“Is the hansom round the corner yet?”
“No,” he answered, “it’s our only chance. They’re still a bit behind
us. I can tell by the sound.”
“Drive to No. 15, second from the corner,” I said, “and go as if the
devil was after you.”
I dropped the trap, and as we tore down to No. 15 I spoke in a series
of broken sentences to Tom.
“We’re going in here to dinner. You must look as if it was all right.
If we carry it off well, they won’t dare to question. We’re Major
and Mrs. Thatcher, of the Lancers, that arrived Saturday from India.
They’re Americans, and won’t know anything, so you can say about what
you like. Give them India hot from the pan. I’ve been living in London
while you’ve been away. That’s how I come to know them and you don’t.
My Christian name’s Ethel. Do the dull, heavy, haw-haw style. Americans
expect it.”
We brought up at the curb with a jerk, threw back the doors, and dashed
up the steps. I caught a vanishing glimpse of Handsome Harry leaning
far forward to lash the horse as the hansom went bounding off into the
fog. As we stood pressed against the door, Tom whispered:
“What the devil is their name?”
“Kennedy,” I hissed at him--“Cassius P. Kennedy. Came originally from
Necropolis City, Ohio; lived in Chicago as a clerk in the Colonial
Box, Tub, and Cordage Company, and then was made manager of the London
branch. Their weak point is society. If any people are there, keep your
mouth shut. Be dense and unresponsive.”
We heard the rattle of the pursuing hansom at the end of the street,
then through the ground glass of the door saw a man servant’s
approaching figure.
“Only stay a few minutes over the coffee. We’re going on to the opera,”
I whispered, as the door opened.
I swept in, Tom on my heels. We came as fast as we could without
actually falling in and dashing the servant aside, for the noise of
our pursuer was loud in our ears, and we knew we were lost if we were
seen entering. As Tom somewhat hastily shut the door, I was conscious
of the expression of surprise on the face of the solemn butler. He did
not say anything, but looked it. I slid out of my cloak, and handed it,
languidly, to him.
“No, I won’t go up-stairs,” I said, in answer to his glare of growing
amaze.
Then I turned to the glass in the hat-rack, and began to arrange my
hair. I could see, reflected in it, a pair of portières, half open, and
affording a glimpse of a room beyond, bathed in the subdued rosy light
of lamps. I was conscious of movement there behind the portières--a
stir of skirts, a sort of hush of curiosity.
There had been the sound of voices when we came in. Now I noticed the
stealthy, occasional sibilant of a whisper. There was no dinner-party.
We were going to dine _en famille_. So much the better. My hair neat,
I turned to the butler, and, touching the jet of my corsage with an
arranging hand, murmured:
“Major and Mrs. Thatcher.”
The man drew back the curtain, and, with our name going before us in
loud announcement, I rustled into the room, Tom behind me.
Standing beside an empty fireplace, and facing the entrance in
attitudes of expectancy, were a young man and woman. In the soft pink
lamplight I had an impression of their two astonished faces, or,
rather, astonished eyes, for they were making a spirited struggle to
obliterate all surprise from their faces. The woman was succeeding
the best. She did it quite well. When she saw me she smiled almost
naturally, and came forward with a fair imitation of a hostess’
welcoming manner. She was young and very pretty--a fine-featured,
delicate woman, in a floating lace tea-gown. Her hand was thin and
small, a real American hand, and gleamed with rings. I could see her
husband, out of the tail of my eye, battling with his amazement and
staring at Tom. Tom was behind me, looming up bulkily, not saying
anything, but looking blankly through the glass wedged in his eye and
pulling his mustache.
“My dear Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, in my sweetest and most languid drawl,
“are we late? I hope not. There is such a fog, really I thought we’d
never get here.”
My fingers touched her hand, and my eyes looked into hers. She was
immensely curious and upset, but she smiled boldly and almost easily. I
could see her inward wrestlings to place me, and to wonder if she could
possibly have asked us, and had forgotten that too.
“And at last,” I continued, glibly, “I am able to present my husband.
I was afraid you were beginning to think he was a sort of Mrs. Harris.
Harry, dear, Mrs. and Mr. Kennedy.”
They all bowed. Tom held out his big paw, and took her little hand for
a moment, and then dropped it. He had just the stolid, awkward, owlish
look of a certain kind of army man.
“Awfully glad to get here, I’m sure,” he boomed out. And then he said
“What?” and looked at Mr. Kennedy.
Mr. Kennedy was not as much master of the situation as his wife. He
wasn’t exactly frightened, but he was inwardly distracted with not
knowing what to do.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, loudly, to Tom, quite forgetting his
English accent. “Glad you could get around here. Foggy night, all
right!”
I looked at the clock. Tom stood solemnly on the hearth-rug, staring at
the fire. The Kennedys, for a moment, could think of nothing to say,
and I had to look at the clock again, screw up my eyes, and remark:
“Just half-past. We’re not really late at all. You know, Harry is
_such_ a punctual person, and he’s afraid I’ve got into unpunctual
habits while he’s been away.”
“He _has_ been away for some time, hasn’t he?” said Mrs. Kennedy,
looking from one to the other with piquant eyes that yearned for
information.
“Four years with the Lancers in India,” Tom boomed out again.
The Kennedys were relieved. They’d got hold of something. They both sat
down, and it was obvious that they gathered themselves together for new
efforts.
I did likewise. I realized that I must be biographical to a reasonable
extent--just enough to satisfy curiosity, without giving the impression
that I was sitting down to tell my life-story the way the heroine does
in the first act of a play.
“He arrived only last Saturday,” I said, “and you may imagine how
pleased I was to be able to bring him to-night, in answer to your kind
invitation.”
“Only too glad he could come,” murmured Mrs. Kennedy, oblivious of the
terrified side-glance that her husband cast in her direction. “Very
fortunate that you had this one evening disengaged.”
“I’m taking him about everywhere,” I continued, with girlish loquacity.
“People had begun to think that Major Thatcher was a myth, and I’m
showing them that there’s a good deal of him and he’s very much alive.
For four years, you know, I’ve been living here, first in those
miserable lodgings in Half Moon Street, and after that in my flat--you
know it--on Gower Street. A nice little place enough, but much nicer
now, with Harry in it.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Kennedy, as sympathetically as was compatible
with her eagerness to pounce upon such crumbs of information as I let
drop. “How dull these four years have been for you!”
“Dull!” I echoed, “dull is not the word!” And I gave my eyes an
expressive, acrobatic roll toward the ceiling.
“She couldn’t have stood it out there,” said Tom, in an unexpected bass
growl. “Too hot! Ethel can’t stand the heat--never could.”
Then he lapsed into silence, staring at the fire under Mr. Kennedy’s
fascinated gaze. Dinner was just then announced, and I heard him saying
as he walked in behind us:
“Is India very hot, Mrs. Kennedy? Once in Delhi I sat for four days in
a cold bath, and read the Waverley novels.”
To which Mrs. Kennedy answered, brightly:
“I should think that would have put you to sleep, and you might have
been drowned.”
That was one of the most remarkable dinners I ever sat through. Of the
two couples, the Kennedys were the least at ease. They were more afraid
of being found out than we were. The cold sweat would break out on
Mr. Kennedy’s brow when the conversation edged up toward the subject
of previous meetings, and Mrs. Kennedy would begin to talk feverishly
about other things. She was the kind of woman who hates to be unequal
to any social emergency; and I am bound to confess, considering how
unprepared she was, she held her own this time with tact and spirit.
She had the copious flow of small talk so many Americans seem to have
at command, and it rippled fluently and untiringly on from the soup to
the savory. I added to the impression I had already made by alluding
to various titled friends of mine, letting their names drop carelessly
from my lips as the pearls and diamonds fell from the mouth of the
virtuous princess.
Tom did well, too--excellently well. When the conversation showed signs
of languishing, he began about India. He gave us some strange pieces
of information about that distant land that I think he invented on the
spur of the moment, and he told several anecdotes which were quite
deadly and without point. When they were concluded, he gave a short,
deep laugh, let his eye-glass fall out, looked at us one after the
other, and said, “What?”
I would have enjoyed myself immensely if a sense of heavy uneasiness
had not continued to weigh on me. What troubled me was the uncertainty
of not knowing whether we really had escaped our pursuers. There was
the horrible possibility that they had seen us enter the house, and
were waiting to grab us as we came out. If they were there, and I was
caught with the diamonds in my possession, it would be a pretty dark
outlook for Laura the Lady--so dark I could not bear to picture it,
even in thought. As I talked and laughed with my hosts, my mind was
turning over every possible means by which I could get rid of the
stones before I left the house, trying to think up some way in which I
could dispose of them, and yet which would not place them quite beyond
reclaiming. I think my nerves had been shaken by that spectral pursuit
in the fog. Anyway, I wasn’t willing to risk a second edition of it.
We sat over dinner a little more than an hour. It was not yet ten when
Mrs. Kennedy and I rose, and with a reminder to Tom that we were to “go
to the opera,” I trailed off in advance of my hostess across the hall
into the drawing-room. Here we sat down by a little gilt table, and
disposed ourselves to endure that dreary period when women have to put
up with one another’s society for ten minutes. It was my opportunity of
getting rid of the diamonds, and I knew it.
We had sipped our coffee for a few minutes, and dodged about with the
usual commonplaces, when I suddenly grew grave, and, leaning toward
Mrs. Kennedy, said:
“Now that we are alone, my dear Mrs. Kennedy, I must ask you about a
matter of which I am particularly anxious to hear more.”
She looked at me with furtive alarm. I could see she was nerving
herself for a grapple with the unknown.
“What matter?” she said.
I lowered my voice to the key of confidences that are dire if not
actually tragic:
“How about poor Amelia?” I murmured.
She dropped her eyes to her cup, frowning a little. I was thrilling
with excitement, waiting to hear what she was going to say. After a
moment she lifted her face, perfectly calm and grave, to mine, and said:
“Really, the subject is a very painful one to me. I’d rather not talk
about it.”
It was a master-stroke. I could not have done better myself. I eyed
her with open admiration. You never would have thought it of her; she
seemed so young. After she had spoken she gave a sigh, and again looked
down at her cup, with an expression on her face of pensive musing. At
that moment the voices of the men leaving the dining-room struck on my
ear.
I put my hand into the front of my dress, and undid the safety-pin. My
manner became furtive and hurried.
“Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, leaning across the table, and speaking almost
in a whisper, “I entirely sympathize with your feelings, but I am _very
much_ worried about Amelia. You know the--the--circumstances.” She
raised her eyes, looked into mine, and nodded darkly. “Well, I have
something here for her. It’s nothing much,” I said, in answer to a look
of protest I saw rising in her face--“just the merest trifle I would
like you to give her. _She_ will understand.”
I drew out the bag, and I saw her looking at it with curious, uneasy
eyes. The men were approaching through the back drawing-room. I rose
to my feet, and still with the secret, hurried air, I said:
“Don’t give yourself any trouble about it. It’s just from me to her.
Our husbands, of course, mustn’t know. I’ll put it here. Poor Amelia!”
There was a crystal and silver bowl on the table, and I put the bag
into it and placed a book over it.
“Mrs. Thatcher,” she said, quickly, “really, I--”
“Hush!” I said, dramatically, “it’s for Amelia! _We_ understand!”
And then the men entered the room.
We left a few minutes later. The butler called a cab for us, and even
if a person had never been a thief he ought to have had some idea
of how we felt as we issued out of that house and walked down the
steps. We neither of us spoke till we got inside the hansom and drove
off--safe for that time, anyway.
We went to Handsome Harry’s place for that night, and sent him back for
Maud, with the message she must get out immediately with what things
she could bring. By eleven she was with us with her trunk and mine on
top of a four-wheeler. The next morning we had scattered--I for Calais
_en route_ for Paris, Tom for Edinburgh. Maud went to join a vaudeville
company that she acts with “between-whiles.” We had to leave a good
many things in the flat; but I felt we’d got out cheaply, and had no
regrets.
That is the history of my connection with the Castlecourt diamond
robbery. Of course, it was not the end of the connection of our gang
with the case, but my actual participation ended here. I was simply an
interested spectator from this on. My statement is merely the record of
my own personal share in the theft, and as such is written with as much
clearness and fulness as I, who am unused to the pen, have got at my
command.
Statement of Cassius P. Kennedy, formerly of Necropolis City, Ohio,
now Manager of the London Branch of the Colonial Box, Tub, and Cordage
Company (Ltd.) of Chicago and St. Louis.
Statement of Cassius P. Kennedy, formerly of Necropolis City, Ohio,
now Manager of the London Branch of the Colonial Box, Tub, and Cordage
Company (Ltd.) of Chicago and St. Louis.
We had been in London two years when a series of extraordinary events
took place which involved us, through no fault of our own, in the most
unpleasant predicament that ever overtook two honest, respectable
Americans in a foreign country.
I had been sent over to start the English branch of the Colonial Box,
Tub, and Cordage Company, one of the biggest concerns of the Middle
West, and it wasn’t two months before I realized that the venture was
going to catch on, and I was going to be at the head of a booming
business. I’d brought my wife and little girl along with me. We’d
been married five years--met in Necropolis City, and lived there and
afterward in Chicago, where I got my first big promotion. She was Daisy
K. Fairweather, of Buncumville, Indiana, and had been the belle of the
place. She’d also attracted considerable attention in St. Louis and
Kansas City, where she’d visited round a good deal. There was nothing
green about Daisy K. Fairweather--never had been.
Daisy and I didn’t know many people when we first came over, but
that little woman wasn’t here six months before she’d sized up the
situation, and made up her mind just how and where she was going to
butt in. The first thing she did was to conform to those particular
ones among the local customs that seemed to her the most high-toned. In
Chicago we’d always dined at half-past six, and given the hired girls
every Thursday off. In London we dined the first year at half-past
seven, and the second at half-past eight. We had four servants and a
butler called Perkins, who ran everything in sight--myself included. I
always dressed for dinner after Perkins came, and tried to look as if
it was my lifelong custom. I’d have sunk out of sight in a sea of shame
rather than have had Perkins think I had not been brought up to it.
Daisy caught on to everything, and then passed the word on to me. She
was always springing innovations on me, and I did the best I could to
keep my end up. She stopped talking the way she used to in Necropolis
City, and made Elaine--that’s our little girl--quit calling me “Popper”
and call me “Daddy.” She called her front hair her “fringe” and her
shirt-waist her “bloos,” and she made me careful of what I said before
the servants. “Servants talk so!” she’d say, just as if she’d heard
them. In Necropolis City, or even Chicago, we never bothered about the
“help” talking. They said what they wanted and we said what we wanted,
and that was all there was to it. But I supposed it was all right.
Whatever Daisy K. Fairweather Kennedy says goes with me.
By the second season Daisy’d broken quite a way into society, and knew
a bishop and two lords. We were asked out a good deal, and we’d some
worthy little dinners at our own shack--15 Farley Street, near Walworth
Crescent, a thirty-five foot, four-story, high-stooped edifice that
we paid the same rent for you’d pay for a seven-room flat in Chicago.
Daisy by this time was in with all kinds of push. She was what she
called a “success.” Nights when we didn’t go out she’d sit with me and
say:
“Well, I don’t really see how I’ll ever be able to live in Chicago
again, and Necropolis City would certainly kill me.”
This same season Lady Sara Gyves dined with us twice (it was a great
step, Daisy said, and I took it for granted she knew), and once at a
reception Daisy stood right up close to the Marchioness of Castlecourt,
the greatest beauty in London, and watched her drink a cup of tea.
Daisy didn’t meet her that time, but she said to me:
“Next season I’ll know her, and the season after that, if we’re
careful, I’ll dine with her. Then, Cassius P. Kennedy, we will have
arrived!”
I said “Sure!” That’s what I mostly say to her, because she’s mostly
right. You don’t often find that little woman making breaks.
It was in our third season in London, the time the middle of May, when
the things occurred of which I have made mention at the beginning of
my statement. It was this way:
We’d been going out a good deal, pretty nearly every night, and we
were glad to have, for once, a quiet evening at home. Of course, that
doesn’t mean the same as it does in Necropolis City or even Chicago.
We dine, just the same, at half-past eight, and both of us dress for
dinner. We have to, Daisy says, no matter how we feel, because of the
servants. The servants in London are good servants all right, but the
way you have to avoid shocking their sensitive feelings sometimes
makes a free-born American rebellious. I like to think I’m an object
of interest to my fellow creatures, but it’s a good deal of a bother
to have it on your mind that you mustn’t destroy the illusions of the
butler or upset the ideals of the cook.
As we were waiting for dinner to be announced we heard a cab rattle
up and stop, as it seemed, at our door. We looked at each other with
inquiring eyes, and then heard the cab go off--on the full jump, I
should say, by the noise it made--and a minute later the bell rang
sharp and quick. Perkins opened the door, and Daisy and I heard a
lady’s voice, very sweet and sort of drawling, say something in the
vestibule. I peeped through the curtains, and there were a man and
a woman--a distinguished-looking pair--taking off their coats and
primping themselves up at the hall mirror. I’d never seen either of
them before, as far as I could remember, but I could tell by their
general make-up that they were the real thing--the kind Daisy was
always cultivating and asking to dinner.