The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure
steel safe. He spun the knob swiftly to right and to left, then gave a
wrench, and the massive door opened.
"Come here!"
Van Dam obeyed.
"Look!"
He saw legal documents, deeds, mortgages, and blue envelopes, all neatly
marked, then a cash-drawer crowded full of symmetrical packages of
crisp, new ten-dollar bills, each with its bank band plainly labeled
"$1000."
"Eh? Are you satisfied?" The owner was staring craftily up at him,
careful to keep his body between Van Dam and the treasure.
"Jove!" Roly exclaimed in astonishment. "You'll be robbed some night."
"Is it a bargain?"
"I'm no business man." The masker hesitated with an air of extreme
suspicion. "Will you pay in advance?"
At this, Cousin Alfred uttered a bleat of dismay, but Roly was firm.
"I'm not sure you'd open the safe again, don't you see? Besides, it
would take time, and--I'd prefer not to wait; really I would, for I'm
always a bit nervous after a job of this kind."
"Listen, then," exclaimed the old man. "I will close the safe, but I
will leave the combination off. See! We must each run some risk in this
matter, I suppose; but--I trust you. Once it is over, there will be no
delay. A moment and you can be away with ten thousand dollars in your
pocket--and with me to do the explaining."
Why he had allowed the affair to run to so extraordinary a length Van
Dam hardly knew, except that he wished to gain time. He had no idea that
the mysterious Emile would really come to the house, for Madelon had as
much as told him that a far different reason lay behind the young man's
presence in the city.
What did concern Roly, however, the more he considered it, was the
possible consequence if the two girls returned. Thus far he had been
able to meet each new surprise, each fresh situation, with a resource
that amazed himself, but if they came face to face with him and Alfred,
his own masquerade would end at once and disastrous explanations would
certainly follow. Nevertheless, he could not run away and leave them in
an awkward position. As he looked back over the fantastic occurrences of
the past hour or more it amused and amazed him to realize how nicely he
had fitted into the puzzle--and puzzle it surely was; for the whole
sequence of events that had followed the purchase of the white gardenia
that lay above his heart was now more bewildering than ever.
That there was something more than mere roguery afoot he had ample
proof. He felt himself groping along the edge of something vague and
black and sinister. But what it was, what were the issues, or who were
the people involved, he had not the slightest conception. Of one thing
only was he sure, Madelon had no place in this elaborate web and woof of
crime. She had impressed him more deeply even than he had realized, and
his main anxiety now, outside of a desire to protect her from the venom
of this poisonous old man, was to see her face, to lift with his own
fingers the mask that had so tantalized him.
The owner of the house was busily arranging the plans for Emile's
destruction when the doorbell rang. He clutched his guest nervously by
the arm and thrust the revolver into his hand, whispering:
"It is he! The scoundrel has arrived! Quickly now--behind the door!"
But Roly stepped to a front window and, cautiously drawing the curtain
aside, peered out. He saw what he had feared--the figure of a petite
Norman maid, and beside it that of a masked woman in a long, dark robe.
"Well, now! Who can it be?" he heard Alfred whisper, and discovered the
senile villain peering past his shoulder.
"It is Madelon and Félice," Roly explained.
"_They!_ Here? Wait! I will give them a cursing to remember." But before
the speaker could move he found his arms pinioned behind him and his own
weapon pointed at his head. He uttered a squeak of amazement and terror.
"_Mon Dieu!_ What is this?"
"Shut up!" Roly dragged the old man from the window, stripped a thick
curtain cord from its hook, and knotted his wrists together.
Alfred offered no resistance; a horrible fear had him by the throat; he
hung like a sack in the younger man's grasp. His eyes alone retained
their activity. These followed Van Dam in a horrified stare; they seemed
about to emerge from their sockets.
Roly deposited his limp captive in a chair and, stepping to the window,
tapped sharply. When Madelon looked up he signaled her to wait. The hall
portières furnished another cord for Cousin Alfred's ankles, and a
handkerchief served as a gag. As this was being adjusted, however, the
captive quavered, hoarsely:
"Who--are you?"
"I?" Roly laughed. "Why, I am your cousin Emile!"
The householder voiced a thin shriek and began to plead for his life.
Then the remnants of his strength escaped, leaving him a spineless heap
in the great leather chair.
Van Dam bore him in his arms down the hall, searching for a place of
concealment. This he found in a closet, the door of which he closed.
Then he hastened back to the front entrance.
"You kept us waiting sufficiently," Madelon said, as he stepped aside
for the two women to enter.
Roly's eyes were glued upon the taller of the two figures, but Félice
seemed to take no heed of him. He heard her murmuring in a sick, eager
voice:
"Emile! My own beloved! Emile!"
Madelon raised her hand in a warning gesture and the young man shrank
closer into the shadows.
"Courage, dear!" she said to her companion. "We have arrived at last. A
moment now and he will come." She half led, half supported the taller
woman into the library. The next instant she was back at Van Dam's side.
Drawing him into the parlor, across the hall, she exclaimed in a voice
which showed that tears were in her eyes: "Thank Heaven, no one
recognized us! But I was weak with fright. Oh! It was pitiful! I have
wept at every step. She has been calling you like that, night and day.
Go--quickly!" She removed his mask and thrust him into the hall.
This was the most embarrassing moment Van Dam had experienced thus far.
He had been prepared to face eventual discovery, and had decided to make
a clean breast of his part in this comedy when the necessary moment
arrived, but--this was altogether different. Félice was ill,
half-demented. What might be the effect upon her of this disclosure?
There was nothing to do, however, but to face it out and to make the
truth known as quickly and as gently as possible.
But as he entered the study he received a surprise that robbed the
adventure of all its entertainment, that changed this comedy into a
tragedy and humbled the man's reckless spirit.
III
Van Dam saw that which filled him with an aching pity; for, instead of a
girl, he found awaiting him a frail, sweet-faced old woman whose fingers
were locked as if in prayer, whose lips were murmuring the name of her
son. Her hair, softer and finer than silken floss, was silvery white;
her wistful, wrinkled countenance was ablaze with a glad excitement that
made it glorious and holy. That which caused Van Dam's heart to melt and
to turn away completely, however, was the fact that she was blind.
She had heard his step, muffled as it was in the inch-thick carpet, and
rose with a tender cry, pausing with her arms outstretched, her body
shaken by an ecstasy of yearning.
"Emile! Emile!" she whispered, and came toward him. Her sightless eyes
were wet; she was trembling terribly.
Van Dam experienced a desire to flee. He tried to speak and to warn her
off, but as the feeble figure swayed toward him, the age-old, appalling
tragedy of mother love caused his throat to tighten. Then he took her
hands in his; his arms enfolded her. She lay against his breast, weeping
softly, gladly, while he bowed his head reverently over hers. Had his
life depended upon his speaking, he could not have done so. He merely
waited, with a sick feeling of dread, the instant of her awakening. He
was vaguely surprised as moment followed moment and it did not come.
Then he discovered the explanation. Grief had set her wits to wandering;
days and weeks and months of yearning had burned away some part of her
faculties, leaving her possessed by such a reasonless hunger that almost
any object would have served to fill her want. He had heard of demented
mothers whose minds had been saved by the substitution of a living for a
dead child, and it seemed that this was a similar case; for she was
flooded now with a supreme content and appeared to experience no
suspicion of fraud.
The touch of her fluttering fingers on his cheek was like the caress of
butterfly wings; her voice was soft; her words, though wandering, were
tender and filled with such a heaven-born adoration that his distress
was multiplied. This was her hour, he reflected. Perhaps an all-wise
Providence had selected him to fill this part and to bring glory to her
withered heart. At any rate, he would have been unspeakably cruel to
disillusionize her.
He led her to a chair, then knelt and bowed his head to her straying
fingers, murmuring those terms of endearment which cause a mother's
breast to thrill. When he looked up to Madelon, at last, she saw that he
was crying--quite like a little boy.
From the disconnected words that fell from the blind woman's lips he
began, after a time, to piece the truth together.
Emile had been an only son, a paragon of manly virtues, the keeper of
his mother's soul. There had come a great shock and a great disgrace
that had evidently conspired to unseat her reason. She spoke indirectly
of them, as a child marked by some prenatal influence recoils at contact
with the cause of its infirmity. Then, it seemed, Madelon had come to
watch over and to comfort her, filling a son's place with a daughter's
devotion. There had been persecution, want, the loss of property through
an enemy of whom the mother spoke ramblingly. Van Dam recollected the
dried-up villain in the closet down the hall, and felt a flame of rage
mount through him. He longed mightily to ask questions, to run the
matter down without delay, but dared not, for he was in momentary dread
that the imposture would be discovered. So he spoke as infrequently as
possible, and substituted for words those gentle caresses and endearing
attentions that are far more welcome to a starving heart. Madelon
remained close by, adding a grain of comfort and encouragement now and
then, and regarding Van Dam with a strangely bewildered attention.
But the mother was far from strong. Her excitement had wearied her, and
now, with the relaxation of contentment, fatigue stole over her. She lay
back among the soft cushions, her restless hands moving more slowly, her
gentle voice stilled. She dozed at last, her face serene and beatific.
Madelon motioned to Van Dam, and he rose. Noiselessly they stole across
the hall and into the drawing-room, leaving the placid figure in repose.
She turned upon him, saying, doubtfully: "With every moment you surprise
me, Emile. You are not at all what I expected, not at all the cousin of
whom I have heard so much! Even in looks you seem--how shall I say
it?--strange."
"Are you pleased or disappointed?"
"Ah! Pleased! I--I feel that I must weep. You are so brave and strong,
and yet so gentle, so sweet! Perhaps only a mother recognizes the good
that is in one. That scene in yonder was very--touching. I--I can hardly
credit my ears and my eyes."
"It's plain you have a wrong idea of me. I'm not at all a bad sort."
"So I begin to believe, in spite of everything. La! It is confusing. I
am all in a whirl." She uttered a hesitating, silvery little laugh that
proved her embarrassment.
"We must speak quickly," he said. "I am also greatly confused. You have
opened up a great possibility for me, Madelon. The whole world is