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Mystery of the Boule Cabinet

<h5 id="id01724">GODFREY WEAVES A ROMANCE</h5> I had begun to fear that Godfrey was going to disappoint me, so late it was before his welcome knock came at my door that night. I hastened to let him in, and I could tell by the sigh of relief with which he sank into a chair that he was thoroughly weary. "It does me good to come in here occasionally and have a talk with you, Lester," he said, accepting the cigar I offered him. "I find it restful after a hard day," and he smiled across at me good-humouredly. "How you keep it up I don't see," I said. "This one case has nearly given me nervous prostration." "Well, I don't often strike one as strenuous as this," and he settled back comfortably. "As a matter of fact, I haven't had one for a long time that even touches it. There is nothing really mysterious about most crimes." "This one is certainly mysterious enough," I remarked. "What makes it mysterious," Godfrey explained, "is the apparent lack of motive. As soon as one learns the motive for a crime, one learns also who committed it. But where the motive can't be discovered, it is mighty hard to make any progress." "It isn't only lack of motive which makes it mysterious," I commented; "it's everything about it. I can't understand either why it was done or how it was done. When I get to thinking about it, I feel as though I were wandering around and around in a maze, from which I can never escape." "Oh, yes, you'll escape, Lester," said Godfrey, quietly, "and that before very long." "If you have an explanation, Godfrey," I protested, "for heaven's sake tell me! Don't keep me in the maze an instant longer than is necessary. I've been thinking about it till my brain feels like a snarl of tangled thread. Do you mean to say you know what it is all about?" "'Know' is perhaps a little strong. There isn't much in this world that we really know. Suppose we say that I strongly suspect." He paused a moment, his eyes on the ceiling. "You know you've accused me of romancing sometimes, Lester—the other evening, for instance; yet that romance has come true." "I take it all back," I said, meekly. "There's another thing these talks do," continued Godfrey, going off rather at a tangent, "and that is to clarify my ideas. You don't know how it helps me to state my case to you and to try to answer your objections. Your being a lawyer makes you unusually quick to see objections, and a lawyer is always harder to convince of a thing than the ordinary man. You are accustomed to weighing evidence; and so I never allow myself to be convinced of a theory until I have convinced you. Not always, even then," he added, with a smile. "Well, I'm glad I'm of some use," I said, "if it is only as a sort of file for you to sharpen your wits on. So please go ahead and romance some more. Tell me first how you and Simmonds came to be following Armand." "Simply because I had found out he wasn't Armand. Felix Armand is in Paris at this moment. You were too credulous, Lester." "Why, I never had any doubt of his being Armand," I stammered. "He knew about my cablegram—he knew about the firm's answer…." "Of course he did, because your cable was never received by the Armands, but by a confederate in this fellow's employ; and it was that confederate who answered it. Our friend, the unknown, foresaw, of course, that a cable would be sent the Armands as soon as the mistake was discovered, and he took his precautions accordingly." "Then you still believe that the cabinet was sent to Vantine by design and not by accident?" "Absolutely. It was sent by the Armands in good faith, because they believed that it had been purchased by Vantine—all of which had been arranged very carefully by the Great Unknown." "Tell me how you know all this, Godfrey," I said. "Why, it was easy enough. When you told me yesterday of Armand, I knew, or thought I knew, that it was a plant of some kind. But, in order to be sure, I cabled our man at Paris to investigate. Our man went at once to Armand, père, and he learned a number of very interesting things. One was, that the son, Félix Armand, was in Paris; another was that no member of the firm knew anything about your cable or the answer to it; a third was, that, had the cable been received, it would not have been understood, because the Armands' books show that this cabinet was bought by Philip Vantine for the sum of fifteen thousand francs." "Not this one!" I protested. "Yes; this one. And it was cheap at the price. Of course, the Armands knew nothing about the Montespan story—they were simply selling at a profit." "But I don't understand!" I stammered. "Vantine told me himself that he did not buy that cabinet." "Nor did he. But somebody bought it in his name and directed that it be sent forward to him." "And paid fifteen thousand francs for it?" "Certainly—and paid fifteen thousand francs to the Armands." "Rather an expensive present," I said, feebly, for my brain was beginning to whirl again. "Oh, it wasn't intended as a present. The purchaser planned to reclaim it—but Vantine's death threw him out. If it hadn't been for that—for an accident which no one could foresee—everything would have gone along smoothly and no one would ever have been the wiser." "But what was his object? Was he trying to evade the duty?" "Oh, nothing so small as that! Besides, he would have had to refund the duty to Vantine. Did he refund it to you?" "No," I said, "I didn't think there was any to refund. Vantine really paid the duty only on the cabinet he purchased, since that was the one shown on his manifest. The other fellow must have paid the duty on the cabinet he brought in; so I didn't see that there was anything coming to Vantine's estate. There is probably something due the government, for the cabinet Vantine brought in was, of course, much more valuable than his manifest showed." "No doubt of that; and the other cabinet is the one which Vantine really purchased. It was, of course, sent forward to this other fellow's address, here in New York. His plan is evident enough—to call upon Vantine, as the representative of the Armands, or perhaps as the owner of the Montespan cabinet, and make the exchange. Vantine's death spoiled that, and he had to make the exchange through you. Even then, he would have been able to pull it off but for the fact that Vantine's death and that of Drouet had called our attention to the cabinet; we followed him, and the incidents of this afternoon ensued." "And he accomplished all this by means of a confederate in the employ of the Armands?" "No doubt of it. The clerk who made the supposed sale to Vantine and got a commission on it, resigned suddenly two days ago—just as soon as he had intercepted your cable and answered it. The Paris police are looking for him, but I doubt if they'll find him." I paused to think this over; and then a sudden impatience seized me. "That's all clear enough," I said. "The cabinets might have been exchanged just as you say they were—no doubt you are right—but all that doesn't lead us anywhere. Why were they exchanged? What is there about that Boule cabinet which makes this unknown willing to do murder for it? Does he think those letters are still in it?" "He knows they are not in it now—you told him. Before that, he knew nothing about the letters. If he had known of them, he would have had them out before the cabinet was shipped." "What is it, then?" I demanded. "And, above all, Godfrey, why should this fellow hide himself in Vantine's house and kill two men? Did they surprise him while he was working over the cabinet?" "I see no reason to believe that he was ever inside the Vantine house," said Godfrey quietly; "that is, until you took him there yourself this afternoon." "But, look here, Godfrey," I protested, "that's nonsense. He must have been in the house, or he couldn't have killed Vantine and Drouet." "Who said he killed them?" "If he didn't kill them, who did?" Godfrey took two or three contemplative puffs, while I sat there staring at him. "Well," Godfrey answered, at last, "now I'm going to romance a little. We will return to your fascinating friend, Armand, as we may as well call him for the present. He is an extraordinary man." "No doubt of it," I agreed. "I can only repeat what I have said before—in my opinion, he is the greatest criminal of modern times." "If he is a criminal at all, he is undoubtedly a great one," I conceded. "But it is hard for me to believe that he is a criminal. He's the most cultured man I ever met." "Of course he is. That's why he's so dangerous. An ignorant criminal is never dangerous—it's the ignorant criminals who fill the prisons. But look out for the educated, accomplished ones. It takes brains to be a great criminal, Lester, and brains of a high order." "But why should a man with brains be a criminal?" I queried. "If he can earn an honest living, why should he be dishonest?" "In the first place, most criminals are criminals from choice, not from necessity; and with a cultured man the incentive is usually the excitement of it. Have you ever thought what an exciting game it is, Lester, to defy society, to break the law, to know that the odds against you are a thousand to one, and yet to come out triumphant? And then, I suppose, every great criminal is a little insane." "No doubt of it," I agreed. "Just as every absolutely honest man is a little insane," went on Godfrey quickly. "Just as every great reformer and enthusiast is a little insane. The sane men are the average ones, who are fairly honest and yet tell white lies on occasion, who succumb to temptation now and then; who temporise and compromise, and try to lead a comfortable and quiet life. I repeat, Lester, that this fellow is a great criminal, and that he finds life infinitely more engrossing than either you or I. I hope I shall meet him some time—not in a little skirmish like this, but in an out-and-out battle. Of course I'd be routed, horse, foot and dragoons—but it certainly would be interesting!" and he looked at me, his eyes glowing. "It certainly would!" I agreed. "Go ahead with your romance." "Here it is. This M. Armand is a great criminal, and has, of course, various followers, upon whom he must rely for the performance of certain details, since he can be in but one place at a time. Abject and absolute obedience is necessary to his success, and he compels obedience in the only way in which it can be compelled among criminals—by fear. For disobedience, there is but one punishment —death. And the manner of the death is so certain and so mysterious as to be almost supernatural. For deserters and traitors are found to have died, inevitably and invariably, from the effects of an insignificant wound on the right hand, just above the knuckles." I was listening intently now, as you may well believe, for I began to see whither the romance was tending. "It is by this secret," Godfrey continued, "that Armand preserves his absolute supremacy. But occasionally the temptation is too great, and one of his men deserts. Armand sends this cabinet to America. He knows that in this case the temptation is very great indeed; he fears treachery, and he arranges in the cabinet a mechanism which will inflict death upon the traitor in precisely the same way in which he himself inflicts it—by means of a poisoned stab in the right hand. Imagine the effect upon his gang. He is nowhere near when the act of treachery is performed, and yet the traitor dies instantly and surely! Why, it was a tremendous idea! And it was carried out with absolute genius." "But," I questioned, "what act of treachery was it that Armand feared?" "The opening of the secret drawer." "Then you still believe in the poisoned mechanism?" "I certainly do. The tragedy of this afternoon proves the truth of the theory." "I don't see it," I said, helplessly. "Why, Lester," protested Godfrey, "it's as plain as day. Who was that bearded giant who was killed? The traitor, of course. We will find that he was a member of Armand's gang. He followed Armand to America, lay in wait for him, caught him in the net and bound him hand and foot. Do you suppose for an instant that Armand was ignorant of his presence in that house? Do you suppose he would have been able to take Armand prisoner if Armand had not been willing that he should?" "I don't see how Armand could help himself after that fellow got his hands on him." "You don't? And yet you saw yourself that he was not really bound —that he had cut himself loose!" "That is true," I said, thoughtfully. "Let us reconstruct the story," Godfrey went on rapidly. "The traitor discovers the secret of the cabinet; he follows Armand to New York, shadows him to the house on Seventh Avenue, waits for him there, and seizes and binds him. He is half mad with triumph—he chants a crazy sing-song about revenge, revenge, revenge! And, in order that the triumph may be complete, he does not kill his prisoner at once. He rolls him into a corner and proceeds to rip away the burlap. His triumph will be to open the secret drawer before Armand's eyes. And Armand lies there in the corner, his eyes gleaming, because it is really the moment of his triumph which is at hand!" "The moment of his triumph?" I repeated. "What do you mean by that, Godfrey?" "I mean that, the instant the traitor opened the drawer, he would be stabbed by the poisoned mechanism! It was for that that Armand waited!" I lay back in my chair with a gasp of amazement and admiration. I had been blind not to see it! Armand had merely to lie still and permit the traitor to walk into the trap prepared for him. No wonder his eyes had glowed as he lay there watching that frenzied figure at the cabinet! "It was not until the last moment," Godfrey went on, "when the traitor was bending above the cabinet feeling for the spring, that I realised what was about to happen. There was no time for hesitation —I sprang into the room. Armand vanished in an instant, and the giant also tried to escape; but I caught him at the door. I had no idea of his danger; I had no thought that Armand would dare linger. And yet he did. Now that it is too late, I understand. He had to kill that man; there were no two ways about it. Whatever the risk, he had to kill him." "But why?" I asked. "Why?" "To seal his lips. If we had captured him, do you suppose Armand's secret would have been safe for an instant? So he had to kill him—he had to kill him with the poisoned barb—and he did kill him, and got away into the bargain! Never in my life have I felt so like a fool as when that door was slammed in my face!" "Perhaps he had that prepared, too," I suggested timidly, ready to believe anything of this extraordinary man. "Perhaps he knew that we were there, all the time." "Of course he did," assented Godfrey grimly. "Why else would there be a snap-lock on the outside of the door? And to think I didn't see it! To think that I was fool enough to suppose that I could follow him about the streets of New York without his knowing it! He knew from the first that he might be followed, and prepared for it!" "But it's incredible!" I protested feebly. "It's incredible!" "Nothing is incredible in connection with that man!" "But the risk—think of the risk he ran!" "What does he care for risks? He despises them—and rightly. He got away, didn't he?" "Yes," I said, "he got away; there's no question of that, I guess." "Well, that is the story of this afternoon's tragedy, as I understand it," proceeded Godfrey, more calmly. "And now I'm going to leave you. I want you to think it over. If it doesn't hold together, show me where it doesn't. But it will hold together—it has to—because it's true!" "But how about Armand?" I protested. "Aren't you going to try to capture him? Are you going to let him get away?" "He won't get away!" and Godfrey's eyes were gleaming again. "We don't have to search for him; for we've got our trap, Lester, and it's baited with a bait he can't resist—the Boule cabinet!" "But he knows it's a trap." "Of course he knows it!" "And you really think he will walk into it?" I asked incredulously. "I know he will! One of these days, he will try to get that cabinet out of the steel cell at the Twenty-third Street station, in which we have it locked!" I shook my head. "He's no such fool," I said. "No man is such a fool as that. He'll give it up and go quietly back to Paris." "Not if he's the man I think he is," said Godfrey, his hand on the door. "He will never give up! Just wait, Lester; we shall know in a day or two which of us is a true prophet. The only thing I am afraid of," he added, his face clouding, "is that he'll get away with the cabinet, in spite of us!" And he went away down the hall, leaving me staring after him. <h2 id="id01815" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXII</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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