THE THREE
If you walk from London Bridge along Tooley Street, through
Rotherhithe, you come to Lower Deptford. Passing through this, you
reach Deptford proper, and leading off from the left you will find
a long straight road which crosses the Ravensbourne, and connects
Greenwich--the one quaint corner of London which steadfastly refuses to
be entirely modernized--with its more busy neighbour.
The connecting road once accommodated the well-to-do middle class of
Deptford, in the days when Deptford was a prosperous port, and when
swarthy seafaring men with gold earrings recalled the brave days when
the Great Peter himself worked in the shipyard and lived in a piggish
fashion at Evelyn House.
The houses are narrow-fronted and of a set pattern. There are
overhanging wooden canopies to each of the doors; in some one finds
traces of oak panelling, but usually the present-day tenants have
utilized such of the wood as they can detach for the purpose of
lighting their fires. For what was once Deptford’s glory is now
Deptford’s slum. The great houses ring with the shrill voices of
innumerable children. Floor after floor is let out in tenements, and
in some cases a dozen families occupy the restricted space which, in
olden times, barely sufficed to accommodate the progeny of opulent ship
chandlers.
When Mill Lane was Rowtonized, its hovels, its insanitary dens, and
its quaint little cottages pulled down by a wise borough architect,
the Italian colony which had made its home in that unsalubrious
neighbourhood moved northward and distributed itself along the road of
ancient respectability.
In the main, the Italian made a good neighbour--quiet, sober,
inoffensive; his piano-organ, stalled in the confined area of the back
yard, was, perhaps, a nuisance to men who loved to sleep far into the
morning, but he gave little offense otherwise.
In one of these houses, on an upper floor, three men were sitting round
a table. A large _fiasco_ of Chianti occupied the place of honour
upon the table, and glasses had been set for the men by one who was
evidently the host. The windows were heavily curtained and shuttered,
the door itself had been edged with felt by the careful tenant, and as
a further precaution against interruption there sat outside the door,
two steps down the narrow stairs, the dark figure of a man whose duty
it was to see that the conference was not disturbed.
The host was a tall man, immensely powerful: his black hair was cropped
short; his face, lined and seamed, was half hidden by a bushy black
beard.
His shirt opened to show a patch of hairy chest, and the powerful arms
revealed by the rolled-up sleeves spoke of enormous strength. They
spoke truly, for Tommasino Patti bore in his own country the nickname
“Il Bue,” which signifies, “The Ox.”
It was as “Il Bue” that his companions knew him, though there was
nothing bovine in the evil but intelligent face, nor in his lithe,
quick movements.
The man on his left was short and stout; clean-shaven save for a black
moustache, carefully twisted to a curl at either end. He was short of
breath, and spoke like one with chronic asthma, in deep, rumbling,
wheezy tones.
Facing Il Bue was a young man who contrasted remarkably with his
companions. For, whilst the giant was careless to the point of
slovenliness in his attire, and the stout man but little better, this
third member of the council was dressed with exquisite care.
He was a slim and graceful young man of medium height; handsome, with
his olive skin, his fine forehead, and his slight dark moustache. He
wore a suit of simple cut, which fitted him perfectly. His cravat was
of dull black silk, and the only jewelry he wore was a black pearl in
his cravat and a thin gold chain across his waistcoat.
He was a man who had been carefully valeted, and, from the dove-gray
spats on his boots to his manicured fingertips, he was correctness
personified. His silk-lined overcoat lay carefully folded over the back
of the chair, with a soft black felt hat on top. He himself lounged in
the one comfortable chair which the room boasted--and his legs thrown
over the arm of the chair displayed a glimpse of gray silk socks. He
looked little more than twenty, though he was in reality much older.
His attitude toward the others was one of amused curiosity. From time
to time he examined his beautiful nails with solicitude, as though he
found them much more interesting than the conversation. And yet the
talk was startling enough.
The stout man had finished the story of his adventure.
“And, signors,” he said appealingly, “I, myself, could have secured
this jewel, but for the restrictions which your excellencies placed on
me.”
He spoke alternately to Il Bue and the young man at the foot of the
table.
“Why,” he asked, in extravagant despair--“why is it necessary that
you should employ a third person--one without finesse, like this man,
Mansingham, who blunders through the house, awakes the servants, and is
arrested? It was tempting Providence, signors; it would be almost as
much a temptation to employ the girl.”
The young man smiled.
“You are a fool,” he said.
They were speaking in liquid Italian, and the youth’s voice was soft
and melodious.
“Have we no example of the folly of acting otherwise?”
He raised his eyebrows, and for a moment a baleful light shone in his
eyes, changing the whole character of his face.
“Listen, my little man.” He tapped the table before him and spoke with
quiet emphasis. “What may seem simple to you is not so simple to us.
It is the rule of Our Friends, when such a raid is carried out, that
the person who abstracts and the person who immediately receives shall
be unknown to one another. Moreover,” he said, carefully choosing
his words, “it is necessary, since a certain happening which you may
remember, that the medallion, if medallion it be, shall be received by
two of our brethren, and not by one.”
He smiled.
“I repeat,” he said, “‘And not by one.’”
He looked at Il Bue, still smiling, and then at the stout man.
“A year ago,” he said, “we had marked down something we required.
It was a medallion. One of those two medallions, I know, contains a
secret which will make us rich. We commissioned a brother skilled
in scientific abstraction to remove that jewel. It follows, my dear
Pietro, that the same set of brains which can wield, with great skill,
a set of tools for the removal of locks or the forcing of glass cases
may be entirely inefficient or inadequate when it comes to the removal
and the safeguarding of the treasure. In stealing, as in all other
sciences, the specialist has the advantage; we instruct one specialist
to take the medallion from its case--wherever it may be--we employ two
other specialists jointly to receive that jewel and to take it to a
place of safety--watching each other the while. You follow me?”
The stout man nodded grudgingly, and the young man went on.
“The gentleman,” he said, with grim humour, “who received that precious
relic, of which the society stood in the greatest need, disappeared
with it. He was false to his oath, false to his kin; he demonstrated
the falsity of the English adage that there is honour amongst
thieves--and indeed there is not--and, although eventually we found
him, we never found the jewel.”
He took a flat gold cigarette case from his pocket, took out a
cigarette and lit it.
“It would have been no satisfaction to us to remove this erring friend.
It was fortunate that he saved us the trouble by removing himself. We
did not find the jewel,” he repeated. “That most desirable thing he
had, in his panic, handed to some peasant or other. That peasant we
have at last located.”
He exchanged a swift glance with Il Bue, and the big man nodded
emphatically.
“Whether we shall get the jewel remains to be seen,” continued the
exquisite young man, puffing rings of smoke at the ceiling. “At any
rate, the necessity for taking precautions in the matter of receiving
these articles which are so precious to us, and which are located with
such great pains and with such labour, must be fairly obvious.”
He looked at his watch.
“Now, I have little time to spare. Let me see what is to be seen.”
The big man rose and walked heavily across the room. He put his hand
under the pillow of a truckle bed, which stood in the corner, and
pulled out a long, flat box. He brought it to the other and opened it
with a key which hung about his neck.
It was a curious collection which met the young man’s eyes. The box was
almost filled with lockets of every conceivable shape and description.
There were lockets of gold and of silver, lockets carved from crystal,
lockets so encrusted with jewels that it was impossible to tell what
was the subsidiary metal. Some bore a painted miniature, others were
brilliant with enamels.
The young man fingered them with quick and skilful hands. He lifted
them one by one from their box, laid them in the palm of his hand, and
turned them; and, as he examined, he rejected.
He finished his labours at last.
“They are very valuable,” he said, “but not of the value I hoped. We
have to search still further. I believe that the locket which is in the
possession of this foolish man Morte-Mannery is more likely to be the
one we seek than any other. We must lose no time and spare no pains to
secure it.”
He took a flat leather wallet from his inside coat pocket, opened it,
and removed a sheet of paper. There was a drawing in pencil.
“This is it,” he said, “if any is.”
He passed the design to the stout man.
“You observe those curious arabesques, that Cupid, that tiny hoofed
devil? That is the master’s own work.”
He spoke with enthusiasm. For one moment the sinister object of the
chase was lost sight of in his artistic appreciation of the design.
“There are two such lockets in the world.”
He spoke more quickly now.
“One we may secure to-night. The other on Friday. We must make some
arrangements. If necessary I will go down myself and receive the
locket. This drawing”--he pointed to the paper--“almost decides me. We
can afford to slacken our efforts elsewhere and concentrate them upon
Burboro’. By the way, what money is wanted?”
“A thousand English pounds,” said the stout man breathlessly.
The young man laughed.
“It is absurd to ask for a thousand pounds for something which may be
of no value whatever,” he said. “You must promise her--where is she, by
the way?”
“She will be in town to-night, signor,” said Pietro.
The young man nodded.
“She is very faithful and enthusiastic,” he said. “A curious woman, our
Lisa,” he mused, as he rose.
Il Bue jumped to his feet and assisted him with his overcoat.
“You will probably find her useful, to-night.”
“Why don’t you trust her to get the jewel from this pig’s house?” asked
the tall man gruffly.
The young exquisite smiled.
“My poor man,” he said, “if I do not trust a brother, why should I
trust---- No,” he said, a little harshly, as he stood by the door
buttoning his coat, “I take no more risks. My father warned me against
any such folly, and I neglected his warning. I have had to pay the
price for my neglect. Who is outside?” he asked suddenly.
“Beppo,” said Il Bue. “I had to have somebody who was reliable. Beppo
loves the dark.”
“He is an unwholesome beast,” said the young man lightly. “He would cut
my throat or yours for a piastre.”
“That may be,” said the other, with a growl, “but a man whose neck is
in danger, and whose life depends upon keeping faith, is one to employ
for such work.”
They opened the door, the brawny host leading the way, carrying a hand
lamp. A figure sat crouched on the stairs, his knees drawn up and his
head bent low.
“A pretty sentry! He’s asleep!” said the young man.
Il Bue leaned down and grasped the man by the neck.
“Wake up, you dog,” he hissed. “Is this the way----?”
Then he stopped, for the head fell back jerkily, and a handle of a
dagger protruding from his heart gave them a complete explanation of
his silence.
Yes, there he lay--this man, who had perjured himself clear of the
scaffold in two countries--this jackal of a villainous confederacy--and
the three men stared at him in amazement and horror.
The former state could be applied only to the young man, who, without
any pause, without any other sign of emotion, continued buttoning his
gloves.
“There is only one man who could have done that,” he said thoughtfully,
“and that man is Antonio Tillizini.”