A Prince of Swindlers

by Guy Boothby

  “In saying good-bye to your old home, you left your father behind, I presume?”

  “Yes, he preferred to remain in America.”

  “May I ask his profession?”

  “That, I’m afraid, foolish as it may seem to say so, I cannot tell you,” answered the girl, with a slightly heightened colour. “His means of earning a living were always kept a secret from me.”

  “That was rather strange, was it not?” said Klimo. “Had he private resources?”

  “None that I ever heard of,” replied the girl.

  “Did no business men ever come to see him?”

  “But very few people came to us at all. We had scarcely any friends.”

  “Of what nationality were the friends who did come?”

  “Mostly Irish, like ourselves,” answered Mrs. Jeffreys.

  “Was there ever any quarrel between your father and your husband, prior to your leaving America?”

  “Never any downright quarrel,” said the girl. “But I am sorry to say they were not always the best of friends. In those days my father was a very difficult man to get on with.”

  “Indeed?” said Klimo. “Now, perhaps you had better proceed with your story.”

  “To do that, I must explain that at the end of January of this present year, my father, who was then in Chicago, sent us a cablegram to say he was leaving for England that very day, and, that upon his arrival in England, if we had no objection, he would like to take up his residence with us. He was to sail from New York on the Saturday following, and, as you know, the passage takes six days or thereabouts. Arriving in England he came to London and put up at our house in Bellamer Street, Bloomsbury. That was during the first week in February last, and off and on he has been living with us ever since.”

  “Have you any idea what brought him to England?”

  “Not the least,” she answered deliberately, after a few seconds’ pause, which Klimo did not fail to notice.

  “Did he do business with any one that you are aware of?”

  “I cannot say. On several occasions he went away for a week at a time into the Midlands, but what took him there I have no possible idea. On the last occasion he left us on the fifteenth of last month, and returned on the ninth of this, the same day that my husband was called away to Marseilles on important banking business. It was easy to see that he was not well. He was feverish, and within a short time of my getting him to bed began to wander in his mind, declaring over and over again that he bitterly repented some action he had taken, and that if he could once consider himself safe again would be quit of the whole thing for ever.

  “For close upon a fortnight I continued to nurse him, until he was so far recovered as to recognise me once more. The day that he did so I took in at the door this cablegram, from which I may perhaps date the business that has brought me to you.”

  She took a paper from her pocket and handed it to Klimo, who glanced at it, examined the post-mark and the date, and then placed it upon the desk before him. It was from Chicago, and ran as follows:—

  O’Grady,

  13, Bellamer Street, London, England. Why no answer? Reply chances of doing business.

  NERO.

  “Of course, it was impossible for me to tell what this meant. I was not in my father’s confidence, and I had no notion who his mysterious correspondent might be. But as the doctor had distinctly stated that to allow him to consider any business at all would bring on a relapse and probably kill him, I placed the message in a drawer, and determined to let it remain there until he should be well enough to attend to it without danger to himself. The week following he was not quite so well, and fortunately there was complete silence on the part of his correspondents. Then this second message arrived. As you will see it is also from Chicago and from the same person.

  Reply immediately, or remember consequences. Time presses, if do not realise at present price, market will be lost.

  NERO.

  “Following my previous line of action, I placed this communication also in the drawer, and determined to let Nero wait for a reply. By doing so, however, I was incurring greater trouble than I dreamt of. Within forty-eight hours I received the following message, and upon that I made up my mind and came off at once to you. What it means I do not know, but that it bodes some ill to my father I feel certain. I had heard of your fame, and as my husband is away from home, my father unable to protect himself, and I am without friends at all in England, I thought the wisest course I could pursue would be to consult you.”

  “Let me look at the last cablegram,” said Klimo, putting his hand from the box, and taking the slip of paper.

  The first and second messages were simplicity itself; this, however, was a complete enigma. It was worded as follows:—

  Uneasy—Alpha—Omega—Nineteen—Twelve—to-day—five—lacs—arrange—seventy—eight—Brazils—one—twenty—nine.

  NERO.

  Klimo read it through, and the girl noticed that he shook his head over it.

  “My dear young lady,” he said, “I am afraid that it would be safer for you not to tell me any further, for I fear it is not in my power to help you.”

  “You will not help me now that I have told you my miserable position? Then there is nothing before me but despair. Oh, sir, is your decision quite irrevocable? You cannot think how I have counted on your assistance.”

  “I regret exceedingly that I am compelled to disappoint you,” he answered. “But my time is more than occupied as it is, and I could not give your case my attention, even if I would.”

  His decision had been too much for her fortitude, and before he could prevent it, her head was down upon her hands and she had begun to weep bitterly. He attempted to comfort her, but in vain; and when she left him, tears were still coursing down her cheeks. It was not until she had been gone about ten minutes, and he had informed his housekeeper that he would see no more clients that day, that he discovered that she had left her precious cablegrams behind her.

  Actuated by a feeling of curiosity, he sat down again and spread the three cablegrams out upon his writing-table. The first two, as I have said, required no consideration, they spoke for themselves, but the third baffled him completely. Who was this Septimus O’Grady who lived in Chicago, and whose associates spent their time discussing the wrongs of Ireland? How was it that, being a man innocent of private means, he engaged in no business?

  Then another question called for consideration. If he had no business, what brought him to London and took him so repeatedly into the Midlands? These riddles he set aside for the present, and began to pick the last cablegram to pieces. That its author was not easy in his mind when he wrote it was quite certain.

  Then who and what were the Alpha and Omega mentioned? What connection had they with Nero; also what did nineteen and twelve mean when coupled with To-day? Further, why should five lacs arrange seventy-eight Brazils? And what possible sense could be made out of the numbers one—twenty—and nine? He read the message from beginning to end again, after that from the end to the beginning, and, like a good many other men in a similar position, because he could not understand it, found himself taking a greater interest in it. This feeling had not left him when he had put off disguise as Klimo and was Simon Carne once more.

  While he was eating his lunch the thought of the lonely Irishman lying ill in a house, where he was without doubt an unwelcome guest, fascinated him strangely, and when he rose from the table he found he was not able to shake off the impression it had given him. That the girl had some notion of her father’s business he felt as certain as of his own name, even though she had so strenuously denied the fact. Otherwise why should she have been so frightened by what might have been simply innocent business messages in cypher? That she was frightened was as plain as the sun then shining into his room. Despite the fact that he had resolved not to take up the case, he went int
o his study, and took the cablegrams from the drawer in which he had placed them. Then drawing a sheet of paper towards him, he set to work upon the puzzle.

  “The first word requires no explanation,” he said as he wrote it down. “For the two next, Alpha and Omega, we will, for the sake of argument, write The Beginning and The End, and as that tells us nothing, we will substitute for them The First and The Last. Now, who or what are The First and The Last? Are they the first and last words of a code, or of a word, or do they refer to two individuals who are the principal folk in some company or conspiracy? If the latter, it is just possible they are the people who are so desperately uneasy. The next two words, however, are too much for me altogether.”

  Uninteresting as the case had appeared at first sight, he soon discovered that he could think of nothing else. He found himself puzzling over it during an afternoon concert at the Queen’s Hall, and he even thought of it while calling upon the wife of the Prime Minister afterwards. As he drove in the Park before dinner, the wheels of his carriage seemed to be saying “Alpha and Omega, nineteen, twelve” over and over again with pitiless reiteration, and by the time he reached home once more he would gladly have paid a ten-pound note for a feasible solution of the enigma, if only to get its weight off his mind.

  While waiting for dinner he took pen and paper and wrote the message out again, this time in half a dozen different ways. But the effect was the same, none of them afforded him any clue. He then took the second letter of each word, after that the third, then the fourth, and so on until he had exhausted them. The result in each case was absolute gibberish, and he felt that he was no nearer understanding it than when Mrs. Jeffreys had handed it to him nearly eight hours before.

  During the night he dreamt about it, and when he woke in the morning its weight was still upon his mind. “Nineteen—twelve,” it is true had left him, but he was no better off for the reason that “Seventy-eight Brazils” had taken its place. When he got out of bed he tried it again. But at the end of half an hour his patience was exhausted.

  “Confound the thing,” he said, as he threw the paper from him, and seated himself in a chair before his looking-glass in order that his confidential valet, Belton, might shave him. “I’ll think no more of it. Mrs. Jeffreys must solve the mystery for herself. It has worried me too much already.”

  He laid his head back upon the rest and allowed his valet to run the soap brush over his chin. But, however much he might desire it his Old Man of the Sea was not to be discarded so easily; the word “Brazils” seemed to be printed in letters of fire upon the ceiling. As the razor glided over his cheek he thought of the various constructions to be placed upon the word—The Country—Stocks—and even nuts—Brazil nuts, Spanish nuts, Barcelona nuts, walnuts, cob nuts—and then, as if to make the nightmare more complete, no less a thing than Nuttall’s Dictionary. The smile the last suggestion caused him came within an ace of leaving its mark upon his cheek. He signed to the man to stay his hand.

  “Egad!” he cried, “who knows but this may be the solution of the mystery? Go down to the study, Belton, and bring me Nuttall’s Dictionary.”

  He waited with one side of his face still soaped until his valet returned, bringing with him the desired volume. Having received it he placed it upon the table and took up the telegram.

  “Seventy—eight Brazils,” it said, “one—twenty—nine.”

  Accordingly he chose the seventieth page, and ran his fingers down the first column. The letter was B, but the eighth word proved useless. He thereupon turned to the seventy-eighth page, and in the first column discovered the word Bomb. In a second the whole aspect of the case changed, and he became all eagerness and excitement. The last words on the telegram were “one-twenty-nine,” yet it was plain that there were barely a hundred upon the page. The only explanation, therefore, was that the word “One” distinguished the column, and the “twenty-nine” referred to the number of the word in it.

  Almost trembling with eagerness he began to count. Surely enough the twenty-ninth word was Bomb. The coincidence was, to say the least of it, extraordinary. But presuming that it was correct, the rest of the message was simplicity itself. He turned the telegram over, and upon the back transcribed the communication as he imagined it should be read. When he had finished, it ran as follows:

  Owing to O’Grady’s silence, the Society in Chicago is growing uneasy. Two men, who are the first and last, or, in other words, the principal members, are going to do something (Nineteen-twelve) to-day with fifty thousand somethings, so arrange about the bombs.

  Having got so far, all that remained to be done was to find out to what “nineteen-twelve” referred. He turned to the dictionary again, and looked for the twelfth word upon the nineteenth page. This proved to be “Alkahest,” which told him nothing. So he reversed the proceedings and looked for the nineteenth word upon the twelfth page; but this proved even less satisfactory than before. However much the dictionary might have helped him hitherto, it was plainly useless now. He thought and thought, but without success. He turned up the almanac, but the dates did not fit in.

  He then wrote the letters of the alphabet upon a sheet of paper, and against each placed its equivalent number. The nineteenth letter was S, the twelfth L. Did they represent two words, or were they the first and the last letters of a word? In that case, what could it be. The only three he could think of were soil, sell, and sail. The two first were hopeless, but the last seemed better. But how would that fit in? He took up his pen and tried it.

  Owing to O’Grady’s silence, the Society in Chicago is growing uneasy. Two men, who are the first and last, or, in other words, the principal members, sail to-day with fifty thousand somethings, probably pounds or dollars, so prepare bombs.

  NERO.

  He felt convinced that he had hit it at last. Either it was a very extraordinary coincidence, or he had discovered the answer to the riddle. If his solution were correct, one thing was certain, he had got in his hands, quite by chance, a clue to one of the biggest Fenian conspiracies ever yet brought to light. He remembered that at that moment London contained half the crowned heads, or their representatives, of Europe. What better occasion could the enemies of law and order desire for striking a blow at the Government and society in general? What was he to do?

  To communicate with the police and thus allow himself to be drawn into the affair, would be an act of the maddest folly; should he therefore drop the whole thing, as he had at first proposed, or should he take the matter into his own hands, help Mrs. Jeffreys in her trouble by shipping her father out of harm’s way, outwit the Fenians, and appropriate the fifty thousand pounds mentioned in the cablegram himself?

  The last idea was distinctly a good one. But, before it could be done, he felt he must be certain of his facts. Was the fifty thousand referred to money, or was it something else? If the former, was it pounds or was it dollars? There was a vast difference, but in either case, if only he could hit on a safe scheme, he would be well repaid for whatever risk he might run. He decided to see Mrs. Jeffreys without loss of time. Accordingly, after breakfast, he sent her a note asking her to call upon him, without fail, at twelve o’clock.

  Punctuality is not generally considered a virtue possessed by the sex of which Mrs. Jeffreys was so unfortunate a member, but the clock upon Klimo’s mantelpiece had scarcely struck the hour before she put in an appearance. He immediately bade her be seated.

  “Mrs. Jeffreys,” he began with a severely judicial air, “it is with much regret I find that while seeking my advice yesterday you were all the time deceiving me. How was it that you failed to tell me that your father was connected with a Fenian Society, whose one aim and object is to destroy law and order in this country?”

  The question evidently took the girl by surprise. She became deathly pale, and for a moment Klimo thought she was going to faint. With a marvellous exhibition of will, however, she pulled herself together and f
aced her accuser.

  “You have no right to say such a thing,” she began. “My father is——”

  “Pardon me,” he answered quietly, “but I am in the possession of information which enables me to understand exactly what he is. If you answer me correctly it is probable that after all I will take your case up, and will help you to save your father’s life, but if you decline to do so, ill as he is, he will be arrested within twenty-four hours, and then nothing on earth can save him from condign punishment. Which do you prefer?”

  “I will tell you everything,” she said quickly. “I ought to have done so at first, but you can understand why I shrank from it. My father has for a long time past been ashamed of the part he has been playing, but he could not help himself. He was too valuable to them, and they would not let him slip. They drove him on and on, and it was his remorse and anxiety that broke him down at last.”

  “I think you have chosen the better course in telling me this. I will ask my questions, and you can answer them. To begin with, where are the headquarters of the Society?”

  “In Chicago.”

  “I thought as much. And is it possible for you to tell me the names of the two principal members?”

  “There are many members, and I don’t know that one is greater than another.”

  “But there must be some who are more important than others. For instance, the pair referred to in this telegram as Alpha and Omega?”

  “I can only think,” she answered, after a moment’s thought, “that they must be the two men who came oftenest to our house, Messrs. Maguire and Rooney.”

  “Can you describe them, or, better still, have you their photographs?”

  “I have a photograph of Mr. Rooney. It was taken last year.”

  “You must send it to me as soon as you get home,” he said; “and now give me as close a description as possible of the other person to whom you refer, Mr. Maguire.”

  Mrs. Jeffreys considered for a few moments before she answered.