The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales

by Maurice Leblanc

If so, how had he found it out? I had an inkling, myself—but, under all the circumstances, I did not mention it to Charles. It was clear that Césarine intensely disliked this new addition to the Vandrift household. She would not stop in the room where the detective was, or show him common politeness. She spoke of him always as “that odious man, Medhurst.” Could she have guessed, what none of the other servants knew, that the man was a spy in search of the Colonel? I was inclined to believe it. And then it dawned upon me that Césarine had known all about the diamonds and their story; that it was Césarine who took us to see Schloss Lebenstein; that it was Césarine who posted the letter to Lord Craig-Ellachie! If Césarine was in league with Colonel Clay, as I was half inclined to surmise, what more natural than her obvious dislike to the detective who was there to catch her principal? What more simple for her than to warn her fellow-conspirator of the danger that awaited him if he approached this man Medhurst?

  However, I was too much frightened by the episode of the cheque to say anything of my nascent suspicions to Charles. I waited rather to see how events would shape themselves.

  After a while Medhurst’s vigilance grew positively annoying. More than once he came to Charles with reports and shorthand notes distinctly distasteful to my excellent brother-in-law. “The fellow is getting to know too much about us,” Charles said to me one day. “Why, Sey, he spies out everything. Would you believe it, when I had that confidential interview with Brookfield the other day, about the new issue of Golcondas, the man was under the easy-chair, though I searched the room beforehand to make sure he wasn’t there; and he came to me afterwards with full notes of the conversation, to assure me he thought Brookfield—whom I’ve known for ten years—was too tall by half an inch to be one of Colonel Clay’s impersonations.”

  “Oh, but, Sir Charles,” Medhurst cried, emerging suddenly from the bookcase, “you must never look upon any one as above suspicion merely because you’ve known him for ten years or thereabouts. Colonel Clay may have approached you at various times under many disguises. He may have built up this thing gradually. Besides, as to my knowing too much, why, of course, a detective always learns many things about his employer’s family which he is not supposed to know; but professional honour and professional etiquette, as with doctors and lawyers, compel him to lock them up as absolute secrets in his own bosom. You need never be afraid I will divulge one jot of them. If I did, my occupation would be gone, and my reputation shattered.”

  Charles looked at him, appalled. “Do you dare to say,” he burst out, “you’ve been listening to my talk with my brother-in-law and secretary?”

  “Why, of course,” Medhurst answered. “It’s my business to listen, and to suspect everybody. If you push me to say so, how do I know Colonel Clay is not—Mr. Wentworth?”

  Charles withered him with a look. “In future, Medhurst,” he said, “you must never conceal yourself in a room where I am without my leave and knowledge.”

  Medhurst bowed politely. “Oh, as you will, Sir Charles,” he answered; “that’s quite at your own wish. Though how can I act as an efficient detective, any way, if you insist upon tying my hands like that, beforehand?”

  Again I detected a faint American flavour.

  After that rebuff, however, Medhurst seemed put upon his mettle. He redoubled his vigilance in every direction. “It’s not my fault,” he said plaintively, one day, “if my reputation’s so good that, while I’m near you, this rogue won’t approach you. If I can’t catch him, at least I keep him away from coming near you!”

  A few days later, however, he brought Charles some photographs. These he produced with evident pride. The first he showed us was a vignette of a little parson. “Who’s that, then?” he inquired, much pleased.

  We gazed at it, open-eyed. One word rose to our lips simultaneously: “Brabazon!”

  “And how’s this for high?” he asked again, producing another—the photograph of a gay young dog in a Tyrolese costume.

  We murmured, “Von Lebenstein!”

  “And this?” he continued, showing us the portrait of a lady with a most fetching squint.

  We answered with one voice, “Little Mrs. Granton!”

  Medhurst was naturally proud of this excellent exploit. He replaced them in his pocket-book with an air of just triumph.

  “How did you get them?” Charles asked.

  Medhurst’s look was mysterious. “Sir Charles,” he answered, drawing himself up, “I must ask you to trust me awhile in this matter. Remember, there are people whom you decline to suspect. I have learned that it is always those very people who are most dangerous to capitalists. If I were to give you the names now, you would refuse to believe me. Therefore, I hold them over discreetly for the moment. One thing, however, I say. I know to a certainty where Colonel Clay is at this present speaking. But I will lay my plans deep, and I hope before long to secure him. You shall be present when I do so; and I shall make him confess his personality openly. More than that you cannot reasonably ask. I shall leave it to you, then, whether or not you wish to arrest him.”

  Charles was considerably puzzled, not to say piqued, by this curious reticence; he begged hard for names; but Medhurst was adamant. “No, no,” he replied; “we detectives have our own just pride in our profession. If I told you now, you would probably spoil all by some premature action. You are too open and impulsive! I will mention this alone: Colonel Clay will be shortly in Paris, and before long will begin from that city a fresh attempt at defrauding you, which he is now hatching. Mark my words, and see whether or not I have been kept well informed of the fellow’s movements!”

  He was perfectly correct. Two days later, as it turned out, Charles received a “confidential” letter from Paris, purporting to come from the head of a second-rate financial house with which he had had dealings over the Craig-Ellachie Amalgamation—by this time, I ought to have said, an accomplished union. It was a letter of small importance in itself—a mere matter of detail; but it paved the way, so Medhurst thought, to some later development of more serious character. Here once more the man’s singular foresight was justified. For, in another week, we received a second communication, containing other proposals of a delicate financial character, which would have involved the transference of some two thousand pounds to the head of the Parisian firm at an address given. Both these letters Medhurst cleverly compared with those written to Charles before, in the names of Colonel Clay and of Graf von Lebenstein. At first sight, it is true, the differences between the two seemed quite enormous: the Paris hand was broad and black, large and bold; while the earlier manuscript was small, neat, thin, and gentlemanly. Still, when Medhurst pointed out to us certain persistent twists in the formation of his capitals, and certain curious peculiarities in the relative length of his t’s, his l’s, his b’s, and his h’s, we could see for ourselves he was right; both were the work of one hand, writing in the one case with a sharp-pointed nib, very small, and in the other with a quill, very large and freely.

  This discovery was most important. We stood now within measurable distance of catching Colonel Clay, and bringing forgery and fraud home to him without hope of evasion.

  To make all sure, however, Medhurst communicated with the Paris police, and showed us their answers. Meanwhile, Charles continued to write to the head of the firm, who had given a private address in the Rue Jean Jacques, alleging, I must say, a most clever reason why the negotiations at this stage should be confidentially conducted. But one never expected from Colonel Clay anything less than consummate cleverness. In the end, it was arranged that we three were to go over to Paris together, that Medhurst was to undertake, under the guise of being Sir Charles, to pay the two thousand pounds to the pretended financier, and that Charles and I, waiting with the police outside the door, should, at a given signal, rush in with our forces and secure the criminal.

  We went over accordingly, and spent the
night at the Grand, as is Charles’s custom. The Bristol, which I prefer, he finds too quiet. Early next morning we took a fiacre and drove to the Rue Jean Jacques. Medhurst had arranged everything in advance with the Paris police, three of whom, in plain clothes, were waiting at the foot of the staircase to assist us. Charles had further provided himself with two thousand pounds, in notes of the Bank of France, in order that the payment might be duly made, and no doubt arise as to the crime having been perpetrated as well as meditated—in the former case, the penalty would be fifteen years; in the latter, three only. He was in very high spirits. The fact that we had tracked the rascal to earth at last, and were within an hour of apprehending him, was in itself enough to raise his courage greatly. We found, as we expected, that the number given in the Rue Jean Jacques was that of an hotel, not a private residence. Medhurst went in first, and inquired of the landlord whether our man was at home, at the same time informing him of the nature of our errand, and giving him to understand that if we effected the capture by his friendly aid, Sir Charles would see that the expenses incurred on the swindler’s bill were met in full, as the price of his assistance. The landlord bowed; he expressed his deep regret, as M. le Colonel—so we heard him call him—was a most amiable person, much liked by the household; but justice, of course, must have its way; and, with a regretful sigh, he undertook to assist us.

  The police remained below, but Charles and Medhurst were each provided with a pair of handcuffs. Remembering the Polperro case, however, we determined to use them with the greatest caution. We would only put them on in case of violent resistance. We crept up to the door where the miscreant was housed. Charles handed the notes in an open envelope to Medhurst, who seized them hastily and held them in his hands in readiness for action. We had a sign concerted. Whenever he sneezed—which he could do in the most natural manner—we were to open the door, rush in, and secure the criminal!

  He was gone for some minutes. Charles and I waited outside in breathless expectation. Then Medhurst sneezed. We flung the door open at once, and burst in upon the creature.

  Medhurst rose as we did so. He pointed with his finger. “This is Colonel Clay!” he said; “keep him well in charge while I go down to the door for the police to arrest him!”

  A gentlemanly man, about middle height, with a grizzled beard and a well-assumed military aspect, rose at the same moment. The envelope in which Charles had placed the notes lay on the table before him. He clutched it nervously. “I am at a loss, gentlemen,” he said, in an excited voice, “to account for this interruption.” He spoke with a tremor, yet with all the politeness to which we were accustomed in the little curate and the Honourable David.

  “No nonsense!” Charles exclaimed, in his authoritative way. “We know who you are. We have found you out this time. You are Colonel Clay. If you attempt to resist—take care—I will handcuff you!”

  The military gentleman gave a start. “Yes, I am Colonel Clay,” he answered. “On what charge do you arrest me?”

  Charles was bursting with wrath. The fellow’s coolness seemed never to desert him. “You are Colonel Clay!” he muttered. “You have the unspeakable effrontery to stand there and admit it?”

  “Certainly,” the Colonel answered, growing hot in turn. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of. What do you mean by this conduct? How dare you talk of arresting me?”

  Charles laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Come, come, my friend,” he said. “That sort of bluff won’t go down with us. You know very well on what charge I arrest you; and here are the police to give effect to it.”

  He called out “Entrez!” The police entered the room. Charles explained as well as he could in most doubtful Parisian what they were next to do. The Colonel drew himself up in an indignant attitude. He turned and addressed them in excellent French.

  “I am an officer in the service of her Britannic Majesty,” he said. “On what ground do you venture to interfere with me, messieurs?”

  The chief policeman explained. The Colonel turned to Charles. “Your name, sir?” he inquired.

  “You know it very well,” Charles answered. “I am Sir Charles Vandrift; and, in spite of your clever disguise, I can instantly recognise you. I know your eyes and ears. I can see the same man who cheated me at Nice, and who insulted me on the island.”

  “You Sir Charles Vandrift!” the rogue cried. “No, no, sir, you are a madman!” He looked round at the police. “Take care what you do!” he cried. “This is a raving maniac. I had business just now with Sir Charles Vandrift, who quitted the room as these gentlemen entered. This person is mad, and you, monsieur, I doubt not,” bowing to me, “you are, of course, his keeper.”

  “Do not let him deceive you,” I cried to the police, beginning to fear that with his usual incredible cleverness the fellow would even now manage to slip through our fingers. “Arrest him, as you are told. We will take the responsibility.” Though I trembled when I thought of that cheque he held of mine.

  The chief of our three policemen came forward and laid his hand on the culprit’s shoulder. “I advise you, M. le Colonel,” he said, in an official voice, “to come with us quietly for the present. Before the juge d’instruction we can enter at length into all these questions.”

  The Colonel, very indignant still—and acting the part marvellously—yielded and went along with them.

  “Where’s Medhurst?” Charles inquired, glancing round as we reached the door. “I wish he had stopped with us.”

  “You are looking for monsieur your friend?” the landlord inquired, with a side bow to the Colonel. “He has gone away in a fiacre. He asked me to give this note to you.”

  He handed us a twisted note. Charles opened and read it. “Invaluable man!” he cried. “Just hear what he says, Sey: ‘Having secured Colonel Clay, I am off now again on the track of Mme. Picardet. She was lodging in the same house. She has just driven away; I know to what place; and I am after her to arrest her. In blind haste, Medhurst.’ That’s smartness, if you like. Though, poor little woman, I think he might have left her.”

  “Does a Mme. Picardet stop here?” I inquired of the landlord, thinking it possible she might have assumed again the same old alias.

  He nodded assent. “Oui, oui, oui,” he answered. “She has just driven off, and monsieur your friend has gone posting after her.”

  “Splendid man!” Charles cried. “Marvillier was quite right. He is the prince of detectives!”

  We hailed a couple of fiacres, and drove off, in two detachments, to the juge d’instruction. There Colonel Clay continued to brazen it out, and asserted that he was an officer in the Indian Army, home on six months’ leave, and spending some weeks in Paris. He even declared he was known at the Embassy, where he had a cousin an attaché; and he asked that this gentleman should be sent for at once from our Ambassador’s to identify him. The juge d’instruction insisted that this must be done; and Charles waited in very bad humour for the foolish formality. It really seemed as if, after all, when we had actually caught and arrested our man, he was going by some cunning device to escape us.

  After a delay of more than an hour, during which Colonel Clay fretted and fumed quite as much as we did, the attaché arrived. To our horror and astonishment, he proceeded to salute the prisoner most affectionately.

  “Halloa, Algy!” he cried, grasping his hand; “what’s up? What do these ruffians want with you?”

  It began to dawn upon us, then, what Medhurst had meant by “suspecting everybody”: the real Colonel Clay was no common adventurer, but a gentleman of birth and high connections!

  The Colonel glared at us. “This fellow declares he’s Sir Charles Vandrift,” he said sulkily. “Though, in fact, there are two of them. And he accuses me of forgery, fraud, and theft, Bertie.”

  The attaché stared hard at us. “This is Sir Charles Vandrift,” he replied, after a moment. �
��I remember hearing him make a speech once at a City dinner. And what charge have you to prefer, Sir Charles, against my cousin?”

  “Your cousin?” Charles cried. “This is Colonel Clay, the notorious sharper!”

  The attaché smiled a gentlemanly and superior smile. “This is Colonel Clay,” he answered, “of the Bengal Staff Corps.”

  It began to strike us there was something wrong somewhere.

  “But he has cheated me, all the same,” Charles said—“at Nice two years ago, and many times since; and this very day he has tricked me out of two thousand pounds in French bank-notes, which he has now about him!”

  The Colonel was speechless. But the attaché laughed. “What he has done today I don’t know,” he said; “but if it’s as apocryphal as what you say he did two years ago, you’ve a thundering bad case, sir; for he was then in India, and I was out there, visiting him.”

  “Where are the two thousand pounds?” Charles cried. “Why, you’ve got them in your hand! You’re holding the envelope!”

  The Colonel produced it. “This envelope,” he said, “was left with me by the man with short stiff hair, who came just before you, and who announced himself as Sir Charles Vandrift. He said he was interested in tea in Assam, and wanted me to join the board of directors of some bogus company. These are his papers, I believe,” and he handed them to his cousin.

  “Well, I’m glad the notes are safe, anyhow,” Charles murmured, in a tone of relief, beginning to smell a rat. “Will you kindly return them to me?”

  The attaché turned out the contents of the envelope. They proved to be prospectuses of bubble companies of the moment, of no importance.

  “Medhurst must have put them there,” I cried, “and decamped with the cash.”

  Charles gave a groan of horror. “And Medhurst is Colonel Clay!” he exclaimed, clapping his hand to his forehead.