“Ten per cent is more usual,” I murmured.
He was the Austrian hussar again. “Five, monsieur—or nothing!”
I bowed and withdrew. “Well, five then,” I answered, “just to oblige your Serenity.”
A secretary, after all, can do a great deal. When it came to the scratch, I had but little difficulty in persuading Sir Charles, with Amelia’s aid, backed up on either side by Isabel and Cesarine, to accede to the Count’s more reasonable proposal. The Southampton Row people had possession of certain facts as to the value of the wines in the Bordeaux market which clinched the matter. In a week or two all was settled; Charles and I met the Count by appointment in Southampton Row, and saw him sign, seal, and deliver the title-deeds of Schloss Lebenstein. My brother-in-law paid the purchase-money into the Count’s own hands, by cheque, crossed on a first-class London firm where the Count kept an account to his high well-born order. Then he went away with the proud knowledge that he was owner of Schloss Lebenstein. And what to me was more important still, I received next morning by post a cheque for the five per cent, unfortunately drawn, by some misapprehension, to my order on the self-same bankers, and with the Count’s signature. He explained in the accompanying note that the matter being now quite satisfactorily concluded, he saw no reason of delicacy why the amount he had promised should not be paid to me forthwith direct in money.
I cashed the cheque at once, and said nothing about the affair, not even to Isabel. My experience is that women are not to be trusted with intricate matters of commission and brokerage.
Though it was now late in March, and the House was sitting, Charles insisted that we must all run over at once to take possession of our magnificent Tyrolese castle. Amelia was almost equally burning with eagerness. She gave herself the airs of a Countess already. We took the Orient Express as far as Munich; then the Brenner to Meran, and put up for the night at the Erzherzog Johann. Though we had telegraphed our arrival, and expected some fuss, there was no demonstration. Next morning we drove out in state to the schloss, to enter into enjoyment of our vines and fig-trees.
We were met at the door by the surly steward. “I shall dismiss that man,” Charles muttered, as Lord of Lebenstein. “He’s too sour-looking for my taste. Never saw such a brute. Not a smile of welcome!”
He mounted the steps. The surly man stepped forward and murmured a few morose words in German. Charles brushed him aside and strode on. Then there followed a curious scene of mutual misunderstanding. The surly man called lustily for his servants to eject us. It was some time before we began to catch at the truth. The surly man was the real Graf von Lebenstein.
And the Count with the moustache? It dawned upon us now. Colonel Clay again! More audacious than ever!
Bit by bit it all came out. He had ridden behind us the first day we viewed the place, and, giving himself out to the servants as one of our party, had joined us in the reception-room. We asked the real Count why he had spoken to the intruder. The Count explained in French that the man with the moustache had introduced my brother-in-law as the great South African millionaire, while he described himself as our courier and interpreter. As such he had had frequent interviews with the real Graf and his lawyers in Meran, and had driven almost daily across to the castle. The owner of the estate had named one price from the first, and had stuck to it manfully. He stuck to it still; and if Sir Charles chose to buy Schloss Lebenstein over again he was welcome to have it. How the London lawyers had been duped the Count had not really the slightest idea. He regretted the incident, and (coldly) wished us a very good morning.
There was nothing for it but to return as best we might to the Erzherzog Johann, crestfallen, and telegraph particulars to the police in London.
Charles and I ran across post-haste to England to track down the villain. At Southampton Row we found the legal firm by no means penitent; on the contrary, they were indignant at the way we had deceived them. An impostor had written to them on Lebenstein paper from Meran to say that he was coming to London to negotiate the sale of the schloss and surrounding property with the famous millionaire, Sir Charles Vandrift; and Sir Charles had demonstratively recognised him at sight as the real Count von Lebenstein. The firm had never seen the present Graf at all, and had swallowed the impostor whole, so to speak, on the strength of Sir Charles’s obvious recognition. He had brought over as documents some most excellent forgeries—facsimiles of the originals—which, as our courier and interpreter, he had every opportunity of examining and inspecting at the Meran lawyers’. It was a deeply-laid plot, and it had succeeded to a marvel. Yet, all of it depended upon the one small fact that we had accepted the man with the long moustache in the hall of the schloss as the Count von Lebenstein on his own representation.
He held our cards in his hands when he came in; and the servant had not given them to him, but to the genuine Count. That was the one unsolved mystery in the whole adventure.
By the evening’s post two letters arrived for us at Sir Charles’s house: one for myself, and one for my employer. Sir Charles’s ran thus:—
HIGH WELL-BORN INCOMPETENCE—
I only just pulled through! A very small slip nearly lost me everything. I believed you were going to Schloss Planta that day, not to Schloss Lebenstein. You changed your mind en route. That might have spoiled all. Happily I perceived it, rode up by the short cut, and arrived somewhat hurriedly and hotly at the gate before you. Then I introduced myself. I had one more bad moment when the rival claimant to my name and title intruded into the room. But fortune favours the brave: your utter ignorance of German saved me. The rest was pap. It went by itself almost.
Allow me, now, as some small return for your various welcome cheques, to offer you a useful and valuable present—a German dictionary, grammar, and phrase-book!
I kiss your hand.
No longer
VON LEBENSTEIN.
The other note was to me. It was as follows:—
DEAR GOOD MR. VENTVORTH—
Ha, ha, ha; just a W misplaced sufficed to take you in, then! And I risked the TH, though anybody with a head on his shoulders would surely have known our TH is by far more difficult than our W for foreigners! However, all’s well that ends well; and now I’ve got you. The Lord has delivered you into my hands, dear friend—on your own initiative. I hold my cheque, endorsed by you, and cashed at my banker’s, as a hostage, so to speak, for your future good behaviour. If ever you recognise me, and betray me to that solemn old ass, your employer, remember, I expose it, and you with it to him. So now we understand each other. I had not thought of this little dodge; it was you who suggested it. However, I jumped at it. Was it not well worth my while paying you that slight commission in return for a guarantee of your future silence? Your mouth is now closed. And cheap too at the price.—Yours, dear Comrade, in the great confraternity of rogues,
CUTHBERT CLAY, Colonel.
Charles laid his note down, and grizzled. “What’s yours, Sey?” he asked.
“From a lady,” I answered.
He gazed at me suspiciously. “Oh, I thought it was the same hand,” he said. His eye looked through me.
“No,” I answered. “Mrs. Mortimer’s.” But I confess I trembled.
He paused a moment. “You made all inquiries at this fellow’s bank?” he went on, after a deep sigh.
“Oh, yes,” I put in quickly. (I had taken good care about that, you may be sure, lest he should spot the commission.) “They say the self-styled Count von Lebenstein was introduced to them by the Southampton Row folks, and drew, as usual, on the Lebenstein account: so they were quite unsuspicious. A rascal who goes about the world on that scale, you know, and arrives with such credentials as theirs and yours, naturally imposes on anybody. The bank didn’t even require to have him formally identified. The firm was enough. He came to pay money in, not to draw it out. And he withdrew his balance just two days later,
saying he was in a hurry to get back to Vienna.”
Would he ask for items? I confess I felt it was an awkward moment. Charles, however, was too full of regrets to bother about the account. He leaned back in his easy chair, stuck his hands in his pockets, held his legs straight out on the fender before him, and looked the very picture of hopeless despondency.
“Sey,” he began, after a minute or two, poking the fire, reflectively, “what a genius that man has! ’Pon my soul, I admire him. I sometimes wish—” He broke off and hesitated.
“Yes, Charles?” I answered.
“I sometimes wish…we had got him on the Board of the Cloetedorp Golcondas. Mag—nificent combinations he would make in the City!”
I rose from my seat and stared solemnly at my misguided brother-in-law.
“Charles,” I said, “you are beside yourself. Too much Colonel Clay has told upon your clear and splendid intellect. There are certain remarks which, however true they may be, no self-respecting financier should permit himself to make, even in the privacy of his own room, to his most intimate friend and trusted adviser.”
Charles fairly broke down. “You are right, Sey,” he sobbed out. “Quite right. Forgive this outburst. At moments of emotion the truth will sometimes out, in spite of everything.”
I respected his feebleness. I did not even make it a fitting occasion to ask for a trifling increase of salary.
The Diamond Lizard
GEORGE R. SIMS
Although the prolific George Robert Sims (1847–1922) wrote mystery novels and short stories numbering in the hundreds, most of which were collected in extremely successful books, few are remembered or read today, though he is noted for having created Dorcas Dene, one of the earliest female detectives in literature.
Dene (née Lester) was a beautiful but only modestly successful actress when she left the stage to marry. When her young artist husband goes blind, she takes employment as a private investigator to earn money and, combining her beauty and intelligence, quickly becomes one of the most successful detectives in England.
Her adventures are recounted by Mr. Saxon, who gave Dorcas Lester, as she was known then, her first stage role. Mr. Saxon, her Dr. Watson, supplies some assistance but Dorcas also works with Scotland Yard, where she is highly respected. On at least one occasion, she takes charge of a case and has the official police assist her in finding a solution to a mystery. Her stories were published in Dorcas Dene, Detective (1897) and Dorcas Dene, Detective: Second Series (1898).
In addition to producing a massive number of detective tales, Sims was also focused on the difficult lives of the poor in London, and many of his mystery stories and novels featured elements of that social consciousness.
Born in London, he received his education in England and Europe, receiving a degree from the University of Bonn, then studying in France, where he became intensely interested in gambling. He returned to England to become one of its most popular, prolific, and beloved journalists, writing articles, stories, and poetry, much of it humorous but most frequently devoted to social causes. A bon vivant who enjoyed the fabulous wealth he acquired from his journalism, books, and plays, he died nearly penniless, having lost most of his earnings to gambling and generous support of charities.
“The Diamond Lizard” was originally published in Dorcas Dene, Detective (London, F. V. White, 1897).
THE DIAMOND LIZARD
George R. Sims
I had received a little note from Dorcas Dene, telling me that Paul and her mother had gone to the seaside for a fortnight, and that she was busy on a case which was keeping her from home, so that it would not be of any use my calling at Elm Tree Road at present, as I should find no one there but the servants and whitewashers.
It had been a very hot July, just before the War, but I was unable to leave town myself, having work in hand which compelled me to be on the spot. But I got away from the close, dusty streets during the daytime as frequently as I could, and one hot, broiling afternoon I found myself in a light summer suit on the lawn of the Karsino at Hampton Court, vainly endeavouring to ward off the fierce rays of the afternoon sun with one of those white umbrellas which are common enough on the Continent, but rare enough to attract attention in a land where fashion is one thing and comfort another.
My favourite Karsino waiter, Karl, an amiable and voluble little Swiss, who, during a twenty years’ residence in England, had acquired the English waiter’s love of betting on horseraces, had personally attended to my wants, and brought me a cup of freshly-made black coffee and a petit verre of specially fine Courvoisier, strongly recommended by the genial and obliging manager. Comforted by the coffee and overpowered by the heat, I was just dropping off into a siesta, when I was attracted by a familiar voice addressing me by name.
I raised my umbrella, and at first imagined that I must have made a mistake. The voice was undoubtedly that of Dorcas Dene, but the lady who stood smiling in front of me was to all outward appearance an American tourist. There was the little courier bag attached to the waist-belt, with which we always associate the pretty American accent during the great American touring season. The lady in front of me was beautifully dressed, and appeared through the veil she was wearing to be young and well-favoured, but her hair was silvery grey and her complexion that of a brunette. Now Dorcas Dene was a blonde with soft brown wavy hair, and so I hesitated for a moment, imagining that I must have fallen into a half doze and have dreamed that I heard Dorcas calling me.
The lady, who evidently noticed my doubt and hesitation, smiled and came close to the garden seat on which I had made myself as comfortable as the temperature would allow me.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I saw you lunching in the restaurant, but I couldn’t speak to you then. I’m here on business.”
It was Dorcas Dene.
“I have half an hour to spare,” she said. “My people are at the little table yonder. They’ve just ordered their coffee, so they won’t be going yet.”
She sat down at the other end of the garden seat, and, following a little inclination of her parasol, I saw that the “people” she alluded to were a young fellow of about three-and-twenty, a handsome woman of about five-and-thirty, rather loudly dressed, and a remarkably pretty girl in a charming tailor-made costume of some soft white material, and a straw hat with a narrow red ribbon round it. The young lady wore a red sailor’s-knot tie over a white shirt. The red of the hat-band and the tie showed out against the whiteness of the costume, and were conspicuous objects in the bright sunlight.
“How beautiful the river is from here,” said Dorcas, after I had inquired how Paul was, and had learnt that he was at Eastbourne in apartments with Mrs. Lester, and that the change had benefited his health considerably.
As she spoke Dorcas drew a small pair of glasses from her pocket, and appeared very much interested in a little boat with a big white sail, making its way lazily down the river, which glistened like a sheet of silver in the sunlight.
“Yes,” I said, “it’s a scene that always delights our American visitors, but I suppose you’re not here to admire the beauties of the Thames?”
“No,” said Dorcas, laughing. “If I had leisure for that I should be at Eastbourne with my poor old Paul. I’ve a case in hand.”
“And the case is yonder—the young man, the lady, and the pretty girl with the red tie?”
Dorcas nodded assent. “Yes—she is pretty, isn’t she? Take my glasses and include her in the scenery, and then, if you are not too fascinated to spare a glance for anybody else, look at the young gentleman.”
I took the hint and the glasses. The young lady was more than pretty; she was as perfect a specimen of handsome English girlhood as I had ever seen. I looked from her to the elder lady, and was struck by the contrast. She was much too bold-looking and showy to be the companion of so modest-looking and bewitching a damsel.
I shifted
my glasses from the ladies to the young gentleman.
“A fine, handsome young fellow, is he not?” said Dorcas.
“Yes. Who is he?”
“His name is Claude Charrington. He is the son of Mr. Charrington, the well-known barrister, and I am at the present moment a parlour-maid in his stepmother’s service.”
I looked at the silver-haired, smart American lady with astonishment.
“A parlour-maid! Like that!” I exclaimed.
“No; I’ve been home and made up. I have a day out. I should like you to see me as a parlour-maid at the Charringtons—the other servants think I can’t have been in very good places; but they are very kind to me, especially Johnson, the footman, and Mrs. Charrington is quite satisfied.”
“Does she know you are not really a parlour-maid?”
“Yes. It was she who engaged me to investigate a little mystery which is troubling her very much. I had to be in the house to make my inquiries, and she consented that I should come as a parlour-maid. It is a very curious case, and I am very interested in it.”
“Then so am I,” I said, “and you must tell me all about it.”
“About ten days ago,” said Dorcas, “just as I had arranged to have a fortnight at the seaside with Paul, a lady called on me in a state of great agitation.
“She told me that her name was Mrs. Charrington, that she was the second wife of Mr. Charrington, the barrister, and that she was in great distress of mind owing to the loss of a diamond and ruby bracelet, a diamond and ruby pendant, and a small diamond lizard, which had mysteriously disappeared from her jewel case.
“I asked her at once why she had not informed the police instead of coming to me; and she explained that her suspicions pointed to a member of her own family as the thief, and she was terrified to go to the police for fear their investigations should confirm her suspicions, and then the position would be a terrible one.
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 77
