# The Under-World/Chapter 1

from the Pall Mall magazine, 1911 Oct, pp. 501–507.

### CHAPTER I.

LET'S go back to the time when Léontine and I entered John's house and I got pinched so that the others could make their get-away in the car, You heard my story at the Santé, but I never thought of your going around and talking to John and Edith. John came to see me, as I told you. He came again a couple of days after your visit and told me of how you had talked to them. Listening to him, I wondered why it had seemed to me like looking into a mirror when I first sighted him over the barrel of Léontine's gun. Perhaps it was the nervous strain of the moment that made the resemblance between us so strong, for seen in the daylight my half-brother was a big, good-natured looking chap and showed the signs of high living.
“Look here, Frank,” says he—I'd told him of our relationship the first time he came—we must get you out of this.
“You're mighty good,” I answered, “but there's nothing you can do. I'm old offender—a recidiviste, all catalogued and bertillioned. I've done my little trick in Cayenne, and this time it's au bat d'Afrique for me.”
“I'm not so sure,” says he. “I've got some other strong influence in Official and diplomatic circles. Suppose I manage it, will you give me your word to live strictly on the square?”
“A thief's word?” I asked.
“My brother's word,” says John; “that's good enough for me.”
Say, my friend, would you think me capable of tears? Me, a post-graduate American crook, and as hard as nails? I didn't shed them, but they were in my eyes and a lump in my throat, and I had to get up and walk to the grated window.
“Will you give it?” asked John.
“Yes,” I muttered.
“Your hand on it,” says he.
“A thief's hand?”
“My brother's hand.”
My right arm was in bandages, from a bullet, so I turned and held out the left.
“Here's the left,” said I. “That's all right, though, seein' that I'm your brother on the wrong side.”
“You're my brother on the right side from now on,” says he, and gave me a hearty grip and then turned to the door.
“Now I'll get busy,” says he, and went out without looking back.
Well, sir, how he managed it I don't know, but two weeks later I walked out with him a free man. His car was waiting at the door.
“Where now, John?” I asked.
“Home,” says he. “You are to stop with us, Frank, until we make up our minds what you'd better do. Edith expects you and we have sent to the hotel for your things.”
Now what do you think of that? Only three weeks before Léontine Petrovski and I had broken into this man's house—not knowing who he was, of course—to steal his wife's jewels. He had surprised us, like I told you, and to save Léontine I would have shot him dead only that his resemblance to me told me who he was. But I was masked, so he shot me through the arm, in spite of which I would have got away if I hadn't done a sacrifice play and tackled the agent to save the rest of the mob. But I'd left John senseless at the foot of his stairs, and the gash across his forehead wasn't yet healed. In spite of this, here was the man that I'd gone to rob going my bond, getting me out of a life sentence perhaps, and then, by gravy, insisting on my living at his house until I got a fresh start on the level!
But I balked dead.
“That don't go, John,” said I. “My nerve never failed me yet, but it ain't up to meeting your wife.”
“Then get it up,” says he, with his good-natured smile. “Edith is the one who's doing the whole thing.”
“What's that?” I cried.
“Yes, old chap. She's the one you've got to thank. You see, Frank, Edith has all the money. Our father died bankrupt, otherwise you would not have been a burglar. I could never make a dollar to save my life, though I hope to pretty soon; and that's something I want to talk to you about.”
But I shook my head. You see, I had thought all the time that John was a rich man in his own right; that he might have saved something from the wreck when the old man went broke and blew his brains out; then made good investments and pulled out well off. Looking at it that way, it was all right if he wanted to pay up a score for the father of us both. But to be an object of charity to a woman who owed me nothing but the good chance of losing her jewels—that wouldn't do.
John saw what was passing in my mind and laid his hand on my shoulder.
“Come, Frank,” says he, “you'll feel differently about it when you've met her. She's not a usual woman, old chap; she's a sort of angel on earth. You want to thank her, anyway, don't you? Come, jump in.”
So in I got, but as we moved off I said:
“What will your friends say when they know that your half-brother is—or was—a crook?”
“They will never know it,” he answered. “I've taken care of that. These people at the Santé think it was a family scandal; an effort to get possession of some family jewels that you laid claim to. The prefecture knows, but that bureau knows lots of things that would set Society by the ears if they ever got out. You are under bond and under observation to some extent, but what does that matter, since you've chucked the old game? I've got something in view for you now, but we'll discuss that later.”
Before many minutes the car drew up in front of the same big gate that I had scaled that night while Ivan and Chu-Chu and Jeff and the girls waited in the motor to see a demonstration of snappy American methods—and came so near getting pinched, doing it. We crossed the garden, and let me tell you, sir, my heart was beating a lot faster than it did the night I first laid eyes on that old, Renaissance house.
“Madame is in the studio,” said the maître d'hôtel as he opened the door. He gave me a quick, curious look, for at first glance the resemblance between John and myself is almost that of twins. I was dressed like a swell, for John had brought me down some of his own things, I having been in evening clothes when pinched the night of Léontine's supper party.
“Let's go out to the studio,” said John. “Edith is at work on her Salon picture.”
So out we went, and John rapped at the door of a pretty little vine-covered building, placed well clear of the big trees. From inside a clear voice called: “Entrez.”
My friend, I shall never forget that picture; not the one on the easel, but Edith as she turned to greet us. You know her, of course, and appreciate what a lovely creature she is, with her tall, queenly figure and wonderful great eyes. They are not woman's eyes; they are more the eyes of some splendid archangel guarding the gates of Paradise; clear and steadfast and deep as Heaven itself. She was in her paint-blouse, standing in front of a big canvas, a portrait, and posing in the middle of the studio was an uncommonly beautiful girl in evening dress and a great rope of gorgeous pearls.
Edith laid down her palette and brushes and came forward with a smile on her sweet mouth and a tinge of colour in her cheeks.
“Welcome, Frank,” she said, then glanced from me to her husband and laughed.
“You are like as two peas,” she said. I don't wonder that you got a dreadful start when you saw John.”
She gave me her hand and I took it in a sort of daze. Then I looked at the girl who was posing. Edith smiled.
Miss Dalghren is one of our family, Frank,” she said. “She was here that night and knows the whole story. You are with your own people, Frank, so you are not to feel uncomfortable. Do you know what a Bishop of London is said to have once remarked when he watched a man being led to the gallows? 'There, but for the grace of God, goes myself.' The grace of God has brought you to us, Frank, and all of the old dead past has got to bury its dead.” Her lovely, sensitive mouth curved in the sweetest little smile, which drew one corner lower than the other, and her big eyes grew dark and deep, suddenly, and seemed to look through mine to see what was behind them. “The interment is already going on, Frank—but I don't see any mourners. Now, you men must run out and let me make the most of my light. My picture is way behind.” She looked at John. “Show Frank his room,” she said, “and see that he has everything that he needs. You may come back for tea, at five, if you like.”
I got out of the studio like a man in a dream. John closed the door, then looked at me and laughed.
“How do you feel about it now, old chap?” he asked.
“I feel,” said I, in a shaky sort of voice, “a good deal as I imagine Jeanne d'Arc may have felt when the angel brought her the banner.” I spun around and stared at him. “What did you ever do to deserve a wife like that?”
John laughed. “Nothing,” says he, “and I don't deserve her.”
He led the way to the house and I followed, still rather dazed. You see, the reception I'd had was so different from what I expected. It was so cordial and natural, even while not ignoring the real state of affairs. There was none of the fuss I'd dreaded being made over the reformed criminal—especially when it was a case of reform or penal servitude; and on the other hand there was no silly pretence that I was just like the rest of their sort. The sentimental mush that is served out to the ex-thief by a certain class of people is almost enough to keep the self-respectin' crook from turning honest, unless he's hard up against it; but there was nothing of that sort here. Some folks seem to think that a criminal is an entirely different sort of human being, but my experience in the Under-World had been that there's a lot of honesty in most crooks, just the same as there's a lot of crookedness in many honest folk, and that the difference is principally in circumstance. But even then, you do find once in a great while what seems to be the unmixed bad, just as there is the unmixed good. This yarn is a story of both, and a few between.
John took me to his smoking-room and we sat down and each lit a cigarette. I noticed his furniture and pictures, and he seemed a bit surprised to find that I understood periods and art. He touched the bell and ordered whisky and soda. When it came I declined, never touching anything except a little wine with meals.
“You don't drink?” he asked, pouring himself out a pretty stiff one.
“Never hard stuff,” I answered. “That was too risky in my old trade.”
“It's always risky in any trade,” said he, “and still riskier when you haven't any trade at all.” And his face darkened a little. He set down his half-emptied glass and looked at me curiously.
“Now that you've met Edith,” said he, “don't you see what I meant when I said that she was not like most women?”
“Yes; I see.”
“And you don't feel the same way about taking help from her?”
“No,” said I; “I'd take help from her just as I'd take it from God.”
He raised his eyebrows a little.
“You believe in God?” he asked.
“Most people who carry their lives in their hands believe in God,” I answered. “But the trouble is, my kind don't feel as if they had any great reason for loving Him.”
John nodded, took another swallow, then gave me a quick, curious look.
“Did you notice the girl who was posing?” he asked.
“Yes. She is very beautiful.”
“She is a Miss Dalghren,” said John. “Her father was a promoter and made a big fortune in different schemes; mines principally. Then he took to stock gambling and lost it all and died bankrupt—just as our father did. All that she got after the smash were those pearls she was wearing, a magnificent string that she had from her mother. She gives music lessons here in Paris.”
“Singing?”
“Yes, and the piano. She plays the harp very well, also.”
We talked for a while and then John took me to see his library. I noticed that he helped himself to another drink before leaving the room. There was nothing in this, of course, but his manner of doing it was queer; quick and furtive, as if he wanted to gulp it down before anybody came in. We spent the rest of the hour looking at his old volumes, and he was surprised to see that I knew books, too. Then, says John:
“Come on, Frank. It's five. We can go back to the studio now.”
Edith had finished her painting and was sitting on the divan talking with Miss Dalghren. The old maître d'hôtel brought in the tea things and a decanter of whisky. Miss Dalghren poured the tea.
“How do you like it?” she asked me.
“Perhaps Frank would rather have whisky,” said Edith.
“No,” I answered, “I prefer the tea.”
She handed me a cup and I stirred it slowly. Then I felt Edith's eyes on me and looked up. She gave her crooked little smile.
“Really, Frank,” she said, “you and John are as like as you can be.”
“On the outside, perhaps,” I answered.
Her deep grey eyes looked into mine as if she was trying to see all that was inside. Usually, when a person goes prospectin' in my thoughts this way I pull the dead-light over my “lanterns of the soul.” But there was something here that went through the shutter like radium. Perhaps it was because everybody else had always looked me in the eyes huntin' for something bad, while Edith seemed to be looking not for, but at, something that was good. It must have been that for her sweet mouth seemed to soften and she smiled again.
“You are all right inside,” she said, “Welcome, Frank,” she said, quietly. “Your education has been wrong, that's all.”
“I was educated for a thief,” I answered, in the same tone; “and so far as the education went I was always considered a credit to it.”
Perhaps it wasn't a nice thing to say, but for some reason I wanted to justify myself. I wanted her to know how I came to belong to the Under-World. Perhaps she understood and wished me to understand that no explanation was necessary, for she said:
“Whatever you set yourself to do you will do strongly, Frank, and without fear. Weakness will never be your fault. How old are you, Frank?”
“Thirty-two,” I told her.
“Six years younger than John,” she said, “but you look to be the same age.”
“Nobody ever discovered the fountain of youth at Cayenne,” said I; “a year there is worth five anywhere else.”
Miss Dalghren had not said a word, but I had felt her watching me closely. She was a beautiful girl, of the big, Diana sort, with a rather square face and blazing, blue eyes; the sort of woman that looks as if she was meant to be the mother of good fighting men.
“What made you enter this house?” she said.
I told them the story of how Jeff had taken me to Léontine's swell supper party—leaving out names and places, of course—and how I had offered to rob John's house more to show off than anything else, and as a demonstration of American methods for Chu-Chu le Tondeur and Ivan, the head of the mob. When I told them how Léontine had insisted on coming with me for the sheer excitement of the thing, although not a professional thief herself, Miss Dalghren's blue eyes sparkled.
“I can understand that,” she said. “Is she very beautiful, this woman?”
“Yes,” I answered; “she's a big, gorgeous sort of tigress.”
“She rather fancied you, eh?” said John.
“Such women have fierce, sudden fancies,” I answered. “No doubt hers may have rested on me for the hour. I never saw her until that night. It was her gun that I had when you fired. I never carry a loaded gun myself when doing a piece of work.”
“Why not?” asked Miss Dalghren.
“It's not sportsmanlike. Besides, I wouldn't take the life of people defending their property. I always felt that if I failed to pull off the job by skill I'd take the consequences. That makes the game all the more interesting.”
“Then you burgled less for the goods than for the game?”
“I was out for both,” I answered. “Mind you, I don't pose for a kid-glove burglar. Once or twice when I've been interrupted I've bluffed out the householder by the roughest sort of treatment. But I must say the game has always appealed to me as much as the loot. I might be compared to a big-game hunter: I liked the stalk and I liked the bag. Most men have got a plundering instinct—and some women, too. Soldiers loot when they get the chance.”
“From an enemy,” said Miss Dalghren.
“Society and I were enemies,” I answered. “Society declared war on me when I was a helpless little kiddy. I felt, when I grew up, that it owed me a lot. So I sailed in to collect.”
Edith looked at me with a little smile.
“But the war is over now, Frank?” she asked.
“Yes,” said I. “The war is over and peace is signed, and you may be sure that I shall never break it. You and your husband have paid Society's war debt to me in full and we are square. From now on I live within the law.”
“Bravo!” said John. His hand went out to the decanter in a careless sort of way, but I noticed again that worried, furtive look in his eyes. Edith saw it, too, though she pretended not to, and a shadow rested on her lovely face. It passed quickly, but it struck me suddenly that here, perhaps, was the explanation for the note of sadness that showed in all of her work.
We were to go to the Opera that night and at dinner Edith wore her magnificent pearl necklace, the one that Ivan had told me about. They were uncommon pearls, but it struck me that Miss Dalghren's were even finer. The girl noticed my eyes resting on them and asked, with a smile:
“Aren't they beauties?”
“Superb,” I answered. “I doubt if I ever saw finer ones.”
“Do they arouse your cupidity?”
“Not one bit,” I answered. “No more than a stag in a man's park would arouse the cupidity of a sportsman.”
“I suppose,” said John, in his easy voice, “that even when in active business there is a good deal of honour amongst thieves?”
“A good deal,” I answered, “but you can't always bank on it; any more than you can on honour amongst politicians or high financiers. Still, there's a certain amount. There is a man in this city who arranges for the theft of such jewels as these. He supplies the cracksman with the necessary information and details one of his mob to do the job. Very often the chief is not dead sure himself as to what other jewels there may be, nor what are real and what imitations. Yet when the burglar has made his haul he takes the lot straight to headquarters, where they are assayed in the laboratory and then turned over to a third party to dispose of. There's little doubt but that these transactions are practically always carried on strictly on the level. Moreover, there's a sinking fund for protecting members of the gang that get nabbed and tiding over others that are in a run of bad luck. Paris is a great town for organised crime.”
John nodded and beckoned to the maître d'hôtel to fill his champagne glass, and again I saw that faint shadow cross Edith's face.
When we reached the Opera the house was already filled. Edith and Miss Dalghren sat in the front of the box, of course, John behind his wife and I behind the girl, and you may believe it or not, but those two magnificent pearl necklaces within the reach of my hand never gave me so much as a quiver. Tristan was being sung and my eyes and ears were all for the stage, for I love music.
About the middle of the first act there was a stir in the box beside us, and Edith half-turned and brushed my sleeve with her fan.
“Prince Kharkoff,” she whispered, “and his beautiful Polish Princess.”
I swung about in my seat and looked straight into the wonderful, amber eyes of Léontine.