“THE IDEAL CRIMINAL IS A STRATEGIST”
“Where did he go?” she asked.
“He went to Millet,” said the Colonel, throwing himself down to a
divan and biting off the end of a fresh cigar. “I wonder what the
dickens he wants?” he mused.
Kate Westhanger made a little grimace.
“You can never tell whether a policeman finds his duty a pleasure or
his pleasure a duty,” she said. “I suppose he is just renewing
acquaintance with Crime Street.”
“Don’t use that phrase,” snapped her uncle.
“I shall use whatever phrase I wish,” she said calmly. “You are
getting nervous. Why?”
“I’m not nervous,” he protested loudly; “I am getting old I suppose,
and the job is such a big one. It is almost too big for me and if I
occupied the position I had a few years ago, Kate, I would drop it.
After all, we have made a good deal of money and we might as well all
of us live to enjoy it.”
She was back at the piano again and was playing with the soft pedal
down.
“Can’t you find anything more cheerful than the ‘Death of Asa’?”
growled her relative.
“It is nerves, of course; I am awfully sorry.”
She got up and closed the piano with a bang which made him jump.
“I don’t know what to do about Mike,” she mused.
“Gregori has a solution,” said the Colonel.
“To cut his throat, I suppose,” said the girl coolly. “Gregori is so
elemental and so horrific! I can’t imagine that he ever has cut a
throat in his life, but I suppose he feels that it is in keeping with
his sunny southern nature to talk like that. No, Colonel _mio_,” she
mimicked, “we have stopped short of murder so far and I think we will
remain on the safe side. My theory coincides with Mike’s. I was
reading an article of his in a Socialistic paper the other day and it
was all about the Right to Live. I don’t believe in killing people. I
believe in bleeding those who have grown apoplectic with their money
and I don’t even know whether I believe in that.”
“What do you mean?” the Colonel looked up at her under his shaggy
brows.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I mean,” she said slowly, “I never know whether my views are my own
views or whether they are just your views which I reflect like a
mirror. You see, dear,” she said, “I am very young but I have a
logical mind and my logical mind tells me that no girl can have any
very definite views at nineteen, not of her own, I mean. Perhaps when
I am twenty-five I shall look upon you as a terrible person, and all
this,” she spread her hands out, “as something to think of with a
shudder.”
“In the meantime,” said her uncle practically, “you are Miss Ali Baba,
chief strategist of our little army and a very exigent young
lady--by-the-way, Gregori is kicking.”
She looked at him with a contemptuous little twist of her lips.
“There is a great centre forward lost in Gregori,” she said. “What has
moved that dago’s feet?”
“Hush, hush, my child,” cautioned her uncle, “our admirable friend is
upstairs and, anyway, it doesn’t do to speak disrespectfully of one’s
criminal associates. There is a certain punctilio in our profession
which you may have noticed.”
“How queer it sounds!” she said, leaning forward and clasping her
knee. “Do you know, uncle, I cannot think straight. Ever since I was
so high,” she stretched her hand out before her, “I have never known a
desire to secure anything I wanted, save by taking it from somebody
else. At the school in Lausanne I seemed to be amongst the queerest
people and, honestly, although you had warned me, I thought they were
all mad. All their fathers made money in business, which seems to be a
slow method of stealing which is allowed by the law. Think of the
horrible monotony of working steadily day after day without any
holidays, with no excitement, no adventures, save the artificial
thrill of a theatre and the adventures that meet you on your way
home.”
“I didn’t even know there were those kind of adventures,” said the
Colonel, fingering his trim moustache and enjoying with closed eyes
the fragrance of his cigar.
“Oh, yes,” nodded the girl, “you meet all sorts of men who raise their
hats and say, ‘Good-evening, Miss,’ or ‘Haven’t we met before?’ I
don’t think they have ever said anything else,” she reflected
thoughtfully,--“they all belong to the ‘Good-evening’ or the ‘Met you
before’ school, and they all want to know if you are ‘going their
way.’”
“What happens then?” asked the amused Colonel, carefully removing his
cigar in order that he might laugh without detriment to the
accumulating ash.
“I have only had one experience,” said Kate. “It was with a young man
with a horribly weak chin. He had studied in both schools, for his
‘Good-evening’ was followed by a request for information upon my
immediate plans and I let him walk with me. I expected something very
dreadful but he talked mostly about his mother and the difficulties he
had about getting a latch-key. He wanted to take my arm but I told him
it wasn’t done and then he suggested that I should meet him on Sunday.
By this time I had learnt all about his family, his mother and the
girl he was prepared to sacrifice to retain a continuation of our
intimacy. I also discovered his name was Ernest and that he was the
cleverest man in his office.”
“He wanted to kiss you, I’ll be bound,” said the Colonel.
“I think he did,” admitted the girl, “but he didn’t say so. All he
said was that he hoped it didn’t rain and asked if he might write to
me. I told him he might, but, unfortunately, he forgot to ask me my
address--” she broke off suddenly, “what is Gregori kicking about?”
“That Madrid affair didn’t go off as well as it might,” said the
Colonel, avoiding her eye.
She nodded.
“I know; and Gregori blames me, I presume.”
“Gregori never blames you,” said the Colonel, “I think Gregori would
knife anybody who said a word against you.”
“No,” she said, nodding her head, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall,
“the Madrid affair went badly, in spite of the fact that there were
forty-two sheets of manuscript in Spanish and English giving the most
elaborate directions. It was a month’s work for me and it was all
wasted and the greater part of a hundred thousand pesetas because
Gregori’s trusted Señor Rahboulla thought he could improve upon my
instructions and joined the train at Cordova in a light grey suit when
I told him to wear the conventional black of the _madrilleno_ and when
I insisted upon his making his entrance to Madrid from Toledo. I knew
that Cordova was watched by the French and Spanish police and I knew
too that they would be looking for a stranger. Rahboulla advertised
himself, was arrested and the chain, which I had carefully pieced
together, was broken. By the time he had shaken off the police and
arrived in Madrid the closing hour of the Prado had been advanced from
six to five and the consequence is, that the Velasquez is still in the
picture gallery and we are a hundred thousand pesetas the poorer.”
The Colonel shook his head.
“You are a wonderful girl and I will admit you are right. Heavens! the
patience required to work out these details!”
“The ideal criminal is a strategist,” said the girl. “He foresees
every move of the enemy and forestalls him. He makes a diversion at
one point and his real attack at another. He prepares the way for
retreat at the same time as he is preparing his advance. It took me
six months to obtain all the information I wanted and it took six
minutes for Rahboulla to upset our plans.”
She laughed.
“If things go wrong, you blame the general,” she said. “Three years
ago, Gregori the Kicker introduced an Italian into one of our
schemes--the business of the Nottingham Post Office. That went wrong,
too.”
“There I admit you were right,” the Colonel hurried to say; “Tolmini
made a mess of it.”[1]
“And tried to drag us all into it when he was caught,” said the girl;
“he went to prison under the impression that I had led him into a
trap--though the fool was told the mail bags were not to be touched
until the night shift came on duty.”
“Why do you mention him now with such emphasis?” asked the Colonel
curiously.
“Because he’s out of prison--and he’ll be kicking, too,” she replied,
“just as Gregori kicks!”
“‘Let the dead past bury the dead,’” quoted the Colonel. “And how is
the new scheme?”
“Much farther advanced than you think. There are still one or two
roads to be made smooth, one or two outposts to be rushed, some barbed
wire to be cut.”
“By Gad!” cried the Colonel admiringly. “You ought to have been a
soldier, Kate.”
She leant back in the chair with her hands clasped behind her head and
looked at him searchingly.
“You were once a gentleman, uncle,” she said in that direct way of
hers and Colonel Westhanger flushed and frowned.
“Well, my dear uncle,” she expostulated, “you are not a gentleman by
the ordinary code now are you?”
“I have certain instincts,” protested the Colonel gruffly; “hang it
all, Kate, you don’t let a fellow down very lightly.”
“I suppose you are still something of a gentleman,” said the girl
reflectively; “the mere fact that you are annoyed at the suggestion
that you are not proves that. But what I mean to say is this: there
was a time when you obeyed another code, when you thought stealing was
a disgraceful thing and robbery under arms a crime. You must have
associated with men on whose word you could rely and who would never
commit a dishonest or a mean action--men who were prepared in battle
to give their lives for you. And you must have commanded men who had
the same views and have punished soldiers who stepped aside from the
straight path and committed little crimes which, compared with yours,
were as pin-heads to the dome of St. Paul’s.”
“I can’t see why you want to talk about the past,” said the Colonel
irritably. He was still a fine figure of a man, grey-moustached, broad
of shoulder, tall and straight of back and had about him that
indefinable something which men who have commanded men never entirely
lose.
“I am merely comparing you with me,” she said; “you have the advantage
of having seen both sides. Tell me, which is the better?”
“Which do you think?” he demanded suspiciously.
She tossed her cigarette into the grate.
“I think this is the better,” she said frankly; “it is very pleasant
and very exciting. And all the good people I have met have been very
dull. I think that is because all good people are dull.”
“There are some good people,” said the Colonel virtuously, “who are
very interesting.”
“Not because of their goodness,” rejoined the girl quickly; “if you
meet a very popular good man it is because there is something about
him which is not absolutely good. If you hear a man speak of a parson
as a good fellow you will generally discover that he goes to the
National Sporting Club and sees boxing or rides to hounds or does
something which is quite unassociated with his professional duties or
the exercise of his innocent qualities. But you have not answered me.
Which is better?”
“If I had my life to live over again--” began the Colonel with a wry
face.
“That’s silly,” said the girl calmly. “You won’t have your life to
live over again, so why speculate upon the possibility? Anyway, if you
could live your life over again, you could not possibly benefit by
your present experience, because you would not remember it. You have
lived two lives, which is the better?”
“You are in a queer mood, to-night,” said Colonel Westhanger, rising
and stalking past her to the fire-place. “Have you got religion, or
something?”
“Which is the better?” she asked again. “To be a free thief or to be
in the dull bondage of honesty?”
“For your peace of mind the honest life is the better,” said the
Colonel. “You have no sleepless nights, no agony of mind which you
have to conceal with whatever skill you possess at every knock at the
door, no fear of the police, no wondering what the next day is going
to bring forth.”
“Really!” she looked up at him quizzically. “Do honest men never have
any of those experiences? Do honest men get into debt, for example,
and dread the coming of the collector? Does an honest man who is
getting grey feel a little sickening sensation in his heart every time
his employer looks at him thoughtfully?”
The Colonel turned round and snarled over his shoulder.
“As you seem to have all your answers ready-made, I don’t know why you
trouble to ask me,” he snapped; “there are advantages and
disadvantages on both sides of the picture.”
The girl was in a restless mood and presently she sprang up, walked to
the window, opened the little square of shutter and looked out into
the darkening street. Then she crossed to her little desk at one side
of the fireplace. She sat down and wrote for a while, then, as
suddenly, she dropped her pen and got up again.
“You are going to ask another question,” warned the Colonel.
“Only one,” she pleaded.
“Well, fire away,” he grumbled ungraciously.
“What would induce you to forsake your career and apply your undoubted
talents, as the assize judge said to poor dear Mr. Mulberry, to better
purpose?”
“Wealth,” said the Colonel promptly,--“enough stuff put aside to bring
me in a nice little income. And here again, let me say, Kate, that you
and I could well afford to knock off--”
She interrupted him.
“That is a purely material inducement,” she said. “What
other--spiritual or ethical?”
“Oh, rot!” he snapped. “Why do you ask these fool questions?”
“Because I am wondering,” she said, “what influence could be brought
to bear upon me. The opinion of my fellow creatures? No, I don’t care
what they think. I know they are mostly fools and so why should they
influence me? Wealth? No, if I were rich as Crœsus I should go on,
for the sport of it. Punishment? No, I should use my spare time in
correcting the faults in me which had resulted in my detection. I am
afraid I am incorrigible, uncle, for there is something about this
life which appeals to me no end--and now I am going to dress,” she
said, making for the door.
“Going out?” asked the Colonel in surprise.
She nodded.
“But Gregori--”
“Gregori can wait,” said Kate, “and Gregori bores me. He is always
trying to make love.”
“Is that remarkable?” suggested the Colonel archly.
“It is remarkably annoying,” said the girl. She flung open the door
and stepped back. Gregori, politest of cavaliers, stood deferentially
in the entrance and she surveyed him coolly.
“Were you listening?” she asked.
“Señorita!” he said, shocked.
She laughed and passed out. Gregori watched her as she mounted the
stairs till she turned out of sight, then he closed the door and came
across to the Colonel.
“Our little friend is hard on me,” he said with no hint of malice in
his voice.
“She is a queer girl, Gregori,” replied the Colonel, shaking his head.
“She is a queer girl,” repeated Gregori; “queer indeed, yes.”
He stroked his little black moustache.
“She doesn’t like me.”
“Who does she like?” snapped the older man.
“You, I trust,” smiled the Spaniard.
The Colonel tossed his head despairingly.
“I hardly know,” he said. “What a reversal of positions!”
The Spaniard took the seat the girl had vacated.
“I know what you are thinking about,” he nodded; “a few years ago she
was the obedient child absorbing our code--to-day she is the
tyrannical mistress of the situation.”
He deftly unrolled and rolled a Spanish cigarette, licked its edges
and fumbled for a match in his waistcoat pocket.
“She is all brain, our Kate,” he said admiringly, “but her
heart--pouf!” he puffed out a cloud of smoke to emphasize the word.
“There is no end to her energy,” he went on; “sometimes I think she is
dangerous and then when I come to consider all things it is impossible
to say that she can be. After all, hers is only the plan. The
responsibility for the bungling is with us--the plan is so perfect
that you can hardly pick a hole in it. She works out to the last
minute detail the chronology of a coup, she dresses it, rehearses it.
She never fails. Yes, it was Rahboulla,” he agreed, “and I was wrong
to kick. What was it she called me, a ‘centre forward’ and a ‘dago’,”
he laughed softly.
“She is very young,” said the Colonel apologetically, “and a little
impetuous of speech--she talks too much, I think.”
“A pretty woman can never talk too much,” said the gallant Gregori;
“she can think too much and talk too little. A person who talks is
like a lighted house with all the blinds up and the doors open, you
know where you are. Now, Colonel _mio_, how far have we got with this
new scheme?”
The Colonel brought a chair in one hand and a light table in the other
to where the Spaniard sat, produced from his inside-pocket a bunch of
memoranda and in a few minutes the men were deep in the discussion of
the most remarkable, the most startling and the most daring enterprise
that Crime Street had ever undertaken.