<h2><SPAN name="The_Siamese_Twin_of_a_Bomb-Thrower" id="The_Siamese_Twin_of_a_Bomb-Thrower"></SPAN>2. <i>The Siamese Twin of a Bomb-Thrower</i></h2>
<p>The events previously related in 'The Mystery of the Five Hundred
Diamonds' led to my dismissal by the French Government. It was not
because I had arrested an innocent man; I had done that dozens of
times before, with nothing said about it. It was not because I had
followed a wrong clue, or because I had failed to solve the mystery of
the five hundred diamonds. Every detective follows a wrong clue now
and then, and every detective fails more often than he cares to admit.
No. All these things would not have shaken my position, but the
newspapers were so fortunate as to find something humorous in the
case, and for weeks Paris rang with laughter over my exploits and my
defeat. The fact that the chief French detective had placed the most
celebrated English detective into prison, and that each of them were
busily sleuth-hounding a bogus clue, deliberately flung across their
path by an amateur, roused all France to great hilarity. The
Government was furious. The Englishman was released and I was
dismissed. Since the year 1893 I have been a resident of London.</p>
<p>When a man is, as one might say, the guest of a country, it does not
become him to criticise that country. I have studied this strange
people with interest, and often with astonishment, and if I now set
down some of the differences between the English and the French, I
trust that no note of criticism of the former will appear, even when
my sympathies are entirely with the latter. These differences have
sunk deeply into my mind, because, during the first years of my stay
in London my lack of understanding them was often a cause of my own
failure when I thought I had success in hand. Many a time did I come
to the verge of starvation in Soho, through not appreciating the
peculiar trend of mind which causes an Englishman to do inexplicable
things—that is, of course, from my Gallic standpoint.</p>
<p>For instance, an arrested man is presumed to be innocent until he is
proved guilty. In England, if a murderer is caught red-handed over his
victim, he is held guiltless until the judge sentences him. In France
we make no such foolish assumption, and although I admit that innocent
men have sometimes been punished, my experience enables me to state
very emphatically that this happens not nearly so<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></SPAN></span> often as the public
imagines. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred an innocent man can at
once prove his innocence without the least difficulty. I hold it is
his duty towards the State to run the very slight risk of unjust
imprisonment in order that obstacles may not be thrown in the way of
the conviction of real criminals. But it is impossible to persuade an
Englishman of this. <i>Mon Dieu!</i> I have tried it often enough.</p>
<p>Never shall I forget the bitterness of my disappointment when I
captured Felini, the Italian anarchist, in connection with the
Greenwich Park murder. At this time—it gives me no shame to confess
it—I was myself living in Soho, in a state of extreme poverty. Having
been employed so long by the French Government, I had formed the
absurd idea that the future depended on my getting, not exactly a
similar connection with Scotland Yard, but at least a subordinate
position on the police force which would enable me to prove my
capabilities, and lead to promotion. I had no knowledge, at that time,
of the immense income which awaited me entirely outside the Government
circle. Whether it is contempt for the foreigner, as has often been
stated, or that native stolidity which spells complacency, the British
official of any class rarely thinks it worth his while to discover the
real cause of things in France, or Germany, or Russia, but plods
heavily on from one mistake to another. Take, for example, those
periodical outbursts of hatred against England which appear in the
Continental Press. They create a dangerous international situation,
and more than once have brought Britain to the verge of a serious war.
Britain sternly spends millions in defence and preparation, whereas,
if she would place in my hand half a million pounds I would guarantee
to cause Britannia to be proclaimed an angel with white wings in every
European country.</p>
<p>When I attempted to arrive at some connection with Scotland Yard, I
was invariably asked for my credentials. When I proclaimed that I had
been chief detective to the Republic of France, I could see that this
announcement made a serious impression, but when I added that the
Government of France had dismissed me without credentials,
recommendation, or pension, official sympathy with officialism at once
turned the tables against me. And here I may be pardoned for pointing
out another portentous dissimilarity between the two lands which I
think is not at all to the credit of my countrymen.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>I was summarily dismissed. You may say it was because I failed, and it
is true that in the case of the Queen's necklace I had undoubtedly
failed, but, on the other hand, I had followed unerringly the clue
which lay in my path, and although the conclusion was not in
accordance with the facts, it was in accordance with logic. No, I was
not dismissed because I failed. I had failed on various occasions
before, as might happen to any man in any profession. I was dismissed
because I made France for the moment the laughing-stock of Europe and
America. France dismissed me because France had been laughed at. No
Frenchman can endure the turning of a joke against him, but the
Englishman does not appear to care in the least. So far as failure is
concerned, never had any man failed so egregiously as I did with
Felini, a slippery criminal who possessed all the bravery of a
Frenchman and all the subtlety of an Italian. Three times he was in my
hands—twice in Paris, once in Marseilles—and each time he escaped
me; yet I was not dismissed.</p>
<p>When I say that Signor Felini was as brave as a Frenchman, perhaps I
do him a little more than justice. He was desperately afraid of one
man, and that man was myself. Our last interview in France he is not
likely to forget, and although he eluded me, he took good care to get
into England as fast as train and boat could carry him, and never
again, while I was at the head of the French detective force, did he
set foot on French soil. He was an educated villain, a graduate of the
University of Turin, who spoke Spanish, French, and English as well as
his own language, and this education made him all the more dangerous
when he turned his talents to crime.</p>
<p>Now, I knew Felini's handiwork, either in murder or in housebreaking,
as well as I know my own signature on a piece of white paper, and as
soon as I saw the body of the murdered man in Greenwich Park I was
certain Felini was the murderer. The English authorities at that time
looked upon me with a tolerant, good-natured contempt.</p>
<p>Inspector Standish assumed the manner of a man placing at my disposal
plenty of rope with which I might entangle myself. He appeared to
think me excitable, and used soothing expressions as if I were a
fractious child to be calmed, rather than a sane equal to be reasoned
with. On many occasions I had the facts at my finger ends, while he
remained in a state of most complacent ignorance, and though this
attitude of lowering himself to deal gently with one<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></SPAN></span> whom he
evidently looked upon as an irresponsible lunatic was most
exasperating, I nevertheless claim great credit for having kept my
temper with him. However, it turned out to be impossible for me to
overcome his insular prejudice. He always supposed me to be a
frivolous, volatile person, and so I was unable to prove myself of any
value to him in his arduous duties.</p>
<p>The Felini instance was my last endeavour to win his favour. Inspector
Standish appeared in his most amiable mood when I was admitted to his
presence, and this in spite of the fact that all London was ringing
with the Greenwich Park tragedy, while the police possessed not the
faintest idea regarding the crime or its perpetrator. I judged from
Inspector Standish's benevolent smile that I was somewhat excited when
I spoke to him, and perhaps used many gestures which seemed
superfluous to a large man whom I should describe as immovable, and
who spoke slowly, with no motion of the hand, as if his utterances
were the condensed wisdom of the ages.</p>
<p>'Inspector Standish,' I cried, 'is it within your power to arrest a
man on suspicion?'</p>
<p>'Of course it is,' he replied; 'but we must harbour the suspicion
before we make the arrest.'</p>
<p>'Have confidence in me,' I exclaimed. 'The man who committed the
Greenwich Park murder is an Italian named Felini.'</p>
<p>I gave the address of the exact room in which he was to be found, with
cautions regarding the elusive nature of this individual. I said that
he had been three times in my custody, and those three times he had
slipped through my fingers. I have since thought that Inspector
Standish did not credit a word I had spoken.</p>
<p>'What is your proof against this Italian?' asked the Inspector slowly.</p>
<p>'The proof is on the body of the murdered man, but, nevertheless, if
you suddenly confront Felini with me without giving him any hint of
whom he is going to meet, you shall have the evidence from his own
lips before he recovers from his surprise and fright.'</p>
<p>Something of my confidence must have impressed the official, for the
order of arrest was made. Now, during the absence of the constable
sent to bring in Felini, I explained to the inspector fully the
details of my plan. Practically he did not listen to me, for his head
was bent over a writing-pad on which I thought he was taking down my
remarks, but when I had finished he went on writing as before, so I
saw I had flattered myself unnecessarily. More than two hours passed<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></SPAN></span>
before the constable returned, bringing with him the trembling
Italian. I swung round in front of him, and cried, in a menacing
voice:—</p>
<p>'Felini! Regard me! You know Valmont too well to trifle with him! What
have you to say of the murder in Greenwich Park?'</p>
<p>I give you my word that the Italian collapsed, and would have fallen
to the floor in a heap had not the constables upheld him with hands
under each arm. His face became of a pasty whiteness, and he began to
stammer his confession, when this incredible thing happened, which
could not be believed in France. Inspector Standish held up his
finger.</p>
<p>'One moment,' he cautioned solemnly, 'remember that whatever you say
will be used against you!'</p>
<p>The quick, beady black eyes of the Italian shot from Standish to me,
and from me to Standish. In an instant his alert mind grasped the
situation. Metaphorically I had been waved aside. I was not there in
any official capacity, and he saw in a moment with what an opaque
intellect he had to deal. The Italian closed his mouth like a steel
trap, and refused to utter a word. Shortly after he was liberated, as
there was no evidence against him. When at last complete proof was in
the tardy hands of the British authorities, the agile Felini was safe
in the Apennine mountains, and today is serving a life sentence in
Italy for the assassination of a senator whose name I have forgotten.</p>
<p>Is it any wonder that I threw up my hands in despair at finding myself
amongst such a people. But this was in the early days, and now that I
have greater experience of the English, many of my first opinions have
been modified.</p>
<p>I mention all this to explain why, in a private capacity, I often did
what no English official would dare to do. A people who will send a
policeman, without even a pistol to protect him, to arrest a desperate
criminal in the most dangerous quarter of London, cannot be
comprehended by any native of France, Italy, Spain, or Germany. When I
began to succeed as a private detective in London, and had accumulated
money enough for my project, I determined not to be hampered by this
unexplainable softness of the English toward an accused person. I
therefore reconstructed my flat, and placed in the centre of it a dark
room strong as any Bastille cell. It was twelve feet square, and
contained no furniture except a number of shelves, a lavatory in one
corner, and a pallet on the floor. It was ventilated by two flues<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></SPAN></span>
from the centre of the ceiling, in one of which operated an electric
fan, which, when the room was occupied, sent the foul air up that
flue, and drew down fresh air through the other. The entrance to this
cell opened out from my bedroom, and the most minute inspection would
have failed to reveal the door, which was of massive steel, and was
opened and shut by electric buttons that were partially concealed by
the head of my bed. Even if they had been discovered, they would have
revealed nothing, because the first turn of the button lit the
electric light at the head of my bed; the second turn put it out; and
this would happen as often as the button was turned to the right. But
turn it three times slowly to the left, and the steel door opened. Its
juncture was completely concealed by panelling. I have brought many a
scoundrel to reason within the impregnable walls of that small room.</p>
<p>Those who know the building regulations of London will wonder how it
was possible for me to delude the Government inspector during the
erection of this section of the Bastille in the midst of the modern
metropolis. It was the simplest thing in the world. Liberty of the
subject is the first great rule with the English people, and thus many
a criminal is allowed to escape. Here was I laying plans for the
contravening of this first great rule, and to do so I took advantage
of the second great rule of the English people, which is, that
property is sacred. I told the building authorities I was a rich man
with a great distrust of banks, and I wished to build in my flat a
safe or strong-room in which to deposit my valuables. I built then
such a room as may be found in every bank, and many private premises
of the City, and a tenant might have lived in my flat for a year and
never suspected the existence of this prison. A railway engine might
have screeched its whistle within it, and not a sound would have
penetrated the apartments that surrounded it unless the door were
open.</p>
<p>But besides M. Eugène Valmont, dressed in elegant attire as if he were
still a boulevardier of Paris, occupier of the top floor in the
Imperial Flats, there was another Frenchman in London to whom I must
introduce you, namely, Professor Paul Ducharme, who occupied a squalid
back room in the cheapest and most undesirable quarter of Soho.
Valmont flatters himself he is not yet middle-aged, but poor Ducharme
does not need his sparse gray beard to proclaim his advancing years.
Valmont vaunts an air of prosperity; Ducharme<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></SPAN></span> wears the shabby
habiliments and the shoulder-stoop of hopeless poverty. He shuffles
cringingly along the street, a compatriot not to be proud of. There
are so many Frenchmen anxious to give lessons in their language, that
merely a small living is to be picked up by any one of them. You will
never see the spruce Valmont walking alongside the dejected Ducharme.</p>
<p>'Ah!' you exclaim, 'Valmont in his prosperity has forgotten those less
fortunate of his nationality.'</p>
<p>Pardon, my friends, it is not so. Behold, I proclaim to you, the
exquisite Valmont and the threadbare Ducharme are one and the same
person. That is why they do not promenade together. And, indeed, it
requires no great histrionic art on my part to act the rôle of the
miserable Ducharme, for when I first came to London, I warded off
starvation in this wretched room, and my hand it was that nailed to
the door the painted sign 'Professor Paul Ducharme, Teacher of the
French Language'. I never gave up the room, even when I became
prosperous and moved to Imperial Flats, with its concealed chamber of
horrors unknown to British authority. I did not give up the Soho
chamber principally for this reason: Paul Ducharme, if the truth were
known about him, would have been regarded as a dangerous character;
yet this was a character sometimes necessary for me to assume. He was
a member of the very inner circle of the International, an anarchist
of the anarchists. This malign organisation has its real headquarters
in London, and we who were officials connected with the Secret Service
of the Continent have more than once cursed the complacency of the
British Government which allows such a nest of vipers to exist
practically unmolested. I confess that before I came to know the
English people as well as I do now, I thought that this complacency
was due to utter selfishness, because the anarchists never commit an
outrage in England. England is the one spot on the map of Europe where
an anarchist cannot be laid by the heels unless there is evidence
against him that will stand the test of open court. Anarchists take
advantage of this fact, and plots are hatched in London which are
executed in Paris, Berlin, Petersburg, or Madrid. I know now that this
leniency on the part of the British Government does not arise from
craft, but from their unexplainable devotion to their shibboleth—'The
liberty of the subject.' Time and again France has demanded the
extradition of an anarchist, always to be met with the question,<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></SPAN></span>—</p>
<p>'Where is your proof?'</p>
<p>I know many instances where our certainty was absolute, and also cases
where we possessed legal proof as well, but legal proof which, for one
reason or another, we dared not use in public; yet all this had no
effect on the British authorities. They would never give up even the
vilest criminal except on publicly attested legal evidence, and not
even then, if the crime were political.</p>
<p>During my term of office under the French Government, no part of my
duties caused me more anxiety than that which pertained to the
political secret societies. Of course, with a large portion of the
Secret Service fund at my disposal, I was able to buy expert
assistance, and even to get information from anarchists themselves.
This latter device, however, was always more or less unreliable. I
have never yet met an anarchist I could believe on oath, and when one
of them offered to sell exclusive information to the police, we rarely
knew whether he was merely trying to get a few francs to keep himself
from starving, or whether he was giving us false particulars which
would lead us into a trap. I have always regarded our dealings with
nihilists, anarchists, or other secret associations for the
perpetrating of murder as the most dangerous service a detective is
called upon to perform. Yet it is absolutely necessary that the
authorities should know what is going on in these secret conclaves.
There are three methods of getting this intelligence. First,
periodical raids upon the suspected, accompanied by confiscation and
search of all papers found. This method is much in favour with the
Russian police. I have always regarded it as largely futile; first,
because the anarchists are not such fools, speaking generally, as to
commit their purposes to writing; and, second, because it leads to
reprisal. Each raid is usually followed by a fresh outbreak of
activity on the part of those left free. The second method is to bribe
an anarchist to betray his comrades. I have never found any difficulty
in getting these gentry to accept money. They are eternally in need,
but I usually find the information they give in return to be either
unimportant or inaccurate. There remains, then, the third method,
which is to place a spy among them. The spy battalion is the forlorn
hope of the detective service. In one year I lost three men on
anarchist duty, among the victims being my most valuable helper, Henri
Brisson. Poor Brisson's fate was an example of how a man may follow a
perilous occupation for months with safety, and then by a slight
mistake bring disaster on himself.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></SPAN></span> At the last gathering Brisson
attended he received news of such immediate and fateful import that on
emerging from the cellar where the gathering was held, he made
directly for my residence instead of going to his own squalid room in
the Rue Falgarie. My concierge said that he arrived shortly after one
o'clock in the morning, and it would seem that at this hour he could
easily have made himself acquainted with the fact that he was
followed. Still, as there was on his track that human panther, Felini,
it is not strange poor Brisson failed to elude him.</p>
<p>Arriving at the tall building in which my flat was then situated,
Brisson rang the bell, and the concierge, as usual, in that strange
state of semi-somnolence which envelops concierges during the night,
pulled the looped wire at the head of his bed, and unbolted the door.
Brisson assuredly closed the huge door behind him, and yet the moment
before he did so, Felini must have slipped in unnoticed to the
stone-paved courtyard. If Brisson had not spoken and announced
himself, the concierge would have been wide awake in an instant. If he
had given a name unknown to the concierge, the same result would have
ensued. As it was he cried aloud 'Brisson,' whereupon the concierge of
the famous chief of the French detective staff, Valmont, muttered
'<i>Bon</i>! and was instantly asleep again.</p>
<p>Now Felini had known Brisson well, but it was under the name of
Revensky, and as an exiled Russian. Brisson had spent all his early
years in Russia, and spoke the language like a native. The moment
Brisson had uttered his true name he had pronounced his own death
warrant. Felini followed him up to the first landing—my rooms were on
the second floor—and there placed his sign manual on the unfortunate
man, which was the swift downward stroke of a long, narrow, sharp
poniard, entering the body below the shoulders, and piercing the
heart. The advantage presented by this terrible blow is that the
victim sinks instantly in a heap at the feet of his slayer, without
uttering a moan. The wound left is a scarcely perceptible blue mark
which rarely even bleeds. It was this mark I saw on the body of the
Maire of Marseilles, and afterwards on one other in Paris besides poor
Brisson. It was the mark found on the man in Greenwich Park; always
just below the left shoulder-blade, struck from behind. Felini's
comrades claim that there was this nobility in his action, namely, he
allowed the traitor to prove himself before he struck the blow. I
should be sorry to take away this poor shred of credit from<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></SPAN></span> Felini's
character, but the reason he followed Brisson into the courtyard was
to give himself time to escape. He knew perfectly the ways of the
concierge. He knew that the body would lie there until the morning, as
it actually did, and that this would give him hours in which to effect
his retreat. And this was the man whom British law warned not to
incriminate himself! What a people! What a people!</p>
<p>After Brisson's tragic death, I resolved to set no more valuable men
on the track of the anarchists, but to place upon myself the task in
my moments of relaxation. I became very much interested in the
underground workings of the International. I joined the organisation
under the name of Paul Ducharme, a professor of advanced opinions, who
because of them had been dismissed his situation in Nantes. As a
matter of fact there had been such a Paul Ducharme, who had been so
dismissed, but he had drowned himself in the Loire, at Orleans, as the
records show. I adopted the precaution of getting a photograph of this
foolish old man from the police at Nantes, and made myself up to
resemble him. It says much for my disguise that I was recognised as
the professor by a delegate from Nantes, at the annual Convention held
in Paris, which I attended, and although we conversed for some time
together he never suspected that I was not the professor, whose fate
was known to no one but the police of Orleans. I gained much credit
among my comrades because of this encounter, which, during its first
few moments, filled me with dismay, for the delegate from Nantes held
me up as an example of a man well off, who had deliberately sacrificed
his worldly position for the sake of principle. Shortly after this I
was chosen delegate to carry a message to our comrades in London, and
this delicate undertaking passed off without mishap.</p>
<p>It was perhaps natural then, that when I came to London after my
dismissal by the French Government, I should assume the name and
appearance of Paul Ducharme, and adopt the profession of French
teacher. This profession gave me great advantages. I could be absent
from my rooms for hours at a time without attracting the least
attention, because a teacher goes wherever there are pupils. If any of
my anarchist comrades saw me emerging shabbily from the grand Imperial
Flats where Valmont lived, he greeted me affably, thinking I was
coming from a pupil.</p>
<p>The sumptuous flat was therefore the office in which I received my<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></SPAN></span>
rich clients, while the squalid room in Soho was often the workshop in
which the tasks entrusted to me were brought to completion.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>I now come to very modern days indeed, when I spent much time with the
emissaries of the International.</p>
<p>It will be remembered that the King of England made a round of visits
to European capitals, the far-reaching results of which in the
interest of peace we perhaps do not yet fully understand and
appreciate. His visit to Paris was the beginning of the present
<i>entente cordiale</i>, and I betray no confidence when I say that this
brief official call at the French capital was the occasion of great
anxiety to the Government of my own country and also of that in which
I was domiciled. Anarchists are against all government, and would like
to see each one destroyed, not even excepting that of Great Britain.</p>
<p>My task in connection with the visit of King Edward to Paris was
entirely unofficial. A nobleman, for whom on a previous occasion I had
been so happy as to solve a little mystery which troubled him,
complimented me by calling at my flat about two weeks before the
King's entry into the French capital. I know I shall be pardoned if I
fail to mention this nobleman's name. I gathered that the intended
visit of the King met with his disapproval. He asked if I knew
anything, or could discover anything, of the purposes animating the
anarchist clubs of Paris, and their attitude towards the royal
function, which was now the chief topic in the newspapers. I replied
that within four days I would be able to submit to him a complete
report on the subject. He bowed coldly and withdrew. On the evening of
the fourth day I permitted myself the happiness of waiting upon his
lordship at his West End London mansion.</p>
<p>'I have the honour to report to your lordship,' I began, 'that the
anarchists of Paris are somewhat divided in their opinions regarding
His Majesty's forthcoming progress through that city. A minority,
contemptible in point of number, but important so far as the extremity
of their opinions are concerned, has been trying—'</p>
<p>'Excuse me,' interrupted the nobleman, with some severity of tone,
'are they going to attempt to injure the King or not?'</p>
<p>'They are not, your lordship,' I replied, with what, I trust, is my<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></SPAN></span>
usual urbanity of manner, despite his curt interpolation. 'His most
gracious Majesty will suffer no molestation, and their reason for
quiescence—'</p>
<p>'Their reasons do not interest me,' put in his lordship gruffly. 'You
are sure of what you say?'</p>
<p>'Perfectly sure, your lordship.'</p>
<p>'No precautions need be taken?'</p>
<p>'None in the least, your lordship.'</p>
<p>'Very well,' concluded the nobleman shortly, 'if you tell my secretary
in the next room as you go out how much I owe you, he will hand you a
cheque,' and with that I was dismissed.</p>
<p>I may say that, mixing as I do with the highest in two lands, and
meeting invariably such courtesy as I myself am always eager to
bestow, a feeling almost of resentment arose at this cavalier
treatment. However, I merely bowed somewhat ceremoniously in silence,
and availed myself of the opportunity in the next room to double my
bill, which was paid without demur.</p>
<p>Now, if this nobleman had but listened, he would have heard much that
might interest an ordinary man, although I must say that during my
three conversations with him his mind seemed closed to all outward
impressions save and except the grandeur of his line, which he traced
back unblemished into the northern part of my own country.</p>
<p>The King's visit had come as a surprise to the anarchists, and they
did not quite know what to do about it. The Paris Reds were rather in
favour of a demonstration, while London bade them, in God's name, to
hold their hands, for, as they pointed out, England is the only refuge
in which an anarchist is safe until some particular crime can be
imputed to him, and what is more, proven up to the hilt.</p>
<p>It will be remembered that the visit of the King to Paris passed off
without incident, as did the return visit of the President to London.
On the surface all was peace and goodwill, but under the surface
seethed plot and counterplot, and behind the scenes two great
governments were extremely anxious, and high officials in the Secret
Service spent sleepless nights. As no 'untoward incident' had
happened, the vigilance of the authorities on both sides of the
Channel relaxed at the very moment when, if they had known their
adversaries, it should have been redoubled. Always beware of the
anarchist when he has been good: look out for the reaction. It annoys
him to be<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></SPAN></span> compelled to remain quiet when there is a grand opportunity
for strutting across the world's stage, and when he misses the
psychological moment, he is apt to turn 'nasty', as the English say.</p>
<p>When it first became known that there was to be a Royal procession
through the streets of Paris, a few fanatical hot-heads, both in that
city and in London, wished to take action, but they were overruled by
the saner members of the organisation. It must not be supposed that
anarchists are a band of lunatics. There are able brains among them,
and these born leaders as naturally assume control in the underground
world of anarchy as would have been the case if they had devoted their
talents to affairs in ordinary life. They were men whose minds, at one
period, had taken the wrong turning. These people, although they
calmed the frenzy of the extremists, nevertheless regarded the
possible <i>rapprochement</i> between England and France with grave
apprehension. If France and England became as friendly as France and
Russia, might not the refuge which England had given to anarchy become
a thing of the past? I may say here that my own weight as an anarchist
while attending these meetings in disguise under the name of Paul
Ducharme was invariably thrown in to help the cause of moderation. My
rôle, of course, was not to talk too much; not to make myself
prominent, yet in such a gathering a man cannot remain wholly a
spectator. Care for my own safety led me to be as inconspicuous as
possible, for members of communities banded together against the laws
of the land in which they live, are extremely suspicious of one
another, and an inadvertent word may cause disaster to the person
speaking it.</p>
<p>Perhaps it was this conservatism on my part that caused my advice to
be sought after by the inner circle; what you might term the governing
body of the anarchists; for, strange as it may appear, this
organisation, sworn to put down all law and order, was itself most
rigidly governed, with a Russian prince elected as its chairman, a man
of striking ability, who, nevertheless, I believe, owed his election
more to the fact that he was a nobleman than to the recognition of his
intrinsic worth. And another point which interested me much was that
this prince ruled his obstreperous subjects after the fashion of
Russian despotism, rather than according to the liberal ideas of the
country in which he was domiciled. I have known him more than once
ruthlessly overturn the action of the majority, stamp his foot, smite
his huge fist on the table, and declare so and so should not be<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></SPAN></span> done,
no matter what the vote was. And the thing was not done, either.</p>
<p>At the more recent period of which I speak, the chairmanship of the
London anarchists was held by a weak, vacillating man, and the mob had
got somewhat out of hand. In the crisis that confronted us, I yearned
for the firm fist and dominant boot of the uncompromising Russian. I
spoke only once during this time, and assured my listeners that they
had nothing to fear from the coming friendship of the two nations. I
said the Englishman was so wedded to his grotesque ideas regarding the
liberty of the subject he so worshipped absolute legal evidence, that
we would never find our comrades disappear mysteriously from England
as had been the case in continental countries.</p>
<p>Although restless during the exchange of visits between King and
President, I believe I could have carried the English phalanx with me,
if the international courtesies had ended there. But after it was
announced that members of the British Parliament were to meet the
members of the French Legislature, the Paris circle became alarmed,
and when that conference did not end the <i>entente</i>, but merely paved
the way for a meeting of business men belonging to the two countries
in Paris, the French anarchists sent a delegate over to us, who made a
wild speech one night, waving continually the red flag. This aroused
all our own malcontents to a frenzy. The French speaker practically
charged the English contingent with cowardice; said that as they were
safe from molestation, they felt no sympathy for their comrades in
Paris, at any time liable to summary arrest and the torture of the
secret cross-examination. This Anglo-French love-feast must be wafted
to the heavens in a halo of dynamite. The Paris anarchists were
determined, and although they wished the co-operation of their London
brethren, yet if the speaker did not bring back with him assurance of
such co-operation, Paris would act on its own initiative.</p>
<p>The Russian despot would have made short work of this blood-blinded
rhetoric, but alas, he was absent, and an overwhelming vote in favour
of force was carried and accepted by the trembling chairman. My French
<i>confrère</i> took back with him to Paris the unanimous consent of the
English comrades to whom he had appealed. All that was asked of the
English contingent was that it should arrange for the escape and safe
keeping of the assassin who flung the bomb into the<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></SPAN></span> midst of the
English visitors, and after the oratorical madman had departed, I, to
my horror, was chosen to arrange for the safe transport and future
custody of the bomb-thrower. It is not etiquette in anarchist circles
for any member to decline whatever task is given him by the vote of
his comrades. He knows the alternative, which is suicide. If he
declines the task and still remains upon earth, the dilemma is solved
for him, as the Italian Felini solved it through the back of my
unfortunate helper Brisson. I therefore accepted the unwelcome office
in silence, and received from the treasurer the money necessary for
carrying out the same.</p>
<p>I realised for the first time since joining the anarchist association
years before that I was in genuine danger. A single false step, a
single inadvertent word, might close the career of Eugène Valmont, and
at the same moment terminate the existence of the quiet, inoffensive
Paul Ducharme, teacher of the French language. I knew perfectly well I
should be followed. The moment I received the money the French
delegate asked when they were to expect me in Paris. He wished to know
so that all the resources of their organisation might be placed at my
disposal. I replied calmly enough that I could not state definitely on
what day I should leave England. There was plenty of time, as the
business men's representatives from London would not reach Paris for
another two weeks. I was well known to the majority of the Paris
organisation, and would present myself before them on the first night
of my arrival. The Paris delegate exhibited all the energy of a new
recruit, and he seemed dissatisfied with my vagueness, but I went on
without heeding his displeasure. He was not personally known to me,
nor I to him, but if I may say so, Paul Ducharme was well thought of
by all the rest of those present.</p>
<p>I had learned a great lesson during the episode of the Queen's
Necklace, which resulted in my dismissal by the French Government. I
had learned that if you expect pursuit it is always well to leave a
clue for the pursuer to follow. Therefore I continued in a low
conversational tone:—</p>
<p>'I shall want the whole of tomorrow for myself: I must notify my
pupils of my absence. Even if my pupils leave me it will not so much
matter. I can probably get others. But what does matter is my
secretarial work with Monsieur Valmont of the Imperial Flats. I am
just finishing for him the translation of a volume from French into
English, and tomorrow I can complete the work, and get his permission
to<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></SPAN></span> leave for a fortnight. This man, who is a compatriot of my own,
has given me employment ever since I came to London. From him I have
received the bulk of my income, and if it had not been for his
patronage, I do not know what I should have done. I not only have no
desire to offend him, but I wish the secretarial work to continue when
I return to London.'</p>
<p>There was a murmur of approval at this. It was generally recognised
that a man's living should not be interfered with, if possible.
Anarchists are not poverty-stricken individuals, as most people think,
for many of them hold excellent situations, some occupying positions
of great trust, which is rarely betrayed.</p>
<p>It is recognised that a man's duty, not only to himself, but to the
organisation, is to make all the money he can, and thus not be liable
to fall back on the relief fund. This frank admission of my dependence
on Valmont made it all the more impossible that anyone there listening
should suspect that it was Valmont himself who was addressing the
conclave.</p>
<p>'You will then take the night train tomorrow for Paris?' persisted the
inquisitive French delegate.</p>
<p>'Yes, and no. I shall take the night train, and it shall be for Paris,
but not from Charing Cross, Victoria, or Waterloo. I shall travel on
the 8.30 Continental express from Liverpool Street to Harwich, cross
to the Hook of Holland, and from there make my way to Paris through
Holland and Belgium. I wish to investigate that route as a possible
path for our comrade to escape. After the blow is struck, Calais,
Boulogne, Dieppe, and Havre will be closely watched. I shall perhaps
bring him to London by way of Antwerp and the Hook.'</p>
<p>These amiable disclosures were so fully in keeping with Paul
Ducharme's reputation for candour and caution that I saw they made an
excellent impression on my audience, and here the chairman intervened,
putting an end to further cross-examination by saying they all had the
utmost confidence in the judgment of Monsieur Paul Ducharme, and the
Paris delegate might advise his friends to be on the lookout for the
London representative within the next three or four days.</p>
<p>I left the meeting and went directly to my room in Soho, without even
taking the trouble to observe whether I was watched or not. There I
stayed all night, and in the morning quitted Soho as Ducharme, with a
gray beard and bowed shoulders, walked west to the<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></SPAN></span> Imperial Flats,
took the lift to the top, and, seeing the corridor was clear, let
myself in to my own flat. I departed from my flat promptly at six
o'clock, again as Paul Ducharme, carrying this time a bundle done up
in brown paper under my arm, and proceeded directly to my room in
Soho. Later I took a bus, still carrying my brown paper parcel, and
reached Liverpool Street in ample time for the Continental train. By a
little private arrangement with the guard, I secured a compartment for
myself, although up to the moment the train left the station, I could
not be sure but that I might be compelled to take the trip to the Hook
of Holland after all. If any one had insisted on coming into my
compartment, I should have crossed the North Sea that night. I knew I
should be followed from Soho to the station, and that probably the spy
would go as far as Harwich, and see me on the boat. It was doubtful if
he would cross. I had chosen this route for the reason that we have no
organisation in Holland: the nearest circle is in Brussels, and if
there had been time, the Brussels circle would have been warned to
keep an eye on me. There was, however, no time for a letter, and
anarchists never use the telegraph, especially so far as the Continent
is concerned, unless in cases of the greatest emergency. If they
telegraphed my description to Brussels the chances were it would not
be an anarchist who watched my landing, but a member of the Belgian
police force.</p>
<p>The 8.30 Continental express does not stop between Liverpool Street
and Parkeston Quay, which it is timed to reach three minutes before
ten. This gave me an hour and a half in which to change my apparel.
The garments of the poor old professor I rolled up into a ball one by
one and flung out through the open window, far into the marsh past
which we were flying in a pitch dark night. Coat, trousers, and
waistcoat rested in separate swamps at least ten miles apart. Gray
whiskers and gray wig I tore into little pieces, and dropped the bits
out of the open window.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>I had taken the precaution to secure a compartment in the front of
the train, and when it came to rest at Parkeston Quay Station, the
crowd, eager for the steamer, rushed past me, and I stepped out into
the midst of it, a dapper, well-dressed young man, with black beard
and moustaches, my own closely cropped black hair covered by a new
bowler hat. Anyone looking for Paul Ducharme would have paid small
attention to me, and to any friend of Valmont's I was equally
unrecognisable.</p>
<p>I strolled in leisurely manner to the Great Eastern Hotel on the Quay,
and asked the clerk if a portmanteau addressed to Mr. John Wilkins had
arrived that day from London. He said 'Yes,' whereupon I secured a
room for the night, as the last train had already left for the
metropolis.</p>
<p>Next morning, Mr. John Wilkins, accompanied by a brand new and rather
expensive portmanteau, took the 8.57 train for Liverpool Street, where
he arrived at half-past ten, stepped into a cab, and drove to the
Savoy Restaurant, lunching there with the portmanteau deposited in the
cloak room. When John Wilkins had finished an excellent lunch in a
leisurely manner at the Café Parisien of the Savoy, and had paid his
bill, he did not go out into the Strand over the rubber-paved court by
which he had entered, but went through the hotel and down the stairs,
and so out into the thoroughfare facing the Embankment. Then turning
to his right he reached the Embankment entrance of the Hotel Cecil.
This leads into a long, dark corridor, at the end of which the lift
may be rung for. It does not come lower than the floor above unless
specially summoned. In this dark corridor, which was empty, John
Wilkins took off the black beard and moustache, hid it in the inside
pocket of his coat, and there went up into the lift a few moments
later to the office floor, I, Eugène Valmont, myself for the first
time in several days.</p>
<p>Even then I did not take a cab to my flat, but passed under the arched
Strand front of the 'Cecil' in a cab, bound for the residence of that
nobleman who had formerly engaged me to see after the safety of the
King.</p>
<p>You will say that this was all very elaborate precaution to take when
a man was not even sure he was followed. To tell you the truth, I do
not know to this day whether anyone watched me or not, nor do I care.
I live in the present: when once the past is done with, it ceases to
exist for me. It is quite possible, nay, entirely probable, that no
one tracked me farther than Liverpool Street Station the night before,
yet it was for lack of such precaution that my assistant Brisson
received the Italian's dagger under his shoulder blade fifteen years
before. The present moment is ever the critical time; the future is
merely for intelligent forethought. It was to prepare for the future
that I was now in a cab on the way to my lord's residence. It was not
the French anarchists I feared during the contest in which I was about
to become engaged, but the Paris police. I knew French officialdom too
well not<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></SPAN></span> to understand the futility of going to the authorities there
and proclaiming my object. If I ventured to approach the chief of
police with the information that I, in London, had discovered what it
was his business in Paris to know, my reception would be far from
cordial, even though, or rather because, I announced myself as Eugène
Valmont. The exploits of Eugène had become part of the legends of
Paris, and these legends were extremely distasteful to those men in
power. My doings have frequently been made the subject of feuilletons
in the columns of the Paris Press, and were, of course, exaggerated by
the imagination of the writers, yet, nevertheless, I admit I did some
good strokes of detection during my service with the French
Government. It is but natural, then, that the present authorities
should listen with some impatience when the name of Eugène Valmont is
mentioned. I recognise this as quite in the order of things to be
expected, and am honest enough to confess that in my own time I often
hearkened to narratives regarding the performances of Lecocq with a
doubting shrug of the shoulders.</p>
<p>Now, if the French police knew anything of this anarchist plot, which
was quite within the bounds of possibility, and if I were in
surreptitious communication with the anarchists, more especially with
the man who was to fling the bomb, there was every chance I might find
myself in the grip of French justice. I must, then, provide myself
with credentials to show that I was acting, not against the peace and
quiet of my country, but on the side of law and order. I therefore
wished to get from the nobleman a commission in writing, similar to
that command which he had placed upon me during the King's visit. This
commission I should lodge at my bank in Paris, to be a voucher for me
at the last extremity. I had no doubt his lordship would empower me to
act in this instance as I had acted on two former occasions.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Perhaps if I had not lunched so well I might have approached his
lordship with greater deference than was the case; but when ordering
lunch I permitted a bottle of Château du Tertre, 1878, a most
delicious claret, to be decanted carefully for my delectation at the
table, and this caused a genial glow to permeate throughout my system,
inducing a mental optimism which left me ready to salute the greatest<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></SPAN></span>
of earth on a plane of absolute equality. Besides, after all, I am the
citizen of a Republic.</p>
<p>The nobleman received me with frigid correctness, implying disapproval
of my unauthorised visit, rather than expressing it. Our interview was
extremely brief.</p>
<p>'I had the felicity of serving your lordship upon two occasions,' I
began.</p>
<p>'They are well within my recollection,' he interrupted, 'but I do not
remember sending for you a third time.'</p>
<p>'I have taken the liberty of coming unrequested, my lord, because of
the importance of the news I carry. I surmise that you are interested
in the promotion of friendship between France and England.'</p>
<p>'Your surmise, sir, is incorrect. I care not a button about it. My
only anxiety was for the safety of the King.'</p>
<p>Even the superb claret was not enough to fortify me against words so
harsh, and tones so discourteous, as those his lordship permitted
himself to use.</p>
<p>'Sir,' said I, dropping the title in my rising anger, 'it may interest
you to know that a number of your countrymen run the risk of being
blown to eternity by an anarchist bomb in less than two weeks from
today. A party of business men, true representatives of a class to
which the pre-eminence of your Empire is due, are about to proceed—'</p>
<p>'Pray spare me,' interpolated his lordship wearily, 'I have read that
sort of thing so often in the newspapers. If all these estimable City
men are blown up, the Empire would doubtless miss them, as you hint,
but I should not, and their fate does not interest me in the least,
although you did me the credit of believing that it would. Thompson,
you will show this person out? Sir, if I desire your presence here in
future I will send for you.'</p>
<p>'You may send for the devil!' I cried, now thoroughly enraged, the
wine getting the better of me.</p>
<p>'You express my meaning more tersely than I cared to do,' he replied
coldly, and that was the last I ever saw of him.</p>
<p>Entering the cab I now drove to my flat, indignant at the reception I
had met with. However, I knew the English people too well to malign
them for the action of one of their number, and resentment never
dwells long with me. Arriving at my rooms I looked through the<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></SPAN></span>
newspapers to learn all I could of the proposed business men's
excursion to Paris, and in reading the names of those most prominent
in carrying out the necessary arrangements, I came across that of W.
Raymond White, which caused me to sit back in my chair and wrinkle my
brow in an endeavour to stir my memory. Unless I was much mistaken, I
had been so happy as to oblige this gentleman some dozen or thirteen
years before. As I remembered him, he was a business man who engaged
in large transactions with France, dealing especially in Lyons and
that district. His address was given in the newspaper as Old Change,
so at once I resolved to see him. Although I could not recall the
details of our previous meeting, if, indeed, he should turn out to be
the same person, yet the mere sight of the name had produced a mental
pleasure, as a chance chord struck may bring a grateful harmony to the
mind. I determined to get my credentials from Mr. White if possible,
for his recommendation would in truth be much more valuable than that
of the gruff old nobleman to whom I had first applied, because, if I
got into trouble with the police of Paris, I was well enough
acquainted with the natural politeness of the authorities to know that
a letter from one of the city's guests would secure my instant
release.</p>
<p>I took a hansom to the head of that narrow thoroughfare known as Old
Change, and there dismissed my cab. I was so fortunate as to recognise
Mr. White coming out of his office. A moment later, and I should have
missed him.</p>
<p>'Mr. White,' I accosted him, 'I desire to enjoy both the pleasure and
the honour of introducing myself to you.'</p>
<p>'Monsieur,' replied Mr. White with a smile, 'the introduction is not
necessary, and the pleasure and honour are mine. Unless I am very much
mistaken, this is Monsieur Valmont of Paris?'</p>
<p>'Late of Paris,' I corrected.</p>
<p>'Are you no longer in Government service then?'</p>
<p>'For a little more than ten years I have been a resident of London.'</p>
<p>'What, and have never let me know? That is something the diplomatists
call an unfriendly act, monsieur. Now, shall we return to my office,
or go to a café?'</p>
<p>'To your office, if you please, Mr. White. I come on rather important
business.'</p>
<p>Entering his private office the merchant closed the door, offered me a
chair, and sat down himself by his desk. From the first he had<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></SPAN></span>
addressed me in French, which he spoke with an accent so pure that it
did my lonesome heart good to hear it.</p>
<p>'I called upon you half a dozen years ago,' he went on, 'when I was
over in Paris on a festive occasion, where I hoped to secure your
company, but I could not learn definitely whether you were still with
the Government or not.'</p>
<p>'It is the way of the French officialism,' I replied. 'If they knew my
whereabouts they would keep the knowledge to themselves.'</p>
<p>'Well, if you have been ten years in London, Monsieur Valmont, we may
now perhaps have the pleasure of claiming you as an Englishman; so I
beg you will accompany us on another festive occasion to Paris next
week. Perhaps you have seen that a number of us are going over there
to make the welkin ring.'</p>
<p>'Yes; I have read all about the business men's excursion to Paris, and
it is with reference to this journey that I wish to consult you,' and
here I gave Mr. White in detail the plot of the anarchists against the
growing cordiality of the two countries. The merchant listened quietly
without interruption until I had finished; then he said,—'I suppose
it will be rather useless to inform the police of Paris?'</p>
<p>'Indeed, Mr. White, it is the police of Paris I fear more than the
anarchists. They would resent information coming to them from the
outside, especially from an ex-official, the inference being that they
were not up to their own duties. Friction and delay would ensue until
the deed was inevitable. It is quite on the cards that the police of
Paris may have some inkling of the plot, and in that case, just before
the event, they are reasonably certain to arrest the wrong men. I
shall be moving about Paris, not as Eugène Valmont, but as Paul
Ducharme, the anarchist; therefore, there is some danger that as a
stranger and a suspect I may be laid by the heels at the critical
moment. If you would be so good as to furnish me with credentials
which I can deposit somewhere in Paris in case of need, I may thus be
able to convince the authorities that they have taken the wrong man.'</p>
<p>Mr. White, entirely unperturbed by the prospect of having a bomb thrown
at him within two weeks, calmly wrote several documents, then turned
his untroubled face to me, and said, in a very confidential, winning
tone:—'Monsieur Valmont, you have stated the case with that clear
comprehensiveness pertaining to a nation which understands the<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></SPAN></span>
meaning of words, and the correct adjustment of them; that felicity of
language which has given France the first place in the literature of
nations. Consequently, I think I see very clearly the delicacies of
the situation. We may expect hindrances, rather than help, from
officials on either side of the Channel. Secrecy is essential to
success. Have you spoken of this to anyone but me?'</p>
<p>'Only to Lord Blank,' I replied; 'and now I deeply regret having made
a confidant of him.'</p>
<p>'That does not in the least matter,' said Mr. White, with a smile;
'Lord Blank's mind is entirely occupied by his own greatness. Chemists
tell me that you cannot add a new ingredient to a saturated solution;
therefore your revelation will have made no impression upon his
lordship's intellect. He has already forgotten all about it. Am I
right in supposing that everything hinges on the man who is to throw
the bomb?'</p>
<p>'Quite right, sir. He may be venal, he may be traitorous, he may be a
coward, he may be revengeful, he may be a drunkard. Before I am in
conversation with him for ten minutes, I shall know what his weak spot
is. It is upon that spot I must act, and my action must be delayed
till the very last moment; for, if he disappears too long before the
event, his first, second, or third substitute will instantly step into
his place.'</p>
<p>'Precisely. So you cannot complete your plans until you have met this
man?'</p>
<p>'<i>Parfaitement.</i>'</p>
<p>'Then I propose,' continued Mr. White, 'that we take no one into our
confidence. In a case like this there is little use in going before a
committee. I can see that you do not need any advice, and my own part
shall be to remain in the background, content to support the most
competent man that could have been chosen to grapple with a very
difficult crisis.'</p>
<p>I bowed profoundly. There was a compliment in his glance as well as in
his words. Never before had I met so charming a man.</p>
<p>'Here,' he continued, handing me one of the papers he had written, 'is
a letter to whom it may concern, appointing you my agent for the next
three weeks, and holding myself responsible for all you see fit to do.
Here,' he went on, passing to me a second sheet, 'is a letter of
introduction to Monsieur Largent, the manager of my bank in Paris, a
man well known and highly respected in all circles, both official and<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></SPAN></span>
commercial. I suggest that you introduce yourself to him, and he will
hold himself in readiness to respond to any call you may make, night
or day. I assure you that his mere presence before the authorities
will at once remove any ordinary difficulty. And now,' he added,
taking in hand the third slip of paper, speaking with some hesitation,
and choosing his words with care, 'I come to a point which cannot be
ignored. Money is a magician's wand, which, like faith, will remove
mountains. It may also remove an anarchist hovering about the route of
a business man's procession.'</p>
<p>He now handed to me what I saw was a draft on Paris for a thousand
pounds.</p>
<p>'I assure you, monsieur,' I protested, covered with confusion, 'that
no thought of money was in my mind when I took the liberty of
presenting myself to you. I have already received more than I could
have expected in the generous confidence you were good enough to
repose in me, as exhibited by these credentials, and especially the
letter to your banker. Thanks to the generosity of your countrymen, Mr
White, of which you are a most notable example, I am in no need of
money.'</p>
<p>'Monsieur Valmont, I am delighted to hear that you have got on well
amongst us. This money is for two purposes. First, you will use what
you need. I know Paris very well, monsieur, and have never found gold
an embarrassment there. The second purpose is this: I suggest that
when you present the letter of introduction to Monsieur Largent, you
will casually place this amount to your account in his bank. He will
thus see that besides writing you a letter of introduction, I transfer
a certain amount of my own balance to your credit. That will do you no
harm with him, I assure you. And now, Monsieur Valmont, it only
remains for me to thank you for the opportunity you have given me, and
to assure you that I shall march from the Gare du Nord without a
tremor, knowing the outcome is in such capable custody.'</p>
<p>And then this estimable man shook hands with me in action the most
cordial. I walked away from Old Change as if I trod upon air; a
feeling vastly different from that with which I departed from the
residence of the old nobleman in the West End but a few hours before.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></SPAN></span></p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />