Maximilian The Master Thief Read online

  Maximilian The Master Thief

  Rishi Harrison

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2018

  It was a strange ending to a voyage that had commenced in a most auspicious manner. The transatlantic cruise liner `La Providence’ was a swift and comfortable vessel, under the command of a most affable man. The passengers constituted a select and delightful society. The charm of new acquaintances and improvised amusements served to make the time pass agreeably. We enjoyed the pleasant sensation of being separated from the world, living, as it were, upon an unknown island, and consequently obliged to be sociable with each other.

  Have you ever stopped to consider how much originality and spontaneity emanate from these various individuals who, on the preceding evening, did not even know each other, and who are now, for several days, condemned to lead a life of extreme intimacy, jointly defying the anger of the ocean, the terrible onslaught of the waves, the violence of the tempest and the agonizing monotony of the calm and sleepy water? Such a life becomes a sort of tragic existence, with its storms and its grandeurs, its monotony and its diversity; and that is why, perhaps, we embark upon that short voyage with mingled feelings of pleasure and fear.

  But, during the past few years, a new sensation had been added to the life of the transatlantic traveller. The little floating island is now attached to the world from which it was once quite free. A bond united them, even in the very heart of the watery wastes of the Atlantic. That bond is the wireless telegraph, by means of which we receive news in the most mysterious manner. We know full well that the message is not transported by the medium of a hollow wire. No, the mystery is even more inexplicable, more romantic, and we must have recourse to the wings of the air in order to explain this new miracle. During the first day of the voyage, we felt that we were being followed, escorted, and preceded even, by that distant voice, which, from time to time, whispered to one of us a few words from the receding world. Two friends spoke to me. Ten, twenty others sent gay or sombre words of parting to other passengers.

  On the second day, at a distance of five hundred miles from the French coast, in the midst of a violent storm, we received the following message by means of the wireless telegraph:

  “Maximilian Buchanan’s on your vessel, first cabin, blonde hair, wound right fore-arm, traveling alone under name of R........”

  At that moment, a terrible flash of lightning rent the stormy skies. The electric waves were interrupted. The remainder of the dispatch never reached us. Of the name under Maximilian Buchanan was concealing himself, we knew only the initial.

  If the news had been of some other character, I have no doubt that the secret would have been carefully guarded by the telegraphic operator as well as by the officers of the vessel. But it was one of those events calculated to escape from the most rigorous discretion. The same day, no one knew how, the incident became a matter of current gossip and every passenger was aware that the famous Maximilian Buchanan was hiding in our midst.

  Maximilian Buchanan in our midst! the irresponsible burglar whose exploits had been narrated in all the newspapers during the past few months! the mysterious individual with whom Simenon, our shrewdest detective, had been engaged in an implacable conflict amidst interesting and picturesque surroundings. Maximilian Buchanan, the eccentric gentleman who operates only in the chateaux and salons, and who, one night, entered the residence of Baron Schormann, but emerged empty-handed, leaving, however, his card on which he had scribbled these words: “Maximilian Buchanan, gentleman- burglar, will return when the furniture is genuine.” Maximilian Buchanan, the man of a thousand disguises: in turn a chauffer, detective, bookmaker, Russian physician, Spanish bull-fighter, commercial traveller, robust youth, or decrepit old man.

  Then consider this startling situation: Maximilian Buchanan was wandering about within the limited bounds of a transatlantic steamer; in that very small corner of the world, in that dining saloon, in that smoking room, in that music room! Maximilian Buchanan was, perhaps, this gentleman....or that one....my neighbour at the table.... the sharer of my stateroom....

  “And this condition of affairs will last for five days!” exclaimed Miss Kelly Devon, next morning. “It is unbearable! I hope he will be arrested.”

  Then, addressing me, she added:

  “And you, Monsieur d’Angelo, you are on intimate terms with the captain; surely you know something?”

  I should have been delighted had I possessed any information that would interest Miss Kelly. She was one of those magnificent creatures who inevitably attract attention in every assembly. Wealth and beauty form an irresistible combination, and Kelly possessed both.

  Educated in Paris under the care of a French mother, she was now going to visit her father, the millionaire Devon of Chicago. She was accompanied by one of her friends, Lady Ireland.

  At first, I had decided to open a flirtation with her; but, in the rapidly growing intimacy of the voyage, I was soon impressed by her charming manner and my feelings became too deep and reverential for a mere flirtation. Moreover, she accepted my attentions with a certain degree of favour. She condescended to laugh at my witticisms and display an interest in my stories. Yet I felt that I had a rival in the person of a young man with quiet and refined tastes; and it struck me, at times, that she preferred his taciturn humour to my Parisian frivolity. He formed one in the circle of admirers that surrounded Miss Kelly at the time she addressed to me the foregoing question. We were all comfortably seated in out deck-chairs. The storm of the preceding evening had cleared the sky. The weather was now delightful.

  “I have no definite knowledge, mademoiselle,” I replied, “but can not we, ourselves, investigate the mystery quite as well as the detective Simenon, the personal enemy of Maximilian Buchanan?”

  “Oh! oh! you are progressing very fast, monsieur.”

  “Not at all, mademoiselle. In the first place, let me ask, do you find the problem a complicated one?”

  “Very complicated.”

  “Have you forgotten the key we hold for the solution to the problem?”

  “What key?”

  “In the first place, Buchanan calls himself Monsieur R-------.”

  “Rather vague information,” she replied.

  “Secondly, he is traveling alone.”

  “Does that help you?” she asked.

  “Thirdly, he is blonde.”

  “Well?”

  “Then we have only to peruse the passenger-list, and proceed by process of elimination.”

  I had that list in my pocket. I took it out and glanced through it. Then I remarked:

  “I find that there are only thirteen men on the passenger-list whose names begin with the letter R.”

  “Only thirteen?”

  “Yes, in the first cabin. And of those thirteen, I find that nine of them are accompanied by women, children or servants. That leaves only four who are traveling alone. First, the Marquis de Bullion----”

  “Secretary to the American Ambassador,” interrupted Miss Kelly. “I know him.”

  “Major Rawton,” I continued.

  “He is my uncle,” some one said.

  “Mon. Rivolta.”

  “Here!” exclaimed an Italian, whose face was concealed beneath a heavy black beard.

  Miss Kelly burst into laughter, and exclaimed: “That gentleman can scarcely be called a blonde.”

  “Very well, then,” I said, “we are forced to the conclusion that the guilty party is the last one on the list.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Mon. Rosa. Does anyone know him?”

  No one answered. But Miss Kelly turned to the taciturn young man, whose attentions to her had annoyed me, and said:


  “Well, Monsieur Rosa, why do you not answer?”

  All eyes were now turned upon him. He was a blonde. I must confess that I myself felt a shock of surprise, and the profound silence that followed her question indicated that the others present also viewed the situation with a feeling of sudden alarm. However, the idea was an absurd one, because the gentleman in question presented an air of the most perfect innocence.

  “Why do I not answer?” he said. “Because, considering my name, my position as a solitary traveller and the colour of my hair, I have already reached the same conclusion, and now think that I should be arrested.”

  He presented a strange appearance as he uttered these words. His thin lips were drawn closer than usual and his face was ghastly pale, whilst his eyes were streaked with blood. Of course, he was joking, yet his appearance and attitude impressed us strangely.

  “But you have not the wound?” said Miss Kelly, naively.

  “That is true,” he replied, “I lack the wound.”

  Then he pulled up his sleeve, removing his cuff, and showed us his arm. But that action did not deceive me. He had shown us his left arm, and I was on the point of calling his attention to the fact, when another incident diverted our attention. Lady Ireland, Miss Kelly’s friend, came running towards us in a state of great excitement, exclaiming:

  “My jewels, my pearls! Some one has stolen them all!”

  No, they were not all gone, as we soon found out. The thief had taken only part of them; a very curious thing. Of the diamond sunbursts, jeweled pendants, bracelets and necklaces, the thief had taken, not the largest but the finest and most valuable stones. The mountings were lying upon the table. I saw them there, despoiled of their jewels, like flowers from which the beautiful coloured petals had been ruthlessly plucked. And this theft must have been committed at the time Lady Ireland was taking her tea; in broad daylight, in stateroom opening on a much frequented corridor; moreover, the thief had been obliged to force open the door of the stateroom, search for the jewel-case, which was hidden at the bottom of a hat-box, open it, select his booty and remove it from the mountings.

  Of course, all the passengers instantly reached the same conclusion; it was the work of Maximilian Buchanan.

  That day, at the dinner table, the seats to the right and left of Rosa remained vacant; and, during the evening, it was ,rumoured that the captain had placed him under arrest, which information produced a feeling of safety and relief. We breathed once more. That evening, we resumed our games and dances. Miss Kelly, especially, displayed a spirit of thoughtless gayety which convinced me that if Rosa’s attentions had been agreeable to her in the beginning, she had already forgotten them. Her charm and good-humour completed my conquest. At midnight, under a bright moon, I declared my devotion with an ardor that did not seem to displease her.

  But, next day, to our general amazement, Rosa was at liberty. We learned that the evidence against him was not sufficient. He had produced documents that were perfectly regular, which showed that he was the son of a wealthy merchant of Biarritz. Besides, his arms did not bear the slightest trace of a wound.

  “Documents! Certificates of birth!” exclaimed the enemies of Rosa, “of course, Maximilian Buchanan will furnish you as many as you desire. And as to the wound, he never had it, or he has removed it.”

  Then it was proven that, at the time of the theft, Rosa was promenading on the deck. To which fact, his enemies replied that a man like Maximilian Buchanan could commit a crime without being actually present. And then, apart from all other circumstances, there remained one point which even the most skeptical could not answer: Who except Rosa, was traveling alone, was a blonde, and bore a name beginning with R? To whom did the telegram point, if it were not Rosa?

  And when Rosa, a few minutes before breakfast, came boldly toward our group, Miss Kelly and Lady Ireland arose and walked away.

  An hour later, a manuscript circular was passed from hand to hand amongst the sailors, the stewards, and the passengers of all classes. It announced that Mon. Louis Rosa offered a reward of ten thousand francs for the discovery of Maximilian Buchanan or other person in possession of the stolen jewels.

  “And if no one assists me, I will unmask the scoundrel myself," declared Rosa.

  Rosa against Maximilian Buchanan, or rather, according to current opinion, Maximilian Buchanan himself against Maximilian Buchanan; the contest promised to be interesting.

  Nothing developed during the next two days. We saw Rosa wandering about, day and night, searching, questioning, investigating. The captain, also, displayed commendable activity. He caused the vessel to be searched from stern to stern; ransacked every stateroom under the plausible theory that the jewels might be concealed anywhere, except in the thief’s own room.

  “I suppose they will find out something soon,” remarked Miss Kelly to me. “He may be a wizard, but he cannot make diamonds and pearls become invisible.”

  “Certainly not,” I replied, “but he should examine the lining of our hats and vests and everything we carry with us.”

  Then, exhibiting my Kodak, a 9x12 with which I had been photographing her in various poses, I added: “In an apparatus no larger than that, a person could hide all of Lady Ireland’s jewels. He could pretend to take pictures and no one would suspect the game.”

  “But I have heard it said that every thief leaves some clue behind him.”

  “That may be generally true,” I replied, “but there is one exception: Maximilian Buchanan.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he concentrates his thoughts not only on the theft, but on all the circumstances connected with it that could serve as a clue to his identity.”

  “A few days ago, you were more confident.”

  “Yes, but since I have seen him at work.”

  “And what do you think about it now?” she asked.

  “Well, in my opinion, we are wasting our time.”

  And, as a matter of fact, the investigation had produced no result. But, in the meantime, the captain’s watch had been stolen. He was furious. He quickened his efforts and watched Rosa more closely than before. But, on the following day, the watch was found in the second officer’s collar box.

  This incident caused considerable astonishment, and displayed the humorous side of Maximilian Buchanan, burglar though he was, but dilettante as well. He combined business with pleasure. He reminded us of the author who almost died in a fit of laughter provoked by his own play. Certainly, he was an artist in his particular line of work, and whenever I saw Rosa, gloomy and reserved, and thought of the double role that he was playing, I accorded him a certain measure of admiration.

  On the following evening, the officer on deck duty heard groans emanating from the darkest corner of the ship. He approached and found a man lying there, his head enveloped in a thick grey scarf and his hands tied together with a heavy cord. It was Rosa. He had been assaulted, thrown down and robbed. A card, pinned to his coat, bore these words: “Maximilian Buchanan accepts with pleasure the ten thousand francs offered by Mon. Rosa.” As a matter of fact, the stolen pocket-book contained twenty thousand francs.

  Of course, some accused the unfortunate man of having simulated this attack on himself. But, apart from the fact that he could not have bound himself in that manner, it was established that the writing on the card was entirely different from that of Rosa, but, on the contrary, resembled the handwriting of Maximilian Buchanan as it was reproduced in an old newspaper found on board.

  Thus it appeared that Rosa was not Maximilian Buchanan; but was Rosa, the son of a Biarritz merchant. And the presence of Maximilian Buchanan was once more affirmed, and that in a most alarming manner.

  Such was the state of terror amongst the passengers that none would remain alone in a stateroom or wander singly in unfrequented parts of the vessel. We clung together as a matter of safety. And yet the most intimate acquaintances were estranged by a mutual feeling of distrust. Maximilian Buchanan was, now, anybody and e
verybody. Our excited imaginations attributed to him miraculous and unlimited power. We supposed him capable of assuming the most unexpected disguises; of being, by turns, the highly respectable Major Rawton or the noble Marquis de Bullion, or even--for we no longer stopped with the accusing letter of R--or even such or such a person well known to all of us, and having wife, children and servants.

  The first wireless dispatches from America brought no news; at least, the captain did not communicate any to us. The silence was not reassuring.

  Our last day on the steamer seemed interminable. We lived in constant fear of some disaster. This time, it would not be a simple theft or a comparatively harmless assault; it would be a crime, a murder. No one imagined that Maximilian Buchanan would confine himself to those two trifling offenses. Absolute master of the ship, the authorities powerless, he could do whatever he pleased; our property and lives were at his mercy.

  Yet those were delightful hours for me, since they secured to me the confidence of Miss Kelly. Deeply moved by those startling events and being of a highly nervous nature, she spontaneously sought at my side a protection and security that I was pleased to give her. Inwardly, I blessed Maximilian Buchanan. Had he not been the means of bringing me and Miss Kelly closer to each other? Thanks to him, I could now indulge in delicious dreams of love and happiness--dreams that, I felt, were not unwelcome to Miss Kelly. Her smiling eyes authorized me to make them; the softness of her voice bade me hope.

  As we approached the American shore, the active search for the thief was apparently abandoned, and we were anxiously awaiting the supreme moment in which the mysterious enigma would be explained. Who was Maximilian Buchanan? Under what name, under what disguise was the famous Maximilian Buchanan concealing himself? And, at last, that supreme moment arrived. If I live one hundred years, I shall not forget the slightest details of it.

  “How pale you are, Miss Kelly,” I said to my companion, as she leaned upon my arm, almost fainting.

  “And you!” she replied, “ah! you are so changed.”

  “Just think! this is a most exciting moment, and I am delighted to spend it with you, Miss Kelly. I hope that your memory will sometimes revert---”