'1066! With William the Conqueror! That is a long time ago, Mr. Dacre.'
'In years perhaps; in feelings but a day. My forefathers came over to
steal, and, lord! how well they accomplished it. They stole the whole
country--something like a theft, say I--under that prince of robbers
whom you have well named the Conqueror. In our secret hearts we all
admire a great thief, and if not a great one, then an expert one, who
covers his tracks so perfectly that the hounds of justice are baffled
in attempting to follow them. Now even you, Monsieur Valmont (I can
see you are the most generous of men, with a lively sympathy found to
perfection only in France), even you must suffer a pang of regret when
you lay a thief by the heels who has done his task deftly.'
'I fear, Mr. Dacre, you credit me with a magnanimity to which I dare
not lay claim. The criminal is a danger to society.'
'True, true, you are in the right, Monsieur Valmont Still, admit there
are cases that would touch you tenderly. For example, a man,
ordinarily honest; a great need; a sudden opportunity. He takes that
of which another has abundance, and he, nothing. What then, Monsieur
Valmont? Is the man to be sent to perdition for a momentary weakness?'
His words astonished me. Was I on the verge of hearing a confession?
It almost amounted to that already.
'Mr. Dacre,' I said, 'I cannot enter into the subtleties you pursue. My
duty is to find the criminal.'
'Again I say you are in the right, Monsieur Valmont, and I am
enchanted to find so sensible a head on French shoulders. Although you
are a more recent arrival, if I may say so, than myself, you
nevertheless already give utterance to sentiments which do honour to
England. It is your duty to hunt down the criminal. Very well. In that
I think I can aid you, and thus have taken the liberty of requesting
your attendance here this morning. Let me fill your glass again,
Monsieur Valmont.'
'No more, I beg of you, Mr. Dacre.'
'What, do you think the receiver is as bad as the thief?'
I was so taken aback by this remark that I suppose my face showed the
amazement within me. But the young man merely laughed with apparently
free-hearted enjoyment, poured some wine into his own glass, and
tossed it off. Not knowing what to say, I changed the current of
conversation.
'Mr. Gibbes said you had been kind enough to recommend me to his
attention. May I ask how you came to hear of me?'
'Ah! who has not heard of the renowned Monsieur Valmont,' and as he
said this, for the first time, there began to grow a suspicion in my
mind that he was chaffing me, as it is called in England--a procedure
which I cannot endure. Indeed, if this gentleman practised such a
barbarism in my own country he would find himself with a duel on his
hands before he had gone far. However, the next instant his voice
resumed its original fascination, and I listened to it as to some
delicious melody.
'I need only mention my cousin, Lady Gladys Dacre, and you will at
once understand why I recommended you to my friend. The case of Lady
Gladys, you will remember, required a delicate touch which is not
always to be had in this land of England, except when those who
possess the gift do us the honour to sojourn with us.'
I noticed that my glass was again filled, and bowing an acknowledgment
of his compliment, I indulged in another sip of the delicious wine. I
sighed, for I began to realise it was going to be very difficult for
me, in spite of my disclaimer, to tell this man's friend he had stolen
the money. All this time he had been sitting on the edge of the table,
while I occupied a chair at its end. He sat there in careless fashion,
swinging a foot to and fro. Now he sprang to the floor, and drew up a
chair, placing on the table a blank sheet of paper. Then he took from
the mantelshelf a packet of letters, and I was astonished to see they
were held together by two bits of cardboard and a rubber band similar
to the combination that had contained the folded bank notes. With
great nonchalance he slipped off the rubber band, threw it and the
pieces of cardboard on the table before me, leaving the documents
loose to his hand.
'Now, Monsieur Valmont,' he cried jauntily, 'you have been occupied
for several days on this case, the case of my dear friend Bentham
Gibbes, who is one of the best fellows in the world.'
'He said the same of you, Mr. Dacre.'
'I am gratified to hear it. Would you mind letting me know to what
point your researches have led you?'
'They have led me in a direction rather than to a point.'
'Ah! In the direction of a man, of course?'
'Certainly.'
'Who is he?'
'Will you pardon me if I decline to answer this question at the
present moment?'
'That means you are not sure.'
'It may mean, Mr. Dacre, that I am employed by Mr. Gibbes, and do not
feel at liberty to disclose the results of my quest without his
permission.'
'But Mr. Bentham Gibbes and I are entirely at one in this matter.
Perhaps you are aware that I am the only person with whom he has
discussed the case beside yourself.'
'That is undoubtedly true, Mr. Dacre; still, you see the difficulty of
my position.'
'Yes, I do, and so shall press you no further. But I also have been
studying the problem in a purely amateurish way, of course. You will
perhaps express no disinclination to learn whether or not my
deductions agree with yours.'
'None in the least. I should be very glad to know the conclusion at
which you have arrived. May I ask if you suspect any one in
particular?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Will you name him?'
'No; I shall copy the admirable reticence you yourself have shown. And
now let us attack this mystery in a sane and businesslike manner. You
have already examined the room. Well, here is a rough sketch of it.
There is the table; in this corner stood the chair on which the coat
was flung. Here sat Gibbes at the head of the table. Those on the
left-hand side had their backs to the chair. I, being on the centre to
the right, saw the chair, the coat, and the notes, and called
attention to them. Now our first duty is to find a motive. If it were
a murder, our motive might be hatred, revenge, robbery--what you like.
As it is simply the stealing of money, the man must have been either a
born thief or else some hitherto innocent person pressed to the crime
by great necessity. Do you agree with me, Monsieur Valmont?'
'Perfectly. You follow exactly the line of my own reasoning.'
'Very well. It is unlikely that a born thief was one of Mr. Gibbes's
guests. Therefore we are reduced to look for a man under the spur of
necessity; a man who has no money of his own but who must raise a
certain amount, let us say, by a certain date. If we can find such a
man in that company, do you not agree with me that he is likely to be
the thief?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Then let us start our process of elimination. Out goes Viscount
Stern, a lucky individual with twenty thousand acres of land, and God
only knows what income. I mark off the name of Lord Templemere, one of
His Majesty's judges, entirely above suspicion. Next, Sir John
Sanclere; he also is rich, but Vincent Innis is still richer, so the
pencil obliterates both names. Now we arrive at Angus McKeller, an
author of some note, as you are well aware, deriving a good income
from his books and a better one from his plays; a canny Scot, so we
may rub his name from our paper and our memory. How do my erasures
correspond with yours, Monsieur Valmont?'
'They correspond exactly, Mr. Dacre.'
'I am flattered to hear it. There remains one name untouched, Mr
Lionel Dacre, the descendant, as I have said, of robbers.'
'I have not said so, Mr. Dacre.'
'Ah! my dear Valmont, the politeness of your country asserts itself.
Let us not be deluded, but follow our inquiry wherever it leads. I
suspect Lionel Dacre. What do you know of his circumstances before the
dinner of the twenty-third?'
As I made no reply he looked up at me with his frank, boyish face
illumined by a winning smile.
'You know nothing of his circumstances?' he asked.
'It grieves me to state that I do. Mr. Lionel Dacre was penniless on
the night of the dinner.'
'Oh, don't exaggerate, Monsieur Valmont,' cried Dacre with a gesture
of pathetic protest; 'his pocket held one sixpence, two pennies, and a
halfpenny. How came you to suspect he was penniless?'
'I knew he ordered a case of champagne from the London representative
of Camelot Frères, and was refused unless he paid the money down.'
'Quite right, and then when you were talking to Hopper you saw that
case of champagne delivered. Excellent! excellent! Monsieur Valmont.
But will a man steal, think you, even to supply himself with so
delicious a wine as this we have been tasting? And, by the way,
forgive my neglect, allow me to fill your glass, Monsieur Valmont.'
'Not another drop, if you will excuse me, Mr. Dacre.'
'Ah, yes, champagne should not be mixed with evidence. When we have
finished, perhaps. What further proof have you discovered, monsieur?'
'I hold proof that Mr. Dacre was threatened with bankruptcy, if, on the
twenty-fourth, he did not pay a bill of seventy-eight pounds that had
been long outstanding. I hold proof that this was paid, not on the
twenty-fourth, but on the twenty-sixth. Mr. Dacre had gone to the
solicitor and assured him he would pay the money on that date,
whereupon he was given two days' grace.'
'Ah, well, he was entitled to three, you know, in law. Yes, there,
Monsieur Valmont, you touch the fatal point. The threat of bankruptcy
will drive a man in Dacre's position to almost any crime. Bankruptcy
to a barrister means ruin. It means a career blighted; it means a life
buried, with little chance of resurrection. I see, you grasp the
supreme importance of that bit of evidence. The case of champagne is
as nothing compared with it, and this reminds me that in the crisis
now upon us I shall take another sip, with your permission. Sure you
won't join me?'
'Not at this juncture, Mr. Dacre.'
'I envy your moderation. Here's to the success of our search, Monsieur
Valmont.'
I felt sorry for the gay young fellow as with smiling face he drank
the champagne.
'Now, Monsieur,' he went on, 'I am amazed to learn how much you have
discovered. Really, I think tradespeople, solicitors, and all such
should keep better guard on their tongues than they do. Nevertheless,
these documents at my elbow, which I expected would surprise you, are
merely the letters and receipts. Here is the communication from the
solicitor threatening me with bankruptcy; here is his receipt dated
the twenty-sixth; here is the refusal of the wine merchant, and here
is his receipt for the money. Here are smaller bills liquidated. With
my pencil we will add them up. Seventy-eight pounds--the principal
debt--bulks large. We add the smaller items and it reaches a total of
ninety-three pounds seven shillings and fourpence. Let us now examine
my purse. Here is a five-pound note; there is a golden sovereign. I
now count out and place on the table twelve and sixpence in silver and
two pence in coppers. The purse thus becomes empty. Let us add the
silver and copper to the amount on the paper. Do my eyes deceive me,
or is the sum exactly a hundred pounds? There is your money fully
accounted for.'
'Pardon me, Mr. Dacre,' I said, 'but I observe a sovereign resting on
the mantelpiece.'
Dacre threw back his head and laughed with greater heartiness than I
had yet known him to indulge in during our short acquaintance.
'By Jove,' he cried, 'you've got me there. I'd forgotten entirely
about that pound on the mantelpiece, which belongs to you.'
'To me? Impossible!'
'It does, and cannot interfere in the least with our century
calculation. That is the sovereign you gave to my man Hopper, who,
knowing me to be hard-pressed, took it and shamefacedly presented it
to me, that I might enjoy the spending of it. Hopper belongs to our
family, or the family belongs to him. I am never sure which. You must
have missed in him the deferential bearing of a man-servant in Paris,
yet he is true gold, like the sovereign you bestowed upon him, and he
bestowed upon me. Now here, Monsieur, is the evidence of the theft,
together with the rubber band and two pieces of cardboard. Ask my
friend Gibbes to examine them minutely. They are all at your
disposition, Monsieur, and thus you learn how much easier it is to
deal with the master than with the servant. All the gold you possess
would not have wrung these incriminating documents from old Hopper. I
was compelled to send him away to the West End an hour ago, fearing
that in his brutal British way he might assault you if he got an
inkling of your mission.'
'Mr. Dacre,' said I slowly, 'you have thoroughly convinced me--'
'I thought I would,' he interrupted with a laugh.
'--that you did _not_ take the money.'
'Oho, this is a change of wind, surely. Many a man has been hanged on
a chain of circumstantial evidence much weaker than this which I have
exhibited to you. Don't you see the subtlety of my action? Ninety-nine
persons in a hundred would say: "No man could be such a fool as to
put Valmont on his own track, and then place in Valmont's hands such
striking evidence." But there comes in my craftiness. Of course, the
rock you run up against will be Gibbes's incredulity. The first
question he will ask you may be this: "Why did not Dacre come and
borrow the money from me?" Now there you find a certain weakness in
your chain of evidence. I knew perfectly well that Gibbes would lend
me the money, and he knew perfectly well that if I were pressed to the
wall I should ask him.'
'Mr. Dacre,' said I, 'you have been playing with me. I should resent
that with most men, but whether it is your own genial manner or the
effect of this excellent champagne, or both together, I forgive you.
But I am convinced of another thing. You know who took the money.'
'I don't know, but I suspect.'
'Will you tell me whom you suspect?'
'That would not be fair, but I shall now take the liberty of filling
your glass with champagne.'
'I am your guest, Mr. Dacre.'
'Admirably answered, monsieur,' he replied, pouring out the wine, 'and
now I offer you a clue. Find out all about the story of the silver
spoons.'
'The story of the silver spoons! What silver spoons?'
'Ah! That is the point. Step out of the Temple into Fleet Street,
seize the first man you meet by the shoulder, and ask him to tell you
about the silver spoons. There are but two men and two spoons
concerned. When you learn who those two men are, you will know that
one of them did not take the money, and I give you my assurance that
the other did.'
'You speak in mystery, Mr. Dacre.'
'But certainly, for I am speaking to Monsieur Eugène Valmont.'
'I echo your words, sir. Admirably answered. You put me on my mettle,
and I flatter myself that I see your kindly drift. You wish me to
solve the mystery of this stolen money. Sir, you-do me honour, and I
drink to your health.'
'To yours, monsieur,' said Lionel Dacre, and thus we drank and parted.
On leaving Mr. Dacre I took a hansom to a café in Regent Street, which
is a passable imitation of similar places of refreshment in Paris.
There, calling for a cup of black coffee, I sat down to think. The
clue of the silver spoons! He had laughingly suggested that I should
take by the shoulders the first man I met, and ask him what the story
of the silver spoons was. This course naturally struck me as absurd,
and he doubtless intended it to seem absurd. Nevertheless, it
contained a hint. I must ask somebody, and that the right person, to
tell me the tale of the silver spoons.
Under the influence of the black coffee I reasoned it out in this way.
On the night of the twenty-third one of the six guests there present
stole a hundred pounds, but Dacre had said that an actor in the silver
spoon episode was the actual thief. That person, then, must have been
one of Mr. Gibbes's guests at the dinner of the twenty-third. Probably
two of the guests were the participators in the silver spoon comedy,
but, be that as it may, it followed that one at least of the men
around Mr. Gibbes's table knew the episode of the silver spoons.
Perhaps Bentham Gibbes himself was cognisant of it. It followed,
therefore, that the easiest plan was to question each of the men who
partook of that dinner. Yet if only one knew about the spoons, that
one must also have some idea that these spoons formed the clue which
attached him to the crime of the twenty-third, in which case he was
little likely to divulge what he knew to an entire stranger.
Of course, I might go to Dacre himself and demand the story of the
silver spoons, but this would be a confession of failure on my part,
and I rather dreaded Lionel Dacre's hearty laughter when I admitted
that the mystery was too much for me. Besides this I was very well
aware of the young man's kindly intentions towards me. He wished me to
unravel the coil myself, and so I determined not to go to him except
as a last resource.
I resolved to begin with Mr. Gibbes, and, finishing my coffee, I got
again into a hansom, and drove back to the Temple. I found Bentham
Gibbes in his room, and after greeting me, his first inquiry was about
the case.
'How are you getting on?' he asked.
'I think I'm getting on fairly well,' I replied, 'and expect to finish
in a day or two, if you will kindly tell me the story of the silver
spoons.'
'The silver spoons?' he echoed, quite evidently not understanding me.
'There happened an incident in which two men were engaged, and this
incident related to a pair of silver spoons. I want to get the
particulars of that.' 'I haven't the slightest idea what you are
talking about,' replied Gibbes, thoroughly bewildered. 'You will need
to be more definite, I fear, if you are to get any help from me.'
'I cannot be more definite, because I have already told you all I
know.'
'What bearing has all this on our own case?'
'I was informed that if I got hold of the clue of the silver spoons I
should be in a fair way of settling our case.'
'Who told you that?'
'Mr. Lionel Dacre.'
'Oh, does Dacre refer to his own conjuring?'
'I don't know, I'm sure. What was his conjuring?'
'A very clever trick he did one night at dinner here about two months
ago.'
'Had it anything to do with silver spoons?'
'Well, it was silver spoons or silver forks, or something of that
kind. I had entirely forgotten the incident. So far as I recollect at
the moment there was a sleight-of-hand man of great expertness in one
of the music halls, and the talk turned upon him. Then Dacre said the
tricks he did were easy, and holding up a spoon or a fork, I don't
remember which, he professed his ability to make it disappear before
our eyes, to be found afterwards in the clothing of some one there
present. Several offered to bet that he could do nothing of the kind,
but he said he would bet with no one but Innis, who sat opposite him.
Innis, with some reluctance, accepted the bet, and then Dacre, with a
great show of the usual conjurer's gesticulations, spread forth his
empty hands, and said we should find the spoon in Innis's pocket, and
there, sure enough, it was. It seemed a proper sleight-of-hand trick,
but we were never able to get him to repeat it.'
'Thank you very much, Mr. Gibbes; I think I see daylight now.'
'If you do you are cleverer than I by a long chalk,' cried Bentham
Gibbes as I took my departure.
I went directly downstairs, and knocked at Mr. Dacre's door once more.
He opened the door himself, his man not yet having returned.
'Ah, monsieur,' he cried, 'back already? You don't mean to tell me you
have so soon got to the bottom of the silver spoon entanglement?'
'I think I have, Mr. Dacre. You were sitting at dinner opposite Mr
Vincent Innis. You saw him conceal a silver spoon in his pocket. You
probably waited for some time to understand what he meant by this, and
as he did not return the spoon to its place, you proposed a conjuring
trick, made the bet with him, and thus the spoon was returned to the
table.'
'Excellent! excellent, monsieur! that is very nearly what occurred,
except that I acted at once. I had had experiences with Mr. Vincent
Innis before. Never did he enter these rooms of mine without my
missing some little trinket after he was gone. Although Mr. Innis is a
very rich person, I am not a man of many possessions, so if anything
is taken, I meet little difficulty in coming to a knowledge of my
loss. Of course, I never mentioned these abstractions to him. They
were all trivial, as I have said, and so far as the silver spoon was
concerned, it was of no great value either. But I thought the bet and
the recovery of the spoon would teach him a lesson; it apparently has
not done so. On the night of the twenty-third he sat at my right hand,
as you will see by consulting your diagram of the table and the
guests. I asked him a question twice, to which he did not reply, and
looking at him I was startled by the expression in his eyes. They were
fixed on a distant corner of the room, and following his gaze I saw
what he was staring at with such hypnotising concentration. So
absorbed was he in contemplation of the packet there so plainly
exposed, now my attention was turned to it, that he seemed to be
entirely oblivious of what was going on around him. I roused him from
his trance by jocularly calling Gibbes's attention to the display of
money. I expected in this way to save Innis from committing the act
which he seemingly did commit. Imagine then the dilemma in which I was
placed when Gibbes confided to me the morning after what had occurred
the night before. I was positive Innis had taken the money, yet I
possessed no proof of it. I could not tell Gibbes, and I dare not
speak to Innis. Of course, monsieur, you do not need to be told that
Innis is not a thief in the ordinary sense of the word. He has no need
to steal, and yet apparently cannot help doing so. I am sure that no
attempt has been made to pass those notes. They are doubtless resting
securely in his house at Kensington. He is, in fact, a kleptomaniac,
or a maniac of some sort. And now, monsieur, was my hint regarding the
silver spoons of any value to you?'
'Of the most infinite value, Mr. Dacre.'
'Then let me make another suggestion. I leave it entirely to your
bravery; a bravery which, I confess, I do not myself possess. Will
you take a hansom, drive to Mr. Innis's house on the Cromwell Road,
confront him quietly, and ask for the return of the packet? I am
anxious to know what will happen. If he hands it to you, as I expect
he will, then you must tell Mr. Gibbes the whole story.'
'Mr. Dacre, your suggestion shall be immediately acted upon, and I
thank you for your compliment to my courage.'
I found that Mr. Innis inhabited a very grand house. After a time he
entered the study on the ground floor, to which I had been conducted.
He held my card in his hand, and was looking at it with some surprise.
'I think I have not the pleasure of knowing you, Monsieur Valmont,' he
said, courteously enough.
'No. I ventured to call on a matter of business. I was once
investigator for the French Government, and now am doing private
detective work here in London.'
'Ah! And how is that supposed to interest me? There is nothing that I
wish investigated. I did not send for you, did I?'
'No, Mr. Innis, I merely took the liberty of calling to ask you to let
me have the package you took from Mr. Bentham Gibbes's frock-coat
pocket on the night of the twenty-third.'
'He wishes it returned, does he?'
'Yes.'
Mr. Innis calmly walked to a desk, which he unlocked and opened,
displaying a veritable museum of trinkets of one sort and another.
Pulling out a small drawer he took from it the packet containing the
five twenty-pound notes. Apparently it had never been opened. With a
smile he handed it to me.
'You will make my apologies to Mr. Gibbes for not returning it before.
Tell him I have been unusually busy of late.'
'I shall not fail to do so,' said I, with a bow.
'Thanks so much. Good-morning, Monsieur Valmont.'
'Good-morning, Mr. Innis,'
And so I returned the packet to Mr. Bentham Gibbes, who pulled the
notes from between their pasteboard protection, and begged me to
accept them.