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Arthur Griffiths - The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood

A >> Arthur Griffiths >> The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood



THE THIN RED LINE.

by

ARTHUR GRIFFITHS,

Author of "The Chronicles of Newgate," "Fast and Loose,"
etc., etc.

In Two Volumes.







London: Chapman and Hall
Limited
1886




VOL. I

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

CHAPTER I.
THE COMMISSARY IS CALLED

CHAPTER II.
ARREST AND INTERROGATION

CHAPTER III.
THE MOUSETRAP

CHAPTER IV.
A SPIDER'S WEB

CHAPTER V.
THE WAR FEVER

CHAPTER VI.
ON DANGEROUS GROUND

CHAPTER VII.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

CHAPTER VIII.
A SOUTHERN PEARL

CHAPTER IX.
OFF TO THE WARS

CHAPTER X.
A GENERAL ACTION

CHAPTER XI.
AFTER THE BATTLE

CHAPTER XII.
CATCHING A TARTAR

CHAPTER XIII.
"NOT WAR"

CHAPTER XIV.
THE GOLDEN HORN

CHAPTER XV.
THE LAST OF LORD LYDSTONE

CHAPTER XVI.
HARD POUNDING

CHAPTER XVII.
A COSTLY VICTORY

CHAPTER XVIII.
A NOVEMBER GALE

CHAPTER XIX.
UNCLE AND NEPHEW

CHAPTER XX.
RED TAPE

CHAPTER XXI.
AGAIN ON THE ROCK

CHAPTER XXII.
MR. HOBSON CALLS

CHAPTER XXIII.
WAR TO THE KNIFE

CHAPTER XXIV.
MOTHER CHARCOAL'S


VOL. II.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.


CHAPTER I.
SECRET SERVICE

CHAPTER II.
AMONG THE COSSACKS

CHAPTER III.
A PURVEYOR OF NEWS

CHAPTER IV.
IN WHITEHALL

CHAPTER V.
MR. FAULKS TALKS

CHAPTER VI.
MARIQUITA'S QUEST

CHAPTER VII.
INSIDE THE FORTRESS

CHAPTER VIII.
FROM THE DEAD

CHAPTER IX.
IN PARIS

CHAPTER X.
SUSPENSE

CHAPTER XI.
AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN

CHAPTER XII.
IN LINCOLN'S INN

CHAPTER XIII.
HUSBAND AND WIFE

CHAPTER XIV.
THE SCALES REMOVED

CHAPTER XV.
L'ENVOI


BLUE BLOOD


* * * * *


THE THIN RED LINE.

VOLUME I

CHAPTER I.

THE COMMISSARY IS CALLED.


In the Paris of the first half of this century there was no darker,
dingier, or more forbidding quarter than that which lay north of the
Rue de Rivoli, round about the great central market, commonly called
the Halles.

The worst part of it, perhaps, was the Rue Assiette d'Etain, or
Tinplate Street. All day evil-looking loafers lounged about its
doorways, nodding lazily to the passing workmen, who, blue-bloused,
with silk cap on head, each with his loa under his arm, came to take
their meals at the wine-shop at the corner; or gossiping with the
porters, male and female, while the one followed closely his usual
trade as a cobbler, and the other attended to her soup.

By day there was little traffic. Occasionally a long dray, on a
gigantic pair of wheels, drawn by a long string of white Normandy
horses in single file, with blue harness and jangling bells, filled up
the roadway. Costermongers trundled their barrows along with strange,
unmusical cries. Now and again an empty cab returning to its stable,
with weary horse and semi-somnolent coachman, crawled through the
street.

But at night it was otherwise. Many vehicles came dashing down
Tinplate Street: carriages, public and private, of every variety, from
the rattletrap cab hired off the stand, or the decent coach from the
livery stable, to the smart spick-and-span brougham, with its
well-appointed horses and servants in neat livery. They all set down
at the same door, and took up from it at any hour between midnight and
dawn, waiting patiently in file in the wide street round the corner,
till the summons came as each carriage was required.

As seen in the daytime, there was nothing strange about the door, or
the house to which it gave access. The place purported to be an
hotel--a seedy, out-at-elbows, seemingly little-frequented hotel,
rejoicing in the altogether inappropriate name of the Hotel Paradis,
or the Paradise Hotel. Its outward appearance was calculated to repel
rather than invite customers; no one would be likely to lodge there
who could go elsewhere. It had habitually a deserted look, with all
its blinds and casements close shut, as though its lodgers slept
through the day, or had gone away, never to return.

But this was only by day. At night the street-door stood wide open,
and a porter was on duty at the foot of the staircase within. He was
on the inner side of a stout oaken door, in which was a small window,
opening with a trap. Through this he reconnoitred all arrivals,
taking stock of their appearance, and only giving admission when
satisfied as to what he saw.

The Hotel Paradis, in plain English, was a gambling-house, largely
patronised, yet with an evil reputation. It was well known to, and
constantly watched by, the police, who were always at hand, although
they seldom interfered with the hotel.

But when the porter's wife came shrieking into the street early one
summer's morning, with wildest terror depicted in her face, and
shaking like a jelly, the police felt bound to come to the front.

"Has madame seen a ghost?" asked a stern official in a cocked hat and
sword, accosting her abruptly.

"No, no! Fetch the commissary, quick! A crime has been committed--a
terrible crime!" she gasped.

This was business, and the police-officer knew what he had to do.

"Run, Jules," he said to a colleague. "You know where M. Bontoux
lives. Tell him he is wanted at the Hotel Paradis." Then, turning to
the woman, he said, "Now, madame, explain yourself."

"It is a murder, I am afraid. A gentleman has been stabbed."

"What gentleman? Where?"

"In the drawing-room, upstairs. I don't know his name, but he came
here frequently. My husband will perhaps be able to tell you; he is
there."

"Lead on," said the police-officer; "take me to the place. I will see
to it myself."

They passed into the hotel through the inner portal, and up the stairs
to the first floor, where the principal rooms were situated--three of
them furnished and decorated magnificently, altogether out of keeping
with the miserable exterior of the house, having enormous mirrors from
ceiling to floor, gilt cornices, damask hangings, marble console
tables, and chairs and sofas in marqueterie and buhl. The first room
evidently served for reception; there was a sideboard in one corner,
on which were the remains of a succulent repast, and dozens of empty
bottles. The second and third rooms were more especially devoted to
the business of the establishment. Long tables, covered with green
cloth, filled up the centre of each, and were strewed with cards, dice
and their boxes, croupier's rakes, and other implements of gaming.

The third room had been the scene of the crime. There upon the floor
lay the body of a man, a well-dressed man, wearing the white
kerseymere trousers, the light waistcoat, and long-tailed green coat
which were then in vogue. His clothes were all spotted and bedrabbled
with gore; his shirt was torn open, and plainly revealed the great
gaping wound from which his life's blood was quickly ebbing away.

The wounded man's head rested on the knee of the night porter, a
personage wearing a kind of livery, a strongly built, truculent-looking
villain, whose duties, no doubt, comprised the putting of people out as
well as the letting them into the house.

"Oh, Anatole! my cherished one!" began the porter's wife. "Here are
the police. Tell us then, how this occurred."

"I will tell all I know," replied her husband, looking at the
police-officer. "This morning, when the clients had nearly all gone,
and I was sitting half asleep in the lodge, I heard--"

"Stop," said the police-officer, "not another word. Keep all you have
to say for the commissary. He is already on the stairs."

The next minute M. Bontoux entered, accompanied by his clerk and the
official doctor of the quarter.

"A crime," said the commissary, slowly, and with as much dignity as
was possible in a middle-aged gentleman pulled from his bed at
daybreak, and compelled to dress in a hurry. "A crime," he repeated.
"Of that there can be no doubt. But let us establish the fact
formally. Where are the witnesses?"

The porter, having relinquished the care of the wounded man to the
doctor, stood up slowly and saluted the commissary.

"Very well; tell us what you know. Sit down"--this to the clerk.
"Produce your writing-materials and prepare the report."

"It must have been about four this morning, but I was very drowsy, and
the gentlemen had nearly all gone," said the night porter, speaking
fluently, "when I was disturbed by the noise of a quarrel, a fight, up
here in the principal drawing-room. While I was still rubbing my eyes,
for I was very drowsy, and fancied I was dreaming, I heard a scream, a
second, and a third, followed by a heavy fall on the floor. I rushed
upstairs then, and found this poor gentleman as you see him."

"Alone?"

"Quite alone."

"But there must have been other people here. Did they come down the
stairs past you?"

"No, sir; they must have escaped by that window. It was open--"

The commissary looked at the police-officer, who nodded intelligently.

"I had already noticed it, Mr. Commissary. The window gives upon a low
roof, which communicates with the back street. Escape would be quite
easy from that side."

"Well," said the commissary, "and you found this gentleman? Do you
know him? His name? Have you ever seen him before?"

"He is M. le Baron d'Enot; he is a constant visitor at the house. Very
fortunate, I believe, and I heard he won largely last night."

"Ah!" said the commissary. This fact was important, as affording a
reason for the crime. "And do you suspect any one? Have you any idea
who was here at the last?"

"I scarcely noticed the gentlemen as they went away; it would be
impossible for me, therefore, to say who remained."

"Then there is no clue--"

"Hush! Mr. Commissary." It was the doctor's exclamation. "The victim
is still alive, and is trying, I think, to speak." Evidence given at
the point of death has extreme value in every country, under every
kind of law. The commissary therefore bent his head, closely attentive
to catch any words the dying man might utter.

"Water! water!" he gasped out. "Revenge me; it was a foul and cowardly
blow."

"Who struck you, can you tell us? Do you know him?" inquired the
commissary, eagerly.

"Yes. I--know--" The voice grew visibly weaker; it sank into a
whisper, and could speak only in monosyllables.

"His name--quick!"

"There--were--three--I had no chance--Gas--coigne--"

"Strange name--not French?"

The dying man shook his head.

"Gasc--tell--Engl--"

It was the last supreme effort. With a long, deep groan, the poor
fellow fell back dead.

"How unfortunate!" cried the commissary, "to die just when he would
have told us all. These few words will scarcely suffice to identify
the murderers. Can any one help us?"

M. Bontoux looked round.

"The name he mentioned I know," said the night-porter, quickly. "This
M. Gascoigne came here frequently. He is an Englishman."

"So I gathered from the dead man's words. Do you know his domicile in
Paris?"

"Rue St. Honore, Hotel Versailles and St. Cloud. I have seen him enter
it more than once, with his wife. He has lived there some months."

"We must, if possible, lay hands on him at once. You, Jules, hasten
with another police-agent to the Rue St. Honore; he may have gone
straight to his hotel."

"And if we find him?"

"Arrest him and take him straight to the Prefecture. I will follow.
There, there! lose no time."

"I am already gone," said the police-officer as he ran downstairs.




CHAPTER II.

ARREST AND INTERROGATION.


The Hotel Versailles and St. Cloud was one of the best hotels of Paris
at this time, a time long antecedent to the opening of such vast
caravansaries as the Louvre, the Continental, the Athenee, or the
Grand. It occupied four sides of a courtyard, to which access was had
by the usual gateway. The porter's lodge was in the latter, and this
functionary, in sabots and shirt-sleeves, was sweeping out the
entrance when the police arrived in a cab, which they ordered to wait
at the door.

"M. Gascoigne?" asked the agent.

"On the first floor, number forty-three," replied the porter, without
looking up. "Monsieur has but just returned," he went on. "Knock
gently, or you may disturb him in his first sleep."

"We shall disturb him in any case," said the police-officer, gruffly.
"Justice cannot wait."

"The police!" cried the porter, now recognising his visitors for the
first time. "What has happened, in Heaven's name?"

"Stand aside; we have no time to gossip," replied the agent, as he
passed on.

The occupant of No. 43 upon the first floor was pacing his room with
agitated steps--a young man with fair complexion and light curly hair;
but his blue eyes were clouded, and his fresh, youthful face was drawn
and haggard. His attire, too--English, like his aspect--was torn and
dishevelled, his voluminous neckcloth was disarranged, his waistcoat
had lost several buttons, and there were stains--dark purple
stains--upon sleeves and smallclothes.

"What has become of her?" he was saying as he strode up and down; "she
has not been here; she could not have come home when we parted at the
door of the Vaudeville--the bed has not been slept in. Can she have
gone? Is it possible that she has left me?"

He sank into a chair and hid his face in his hands.

"It was too horrible. To see him fall at my feet, struck down just
when I--Who is there?" he cried suddenly, in answer to a knock at
the door.

"Open, in the name of the law!"

"The police here already! What shall I do?"

"Open at once, or we shall force the door."

The young man slowly drew back the bolt and admitted the two
police-agents.

"M. Gascoigne? You will not answer to your name? That is equal--we
arrest you."

"On what charge?"

"It is not our place to explain. We act by authority: that is enough.
Will you go with us quietly, or must we use force?"

"Of what am I accused?"

"You will hear in good time. Isidore, where is your rope?"

His colleague produced the long thin cord that serves instead of
handcuffs in France.

"Must we tie you?"

"No, no! I am ready to submit, but under protest. You shall answer for
this outrage. I am an Englishman. I will appeal to our ambassador."

"With all my heart! We are not afraid. But enough said. Come."

The three--police-agents and their prisoner--went out together. On the
threshold of No. 43 the officer named Jules said--

"Your key, monsieur--the key of your room. I will take charge of it.
Monsieur the Judge will no doubt make a searching perquisition, and no
one must enter it till then."

The door was locked, M. Jules put the key in his pocket, and the party
went down to the cab, which was driven off rapidly to the depot of the
Prefecture.

Here the usual formalities were gone through. Rupert Gascoigne, as the
Englishman was called, was interrogated, searched, deprived of money,
watch, penknife, and pencil-case; his description was noted down, and
then he was asked whether he would go into the common prison, or pay
for the accommodation of the _pistole_ or private "side."

For sixteen sous daily they gave him a room to himself, with a little
iron cot, a chair, and a table. Another franc or two got him his
breakfast and dinner, and he was allowed to enjoy them with such
appetite as he could command.

No one came near him till next morning, when he was roused from the
heavy sleep that had only come to him after dawn by a summons to
appear before the _Juge d'instruction_.

He was led by two policemen to a little room, barely furnished, with
one great bureau, or desk, in the centre, at which sat the judge, his
back to the window. On one side of him was a smaller desk for the
clerk, and exactly opposite a chair for the accused, so arranged that
the light beat full upon his face.

"Sit down," said the judge, abruptly.

He was a stern-looking man, dressed all in black, still young, with a
cold and impassive face, the extreme pallor of which was heightened by
his close-cut, coal-black hair, and his small, piercing, beady black
eyes.

"Your name and nationality?"

"Rupert Gascoigne. I am an Englishman, and as such I must at once
protest against the treatment I have received."

"You have been treated in accordance with the law--of France. You must
abide by it, since you choose to live here. I do not owe you this
explanation, but I give it to uphold the majesty of the law."

"I shall appeal to our ambassador."

The judge waved his hand, as though the threat did not affect him.

"I must ask you to keep silence. You are here to be interrogated; you
will only speak in reply to my questions."

There was a pause, during which judge and accused looked hard at each
other; the former seeking to read the other's inmost thoughts, the
latter meeting the gaze with resolute and unflinching eyes.

"What is your age?"

"Twenty-six."

"Are you married?"

"Yes."

"But your wife has left you."

Gascoigne started in spite of himself.

"How do you know that?" he asked, nervously.

"It is for me to question. But I know it: that is enough. Your
occupation and position in life?"

"I am a gentleman, living on my means."

"It is false." An angry flush rose to Gascoigne's face as the judge
thus gave him the lie. "It is false--you are a professional gambler--a
Greek--a sharper, with no ostensible means!"

"Pardon me, monsieur; you are quite misinformed. I could prove to you--"

"It would be useless; the police have long known and watched you."

"Such espionage is below contempt," cried Gascoigne, indignantly.

"Silence! Do not dare to question the conduct of the authorities. It
is the visit of persons of your stamp to Paris that renders such
precautions necessary."

"If you believe all you hear from your low agents, with their lying,
scandalous reports--"

"Be careful, prisoner; your demeanour will get you into trouble. Our
information about you is accurate and trustworthy. Judge for
yourself."

Gascoigne looked incredulous.

"Listen; you arrived in Paris three months ago, accompanied by a young
demoiselle whom you had decoyed from her home."

"She was my wife."

"Yes; you married her after your arrival here. The official records of
the 21st arrondisement prove that--married her without her parents'
consent."

"That is not so. They approved."

"How could they? Your wife's father is French vice-consul at
Gibraltar. Her mother is dead. Neither was present at your marriage;
how, then, could they approve?"

Gascoigne did not answer.

"On your first arrival you were well provided with funds--the
proceeds, no doubt, of some nefarious scheme; a run of luck at the
tables; the plunder of some pigeon--"

"The price of my commission in the English Army."

"Bah! You never were in the English Army."

"I can prove it."

"I shall not believe you. Being in funds, I say, you lived riotously,
stayed at one of the best hotels, kept a landau and pair, dined at the
Trois Freres and the Rocher de Cancale, frequented the theatres;
madame wore the most expensive toilettes. But you presently ran short
of cash."

"It's not surprising. But I presume I was at liberty to do what I
liked with my own."

"Coming to the end of your resources," went on the judge, coldly
ignoring the sneer, "you tried the gaming-table again, with varying
success. You went constantly to the Hotel Paradis--"

"On the contrary, occasionally, not often."

"You were there last night; it is useless to deny it. We have the
deposition of the proprietor, who is well known to the police--M.
Hippolyte Ledantec; you shall be confronted with him."

"Is he in custody?" asked Gascoigne, eagerly.

"I tell you it is not your place to question."

"He ought to be. It was he who committed the murder."

"You know there was a murder, then? Curious. When the body was
discovered by the porter there was no one present. How could you know
of the crime unless you had a hand in it?"

"I saw it committed. I tried my best to save the Baron, but Ledantec
stabbed him before I could interpose."

"An ingenious attempt to shift the guilt; but it will not serve. We
know better."

"I am prepared to swear it was Ledantec. Why should I attack the
Baron? I owed him no grudge."

"Why? I will tell you. For some time past, as I have reminded you,
your funds have been running low, fortune has been against you at the
tables, and you could not correct it at the Hotel Paradis as you do
with less clever players--"

"You are taking an unfair advantage of your position, Monsieur le
Juge. Any one else who dared accuse me of cheating--"

"Bah! no heroics. You could not correct fortune, I say; yet money you
must have. The hotel-keeper was pressing for his long-unpaid account.
Madame, your smart wife, was dissatisfied; she made you scenes because
you refused her money; in return, you ill-used her."

"It is false! My wife has always received proper consideration at my
hands."

"You ill-used her, ill-treated her; we have it from herself."

"Do you know, then, where she is?" interrupted Gascoigne, with so
much eagerness that it was plain he had taken his wife's defection
greatly to heart. "Why has she left me? With whom? I have always
suspected that villain Ledantec; he is an arch scoundrel, a very
devil!"

"The reasons for your wife's disappearance are sufficiently explained
by this letter."

"To me?" said Gascoigne, stretching out his hand for it.

"To you, but impounded by us. It was found, in our search of your
apartments yesterday, placed in a prominent place upon your
dressing-table."

"Give it me--it is mine!"

"No! but you shall hear what it says. Listen:--

"'I could have borne with resignation the miserable part you have
imposed upon me. After luring me from my home with dazzling offers,
after promising me a life of luxury and splendid ease, you rudely,
cruelly dispelled the illusion, and made it plain to me that I had
shared the lot of a pauper. All this I could have borne--poverty,
however distasteful, but not the infamy, the degradation, of being the
partner and associate of your evil deeds. Sooner than fall so low I
prefer to leave you for ever. Do not seek for me. I have done with
you. All is at an end between us!'"




CHAPTER III.

THE MOUSETRAP.


"Well," said the judge, when he had finished reading, "you see what
your wife thinks of you. What do you say now?"

"There is not a word of truth in that letter. It is a tissue of
misstatements from beginning to end. You must place no reliance upon
it."

"There you must allow me to differ from you. This letter is, in my
belief, perfectly genuine. It supplies a most important link in the
chain of evidence, and I shall give it the weight it deserves. But
enough--will you still deny your guilt?"

"It is Ledantec's doing," said Gascoigne, following out a line of
thought of his own. "She was nothing loth, perhaps, for he has been
instilling insidious poison into her ears for these weeks past. I had
my suspicions, but could prove nothing; now I know. It was for this,
to put money in his purse for her extravagance, that he first robbed,
then struck down the baron."

"Why do you still persist in this shallow line of defence? You cannot
deceive me; it would be far better to make a clean breast of it at
once."

"I have already told you all I know. I repeat, I saw Ledantec strike
the blow."

"Psha! this is puerile. I will be frank with you. We have the fullest
and strongest evidence of your guilt--why, then, will you not confess
it?"

"I have nothing to confess; I am perfectly innocent. I was the poor
man's friend, not his murderer. I tried hard to save him, but,
unhappily, I was too late."

"You will not confess?"

A flush of anger rose to Gascoigne's cheek; his eyes flashed with the
indignation he felt at being thus bullied and browbeaten; his lips
quivered, but still he made no reply.

"Come! you have played this comedy long enough," said the judge, his
manner growing more insolent, his look more threatening. "Will you, or
will you not, confess?"

Gascoigne met his gaze resolutely, but with a dogged, obstinate
silence, the result of a firm determination not to utter a word.

"This is unbearable," said the judge, angrily, after having repeated
his question several times without eliciting any reply. "Take him
away! Let him be kept in complete isolation, in one of the separate
cells of the Mousetrap--the Souriciere."

At a signal from within the police entered, resumed charge of the
prisoner, and escorted him, by many winding passages, down a steep
staircase to an underground passage, ending in a dungeon-like room,
badly lighted by one small, heavily-barred window, through which no
glimpse of the sky was seen.

Here he was left alone, and for a long time utterly neglected. No one
came near him till late in the day, when he was brought a basin of
thin soup and a hunch of coarse ammunition bread. He spoke to his
jailers, asking for more and better food, but obtained no reply. He
asked them for paper, pens, and ink; he wished, he said, to make a
full statement of his case to the British Embassy, and demand its
protection. Still no reply. Maddened by this contemptuous treatment,
and despairing almost of justice, he begged, entreated the warder to
take pity on him, to tell him at least how long they meant to keep him
there in such terrible solitude, cut off altogether from the advice
and assistance of friends. The warder shook his head stolidly, and at
length broke silence, but only to say, "It is by superior order," then
left him.

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