# The False Faces (Vance)/Chapter 22
### XXII CHICANE

COLONEL STANISTREFT, put down the last of the papers and slapped his hand upon it resoundingly.
"This is one of the most remarkable collections of data, I venture to assert, that has ever come into the hands of the British Government. Have you any idea of its value?"
Lanyard lifted a whimsical eyebrow. "Some," he admitted drily.
"And what do you ask for it, sir?"
"Nothing."
The gaze of the Englishman bored into his eyes; but he met their challenge with an unshaken countenance, smiling.
"My dear sir," Stanistreet demanded—"who are you?"
"The name under which I sailed for New York on board the Assyrian," Lanyard announced quietly, "was André Duchemin."
Disturbed by a startled exclamation, together with a sound of shuffling and a slight thump, he looked round in mild curiosity to see Blensop staggered and astare, standing over a litter of documents which had slipped from his grasp to the floor. Mastering his emotion quickly enough, the secretary knelt with a mumbled apology and began to pick up the papers.
​With no more notice of the incident Lanyard returned undivided attention to Colonel Stanistreet.
"I had another name," he confessed, "and a reputation none too savoury, as, I daresay, you know. Through the courtesy of the British Intelligence Office I was permitted to disguise these; but on the Assyrian I was recognized—in short, ran afoul of German Secret Service agents who knew me, but whom I did not know. On the sixth night out circumstances conspired to make me seem a serious obstacle to their schemes. Consequently I was waylaid, robbed, and thrown overboard. Within the next few minutes a torpedo struck the ship and the submarine which fired it came up under me as I struggled to keep afloat. By passing myself off as a Boche spy, I succeeded in inducing the commander to take me below, and so reached the Martha's Vineyard base. There chance played into my hands: I contrived to sink the U-boat and escape, as reported in my telegram."
During a brief silence he found opportunity to observe that Mr. Blensop was working with hands that trembled singularly.
"Incredible!" Stanistreet commented.
"Yet here is proof," Lanyard asserted, indicating the papers beneath Stanistreet's hand.
"My dear sir, I didn't mean——"
"Pardon!" Lanyard smiled, with a lifted hand. "I never thought you did, Colonel Stanistreet. But it is your duty to make sure you are not imposed upon by plausible adventurers. Therefore—since my papers have been stolen—I am glad to be able to prove my identity with André Duchemin by referring to survivors ​of the Assyrian disaster, among others Mr. Sherry, the second officer, Mr. Crane of the United States Secret Service, and a countrywoman of yours, a Miss Cecelia Brooke, whose acquaintance I was fortunate enough to make."
Stanistreet nodded heavily, and consulted his watch. "Miss Brooke," he said, "should be here shortly. Blensop made an appointment with her last night, which I confirmed by telephone this morning."
"Then, with permission, I shall remain and ask her to vouch for me," Lanyard suggested in resignation, since it appeared he was not to be permitted to escape this girl, that destiny was not yet finished with their entanglement.
"I shall be glad if you will, sir. … Monsieur Duchemin," Stanistreet began, but hesitated—"or do you prefer another style?"
"I am content with Duchemin."
"That is a matter for your own discretion, but I should warn you it may already have acquired an evil odour on this side. To my knowledge it has been used within the last twenty-four hours, and the pretensions of its wearer supported by your stolen credentials."
"I am not surprised," Lanyard stated reflectively. "A chap with a beard, perhaps?"
"Why, yes. …"
"Anderson," the adventurer nodded: "that, at least, was his alias when he jockeyed himself into the second steward's berth aboard the Assyrian."
He glanced idly across the room, discovered Blensop once more at pause in a stare, and grinned amiably.
​"He came here last night," Stanistreet volunteered deliberately—"representing himself as André Duchemin—to sell me a certain paper, the same which subsequently, I am convinced, he returned to steal."
"And did," Lanyard added.
"And did," the Briton conceded. "Now you have told me who he is, I promise you every effort shall be made to apprehend him and prevent further misuse of the name you have assumed."
"It has," Lanyard said tersely.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I say every effort has been made—and successfully—to accomplish the ends you mention."
"What's that you say?" Blensop demanded shrilly, crossing to the desk.
"My secretary," Stanistreet explained, "was present at the interview, and is naturally interested."
"And very good of him, I'm sure," Lanyard agreed. "I was about to explain, Mr. Blensop, that Ekstrom, alias Anderson, was killed in the course of a raid on the Prussian spy headquarters in Seventy-ninth Street this morning."
"Amazing!" Blensop gasped. "I am glad to hear it," he added, and went slowly back to his task.
"I may as well tell you, sir," Lanyard pursued, "I have every reason to believe the document sold you last night was one of those stolen from me."
Stanistreet wagged a contentious head.
"I cannot conceive how it could have come into your possession, sir."
​"Simply enough. Miss Brooke requested me to take care of it for her."
The eyes of the Englishman grew stony. "Miss Brooke!" he repeated testily. "I don't understand."
"It was a document—I do not seek to know its nature from you, sir—of vital importance in this present crisis, with the United States newly entered into the war."
Stanistreet affirmed with an inclination of his head.
"I may tell you this much, Monsieur Duchemin: if it had not reached this country safely. … What am I saying? If it be not recovered without delay, the chances of America's early and efficient participation in the war will suffer a tremendous setback … Blensop, be good enough to call up the American Secret Service at once and ask whether the document in question was found on the body of this—ah—Ekstrom."
"Pardon," Lanyard interposed as Blensop hesitantly approached the telephone. "It would be a waste of time. I happen to know, because I was there, that no such document was found on Ekstrom's body."
"The devil!" Stanistreet grumbled. "What can have become of it? This business grows only the blacker the deeper one seeks to fathom it. I must own myself completely at a loss. How it came into the hands of Miss Brooke——"
"I can explain that, I think. The document was in the care of two gentlemen, Mr. Bartholomew and Lieutenant Thackeray. The former was murdered by the Huns in search of it, Lieutenant Thackeray murderously assaulted. But for Miss Brooke's intervention the assassins must have succeeded. As it was, the young ​woman herself found it and, one presumes, took charge of it because her fiancé was incapacitated, and possibly with the notion that she might thereby prevent further mischief of the same nature."
"Her fiancé?" Stanistreet echoed blankly.
"Lieutenant Thackeray——"
"Her brother, sir!" the Briton laughed. "Thackeray was his nom de service."
It was Lanyard's turn to stare. "Ah!" he murmured. "A light begins to dawn. …"
"Upon me as well," Stanistreet confessed. "Miss Brooke and her brother are orphans and, before the war, were inseparable companions. I do not doubt that, learning he had been commissioned with an uncommonly perilous errand, she booked passage by the Assyrian without his consent, in order to be near him in event of danger."
"This explains much," Lanyard conceded—"much that perplexed more than one can say."
"But in no way advances us on the trail of the purloined document."
"I am afraid, sir," Lanyard lied deliberately, "you may as well abandon all hope of ever seeing it again. Ekstrom made away with it: no question about that. There was time enough and to spare between his exploit here and his death for him to deliver it to safe hands. It is doubtless decoded by this time, a copy of it already well on the way to the Wilhelmstrasse."
"I am afraid," Stanistreet echoed—"I am very much afraid you are right."
​His thick, spatulate fingers of an executive drummed heavily upon the desk.
Stone's figure darkened the windows.
"Colonel Stanistreet?" he called diffidently.
"Yes, Mr. Stone?"
"There's something here I'd like to consult you about, sir, if you can spare a minute."
"Certainly." The Englishman rose. "If you will excuse me, Monsieur Duchemin. …" Half way to the windows he hesitated. "By the bye, Blensop, I wish you'd call up Apthorp and ask after Howson's condition."
"Very good, sir," Blensop intoned cheerfully.
"And do it without delay, please. I don't like to think of the poor fellow suffering."
"Immediately, sir."
As his employer passed out into the garden with Stone, the secretary discontinued his checking and came over to the desk, drawing up a chair and sitting down to telephone. At the same time Lanyard got up and began to pace thoughtfully to and fro.
"Howson is the wounded night watchman, I take it, Mr. Blensop?"
"Yes—an excellent fellow. … Schuyler nine, three hundred," Blensop cooed into the transmitter.
Conceivably that ostensible discomfiture whose symptoms Lanyard had remarked had been a transitory humour. Mr. Blensop was now in what seemed the most equable and blithe of tempers. His very posture at the telephone eloquently betokened as much: he had thrown himself into the chair with picturesque nonchalance, sitting with body half turned from the desk, his ​right hand holding the receiver to his ear, his left thrust carelessly into his trouser pocket, thus dragging back the lapel of that impeccable morning-coat and exposing the bright cap of his gold-mounted fountain pen.
Something in that implement seemed to possess for Lanyard overpowering fascination. His gaze yearned for it, returned again and again to it.
He changed his course to stroll up and down behind Blensop, between him and the safe.
"I understood Colonel Stanistreet to say the watchman was not seriously injured, I believe," he observed, with interest.
"Shot through the shoulder, that is all. … Schuyler nine, three hundred? Dr. Apthorp, please. This is Mr. Blensop speaking, secretary to Colonel Stanistreet. … Are you there, Dr. Apthorp?"
With professional dexterity Lanyard en passant dropped a hand over the young man's shoulder and lightly lifted the pen from its place in the pocket of Blensop's waistcoat; the even tempo of his step unbroken, he tossed it toward the safe, where it fell without sound upon a heavy Persian rug.
"Yes—about Howson," the musical accents continued, "Colonel Stanistreet is most solicitous. …"
Swiftly Lanyard moved toward the safe, glanced through the French windows to assure himself that Stanistreet and Stone were safely preoccupied, whipped out the envelope he had prepared, and thrust it into a file of papers which did not crowd its pigeonhole; accomplishing the complete manœuvre with such adroitness ​that, like the business of the pen, it passed utterly without the knowledge of the secretary.
"Thank you so much. Good morning, Dr. Apthorp."
Lanyard was passing the desk when Blensop rose, and the footman was entering with his salver.
"A lady to see Colonel Stanistreet, sir—by appointment, she says."
Blensop glanced at the card. At the same time Stanistreet came in from the garden, leaving Stone to potter about visibly in the distance.
"Miss Brooke is here, sir," the secretary announced.
"Ask her to come in, please."
The footman retired.
"Howson is resting easily, Dr. Apthorp reports," Blensop added, going back to the safe. "Has Stone turned up anything of interest, sir?"
"Footprints," Stanistreet replied with a snort of moderate impatience. "He's quite upset since I've informed him the man who made them is——"
"Good God!"
The interruption was Blensop's in a voice strangely out of tune. Stanistreet wheeled sharply upon him.
"What the deuce——!" he snapped.
By every indication the secretary had suffered the most severe shock of his experience. His face was ghastly, his eyes vacant; his knees shook beneath him; one hand pressed convulsively the bosom of his waistcoat. His endeavours to reply evoked only a husky, rattling sound.
"What the devil has come over you?" Stanistreet insisted.
​The rattle became articulate: "I've lost it! It's gone!"
"What have you lost?"
"N-nothing, sir. That is—I mean to say—my fountain pen."
"The way you take it, I should say you'd lost your head," Stanistreet commented. "You must have dropped the thing somewhere. Look about, see if you can't find it."
Thus admonished, the secretary began to search the floor with frantic glances, and as the footman ushered in Cecelia Brooke, Lanyard saw the young man dart forward and retrieve the pen with a start of relief wellnigh as unmanning as the shock of loss had seemed.
With that Lanyard's interest in the fellow waned; he was too poor a thing to consider seriously; while here was one who compelled anew, as ever when they met, the homage of sincere and marvelling admiration.
Yet another of those miracles of feminine adaptability and makeshift had brought the girl to this meeting in the guise of one who had never known a broken night or an hour's care, with a look of such fresh tranquility that it seemed hardly possible she could be one and the same with that wilted little woman whom Lanyard had left in the gray dawn at the entrance to the Hotel Knickerbocker. A tailored suit, necessarily borrowed plumage, became her so completely that it was difficult to believe it not her own. Her eyes were calm and sweet with candour; her colour was a clear and artless glow; the hand she offered the Briton was tremorless.
"Colonel Stanistreet?"
​"I am he, Miss Brooke. It is kind of you to call so early to relieve my mind about your brother. I have known Lionel so long. …"
"He is resting easily," said the girl. "His complete recovery is merely a matter of time and nursing."
"That is good news," said Stanistreet. "Monsieur Duchemin I believe you know."
"I have been fortunate in that at least."
Gravely Lanyard saluted the hand extended to him in turn. "Mademoiselle is most gracious," he said humbly.
"Then—I understand—Monsieur Duchemin must have told you——?" The girl addressed Stanistreet.
"Permit me to leave you——" Lanyard interposed.
"No," she begged—"please not! I've nothing to say that you may not hear. You have been too much involved——"
"If mademoiselle insists," Lanyard demurred. "I feel it is not right I should stay. And yet—if you will indulge me—I should like very much to demonstrate the truth of an old saw. …"
Two confused looks were his response.
"I fear I, for one, do not follow," Stanistreet admitted.
"I will explain quite briefly," Lanyard promised. "The adage I have in mind is as old as human wit: Set a thief to catch a thief. And the last time it was quoted in my hearing, it was not to my advantage. I recall, indeed, resenting it enormously."
He paused with purpose, looking down at the desk. A pad of blank paper caught his eye. He took it up and examined it with an abstracted manner.
​"Well, monsieur: the application of your adage?"
"Colonel Stanistreet, what would you think if I were to tell you the combination of your safe?"
"I should be inclined to suspect that you were the devil," Stanistreet chuckled.
"By all accounts a gentleman of intelligence: one is flattered. … Very well: I proceed to demonstrate black art with the aid of this white paper pad. The combination, monsieur, is as follows: nine, twenty-seven, eighteen, thirty-six."
A low cry of bewilderment greeted this announcement. Blensop had drawn near and was eyeing Lanyard as if under the influence of hypnotism.
"How—how do you know that?" he asked in a broken voice.
"Clairvoyance, Mr. Blensop. I seem to see, as I hold this pad, somebody writing upon it the combination for the information of another who had no right to have it—somebody using a pencil with a hard lead, Mr. Blensop; which was very foolish of him, since it made a distinct impression on the under sheet. So you see my magic is rather colourless, after all. … Now, a wiser man, Mr. Blensop, would have used a pen, a fountain pen by preference, with a soft gold nib, well broken. That would leave no impression. If you will lend me the beautiful pen I observe in your pocket, I will give a further demonstration."
The eyes of the secretary shifted wildly. He hesitated, moistening dry lips with the tip of a nervous tongue.
"And don't try to get out of it, Mr. Blensop, because I ​am armed and don't mean to let you escape. Besides, that good Mr. Stone patrols the garden." Lanyard's tone changed to one of command. "That pen, monsieur!"
Blensop's hand faltered to his waistcoat pocket, hesitated, withdrew, and feebly extended the pen.
"I think you are the devil," he stammered in an under-tone—"the devil himself!"
Deftly unscrewing the pen-point, Lanyard inverted the barrel above the desk.
The cylinder of paper dropped out.
"And now, Colonel Stanistreet, if you will call Mr. Stone and have this traitor removed. …"