A Prince of Swindlers

by Guy Boothby

  At the corner he stopped his driver and gave him some instructions in a low voice. Having done so, he walked along the pavement as far as No. 14, where he came to a standstill. As on the last occasion that he had surveyed the house, there were lights in three of the windows, and from this illumination he argued that his men were at home. Without hesitation he went up the steps and rang the bell. Before he could have counted fifty it was opened by Mrs. Jeffreys herself, who looked suspiciously at the person she saw before her. It was evident that in the tall, well-made man with iron-grey moustache and dark hair, she did not recognise her elderly acquaintance, Klimo, the detective.

  “Are you Mrs. Jeffreys?” asked the newcomer, in a low voice.

  “I am,” she answered. “Pray, what can I do for you?”

  “I was told by a friend to give you this card.”

  He thereupon handed to her a card on which was written the one word “Klimo.” She glanced at it, and, as if that magic name were sufficient to settle every doubt, beckoned to him to follow her. Having softly closed the door she led him down the passage until she arrived at a door on her right hand. This she opened and signed to him to enter. It was a room that was half office half library.

  “I am to understand that you come from Mr. Klimo?” she said, trembling under the intensity of her emotion. “What am I to do?”

  “First be as calm as you can. Then tell me where the men are with whom I have to deal.”

  “They are having their supper in the dining-room. They went out soon after luncheon, and only returned an hour ago.”

  “Very good. Now, if you will conduct me upstairs, I shall be glad to see if your father is well enough to sign a document I have brought with me. Nothing can be done until I have arranged that.”

  “If you will come with me I will take you to him. But we must go quietly, for the men are so suspicious that they send for me to know the meaning of every sound. I was dreadfully afraid your ring would bring them out into the hall.”

  Leading the way up the stairs she conducted him to a room on the first floor, the door of which she opened carefully. On entering, Carne found himself in a well-furnished bedroom. A bed stood in the centre of the room, and on this lay a man. In the dim light, for the gas was turned down till it showed scarcely a glimmer, he looked more like a skeleton than a human being. A long white beard lay upon the coverlet, his hair was of the same colour, and the pallor of his skin more than matched both. That he was conscious was shown by the question he addressed to his daughter as they entered.

  “What is it, Eileen?” he asked faintly. “Who is this gentleman, and why does he come to see me?”

  “He is a friend, father,” she answered. “One who has come to save us from these wicked men.”

  “God bless you, sir,” said the invalid, and as he spoke he made as if he would shake him by the hand.

  Carne, however, checked him.

  “Do not move or speak,” he said, “but try and pull yourself together sufficiently to sign this paper.”

  “What is the document?”

  “It is something without which I can take no sort of action. My instructions are to do nothing until you have signed it. You need not be afraid; it will not hurt you. Come, sir, there is no time to be wasted. If these rascals are to be got out of England our scheme must be carried out to-night.”

  “To do that I will sign anything. I trust your honour for its contents. Give me a pen and ink.”

  His daughter supported him in her arms, while Carne dipped a pen in the bottle of ink he had brought with him and placed it in the tremulous fingers. Then, the paper being supported on a book, the old man laboriously traced his signature at the place indicated. When he had done so he fell back upon the pillow completely exhausted.

  Carne blotted it carefully, then folded the paper up, placed it in his pocket and announced himself ready for work. The clock upon the mantelpiece showed him that it was a quarter to eleven, so that if he intended to act that night he knew he must do so quickly. Bidding the invalid rest happy in the knowledge that his safety was assured, he beckoned the daughter to him.

  “Go downstairs,” he said in a whisper, “and make sure that the men are still in the dining-room.”

  She did as he ordered her, and in a few moments returned with the information that they had finished their supper and had announced their intention of going to bed.

  “In that case we must hurry,” said Carne. “Where are my men concealed?”

  “In the room at the end of that passage,” was the girl’s reply.

  “I will go to them. In the meantime you must return to the study downstairs, where we will join you in five minutes’ time. Just before we enter the room in which they are sitting, one of my men will ring the front door bell. You must endeavour to make the fellows inside believe that you are trying to prevent us from gaining admittance. We shall arrest you, and then deal with them. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  She slipped away, and Carne hastened to the room at the end of the passage. He scratched with his finger nail upon the door, and a second later it was opened by a sergeant of police. On stepping inside he found two constables and an inspector awaiting him.

  “Is all prepared, Belton?” he inquired of the latter.

  “Quite prepared, sir.”

  “Then come along, and step as softly as you can.”

  As he spoke he took from his pocket a couple of papers, and led the way along the corridor and down the stairs. With infinite care they made their way along the hall until they reached the dining-room door, where Mrs. Jeffreys joined them. Then the street bell rang loudly, and the man who had opened the front door a couple of inches shut it with a bang. Without further hesitation Carne called upon the woman to stand aside, while Belton threw open the dining-room door.

  “I tell you, sir, you are mistaken,” cried the terrified woman.

  “I am the best judge of that,” said Carne roughly, and then, turning to Belton, he added: “Let one of your men take charge of this woman.”

  On hearing them enter, the two men they were in search of had risen from the chairs they had been occupying on either side of the fire, and stood side by side upon the hearth rug, staring at the intruders as if they did not know what to do.

  “James Maguire and Patrick Wake Rooney,” said Carne, approaching the two men, and presenting the papers he held in his hand, “I have here warrants, and arrest you both on a charge of being concerned in a Fenian plot against the well being of Her Majesty’s Government. I should advise you to submit quietly. The house is surrounded, constables are posted at all the doors, and there is not the slightest chance of escape.”

  The men seemed too thunderstruck to do anything, and submitted quietly to the process of handcuffing. When they had been secured, Carne turned to the inspector and said:

  “With regard to the other man who is ill upstairs, Septimus O’Grady, you had better post a man at his door.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Then turning to Messrs. Maguire and Rooney, he said: “I am authorised by Her Majesty’s Government to offer you your choice between arrest and appearance at Bow Street, or immediate return to America. Which do you choose? I need not tell you that we have proof enough in our hands to hang the pair of you if necessary. You had better make up your minds as quickly as possible, for I have no time to waste.”

  The men stared at him in supreme astonishment.

  “You will not prosecute us?”

  “My instructions are, in the event of your choosing the latter alternative, to see that you leave the country at once. In fact, I shall conduct you to Kingstown myself to-night, and place you aboard the mail-boat there.”

  “Well, so far as I can see, it’s Hobson’s choice,” said Maguire. “I’ll pay you the compliment of saying that you’re smarter than I thought you’d be. How did yo
u come to know we were in England?”

  “Because your departure from America was cabled to us more than a week ago. You have been shadowed ever since you set foot ashore. Now passages have been booked for you on board the outgoing boat, and you will sail in her. First, however, it will be necessary for you to sign this paper, pledging yourselves never to set foot in England again.”

  “And supposing we do not sign it?”

  “In that case I shall take you both to Bow Street forthwith, and you will come before the magistrates in the morning. You know what that will mean. You had better make up your minds quickly, for there is no time to lose.”

  For some moments they remained silent. Then Maguire said sullenly: “Bedad, sir, since there’s nothing else for it, I consent.”

  “And so do I,” said Rooney. “Where’s the paper?”

  Carne handed them a formidable-looking document, and they read it in turn with ostentatious care. As soon as they had professed themselves willing to append their signatures to it, the sham detective took it to a writing-table at the other end of the room, and then ordered them to be unmanacled, so that they could come up in turn and sign. Had they been less agitated it is just possible they would have noticed that two sheets of blotting paper covered the context, and that only a small space on the paper, which was of a blueish grey tint, was left uncovered.

  Then placing them in charge of the police officials, Carne left the room and went upstairs to examine their baggage. Evidently he discovered there what he wanted to know, for when he returned to the room his face was radiant.

  Half an hour later they had left the house in separate cabs. Rooney was accompanied by Belton and one of his subordinates, now in plain clothes, while Carne and another took charge of Maguire. At Euston they found special carriages awaiting them, and the same procedure was adopted in Ireland. The journey to Queenstown proved entirely uneventful; not for one moment did the two men suspect the trick that was being played upon them; nevertheless, it was with ill-concealed feelings of satisfaction that Carne and Belton bade them farewell upon the deck of the outward-bound steamer.

  “Good-bye,” said Maguire, as their captors prepared to pass over the side again. “An’ good luck to ye. I’ll wish ye that, for ye’ve treated us well, though it’s a scurvy trick ye’ve played us in turning us out of England like this. First, however, one question. What about O’Grady?”

  “The same course will be pursued with him, as soon as he is able to move,” answered the other. “I can’t say more.”

  “A word in your ear first,” said Rooney. He leant towards Carne. “The girl’s a good one” he said. “An’ ye may do what ye can for her, for she knows nought of our business.”

  “I’ll remember that if ever the chance arises,” said Carne. “Now, good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  On the Wednesday morning following, an elderly gentleman, dressed in rather an antiquated fashion, but boasting an appearance of great respectability, drove up in a brougham to the branch of the United Kingdom Bank in Oxford Street, and presented a cheque for no less a sum than forty-five thousand pounds, signed with the names of Septimus O’Grady, James Maguire, and Patrick Rooney, and bearing the date of the preceding Friday.

  The cheque was in perfect order, and, in spite of the largeness of the amount, it was cashed without hesitation.

  That afternoon Klimo received a visit from Mrs. Jeffreys. She came to express her gratitude for his help, and to ask the extent of her debt.

  “You owe me nothing but your gratitude. I will not take a halfpenny. I am quite well enough rewarded now,” said Klimo with a smile.

  When she had gone he took out his pocket-book and consulted it.

  “Forty-five thousand pounds,” he said with a chuckle. “Yes, that is good. I did not take her money, but I have been rewarded in another way.”

  Then he went into Porchester House and dressed for the Garden Party at Marlborough House, to which he had been invited.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE WEDDING GUEST

  One bright summer morning Simon Carne sat in his study, and reflected on the slackness of things in general. Since he had rendered such a signal service to the State, as narrated in the previous chapter, he had done comparatively nothing to raise himself in his own estimation. He was thinking in this strain when his butler entered, and announced “Kelmare Sahib.” The interruption was a welcome one, and Carne rose to greet his guest with every sign of pleasure on his face.

  “Good-morning, Kelmare,” he said, as he took the other’s outstretched hand; “I’m delighted to see you. How are you this morning?”

  “As well as a man can hope to be under the circumstances,” replied the new arrival, a somewhat blasé youth, dressed in the height of fashion. “You are going to the Greenthorpe wedding, of course. I hear you have been invited.”

  “You are quite right; I have,” said Carne, and presently produced a card from the basket, and tossed it across the table.

  The other took it up with a groan.

  “Yes,” he said, “that’s it, by Jove! And a nice-looking document it is. Carne, did you ever hate anybody so badly that it seemed as if it would be scarcely possible to discover anything you would not do to hurt them?”

  “No,” answered Carne, “I cannot say that I have. Fate has always found me some way or another in which I might get even with my enemies. But you seem very vindictive in this matter. What’s the reason of it?”

  “Vindictive?” said Kelmare, “of course I am; think how they have treated me. A year ago, this week, Sophie Greenthorpe and I were engaged. Old Greenthorpe had not then turned his business into a limited liability company, and my people were jolly angry with me for making such a foolish match; but I did not care. I was in love, and Sophie Greenthorpe is as pretty a girl as can be found in the length and breadth of London. But there, you’ve seen her, so you know for yourself. Well, three months later, old Greenthorpe sold his business for upwards of three million sterling. On the strength of it he went into the House, gave thirty thousand to the funds of his party, and would have received a baronetcy for his generosity, had his party not been shunted out of power.

  “Inside another month all the swells had taken them up; dukes and earls were as common at the old lady’s receptions as they had been scarce before, and I began to understand that, instead of being everybody to them as I had once been, the old fellow was beginning to think his daughter might have done much better than become engaged to the third son of an impecunious earl.

  “Then Kilbenham came upon the scene. He’s a fine-looking fellow, and a marquis, but, as you know as well as I do, a real bad hat. He hasn’t a red cent in the world to bless himself with, and he wanted money—well—just about as badly as a man could want it. What’s the result? Within six weeks I am thrown over, and she has accepted Kilbenham’s offer of marriage. Society says—‘What a good match!’ and, as if to endorse it, you received an invitation to the ceremony.”

  “Forgive me, but you are growing cynical now,” said Carne, as he lit a fresh cigar.

  “Haven’t I good cause to be?” asked Kelmare. “Wait till you’ve been treated as I have, and then we’ll see how you’ll feel. When I think how every man you meet speaks of Kilbenham, and of the stories that are afloat concerning him, and hear the way old Greenthorpe and his pretensions are laughed at in the clubs, and sneered at in the papers, and am told that they are receiving presents of enormous value from all sorts and conditions of people, from Royalty to the poor devils of workmen he still under-pays, just because Kilbenham is a marquis and she is the daughter of a millionaire, why, I can tell you it is enough to make any one cynical.”

  “In the main, I agree with you,” said Carne. “But, as life is made up of just such contradictions, it seems to me absurd to butt your head against a stone wall, and then grumble because it hurts and you don’t make any impression on it.
Do you think the presents are as wonderful as they say? I want to know, because I’ve not given mine yet. In these days one gives as others give. If they have not received anything very good, then a pair of electroplated entrée dishes will meet the case. If the reverse—well—diamonds, perhaps, or an old Master that the Americans are wild to buy, and can’t.”

  “Who is cynical now, I should like to know?” said Kelmare. “I was told this morning that up to the present, with the superb diamonds given by the bride’s father, they have totalled a value of something like twenty thousand pounds.”

  “You surprise me,” answered Carne.

  “I am surprised myself,” said Kelmare, as he rose to go. “Now, I must be off. I came in to see if you felt inclined for a week’s cruise in the Channel. Burgrave has lent me his yacht, and somehow I think a change of air will do me good.”

  “I am very sorry,” said Carne, “but it would be quite impossible for me to get away just now. I have several important functions on hand that will keep me in town.”

  “I suppose this wedding is one of them?”

  “To tell the honest truth, I had scarcely thought of it,” replied Carne. “Must you be off? Well, then, good-bye, and a pleasant holiday to you.”

  When Kelmare had disappeared, Carne went back to his study, and seated himself at his writing-table. “Kelmare is a little over-sensitive,” he said, “and his pique is spoiling his judgment. He does not seem to realize that he has come very well out of a jolly bad business. I am not certain which I pity most—Miss Greenthorpe, who is a heartless little hussy, or the Marquis of Kilbenham, who is a thorough-paced scoundrel. The wedding, however, promises to be a fashionable one, and——”

  He stopped midway, rose, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, staring into the empty fireplace. Presently he flipped the ash off his cigar, and turned round. “It never struck me in that light before,” he said, as he pressed the button of the electric bell in the wall beside him. When it was answered, he ordered his carriage, and a quarter of an hour later was rolling down Regent Street.