III
THE DUCHESS OF WILTSHIRE’S DIAMONDS
To the reflective mind the rapidity with which the inhabitants of the world’s greatest city seize upon a new name or idea, and familiarize themselves with it, can scarcely prove otherwise than astonishing. As an illustration of my meaning let me take the case of Klimo—the now famous private detective, who has won for himself the right to be considered as great as Lecocq, or even the late lamented Sherlock Holmes.
Up to a certain morning London had never even heard his name, nor had it the remotest notion as to who or what he might be. It was as sublimely ignorant and careless on the subject as the inhabitants of Kamtchatka or Peru. Within twenty-four hours, however, the whole aspect of the case was changed. The man, woman, or child who had not seen his posters, or heard his name, was counted an ignoramus unworthy of intercourse with human beings.
Princes became familiar with it as their trains bore them to Windsor to luncheon with the Queen; the nobility noticed and commented upon it as they drove about the town; merchants, and business men generally, read it as they made they ways by omnibus or underground, to their various shops and counting-houses; street boys called each other by it as a nickname; music hall artists introduced it into their patter, while it was even rumored that the Stock Exchange itself has paused in the full flood tide of business to manufacture a riddle on the subject.
That Klimo made his profession pay him well was certain, first from the fact that his advertisements must have cost a good round sum, and, second, because he had taken a mansion in Belverton Street, Park Lane, next door to Porchester House, where to the dismay of that aristocratic neighborhood, he advertised that he was prepared to receive and be consulted by his clients. The invitation was responded to with alacrity, and from that day forward, between the hours of twelve and two, the pavement upon the north side of the street was lined with carriages, every one containing some person desirous of testing the great man’s skill.
I must here explain that I have narrated all this in order to show the state of affairs existing in Belverton Street and Park Lane when Simon Carne arrived, or was supposed to arrive in England. If my memory serves me correctly, it was on Wednesday, the 3rd of May, that the Earl of Amberley drove to Victoria to meet and welcome the man whose acquaintance he had made in India under such peculiar circumstances, and under the spell of whose fascination he and his family had fallen so completely.
Reaching the station, his lordship descended from his carriage, and made his way to the platform set apart for the reception of the Continental express. He walked with a jaunty air, and seemed to be on the best of terms with himself and the world in general. How little he suspected the existence of the noose into which he was so innocently running his head!
As if out of compliment to his arrival, the train put in an appearance within a few moments of his reaching the platform. He immediately placed himself in such a position that he could make sure of seeing the man he wanted, and waited patiently until he should come in sight. Carne, however, was not among the first batch; indeed, the majority of passengers had passed before his lordship caught sight of him.
One thing was very certain, however great the crush might have been, it would have been difficult to mistake Carne’s figure. The man’s infirmity and the peculiar beauty of his face rendered him easily recognizable. Possibly, after his long sojourn in India, he found the morning cold, for he wore a long fur coat, the collar of which he had turned up around his ears, thus making a fitting frame for his delicate face. On seeing Lord Amberley he hastened forward to greet him.
“This is most kind and friendly of you,” he said, as he shook the other by the hand. “A fine day and Lord Amberley to meet me. One could scarcely imagine a better welcome.”
As he spoke, one of his Indian servants approached and salaamed before him. He gave him an order, and received an answer in Hindustani, whereupon he turned again to Lord Amberley.
“You may imagine how anxious I am to see my new dwelling,” he said. “My servant tells me that my carriage is here, so may I hope that you will drive back with me and see for yourself how I am likely to be lodged?”
“I shall be delighted,” said Lord Amberley, who was longing for an opportunity, and they accordingly went out into the station yard together to discover a brougham, drawn by two magnificent horses, and with Nur Ali, in all the glory of white raiment and crested turban, on the box, waiting to receive them. His lordship dismissed his victoria, and when Jowur Singh had taken his place beside his fellow servant upon the box, the carriage rolled out of the station yard in the direction of Hyde Park.
“I trust her ladyship is quite well,” said Simon Carne politely, as they turned into Gloucester Place.
“Excellently well, thank you,” replied his lordship. “She bade me welcome you to England in her name as well as my own, and I was to say that she is looking forward to seeing you.”
“She is most kind, and I shall do myself the honor of calling upon her as soon as circumstances will permit,” answered Carne. “I beg you will convey my best thanks to her for her thought of me.”
While these polite speeches were passing between them they were rapidly approaching a large billboard, on which was displayed a poster getting forth the name of the now famous detective, Klimo.
Simon Carne, leaning forward, studied it, and when they had passed, turned to his friend again.
“At Victoria and on all the bill boards we met I see an enormous placard, bearing the word ‘Klimo.’ Pray, what does it mean?”
His lordship laughed.
“You are asking a question which, a month ago, was on the lips of nine out of every ten Londoners. It is only within the last fortnight that we have learned who and what ‘Klimo’ is.”
“And pray what is he?”
“Well, the explanation is very simple. He is neither more nor less than a remarkably astute private detective, who has succeeded in attracting notice in such a way that half London has been induced to patronize him. I have had dealings with the man myself. But a friend of mine, Lord Orpington, has been the victim of a most audacious burglary, and, the police having failed to solve the mystery, he has called Klimo in. We shall therefore see what he can do before many days are past. But, there, I expect you will soon know more about him than any of us.”
“Indeed! And why?”
“For the simple reason that he has taken No. 1, Belverton Terrace, the house adjoining your own, and sees his clients there.”
Simon Carne pursed up his lips, and appeared to be considering something.
“I trust he will not prove a nuisance,” he said at last. “The agents who found me the house should have acquainted me with the fact. Private detectives, on however large a scale, scarcely strike one as the most desirable of neighbors—particularly for a man who is so fond of quiet as myself.”
At this moment they were approaching their destination. As the carriage passed Belverton Street and pulled up, Lord Amberley pointed to a long line of vehicles standing before the detective’s door.
“You can see for yourself something of the business he does,” he said. “Those are the carriages of his clients, and it is probable that twice as many have arrived on foot.”
“I shall certainly speak to the agent on the subject,” said Carne, with a show of annoyance upon his face. “I consider the fact of this man’s being so close to me a serious drawback to the house.”
Jowur Singh here descended from the box and opened the door in order that his master and his guest might alight, while portly Ram Gafur, the butler, came down the steps and salaamed before them with Oriental obsequiousness. Carne greeted his domestics with kindly condescension, and then, accompanied by the ex-Viceroy, entered his new abode.
“I think you may congratulate yourself upon having secured one of the most desirable residences in London,” s
aid his lordship ten minutes or so later, when they had explored the principal rooms.
“I am very glad to hear you say so,” said Carne. “I trust your lordship will remember that you will always be welcome in the house as long as I am its owner.”
“It is very kind of you to say so,” returned Lord Amberley warmly. “I shall look forward to some months of pleasant intercourse. And now I must be going. To-morrow, perhaps, if you have nothing better to do, you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner. Your fame has already gone abroad, and we shall ask one or two nice people to meet you, including my brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Gelpington, Lord and Lady Orpington, and my cousin, the Duchess of Wiltshire, whose interest in china and Indian art, as perhaps you know, is only second to your own.”
“I shall be more than glad to come.”
“We may count on seeing you in Eaton Square, then, at eight o’clock?”
“If I am alive you may be sure I shall be there. Must you really go? Then good-bye, and many thanks for meeting me.”
His lordship having left the house, Simon Carne went upstairs to his dressing room, which it was to be noticed he found without inquiry, and rang the electric bell, beside the fireplace, three times. While he was waiting for it to be answered he stood looking out of the window at the long line of carriages in the street below.
“Everything is progressing admirably,” he said to himself. “Amberley does not suspect any more than the world in general. As a proof he asks me to dinner to-morrow evening to meet his brother and sister-in-law, two of his particular friends, and above all Her Grace of Wiltshire. Of course I shall go, and when I bid Her Grace good-bye it will be strange if I am not one step nearer the interest on Liz’s money.”
At this moment the door opened, and his valet, the grave and respectable Belton, entered the room. Carne turned to greet him impatiently.
“Come, come, Belton,” he said, “we must be quick. It is twenty minutes to twelve, and if we don’t hurry the folk next door will become impatient. Have you succeeded in doing what I spoke to you about last night?”
“I have done everything, sir.”
“I am glad to hear it. Now lock that door and let us get to work. You can let me have your news while I am dressing.”
Opening one side of the massive wardrobe, that completely filled one end of the room, Belton took from it a number of garments. They included a well-worn velvet coat, a baggy pair of trousers—so old that only a notorious pauper or a millionaire could have afforded to wear them—a flannel waistcoat, a Gladstone collar, a soft silk tie, and a pair of embroidered carpet slippers upon which no old clothes man in the most reckless way of business in Petticoat Lane would have advanced a single half-penny. Into these he assisted his master to change.
“Now give me the wig, and unfasten the straps of this hump,” said Carne, as the other placed the garments just referred to upon a neighboring chair.
Belton did as he was ordered and then there happened a thing the like of which no one would have believed. Having unbuckled a strap on either shoulder, and slipped his hand beneath the waistcoat, he withdrew a large papier-mâché hump, which he carried away and carefully placed in a drawer of the bureau. Relieved of his burden, Simon Carne stood up as straight and well-made a man as any in Her Majesty’s dominions. The malformation, for which so many, including the Earl and Countess of Amberley, had often pitied him, was nothing but a hoax intended to produce an effect which would permit him additional facilities of disguise.
The hump discarded, and the grey wig fitted carefully to his head in such a manner that not even a pinch of his own curly locks could be seen beneath it, he adorned his cheeks with a pair of crépu-hair whiskers, donned the flannel vest and the velvet coat previously mentioned, slipped his feet into the carpet slippers, placed a pair of smoked glasses upon his nose, and declared himself ready to proceed about his business. The man who would have known him for Simon Carne would have been as astute as, well, shall we say, as the private detective—Klimo himself.
“It’s on the stroke of twelve,” he said, as he gave a final glance at himself in the pier-glass above the dressing-table, and arranged his tie to his satisfaction. “Should any one call, instruct Ram Gafur to tell them that I have gone out on business, and shall not be back until three o’clock.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Now undo the door and let me go in.”
Thus commanded, Belton went across to the large wardrobe which, as I have already said, covered the whole of one side of the room, and opened the middle door. Two or three garments were seen inside suspended on pegs, and these he removed, at the same time pushing towards the right the panel at the rear. When this was done a large aperture in the wall between the two houses was disclosed. Through this door Carne passed, drawing it behind him.
In No. 1, Belverton Terrace, the house occupied by the detective, whose presence in the street Carne seemed to find so objectionable, the entrance thus constructed was covered by the peculiar kind of confessional box in which Klimo invariably sat to receive his clients, the rearmost panels of which opened in the same fashion as those in the wardrobe in the dressing room. These being pulled aside, he had but to draw them to again after him, take his seat, ring the electric bell to inform his housekeeper that he was ready, and then welcome his clients as quickly as they cared to come.
Punctually at two o’clock the interviews ceased, and Klimo, having reaped an excellent harvest of fees, returned to Porchester House to become Simon Carne once more.
Possibly it was due to the fact that the Earl and Countess of Amberley were brimming over with his praise, or it may have been the rumor that he was worth as many millions as you have fingers upon your hand that did it; one thing, however, was self-evident, within twenty-four hours of the noble earl’s meeting him at Victoria Station, Simon Carne was the talk, not only fashionable, but also of unfashionable London.
That his household were, with one exception, natives of India, that he had paid a rental for Porchester House which ran into five figures, that he was the greatest living authority upon china and Indian art generally, and that he had come over to England in search of a wife, were among the smallest of the canards set afloat concerning him.
During dinner next evening Carne put forth every effort to please. He was placed on the right hand of his hostess and next to the Duchess of Wiltshire. To the latter he paid particular attention, and to such good purpose that when the ladies returned to the drawing-room afterwards, Her Grace was full of his praises. They had discussed china of all sorts, Carne had promised her a specimen which she had longed for all her life, but had never been able to obtain, and in return she had promised to show him the quaintly carved Indian casket in which the famous necklace, of which he had, of course, heard, spent most of its time. She would be wearing the jewels in question at her own ball in a week’s time, she informed him, and if he would care to see the case when it came from her bankers on that day, she would be only too pleased to show it to him.
As Simon Carne drove home in his luxurious brougham afterwards, he smiled to himself as he thought of the success which was attending his first endeavor. Two of the guests, who were stewards of the Jockey Club, had heard with delight his idea of purchasing a horse, in order to have an interest in the Derby. While another, on hearing that he desired to become the possessor of a yacht, had offered to propose him for the R.C.Y.C. To crown it all, however, and much better than all, the Duchess of Wiltshire had promised to show him her famous diamonds.
“By this time next week,” he said to himself, “Liz’s interest should be considerably closer. But satisfactory as my progress has been hitherto, it is difficult to see how I am to get possession of the stones. From what I have been able to discover, they are only brought from the bank on the day the Duchess intends to wear them, and they are taken back by His Grace the morning f
ollowing.
“While she has got them on her person it would be manifestly impossible to get them from her. And as, when she takes them off, they are returned to their box and placed in a safe, constructed in the wall of the bedroom adjoining, and which for the occasion is occupied by the butler and one of the under footmen, the only key being in the possession of the Duke himself, it would be equally foolish to hope to appropriate them. In what manner, therefore, I am to become their possessor passes my comprehension. However, one thing is certain, obtained they must be, and the attempt must be made on the night of the ball if possible. In the meantime I’ll set my wits to work upon a plan.”
Next day Simon Carne was the recipient of an invitation to the ball in question, and two days later he called upon the Duchess of Wiltshire, at her residence in Belgrave Square, with a plan prepared. He also took with him the small vase he had promised her four nights before. She received him most graciously, and their talk fell at once into the usual channel. Having examined her collection, and charmed her by means of one or two judicious criticisms, he asked permission to include photographs of certain of her treasures in his forthcoming book, then little by little he skillfully guided the conversation on to the subject of jewels.
“Since we are discussing gems, Mr. Carne,” she said, “perhaps it would interest you to see my famous necklace. By good fortune I have it in the house now, for the reason that an alteration is being made to one of the clasps by my jewellers.”
“I should like to see it immensely,” answered Carne. “At one time and another I have had the good fortune to examine the jewels of the leading Indian princes, and I should like to be able to say that I have seen the famous Wiltshire necklace.”
“Then you shall certainly have the honor,” she answered with a smile. “If you will ring that bell I will send for it.”
Carne rang the bell as requested, and when the butler entered he was given the key of the safe and ordered to bring the case to the drawing-room.
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 83
