He handed Joey Barham a printed paper.
GENTLEMEN'S RELISH!!! By Private Auction on Saturday the 13th next Aboard the FIDELE steamboat, now mooring at ST LOUIS! TWELVE FANCY GIRLS!
(Light and quadroon) Thro' Private Treaty of a Gentleman's Creditors!
UNDER THE HAMMER OF MONSIEUR VIGNIE OF THE NEW ORLEANS ROTUNDA !
(Whole bids and unreserved)
At two o'clock in the afternoon, punctual 'MISS JOLLY' A Feast for all Choice Spirits Broken in by an English aristocrat - Two thousand dollars refused in private negotiation! - Light-coloured - Petite - Beauty of the Orient - Every Man's Fancy in Reality - Will sell again high!
At half-past two o'clock exactly:
NABYLA
All the Perfumes of Arabia High-stepper - Jewel of the Harem - Ready-trained . . .
Morant-Barham's sunburnt features creased in a fierce frown.
'They might know you're alive,' he said firmly, 'but it's plain as day they don't know exactly where and they don't know what you plan. If they had an idea about Philadelphia, they'd never wait until afterwards to stage this slave-girl caper.'
'They shall know in good time,' said Dacre, almost dreamily.
Morant-Barham put down his knife and fork. 'Know? Know what?'
'Joey,' said Dacre patiently, 'emptying the vaults is one thing. But it ain't the greatest pleasure a man can have. If the world can't know that I did it, then to me the thing's not worth trying. Where's the charm of passing doors that can't be opened and emptying the gold vaults of the Federal Mint, if it's never to be known who worked the miracle?
By God, Joey, can't y' see the joy of it! Walkin' free in the eyes of the whole world of prigs - and not a law that can harm us. There ain't a work of art in the world, Joey, that can touch such a cracksman's masterpiece as this! There ain't the pleasure in any woman's body that a fellow would trade for such delight!'
Dacre's narrow blue eyes burnt with a glacial fire, his thin frame and spoilt face consumed by enthusiasm. Morant-Barham observed a tactful silence, working with his knife and fork. At length he said casually: 'Then you shan't go near the trap where Miss Jolly lies as bait?'
Dacre blinked, as if breaking his own trance, and looked at his companion with sharp surprise.
'Oh, but I must keep the rendezvous, Joey. When their vaults are empty, I must steal the bait from their trap too. I wouldn't miss their auction for a second mint of bullion!'
'Why?" Joey Barham's hands beat petulantly on the table. 'Why? To put it all in chancery for a slant-eyed little whore!'
'Ah!' said Dacre gently. 'It ain't that. First, however, she did cross me, Joey, and there ain't a pleasure sweeter with her than vengeance. This time, she shall have her skin taken off in such ways as shall make her bless the man who lets her taste the noose at last. But it ain't that, my dear fellow. The exquisite part is in letting them bait the trap, taking the prey, and showing them that they've been twice beaten!'
'The risk,' Morant-Barham muttered. 'It don't excuse the risk!'
'A fellow that's in rut don't excuse himself, Joey. Did you ever excuse yourself when you topped and tailed that young Khan bitch? Did you beg pardon from blonde Maggie when you stoked her to extinction? Believe me, Joey, you must see it that way for me. I'm in rut for that gold! I'm in rut for skinning that little bitch Jolly! And I'm in rut for the world to know what I have done! And it may cut its guts on envy before it shall be able to lay a hand on my shoulder over it!'
9
The two British staff officers were distinctly recognizable by their scarlet tunics, gilded epaulettes, and the white plumes of their cocked hats. A small crowd had gathered outside the Chestnut Street entrance of the Continental Hotel, the newest and most splendid of its kind in Philadelphia. It rose, massive and Italianate at the corner of Chestnut and Ninth Street like the fortified palace of some latter-day Medici. Its ground-floor facade, however, was graced by finely-wrought cast-iron arcading, which supported the balconies of the first-floor rooms. In the September sun, several of the little shops and ticket offices, which occupied the street-level, had pulled out their awnings.
The crowd had been attracted in the first place by the smartly painted Clapps two-wheeler, glossily panelled in royal blue, which stood awaiting the two officers at the hotel entrance. It was one of several such vehicles seen in the city of late, its doors bearing a small and discreet emblem, embodying a gold crown and three white feathers above the words Ich Dien. The two officers lowered their heads gingerly and entered the closed carriage. As the two-wheeler pulled out into the traffic, where the horse-drawn buses on their iron rails occupied the centre of the broad avenue, the little crowd settled down again. Sooner or later one of the smart carriages would return to the hotel bearing the young man whom they had all waited so long to see. They had already had one extra stroke of fortune in seeing Colonel Dempster and Major Morant enter the carriage. The mere equerries of a Prince warranted some attention in themselves.
As these thoughts passed through the minds of the watchers at the Continental, Colonel Dempster was removing his cocked hat and addressing his companion.
'Now, Joey, breathe deep, mumble if you must speak at all to them, and have the goodness to leave the rest of the business to me.'
Morant-Barham sniggered nervously as the two men sat in unaccustomed silence, the light catching their wine-coloured sashes, and the golden fringes of their epaulettes jigging at the movement of the carriage-wheels. The large fortress-like stores of Philadelphia, with their canvas awnings and plate-glass, shone like marble in the sun.
Verney Dacre's heart raced with the exhilaration of it all, and his pride swelled within him at the perfection of the design.
'If a fellow was to ask the Federal Mint for a peck of bullion,' he had said a dozen times, 'damme, they might want our pedigrees longer than your arm. But who ever heard of pedigrees being questioned when a fellow asks for nothing, except that the Mint should be pleased to take a present of gold with his best compliments?'
Morant-Barham had agreed the ripeness of the scheme, and indeed he saw now why men spoke of Verney Dacre as they did. There was nothing to raise the least suspicion or question, quite the reverse, unless a man were so churlish as to suspect a free gift of royal gold, or so unmannerly as to refuse a Prince hospitality who had just been the guest of President Buchanan himself, and had been cheered by tens of thousands in the nation's streets.
It was no more than half a mile from the Continental to the marble temple which housed the Mint. The two-wheeler stopped at the Chestnut Street portico with its six Ionic pillars and its grand pediment. Verncy Dacre, in colonel's full-dress, marched stiffly up the steps, followed by Morant-Barham, smartly returning the salutes of the two military guards at the door. Once inside, Dacre tipped his cocked hat forward from his head and lodged it ceremonially under his left arm. They now stood in the semi-circular vestibule, confronting a frock-coated man in his late fifties. Dacre brought his heels together and gave a slight bowing inclination.
The older man made his own nod of acknowledgement and extended his hand.
'James Ross Snowden, sir, Director of the United States Federal Mint. My private secretary, Captain Willson Moore.'
'Servant, sir,' said Verncy Dacre smartly, his words more clipped than ever in a parody of his normal speech. 'Colonel Villiers Dempster, 10th Prince of Wales Hussars, Master of Horse to His Royal Highness. Major Morant, Royal Horse Artillery, attached to His Royal Highness's staff.'
There was further inclining of heads and an exchange of formal greetings. Snowden led the way, between two lines of admiring subordinates, along the vaulted passageway to the marble staircase at the end of the south wing. Verney Dacre felt a swelling joy at the realization that his map of the building was proving accurate in every detail. At the head of the marble staircase, as he had expected, were the handsome double-doors of Snowden's office, in light polished oak. The interior was lit by tall windows opening on a wide and sunny prospect of Chestn
ut Street, the carpet deep crimson, the leather chairs in autumnal bronze. Even the wide partners' desk and the cabinets were precisely at the point indicated on Charley Temple's plan.
Dacre was filled by a surge of exultation which swept aside all sense of fear, or even of self-preservation. His blood raced at the thought that the gold would be his, followed by the exquisite satisfaction of having the satiny, copper skin off Miss Jolly for her treachery. What more could a man of sense ask for? He took the monocle which hung on its black lace, screwed it into his eye, and played his part with vigour. Drawing himself up, tall and slim in his scarlet and gold braid, he addressed Snowden.
'I have th' honour, sir, to be commanded by His Royal Highness, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, - aw - on th' occasion of his visit to Philadelphia, to - aw - present to the United States Federal Mint a gift in recognition of the strong - ah - binding affiliation 'f two peoples' trade and manufacture. Major Morant, oblige me, if you please!'
Joey Morant-Barham stamped forward to attention, holding a plain oak box, rather larger than the size of a brick. Dacre took it from him and stamped about to face Snowden. He opened the lid of the box to reveal a fourteen-pound gold ingot with an ornamental edging and a carved inscription.
ROYAL MINT
23 VICTORIA R.
24 CARAT
Presented to the United States Federal Mint by His Royal Highness Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, on the occasion of his reception at Philadelphia, the 9th of October 1860, in the Directorship of James Ross Snowden, Esquire
The metal glowed a deeper shade, like burnished copper, in the maroon velvet lining of its box. Snowden, though prepared to receive the gift, was moved almost beyond words by the discovery that his own name had been coupled with that of the Prince for all posterity. Dacre listened politely to his full-throated appreciation, still letting his eyes wander over the handsomely furnished room. The bait had cost him more than a thousand dollars, or rather it represented almost all that remained from the great bullion robbery on the South Eastern Railway in 1857. But, he told himself, a fellow that angled for two or three million was not to begrudge such a bauble. Especially when he had every intention of stealing the bauble back, once the main business was concluded.
Presently Snowden was escorting his two visitors volubly to the little museum of coins which, as Dacre's map had promised, lay along the corridor from his office. In the central courtyard of the Mint, the air was heavy with the hot mineral smell of molten gold. Dacre caught a breath of it in his nostrils and his heart beat faster at the memory and the promise. In the little museum, Snowden fluttered from cabinet to cabinet, displaying his treasures.
'And here, sir, we have the widow's mite, the very coin of which the Bible speaks - a mighty rare specimen. . . Here the Greek republics, Aegina, Athens . . . and here, sir, is Darius, and there Alexander. . .'
Dacre peered down from his height at the insignificant flakes of metal and made the replies which might be expected of him.
'Very fine, sir ... aw, exquisite, damme . . . deuced fine, though, ain't it, Morant?'
They came to the end of the cabinets and he assumed command of the conversation.
'Y'have a noble city here, sir. A man might go far and never see such agreeable buildings, nor meet such crack society. Crack society, sir. The Prince has long been determined for Philadelphia, sir. Regrets only that he must travel incog as Baron Renfrew in your country, by Her Majesty's wish, of course.'
'We shall be honoured by his presence under any title, sir,' said Snowden, his wire glasses gleaming as he turned a sharp, birdlike face to Dacre. 'We regret only that His Royal Highness has not leisure enough to visit us at the Mint and see our little acquisitions.'
'Regrettable, sir,' said Dacre, mournful and sincere. 'But he shall hear of it, sir, from me. Never fear that. Indeed, I have a commission to execute on his behalf in which it is possible you might incur His Highness's obligation.'
'I should be glad to know of it,' said Snowden hopefully.
Dacre looked about him, as though anxious not to be overheard.
'You must know, Mr. Snowden, that in the course of such a tour, with the good-will and the ceremony, many gifts are given and received by His Royal Highness. As he leaves Washington, for Philadelphia, then for New York and Boston, the sealed boxes must accompany him. Tomorrow night they must rest in Philadelphia, the gifts and the presents. In Washington, where we have our Embassy, they were no embarrassment. In Philadelphia, we have nowhere but the Prince's suite at the Continental
Hotel. Truth, sir, there is nowhere the six boxes might lie safer or more convenient for that night than in your own vault. . .'
'Why, Colonel Dempster!' Snowden regarded Dacre with that faint, smiling disparagement which might have indicated that Dacre should either have known better than to ask, or should not have hesitated to put the request.
'It is an imposition, sir,' said Dacre humbly, 'aw -imposition, damme.'
'No!' Snowden shook his head, 'No imposition whatever, sir!'
'You must make whatever restrictions are usual, sir,' said Dacre firmly. 'You are not to be put to inconvenience in the matter. His Royal Highness is positive as to that. For my part, it is only to see the boxes delivered to you under seal tomorrow morning, and to obtain them from you again on the morning after.'
'Name your wish, sir!' said Snowden earnestly. 'Only name it!'
'The Prince asks only one other,' Dacre looked about him again cautiously. 'It is that you alone and your most trusted lieutenants should know of this matter.'
'Our stronghold is safe enough,' said Snowden, taken aback.
'To be sure it is, sir, but the boxes must come and go. There might the danger lie. If all the world were honest, sir, I should not have to ask this. But it ain't, damme. It ain't at all.'
By this time, the three men were walking back down the marble staircase. Dacre had expected to be led politely off the premises but to his delight Snowden was obviously intent on showing off the security in which the royal treasures might be kept. Returning to the circular vestibule at the main entrance, they turned inward, following the sunken passageway to the secrets of the Mint itself.
The great steel doors were there, just as the plan had indicated. Painted in the pale grey of an ironclad, they stood open with an armed and uniformed guard at either side. The thickness of the steel was impressive, Dacre allowed that. He even glimpsed the little keyhole, no more than an inch high, which was shuttered by the steel plate and its time-lock from dusk until dawn. If anything, he had under-estimated the strength of these main doors. Once they were locked, almost airtight, across the vaulted passage, a ton of gunpowder might do no more than pit their surface. Behind him walked Morant-Barham and Willson Moore, the former replying with hums and murmurs to Moore's attempts at conversation.
They passed the weighing-rooms, where the bullion was entered in the records of the Mint. Another metal door opened at Snowden's touch and they stood before the searing brilliance of the furnaces in the refining shop. Four of these were set into the opposite wall, like square, open ovens, molten gold simmering on top of the crucibles inside, above its deposit of silver. The refiners in their shirtsleeves stood at each furnace with long-handled dipping-cups, scooping out the liquid gold and tipping it into zinc vats of water, like sparkling fire. Dacre's eyes filled at the white heat of the ovens, whose flames roared in concealment behind the ventilation grill. Yet through the haze of tears he noted the two furnaces which were unlit and knew that Charley Temple's informant had not misled him.
Beyond the refining-shop, with its hot metallic air, the corroding-house was laden with steam from the porcelain vats where the golden granules hissed in hot nitric acid. The fumes, which rose in a bright golden fog, were collected by an overhanging metal 'umbrella' and drawn into the upward draught of the chimney. Several men, in leather jerkins and hats to protect their hair from the fumes, stirred the bubbling acid with long wooden pokers. To one side of this, set back in a narro
w recess, was a chimney-hatch, giving access to the flue. Dacre, nodding and making agreeable comments on Snowden's description of such ingenuities, gave his mind to plotting the intricacies of the next day.
After the refining process, the Mint assumed the character of any other engineering works. There was a casting-shop with a smaller, arched furnace, bricked into the wall, where the gold was melted again and poured into the empty upright moulds of the ingots, which stood in rows on low trolleys to receive the precious fluid. Beyond that was the great expanse of the rolling-room, with its massive mill powered by two broad iron wheels on each side, large enough to have driven a ship. Dacre watched in fascination as the brick-like ingots were drawn in by the broad-rimmed iron wheels and pressed into long slim strips of metal, thin enough for the coins to be punched from them.
The muffled thunder of the steam-driven rolling-mill gave way to the metallic chatter of the coining shop, where men who looked like clerks sat on high stools at what seemed to be church organs. Into the base of these, where the keyboard might have been, they fed the thin strips of gold, using their free hand to regulate the mechanical punch of the stamp. The metallic clatter and the trickle of blank coins into boxes rattled endlessly about the great shop. Finally came the subdued female murmur of the weighing-room, where the punched coins were checked by thirty or forty girls, each sitting at her little table with a pair of scales before her.
Snowden led the way to the far entrance of the room, through which no one but he and his confidants ever passed. Another steel door, as massive as those at the vestibule entrance, stood before them. This one was closed across the arched passageway and boasted no keyhole. There was a single knob projecting from the centre of the door, let in from the far side so that its screws and edging were inaccessible to any burglar. Dacre looked politely away as Snow den clicked the knob round, first one way and than another. He took hold of a bar across the door and, with an effort, opened it.
Sergeant Verity and the Blood Royal Page 10
