An Imperial Finale
*A PRINCE OF SWINDLERS*
*CHAPTER I.*
*A CRIMINAL IN DISGUISE.*
After no small amount of deliberation, I have come to the conclusion
that it is only fit and proper I should set myself right with the world
in the matter of the now famous 18--swindles. For, though I have never
been openly accused of complicity in those miserable affairs, yet I
cannot rid myself of the remembrance that it was I who introduced the
man who perpetrated them to London society, and that in more than one
instance I acted, innocently enough, Heaven knows, as his _Deus ex
machina_, in bringing about the very results he was so anxious to
achieve. I will first allude, in a few words, to the year in which the
crimes took place, and then proceed to describe the events that led to
my receiving the confession which has so strangely and unexpectedly come
into my hands.
Whatever else may be said on the subject, one thing at least is
certain--it will be many years before London forgets that season of
festivity. The joyous occasion which made half the sovereigns of Europe
our guests for weeks on end, kept foreign princes among us until their
faces became as familiar to us as those of our own aristocracy, rendered
the houses in our fashionable quarters unobtainable for love or money,
filled our hotels to repletion, and produced daily pageants the like of
which few of us have ever seen or imagined, can hardly fail to go down
to posterity as one of the most notable in English history. Small
wonder, therefore, that the wealth, then located in our great
metropolis, should have attracted swindlers from all parts of the globe.
That it should have fallen to the lot of one who has always prided
himself on steering clear of undesirable acquaintances, to introduce to
his friends one of the most notorious adventurers our capital has ever
seen, seems like the irony of fate. Perhaps, however, if I begin by
showing how cleverly our meeting was contrived, those who would
otherwise feel inclined to censure me, will pause before passing
judgment, and will ask themselves whether they would not have walked
into the snare as unsuspectedly as I did.
It was during the last year of my term of office as Viceroy, and while I
was paying a visit to the Governor of Bombay, that I decided upon making
a tour of the Northern Provinces, beginning with Peshawur, and winding
up with the Maharajah of Malar-Kadir. As the latter potentate is so well
known, I need not describe him. His forcible personality, his
enlightened rule, and the progress his state has made within the last
ten years, are well known to every student of the history of our
magnificent Indian Empire.
My stay with him was a pleasant finish to an otherwise monotonous
business, for his hospitality has a world-wide reputation. When I
arrived he placed his palace, his servants, and his stables at my
disposal to use just as I pleased. My time was practically my own. I
could be as solitary as a hermit if I so desired; on the other hand, I
had but to give the order, and five hundred men would cater for my
amusement. It seems therefore the more unfortunate that to this pleasant
arrangement I should have to attribute the calamities which it is the
purpose of this series of stories to narrate.
On the third morning of my stay I woke early. When I had examined my
watch I discovered that it wanted an hour of daylight, and, not feeling
inclined to go to sleep again, I wondered how I should employ my time
until my servant should bring me my _chota hazri_, or early breakfast.
On proceeding to my window I found a perfect morning, the stars still
shining, though in the east they were paling before the approach of
dawn. It was difficult to realize that in a few hours the earth which
now looked so cool and wholesome would be lying, burnt up and quivering,
beneath the blazing Indian sun.
I stood and watched the picture presented to me for some minutes, until
an overwhelming desire came over me to order a horse and go for a long
ride before the sun should make his appearance above the jungle trees.
The temptation was more than I could resist, so I crossed the room and,
opening the door, woke my servant, who was sleeping in the ante-chamber.
Having bidden him find a groom and have a horse saddled for me, without
rousing the household, I returned and commenced my toilet. Then,
descending by a private staircase to the great courtyard, I mounted the
animal I found awaiting me there, and set off.
Leaving the city behind me I made my way over the new bridge with which
His Highness has spanned the river, and, crossing the plain, headed
towards the jungle, that rises like a green wall upon the other side.
My horse was a _waler_ of exceptional excellence, as every one who knows
the Maharajah's stable will readily understand, and I was just in the
humor for a ride. But the coolness was not destined to last long, for
by the time I had left the second village behind me, the stars had given
place to the faint grey light of dawn. A soft, breeze stirred the palms
and rustled the long grass, but its freshness was deceptive; the sun
would be up almost before I could look round, and then nothing could
save us from a scorching day.
After I had been riding for nearly an hour it struck me that, if I
wished to be back in time for breakfast, I had better think of
returning. At the time I was standing in the center of a small plain,
surrounded by jungle. Behind me was the path I had followed to reach
the place; in front, and to the right and left, others leading whither I
could not tell. Having no desire to return by the road I had come, I
touched up my horse and cantered off in an easterly direction, feeling
certain that even if I had to make a divergence, I should reach the city
without very much trouble.
By the time I had put three miles or so behind me the heat had become
stifling, the path being completely shut in on either side by the
densest jungle I have ever known. For all I could see to the contrary,
I might have been a hundred miles from any habitation.
Imagine my astonishment, therefore, when, on turning a corner of the
track, I suddenly left the jungle behind me, and found myself standing
on the top of a stupendous cliff, looking down upon a lake of blue
water. In the center of this lake was an island, and on the island a
house. At the distance I was from it the latter appeared to be built of
white marble, as indeed I afterward found to be the case. Anything,
however, more lovely than the effect produced by the blue water, the
white building, and the jungle-clad hills upon the other side, can
scarcely be imagined. I stood and gazed at it in delighted amazement.
Of all the beautiful places I had hitherto seen in India this, I could
honestly say, was entitled to rank first. But how it was to benefit me
in my present situation I could not for the life of me understand.
Ten minutes later I had discovered a guide, and also a path down the
cliff to the shore, where, I was assured, a boat and a man could be
obtained to transport me to the palace. I therefore bade my informant
precede me, and after some minutes' anxious scrambling my horse and I
reached the water's edge.
Once there, the boatman was soon brought to light, and, when I had
resigned my horse to the care of my guide, I was rowed across to the
mysterious residence in question.
On reaching it we drew up at some steps leading to a broad stone
esplanade, which, I could see, encircled the entire place. Out of a
grove of trees rose the building itself, a confused jumble of Eastern
architecture crowned with many towers. With the exception of the
vegetation and the blue sky, everything was of a dazzling white, against
which the dark green of palms contrasted with admirable effect.
Springing from the boat I made my way up the steps, imbued with much the
same feeling of curiosity as the happy Prince, so familiar to us in our
nursery days, must have experienced when he found the enchanted castle
in the forest. As I reached the top, to my unqualified astonishment, an
English man-servant appeared through a gate-way and bowed before me.
"Breakfast is served," he said, "and my master bids me say that he waits
to receive your lordship."
Though I thought he must be making a mistake, I said nothing, but
followed him along a terrace, through a magnificent gateway, on the top
of which a peacock was preening himself in the sunlight, through court
after court, all built of the same white marble, through a garden in
which a fountain was playing to the rustling accompaniment of pipal and
pomegranate leaves, to finally enter the veranda of the main building
itself.
Drawing aside the curtain which covered the finely-carved doorway, the
servant invited me to enter, and as I did so announced "His Excellency
the Viceroy."
The change from the vivid whiteness of the marble outside to the cool
semi-European room in which I now found myself was almost disconcerting
in its abruptness. Indeed, I had scarcely time to recover my presence
of mind before I became aware that my host was standing before me.
Another surprise was in store for me. I had expected to find a native,
instead of which he proved to be an Englishman.
"I am more indebted than I can say to your Excellency for the honor of
this visit," he began, as he extended his hand. "I can only wish I were
better prepared for it."
"You must not say that," I answered. "It is I who should apologize. I
fear I am an intruder. But to tell you the truth I had lost my way, and
it is only by chance that I am here at all. I was foolish to venture
out without a guide, and have none to blame for what has occurred but
myself."
"In this case I must thank the Fates for their kindness to me," returned
my host. "But don't let me keep you standing. You must be both tired
and hungry after your long ride, and breakfast, as you see, is upon the
table. Shall we show ourselves sufficiently blind to the
conventionalities to sit down to it without further preliminaries?"
Upon my assenting he struck a small gong at his side, and servants,
acting under the instructions of the white man who had conducted me to
his master's presence, instantly appeared in answer to it. We took our
places at the table, and the meal immediately commenced.
While it was in progress I was permitted an excellent opportunity of
studying my host, who sat opposite me, with such light as penetrated the
_jhilmills_ falling directly upon his face. I doubt, however, vividly
as my memory recalls the scene, whether I can give you an adequate
description of the man who has since come to be a sort of nightmare to
me.
In height he could not have been more than five feet two. His shoulders
were broad, and would have been evidence of considerable strength but
for one malformation, which completely spoilt his whole appearance. The
poor fellow suffered from curvature of the spine of the worst sort, and
the large hump between his shoulders produced a most extraordinary
effect. But it is when I endeavor to describe his face that I find
myself confronted with the most serious difficulty.
How to make you realize it I hardly know.
To begin with, I do not think I should be overstepping the mark were I
to say that it was one of the most beautiful countenances I have ever
seen in my fellow-men. Its contour was as perfect as that of the bust
of the Greek god Hermes, to whom, all things considered, it is only fit
and proper he should bear some resemblance. The forehead was broad, and
surmounted with a wealth of dark hair, in color almost black. His eyes
were large and dreamy, the brows almost pencilled in their delicacy; the
nose, the most prominent feature of his face, reminded me more of that
of the great Napoleon than any other I can recall.
His mouth was small but firm, his ears as tiny as those of an English
beauty, and set in closer to his head than is usual with those organs.
But it was his chin that fascinated me most. It was plainly that of a
man accustomed to command; that of a man of iron will whom no amount of
opposition would deter from his purpose. His hands were small and
delicate, and his fingers taper, plainly those of the artist, either a
painter or a musician. Altogether he presented a unique appearance, and
one that once seen would not be easily forgotten.
During the meal I congratulated him upon the possession of such a
beautiful residence, the like of which I had never seen before.
"Unfortunately," he answered, "the place does not belong to me, but is
the property of our mutual host, the Maharajah. His Highness, knowing
that I am a scholar and a recluse, is kind enough to permit me the use
of this portion of the palace; and the value of such a privilege I must
leave you to imagine."
"You are a student, then?" I said, as I began to understand matters a
little more clearly.
"In a perfunctory sort of way," he replied. "That is to say, I have
acquired sufficient knowledge to be aware of my own ignorance."
I ventured to inquire the subject in which he took most interest. It
proved to be china and the native art of India, and on these two topics
we conversed for upwards of half-an-hour. It was evident that he was a
consummate master of his subject. This I could the more readily
understand when, our meal being finished, he led me into an adjoining
room, in which stood the cabinets containing his treasures. Such a
collection I had never seen before. Its size and completeness amazed
me.
"But surely you have not brought all these specimens together yourself?"
I asked in astonishment.
"With a few exceptions," he answered. "You see it has been the hobby of
my life. And it is to the fact that I am now engaged upon a book upon
the subject, which I hope to have published in England next year, that
you may attribute my playing the hermit here."
"You intend, then, to visit England?"
"If my book is finished in time," he answered, "I shall be in London at
the end of April or the commencement of May. Who would not wish to be
in the chief city of Her Majesty's dominions upon such a joyous and
auspicious occasion?"
As he said this he took down a small vase from a shelf, and, as if to
change the subject, described its history and its beauties to me. A
stranger picture than he presented at that moment it would be difficult
to imagine. His long fingers held his treasure as carefully as if it
were an invaluable jewel, his eyes glistened with the fire of the true
collector, who is born but never made, and when he came to that part of
his narrative which described the long hunt for, and the eventual
purchase of, the ornament in question, his voice fairly shook with
excitement. I was more interested than at any other time I should have
thought possible, and it was then that I committed the most foolish
action of my life. Quite carried away by his charm I said:
"I hope when you _do_ come to London, you will permit me to be of any
service I can to you."
"I thank you," he answered gravely, "our lordship is very kind, and if
the occasion arises, as I hope it will, I shall most certainly avail
myself of your offer."
"We shall be very pleased to see you," I replied; "and now, if you will
not consider me inquisitive, may I ask if you live in this great place
alone?"
"With the exception of my servants I have no companions."
"Really! You must surely find it very lonely?"
"I do, and it is that very solitude which endears it to me. When His
Highness so kindly offered me the place for a residence, I inquired if I
should have much company. He replied that I might remain here twenty
years and never see a soul unless I chose to do so. On hearing that I
accepted his offer with alacrity."
"Then you prefer the life of a hermit to mixing with your fellow-men?"
"I do. But next year I shall put off my monastic habits for a few
months, and mix with my fellow-men, as you call them, in London."
"You will find hearty welcome, I am sure."
"It is very kind of you to say so; I hope I shall. But I am forgetting
the rules of hospitality. You are a great smoker, I have heard. Let me
offer you a cigar."
As he spoke he took a small silver whistle from his pocket, and blew a
peculiar note upon it. A moment later the same English servant who had
conducted me to his presence, entered, carrying a number of cigar boxes
upon a tray. I chose one, and as I did so glanced at the man. In
outward appearance he was exactly what a body servant should be, of
medium height, scrupulously neat, clean shaven, and with a face as
devoid of expression as a blank wall. When he had left the room again
my host immediately turned to me.
"Now," he said, "as you have seen my collection, will you like to
explore the palace?"
To this proposition I gladly assented, and we set off together. An hour
later, satiated with the beauty of what I had seen, and feeling as if I
had known the man beside me all my life, I bade him good-bye upon the
steps and prepared to return to the spot where my horse was waiting for
me.
"One of my servants will accompany you," he said, "and will conduct you
to the city."
"I am greatly indebted to you," I answered. "Should I not see you
before, I hope you will not forget your promise to call upon me either
in Calcutta, before we leave, or in London next year." He smiled in a
peculiar way.
"You must not think me so blind to my own interests as to forget your
kind offer," he replied. "It is just possible, however, that I may be
in Calcutta before you leave."
"I shall hope to see you then," I said, and having shaken him by the
hand, stepped into the boat which was waiting to convey me across.
Within an hour I was back once more to the palace, much to the
satisfaction of the Maharajah and my staff, to whom my absence had been
the cause of considerable anxiety.
It was not until the evening that I found a convenient opportunity, and
was able to question His Highness about his strange _protege_. He
quickly told me all there was to know about him. His name, it appeared,
was Simon Carne. He was an Englishman and had been a great traveller.
On a certain memorable occasion he had saved His Highness' life at the
risk of his own, and ever since that time a close intimacy had existed
between them. For upwards of three years the man in question had
occupied a wing of the island palace, going away for months at a time
presumably in search of specimens for his collection, and returning when
he became tired of the world. To the best of His Highness' belief he was
exceedingly wealthy, but on this subject little was known. Such was all
I could learn about the mysterious individual I had met earlier in the
day.
Much as I wanted to do so, I was unable to pay another visit to the
palace on the lake. Owing to pressing business, I was compelled to
return to Calcutta as quickly as possible. For this reason it was
nearly eight months before I saw or heard anything of Simon Carne again.
When I _did_ meet him we were in the midst of our preparations for
returning to England. I had been for a ride, I remember, and was in the
act of dismounting from my horse, when an individual came down the steps
and strolled towards me. I recognized him instantly as the man in whom I
had been so much interested in Malar-Kadir. He was now dressed in
fashionable European attire, but there was no mistaking his face. I
held out my hand.
"How do you do, Mr. Carne?" I cried. "This is an unexpected pleasure.
Pray how long have you been in Calcutta?"
"I arrived last night," he answered, "and leave to-morrow morning for
Burma. You see, I have taken your Excellency at your word."
"I am very pleased to see you," I replied. "I have the liveliest
recollection of your kindness to me the day that I lost my way in the
jungle. As you are leaving so soon, I fear we shall not have the
pleasure of seeing much of you, but possibly you can dine with us this
evening?"
"I shall be very glad to do so," he answered simply, watching me with
his wonderful eyes, which somehow always reminded me of those of a
collie.
"Her ladyship is devoted to Indian pottery and brass work," I said, "and
she would never forgive me if I did not give her an opportunity of
consulting you upon her collection."
"I shall be very proud to assist in any way I can," he answered.
"Very well, then, we shall meet at eight. Good-bye."
That evening we had the pleasure of his society at dinner, and I am
prepared to state that a more interesting guest has never sat at a
vice-regal table. My wife and daughters fell under his spell as quickly
as I had done. Indeed, the former told me afterwards that she
considered him the most uncommon man she had met during her residence in
the East, an admission scarcely complimentary to the numerous important
members of my council who all prided themselves upon their originality.
When he said good-bye we had extorted his promise to call upon us in
London, and I gathered later that my wife was prepared to make a lion of
him when he should put in an appearance.
How he _did_ arrive in London during the first week of the following
May; how it became known that he had taken Porchester House, which, as
every one knows, stands at the corner of Belverton Street and Park Lane,
for the season, at an enormous rental; how he furnished it superbly,
brought an army of Indian servants to wait upon him, and was prepared to
astonish the town with his entertainments, are matters of history. I
welcomed him to England, and he dined with us on the night following his
arrival, and thus it was that we became, in a manner of speaking, his
sponsors in Society. When one looks back on that time, and remembers
how vigorously, even in the midst of all that season's gaiety, our
social world took him up, the fuss that was made of him, the manner in
which his doings were chronicled by the Press, it is indeed hard to
realize how egregiously we were all being deceived.
During the months of June and July he was to be met at every house of
distinction. Even royalty permitted itself to become on friendly terms
with him, while it was rumored that no fewer than three of the proudest
beauties in England were prepared at any moment to accept his offer of
marriage. To have been a social lion during such a brilliant season, to
have been able to afford one of the most perfect residences in our great
city, and to have written a book which the foremost authorities upon the
subject declare a masterpiece, are things of which any man might be
proud. And yet this was exactly what Simon Carne was and did.
And now, having described his advent among us, I must refer to the
greatest excitement of all that year. Unique as was the occasion which
prompted the gaiety of London, constant as were the arrivals and
departures of illustrious folk, marvelous as were the social functions,
and enormous the amount of money expended, it is strange that the things
which attracted the most attention should be neither royal, social, nor
political.
As may be imagined, I am referring to the enormous robberies and
swindles which will forever be associated with that memorable year. Day
after day, for weeks at a time, the Press chronicled a series of crimes,
the like of which the oldest Englishman could not remember. It soon
became evident that they were the work of one person, and that that
person was a master hand was as certain as his success.
At first the police were positive that the depredations were conducted
by a foreign gang, located somewhere in North London, and that they
would soon be able to put their fingers on the culprits. But they were
speedily undeceived. In spite of their efforts the burglaries continued
with painful regularity. Hardly a prominent person escaped. My friend
Lord Orpington was despoiled of his priceless gold and silver plate; my
cousin, the Duchess of Wiltshire, lost her world-famous diamonds; the
Earl of Calingforth his race-horse "Vulcanite;" and others of my friends
were despoiled of their choicest possessions. How it was that I escaped
I can understand now, but I must confess that it passed my comprehension
at the time.
Throughout the season Simon Carne and I scarcely spent a day apart. His
society was like chloral; the more I took of it the more I wanted. And
I am now told that others were affected in the same way. I used to
flatter myself that it was to my endeavors he owed his social success,
and I can only, in justice, say that he tried to prove himself grateful.
I have his portrait hanging in my library now, painted by a famous
Academician, with this inscription upon the lozenge at the base of the
frame:
"_To my kind friend, the Earl of Amberley, in remembrance of a happy and
prosperous visit to London, from Simon Carne._"
The portrait represents him standing before a book-case in a half-dark
room. His extraordinary face, with its dark penetrating eyes, is
instinct with life, while his lips seem as if opening to speak. To my
thinking it would have been a better picture had he not been standing in
such a way that the light accentuated his deformity; but it appears that
this was the sitter's own desire, thus confirming what, on many
occasions, I had felt compelled to believe, namely, that he was, for
some peculiar reason, proud of his misfortune.
It was at the end of the Cowes week that we parted company. He had been
racing his yacht the _Unknown Quantity_, and, as if not satisfied with
having won the Derby, must needs appropriate the Queen's Cup. It was on
the day following that now famous race that half the leaders of London
Society bade him farewell on the deck of the steam yacht that was to
carry him back to India.
A month later, and quite by chance, the dreadful truth came out. Then
it was discovered that the man of whom we had all been making so much
fuss, the man whom royalty had condescended to treat almost as a friend,
was neither more nor less than a Prince of Swindlers, who had been
utilizing his splendid opportunities to the very best advantage.
Every one will remember the excitement which followed the first
disclosure of this dreadful secret and the others which followed it. As
fresh discoveries came to light, the popular interest became more and
more intense, while the public's wonderment at the man's almost
superhuman cleverness waxed every day greater than before. My position,
as you may suppose was not an enviable one. I saw how cleverly I had
been duped, and when my friends, who had most of them, suffered from his
talents, congratulated me on my immunity, I could only console myself
with the reflection that I was responsible for more than half the
acquaintances the wretch had made. But, deeply as I was drinking of the
cup of sorrow, I had not come to the bottom of it yet.
One Saturday evening--the 7th of November, if I recollect aright--I was
sitting in my library, writing letters after dinner, when I heard the
postman come round the square and finally ascend the steps of my house.
A few moments later a footman entered bearing some letters, and a large
packet, upon a salver. Having read the former, I cut the string which
bound the parcel, and opened it.
To my surprise, it contained a bundle of manuscript and a letter. The
former I put aside, while I broke open the envelope and extracted its
contents. To my horror, it was from Simon Carne, and ran as follows:
"_On the High Seas._
MY DEAR LORD AMBERLEY,--
"It is only reasonable to suppose that by this time you have become
acquainted with the nature of the peculiar services you have rendered
me. I am your debtor for as pleasant, and, at the same time, as
profitable a visit to London as any man could desire. In order that you
may not think me ungrateful, I will ask you to accept the accompanying
narrative of my adventures in your great metropolis. Since I have
placed myself beyond the reach of capture, I will permit you to make any
use of it you please. Doubtless you will blame me, but you must at
least do me the justice to remember that, in spite of the splendid
opportunities you permitted me, I invariably spared yourself and family.
You will think me mad thus to betray myself, but, believe me, I have
taken the greatest precautions against discovery, and as I am proud of
my London exploits, I have not the least desire to hide my light beneath
a bushel.
"With kind regards to Lady Amberley and yourself,
"I am, yours very sincerely,
"SIMON CARNE."
Needless to say I did not retire to rest before I had read the
manuscript through from beginning to end, with the result that the
morning following I communicated with the police. They were hopeful
that they might be able to discover the place where the packet had been
posted, but after considerable search it was found that it had been
handed by a captain of a yacht, name unknown, to the commander of a
homeward bound brig, off Finisterre, for postage in Plymouth. The
narrative, as you will observe, is written in the third person, and, as
far as I can gather, the handwriting is not that of Simon Carne. As,
however, the details of each individual swindle coincide exactly with
the facts as ascertained by the police, there can be no doubt of their
authenticity.
A year has now elapsed since my receipt of the packet. During that time
the police of almost every civilized country have been on the alert to
effect the capture of my whilom friend, but without success. Whether his
yacht sank and conveyed him to the bottom of the ocean, or whether, as I
suspect, she only carried him to a certain part of the seas where he
changed into another vessel and so eluded justice, I cannot say. Even
the Maharajah of Malar-Kadir has heard nothing of him since. The fact,
however, remains, I have, innocently enough, compounded a series of
felonies, and, as I said at the commencement of this preface, the
publication of the narrative I have so strangely received is intended to
be, as far as possible, my excuse.
*CHAPTER II.*
*THE DEN OF INIQUITY.*
The night was close and muggy, such a night, indeed, as only Calcutta,
of all the great cities of the East, can produce. The reek of the
native quarter, that sickly, penetrating odor which once smelt, is never
forgotten, filled the streets and even invaded the sacred precincts of
Government House, where a man of gentlemanly appearance, but sadly
deformed, was engaged in bidding Her Majesty the Queen of England's
representative in India an almost affectionate farewell.
"You will not forget your promise to acquaint us with your arrival in
London," said His Excellency as he shook his guest by the hand. "We
shall be delighted to see you, and if we can make your stay pleasurable
as well as profitable to you, you may be sure we shall endeavor to do
so."
"Your lordship is most hospitable, and I think I may safely promise that
I will avail myself of your kindness," replied the other. "In the
meantime 'good-bye,' and a pleasant voyage to you."
A few minutes later he had passed the sentry, and was making his way
along the Maidan to the point where the Chitpore Road crosses it. Here
he stopped and appeared to deliberate. He smiled a little sardonically
as the recollection of the evening's entertainment crossed his mind,
and, as if he feared he might forget something connected with it, when
he reached a lamp-post, took a note-book from his pocket and made an
entry in it.
"Providence has really been most kind," he said as he shut the book with
a snap, and returned it to his pocket. "And what is more, I am prepared
to be properly grateful. It was a good morning's work for me when His
Excellency decided to take a ride through the Maharajah's suburbs. Now
I have only to play my cards carefully and success should be assured."
He took a cigar from his pocket, nipped off the end, and then lit it.
He was still smiling when the smoke had cleared away.
"It is fortunate that Her Excellency is, like myself, an enthusiastic
admirer of Indian art," he said. "It is a trump card, and I shall play
it for all it's worth when I get to the other side. But to-night I have
something of more importance to consider. I have to find the sinews of
war. Let us hope that the luck which has followed me hitherto will
still hold good, and that Liz will prove as tractable as usual."
Almost as he concluded his soliloquy a _ticcagharri_ made its
appearance, and, without being hailed, pulled up beside him. It was
evident that their meeting was intentional, for the driver asked no
question of his fare, who simply took his seat, laid himself back upon
the cushions, and smoked his cigar with the air of a man playing a part
in some performance that had been long arranged.
Ten minutes later the coachman had turned out of the Chitpore Road into
a narrow by-street. From this he broke off into another, and at the end
of a few minutes into still another. These offshoots of the main
thoroughfare were wrapped in inky darkness, and, in order that there
should be as much danger as possible, they were crowded to excess. To
those who know Calcutta this information will be significant.
There are slums in all the great cities of the world, and every one
boasts its own peculiar characteristics. The Ratcliffe Highway in
London, and the streets that lead off it, can show a fair assortment of
vice; the Chinese quarters of New York, Chicago, and San Francisco can
more than equal them; Little Bourke Street, Melbourne, a portion of
Singapore, and the shipping quarter of Bombay, have their own individual
qualities, but surely for the lowest of all the world's low places one
must go to Calcutta, the capital of our great Indian Empire.
Surrounding the Lai, Machua, Burra, and Joira Bazaars are to be found
the most infamous dens that mind of man can conceive. But that is not
all. If an exhibition of scented, high-toned, gold-lacquered vice is
required, one has only to make one's way into the streets that lie
within a stone's throw of the Chitpore Road to be accommodated.
Reaching a certain corner, the _gharri_ came to a standstill and the
fare alighted. He said something in an undertone to the driver as he
paid him, and then stood upon the footway placidly smoking until the
vehicle had disappeared from view. When it was no longer in sight he
looked up at the houses towering above his head; in one a marriage feast
was being celebrated; across the way the sound of a woman's voice in
angry expostulation could be heard. The passers-by, all of whom were
natives, scanned him curiously, but made no remark. Englishmen, it is
true, were _sometimes_ seen in that quarter and at that hour, but this
one seemed of a different class, and it is possible that nine out of
every ten took him for the most detested of all Englishmen, a police
officer.
For upwards of ten minutes he waited, but after that he seemed to become
impatient. The person he had expected to find at the rendezvous had, so
far, failed to put in an appearance, and he was beginning to wonder what
he had better do in the event of his not coming.
But, badly as he had started, he was not destined to fail in his
enterprise; for, just as his patience was exhausted, he saw, hastening
towards him, a man whom he recognized as the person for whom he waited.
"You are late," he said in English, which he was aware the other spoke
fluently, though he was averse to owning it. "I have been here more
than a quarter of an hour."
"It was impossible that I could get away before," the other answered
cringingly; "but if your Excellency will be pleased to follow me now, I
will conduct you to the person you seek, without further delay."
"Lead on," said the Englishman; "we have wasted enough time already."
Without more ado the Babu turned himself about and proceeded in the
direction he had come, never pausing save to glance over his shoulder to
make sure that his companion was following. Seemingly countless were
the lanes, streets, and alleys through which they passed. The place was
nothing more nor less than a rabbit warren of small passages, and so
dark that, at times, it was as much as the Englishman could do to see
his guide ahead of him. Well acquainted as he was with the quarter, he
had never been able to make himself master of all its intricacies, and
as the person whom he was going to meet was compelled to change her
residence at frequent intervals, he had long given up the idea of
endeavoring to find her himself.
Turning out of a narrow lane, which differed from its fellows only in
the fact that it contained more dirt and a greater number of unsavory
odors, they found themselves at the top of a short flights of steps,
which in their turn conducted them to a small square, round which rose
houses taller than any they had yet discovered. Every window contained
a balcony, some larger than others, but all in the last stage of decay.
The effect was peculiar, but not so strange as the quiet of the place;
indeed, the wind and the far-off hum of the city were the only sounds to
be heard.
Now and again figures issued from the different doorways, stood for a
moment looking anxiously about them, and then disappeared as silently as
they had come. All the time not a light was to be seen, nor the sound
of a human voice. It was a strange place for a white man to be in, and
so Simon Carne evidently thought as he obeyed his guide's invitation and
entered the last house on the right-hand side.
Whether the buildings had been originally intended for residences or for
offices it would be difficult to say. They were almost as old as John
Company himself, and would not appear to have been cleaned or repaired
since they had been first inhabited.
From the center of the hall, in which he found himself, a massive
staircase led to the other floors, and up this Carne marched behind his
conductor. On gaining the first landing he paused while the Babu went
forward and knocked at the door. A moment later the shutter of a small
_grille_ was pulled back, and the face of a native woman looked out. A
muttered conversation ensued, and after it was finished the door was
opened and Carne was invited to enter. This summons he obeyed with
alacrity, only to find that once he was inside, the door was immediately
shut and barred behind him.
After the darkness of the street and the semi-obscurity of the stairs,
the dazzling light of the apartment in which he now stood was almost too
much for his eyes. It was not long, however, before he had recovered
sufficiently to look about him. The room was a fine one, in shape
almost square, with a large window at the further end covered with a
thick curtain of native cloth. It was furnished with considerable
taste, in a mixture of styles, half European and half native. A large
lamp of worked brass, burning some sweet-smelling oil, was suspended
from the ceiling. A quantity of tapestry, much of it extremely rare,
covered the walls, relieved here and there with some superb specimens of
native weapons; comfortable divans were scattered about, as if inviting
repose, and as if further to carry out this idea, beside one of the
lounges, a silver-mounted marghyle was placed, its tube curled up beside
it in a fashion somewhat suggestive of a snake.
But, luxurious as it all was, it was evidently not quite what Carne had
expected to find, and the change seemed to mystify as much as it
surprised him. Just as he was coming to a decision however, his ear
caught the sound of chinking bracelets, and next moment the curtain
which covered a doorway in the left wall was drawn aside by a hand
glistening with rings and as tiny as that of a little child. A second
later Trincomalee Liz entered the room.
Standing in the doorway, the heavily embroidered curtain falling in
thick folds behind her and forming a most effective background, she made
a picture such as few men could look upon without a thrill of
admiration. At that time she, the famous Trincomalee Liz, whose doings
had made her notorious from the Saghalian coast to the shores of the
Persian Gulf, was at the prime of her life and beauty--a beauty such as
no man who has ever seen it will ever forget.
It was a notorious fact that those tiny hands had ruined more men than
any other half-dozen pairs in the whole of India, or the East for that
matter. Not much was known of her history, but what had come to light
was certainly interesting. As far as could be ascertained she was born
in Tonquin; her father, it had been said, was a handsome but
disreputable Frenchman, who had called himself a count, and over his
absinthe was wont to talk of his possessions in Normandy; her mother
hailed from Northern India, and she herself was lovelier than the pale
hibiscus blossom. To tell in what manner Liz and Carne had become
acquainted would be too long a story to be included here. But that
there was some bond between the pair is a fact that may be stated
without fear of contradiction.
On seeing her, the visitor rose from his seat and went to meet her.
"So you have come at last," she said, holding out both hands to him. "I
have been expecting you these three weeks past. Remember, you told me
you were coming."
"I was prevented," said Carne. "And the business upon which I desired
to see you was not fully matured."
"So there is business then?" she answered with a pretty petulance. "I
thought as much. I might know by this time that you do not come to see
me for anything else. But there, do not let us talk in this fashion
when I have not had you with me for nearly a year. Tell me of yourself,
and what you have been doing since last we met."
As she spoke she was occupied preparing a _huqa_ for him. When it was
ready she fitted a tiny amber mouthpiece to the tube, and presented it
to him with a compliment as delicate as her own rose-leaf hands. Then,
seating herself on a pile of cushions beside him, she bade him proceed
with his narrative.
"And now," she said, when he had finished, "what is this business that
brings you to me?"
A few moments elapsed before he began his explanation, and during that
time he studied her face closely.
"I have a scheme in my head," he said, laying the _huqa_ stick carefully
upon the floor, "that, properly carried out, should make us both rich
beyond telling, but to carry it out properly I must have your
co-operation."
She laughed softly, and nodded her head.
"You mean that you want money," she answered. "Ah, Simon, you always
want money."
"I _do_ want money," he replied without hesitation. "I want it badly.
Listen to what I have to say, and then tell me if you can give it to me.
You know what year this is in England?"
She nodded her head. There were few things with which she had not some
sort of acquaintance.
"It will be a time of great rejoicing," he continued. "Half the princes
of the earth will be assembled in London. There will be wealth untold
there, to be had for the mere gathering in; and who is so well able to
gather it as I? I tell you, Liz, I have made up my mind to make the
journey and try my luck, and, if you will help me with the money, you
shall have it back with such jewels, for interest, as no woman ever wore
yet. To begin with, there is the Duchess of Wiltshire's necklace. Ah,
your eyes light up; you have heard of it?"
"I have," she answered, her voice trembling with excitement. "Who has
not?"
"It is the finest thing of its kind in Europe, if not in the world," he
went on slowly, as if to allow time for his words to sink in. "It
consists of three hundred stones, and is worth, apart from its historic
value, at least fifty thousand pounds."
He saw her hands tighten on the cushions upon which she sat.
"Fifty thousand pounds! That is five lacs of rupees?"
"Exactly! Five lacs of rupees, a king's ransom," he answered. "But
that is not all. There will be twice as much to be had for the taking
when once I get there. Find me the money I want, and those stones shall
be your property."
"How much _do_ you want?"
"The value of the necklace," he answered. "Fifty thousand pounds."
"It is a large sum," she said, "and it will be difficult to find."
He smiled, as if her words were a joke and should be treated as such.
"The interest will be good," he answered.
"But are you certain of obtaining it?" she asked.
"Have I ever failed yet?" he replied.
"You have done wonderful things, certainly. But this time you are
attempting so much."
"The greater the glory!" he answered. "I have prepared my plans, and I
shall not fail. This is going to be the greatest undertaking of my
life. If it comes off successfully, I shall retire upon my laurels.
Come, for the sake of--well, you know for the sake of what--will you let
me have the money? It is not the first time you have done it, and on
each occasion you have not only been repaid, but well rewarded into the
bargain."
"When do you want it?"
"By mid-day to-morrow. It must be paid in to my account at the bank
before twelve o'clock. You will have no difficulty in obtaining it I
know. Your respectable merchant friends will do it for you if you but
hold up your little finger. If they don't feel inclined, then put on
the screw and make them."
She laughed as he paid this tribute to her power. A moment later,
however, she was all gravity.
"And the security?"
He leant towards her and whispered in her ear.
"It is well," she replied. "The money shall be found for you to-morrow.
Now tell me your plans; I must know all that you intend doing."
"In the first place," he answered, drawing a little closer to her, and
speaking in a lower voice, so that no eavesdropper should hear, "I shall
take with me Abdul Khan, Ram Gafur, Jowur Singh and Nur Ali, with others
of less note as servants. I shall engage the best house in London, and
under the wing of our gracious Viceroy, who has promised me the light of
his countenance, will work my way into the highest society. That done,
I shall commence operations. No one shall ever suspect!"
"And when it is finished, and you have accomplished your desires, how
will you escape?"
"That I have not yet arranged. But of this you may be sure, I shall run
no risks."
"And afterwards?"
He leant a little towards her again, and patted her affectionately upon
the hand.
"Then we shall see what we shall see," he said, "I don't think you will
find me ungrateful."
She shook her pretty head.
"It is good talk," she cried, "but it means nothing. You always say the
same. How am I to know that you will not learn to love one of the white
memsahibs when you are so much among them?"
"Because there is but one Trincomalee Liz," he answered; "and for that
reason you need have no fear."
Her face expressed the doubt with which she received this assertion. As
she had said, it was not the first time she had been cajoled into
advancing him large sums with the same assurance. He knew this, and,
lest she should alter her mind, prepared to change the subject.
"Besides the others, I must take Hiram Singh and Wajib Baksh. They are
in Calcutta, I am told, and I must communicate with them before noon
to-morrow. They are the most expert craftsmen in India, and I shall have
need of them."
"I will have them found, and word shall be sent to you."
"Could I not meet them here?"
"Nay, it is impossible. I shall not be here myself. I leave for Madras
within six hours."
"Is there, then, trouble toward?"
She smiled, and spread her hands apart with a gesture that said: "Who
knows?"
He did not question her further, but after a little conversation on the
subject of the money, rose to bid her farewell.
"I do not like this idea," she said, standing before him and looking him
in the face. "It is too dangerous. Why should you run such risk? Let
us go to Burma. You shall be my vizier."
"I would wish for nothing better," he said, "were it not that I am
resolved to go to England. My mind is set upon it and when I have done,
London shall have something to talk about for years to come."
"If you are determined, I will say no more," she answered; "but when it
is over, and you are free, we will talk again."
"You will not forget about the money?" he asked anxiously.
She stamped her foot.
"Money, money, money," she cried. "It is always the money of which you
think. But you shall have it, never fear. And now when shall I see you
again?"
"In six months' time at a place of which I will tell you beforehand."
"It is a long time to wait."
"There is a necklace worth five lacs to pay you for the waiting."
"Then I will be patient. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, little friend," he said. And then, as if he thought he had
not said enough, he added: "Think sometimes of Simon Carne."
She promised, with many pretty speeches, to do so, after which he left
the room and went downstairs. As he reached the bottom step he heard a
cough in the dark above him and looked up. He could just distinguish
Liz leaning over the rail. Then something dropped and rattled upon the
wooden steps behind him. He picked it up to find that it was an antique
ring set with rubies.
"Wear it that it may bring thee luck," she cried, and then disappeared
again.
He put the present on his finger and went out into the dark square.
"The money is found," he said, as he looked up at the starlit heavens.
"Hiram Singh and Wajib Baksh are to be discovered before noon to-morrow.
His Excellency the Viceroy and his amiable lady have promised to stand
sponsors for me in London society. If with these advantages I don't
succeed, well, all I can say is, I don't deserve to. Now where is my
Babuji?"
Almost at the same instant a figure appeared from the shadow of the
building and approached him.
"If the Sahib will permit me, I will guide him by a short road to his
hotel."
"Lead on then. I am tired, and it is time I was in bed." Then to
himself he added: "I must sleep to-night, for to-morrow there are great
things toward."
*CHAPTER III.*
*THE DUCHESS OF WILTSHIRE'S DIAMONDS.*
To the reflective mind the rapidity with which the inhabitants of the
world's greatest city seize upon a new name or idea, and familiarize
themselves with it, can scarcely prove otherwise than astonishing. As
an illustration of my meaning let me take the case of Klimo--the now
famous private detective, who has won for himself the right to be
considered as great as Lecocq, or even the late lamented Sherlock
Holmes.
Up to a certain morning London had never even heard his name, nor had it
the remotest notion as to who or what he might be. It was as sublimely
ignorant and careless on the subject as the inhabitants of Kamtchatka or
Peru. Within twenty-four hours, however, the whole aspect of the case
was changed. The man, woman, or child who had not seen his posters, or
heard his name, was counted an ignoramus unworthy of intercourse with
human beings.
Princes became familiar with it as their trains bore them to Windsor to
luncheon with the Queen; the nobility noticed and commented upon it as
they drove about the town; merchants, and business men generally, read
it as they made they ways by omnibus or underground, to their various
shops and counting-houses; street boys called each other by it as a
nickname; music hall artists introduced it into their patter, while it
was even rumored that the Stock Exchange itself has paused in the full
flood tide of business to manufacture a riddle on the subject.
That Klimo made his profession pay him well was certain, first from the
fact that his advertisements must have cost a good round sum, and,
second, because he had taken a mansion in Belverton Street, Park Lane,
next door to Porchester House, where to the dismay of that aristocratic
neighborhood, he advertised that he was prepared to receive and be
consulted by his clients. The invitation was responded to with
alacrity, and from that day forward, between the hours of twelve and
two, the pavement upon the north side of the street was lined with
carriages, every one containing some person desirous of testing the
great man's skill.
I must here explain that I have narrated all this in order to show the
state of affairs existing in Belverton Street and Park Lane when Simon
Carne arrived, or was supposed to arrive in England. If my memory
serves me correctly, it was on Wednesday, the 3rd of May, that the Earl
of Amberley drove to Victoria to meet and welcome the man whose
acquaintance he had made in India under such peculiar circumstances, and
under the spell of whose fascination he and his family had fallen so
completely.
Reaching the station, his lordship descended from his carriage, and made
his way to the platform set apart for the reception of the Continental
express. He walked with a jaunty air, and seemed to be on the best of
terms with himself and the world in general. How little he suspected the
existence of the noose into which he was so innocently running his head!
As if out of compliment to his arrival, the train put in an appearance
within a few moments of his reaching the platform. He immediately
placed himself in such a position that he could make sure of seeing the
man he wanted, and waited patiently until he should come in sight.
Carne, however, was not among the first batch; indeed, the majority of
passengers had passed before his lordship caught sight of him.
One thing was very certain, however great the crush might have been, it
would have been difficult to mistake Carne's figure. The man's
infirmity and the peculiar beauty of his face rendered him easily
recognizable. Possibly, after his long sojourn in India, he found the
morning cold, for he wore a long fur coat, the collar of which he had
turned up around his ears, thus making a fitting frame for his delicate
face. On seeing Lord Amberley he hastened forward to greet him.
"This is most kind and friendly of you," he said, as he shook the other
by the hand. "A fine day and Lord Amberley to meet me. One could
scarcely imagine a better welcome."
As he spoke, one of his Indian servants approached and salaamed before
him. He gave him an order, and received an answer in Hindustani,
whereupon he turned again to Lord Amberley.
"You may imagine how anxious I am to see my new dwelling," he said. "My
servant tells me that my carriage is here, so may I hope that you will
drive back with me and see for yourself how I am likely to be lodged?"
"I shall be delighted," said Lord Amberley, who was longing for an
opportunity, and they accordingly went out into the station yard
together to discover a brougham, drawn by two magnificent horses, and
with Nur Ali, in all the glory of white raiment and crested turban, on
the box, waiting to receive them. His lordship dismissed his victoria,
and when Jowur Singh had taken his place beside his fellow-servant upon
the box, the carriage rolled out of the station yard in the direction of
Hyde Park.
"I trust her ladyship is quite well," said Simon Carne politely, as they
turned into Gloucester Place.
"Excellently well, thank you," replied his lordship. "She bade me
welcome you to England in her name as well as my own, and I was to say
that she is looking forward to seeing you."
"She is most kind, and I shall do myself the honor of calling upon her
as soon as circumstances will permit," answered Carne. "I beg you will
convey my best thanks to her for her thought of me."
While these polite speeches were passing between them they were rapidly
approaching a large billboard, on which was displayed a poster getting
forth the name of the now famous detective, Klimo.
Simon Carne, leaning forward, studied it, and when they had passed,
turned to his friend again.
"At Victoria and on all the bill boards we met I see an enormous
placard, bearing the word 'Klimo.' Pray, what does it mean?"
His lordship laughed.
"You are asking a question which, a month ago, was on the lips of nine
out of every ten Londoners. It is only within the last fortnight that we
have learned who and what 'Klimo' is."
"And pray what is he?"
"Well, the explanation is very simple. He is neither more nor less than
a remarkably astute private detective, who has succeeded in attracting
notice in such a way that half London has been induced to patronize him.
I have had dealings with the man myself. But a friend of mine, Lord
Orpington, has been the victim of a most audacious burglary, and, the
police having failed to solve the mystery, he has called Klimo in. We
shall therefore see what he can do before many days are past. But,
there, I expect you will soon know more about him than any of us."
"Indeed! And why?"
"For the simple reason that he has taken No. 1, Belverton Terrace, the
house adjoining your own, and sees his clients there."
Simon Carne pursed up his lips, and appeared to be considering
something.
"I trust he will not prove a nuisance," he said at last. "The agents
who found me the house should have acquainted me with the fact. Private
detectives, on however large a scale, scarcely strike one as the most
desirable of neighbors--particularly for a man who is so fond of quiet
as myself."
At this moment they were approaching their destination. As the carriage
passed Belverton Street and pulled up, Lord Amberley pointed to a long
line of vehicles standing before the detective's door.
"You can see for yourself something of the business he does," he said.
"Those are the carriages of his clients, and it is probable that twice
as many have arrived on foot."
"I shall certainly speak to the agent on the subject," said Carne, with
a show of annoyance upon his face. "I consider the fact of this man's
being so close to me a serious drawback to the house."
Jowur Singh here descended from the box and opened the door in order
that his master and his guest might alight, while portly Ram Gafur, the
butler, came down the steps and salaamed before them with Oriental
obsequiousness. Carne greeted his domestics with kindly condescension,
and then, accompanied by the ex-Viceroy, entered his new abode.
"I think you may congratulate yourself upon having secured one of the
most desirable residences in London," said his lordship ten minutes or
so later, when they had explored the principal rooms.
"I am very glad to hear you say so," said Carne. "I trust your lordship
will remember that you will always be welcome in the house as long as I
am its owner."
"It is very kind of you to say so," returned Lord Amberley warmly. "I
shall look forward to some months of pleasant intercourse. And now I
must be going. To-morrow, perhaps, if you have nothing better to do,
you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner. Your fame has
already gone abroad, and we shall ask one or two nice people to meet
you, including my brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Gelpington,
Lord and Lady Orpington, and my cousin, the Duchess of Wiltshire, whose
interest in china and Indian art, as perhaps you know, is only second to
your own."
"I shall be more glad to come."
"We may count on seeing you in Eaton Square, then, at eight o'clock?"
"If I am alive you may be sure I shall be there. Must you really go?
Then good-bye, and many thanks for meeting me."
His lordship having left the house, Simon Carne went upstairs to his
dressing room, which it was to be noticed he found without inquiry, and
rang the electric bell, beside the fireplace, three times. While he was
waiting for it to be answered he stood looking out of the window at the
long line of carriages in the street below.
"Everything is progressing admirably," he said to himself. "Amberley
does not suspect any more than the world in general. As a proof he asks
me to dinner to-morrow evening to meet his brother and sister-in-law,
two of his particular friends, and above all Her Grace of Wiltshire. Of
course I shall go, and when I bid Her Grace good-bye it will be strange
if I am not one step nearer the interest on Liz's money."
At this moment the door opened, and his valet, the grave and respectable
Belton, entered the room. Carne turned to greet him impatiently.
"Come, come, Belton," he said, "we must be quick. It is twenty minutes
to twelve, and if we don't hurry the folk next door will become
impatient. Have you succeeded in doing what I spoke to you about last
night?"
"I have done everything, sir."
"I am glad to hear it. Now lock that door and let us get to work. You
can let me have your news while I am dressing."
Opening one side of the massive wardrobe, that completely filled one end
of the room, Belton took from it a number of garments. They included a
well-worn velvet coat, a baggy pair of trousers--so old that only a
notorious pauper or a millionaire could have afforded to wear them--a
flannel waistcoat, a Gladstone collar, a soft silk tie, and a pair of
embroidered carpet slippers upon which no old clothes man in the most
reckless way of business in Petticoat Lane would have advanced a single
half-penny. Into these he assisted his master to change.
"Now give me the wig, and unfasten the straps of this hump," said Carne,
as the other placed the garments just referred to upon a neighboring
chair.
Belton did as he was ordered and then there happened a thing the like of
which no one would have believed. Having unbuckled a strap on either
shoulder, and slipped his hand beneath the waistcoat, he withdrew a
large papier-mache hump, which he carried away and carefully placed in a
drawer of the bureau. Relieved of his burden, Simon Carne stood up as
straight and well-made a man as any in Her Majesty's dominions. The
malformation, for which so many, including the Earl and Countess of
Amberley, had often pitied him, was nothing but a hoax intended to
produce an effect which would permit him additional facilities of
disguise.
The hump discarded, and the grey wig fitted carefully to his head in
such a manner that not even a pinch of his own curly locks could be seen
beneath it, he adorned his cheeks with a pair of _crepu_-hair whiskers,
donned the flannel vest and the velvet coat previously mentioned,
slipped his feet into the carpet slippers, placed a pair of smoked
glasses upon his nose, and declared himself ready to proceed about his
business. The man who would have known him for Simon Carne would have
been as astute as, well, shall we say, as the private detective--Klimo
himself.
"It's on the stroke of twelve," he said, as he gave a final glance at
himself in the pier-glass above the dressing-table, and arranged his tie
to his satisfaction. "Should any one call, instruct Ram Gafur to tell
them that I have gone out on business, and shall not be back until three
o'clock."
"Very good, sir."
"Now undo the door and let me go in."
Thus commanded, Belton went across to the large wardrobe which, as I
have already said, covered the whole of one side of the room, and opened
the middle door. Two or three garments were seen inside suspended on
pegs, and these he removed, at the same time pushing towards the right
the panel at the rear. When this was done a large aperture in the wall
between the two houses was disclosed. Through this door Carne passed,
drawing it behind him.
In No. 1, Belverton Terrace, the house occupied by the detective, whose
presence in the street Carne seemed to find so objectionable, the
entrance thus constructed was covered by the peculiar kind of
confessional box in which Klimo invariably sat to receive his clients,
the rearmost panels of which opened in the same fashion as those in the
wardrobe in the dressing room. These being pulled aside, he had but to
draw them to again after him, take his seat, ring the electric bell to
inform his housekeeper that he was ready, and then welcome his clients
as quickly as they cared to come.
Punctually at two o'clock the interviews ceased, and Klimo, having
reaped an excellent harvest of fees, returned to Portchester House to
become Simon Carne once more.
Possibly it was due to the fact that the Earl and Countess of Amberley
were brimming over with his praise, or it may have been the rumor that
he was worth as many millions as you have fingers upon your hand that
did it; one thing, however, was self-evident, within twenty-four hours
of the noble earl's meeting him at Victoria Station, Simon Carne was the
talk, not only fashionable, but also of unfashionable London.
That his household were, with one exception, natives of India, that he
had paid a rental for Portchester House which ran into five figures,
that he was the greatest living authority upon china and Indian art
generally, and that he had come over to England in search of a wife,
were among the smallest of the _canards_ set afloat concerning him.
During dinner next evening Carne put forth every effort to please. He
was placed on the right hand of his hostess and next to the Duchess of
Wiltshire. To the latter he paid particular attention, and to such good
purpose that when the ladies returned to the drawing-room afterwards,
Her Grace was full of his praises. They had discussed china of all
sorts, Carne had promised her a specimen which she had longed for all
her life, but had never been able to obtain, and in return she had
promised to show him the quaintly carved Indian casket in which the
famous necklace, of which he had, of course heard, spent most of its
time. She would be wearing the jewels in question at her own ball in a
week's time, she informed him, and if he would care to see the case when
it came from her bankers on that day, she would be only too pleased to
show it to him.
As Simon Carne drove home in his luxurious brougham afterwards, he
smiled to himself as he thought of the success which was attending his
first endeavor. Two of the guests, who were stewards of the Jockey
Club, had heard with delight his idea of purchasing a horse, in order to
have an interest in the Derby. While another, on hearing that he
desired to become the possessor of a yacht, had offered to propose him
for the R.C.Y.C. To crown it all, however, and much better than all,
the Duchess of Wiltshire had promised to show him her famous diamonds.
"By this time next week," he said to himself, "Liz's interest should be
considerably closer. But satisfactory as my progress has been hitherto,
it is difficult to see how I am to get possession of the stones. From
what I have been able to discover, they are only brought from the bank
on the day the Duchess intends to wear them, and they are taken back by
His Grace the morning following.
"While she has got them on her person it would be manifestly impossible
to get them from her. And as, when she takes them off, they are
returned to their box and placed in a safe, constructed in the wall of
the bedroom adjoining, and which for the occasion is occupied by the
butler and one of the under footmen, the only key being in the
possession of the Duke himself, it would be equally foolish to hope to
appropriate them. In what manner, therefore, I am to become their
possessor passes my comprehension. However, one thing is certain,
obtained they must be, and the attempt mast be made on the night of the
ball if possible. In the meantime I'll set my wits to work upon a
plan."
Next day Simon Carne was the recipient of an invitation to the ball in
question, and two days later he called upon the Duchess of Wiltshire, at
her residence in Belgrave Square, with a plan prepared. He also took
with him the small vase he had promised her four nights before. She
received him most graciously, and their talk fell at once into the usual
channel. Having examined her collection, and charmed her by means of
one or two judicious criticisms, he asked permission to include
photographs of certain of her treasures in his forthcoming book, then
little by little he skillfully guided the conversation on to the subject
of jewels.
"Since we are discussing gems, Mr. Carne," she said, "perhaps it would
interest you to see my famous necklace. By good fortune I have it in
the house now, for the reason that an alteration is being made to one of
the clasps by my jewellers."
"I should like to see it immensely," answered Carne. "At one time and
another I have had the good fortune to examine the jewels of the leading
Indian princes, and I should like to be able to say that I have seen the
famous Wiltshire necklace."
"Then you shall certainly have the honor," she answered with a smile.
"If you will ring that bell I will send for it."
Carne rang the bell as requested, and when the butler entered he was
given the key of the safe and ordered to bring the case to the
drawing-room.
"We must not keep it very long," she observed while the man was absent.
"It is to be returned to the bank in an hour's time."
"I am indeed fortunate," Carne replied, and turned to the description of
some curious Indian wood carving, of which he was making a special
feature in his book. As he explained, he had collected his
illustrations from the doors of Indian temples, from the gateways of
palaces from old brass work, and even from carved chairs and boxes he
had picked up in all sorts of odd corners. Her Grace was most
interested.
"How strange that you should have mentioned it," she said. "If carved
boxes have any interest for you, it is possible my jewel case itself may
be of use to you. As I think I told you during Lady Amberley's dinner,
it came from Benares, and has carved upon it the portraits of nearly
every god in the Hindu Pantheon."
"You raise my curiosity to fever heat," said Carne.
A few moments later the servant returned, bringing with him a wooden
box, about sixteen inches long, by twelve wide, and eight deep, which he
placed upon a table beside his mistress, after which he retired.
"This is the case to which I have just been referring," said the
Duchess, placing her hand on the article in question. "If you glance at
it you will see how exquisitely it is carved."
Concealing his eagerness with an effort, Simon Carne drew his chair up
to the table, and examined the box.
It was with justice she had described it as a work of art. What the
wood was of which it was constructed Carne was unable to tell. It was
dark and heavy, and, though it was not teak, it closely resembled it.
It was literally covered with quaint carving, and of its kind was an
unique work of art.
"It is most curious and beautiful," said Carne when he had finished his
examination. "In all my experience I can safely say I have never seen
its equal. If you will permit me I should very much like to include a
description and an illustration of it in my book."
"Of course you may do so; I shall be only too delighted," answered Her
Grace. "If it will help you in your work I shall be glad to lend it to
you for a few hours, in order that you may have the illustration made."
This was exactly what Carne had been waiting for, and accepted the offer
with alacrity.
"Very well, then," she said. "On the day of my ball, when it will be
brought from the bank again, I will take the necklace out and send the
case to you. I must make one proviso, however, and that is that you let
me have it back the same day."
"I will certainly promise to do that," replied Carne.
"And now let us look inside," said his hostess. Choosing a key from a
bunch carried in her pocket, she unlocked the casket, and lifted the
lid. Accustomed as Carne had all his life been to the sight of gems,
what he then saw before him almost took his breath away. The inside of
the box, both sides and bottom, was quilted with the softest Russia
leather, and on this luxurious couch reposed the famous necklace. The
fire of the stones when the light caught them was sufficient to dazzle
the eyes, so fierce was it. As Carne could see, every gem was perfect of
its kind, and there were no fewer than three hundred of them. The
setting was a fine example of the jeweller's art, and last, but not
least, the value of the whole affair was fifty thousand pounds, a mere
flea-bite to the man who had given it to his wife, but a fortune to any
humbler person.
"And now that you have seen my property, what do you think of it?" asked
the Duchess as she watched her visitor's face.
"It is very beautiful," he answered, "and I do not wonder that you are
proud of it. Yes, the diamonds are very fine, but I think it is their
abiding-place that fascinates me more. Have you any objection to my
measuring it?"
"Pray do so, if it's likely to be of any assistance to you," replied Her
Grace.
Carne thereupon produced a small ivory rule, ran it over the box, and
the figures he thus obtained he jotted down in his pocket-book.
Ten minutes later, when the case had been returned to the safe, he
thanked the Duchess for her kindness and took his departure, promising
to call in person for the empty case on the morning of the ball.
Reaching home he passed into his study, and, seating himself at his
writing-table, pulled a sheet of note-paper towards him and began to
sketch, as well as he could remember it, the box he had seen. Then he
leant back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"I have cracked a good many hard nuts in my time," he said reflectively,
"but never one that seemed so difficult at first sight as this. As far
as I see at present, the case stands as follows: the box will be brought
from the bank where it usually reposes to Wiltshire House on the morning
of the dance. I shall be allowed to have possession of it, without the
stones of course, for a period possibly extending from eleven o'clock in
the morning to four or five, at any rate not later than seven, in the
evening. After the ball the necklace will be returned to it, when it
will be locked up in the safe, over which the butler and a footman will
mount guard.
"To get into the room during the night is not only too risky, but
physically out of the question; while to rob Her Grace of her treasure
during the progress of the dance would be equally impossible. The Duke
fetches the casket and takes it back to the bank himself, so that to all
intents and purposes I am almost as far off the solution as ever."
Half-an-hour went by and found him still seated at his desk, staring at
the drawing on the paper, then an hour. The traffic of the streets
rolled past the house unheeded. Finally Jowur Singh announced his
carriage, and, feeling that an idea might come to him with a change of
scene, he set off for a drive in the Park.
By this time his elegant mail phaeton, with its magnificent horses and
Indian servant on the seat behind, was as well known as Her Majesty's
state equipage, and attracted almost as much attention. To-day, however,
the fashionable world noticed that Simon Carne looked pre-occupied. He
was still working out his problem, but so far without much success.
Suddenly something, no one will ever be able to say what, put an idea
into his head. The notion was no sooner born in his brain than he left
the Park and drove quickly home. Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed
before he was back in his study again, and had ordered that Wajib Baksh
should be sent to him.
When the man he wanted put in an appearance, Carne handed him the paper
upon which he had made the drawing of the jewel case.
"Look at that," he said, "and tell me what thou seest there."
"I see a box," answered the man, who by this time was well accustomed to
his master's ways.
"As thou say'st, it is a box," said Carne. "The wood is heavy and
thick, though what wood it is I do not know. The measurements are upon
the paper below. Within, both the sides and bottom are quilted with
soft leather, as I have also shown. Think now, Wajib Baksh, for in this
case thou wilt need to have all thy wits about thee. Tell me, is it in
thy power, oh most cunning of all craftsmen, to insert such extra sides
within this box that they, being held by a spring, shall lie so snug as
not to be noticeable to the ordinary eye? Can it be so arranged that,
when the box is locked, they shall fall flat upon the bottom, thus
covering and holding fast what lies beneath them, and yet making the box
appear to the eye as if it were empty. Is it possible for thee to do
such a thing?"
Wajib Baksh did not reply for a few moments.
His instinct told him what his master wanted, and he was not disposed to
answer hastily, for he also saw that his reputation as the most cunning
craftsman in India was at stake.
"If the Heaven-born will permit me the night for thought," he said at
last, "I will come to him when he rises from his bed and tell him what I
can do, and he can then give his orders."
"Very good," said Carne. "Then to-morrow morning I shall expect thy
report. Let the work be good, and there will be many rupees for thee to
touch in return. As to the lock and the way it shall act, let that be
the concern of Hiram Singh."
Wajib Baksli salaamed and withdrew, and Simon Carne for the time being
dismissed the matter from his mind.
Next morning, while he was dressing, Belton reported that the two
artificers desired an interview with him. He ordered them to be
admitted, and forthwith they entered the room. It was noticeable that
Wajib Baksh carried in his hand a heavy box, which he placed upon the
table.
"Have ye thought over the matter?" he asked, seeing that the men waited
for him to speak.
"We have thought of it," replied Hiram Singh, who always acted as
spokesman for the pair. "If the Presence will deign to look, he will
see that we have made a box of the size and shape as he drew upon the
paper."
"Yes, it is certainly a good copy," said Carne condescendingly, after he
had examined it.
Wajib Baksh showed his white teeth in appreciation of the compliment,
and Hiram Singh drew closer to the table.
"And now, if the Sahib will open it, he will in his wisdom be able to
tell if it resembles the other that he has in his mind."
Carne opened the box as requested, and discovered that the interior was
an exact counterfeit of the Duchess of Wiltshire's jewel case, even to
the extent of the quilted leather lining which had been the other's
principal feature. He admitted that the likeness was all that could be
desired.
"As he is satisfied," said Hiram Singh, "it may be that the Protector of
the Poor will deign to try an experiment with it. See, here is a comb.
Let it be placed in the box, so--now he will see what he will see."
The broad, silver-backed comb, lying upon his dressing-table, was placed
on the bottom of the box. the lid was closed, and the key turned in the
lock. The case being securely fastened, Hiram Singh laid it before his
master.
"I am to open it, I suppose?" said Carne, taking the key and replacing
it in the lock.
"If my master pleases," replied the other.
Carne accordingly turned it in the lock, and, having done so, raised the
lid and looked inside. His astonishment was complete. To all intents
and purposes the box was empty. The comb was not to be seen, and yet
the quilted sides and bottom were, to all appearances, just the same as
when he had first looked inside.
"This is most wonderful," he said. And indeed it was as clever a
conjuring trick as any he had ever seen.
"Nay, it is very simple," Wajib Baksh replied. "The Heaven-born told me
that there must be no risk of detection."
He took the box in his own hands and, running his nails down the center
of the quilting, divided the false bottom into two pieces; these he
lifted out, revealing the comb lying upon the real bottom beneath.
"The sides, as my lord will see," said Hiram Singh, taking a step
forward, "are held in their appointed places by these two springs.
Thus, when the key is turned the springs relax, and the sides are driven
by others into their places on the bottom, where the seams in the
quilting mask the join. There is but one disadvantage. It is as
follows: When the pieces which form the bottom are lifted out in order,
that my lord may get at whatever lies concealed beneath, the springs
must of necessity stand revealed. However, to any one who knows
sufficient of the working of the box to lift out the false bottom, it
will be an easy matter to withdraw the springs and conceal them about
his person."
"As you say, that is an easy matter," said Carne, "and I shall not be
likely to forget. Now one other question. Presuming I am in a position
to put the real box into your hands for say eight hours, do you think
that in that time you can fit it up so that detection will be
impossible?"
"Assuredly, my lord," replied Hiram Singh, with conviction. "There is
but the lock and the fitting of the springs to be done. Three hours at
most would suffice for that."
"I am pleased with you," said Carne. "As a proof of my satisfaction,
when the work is finished you will each receive five hundred rupees.
Now you can go."
According to his promise, ten o'clock on the Friday following found him
in his hansom driving towards Belgrave Square. He was a little anxious,
though the casual observer would scarcely have been able to tell it.
The magnitude of the stake for which he was playing was enough to try
the nerve of even such a past master in his profession as Simon Carne.
Arriving at the house he discovered some workmen erecting an awning
across the footway in preparation for the ball that was to take place at
night. It was not long, however, before he found himself in the boudoir,
reminding Her Grace of her promise to permit him an opportunity of
making a drawing of the famous jewel case. The Duchess was naturally
busy, and within a quarter of an hour he was on his way home with the
box placed on the seat of the carriage beside him.
"Now," he said as he patted it good-humoredly, "if only the notion
worked out by Hiram Singh and Wajib Baksh holds good, the famous
Wiltshire diamonds will become my property before very many hours are
passed. By this time to-morrow, I suppose, London will be all agog
concerning the burglary."
On reaching his house he left his carriage, and himself carried the box
into his study. Once there he rang his bell and ordered Hiram Singh and
Wajib Baksh to be sent to him. When they arrived he showed them the box
upon which they were to exercise their ingenuity.
"Bring your tools in here," he said, "and do the work under my own eyes.
You have but nine hours before you, so you must make the most of them."
The men went for their implements, and as soon as they were ready set to
work. All through the day they were kept hard at it, with the result
that by five o'clock the alterations had been effected and the case
stood ready. By the time Carne returned from his afternoon drive in the
Park it was quite prepared for the part it was to play in his scheme.
Having praised the men, he turned them out and locked the door, then
went across the room and unlocked a drawer in his writing-table. From
it he took a flat leather jewel case, which he opened. It contained a
necklace of counterfeit diamonds, if anything a little larger than the
one he intended to try to obtain. He had purchased it that morning in
the Burlington Arcade for the purpose of testing the apparatus his
servants had made, and this he now proceeded to do.
Laying it carefully upon the bottom he closed the lid and turned the
key. When he opened it again the necklace was gone, and even though he
knew the secret he could not for the life of him see where the false
bottom began and ended. After that he reset the trap and tossed the
necklace carelessly in. To his delight it acted as well as on the
previous occasion. He could scarcely contain his satisfaction. His
conscience, was sufficiently elastic to give him no trouble. To him it
was scarcely a robbery he was planning, but an artistic trial of skill,
in which he pitted his wits and cunning against the forces of society in
general.
At half-past seven he dined, and afterwards smoked a meditative cigar
over the evening paper in the billiard-room. The invitations to the
ball were for ten o'clock, and at nine-thirty he went to his
dressing-room.
"Make me tidy as quickly as you can," he said to Belton when the latter
appeared, "and while you are doing so listen to my final instructions."
"To-night, as you know, I am endeavoring to secure the Duchess of
Wiltshire's necklace. To-morrow all London will resound with the hubbub,
and I have been making my plans in such a way as to arrange that Klimo
shall be the first person consulted. When the messenger calls, if call
he does, see that the old woman next door bids him tell the Duke to come
personally at twelve o'clock. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Very good. Now give me the jewel case, and let me be off. You need
not sit up for me."
Precisely as the clocks in the neighborhood were striking ten Simon
Carne reached Belgrave Square, and, as he hoped, found himself the first
guest.
His hostess and her husband received him in the ante-room of the
drawing-room.
"I come laden with a thousand apologies," he said as he took Her Grace's
hand, and bent over it with that ceremonious politeness which was one of
the man's chief characteristics. "I am most unconscionably early, I
know, but I hastened here in order that I might personally return the
jewel case you so kindly lent me. I must trust to your generosity to
forgive me. The drawings took longer than I expected."
"Please do not apologize," answered Her Grace. "It is very kind of you
to have brought the case yourself. I hope the illustrations have proved
successful. I shall look forward to seeing them as soon as they are
ready. But I am keeping you holding the box. One of my servants will
take it to my room."
She called a footman to her, and bade him take the box and place it upon
her dressing-table.
"Before it goes I must let you see that I have not damaged it either
externally or internally," said Carne with a laugh. "It is such a
valuable case that I should never forgive myself if it had even received
a scratch during the time it has been in my possession."
So saying he lifted the lid and allowed her to look inside. To all
appearances it was exactly the same as when she had lent it to him
earlier in the day.
"You have been most careful," she said. And then, with an air of
banter, she continued: "If you desire it, I shall be pleased to give you
a certificate to that effect."
They jested in this fashion for a few moments after the servant's
departure, during which time Carne promised to call upon her the
following morning at eleven o'clock, and to bring with him the
illustrations he had made and a queer little piece of china he had had
the good fortune to pick up in a dealer's shop the previous afternoon.
By this time fashionable London was making its way up the grand
staircase, and with its appearance further conversation became
impossible.
Shortly after midnight Carne bade his hostess good-night and slipped
away. He was perfectly satisfied with his evening's entertainment, and
if the key of the jewel case were not turned before the jewels were
placed in it, he was convinced they would become his property. It
speaks well for his strength of nerve when I record the fact that on
going to bed his slumbers were as peaceful and untroubled as those of a
little child.
Breakfast was scarcely over next morning before a hansom drew up at his
front door and Lord Amberley alighted. He was ushered into Carne's
presence forthwith, and on seeing that the latter was surprised at his
early visit, hastened to explain.
"My dear fellow," he said, as he took possession of the chair the other
offered him, "I have come round to see you on most important business.
As I told you last night at the dance, when you so kindly asked me to
come and see the steam yacht you have purchased, I had an appointment
with Wiltshire at half-past nine this morning. On reaching Belgrave
Square, I found the whole house in confusion. Servants were running
hither and thither with scared faces, the butler was on the borders of
lunacy, the Duchess was well-nigh hysterical in her boudoir, while her
husband was in his study vowing vengeance against all the world."
"You alarm me," said Carne, lighting a cigarette with a hand that was as
steady as a rock. "What on earth has happened?"
"I think I might safely allow you fifty guesses and then wager a hundred
pounds you'd not hit the mark; and yet in a certain measure it concerns
you."
"Concerns me? Good gracious! What have I done to bring all this
about?"
"Pray do not look so alarmed," said Amberley, "Personally you have done
nothing. Indeed, on second thoughts, I don't know that I am right in
saying that it concerns you at all. The fact of the matter is, Carne, a
burglary took place at Wiltshire House, _and the famous necklace has
disappeared_."
"Good heavens! You don't say so?"
"But I do. The circumstances of the case are as follows: When my cousin
retired to her room lost night after the ball, she unclasped the
necklace, and, in her husband's presence, placed it carefully in her
jewel case, which she locked. That having been done, Wiltshire took the
box to the room which contained the safe, and himself placed it there,
locking the iron door with his own key. The room was occupied that
night, according to custom, by the butler and one of the footmen, both
of whom have been in the family since they were boys.
"Next morning, after breakfast, the Duke unlocked the safe and took out
the box, intending to convey it to the bank as usual. Before leaving,
however, he placed it on his study-table and went upstairs to speak to
his wife. He cannot remember exactly how long he was absent, but he
feels convinced that he was not gone more than a quarter of an hour at
the very utmost.
"Their conversation finished, she accompanied him down-stairs, where she
saw him take up the case to carry it to his carriage. Before he left
the house, however, she said: 'I suppose you have looked to see that the
necklace is all right?' 'How could I do so?' was his reply. 'You know
you possess the only key that will fit it!'
"She felt in her pockets, but to her surprise the key was not there."
"If I were a detective I should say that that is a point to be
remembered," said Carne with a smile. "Pray, where did she find her
keys?"
"Upon her dressing-table," said Amberley. "Though she has not the
slightest recollection of leaving them there."
"Well, when she had procured the keys, what happened?"
"Why, they opened the box, and, to their astonishment and dismay, _found
it empty_. _The jewels were gone!_"
"Good gracious! What a terrible loss! It seems almost impossible that
it can be true. And pray, what did they do?"
"At first they stood staring into the empty box, hardly believing the
evidence of their own eyes. Stare how they would, however, they could
not bring them back. The jewels had, without doubt, disappeared, but
when and where the robbery had taken place it was impossible to say.
After that they had up all the servants and questioned them, but the
result was what they might have foreseen, no one from the butler to the
kitchen-maid could throw any light upon the subject. To this minute it
remains as great a mystery as when they first discovered it."
"I am more concerned than I can tell you," said Carne. "How thankful I
ought to be that I returned the case to Her Grace last night. But in
thinking of myself I am forgetting to ask what has brought you to me.
If I can be of any assistance I hope you will command me."
"Well, I'll tell you why I have come," replied Lord Amberley.
"Naturally, they are most anxious to have the mystery solved and the
jewels recovered as soon as possible. Wiltshire wanted to send to
Scotland Yard there and then, but his wife and I eventually persuaded
him to consult Klimo. As you know if the police authorities are called
in first, he refuses the business altogether. Now, we thought, as you
are his next-door neighbor, you might possibly be able to assist us."
"You may be very sure, my lord, I will do everything that lies in my
power. Let us go and see him at once."
As he spoke he rose and threw what remained of his cigarette into the
fireplace. His visitor having imitated his example, they procured their
hats and walked round from Park Lane into Belverton Street to bring up
at No. 1. After they had rung the bell and the door was opened to them
by the old woman who invariably received the detective's clients.
"Is Mr. Klimo at home?" asked Carne. "And if so, can we see him?"
The old lady was a little deaf, and the question had to be repeated
before she could be made to understand what was wanted. As soon,
however, as she realized their desire, she informed them that her master
was absent from town, but would be back as usual at twelve o'clock to
meet his clients.
"What on earth's to be done?" said the Earl, looking at his companion in
dismay. "I am afraid I can't come back again, as I have a most
important appointment at that hour."
"Do you think you could entrust the business to me?" asked Carne. "If
so, I will make a point of seeing him at twelve o'clock, and could call
at Wiltshire House afterwards and tell the Duke what I have done."
"That's very good of you," replied Amberley. "If you are sure it would
not put you to too much trouble, that would be quite the best thing to
be done."
"I will do it with pleasure," Carne replied. "I feel it my duty to help
in whatever way I can."
"You are very kind," said the other. "Then, as I understand it, you are
to call up Klimo at twelve o'clock, and afterwards let my cousins know
what you have succeeded in doing. I only hope he will help us to secure
the thief. We are having too many of these burglaries just now. I must
catch this hansom and be off. Good-bye, and many thanks."
"Good-bye," said Carne, and shook him by the hand.
The hansom having rolled away, Carne retraced his steps to his own
abode.
"It is really very strange," he muttered as he walked along, "how often
chance condescends to lend her assistance to my little schemes. The
mere fact that His Grace left the box unwatched in his study for a
quarter of an hour may serve to throw the police off on quite another
scent. I am also glad that they decided to open the case in the house,
for if it had gone to the bankers' and had been placed in the strongroom
unexamined, I should never have been able to get possession of the
jewels at all."
Three hours later he drove to Wiltshire House and saw the Duke. The
Duchess was far too much upset by the catastrophe to see any one.
"This is really most kind of you, Mr. Carne," said His Grace when the
other had supplied an elaborate account of his interview with Klimo.
"We are extremely indebted to you. I am sorry he cannot come before ten
o'clock to-night, and that he makes this stipulation of my seeing him
alone, for I must confess I should like to have had some one else
present to ask any questions that might escape me. But if that's his
usual hour and custom, well, we must abide by it, that's all. I hope he
will do some good, for this is the greatest calamity that has ever
befallen me. As I told you just now, it has made my wife quite ill.
She is confined to her bedroom and quite hysterical."
"You do not suspect any one, I suppose?" inquired Carne.
"Not a soul," the other answered. "The thing is such a mystery that we
do not know what to think. I feel convinced, however, that my servants
are as innocent as I am. Nothing will ever make me think them
otherwise. I wish I could catch the fellow, that's all. I'd make him
suffer for the trick he's played me."
Carne offered an appropriate reply, and after a little further
conversation upon the subject, bade the irate nobleman good-bye and left
the house. From Belgrave Square he drove to one of the clubs of which
he had been elected a member, in search of Lord Orpington, with whom he
had promised to lunch, and afterwards took him to a ship-builder's yard
near Greenwich, in order to show him the steam yacht he had lately
purchased.
It was close upon dinner-time before he returned to his own residence.
He brought Lord Orpington with him, and they dined in state together.
At nine o'clock the latter bade him good-bye, and at ten Carne retired
to his dressing-room and rang for Belton.
"What have you to report," he asked, "with regard to what I bade you do
in Belgrave Square?"
"I followed your instructions to the letter," Belton replied.
"Yesterday morning I wrote to Messrs. Horniblow and Jinison, the house
agents in Piccadilly, in the name of Colonel Braithwaite, and asked for
an order to view the residence to the right of Wiltshire House. I asked
that the order might be sent direct to the house, where the Colonel
would get it upon his arrival. This letter I posted myself in
Basingstoke, as you desired me to do.
"At nine o'clock yesterday morning I dressed myself as much like an
elderly army officer as possible, and took a cab to Belgrave Square.
The caretaker, an old fellow of close upon seventy years of age,
admitted me immediately upon hearing my name, and proposed that he
should show me over the house. This, however, I told him was quite
unnecessary, backing my speech with a present of half-a-crown, whereupon
he returned to his breakfast perfectly satisfied, while I wandered about
the house at my own leisure.
"Reaching the same floor as that upon which is situated the room in
which the Duke's safe is kept, I discovered that your supposition was
quite correct, and that it would be possible for a man, by opening the
window, to make his way along the coping from one house to the other,
without being seen. I made certain that there was no one in the bedroom
in which the butler slept, and then arranged the long telescope
walking-stick you gave me, and fixed one of my boots to it by means of
the screw in the end. With this I was able to make a regular succession
of footsteps in the dust along the ledge, between one window and the
other.
"That done, I went down-stairs again, bade the caretaker good-morning,
and got into my cab. From Belgrave Square I drove to the shop of the
pawn-broker whom you told me you had discovered was out of town. His
assistant inquired my business, and was anxious to do what he could for
me. I told him, however, that I must see his master personally, as it
was about the sale of some diamonds I had had left me. I pretended to be
annoyed that he was not at home, and muttered to myself, so that the man
could hear, something about its meaning a journey to Amsterdam.
"Then I limped out of the shop, paid off my cab, and, walking down a
by-street, removed my moustache, and altered my appearance by taking off
my great-coat and muffler. A few streets further on I purchased a
bowler hat in place of the old-fashioned topper I had hitherto been
wearing, and then took a cab from Piccadilly and came home."
"You have fulfilled my instructions admirably," said Carne. "And if the
business comes off, as I expect it will, you shall receive your usual
percentage. Now I must be turned into Klimo and be off to Belgrave
Square to put His Grace of Wiltshire upon the track of this burglar."
Before he retired to rest that night Simon Carne took something, wrapped
in a red silk handkerchief, from the capacious pocket of the coat Klimo
had been wearing a few moments before. Having unrolled the covering, he
held up to the light the magnificent necklace which for so many years
had been the joy and pride of the ducal house of Wiltshire. The
electric light played upon it, and touched it with a thousand different
hues.
"Where so many have failed," he said to himself, as he wrapped it in the
handkerchief again and locked it in his safe, "it is pleasant to be able
to congratulate oneself on having succeeded. It is without its equal,
and I don't think I shall be overstepping the mark if I say that I think
when she receives it Liz will be glad she lent me the money."
Next morning all London was astonished by the news that the famous
Wiltshire diamonds had been stolen, and a few hours later Carne learnt
from an evening paper that the detectives who had taken up the case,
upon the supposed retirement from it of Klimo, were still completely at
fault.
That evening he was to entertain several friends to dinner. They
included Lord Amberley, Lord Orpington, and a prominent member of the
Privy Council, Lord Amberley arrived late, but filled to overflowing
with importance. His friends noticed his state, and questioned him.
"Well, gentlemen," he answered, as he took up a commanding position upon
the drawing-room hearth-rug, "I am in a position to inform you that
Klimo has reported upon the case, and the upshot of it is that the
Wiltshire Diamond Mystery is a mystery no longer."
"What do you mean?" asked the others in a chorus.
"I mean that he sent in his report to Wiltshire this afternoon, as
arranged. From what he said the other night, after being alone in the
room with the empty jewel case and a magnifying glass for two minutes or
so, he was in a position to describe the modus operandi, and, what is
more, to put the police on the scent of the burglar."
"And how was it worked?" asked Carne.
"From the empty house next door," replied the other. "On the morning of
the burglary a man, purporting to be a retired army officer, called with
an order to view, got the caretaker out of the way, clambered along to
Wiltshire house by means of the parapet outside, reached the room during
the time the servants were at breakfast, opened the safe, and abstracted
the jewels."
"But how did Klimo find all this out?" asked Lord Orpington.
"By his own inimitable cleverness," replied Lord Amberley. "At any rate
it has been proved that he was correct. The man did make his way from
next door, and the police have since discovered that an individual,
answering to the description given, visited a pawnbroker's shop in the
city about an hour later, and stated that he had diamonds to sell."
"If that is so it turns out to be a very simple mystery after all," said
Lord Orpington as they began their meal.
"Thanks to the ingenuity of the cleverest detective in the world,"
remarked Amberley.
"In that case here's a good health to Klimo," said the Privy Councillor,
raising his glass.
"I will join you in that," said Simon Carne. "Here's a very good health
to Klimo and his connection with the Duchess of Wiltshire's diamonds.
May he always be equally successful!"
"Hear, hear to that," replied his guests.
*CHAPTER IV.*
*HOW SIMON CARNE WON THE DERBY.*
It was seven o'clock on one of the brightest mornings of all that year.
The scene was Waterloo Station, where the Earl of Amberley, Lord
Orpington, and the Marquis of Laverstock were pacing up and down the
main line departure platform, gazing anxiously about them. It was
evident, from the way they scrutinized every person who approached them,
that they were on the lookout for some one. This some one ultimately
proved to be Simon Carne, who, when he appeared, greeted them with
considerable cordiality, at the same time apologizing for his lateness
in joining them.
"I think this must be our train," he said, pointing to the carriages
drawn up beside the platform on which they stood. "At any rate, here is
my man. By dint of study he has turned himself into a sort of walking
Bradshaw, and he will certainly be able to inform us."
The inimitable Belton deferentially insinuated that his master was right
in his conjecture, and then led the way towards a Pullman car, which had
been attached to the train for the convenience of Carne and his guests.
They took their seats, and a few moments later the train moved slowly
out of the station. Carne was in the best of spirits, and the fact that
he was taking his friends down to the stables of his trainer, William
Bent, in order that they might witness a trial of his candidate for the
Derby, seemed to give him the greatest possible pleasure.
On reaching Merford, the little wayside station nearest the village in
which the training stables were situated, they discovered a comfortable
four-wheeled conveyance drawn up to receive them. The driver touched
his hat, and stated that his master was awaiting them on the Downs; this
proved to be the case, for when they left the high-road and turned on to
the soft turf they saw before them a string of thoroughbreds, and the
trainer himself mounted upon his well-known white pony, Columbine.
"Good-morning, Bent," said Carne, as the latter rode up and lifted his
hat to himself and friends. "You see we have kept our promise, and are
here to witness the trial you said you had arranged for us."
"I am glad to see you, sir," Bent replied. "And I only hope that what I
am about to show you will prove of service to you. The horse is as fit
as mortal hands can make him, and if he don't do his best for you next
week there will be one person surprised in England, and that one will be
myself. As you know, sir, the only horse I dread is Vulcanite, and the
fact cannot be denied that he's a real clinker."
"Well," said Carne, "when we have seen our animal gallop we shall know
better how much trust we are to place in him. For my own part I'm not
afraid. Vulcanite, as you say, is a good horse, but, if I'm not
mistaken, Knight of Malta is a better. Surely this is he coming toward
us."
"That's him," said the trainer, with a fine disregard for grammar.
"There's no mistaking him, is there? And now, if you'd care to stroll
across we'll see them saddle."
The party accordingly descended from the carriage, and walked across the
turf to the spot where the four thoroughbreds were being divested of
their sheets. They made a pretty group; but even the most inexperienced
critic could scarcely have failed to pick out Knight of Malta as the
best among them. He was a tall, shapely bay, with black points, a
trifle light of flesh perhaps, but with clean, flat legs, and low,
greyhound-like thighs sure evidence of the enormous propelling power he
was known to possess. His head was perfection itself, though a wee bit
too lop-eared if anything. Taken altogether he looked, what he was,
thoroughbred every inch of him. The others of the party were Gasometer,
Hydrogen, and Young Romeo, the last-named being the particular trial
horse of the party. It was a favorite boast of the trainer that the
last-named was so reliable in his habits, his condition, and his pace,
that you would not be far wrong to set your watch by him.
"By the way, Bent," said Carne, as the boys were lifted into their
saddles, "what weights are the horses carrying?"
"Well, sir, Young Romeo carries 8 st. 9 lb.; Gasometer, 7 st. 8 lb.;
Hydrogen, 7 st. 1 lb.; and the Knight, 9 st. 11 lb. The distance will
be the Epsom course, one mile and half, and the best horse to win. Now,
sir, if you're ready we'll get to work."
He turned to the lad who was to ride Hydrogen.
"Once you are off you will make the running, and bring them along at
your best pace to the dip, where Gasometer will, if possible, take it
up. After that I leave it to you other boys to make the best race of it
you can. You, Blunt," calling up his head lad, "go down with them to
the post, and get them off to as good a start as possible."
The horses departed, and Simon Carne and his friends accompanied the
trainer to a spot where they would see the finish to the best advantage.
Five minutes later an ejaculation from Lord Orpington told them that the
horses had started. Each man accordingly clapped his glasses to his
eyes, and watched the race before them. Faithful to his instructions,
the lad on Hydrogen came straight to the front, and led them a cracker
until they descended into the slight dip which marked the end of the
first half-mile.
Then he retired to the rear, hopelessly done for, and Gasometer took up
the running, with Knight of Malta close alongside him, and Young Romeo
only half a length away. As they passed the mile post Young Romeo shot
to the front, but it soon became evident he had not come to stay. Good
horse as he was, there was a better catching him hand over fist. The
pace was all that could be desired, and when Knight of Malta swept past
the group, winner of the trial by more than his own length, the
congratulations Simon Carne received were as cordial as he could
possibly desire.
"What did I tell you, sir?" said Bent, with a smile of satisfaction upon
his face. "You see what a good horse he is. There's no mistake about
that."
"Well, let us hope he will do as well a week hence," Carne replied
simply, as he replaced his glasses in their case.
"Amen to that," remarked Lord Orpington.
"And now, gentlemen," said the trainer, "if you will allow me, I will
drive you over to my place to breakfast."
They took their places in the carriage once more, and Bent having taken
the reins, in a few moments they were bowling along the high-road
towards a neat modern residence standing on a slight eminence on the
edge of the Downs. This was the trainer's own place of abode, the
stables containing his many precious charges lying a hundred yards or so
to the rear.
They were received on the threshold by the trainer's wife, who welcomed
them most heartily to Merford. The keen air of the Downs had sharpened
their appetites, and when they sat down to table they found they were
able to do full justice to the excellent fare provided for them. The
meal at an end, they inspected the stables, once more carefully
examining the Derby candidate, who seemed none the worse for his
morning's exertion, and then Carne left his guests in the big yard to
the enjoyment of their cigars, while he accompanied his trainer into the
house for a few moments' chat.
"And now sit down, sir," said Bent, when they reached his own sanctum, a
cosy apartment, half sitting-room and half office, bearing upon its
walls innumerable mementoes of circumstances connected with the owner's
lengthy turf experiences. "I hope you are satisfied, with what you saw
this morning?"
"Perfectly satisfied," said Carne, "but I should like to hear exactly
what you think about the race itself."