Burton Egbert Stevenson
The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet
A Detective Story
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4057664631114
Table of Contents
ILLUSTRATIONS
CHAPTER I
I A CONNOISSEUR'S VAGARY II THE FIRST TRAGEDY III THE WOUNDED HAND IV THE THUNDERBOLT V GRADY TAKES A HAND VI THE WOMAN IN THE CASE VII ROGERS GETS A SHOCK VIII PRECAUTIONS IX GUESSES AT THE RIDDLE X PREPARATIONS XI THE BURNING EYES XII GODFREY IS FRIGHTENED XIII A DISTINGUISHED CALLER XIV THE VEILED LADY XV THE SECRET OF THE UNKNOWN FRENCHMAN XVI PHILIP VANTINE'S CALLER XVII ENTER M. ARMAND XVIII I PART WITH THE BOULE CABINET XIX "LA MORT!" XX THE ESCAPE XXI GODFREY WEAVES A ROMANCE XXII "CROCHARD, L'INVINCIBLE!" XXIII WE MEET M. PIGOT XXIV THE SECRET OF THE CABINET XXV THE MICHAELOVITCH DIAMONDS XXVI THE FATE OF M. PIGOT XXVII THE LAST ACT OF THE DRAMA XXVIII CROCHARD WRITES AN EPILOGUE
ILLUSTRATIONS
CLUTCHING AT HIS THROAT, HE HALF-TURNED AND FELL
"I GRABBED HER AGAIN, AND JUST THEN MR. VANTINE OPENED THE DOOR AND CAME OUT INTO THE HALL."
"A MOMENT LATER M. FÉLIX ARMAND WAS SHOWN IN"
WITH HIS BACK TO THE DOOR, STOOD A MAN RIPPING SAVAGELY AWAY THE STRIPS OF BURLAP
CHAPTER I
A CONNOISSEUR'S VAGARY
"Hello!" I said, as I took down the receiver of my desk 'phone, in answer to the call.
"Mr. Vantine wishes to speak to you, sir," said the office-boy.
"All right," and I heard the snap of the connection.
"Is that you, Lester?" asked Philip Vantine's voice.
"Yes. So you're back again?"
"Got in yesterday. Can you come up to the house and lunch with me to-day?"
"I'll be glad to," I said, and meant it, for I liked Philip Vantine.
"I'll look for you, then, about one-thirty."
And that is how it happened that, an hour later, I was walking over toward Washington Square, just above which, on the Avenue, the old Vantine mansion stood. It was almost the last survival of the old régime; for the tide of business had long since overflowed from the neighbouring streets into the Avenue and swept its fashionable folk far uptown. Tall office and loft buildings had replaced the brownstone houses; only here and there did some old family hold on, like a sullen and desperate rear-guard defying the advancing enemy.
Philip Vantine was one of these. He had been born in the house where he still lived, and declared that he would die there. He had no one but himself to please in the matter, since he was unmarried and lived alone, and he mitigated the increasing roar and dust of the neighbourhood by long absences abroad. It was from one of these that he had just returned.
I may as well complete this pencil-sketch. Vantine was about fifty years of age, the possessor of a comfortable fortune, something of a connoisseur in art matters, a collector of old furniture, a little eccentric—though now that I have written the word, I find that I must qualify it, for his only eccentricity was that he persisted, in spite of many temptations, in remaining a bachelor. Marriageable women had long since ceased to consider him; mothers with maturing daughters dismissed him with a significant shake of the head. It was from them that he got the reputation of being an eccentric. But his reasons for remaining single in no way concerned his lawyers—a position which our firm had held for many years, and the active work of which had come gradually into my hands.