The Count's Chauffeur

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER II

  A SENTIMENTAL SWINDLE

  Count Bindo's retreat near Winchester proved to be a small, ratherisolated house near Kingsworthy. It stood in its own grounds, surroundedby a high wall, and at the rear was a very fair garage, that had beenspecially constructed, with inspection-pit and the various appliances.

  The house was rather well furnished, but the only servant was a man, whoturned out to be none other than the yellow-haired young fellow who hadbeen introduced to me at the Cecil as "Mr. Henderson."

  He no longer wore the light fancy vest and smartly-cut clothes, but wasin a somewhat shabby suit of black. He smiled grimly as I recognisedhim, while his master said--

  "Got back all right, Henderson--eh?"

  "I arrived only ten minutes ago, sir. All was quiet, wasn't it?"

  "Absolutely," replied the Count, who then went upstairs, and I saw himno more that evening.

  For nearly a fortnight the car remained in the garage. It now bore adifferent identification-plate, and to kill time, I idled about,wondering when we should start again. It was a strange _menage_. CountBindo was a very easy-going cosmopolitan, who treated both Henderson andmyself as intimates, inasmuch as we ate at table with him, and smokedtogether each evening.

  We were simply waiting. The papers were, of course, full of the clevertheft from Gilling's, and the police, it appeared, were doing theirutmost to track the tricksters--but in vain. The Count, under the nameof Mr. Claude Fielding, seemed to be very popular in the neighbourhood,though he discouraged visitors. Indeed, no one came there. He dined,however, at several houses during the second week of his concealment,and seemed to be quite confident of his safety.

  At last we left, but not, however, before Sir Charles Blythe had stayedone night with us and made some confidential report to his friend. Itbeing apparent that all was clear, some further alteration was made bothin the appearance of the car and in the personal aspect of Count Bindoand myself, after which we started for the Continent by way ofSouthampton.

  We crossed and ran up to Paris, where we stayed at the Ritz. The Countproved a devil-may-care fellow, with plenty of friends in the Frenchcapital. When with the latter he treated me as a servant; when alone asa friend.

  Whatever the result of the clever piece of trickery in Bond Street, itwas quite clear that my employer was in funds, for he spent freely,dined and supped at the expensive restaurants, and thoroughly enjoyedhimself with his chums.

  We left Paris, and went on the broad good road to Lyons and to MonteCarlo. It was just before Christmas, and the season had, of course, notyet commenced. We stayed at the Hotel de Paris--the hotel where most men_en garcon_ put up--and the car I put into the Garage Meunier.

  It was the first time I had seen "Monty," and it attracted me, as itdoes every man and woman. Here, too, Bindo di Ferraris seemed to havehosts of friends. He dined at the Grand, the Metropole, or the RivieraPalace, and supped each night at Ciro's, indulging in a little mild playin the Rooms in the interval between the two meals.

  He did not often go out in the car, but frequently went to Nice andCannes by train. About a fortnight after our arrival, however, we ran,one bright morning, along the lower road by Beaulieu to Nice--bad, bythe way, on account of the sharp corners and electric trams--and calledat a small hotel in the Boulevard Gambetta.

  The Count apparently had an appointment with a tall, dark-haired,extremely good-looking young French girl, with whom he lunched at asmall restaurant, and afterwards he walked for an hour on the Promenade,talking with her very earnestly.

  She was not more than nineteen--a smart, very _chic_ little Parisienne,quietly dressed in black, but in clothes that bore unmistakably the_cachet_ of a first-class dressmaker. They took a turn on the JeteePromenade, and presently returned to the hotel, when the Count told herto go and get a close hat and thick coat, and he would wait for her.

  Then, when she had gone, he told me that we were about to take her overto the Bristol at Beaulieu, that great white hotel that lies sosheltered in the most delightful bay of the whole Riviera.

  It was a clear, bright December afternoon. The roads were perfect,though dusty as the Corniche always is, and very soon, with the Countand his lady friend, I swung into the curved drive before the hotel.

  "You can go to the garage for an hour or so, Ewart," my employer said,after they had descended. Therefore I turned the car and went to thehuge garage at the rear of the hotel--the garage which every motorist onthe Riviera knows so well.

  After an hour I re-entered the hotel to look for the Count and receiveorders, when I saw, in the great red-carpeted lounge, my employer andthe little Parisienne seated with the man whom I knew as Sir CharlesBlythe, but who really was one of Count Bindo's confederates.

  We exchanged glances, and his was a meaning one. That some deep andingenious game was in progress I felt certain, but what it was I had noidea.

  Blythe was smartly dressed in a grey flannel suit and white shoes--thecostume _de rigueur_ on the Riviera--and as he smoked his cigar, easilyreclining in the wicker lounge-chair, he presented the complete pictureof the English aristocrat "putting in" a month or two for sunshine.

  Both men were talking earnestly in French with the dark-eyed littlelady, who now and then laughed, or, raising her shoulders, looked fromone to the other and protruded her chin in a gesture of uncertainty.

  I retired and watched closely. It was quite plain in a few moments thatthe young lady was entirely devoted to the handsome Bindo. Both mannerand glances betrayed it. I saw him look at Blythe, and knew that theywere working in accord towards some prearranged end.

  Presently a noisy party of American girls who had just returned from"Monty" entered and sat close to them, calling for tea. Therefore thetrio rose and went out into the evening dusk. They wished, it seemed, totalk in private, and they did so until, half an hour later, I receivedorders to bring round the car, and drove them all three back to Nice,which we reached in plenty of time for dinner.

  "Now, you will not forget, Gabrielle? You're sure?" said Bindo in Frenchas he handed her out of the car and shook her hand as he bared his head.

  "I have promised, m'sieur," was her reply in a low, rather musicalvoice. "I shall not forget."

  And then she bowed to Blythe, ascended the steps, and disappeared intothe hotel.

  Her quietness and neatness of dress were, to me, attractive. She was adainty little thing, and yet her plain black dress, so well cut, wasreally very severe. She had the manner of a lady, sweet and demure. Theair of the woman-of-the-world was, somehow, entirely absent.

  Well, to confess it, I found myself admiring her very much. She was, Ithought, delightful--one of the prettiest, sweetest girls I had everseen.

  Evidently our run to Beaulieu and back was her first experience ofmotoring, for she laughed with girlish delight when, on an open piece ofroad here and there, I put on a "move." And as she disappeared into thehotel she turned and waved her tiny black-gloved hand back at thehandsome Bindo.

  "Done, my dear chap!" chuckled Blythe in a low voice to his companion asthe neat figure disappeared behind the glass swing-doors. "The rest iseasy--if we keep up pluck."

  "It's a big thing, of course; but I'm sanguine enough," declared myemployer. "That little girl is a perfect brick. She's entirelyunsuspicious. Flatter and court a woman, and if she falls in love withyou she'll go any length to serve you!"

  "You're a splendid lover!" declared Sir Charles as he mounted into thecar beside the Count, while the latter, laughing lightly, bent to me,saying--

  "Back to Monte Carlo, as quick as we can get."

  I slipped along out of Nice, through Villefranche, round Beaulieu,slowing up for the corners, but travelling sharply on the open road, andwe were soon back at the Paris.

  Having put the car into the garage, I walked round to the hotel,transformed myself from a leather-coated chauffeur into a Monte Carlolounger, and just before ten o'clock met the Count going across theflower-scented Place to the Rooms.

 
He was alone, and, recognising me, crossed and said--

  "Ewart, let's walk up through the gardens. I want to have a word withyou."

  I turned on my heel, and strolled with him.

  "You know what we've done to-day--eh? You stand in, so you can just shutyour eyes to anything that isn't exactly in order--understand? There's abig thing before us--a very big thing--a thing that's simply droppedfrom the clouds. You want money, so do I. We all want money. Just keep astill tongue, and obey my orders, and you'll see that we'll bring offthe biggest _coup_ that the Riviera has yet known."

  "I know how to be silent," I said, though I did not at all like theaspect of affairs.

  "Yes, you do. I give you credit for that. One word of this and I goto durance vile. Silence, and the whole of us profit and get thewherewithal to live. I often think, Ewart, that the public, as theycall it--the British public--are an extraordinary people. They are soconfoundedly honest. But, nowadays, there surely isn't any honesty inlife--at least, I've never found any. Why, your honest business man whogoes to church or chapel each Sunday, and is a model of all the virtues,is, in the City, the very man who'll drive a hard bargain, pay astarvation wage, and button his pockets against the widow! Who areyour successful men in business? Why, for the most part, the men who,by dint of sharp practice or unscrupulousness, have been able to getin front of their competitors. Therefore, after all, am I very muchworse than the successful City man? I live on my brains--and I'm happyto say I've lived very well--up to the present. But enough of thisphilosophy," laughed the easy-going young scoundrel. "I want to giveyou instructions. You stand in with us, Ewart. Your share of the Gillingaffair is to your credit, and you'll have it before long. At present,we have another little matter in hand--one which requires extremelydelicate handling, but will be successful providing MademoiselleGabrielle doesn't change her mind. But women are so often fickle, andthe morning brings prudence far too frequently. You'll see some strangehappenings to-morrow or the next day. Keep your eyes and ears closed;that's all you have to do. You understand--eh?"

  "Perfectly," was my reply, for my curiosity was now thoroughly whetted.

  There was a desperate project in the air, and the spirit of adventurehad now entered thoroughly into me.

  Early next morning I drove the Count back to Nice, where, at a quietspot beyond the Magnan, he met the pretty Gabrielle clandestinely.

  When we drew up to where she was apparently awaiting us, I saw that shewas annoyed at my presence.

  "Ewart, my chauffeur," he explained, introducing me, "will say nothingabout this meeting. He knows how to be discreet."

  I raised my peaked motor-cap, as our eyes met. I thought I detected acuriously timid glance in them, for in an instant she dropped her gaze.

  That she was an intimate friend of the Count was shown by theinstructions he gave her.

  "You two walk along the Promenade des Anglais, and I'll meet you at theother end, by the Hotel Suisse. I'll take the car myself on to thegarage."

  This meant that I was to walk with her a full three-quarters of an houralong the whole of the beautiful sea-front of Nice. Why? I wondered.

  "But, Bindo, can't you come?"

  "I'll meet you outside the Suisse. It's better to do that," was hisanswer. "Go along; you'll find Ewart a clever fellow. He'll tell you howto drive a motor-car."

  She laughed lightly, and then, as Bindo mounted into the car again andturned away, we strolled together on the broad asphalte back towards thetown.

  The morning was delightful, with bright sunshine and blue sea. Thesweet-smelling wallflowers were already out, and the big palms wavedlazily in the soft breeze.

  I quickly found my companion most charming, and envied the Count hisacquaintanceship. Was she marked down as a victim? Or was she anaccomplice? I could not grasp the motive for being sent to walk thewhole length of the Promenade with her. But the Count and his companionswere, they admitted, working a "big thing," and this was part of it, Isupposed.

  "This is the first time you have been in Nice, eh?" she asked in herpretty broken English as she stopped a moment to open her sunshade.

  "Yes," I answered; "but the Count is an old _habitue_, I believe?"

  "Oh yes," she laughed; "he knows everybody. Last year he was on theFetes Committee and one of the judges at the Battle of Flowers."

  And so we gossiped on, walking leisurely, and passing many who, likeourselves, were idling in the winter sunshine.

  There was an air of refined ingenuousness about her that wasparticularly attractive. She walked well, holding her skirt tightlyabout her as only a true Parisienne can, and displaying a pair ofextremely neat ankles. She inquired about me--how long had I been in theCount's service, how I liked him, and such-like; while I, by carefulquestioning, discovered that her name was Gabrielle Deleuse, and thatshe came to the Cote d'Azur each season.

  Just as we were opposite the white facade of the Hotel Westminster weencountered a short, rather stout, middle-aged lady, accompanied by atall, thin, white-haired gentleman. They were well dressed, the ladywearing splendid sables.

  My companion started when she recognised them, instantly lowering hersunshade in order to hide her face. Whether the pair noticed her Icannot say. I only know that, as soon as they passed, she exclaimed, inannoyance--

  "I can't think why Bindo sent you along here with me."

  "I regret, mademoiselle, that my companionship should be distasteful toyou," I replied, mystified.

  "No, no, not that, m'sieur," she cried anxiously. "I do not mean that.You do not know--how can you know what I mean?"

  "You probably mean that you ought not to be seen walking here, on thePromenade des Anglais, with a common chauffeur."

  "If you are a chauffeur, m'sieur, you are also a gentleman," she said,looking straight into my face.

  "I thank mademoiselle for her high compliment," I said, bowing, forreally I was in no way averse to a little mild flirtation with such adelightful companion. And yet what, I wondered, was my _role_ in thislatest piece of complicated trickery?

  She quickened her pace, glancing anxiously at everyone we met, as thoughwishing to arrive at the end of our walk.

  I was sorry our little chat was drawing to a close. I would like tohave had her at my side for a day's run on the car, and I told her so.

  "Perhaps you will take me for a long trip one day--who knows?" shelaughed. "Yesterday it was perfect."

  A few moments later we arrived before the Suisse, and from a seat on thePromenade Count Bindo rose to greet us. He had left his motor-coat andcap in the car, and stood before us in his grey flannels and white softfelt hat--a smart, handsome figure, such as women mostly admire. Indeed,Bindo was essentially a lady's man, for he seemed to have a bowingacquaintance with hundreds of the fair sex.

  "Well, Gabrielle, and has Ewart been saying lots of pretty things toyou--eh?"

  "How unkind of you!" she protested, blushing slightly. "You really oughtnot to say such things."

  "Well, well, forgive me, won't you?" said the Count quickly; andtogether we strolled into the town, where we had an _aperatif_ at thegay Cafe de l'Opera, opposite the public gardens.

  Here, however, a curious _contretemps_ occurred.

  She accidently upset her glass of "Dubonnet" over her left hand,saturating her white glove so that she was compelled to take it off.

  "Why!" ejaculated the Count in sudden amazement, pointing to heruncovered hand. "What does that mean?"

  She wore upon her finger a wedding ring!

  Her face went crimson. For a moment the pretty girl was too confused tospeak.

  "Ah!" she cried in a low, earnest tone, as she bent towards him."Forgive me, Bindo. I--I did not tell you. How could I?"

  "You should have told me. It was your duty to tell me. Remember, we areold friends. How long have you been married?"

  "Only three weeks. This is my honeymoon."

  "And your husband?"

  "Four days ago business took him to Genoa. He is still absent."


  "And, in the meanwhile, you meet me, and are the merry little Gabrielleof the old days--eh?" remarked Bindo, placing both elbows upon themarble-topped table and looking straight into her face.

  "Do you blame me, then?" she asked. "I admit that I deceived you, but itwas imperative. Our encounter has brought back all the past--thosesummer days of two years ago when we met at Fontainebleau. Do you stillremember them?" Her eyelids trembled.

  I saw that, though married, she still regarded the handsome Bindo with agood deal of affection.

  "I don't blame you," was his soft reply. "I suppose it is what anybodyelse would have done in the circumstances. Do I remember those days, youask? Why, of course I do. Those picnics in the forest with you, yourmother, and your sister Julie were delightful days--days never toreturn, alas! And so you are really married! Well, you must tell me allabout it later. Let's lunch together at the London House." Then he addedreflectively, "Well, this really is a discovery--my little Gabrielleactually married! I had no idea of it."

  She laughed, blushing again.

  "No; I don't suppose you had. I was very, very foolish to take off myglove, yet if I had kept up the deception any longer I might perhapshave compromised myself."

  "Was it not--well, a little risky of you to go to Beaulieu with meyesterday?"

  "Yes. I was foolish--very foolish, Bindo. I ought not to have met youto-day. I ought to have told you the truth from the very first."

  "Not at all. Even if your husband is away, there is surely no reason whyyou should not speak to an old friend like myself, is there?"

  "Yes; I'm known in Nice, as you are well aware."

  "Known as the prettiest woman who comes on the Riviera," he declared,taking her hand and examining the wedding ring and the fine circle ofdiamonds above it. Bindo di Ferraris was an expert in gems.

  "Don't be a flatterer," she protested, with a light laugh. "You've saidthat, you know, hundreds of times before."

  "I've said only what's the truth, and I'm sure Ewart will bear me out."

  "I do, most certainly. Madame is most charming," I asserted; and it wasundoubtedly my honest opinion. I was, however, disappointed equally withthe Count to discover that my dainty divinity in black was married. Shewas certainly not more than nineteen, and had none of the self-possessedair of the matron about her.

  Twice during that conversation I had risen to go, but the Count bade mestay, saying with a laugh--

  "There is nothing in this that you may not hear. Madame has deceived usboth."

  He treated the situation as a huge joke, yet I detected that thedeception had annoyed him. Had the plans he had laid been upset by thisunexpected discovery of the marriage? From his demeanour of suppressedchagrin I felt sure they had been.

  Suddenly he glanced at his watch, and then taking from his pocket anenvelope containing some small square hard object, about two inches longby one inch broad, he said--

  "Go to the station and meet the twelve-fifteen from Beaulieu to Cannes.You'll find Sir Charles Blythe in the train. Give him this from me, andsay that I'll meet him at the Beau Site at Cannes at four o'clock. Havethe car ready at two. I'll come to the garage. You haven't much time tospare, so take a cab."

  I rose, raised my hat to the dark-eyed little woman, who bowedgracefully and then, mounting into a _fiacre_, drove rapidly up theAvenue de la Gare.

  The situation was decidedly interesting. My ideal of that sunny morninghad been shattered. Gabrielle of the luminous eyes was already a wife.

  I met the train, and discovered Sir Charles looking out for me. I handedhim the packet, and gave him the Count's message. I noticed that he hadsome light luggage with him, and presumed that he was moving fromBeaulieu to Cannes--to the tea-and-tennis Beau Site.

  Then, when the train had moved off, I wandered across to a smallrestaurant opposite the station, and lunched alone, thinking andwondering about the dainty little girl-wife who had so completelyfascinated me.

  That she was still in love with Bindo was quite clear, yet he, on hispart, was distinctly annoyed at being deceived.

  At two o'clock, almost punctually, he entered the garage, flung his hatinto the car, put on his cap, goggles, and motor-coat, and without aword I drew the forty "Napier" out into the road.

  "To Cannes--quick!" he snapped. "Round to the right into the Rue Magnan,then straight along. You saw Blythe?"

  "Yes; I gave him the packet and the message."

  "Good! then we haven't any time to lose. Get a move on her whenever youcan."

  On we flew, as fast as the sharp corners would allow, until presentlywe slipped down the long hill into Cannes, and passing through the town,pulled up at the Beau Site, where we found Sir Charles awaiting us.

  The latter had changed his clothes, and was now in a smart blue sergesuit, and was idly smoking a cigar as we swept round to the entrance.

  The two men met enthusiastically, some words were exchanged in anundertone, and both burst out laughing--a laugh of triumph. Was it atthe expense of poor little Gabrielle?

  I was left outside to mind the car, and waited for fully an hour and ahalf. The wind blew bitterly cold at sundown, as it always does on theRiviera in December, and I was glad of my big fur coat.

  Whatever was the subject of discussion it was evidently a weighty one.Both men had gone to Blythe's room and were closeted there.

  A little after five Blythe came out, hailed a cab, and drove away intothe town; while the Count, whose appearance was so entirely changed thatI scarcely knew him, sauntered slowly down the hall after his friend.Blythe had evidently brought him some fresh clothes from Monte Carlo,and he had used his room as a dressing-room. He looked very much older,and the dark-brown suit he now wore was out of shape and ill-fitting.His hair showed grey over the ears, and he wore gold spectacles.

  Instantly I saw that the adventurous scheme was still in progress, so Idescended and lit the big head-lights. About a dozen idlers were in thevicinity of the car, and in sight of them all, he struggled into his bigmotor-coat, and entering, gave me orders to drive into the centre of thetown. Then, after we had got clear of the hotel, he said--

  "Stop at the station; we have to pick up Blythe."

  Directed by him, we were soon at the spot where Sir Charles awaited us.

  "I've got it!" he exclaimed in a low voice as he took out a big coat,motor-cap, and goggles. "Quick work, wasn't it?"

  "Excellent!" declared the Count, and then, bending to me, he added,"Round there to the left. The high road is a little farther on--toMarseilles!"

  "To Marseilles?" I echoed, surprised that we were going so far as ahundred odd miles, but at that moment I saw the wide highway and turnedinto it, and with our big search-lights throwing a white radiance onthe road, I set the car westward through St. Raphael and Les Arcs.It commenced to rain, with a biting wind, and turned out a verydisagreeable night; but, urged on by both men, I went forward at asquick a pace as I dared go on that road, over which I had neverbefore travelled.

  At Toulon we pulled up for a drink--for by that time we were all threechilled to the bone, notwithstanding our heavy leather-lined coats. Thenwe set out again for Marseilles, which we reached just after one o'clockin the morning, drawing up at the Louvre et Paix, which every visitor tothe capital of Southern France knows so well. Here we had a good heartymeal of cold meat and bock. Prior, however, to entering Marseilles, wehad halted, changed our identification-plate, and made certainalterations, in order more thoroughly to disguise the car.

  After supper we all got in again, and Bindo directed me up and downseveral long streets until we were once more in the suburbs. In a quiet,unfrequented road we pulled up, where from beneath the dark shadow of awall a man silently approached us.

  I could not distinguish his face in the darkness, but from his voice Iknew it was none other than Henderson, the servant from Kingsworthy.

  "Wait here for half an hour. Then run the car back to that church Ipointed out to you as we came along. The one at the top of theCannebiere. Wait for us there.
We shall be perhaps an hour, perhaps alittle more," said the Count, taking a stick from the car, and then thetrio disappeared into the darkness.

  Fully an hour elapsed, until at length, along in the shadow the threecrept cautiously, each bearing a heavy bundle, wrapped in black cloth,which they deposited in the car. The contents of the bundles chinked asthey were placed upon the floor. What their booty was I knew not.

  Next instant, however, all three were in, the door was closed, and Idrew off into the dark open road straight before me--out into thedriving rain.

  The Count, who was at my side, seemed panting and agitated.

  "We've brought it off all right, Ewart," he whispered, bending to me afew minutes later. "In behind, there's over twenty thousand pounds'worth of jewellery for us to divide later on. We must get into Valencefor breakfast, and thence Henderson will take the stuff away by traininto Holland."

  "But how--what have you done?" I asked, puzzled.

  "I'll explain in the morning, when we've got rid of it all."

  He did explain. Blythe and Henderson both left us at Valence with thebooty, while Bindo and myself, in the morning sunshine, went forward atan easy pace along the Lyons road.

  "The affair wanted just a little bit of delicate manoeuvring," heexplained. "It was an affair of the heart, you see. We knew that thepretty little Gabrielle had married old Lemaire, the well-known jewellerin the Cannebiere, in Marseilles, and that she had gone to spend herhoneymoon at Nice. Unknown to either, I took a room next theirs at thehotel, and, thanks to the communicating doors they have in foreignhotels, overheard her husband explain that he must go to Genoa onpressing business. He also left her his safe-keys--the duplicates ofthose held by his manager in Marseilles--with injunctions to keep themlocked in her trunk. I allowed him to be absent a couple of days, then,quite unexpectedly, I met her on the Promenade, pretending, of course,that I was entirely unaware of her marriage with old Lemaire. In case ofaccident, however, it was necessary that the little woman should becompromised with somebody, and as you were so discreet, I sent you bothyesterday morning to idle along the whole length of the Promenade. Inthe meantime, I nipped back to the hotel, entered Gabrielle's room,obtained the two safe-keys, and took impressions of them in wax. These Iput into a tin matchbox and sent them by you to Blythe at the station.Blythe, with his usual foresight, had already engaged a locksmith inCannes, telling him a little fairy-story of how he had lost hissafe-keys, and how his manager in London, who had duplicates, had senthim out impressions. The keys were made to time; Blythe took a cab fromthe hotel, and got them, rejoined us at Cannes station, and then we wenton to Marseilles. There the affair became easier, but more risky.Henderson had already been reconnoitring the shop for a week and hadconceived a clever plan by which we got in from the rear, quickly openedthe two big safes with the copied keys, and cleared out all oldLemaire's best stock. I'm rather sorry to have treated little Gabrielleso--but, after all, it really doesn't hurt her, for old Lemaire is veryrich, and he won't miss twenty thousand pounds as much as we're in needof it. The loving husband is still in Genoa, and poor little Gabrielleis no doubt thinking herself a fool to have so prematurely shown herwedding ring."