"SHEEP OF THY PASTURE"
The autumn sun shone brightly into the artistic little sitting-room at
the _Berkeley Hotel_, overlooking Piccadilly and the Green Park, where,
next morning, I was seated alone with Lola.
She was dressed in a pretty, neatly-made gown of a delicate brown shade,
with silk stockings and smart little shoes to match, and as she leaned
back in her cosy arm-chair, her pointed chin upon her white hand, her
big blue eyes, so full of expression, were turned upon me, their brows
slightly knit in her earnestness.
Upon the centre table stood a big silver bowl of dahlias and autumn
foliage, while upon a sideboard was lying a fine bouquet of roses which
a page-boy had brought in as we had been chatting.
I related my strange experience of the previous night, whereupon she had
said, in a low, intense voice--
"Yes. I heard yesterday afternoon, when I was at Vernon's house in
Hampstead, that an attempt was to be made somewhere. But I was not told
where."
"Lola," I exclaimed, taking her hand tenderly, and looking into her
eyes, "I am here this morning to save you from these people, and to save
myself. If we remain inactive like this, they will deal us both a secret
blow. They fear you, and in addition they know that I have discovered
who they are, and the truth concerning some of their crimes."
She nodded, but no sound escaped her lips.
At last, however, by dint of long persuasion and argument, I succeeded
in convincing her that I really was her friend, and that even if I
exposed the gang, and caused them to be arrested, I could at the same
time keep her out of the sensational affair which must inevitably
result.
She rose, and for a long time stood at the window, gazing out upon the
never-ceasing traffic in Piccadilly, her countenance very grave and
thoughtful. By the quick rising and falling of her bosom, and by her
pursed lips, I saw how deep was her agitation, how torn was her mind by
conflicting emotions.
At last, as she leaned upon a chair, her eyes still fixed blankly out
upon the long, rather monotonous façade of the _Ritz Hotel_, she began
to tell me some of the facts she knew concerning her notorious uncle,
Jules Jeanjean.
"He started life," she explained, "as an employé of the Nord Railway of
France, and, being honest and hardworking, rose from an obscure
situation in the goods-yard at Creil to become chief conductor on the
express line between Calais and Paris. His sister, who was my mother,
had married Felix Sorel, a leather-merchant in the Boulevard de Clichy,
and they had one daughter, myself. Jules, however, remained unmarried.
Apparently he held advanced Republican views, and soon entertained
Anarchist ideas, yet no fault was ever found with the performance of his
duties by the railway officials. He was, I have heard, a model servant,
always punctual, sober, and so extremely polite that all the habitual
passengers knew and liked him."
She paused, reflecting.
"It seems," she went on after a few moments, "it seems that as chief of
the express which left Calais for Paris each day, after the arrival of
the midday boat from Dover, his position was much coveted by the other
employés. After about two and a half years of this, however, the Company
one day offered him the post of Station-Inspector at Abbeville, where
the boat expresses stop for water. But, to the surprise of his friends,
he declined and, moreover, resigned from the service, pleading an
internal trouble, and left France."
"Curious," I remarked. "He must have had some other motive than that for
his sudden decision, I suppose."
Then, continuing her narrative, the pretty blue-eyed girl revealed to
me a very remarkable story. From what she said it appeared that during
his two and a half years' service between Calais and Dover, her uncle
had been reaping a golden harvest and placing great sums of money in an
English bank. The device by which the money had been gained was both
ingenious and simple. Employed in the Customs House at the Maritime
Station at Calais--through which all persons travelling from England by
that route have to pass--was a _douanier_ from Corsica who, though a
French subject, bore an Italian name, Egisto Bertini. Between Bertini
and the honest train-conductor a close friendship had arisen. Then
Bertini, who had become acquainted with a London diamond-broker, Mr.
Gregory Vernon, a constant traveller between the French and English
capitals, one day introduced his friend. Before long Vernon's
master-mind was at work, and at a meeting of the three men, held one
evening on Dover cliffs, a very neat conspiracy was formed. It was
simply this--
Bertini's duty was to examine passengers' baggage registered beyond
Paris, and when it was placed upon the counter in the Customs House, he
kept an open eye for any jewel-cases. Exercising his power, he would
have them opened and inspect their contents, and then, being replaced,
the box would be locked by the unsuspecting passenger. The Customs
Officer would, however, chalk a peculiar mark upon the trunk containing
the valuables, and during its transit between Calais and Paris Jeanjean
would go to the baggage-wagon, and, with a big bunch of duplicate keys,
unlock the marked trunks, abstract the jewellery, and relock it again.
By the time the unfortunate passenger discovered the loss, the stolen
property would probably be on its way into old Vernon's hands for
disposal in Antwerp or Amsterdam.
Thus the two made some huge _coups_. In one instance, the pearls of the
Duchess of Carcassonne, valued at forty-five thousand pounds, were
secured, and never traced, for they were sold east of Suez. In another
instance the celebrated diamond necklace belonging to Mademoiselle
Montbard, the famous actress at the Ambigu in Paris, worth thirty
thousand pounds, was abstracted from her baggage. Emeralds to the value
of over twenty thousand pounds, the property of the wife of an American
millionaire, and the whole of the famous jewels of the Princess
Tchernowski were also among the articles stolen.
So constant, however, were these mysterious thefts, that at last the
police established a strict surveillance upon all baggage, and hence the
interesting little game was at an end.
Matters grew a trifle too warm, and though neither Jeanjean nor Bertini
changed their mode of life with their rapidly-gained wealth, yet it was
felt that to retire was best. So, within a month of each other, they
left. Jeanjean crossed over to England, and Bertini accepted promotion
to Boulogne, where he remained several months, fearing that if he
resigned too quickly suspicions might be aroused.
Of course, after this, the organized thefts between Calais and Paris
ceased suddenly, though the Company never entertained the slightest
suspicion of the guilty persons, or of the mode in which each trunk
containing jewellery was made known to the thief.
Vernon's craft and cunning were unequalled, for at his suggestion,
Jeanjean, though he had over fifty thousand pounds in the Bank of
England, now embarked upon the career of a jewel-thief, whose audacity,
daring and elusiveness was astounding. His anarchist views prompted him
to disregard human life wherever it interfered with his plans, and so
clever and ingenious were his _coups_, that the police of Europe, whom
he so often defied, stood dumbfounded.
About this time Lola's father, the honest leather-merchant of Paris,
went bankrupt, and died a few weeks afterwards of phthisis, while Madame
Sorel, brokenhearted, followed her husband to the grave two months
later, leaving little Lola alone. She was then fifteen, and her uncle,
seeing that she might be of use to him, adopted her as his daughter,
and gradually initiated her into the arts and wiles of an expert-thief.
His whole surroundings were criminal, she declared to me. She lived in
an atmosphere of crime, for to the flat in the Boulevard Pereire, which
her uncle made his headquarters when in Paris, came the men, Bertini,
Vernon, Hodrickx, Hunzle, and others, great _coups_ being discussed
between them, and arranged, thefts carried out in various cities of
Europe, often at great cost and frequently with the assistance of Lola,
who was pressed into the service, and upon whom her uncle had bestowed
the name of "The Nightingale," on account of her sweet voice.
Vernon was the brain of the organization. By his connection with the
diamond trade he obtained information as to who had valuable gems in
their possession, and by the exercise of his marvellous wit and
subterfuge would devise deep and remarkable plots of which the
assassination of the well-known Paris jeweller, M. Benoy, was one. In
three years the daring gang, so perfectly organized, perpetrated no
fewer than eighteen big jewel robberies as well as other smaller thefts
and burglaries. In many, robbery was, alas! accompanied by brutal
violence. The Paris _Sûreté_, Scotland Yard, and the Detective
Departments of Berlin, Brussels, and Rome were ever on the alert
endeavouring to trace, capture, and break up the gang, but with the
large funds at their disposal they were able to bribe even responsible
officials who became obnoxious, and by such means evade arrest. Of these
bribings there had been many sinister whispers, as Henri Jonet told me
months afterwards.
"Ah! Lola!" I exclaimed. "How strangely romantic your career has been!"
"Yes, M'sieur Vidal," she replied, turning her splendid eyes upon mine.
"And were it not for your generosity towards me, I should have been
arrested that night at Balmaclellan, and at this moment would have been
in prison."
"I know that you have been associated with these men through no fault
of your own--that you have been forced to become a confederate of
thieves and assassins," I said. "Surely no other girl in all England,
or, indeed, in Europe, has found herself in a similar position--the
decoy of such a dangerous and unscrupulous gang."
"No," faltered the girl. "It was not my fault, I assure you. Ah! Heaven
knows how, times without number, I have endeavoured to defy and break
away from them. But they were always too artful, too strong for me. My
uncle held me in his grip, and though he was never unkind, yet he was
always determined, and constantly threatened me with exposure if I did
not blindly do his bidding. Thus I was forced to remain his cat's paw,
even till to-day," she added, in a voice full of sorrow and regret.
I recollected the scene I had witnessed on Hampstead Heath on the
previous night--her meeting with the man who had so mysteriously died in
Cromer, and as I gazed upon her fair face, I pondered.
What could it mean?
Apparently she was staying at the _Berkeley_ alone, and I mentioned this
fact.
"Oh, they know me well, here. When I'm alone, I often stay here," she
explained, still speaking in French. "I like the place far better than
the _Carlton_ or the _Ritz_. I have had quite enough of the big hotels,"
she added with a meaning smile.
She referred to those hotels where she had lived in order to rub
shoulders with women who possessed rich jewels.
At that moment a foreign waiter knocked at the door and interrupted our
_tête-à-tête_, by announcing--
"Mr. Craig to see you, miss."
"Show him in," was her prompt reply in English, as she rose and glanced
quickly at me. I saw that her cheeks were slightly flushed in her sudden
excitement.
And a few seconds later I stood face to face with the man upon whose
body a Coroner's verdict had been pronounced.
He was tall, good-looking, and smartly-dressed in a grey lounge-suit,
carrying his plush Tyrolese hat in his hand.
On seeing me he drew back, and cast a quick, inquisitive glance at Lola.
"This is M'sieur Vidal," the girl exclaimed in her pretty broken
English, introducing us. "My very good friend of whom I spoke
yesterday--M'sieur Edouard Craig."
We bowed to each other, and I thought I saw upon his face a look of
annoyance. He had evidently believed Lola to be alone.
In an instant, however, the shadow fled from the young man's face, and
he exclaimed with frankness--
"I'm extremely pleased to know you, sir, more especially after what Lola
has told me concerning you."
"What has she told you?" I asked, with a smile. "Nothing very terrible,
I hope?"
For a second he did not reply. Then, looking over at her as she stood on
the opposite side of the table, he replied--
"Well, she has told me of your long friendship and--and--may I be
permitted to tell Mr. Vidal, Lola?" he suddenly asked, turning to her.
"Tell him what you wish," she answered.
"Then I will not conceal it," he went on, turning back to me. "Lola has
explained to me her position, her connection with certain undesirable
persons, whom we need not mention, and how you in your generosity
allowed her her freedom."
"She has told you!" I gasped in surprise, not understanding in what
position he stood towards the dainty little Parisienne. "Well, Mr.
Craig, I thought you knew that long ago," I added after a pause.
"Until last night, I was in entire ignorance of the whole truth. I met
Lola at Hampstead, and she explained many things that have astounded
me."
"I have told Mr. Craig the truth," declared the girl, her cheeks flushed
with excitement. "It was only right that he should know who and what I
am--especially as----" she broke off suddenly.
"Especially as--what?" I asked.
"Especially as I love you, Lola, eh?" the young man chimed in, grasping
her hand and raising it to his lips fondly.
This revelation staggered me. The pair were lovers! This man, whose
attitude when he saw her in secret at Boscombe was so antagonistic, was
now deeply in love with her! Surely I was living in a world of
surprises!
How much, I wondered, had she revealed to this man who was believed to
have been buried?
For some moments all three of us stood looking at each other, neither
uttering a word.
Then I swiftly put to the young man several questions, and receiving
answers, excused myself, and went below to the telephone.
I had three calls in various directions, and then returned to where Lola
and her lover were standing together. Heedless of my presence, so deeply
in love was he, that he was holding her hand and looking affectionately
into the girl's eyes as he bent, whispering lovingly, to her.
Yes, they were indeed a well-matched pair standing there together. She
sweet and innocent-looking, he tall and athletic, with all the
appearance of a gentleman.
Yet it was Edward Craig, the man who had lived at Beacon House at
Cromer, the man whom I had seen lying stark and dead, killed by some
mysterious means which medical men could not discover. Edward Craig, the
dead man in the flesh!