Unlike so many of my countrymen I am prepared to state that I detest the
French capital. I always make my visits to it as brief as possible,
then, my business completed, off I fly again, seeming to breathe more
freely when I am outside its boundaries. I don't know why this should be
so, for I have always been treated with the utmost courtesy and
consideration by its inhabitants, particularly by those members of the
French Detective Force with whom I have been brought in contact.
On this visit I crossed with one of the cleverest Parisian detectives, a
man with whom I have had many dealings. He was most anxious to ascertain
the reason of my visit to his country. My assurance that I was not in
search of any one of his own criminals seemed to afford him no sort of
satisfaction. He probably regarded it as an attempt to put him off the
scent, and I fancy he resented it. We reached Paris at seven o'clock,
whereupon I invited him to dine with me at eight o'clock, at a
restaurant we had both patronized on many previous occasions. He
accepted my invitation, and promised to meet me at the time and place I
named. On the platform awaiting our arrival was my man Dickson, to whom
I had telegraphed, ordering him to meet me.
"Well, Dickson," I said, when I had bade the detective _au revoir_,
"what about our man?"
"I've had him under my eye, sir," he answered. "I know exactly what he's
been doing, and where he's staying."
"That's good news indeed," I replied. "Have you discovered anything else
about him?"
"Yes, sir," he returned. "I find that he's struck up a sudden
acquaintance with a lady named Mademoiselle Beaumarais, and that they
are to dine together at the Café des Ambassadeurs to-night. They have
been in and out of half the jewellers' shops in the Rue de la Paix
to-day, and he's spending a mint of money on her."
"They are dining at the Café des Ambassadeurs to-night, did you say? At
what time?"
"I cannot tell you that, sir," Dickson replied. "I only know that they
are to dine there together to-night."
"And pray how did you find that out?"
"I made inquiries as to who she was, where she lived, and then pumped
her maid," he answered.
"You did not do anything that would excite his suspicions, I hope," I
put in. "You ought to know by this time what women are."
"Oh, no, sir, you needn't be afraid," he said. "I was too careful for
that. The maid and I are on very friendly terms. She believes me to be a
Russian, and I've not denied it."
"It would be safest not to do so," I replied. "If she discovers that you
are an Englishman, she might chance to mention the fact to her mistress.
She would doubtless let it fall in conversation with him, and then all
our trouble would be useless. You speak Russian, do you not?"
"Only pretty well, sir," he answered. "I should be soon bowled out if I
came in contact with a real one."
"Well, I think I will be somewhere near the Café des Ambassadeurs
to-night just to make sure of my man. After that I'll tell you what
to do next."
"Very good, sir," he returned. "I suppose you will be staying at the
same place?"
"Yes, the same place," I replied. "If you have anything to communicate,
you can either call, or send word to me there."
I thereupon departed for the quiet house at which I usually take up my
abode when in Paris. The big hotels are places I steer clear of, for the
simple reason that I often have business in connection with them, and it
does not pay me to become too well known. At this little house I can go
out and come in just as I please, have my meals at any time of the day
or night, and am as well cared for as at my own abode in London. On this
occasion the old lady of the house greeted me with flattering
enthusiasm. She had received my telegram, she said, and my usual room
awaited me. I accordingly ascended to it in order to dress myself for
the dinner of the evening, and as I did so, thought of the pretty
bedroom I had seen on the previous day, which naturally led me to think
of the owner of the house, at that moment my employer. In my mind's eye
I could see her just as she had stood on that old stone bridge at
Bishopstowe, with the sunset behind her and the church bells sounding
across the meadows, calling the villagers to evensong. How much better
it was, I argued, to be standing talking to her there in that old world
peace, than to be dressing for a dinner at an up-to-date French
restaurant. My toilet completed, I descended to the street, hired a
_fiacre_, and drove to the restaurant where I had arranged to meet my
friend. The place in question is neither an expensive nor a fashionable
one. It has no halls of mirrors, no dainty little cabinets, but, to my
thinking, you can obtain the best dinner in all Paris there. On reaching
it I found my guest had been the first to arrive. We accordingly
ascended the stairs to the room above, where we selected our table and
sat down. My companion was a witty little man with half the languages of
Europe on his tongue, and a knowledge of all the tricks and dodges of
all the criminal fraternity at his finger-ends. He has since written a
book on his experiences, and a stranger volume, or one more replete with
a knowledge of the darker side of human nature it would be difficult to
find. He had commenced his professional career as a doctor, and like
myself had gradually drifted into the detective profession. Among other
things he was an inimitable hand at disguising himself, as many a
wretched criminal now knows to his cost. Even I, who know him so well,
have been taken in by him. I have given alms to a blind beggar in the
streets, have encountered him as a _chiffonier_ prowling about the
gutters, have sat next to him on an omnibus when he has been clothed as
an artisan in a blue blouse, and on not one of those occasions have I
ever recognized him until he made himself known to me. Among other
things he was a decided epicure, and loved a good dinner as well as any
of his compatriots. Could you but see him with his napkin tucked under
his chin, his little twinkling eyes sparkling with mirth, and his face
wreathed in smiles, you would declare him to be one of the
jolliest-looking individuals you have ever encountered. See him,
however, when he is on business and has a knotty problem to solve, and
you will find a different man. The mouth has become one of iron, the
eyes are as fierce as fierce can be. Some one, I remember, likened him
to the great Napoleon, and the description is an exceedingly apt one.
"By the way," I said, as we took a peep into our second bottle of
Perrier-Jouet, "there is a question I want to put to you. Do you happen
to be acquainted with a certain Mademoiselle Beaumarais?"
"I have known her for more years than she or I would care to remember,"
he answered. "For a woman who has led the life she has, she wears
uncommonly well. A beautiful creature! The very finest shoulders in all
Paris, and that is saying something."
He blew a kiss off the tips of his fingers, and raised his glass in her
honour.
"I drink to her in this noble wine, but I do not let her touch my money.
Oh no, _la belle Louise_ is a clever woman, a very clever woman, but
money trickles through her fingers like water through a sieve. Let me
think for a moment. She ruined the Marquis D'Esmai, the Vicomte
Cotforét, Monsieur D'Armier, and many others whose names I cannot now
recall. The first is with our noble troops in Cochin China, the second
is in Algeria, and the third I know not where, and now I have learnt
since my arrival in Paris that she has got hold of a young Englishman,
who is vastly wealthy. She will have all he has got very soon, and then
he will begin the world anew. You are interested in that Englishman,
of course?"
"How do you know that?"
"Because you question me about Mademoiselle Beaumarais," he answered. "A
good many people have asked me about her at different times, but it is
always the man they want to get hold of. You, my astute Fairfax, are
interested in the man, not because you want to save him from her, but
because he has done a little something which he should not have done
elsewhere. The money he is lavishing on Mademoiselle Louise, whence does
it come? Should I be very wrong if I suggested gems?"
I gave a start of surprise. How on earth did he guess this?
"Yes! I see I'm right," he answered with a little laugh. "Well, I knew
it a long time ago. Ah, you are astonished! You should surely never
allow yourself to be surprised by anything. Now I will tell you how I
come to know about the gems. Some time ago a certain well-known lady of
this city lost her jewel-case in a mysterious manner. The affair was
placed in my hands, and when I had exhausted Paris, I went to Amsterdam,
_en route_ if necessary for London. You know our old friends, Levenstein
and Schartzer?"
I nodded. I had had dealings with that firm on many occasions.
"Well, as I went into their office, I saw the gentleman who has been
paying his attentions to the lady we have been discussing, come out. I
have an excellent memory for faces, and when I saw him to-night entering
the Café des Ambassadeurs, I recognized him immediately. Thus the
mystery is explained."
He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands apart, like a conjurer
who has just vanished a rabbit or an orange.
"Has the man of whom we are speaking done very wrong?" he inquired.
"The stones he sold in London and Amsterdam belonged to himself and his
two partners," I answered. "He has not given them their share of the
transaction. That is all."
"They had better be quick about it then, or they are not likely to get
anything. It would be a very big sum that would tempt _la belle Louise_
to be faithful for a long period. If your employers really desire to
punish him, and they are not in want of money, I should say do not let
them interfere. She will then _nibble-nibble_ at what he has got like a
mouse into a store of good things. Then presently that store will be all
gone, and then she will give him up, and he, the man, will go out and
shoot himself, and she will pick up somebody else, and will begin to
nibble-nibble just as before. As I say, there will be somebody else, and
somebody else, right up to the end of the chapter. And with every one
she will grow just an imperceptible bit older. By and by the wrinkles
will appear; I fancy there are just one or two already. Then she will
not be so fastidious about her hundred of thousand francs, and will
condescend to think of mere thousands. After that it will come to simple
hundreds. Then there will be an interval--after which a garret, a
charcoal brazier, and the Morgue. I have known so many, and it is always
the same. First, the diamonds, the champagne, the exquisite little
dinners at the best restaurants, and at last the brazier, the closed
doors and windows, and the cold stone slab. There is a moral in it, my
dear friend, but we will not look for it to-night. When do you intend to
commence business with your man?"
"At once," I answered. "He knows that I am after him and my only fear is
that he will make a bolt. I cannot understand why he is dallying in
Paris so long?"
"For the simple reason that he is confident he has put you off the
scent," was my companion's reply. "He is doing the one foolish thing the
criminal always does sooner or later; that is to say, he is becoming
over-confident of his own powers to elude us. You and I, my friend,
should be able to remember several such instances. Now, strange to say,
I came across a curious one the other day. Would you care to hear it?"
He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke while he waited for my
answer.
"Very much," I said, being well aware that his stories were always worth
hearing.
"This is a somewhat remarkable case," he said. "I will mention no names,
but doubtless you can read between the lines. There was a man who
murdered his wife in order that he might marry another woman. The
thought which he gave to it, and the clever manner in which he laid his
plans, not only for the murder, but also for the disposal of the body,
marked him as a criminal in the possession of a singularly brilliant
intellect. He gave no hint to anybody, but left the country without
leaving the faintest clue concerning his destination behind him. I was
called in to take over the case, but after some consideration could make
nothing of it. I have no objection to admitting that I was completely
baffled. Now it so happened that I discovered that the man's mother was
of Irish extraction. He, believing that he would be safe on that island,
engaged a passage on board a steamer from Havre to Belfast. She was to
pick up at Southampton, Plymouth, and Bristol, _en route_. My man, who,
by the way, was a very presentable person, and could be distinctly
sociable when he pleased, endeavoured to make himself agreeable to the
passengers on board. On the first evening out of port, the conversation
turned upon the value of diamonds, and one of the ladies on board
produced some costly stones she happened to have in her possession. The
murderer, who, you must understand, was quite safe, was unhappily eaten
up with vanity. He could not forego the boast that he was the possessor
of a magnificent ring, which had been given him by the ex-Emperor
Napoleon III. Needless to say this information excited considerable
interest, and he was asked to produce it for the general edification.
"He declared that it was too late to do so that evening, but said that he
would do so on the morrow, or, at any rate, before he left the vessel.
In the excitement of reaching Southampton the matter was for the moment
forgotten, but on the day that they arrived in Plymouth one of the lady
passengers reminded him of his promise. This was followed by another
application. Thus surrounded, the unhappy man found himself in the
unpleasant position of being discovered in the perpetration of an
untruth, or of being compelled to invent some feasible tale in order to
account for his not being able to produce the ring. It was at this
juncture that he made his great mistake. Anxious, doubtless, to attract
attention, he returned from his cabin with the astounding declaration
that the lock had been forced, and the famous ring stolen from his trunk
in which it had lain concealed. He certainly acted his part well, but he
did not realize to what consequences it would lead. The matter was
reported to the police, and a search was made through the vessel. The
passengers were naturally indignant at such treatment, and for the rest
of the voyage the man found himself taking, what you English 'call the
cold shoulder.' He reached Belfast, made his way into the country, and
presently settled down. Later on, when the pursuit had died down, it
was his intention to ship for America, where he was to be joined by the
woman, to obtain whom he had in the first place committed the crime. Now
observe the result. Photographs of the missing man and the murdered
woman were circulated all through France, while not a few were sent to
England. One of these pictures reached Plymouth, where it was shown to
the officer who had investigated the case on the boat on its way to
Ireland. He immediately recognized the man who had made the charge
against his fellow-passengers. After that it was easy to trace him to
Belfast and his hiding-place on land. Extradition was, of course,
granted, and he left the place. Had he not imagined that in his safety
he could indulge his vanities, I confidently believe I should never have
found him. When you come to think of it, it is hard to come to the
guillotine for a diamond that never existed, is it not?"
I agreed with him, and then suggested that we should amuse ourselves by
endeavouring to find out how the dinner at the Café des Ambassadeurs was
progressing.
"They will proceed to a theatre afterwards, you may be sure," my
companion said. "In that case, if you like we could catch a glimpse of
them as they come out. What do you say?"
I answered that I had not the least objection.
"One night does not make much difference. To-morrow morning I shall make
a point of meeting him face to face."
"Should you require my assistance then, I shall be most pleased to give
it to you?" my companion replied.
I thanked him for his offer, and then we left the restaurant together,
hailed a cab, and drove to his flat. It consisted of four rooms situated
at the top of a lofty block of buildings near the river. From his
windows he could look out over Paris, and he was wont to declare that
the view he received in exchange was the most beautiful in the world.
Fine as it was, I was scarcely so enthusiastic in my praise.
Among other things they were remarkable for the simplicity of their
furniture, and also for the fact that in the sitting-room there was
nothing to reveal the occupation of their owner. His clever old servant,
Susanne, of whom 'twas said she would, did she but choose, make as
clever a detective as her master (she had served him for more than forty
years), brought us coffee so quickly that it would almost seem as if she
had been aware that we should reach the house at that particular moment.
"We have plenty of time to spare," said my host. "In the meantime it
will be necessary for us to find out what they are doing. If you will
wait I will despatch a messenger, who will procure us the information."
He wrote something on a half-sheet of note-paper, rang the bell, and
handed it to Susanne.
"Give that to Leon," he said, "and tell him to be off with it at once."
The woman disappeared, and when she had gone we resumed our
conversation. Had he not had the good fortune to be such a great success
in his own profession, what an admirable actor the man would have made!
His power of facial contortion was extraordinary, and I believe that on
demand he could have imitated almost any face that struck his fancy.
"And now with regard to our little excursion," he said. "What would you
like to be? As you are aware, I can offer you a varied selection. Will
you be a workman, a pedlar, an elderly gentleman from the Provinces, or
a street beggar?"
"I think the elderly gentleman from the Provinces would suit me best," I
answered, "while it will not necessitate a change of dress."
"Very good then, so it shall be," he replied. "We'll be a couple of
elderly gentlemen in Paris for the first time. Let me conduct you to my
dressing-room, where you will find all that is necessary for
your make-up."
He thereupon showed me to a room leading out of that in which we had
hitherto been sitting. It was very small, and lighted by means of a
skylight. Indeed, it was that very skylight, so he always declared, that
induced him to take the flat.
"If this room looked out over the back, or front, it would have been
necessary for me either to have curtains, which I abominate, or to run
the risk of being observed, which would have been far worse," he had
remarked to me once. "Needless to say there are times when I find it
most necessary that my preparations should not be suspected."
Taken altogether, it was a room that had a strange fascination for me. I
had been in it many times before, but was always able to discover
something new in it. It was a conglomeration of cupboards and shelves. A
large variety of costumes hung upon the pegs in the walls, ranging from
soldier's uniforms to beggar's rags. There were wigs of all sorts and
descriptions on blocks, pads of every possible order and for every part
of the body, humps for hunchbacks, wooden legs, boots ranging from the
patent leather of the dandy to the toeless foot-covering of the beggar.
There were hats in abundance, from the spotless silk to the most
miserable head coverings, some of which looked as if they had been
picked up from the rubbish-heap. There were pedlars' trays fitted with
all and every sort of ware, a faro-table, a placard setting forth the
fact that the renowned Professor Somebody or Other was a most remarkable
phrenologist and worthy of a visit. In fact there was no saying what
there was not there. Everything that was calculated to be useful to him
in his profession was to be found in the room.
For my own part I am not fond of disguises. Indeed on only two or three
occasions, during the whole course of my professional career, have I
found it necessary to conceal my identity. But to this wily little
Frenchman disguise was, as often as not, a common occurrence.
Half-an-hour later, two respectable elderly gentlemen, looking more like
professors from some eminent _Lycée_ than detectives, left the house and
proceeded in the direction of the Folly Theatre. The performance was
almost at an end when we reached it, and we mingled with the crowd who
had assembled to watch the audience come out. The inquiries we had made
proved to be correct, and it was not very long before I saw the man I
wanted emerge, accompanied by a female, who could be no other than
Mademoiselle Beaumarais. Hayle was in immaculate evening dress, and as I
could not but admit, presented a handsome figure to the world. A neat
little brougham drew up beside the pavement in its turn, and into this
they stepped. Then the door was closed upon them, and the carriage
drove away.
"That's my man," I said to my companion, as we watched it pass out of
sight. "To-morrow morning I shall pay him a little visit. I think you
were quite right in what you said about the money. That woman must have
made a fairly big hole in it already."
"You may be quite sure of that," he answered. "When she has finished
with him there will not be much left for anybody else."
"And now to get these things off and then home to bed. To-morrow will in
all probability prove an exciting day."
I accompanied him to his room and removed the disguise which had enabled
me to see Hayle without his being aware of my identity, and then,
bidding my friend good-night, returned to my abode. Before I went to
bed, however, I sat down and wrote a report of my doings for Miss
Kitwater. Little as I had to tell, the writing of this letter gave me
considerable pleasure. I could imagine it coming like a breath from
another world to that quiet house at Bishopstowe. I pictured the girl's
face as she read it, and the strained attention of the two men, who,
needless to say, would hang on every word. When I had finished it I went
to bed, to dream that Gideon Hayle and I were swimming a race in the
Seine for five gigantic rubies which were to be presented to the winner
by Miss Kitwater.
Next morning I arose early, went for a stroll along the Boulevards, and
returned to breakfast at eight o'clock. In the matter of my breakfasts
in Paris, I am essentially English. I must begin the day with a good
meal, or I am fit for nothing. On this particular occasion I sat down on
the best of terms with myself and the world in general. I made an
excellent meal, did the best I could with the morning paper, for my
French is certainly not above reproach, and then wondered when I should
set out to interview the man whose flight from England had proved the
reason of my visiting Paris. Then the door opened and the _concierge_
entered with the words, "A gentleman to see Monsieur!" Next moment to my
overwhelming surprise no less a person than Gideon Hayle entered
the room.