A Prince of Swindlers

by Guy Boothby

  “It is ten minutes to ten, Belton,” he said abruptly. “It must be now or never. Go down to the kitchen, and hang about there until the tray upon which the suppers of the guard are placed is prepared. When the footman starts with it for the billiard-room, accompany him, and, as he opens the green baize door leading from the servants’ quarters into the house, manage, by hook or crook, to hold him in conversation. Say something, and interrupt yourself by a severe fit of coughing. That will give me my cue. If anything should happen to me as I come downstairs, be sure that the man puts his tray down on the slab at the foot of the stairs and renders me assistance. I will manage the rest. Now be off.”

  Belton bowed respectfully, and left the room. As he did so, Carne crossed to the dressing-table, and unlocked a small case standing upon it. From this he took a tiny silver-stoppered scent bottle, containing, perhaps, half an ounce of white powder. This he slipped into his waistcoat pocket, and then made for the door.

  On the top of the back staircase he paused for a few moments to listen. He heard the spring of the green baize door in the passage below creak as it was pushed open. Next moment he distinguished Belton’s voice. “It’s as true as that I’m standing here,” he was saying. “As I went up the stairs with the governor’s hot water there she was coming along the passage. I stood back to let her pass, and as I did she——” (Here the narrative was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing.) On hearing this Carne descended the stairs, and, when he had got half-way down, saw the footman and his valet coming along the passage below. At the same instant he must have caught his foot in the stair carpet, for he tripped and fell headlong to the bottom.

  “Heaven’s alive!” cried Belton. “I do believe that’s my governor, and he’s killed.” At the same time he ran forward to the injured man’s assistance.

  Carne lay at the foot of the stairs just as he had fallen, his head thrown back, his eyes shut, and his body curled up and motionless. Belton turned to the footman, who still stood holding the tray where he had stopped on seeing the accident, and said: “Put down those things and go and find Mr. Greenthorpe as quickly as you can. Tell him Mr. Carne has fallen downstairs, and I’m afraid is seriously injured.”

  The footman immediately disappeared. His back was scarcely turned, however, before Carne was on his feet.

  “Excellent, my dear Belton,” he whispered; and, as he spoke, he slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket. “Hand me up that tray, but be quiet, or the policeman round the corner will hear you.”

  Belton did as he was ordered, and Carne thereupon sprinkled upon the suppers provided for the two men some of the white powder from the bottle he had taken from his dressing-case. This done, he resumed his place at the foot of the stairs, while Belton, kneeling over him and supporting his head, waited for assistance. Very few minutes elapsed before Mr. Greenthorpe, with his scared face, appeared upon the scene. At his direction Belton and the footman carried the unconscious gentleman to his bedroom, and placed him upon his bed. Restoratives were administered, and in something under ten minutes the injured man once more opened his eyes.

  “What is the matter?” he asked feebly. “What has happened?”

  “You have met with a slight accident, my dear sir,” said the old gentleman, “but you are better now. You fell downstairs.”

  As if he scarcely comprehended what was said, Carne feebly repeated the last sentence after his host, and then closed his eyes again. When he opened them once more, it was to beg Mr. Greenthorpe to leave him and return to his guests downstairs. After a small amount of pressing, the latter consented to do so, and retired, taking the footman with him. The first use Carne made of their departure was to turn to Belton.

  “The powder will take effect in five hours,” he said. “See that you have all the things prepared.”

  “They are quite ready,” replied Belton. “I arranged them this evening.”

  “Very good,” said Carne. “Now, I am going to sleep in real earnest.”

  So saying, he closed his eyes, and resigned himself to slumber as composedly as if nothing out of the common had occurred. The clock on the stables had struck three when he woke again. Belton was still sleeping peacefully, and it was not until he had been repeatedly shaken that he became conscious that it was time to get up.

  “Wake up,” said Carne; “it is three o’clock, and time for us to be about our business. Unlock that box, and get out the things.”

  Belton did as he was ordered, placing the packets as he took them from the cases in small Gladstone bags. Having done this, he went to one of his master’s trunks, and took from it two suits of clothes, a pair of wigs, two excellently contrived false beards, and a couple of soft felt hats. These he placed upon the bed. Ten minutes later he had assisted his master to change into one of the suits, and when this was done waited for further instructions.

  “Before you dress, take a tumbler from that table, and go downstairs. If you should meet any one, say that you are going to the butler’s pantry in search of filtered water, as you have used all the drinking water in this room. The ball should be over by this time, and the guests in bed half an hour ago. Ascertain if this is the case, and as you return glance at the policeman on duty outside the billiard-room door. Let me know his condition.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Belton; and, taking a tumbler from the table in question, he left the room. In less than five minutes he had returned to report that, with the exception of the corridor outside the billiard-room, the house was in darkness.

  “And how is the guardian of the door?” Carne inquired.

  “Fast asleep,” said Belton, “and snoring like a pig, sir.”

  “That is right,” said Carne. “The man inside should be the same, or that powder has failed me for the first time in my experience. We’ll give them half an hour longer, however, and then get to work. You had better dress yourself.”

  While Belton was making himself up to resemble his master, Carne sat in an easy chair by his dressing-table, reading Ruskin’s “Stones of Venice.” It was one of the most important of his many peculiarities that he could withdraw his thoughts from any subject, however much it might hitherto have engrossed him, and fasten them upon another, without once allowing them to wander back to their original channel. As the stable clock chimed the half-hour, he put the book aside, and sprang to his feet.

  “If you’re ready, Belton,” he said, “switch off the electric light and open that door.”

  When this had been done he bade his valet wait in the bedroom while he crept down the stairs on tip-toe. On turning into the billiard-room lobby, he discovered the rural policeman propped up in the corner fast asleep. His heavy breathing echoed down the corridors, and one moment’s inspection showed Carne that from him he had nothing to fear. Unlocking the door with a key which he took from his pocket, he entered the room, to find the gardener, like the policeman, fast asleep in an armchair by the window. He crossed to him, and, after a careful examination of his breathing, lifted one of his eyelids.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Nothing could be better. Now, when Belton comes, we shall be ready for business.”

  So saying, he left the room again, and went softly up the stairs to find his valet. The latter was awaiting him, and, before a witness, had there been one, could have counted twenty, they were standing in the billiard-room together. It was a large apartment, luxuriously furnished, with a bow window at one end and an alcove, surrounded with seats, at the other. In this alcove, cleverly hidden by the wainscotting, as Mr. Greenthorpe had once been at some pains to point out to Simon Carne, there existed a large iron safe of the latest burglar-proof pattern and design.

  The secret was an ingenious one, and would have baffled any ordinary craftsman. Carne, however, as has already been explained, was far from being a common-place member of his profession. Turning to Belton, he said, “Give me the tools.” These being forthcoming, in something less
than ten minutes he had picked the lock and was master of the safe’s contents.

  When these, including the fifty thousand sovereigns, had been safely carried upstairs and stowed away in the portmanteaux and chests, and the safe had been filled with the spurious jewellery he had brought with him for that purpose, he signed to Belton to bring him a long pair of steps which stood in a corner of the room, and which had been used for securing the sky-light above the billiard table. These he placed in such a position as would enable him to reach the window.

  With a diamond-pointed instrument, and a hand as true as the eye that guided it, he quickly extracted a square of coloured glass, filed through the catch, and was soon standing on the leads outside. A few moments later, the ladder, which had already rendered him such signal service, had enabled him to descend into the garden on the other side.

  There he arranged a succession of footsteps in the soft mould, and having done so, returned to the roof, carefully wiped the end of the ladder, so that it should not betray him, and climbed down into the room below, pulling it after him.

  “I think we have finished now,” he said to Belton, as he took a last look at the recumbent guardians of the room. “These gentlemen sleep soundly, so we will not disturb them further. Come, let us retire to bed.”

  In less than half an hour he was in bed and fast asleep. Next morning he was still confined to his room by his accident, though he expressed himself as suffering but slight pain. Every one was quick to sympathise with him, and numerous messages were conveyed to him expressive of sorrow that he should have met with his accident at such a time of general rejoicing. At ten o’clock the first batch of guests took their departure. It was arranged that the Duke and Duchess of Rugby, the Earl and Countess of Raxter, and Simon Carne, who was to be carried downstairs, should travel up to town together by the special train leaving immediately after lunch.

  When they bade their host good-bye, the latter was nearly overcome.

  “I’m sure it has been a real downright pleasure to me to entertain you, Mr. Carne,” he said, as he stood by the carriage door and shook his guest warmly by the hand. “There is only one thing bad about it, and that is your accident.”

  “You must not speak of that,” said Carne, with a little wave of his hand. “The pleasure I have derived from my visit to you amply compensates me for such a minor inconvenience.”

  So saying he shook hands and drove away to catch his train.

  Next morning it was announced in all the Society papers that, owing to an unfortunate accident he had sustained while visiting Mr. Matthew Greenthorpe, at Greenthorpe Park, on the occasion of his daughter’s marriage, Mr. Simon Carne would be unable to fulfil any of the engagements he might have entered into.

  Any intelligent reader of the aforesaid papers might have been excused had he pictured the gentleman in question confined to his bed, tended by skilled nurses, and watched over by the most fashionable West End physicians obtainable for love or money. They would doubtless, therefore, have been surprised could they have seen him at a late hour on the following evening hard at work in the laboratory he had constructed at the top of his house, as hale and hearty a man as any to be found in the great Metropolis.

  “Now those Apostle spoons,” he was saying, as he turned from the crucible at which he was engaged to Belton, who was busy at a side table. “The diamonds are safely disposed of, their settings are melted down, and, when these spoons have been added to the list, he will be a wise man who can find in my possession any trace of the famous Kilbenham-Greenthorpe wedding presents.”

  He was sitting before the fire in his study next morning, with his left foot lying bound up upon a neighbouring chair, when Ram Gafur announced “Kelmare Sahib.”

  “So sorry to hear that you are under the weather, Carne,” said the new-comer as he shook hands. “I only heard of your accident from Raxter last night, or I should have been round before. Beastly hard luck, but you shouldn’t have gone to the wedding, you know!”

  “And, pray, why not?”

  “You see for yourself you haven’t profited by your visit, have you?”

  “That all depends upon what you consider profit,” replied Carne. “I was an actor in an interesting Society spectacle. I was permitted an opportunity of observing my fellow-creatures in many new lights. Personally, I think I did very well. Besides that, to be laid up just now is not altogether a thing to be despised, as you seem to imagine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It isn’t everybody who can boast such a valid excuse for declining invitations as I now possess,” said Carne. “When I tell you that I had a dinner, a lecture at the Imperial Institute, two ‘at homes,’ and three dances on my list for to-night, you will understand what I mean. Now I am able to decline every one of them without risk of giving offence or fear of hurting the susceptibilities of any one. If you don’t call that luck, I do. And now tell me what has brought you here, for I suppose you have some reason, other than friendship, for this early call. When you came in I observed that you were bursting with importance. You are not going to tell me that you have abandoned your yachting trip and are going to be married?”

  “You need have no fear on that score. All the same, I have the greatest and most glorious news for you. It isn’t every day a man finds Providence taking up his case and entering into judgment against his enemies for him. That is my position. Haven’t you heard the news?”

  “What news?” asked Carne innocently.

  “The greatest of all possible news,” answered Kelmare, “and one which concerns you, my dear fellow. You may not believe it, but it was discovered last evening that the Kilbenham-Greenthorpe wedding presents have all been stolen, including the fifty thousand sovereigns presented to the bride in the now famous jewelled casket. What do you think of that?”

  “Surely you must be joking,” said Carne incredulously. “I cannot believe it.”

  “Nevertheless it’s a fact,” replied Kelmare.

  “But when did it happen? and how did they discover it?” asked Carne.

  “When it took place nobody can tell, but they discovered it when they came to put the presents together after the guests had departed. On the morning after the wedding old Greenthorpe had visited the safe himself, and glanced casually at its contents, just to see that they were all right, you know; but it was not until the afternoon, when they began to do them up, that they discovered that every single article of value the place contained had been abstracted, and dummies substituted. Their investigation proved that the sky-light had been tampered with, and one could see unmistakable footmarks on the flower beds outside.

  “Good gracious!” said Carne. “This is news indeed. What a haul the thieves must have had, to be sure! I can scarcely believe it even now. But I thought they had a gardener in the room, a policeman at the door, and a patrol outside, and that old Greenthorpe went to sleep with the keys of the room and safe under his pillow?”

  “Quite right,” said Kelmare, “so he did; that’s the mysterious part of it. The two chaps swear positively that they were wide awake all night, and that nothing was tampered with while they were there. Who the thieves were, and how they became so familiar with the place, are riddles that it would puzzle the Sphinx, or your friend Klimo next door, to unravel.”

  “What an unfortunate thing,” said Carne. “It’s to be hoped the police will catch them before they have time to dispose of their booty.”

  “You are thinking of your bracelet, I suppose?”

  “It may seem egotistical, but I must confess I was; and now I suppose you’ll stay to lunch?”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. There are at least five families who have not heard the news, and I feel that it is my bounden duty to enlighten them.”

  “You’re quite right, it is not often a man has such glorious vengeance to chronicle. It behoves you to make the most of it.”

&nb
sp; The other looked at Carne as if to discover whether or not he was laughing at him. Carne’s face, however, was quite expressionless.

  “Good-bye; I suppose you won’t be at the Wilbringham’s to-night?”

  “I’m afraid not. You evidently forget that, as I said just now, I have a very good and sufficient excuse.”

  When the front door had closed behind his guest, Carne lit a third cigar.

  “I’m overstepping my allowance,” he said reflectively, as he watched the smoke circle upward, “but it isn’t every day a man gives a thousand pounds for a wedding present and gets upwards of seventy thousand back. I think I may congratulate myself on having brought off a very successful little speculation.”

  CHAPTER 5

  A CASE OF PHILANTHROPY

  If one consults a dictionary one finds that the word dipsomaniac means a man who spends his life continually desiring alcoholic liquor; a name that properly classifies it has not yet been invented for the individual who exhibits a perpetual craving for notoriety, and yet one is, perhaps, as much a nuisance to society as the other. After his run of success there came a time when Simon Carne, like Alexander the Great, could have sat down and wept, for the reason that he had no more worlds to conquer. For the moment it seemed as if he had exhausted, to put it plainly, every species of artistic villainy.

  He had won the Derby, under peculiar circumstances, as narrated elsewhere; he had rendered a signal, though an unostentatious, service to the State; he had stolen, under enormous difficulty, the most famous family jewels in Europe; and he had relieved the most fashionable bride and bridegroom of the season of the valuable presents that their friends and relations had lavished on them.

  Having accomplished so much, it would seem as if he had done all that mortal man could do to create a record for himself, but, like the dipsomaniac above mentioned, he was by no means satisfied, he craved for more. It delighted him beyond all measure to hear the comments of his friends upon each daring crime as it became known to the world. What he wanted now was something before which all the rest would sink into insignificance. Day after day he had puzzled his brains, but without success. All he wanted was a hint. When he got it he could be trusted to follow it up for himself. At present, however, even that was wanting.