Thehouse outside Maldon proved to be a newly built, detached, eight-roomed villa in a lonely spot on the high road to Witham. As I idled about it, I smelt a curious odor of melting rubber. Apparently the place had been taken furnished, but with what object I could not guess. Tarrant was a queer, rather insignificant-looking old fellow with a shock of white hair and a scraggy white beard.
Both he and Rayne were closeted together in the little dining-room for nearly two hours, while I sat in the adjoining room. I could hear them conversing in low tones, and the smell of rubber warmed by heat became more pungent. What game was being carried on? Something very secret without a doubt. I thought I heard the sound of a third man’s voice. Indeed, there might be a third person present, for I had not been admitted to the room.
At last, leaving Rayne there, I drove the old man on to Witham, where I left him at his own request at a point near the wireless telegraph station, and turning, went back to the thieves’ garage and there left the car.
I did not see Rudolph Rayne again for several days, but according to instructions I received from Madame Duperré, I went by train up to Yorkshire and awaited their arrival.
From Duperré, who arrived three days after I had got to Overstow, I gathered that Rayne had suddenly been called away to the Continent on one of his swift visits, “on a little matter of business,” added Vincent with a meaning grin.
We were smoking together in the great old library, when I told him of my narrow escape on Clifton Bridge.
“Yes,” he said. “Benton is always trying to get at us. It was sly of him to impersonate old Morley. I wonder how he got to know that you were meeting him? Someone must have betrayed Rayne. I have a suspicion who it may be. If he has, then woe betide him! Rudolph never forgives an enemy or a blunderer.”
I tried to get from Duperré the reason why the hunchback had met Rayne in such secrecy, but he would divulge nothing.
Next day his wife and Lola returned, and that same evening as I sat with the latter in the chintz-covered drawing-room—for though I had been engaged as chauffeur I was now treated as one of the family—I had a delightful chat with her.
That she was sorely puzzled at her father’s rapid journeys to and fro across Europe without any apparent reason, of the strange assortment of hisfriends and the secrecy in which he so often met them, I had long ago observed.
The truth was that I had fallen deeply in love with the sweet dainty girl whose father was the most audacious and cunning crook the modern world had produced. I believed, on account of the small confidence we had exchanged, that Lola, on her part, did not regard me with actual disfavor.
“When will your father be back, do you think?” I asked her as she lounged upon a settee with a big orange silk cushion behind her. She looked very sweet. She wore a pretty but very simple dance-frock of flame-colored ninon, in which I had seen her at the Carlton on the night when I set out to meet the man Tarrant and was so nearly caught.
I had given her a cigarette, and we were smoking together cosily—Duperré and his wife being somewhere in the great old house. I think Duperré was, after all, a sportsman, even though he was a practiced crook, for on that night he and his wife allowed me to be alone with Lola.
“Do you know a friend of your father, an old man named Tarrant?” I asked her suddenly.
“Tarrant—Morley Tarrant?” she asked. “Oh! yes. He’s such a funny old fellow. Three years ago he often used to visit us when we lived in Biarritz, but I haven’t seen him since.”
“Who is he?”
“He was the manager of the branch of the CréditFoncier. He is French, though he bears an English name.”
“French! But he speaks English!” I remarked.
“Of course. His mother was English. He was once employed by Morgan’s in Paris, I believe, but I haven’t seen him lately. Father said one day at table that the old fellow had overstepped the mark and owing to some defalcations had gone to prison. I was sorry. What do you know of him?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “I’ve heard of him.”
She looked me very straight in the face from beneath her long dark lashes.
“Ah! you won’t tell me what you know,” she said mysteriously.
“Neither will you, Lola!” Then, after a pause, I added: “I want to know whether he is your father’s friend—or his enemy.”
“His friend, no doubt.”
“Why should your father have as friend a man who robs a bank, eh?” I asked very earnestly.
“Ah! That I don’t know!” replied the girl as she bent towards me earnestly. “I—I’m always so puzzled. Ever since my dear mother died, just after I came back from Roedene, I have wondered—and always wondered. I can discover nothing—absolutely nothing! Father is so secret, and neither Madame nor he will tell me anything. They only say that their business is no affair of mine. My father has business, no doubt, Mr. Hargreave. From his business he derives his income. But I cannot seewhy he should so constantly meet men and women in all sorts of social positions and give them orders, as it were. I am not blind, neither am I deaf.”
“You have listened in secret, eh?” I asked.
“I confess that I have.” Then, after a slight pause, she went on: “And I have overheard some very strange conversations. My father seems to direct the good fortunes of certain of his friends, while at the same time he plots against his enemies. But I suppose, after all, it is business.”
Business! Little did the girl dream of the real occupation of her unscrupulous father, or the desperate characters of his friends, both male and female.
Truly, she was very sweet and charming, and I hated to think that in her innocence she existed in that fevered world of plotting and desperate crime.
We walked along the broad terrace in the twilight. Beyond spread the wide park to a dark belt of trees, Sherman’s Copse, it was called, a delightfully shady place in summer where we had often strolled together.
As we chatted, I reflected. So old Morley Tarrant was a gaol-bird! Hence it was but natural that Rudolph Rayne, who preserved such a high degree of respectability, would hesitate to meet him providing he knew that the police were watching. He certainly knew that, hence the secrecy of their appointment.
As we walked Madame suddenly emerged from the French windows of the drawing-room and joined us.
“I’ve just had a wire from Rudolph,” she said. “He’s leaving Copenhagen to-night and will be back to-morrow night. I’d no idea that he had been over in Denmark. But there! he is such a bird of passage that one never knows where he may be to-morrow.” And she laughed.
Later we all four sat down to dinner, a decorous meal, well-cooked and well-served. But the character of the household was shown by the fact that none of the servants—discreetly chosen, of course, and in themselves members of the criminal organization—betrayed the least surprise that I, who acted as chauffeur, should be admitted to that curious family circle.
Rayne returned next night, tired and travel-worn, and I met him at Thirsk station.
“We go up to Edinburgh to-morrow. I shall want you to drive me,” he said as he sat at my side in the Rolls. “Lola will go also.”
His last words delighted me, and next day at noon we all three set forth on our journey north. It rained all day and the run was the reverse of pleasant, nevertheless, we arrived at the Caledonian Hotel quite safely, and were soon installed in one of the cosy private suites.
Father and daughter breakfasted in their sitting-room, while I had my meal alone in the coffee-room.
When later I went up for orders Rayne dismissed me abruptly, saying that he would not require me till after lunch.
Half an hour afterwards, while idling alongPrinces Street, I came across Lola, who was looking in one of the shop windows.
“Father has sent me out as he wants to talk business with Mr. Hugh Martyn, a rich American we met at the Grand, in Rome, last year. Father has come up here specially to meet him.”
What fresh crooked business could there be in progress? That Rayne had paid flying visits to Copenhagen and Edinburgh in such a short space of time was in itself highly suspicious.
After luncheon, on entering Rayne’s sitting-room, I found him busily fashioning from a sheet of thin cardboard a small square box which he was fitting over a large glass paper-weight, a cube about four inches square which was wrapped in tissue-paper, the corner of which happened to be torn and so revealed the glass.
“I’m sending this away as a present,” he explained. “I bought it over in Princes Street this morning.” And he continued with his scissors to make the box to fit it. “I shall not want you any more to-day Hargreave,” he went on. “We’ll get back home to-morrow, starting at ten.”
And, as was his habit, he dismissed me abruptly.
Four days later I was summoned to the library, where in breeches and gaiters he was standing astride upon the hearthrug.
“Look here, Hargreave,” he said, “I want you to take the next train up to London and carry that little leather bag with you,” and he indicated a small bagstanding upon the writing-table. “On arrival go at once down to Maldon and call at half-past nine o’clock to-morrow night at that house to which you took old Mr. Tarrant. You recollect it—The Limes, on the Witham road. Morley will be expecting you.”
“Very well,” I replied. “Is there any message?”
“None. Just deliver it to him. But to nobody else, remember,” he ordered.
So according to his instructions I duly arrived at the remote house at the hour arranged, and delivered the bag to the old man, who welcomed me and gave me a whisky-and-soda, which I found very acceptable after my long tramp from Maldon station. Tarrant was not alone, for I distinctly heard a man’s voice calling him just before he opened the door to me.
Recollecting that the old fellow had been in gaol, I was full of curiosity as to what was intended. I certainly never believed it to be so highly ingenious and dastardly as it eventually proved to be.
About a month passed uneventfully, save that I spent many delightful hours in Lola’s company. Her father had purchased another two-seater car—a “sports model” Vauxhall—and on several occasions I took him for runs in it about Yorkshire. Naturally he knew little about cars himself, but relied upon my knowledge and judgment. In addition to the Rolls and the Vauxhall I also had an “Indian” motor-cycle for my own personal use, and found it very useful in going on certain rapid missions to York and elsewhere. But the abandonment of the “A.C.”—whichhad, by the way, been regarded as a mystery by the Press—hurt me considerably.
Duperré had been absent from Overstow ever since the day we had left for Edinburgh, but as the bright autumn days passed I found myself more and more in love with the dainty girl whose father was a master-criminal.
Nevertheless, I felt that Duperré’s wife kept eager watch upon both of us. Perhaps she feared that I might tell Lola some of my adventures. As for Rayne, he was often out shooting over neighboring estates, for he was a good shot and highly popular in the neighborhood, while at Overstow itself there was some excellent sport to which now and then he would invite his local friends.
Rayne possessed a marvelous personality. When at home he was the typical country gentleman, a good judge of a horse and in his “pink” a straight rider to hounds. None who met him would have ever dreamed that he was the shrewd, crafty cosmopolitan whose evil machinations and devilish ingenuity made themselves felt in all the capitals of Europe, and whose word was law to certain dangerous characters who would not hesitate to take human life if it were really necessary to evade arrest.
His outstanding cleverness, however, was that he never revealed his own identity to those who actually carried out his devilish schemes. The circle of cosmopolitan malefactors who were his cat’s-paws only knew Monsieur and Madame Duperré—under othernames—but of Rudolph Rayne’s very existence they were nearly all ignorant. Money was, I learnt, freely paid for various “jobs” by agents engaged by the man I had once known as Captain Deinhard, or else by certain receivers of stolen goods in London and on the Continent, who were forewarned that jewels, bonds or stolen bank-notes would reach them in secret, and that payment must be made and no questions asked.
Late one evening Duperré returned unexpectedly in a hired car from Thirsk. We had finished dinner, and I chanced to be with Rayne in the library, yet longing to get to the old-fashioned drawing-room with its sweet odor of potpourri, where Lola was, I knew, sitting immersed in the latest novel.
“Hallo, Vincent! Why, I thought you were still in Aix-les-Bains!” cried Rayne, much surprised, and yet a trifle excited, which was quite unusual for him.
“There’s a nasty little hitch!” replied the other, still in his heavy traveling coat. Then, turning to me, he said: “Hargreave, old chap, will you leave for a moment or two? I want to speak to Rudolph.”
“Of course,” I said. I was by that time used to those confidential conversations, and I walked along the corridor and joined Lola.
“I’m very troubled, Mr. Hargreave,” the girl suddenly exclaimed in a low, timid voice after we had been chatting a short time. “I overheard father whispering something to Madame Duperré to-day.”
“Whispering something!” I echoed. “What was that?”
“Something about Mr. Martyn, that American gentleman he met in Edinburgh,” she replied. “Father was chuckling to himself, saying that he had taken good precautions to prevent him proving an alibi. Father seemed filled with the fiercest anger against him. I’m sure he’s an awfully nice man, though we hardly know him. What can it mean?”
An alibi? I reflected. I replied that it was as mysterious to me as to her. Like herself I lived in a clouded atmosphere of rapidly changing circumstances, mysterious plots and unknown evil deeds—truly a world of fear and bewilderment.
Some days later I had driven up to London in the Rolls with Duperré, leaving Rayne and Lola at home, Duperré’s wife being away somewhere on a visit. We took up our quarters at Rayne’s chambers, and next day idled about London together. Just before we went out to dinner Martyn called, and after taking a drink Duperré went out with him, remarking to me that he would be in soon after eleven. Hence I went to the theater, and on returning at midnight awaited him.
I sat reading by the fire and dozed till just past two o’clock, when he returned dressed in unfamiliar clothes: a rough suit of tweeds in which he presented the appearance of a respectable artisan. His left hand was bound roughly with a colored handkerchief, and he appeared very exhausted. Before speaking hepoured himself out a liqueur glass of neat brandy which he swallowed at a single gulp.
“I’ve had a rather nasty accident, George,” he said. “I’ve cut my hand pretty badly. Only not a soul must know about it—you understand?”
I nodded, and then at his request I assisted him to wash the wound and rebandage it.
“What’s been the matter?” I asked with curiosity.
“Nothing very much,” was his hard reply. “You’ll probably know all about it to-morrow. The papers will be full of it. But mind and keep your mouth shut very tightly.”
And with that he drew from his pockets a pair of thin surgical rubber gloves, both of which were blood-stained, and hurriedly threw them into the fire.
On the following evening about six o’clock I was alone in Rayne’s chambers when the evening newspaper was, as usual, pushed through the letter-box. I rose, and taking it up glanced casually at the front page, when I was confronted by a startling report.
It appeared that just after midnight on the previous night the watchman on duty at the Chartered Bank of Liberia, in Lombard Street, had been murderously attacked by some unknown person who apparently battered his head with an iron bar, and left him unconscious and so seriously injured that he was now in Guy’s Hospital without hope of recovery. The bank robbers had apparently used a most up-to-date oxyacetylene plant for cutting steel, and from the strong-room in the basement—believed to be impregnableand which could only be opened by a time-clock, and, moreover, could be flooded at will—they had cut out the door as butter could be cut with a hot knife. From the safe they had abstracted negotiable bonds with English, French and Italian notes to the value of over eighty thousand pounds, with which the thieves had got clear away.
The bank robbery was the greatest sensation of the moment. The thieves had cleverly effected an entrance by one of them having secreted himself in a safe in the bank when it had closed. In the morning at nine o’clock when the first clerk, a lady accountant, had arrived, she could get no entrance, so she waited till one of her male colleagues arrived. Then they called a constable, and after half an hour the sensational fact of the unconscious watchman and the rifled strong-room became revealed.
The newspaper report concluded with the following sentences:
“It is evident that one of the thieves cut his hand badly, for we understand that the detectives of the City police have found blood-stained finger-prints of four distinct fingers upon the door and in other parts of the strong-room. These, of course, have already been photographed, and in due course will be investigated by that department of Scotland Yard which deals with the finger-prints of known criminals.”
With the knowledge of the injury to Duperré’s hand I felt confident that the greatcoupwas due to him. And I was not mistaken.
The bank thieves had got clear away, it was true,but they had left those tell-tale finger-prints behind! As everyone knows, the ridges and whorls upon the hands of no two men are alike, therefore it seemed clear that Scotland Yard, now aroused, would very quickly—owing to its marvelous classification of the finger-prints of every criminal who has passed through the hands of the police during the past quarter of a century—fix upon the person who had laid his hands upon the steel safe door.
An hour after I had read the report in the paper, Duperré rang me up.
“I’m going to Overstow by the nine-thirty from King’s Cross to-night,” he said. “If you can join me, do. The air is better in Yorkshire than in London, don’t you think so, old chap?”
“Right-oh!” I replied. “I’ll travel up with you.”
We met, and early next morning we were back at Overstow. Yet I managed to suppress any untoward curiosity.
It was only when about a week later I read in the paper of the result of the discovery of Scotland Yard finger-print department and of a consequent arrest that I sat aghast.
A notorious jewel-thief named Hersleton, alias Hugh Martyn, an American, had been arrested at a hotel at Brighton, and had been charged at Bow Street with the murderous attack upon the night watchman at the Chartered Bank of Liberia, his finger-prints, taken some years before, coinciding exactly with those left at the bank. He had violentlyprotested his innocence, but had been committed for trial.
At the Old Bailey six weeks later, the night watchman having fortunately recovered from his injuries, Hugh Martyn was brought before Mr. Justice Harland, and though very ably defended by his counsel, he was quite unable to account for his movements on the night in question.
“I was never there!” the prisoner shrieked across the court to the judge as I sat in the public gallery watching the scene. “I know nothing of the affair—nothing whatever. I am innocent.”
“It is undeniable that the prisoner’s finger-prints were left there,” remarked the eminent counsel for the Treasury, rising very calmly. “We have them here before us—enlarged photographs which the jury have just seen. Gentlemen of the jury, I put it to you that the prisoner is the man who assisted in this dastardly crime!”
The jury, after a short retirement, found Hugh Martyn guilty, and the judge, after hearing his previous convictions, sentenced him to fifteen years’ penal servitude.
But Mr. Justice Harland has never known, until perhaps he may read these lines, that by the ingenious machinations of the super-criminal Rudolph Rayne, Hugh Martyn, who was one of his associates who had quarrelled with him over his share of a bank robbery in Madrid, and had tried to betray me to Benton on Clifton Bridge, had been the victim of a most dastardlytreachery, though he was quite unaware of it and believed Rayne to be his friend.
Only many months later I learned, by piecing together certain facts, that old Morley Tarrant was an expert photographer and maker of printer’s “blocks.” Slowly it became plain that Rayne, having been betrayed by the astute American crook, had met him in Edinburgh and with devilish malice aforethought, had contrived to get him to handle the glass cube which served as a paper-weight, and which I had quite innocently conveyed to the old hunchback, who had succeeded in taking the finger-prints and by photography transferring them upon the surgical rubber glove, thin as paper—really a false skin—which Duperré had worn over his hands when he and his associates made an attack upon the bank.
By that means Martyn’s finger-prints were left upon the safe door.
Duperré had previously taken out Martyn, whom one of his friends, a woman, had drugged, so that he lay in that furnished house near Maldon for two days unconscious. Hence he was unable to give any accurate account of his movements on the night in question, or prove an alibi, and was, in consequence, convicted.
Rayne, the man with the abnormal criminal brain, had, by that ingeniouscoup, not only contrived to spirit away to the Continent a sum of eighty thousand pounds in negotiable securities, but had also sent to a long term of penal servitude the man who had attempted to betray him.
Thepleasant high road between Leamington and Coventry runs straight over the hills to Kenilworth, but a few miles farther on there are cross-roads, the right leading into Stoneleigh and the left to Kirby Corner and over Westwood Heath into a crooked maze of by-roads by which one can reach Berkswell or Barston.
It was over that left-hand road that I was driving Rayne and Lola in the Rolls in the grey twilight of a wintry evening. We had driven from London, and both Rayne and the girl I so admired were cramped and tired.
“Look!” shouted Lola suddenly as we took a turn in the road. “There’s the lodge! On the left there. That’s Bradbourne Hall!”
“Yes, that’s it, Hargreave!” said Rudolph, and a few moments later I turned the car through the high wrought-iron gates which stood open for us, and we sped up the long avenue of leafless trees which led to the fine country mansion at which we were to be guests.
Bradbourne Hall was a great old-world Georgianhouse, half covered with ivy, and the appearance of the grave, white-haired butler who opened the door showed it to be the residence of a man of wealth and discernment.
That Edward Blumenfeld, its owner, was fabulously wealthy everyone in the City of London knew, for his name was one to conjure with in high finance, and though the dingy offices of Blumenfeld and Hannan in Old Broad Street were the reverse of imposing, yet the financial influence of the great house often made itself felt upon the Bourses of Paris, Brussels and Rome.
I met the millionaire at dinner two hours later, a tall, loose-built, sallow-faced man of rather brusque manners and decidedly cosmopolitan, both in gesture and in speech. With him was his wife, a pleasant woman of about fifty-five who seemed extremely affable to Lola. Mr. Blumenfeld’s sister, a Mrs. Perceval, was also present.
It appeared that a year before Rayne had met old Mr. Blumenfeld and his wife in an hotel at Varenna, on the Lake of Como, and a casual acquaintance had ripened into friendship and culminated in the invitation to spend a few days at Bradbourne. Hence our journey.
As we sat gossiping over our port after the ladies had left the table, I began to wonder why the grey-eyed master-crook, whom not a soul suspected, was so eager to ingratiate himself with Edward Blumenfeld. The motive was, however, not far to seek.Most men who are personal friends of millionaires manage to extract some little point of knowledge which, if used in the right way and with discretion, will often result in considerable financial gain. Indeed, I have often thought that around a millionaire there is spread a halo of prosperity which invests all those who enter it and brings to them good fortune.
It was evident that the great financier regarded Rudolph Rayne as his friend, for he promised to pay us a visit at Overstow in return.
“Remember what Mr. Blumenfeld has promised us, George!” said Rayne as he turned to me merrily. “Make a note of it!” And the breezy, easy-going man who at the moment was directing all sorts of crooked business in many cities on the Continent sipped his glass of port with the air of a connoisseur, as indeed he was.
That night, after I had gone to my room, Rayne suddenly entered and began to speak to me in a loud tone concerning some letters he wished to write early in the morning. Then, lowering his voice suddenly to a whisper, he added: “I want you to be very nice to Mrs. Blumenfeld, Hargreave. Unfortunately Lola seems to have taken a violent dislike to her. Why, I don’t know. So do your best to remedy what may result in acontretemps.”
Then again he spoke in his usual voice, and wishing me good night left the room.
After he had gone I, full of wonder and apprehension, paced up and down the fine old paneledchamber—for I had been placed in a wing in the older part of the house which was evidently Jacobean. As an unwilling assistant of that super-crook whose agents were at work in the various cities of Europe carrying out the amazingly ingenious plans which, with Vincent Duperré, he so carefully formulated in that great old-world library of his at Overstow, I was constantly in peril, for I felt by some inexplicable intuition that the police must, one day or other, obtain sufficient evidence to arrest all of us, Lola included.
I recollect that Superintendent Arthur Benton of Scotland Yard was ever active in his inquiries concerning the great gang which Rayne controlled.
Had it not been that I was now passionately in love with Lola—though I dared not declare it openly—I should have left my queer appointment long ago. As a matter of fact, I remained because I believed, vainly perhaps, that I might one day be able to shield Lola from becoming their accomplice—and thus culpable.
According to Rayne’s instructions I next day made myself as affable as possible to Mrs. Blumenfeld, but later in the afternoon I had an opportunity of chatting with Lola alone. She wanted to go to a shop in Warwick, and asked me to take her there in the car, which I did. The driver’s seat was inside the car, hence, when alone, she always sat beside me.
“What do you think of Mrs. Blumenfeld?” I asked her as we sped along through the rain.
“Oh! Well, I don’t like her—that’s all,” was her reply, as she smiled.
“I think she’s quite nice,” I said. “She was most charming to me this morning.”
“And she is also charming to me. But she seems so horribly inquisitive, and asks me so many questions about my father—questions I can’t answer.”
“Why not?” I asked, turning to her and for a second taking my eyes off the road.
“Well—you know, Mr. Hargreave—you surely know,” the girl hesitated. “Why are we on this visit? My father has some sinister plans—without a doubt.”
“How sinister plans?” I asked, in pretence of ignorance.
“You well know,” she answered. “I am not blind, even if Duperré and his wife think I am. They forget that there is such a thing as illustrated papers.”
“I don’t follow,” I said.
“Well, in theDaily Graphicthree days ago I saw the portrait of a man named Lawrence, well-known as a jewel thief, who was sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude at the Old Bailey. I recognized him as Mr. Moody, one of my father’s friends who often came to see us at Overstow—a man you also know. Why has my father thieves for his friends, unless he is in some way connected with them?”
“Moody sentenced!” I gasped. “Why, he was one of Duperré’s most intimate friends. I’ve met them together often,” I remarked, and then the conversationdropped, and we sat silent for a full quarter of an hour.
“I’m longing to get back to Overstow, Mr. Hargreave,” the girl went on presently. “I feel that ere long Mrs. Blumenfeld, who is a very clever and astute woman, will discover something about us, and then——”
“And if she does, it will upset your father’s plans—whatever they are!”
“But Mr. Blumenfeld, as a great financier, has agents in all the capitals, and they might inquire and discover more about us than would be pleasant,” she said apprehensively. “I wonder why we are visiting these people?” she added.
I did not reply. I was constantly puzzled and bewildered by the actions and movements of Rayne and his questionable friends.
That evening after dinner, while old Blumenfeld played billiards with his guest, I marked. They played three closely contested games, for both were good players; until at eleven o’clock we all three went to the great drawing-room to bid the ladies good night. With our host I returned to the billiard-room, leaving Rayne to follow. Mr. Blumenfeld poured me out a whisky-and-soda and took a glass of port himself. Then a few minutes later he suggested, that as Rayne had not returned, he and I should have a final game before retiring.
He had made about twenty-five when of a suddenhe leaned heavily against the table, his face blanched, and placing his hand to his heart, exclaimed:
“Oh! I have such a pain here! I—I——”
And before I could run round to his assistance he had collapsed heavily upon the floor.
In an instant I was at his side, but saw that he was already unconscious.
I flew to the door and down the corridor, when luckily I encountered Rayne, who was at that moment returning to us.
In breathless haste I told him what had occurred.
“Good heavens!” he gasped. “Don’t alarm the ladies. Find the butler and get him to telephone for the doctor in secret. I’ll run in and look after him in the meantime,” he said, and hurried to the billiard-room.
I was not long in finding the butler, and quickly we went to the library and spoke to the doctor, who lived about five miles away. He was already in bed, but would, he said, motor over immediately.
On our return to the billiard-room we found, to our relief, that Mr. Blumenfeld had recovered consciousness. He was still lying upon the floor, Rayne having forced some brandy between his lips.
“He’s getting right again!” Rayne exclaimed to the white-haired old servant, and together we lifted our host on to the sofa.
He recovered quite rapidly, and presently he whispered weakly:
“I suppose it’s my heart! A doctor in Rome three years ago said it was rather weak.”
“I’m glad you’re better, my dear fellow,” said Rayne. “I was much worried about you. You were playing with Hargreave, and he alarmed me.”
“I’m cold,” our host said. “Will you shut that window.”
For the first time I noticed the window, which had certainly been closed when we were playing, was open about a foot. Besides, Mr. Blumenfeld’s glass of port, of which he had drunk only half, was now empty, two facts which, however, at the time conveyed nothing to me.
In due course the doctor, an elderly country practitioner, arrived in hot haste, and grave concern, but as soon as he saw his patient he realized that it had been only a fainting fit and was nothing serious. Indeed, within an hour Blumenfeld was laughing with us as though nothing had occurred.
But what had really occurred, I wondered? That window had been opened, apparently to admit fresh air to revive an unconscious man. But surely our host had not drained his port glass after his sudden seizure!
The incident was, at Blumenfeld’s request, hidden from the ladies, and next day he was quite his old self again.
About noon I strolled with Rayne out along the wide terrace which ran in front of the house overlooking the great park, whereupon he said:
“We’ll leave here to-morrow, Hargreave. Duperré is at Overstow. Write to him this afternoon and tell him to send me a wire recalling me immediately upon urgent business.”
“We’ve finished here, eh?” I asked meaningly.
“Yes,” he grinned, “and the sooner we’re out of this place the better.”
So I sent Vincent a note, telling him to wire Rayne at once on receipt of it.
The urgent message recalling Rudolph Rayne to Yorkshire arrived about half-past ten next morning, just as we were going out shooting. Blumenfeld was much disappointed, but his guest pleaded that he had some very important business to transact with his agent who was over from New York and desired to meet him at once. Therefore to Lola’s complete satisfaction the trunks were packed and put into the car, and immediately after luncheon we set forth to Overstow.
On our way back I racked my brain to discern the nature of the latest plot, but could see nothing tangible. Mr. Blumenfeld had been taken suddenly ill while playing billiards with me, and Rayne, when summoned, had done his best to resuscitate him. Yet Rayne’s manner was triumphant and he was in most excellent spirits.
We arrived back at Overstow Hall just before midnight, and he and Duperré held a long conversation before retiring. Of its nature I could gather nothing.As for Lola, she retired at once very cramped and tired.
The whole of the following morning Duperré and Rayne were closeted together, while afterwards I drove Duperré into York, where from the telegraph office in the railway station he sent several cryptic messages abroad, of course posing to the telegraph clerk as a passing railway passenger. Rayne never sent important telegrams from the village post-office at Overstow, or even from Thirsk. They were all dispatched from places where, even if inquiry were made, the sender could not be traced.
“What’s in the wind?” I asked Duperré as he sat by my side on our drive back to Overstow.
“Something, my dear George,” he answered, smiling mysteriously. “At present I can’t tell you. In due course you’ll know—something big. Whenever Rudolph superintends in person it is always big. He never touches minor matters. He devises and arranges them as a general plans a battle, but he never superintends himself—only in the real big things. Even then he never acts himself.”
With that I was compelled to be satisfied. That night we all had quite a pleasant evening over bridge in the drawing-room, until just about ten o’clock Rayne was called to the telephone. When he rejoined us I noticed that his countenance was a trifle pale. He looked worried and ill at ease. He sat down beside Madame Duperré, and after pensivelylighting one of his expensive cigars, he bent and whispered something to her.
By what he said the woman became greatly agitated, and a few moments later rose and left the room.
The household at Overstow was certainly a strange and incongruous one, consisting as it did of persons who seemed all in league with each other, the master-criminal whose shrewd, steel-grey eyes were so uncanny, and his accomplices and underlings who all profited and grew fat upon the greatcoupsplanned by Rayne’s amazing mind. The squire of Overstow mesmerized his fellows and fascinated his victims of both sexes. His personality was clear-cut and outstanding. Men and women who met him for the first time felt that in conversation he held them by some curious, indescribable influence—held them as long as he cared, until by his will they were released from a strange thraldom that was both weird and astounding.
Whatever message Rayne had received it was evidently of paramount importance, for when Madame Duperré had left the room and Lola had retired, he turned to me and with a queer look in his eyes, exclaimed:
“I expect you’ll have to be making some rather rapid journeys soon, George. Better be up early to-morrow. Good night.” And then dismissing me, he asked Duperré to go with him to the smoking-room.
“I’ve heard from Tracy,” I overheard him say as I followed them along the softly carpeted corridor. “We’re up against that infernal Benton again because of old Moody’s blunder. I never expected he’d be caught, of all men. Benton is now looking for Moody’s guiding hand.”
“Well, I hope he won’t get very far,” Duperré replied.
“We must make certain that he doesn’t, Vincent, or it will go badly—very badly—with us! That’s what I want to discuss with you.”
Of the result of the consultation I, of course, remained in ignorance, but next morning Rayne sent for me and said he had decided to meet his friend Tracy at the Unicorn Hotel at Ripon.
“I telephoned him to the Station Hotel at York during the night,” he added. “He’ll have a lady with him. I want you to drive me over to Ripon and drive the lady back here.”
So an hour later we set out across country and arrived in Ripon in time for lunch.
Gerald Tracy I had met before, a big, stout, round-faced man of prosperous appearance, bald-headed and loud of speech. That he was a crook I had no doubt, but what his actualmétierwas I could not discover. He met us on the threshold of the old-fashioned hotel in that old-fashioned Yorkshire town, and with him was a well-dressed young woman, Italian or Spanish, I saw at a glance.
When Tracy introduced her to Rayne she wasapparently much impressed, replying in very fair English. Her name, I learnt, was Signorina Lacava, and she was Italian.
We all lunched together but no business was discussed. Rayne expressed a hope that the signorina’s journey from Milan had been a pleasant one.
“Quite,” the handsome black-eyed girl replied. “I stayed one day in Paris.”
“The signorina has made a conquest in Milan,” laughed Tracy. “Farini, the commissario of police, has fallen in love with her!”
Rayne smiled, and turning to her, said:
“I congratulate you, signorina. Your friendship may one day stand you in very good stead.”
That the young woman was someone of great importance in the criminal combine was apparent from the fact that she had been actually introduced to its secret head.
It struck me as curious when, after leaving Tracy and Rayne together, I was driving the signorina across the moors to Overstow, that while he hesitated to allow Tracy to go there, yet it was safe for the young Italian woman.
I knew that Benton was still making eager inquiries, and I also knew that Rayne was full of gravest apprehensions. Rudolph Rayne was playing a double game!
On arrival back home, Duperré’s wife received our visitor. Lola had gone to Newcastle to visit an oldschoolfellow, and Duperré was away in York so his wife informed me.
Three uneventful days passed, but neither Rayne nor Lola returned. On the third evening I was called to the telephone, and Rayne spoke to me from his rooms in London.
“I can’t get back just yet, George,” he said. “You’ll receive a registered letter from me to-morrow. Act upon it and use your own discretion.”
I promised him I would and then he rang off.
Theletter brought to my bedside next morning contained some curious instructions, namely, to take the car on the following Saturday to Flamborough Head, arriving at a spot he named about a quarter of a mile from the lighthouse, where I would be accosted by a Dutch sailor, who would ask me if I were Mr. Skelton. I was not to fear treachery, but to reply in the affirmative and drive him through the night to an address he gave me in Providence Court, a turning off Dean Street, Soho.
That address was sufficient for me! I had once before, at Rayne’s orders, driven a stranger to Dean Street and conducted him to that house. It was no doubt a harbor of refuge for foreign criminals in London, but was kept by an apparently respectable Italian who carried on a small grocery shop in Old Compton Street.
As I was ordered, I duly arrived on that wild spot on the Yorkshire coast. It blew half a gale, the wind howling about the car as I sat with only the red rearlight on, waiting in patience.
Very soon a short, thick-set man with decidedlyevil face and seafaring aspect, emerged from the shadows and asked in broken English whether I was Mr. Skelton. I replied that I was and bade him jump in, and then, switching on the big headlights, turned the car in the direction of London.
From what I had seen of the stranger I certainly was not prepossessed. His clothes were rough and half soaked by the rain that had been falling, while it became apparent as we talked that he had landed surreptitiously from a Dutch fishing-boat early that morning and had not dared to show himself. Hence he was half famished. I happened to have a vacuum flask and some sandwiches, and these I divided with him.
A long silence fell between us as with difficulty in keeping myself awake I drove over the two hundred odd miles of wet roads which separated us from London, and just before nine o’clock next morning I left the car in Wardour Street and walked with the stranger to the frowsy house in Providence Court, where to my great surprise Gerald Tracy opened the door. He laughed at my astonishment, but with a gesture indicative of silence, he merely said:
“Hallo, Hargreave! Back all right, eh?”
Then he admitted the Dutchman and closed the door.
Tracy was evidently there to hold consultation with the stranger whose entrance into England was unknown. He would certainly never risk a long stay in that house, for the stout, bald-headed man had, Iknew, no wish to come face to face with Benton or any other officer of the C.I.D.
Certainly something sinister and important was intended.
On calling at Half Moon Street, after having breakfasted, I found Duperré there.
“Rayne wants you to go down to the Pavilion Hotel at Folkestone and garage the car there,” he said. “He and I are running a risk in a couple of night’s time—the risk whether Benton identifies us. We both have tickets for the annual dinner of the staff of the Criminal Investigation Department, which is to be held in the Elgin Rooms.”
“And are you actually going?” I asked, much surprised.
“Yes. And our places are close to Benton’s! He’ll never dream that the men he is hunting for everywhere are sitting exactly opposite him as guests of one of his superiors.”
Boldness was one of Rudolph Rayne’s characteristics. He was fearless in all his clever and ingenious conspiracies, though his cunning was unequaled.
As I drove down to Folkestone I ruminated, as I so often did. No doubt some devilish plot was underlying the acceptance of the high police official’s invitation to the staff dinner.
Its nature became revealed a few days later when, on opening my newspaper one morning, being still at Folkestone waiting in patience, I read a paragraph which aroused within me considerable interest.
It was to the effect that Superintendent Arthur Benton, the well-known Scotland Yard officer, had, after the annual dinner a few nights before, been suddenly taken ill on his way home to Hampstead, and was at the moment lying in a very critical condition suffering from some mysterious form of ptomaine poisoning, his life being despaired of.
I was quite unaware until long afterwards of the deeply laid attempt upon Benton’s life, how the mysterious Dutchman was really a waiter much wanted by the French police for a poisoning affair in Marseilles, and that he had been able, by means best known to Rayne, to obtain temporary employment at the Elgin Rooms on the night of the banquet. It was he who had served the table at which had sat the unsuspicious detective superintendent.
The latter fortunately did not succumb, but he was incapacitated from duty for over twelve months, during which period the inquiries regarding the unknown head of the criminal band were dropped, much to the relief of Rayne and Duperré.
All this, however, was, I saw, preliminary and in preparation for some greatcoup.
I suppose I had been kicking my heels about Folkestone for perhaps ten days when, without warning, Rayne and Lola arrived with Tracy and a quantity of luggage. No doubt the mysterious Dutchman had returned to the Continent by the fishing-boat in which he had come over to act at Rayne’s orders.
“We are going to the Continent by the morningservice the day after to-morrow, George,” Rayne told me. “Tracy leaves to-night. Lola will go with us as far as Paris, where Duperré will meet us, and we go south together.”
And he produced a batch of tickets, among which I saw coupons for reserved compartments in thewagon-lit.
Afterwards he gave some peculiar instructions to Tracy.
“You’ll recollect the map I showed you,” he said. “Crèches is two miles south of Mâcon. At about two kilomètres towards Lyons there is a short bridge over a ravine. That’s the spot. The train passes there at three-eighteen in the morning.”
“I follow you exactly,” replied his stout, bald-headed accomplice. And I was left wondering what was intended.
That evening Tracy left us and crossed to Boulogne, while two days later we went on board the morning cross-Channel steamer, where, to my surprise, we met Mr. and Mrs. Blumenfeld.
The encounter was a most unexpected and pleasant one. The great financier and his wife were on their way to the Riviera, and we were going as far as Cannes.
“I had no idea that you were going south!” laughed Rayne happily as Lola, warmly dressed in furs, stood on deck chatting with Mrs. Blumenfeld and watching the boat casting off from the quay. “It will be most delightful to travel together,” he went on.“Lola stays in Paris and we go on to the Riviera. I suppose you’ve got your sleeping berths from Paris to-night?”
“Yes,” replied the financier, and then on comparing the numbers on the coupons the old man discovered that by a coincidence his berth adjoined the one which had been taken for myself.
We travelled merrily across to Boulogne, the weather being unusually fine, and took ourdéjeunertogether in thewagon-restauranton the way to Paris. With old Blumenfeld was his faithful valet who looked especially after two battered old leather kitbags, a fact which, I noticed, did not escape Rudolph’s watchful eye.
Arrived at the Gare du Nord, Lola was met by an elderly Englishwoman whom I recollected as having been a guest at Overstow, and after hurried farewells drove away in a car, while we took taxis across to the big hotel at the Gare de Lyon. There we dined, and at half-past eight joined the Marseilles express upon which was a singlewagon-lit.
Just as I was about to enter it, Rayne took me by the arm, and walking along the platform out of hearing, whispered:
“Vincent is here. Don’t recognize him. Be alert at three o’clock. I may want you!”
“For what?”
“Wait! We’ve something big in progress, George. Don’t ask any questions,” he said in that blusteringimpelling manner which he assumed when he was really serious.
Several times in the corridor I met the financier and his wife with their bony-faced valet, and, of course, I made myself polite and engaging to Mrs. Blumenfeld.
While the express roared through its first stage to Moret, I chatted with Rudolph and Blumenfeld after the latter’s wife had retired, and as we sat in the dim light of the corridor of the sleeping-car smoking cigarettes, all seemed absolutely normal.
Suddenly from the end compartment of the car Duperré came forth. As a perfect stranger he apologized in French as he passed us and walked to the little compartment at the end of the car where he ordered a drink from the conductor.
Hence old Mr. Blumenfeld was in ignorance that Vincent had any knowledge of us, or that Signorina Lacava, who was another of the passengers, was our friend. Yet the thin-faced valet who had brought up my early cup of tea when we had stayed at Bradbourne continually hovered about his master.
Later, as the express was tearing on at increased speed, Mr. Blumenfeld retired to his compartment, with his wife sleeping in the adjoining one, and within half an hour Rayne beckoned me into his compartment at the farther end, where we were joined by Duperré.
“I want you to be out in the corridor at three o’clock,” Rayne said to me. “Open the window andsit by it as though you want fresh air. The conductor won’t trouble you as he’ll be put to sleep. After the train leaves Mâcon, Vincent will pass you something. You will watch for three white lights set in a row beside the railway line. Tracy will be down there in waiting. When you see the three lights throw out what Vincent gives to you. Understand?”
I now saw the plot. They had knowledge that old Blumenfeld was travelling with a quantity of negotiable securities which he intended to hand to his agent at Marseilles on his way to Cannes, and they meant to relieve him of them!
“I shall be fast asleep,” Rayne went on, and turning to Duperré, he said: “Here’s the old fellow’s master-key. It opens everything.”
“By Jove!” whispered Vincent. “That was a clever ruse of yours to contrive the old man to faint and then take an impression of the key upon his chain.”
“It was the only way to get possession of it,” Rayne declared with an evil grin. “But both of you know how to act, so I’ll soon retire.”
And a few moments later I went out leaving both men together. The train roared into a long tunnel and then out again across many high embankments and over bridges. Rain was falling in torrents and lashed the windows as we sped due south on our way to Dijon. At last I knew the cause and motive of the old financier’s fainting fit. The reason of our visit to Bradbourne had been in order to obtain animpression of the old fellow’s little master-key which opened all his luggage, his dispatch-boxes, and even the great safes at the office in Old Broad Street.
I hated the part I was forced to play, yet there certainly was an element of danger in it, and in that I delighted. Therefore I partially undressed, turned in, and read the newspaper, anxiously waiting for the hour of three and wondering in what manner Duperré intended to rob the victim. I hoped that no violence would be used.
The minutes crept on slowly as, time after time, I glanced at my watch. In the compartment next to mine the millionaire was sleeping, all unconscious of the insidious plot. The brown-uniformed conductor was asleep—no doubt he had taken a drink with Duperré. Besides, the corridor at each end of the sleeping-saloon was closed and locked.
At last, at five minutes to three, I very cautiously opened my door and stepped into the empty corridor. The train was again in a tunnel, the noise deafening and the atmosphere stifling. As soon as we were out in the open I noiselessly lowered the window and found that we were passing through a mountainous country, for every moment we passed over some rushing torrent or through some narrow ravine.
It was already three o’clock when my nostrils were greeted with a pungent sickly odor of attar of roses, which seemed to be wafted along the corridor. It emanated, I imagined, from one of the compartments occupied by lady travellers.
Of a sudden we ran into the big station at Mâcon, where there was a wait of about five minutes—for the wheels to be tested. Nobody left or entered. All was quite still after the roaring and rocking of the express.
As we waited the odor of roses became much more pronounced, yet I sat at my post by the open window as though wanting fresh air, for the big sleeping-car was very stuffy, the heating apparatus being on. At last we moved out again, and I breathlessly waited for Duperré to hand me something to toss out to Tracy who was ready with the three signal lights beside the line.
The train gathered speed quickly. We had travelled two hundred and seventy miles and now had only a little farther to go. With my eye upon the side of the track, I sat scarce daring to breathe.
The ravine! We were crossing it! I glanced along the corridor. Nobody came in sight.
Next instant I saw three white lights arranged in a row. But we flashed past them!
For some reason, why, I knew not, the plot had failed!
I dared not go to the compartment of either of my companions, so after sitting up a further half-hour I crept back to my sleeping-berth feeling very drowsy, and turning in, slept heavily.
I was awakened by a loud hammering upon my door, and an excited voice outside calling:
“Mr. Hargreave! Mr. Hargreave!”
I opened it in astonishment to find the gray-headed old millionaire in his pajamas.
“I’ve been robbed!” he gasped. “I can’t wake the conductor. He’s been drugged, I believe! What number is Mr. Rayne’s compartment?”
“Number four,” I answered. “But what has been taken?” I asked.
“Bonds that I was taking to my agent in Marseilles—over sixty thousand pounds’ worth! My kitbag has been opened and the dispatch-box has been opened also while I’ve been asleep. The thief has evidently had the conductor’s key or he couldn’t have got into my compartment! The bonds must be still in the possession of one of the passengers,” he added. “Our last stop was at Mâcon and I was awake then.”
Together we woke up Rayne, who at once busied himself in great alarm.
“Possibly the bonds have been thrown from the train to an accomplice,” he suggested, exchanging glances with me.
“No. I’m sure they are still here—in the car. When next we stop I will prevent anyone leaving, and have all the passengers searched. The one thing that puzzles me is how the thief got to work without waking me, as I always place a little electric alarm on my bag when travelling with securities—and secondly, how did he manage to open both the bag and the dispatch-box it contained?”
“Well,” said Rayne. “Don’t let us raise any alarm, but just wait till we get to Lyons. Then we’llsee that nobody alights before we call the police.” Then, turning to me, he said: “You’ll keep one door, Hargreave, and I’ll keep the other, while Mr. Blumenfeld gives information.”
Thus we waited. But I was sorely puzzled as to the whereabouts of the stolen bonds. If Duperré had taken them, how had he got rid of them? That he had done so was quite plain by Rayne’s open attitude.
Presently, in the dawn, we ran slowly into Lyons, whereupon, with Rayne, I mounted guard, allowing no one to leave. Two men wanted to descend to obtain somecafé au lait, as is customary, and were surprised when prevented.
The commissary of police, with several plain-clothes officers, were quickly upon the spot, and to them Mr. Blumenfeld related his story—declaring that while lying awake he smelt a very strong odor of roses which caused him to become drowsy, and he slept. On awakening he saw that his dispatch-box had been rifled.
When the millionaire explained who he was and the extent of his loss, the commissary was at once upon the alert, and ordered every passenger to be closely searched. In consequence, everyone was turned out and searched, a woman searching the female passengers, Signorina Lacava waxing highly indignant. Rayne, Duperré and myself were also very closely searched, while every nook and cranny of the compartments and baggage were rummaged during the transit of the train from Lyons down to Marseilles.The missing bonds could not be discovered, nor did any suspicion attach to anyone.
I confess myself entirely puzzled as to what had actually occurred. The well-arranged plan to drop them from the train beyond Dijon had failed, I knew, because old Mr. Blumenfeld was still awake; but what alternative plan had been put into action?
It was only when we arrived in Marseilles that the bewildered conductor, a most reliable servant of thewagon-litcompany, recovered from his lethargy and could not in the least account for his long heavy sleep. He had, it appeared, smelt the same pleasant perfume of roses as Mr. Blumenfeld. At Marseilles there was still more excitement and inquiry, but at last we moved off to Toulon and along the beautiful Côte d’Azur, with its grey-green olives and glimpses of sapphire sea.
We were passing along by the seashore, when I ventured to slip into Duperré’s compartment, old Blumenfeld and his wife being then in the luncheon-car adjoining.
I inquired in a whisper what had happened.
For answer he crossed to one of the windows and drew down the brown cloth blind used at night, when upon the inside I saw, to my astonishment, some bonds spread out and pinned to the fabric!
He touched the spring, the blind rolled up and they disappeared within.
Each of the four blinds in his compartment contained their valuable documents which, in due course,he removed and placed in his pockets before he stepped out upon the platform at Hyères. He was, of course, an entire stranger to Rudolph and me, and we continued our journey with the victimized millionaire to Cannes, where we were compelled to remain for a week lest our abrupt return should excite anybody’s suspicion. Meanwhile, of course, Duperré was already back in London with the spoils.
In the whole affair Rayne, whose master-brain was responsible for the ingeniouscoup, remained with clean hands and ready at any moment to prove his own innocence.
The original plan of tossing out the sixty thousand pounds’ worth of bonds to Tracy, who was waiting with his three warning lights, failed because of old Blumenfeld’s sleeplessness, but it was substituted by a far more secretive yet simple plan—one never even dreamed of by the astute police attached to the Paris, Lyons and Mediterranean Railway. It being daylight at Lyons, the blinds were up!