Good-by! I must show my mother! Good-by!"
She stood on her tiptoes and hurriedly kissed the suntanned cheek of Robert Henry Blane. Then she fled up the stairs. The big Texan stood for a moment in the hall, then he turned and went out of the street door, closed it softly and walked off down the silent street.
He was thinking of Betty Allerton of Boston. In the long ago she had told him that he was "a handsome Galahad from Texas who would do great deeds." He smiled softly.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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