The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales Read online

  All day long the City rang with Golcondas, Golcondas. Everybody murmured, “Slump, slump in Golcondas.” The brokers had more business to do than they could manage; though, to be sure, almost every one was a seller and no one a buyer. But Charles stood firm as a rock, and so did his brokers. “I don’t want to sell,” he said, doggedly. “The whole thing is trumped up. It’s a mere piece of jugglery. For my own part, I believe Professor Schleiermacher is deceived, or else is deceiving us. In another week the bubble will have burst, and prices will restore themselves.” His brokers, Finglemores, had only one answer to all inquiries: “Sir Charles has every confidence in the stability of Golcondas, and doesn’t wish to sell or to increase the panic.”

  All the world said he was splendid, splendid! There he stationed himself on ‘Change like some granite stack against which the waves roll and break themselves in vain. He took no notice of the slump, but ostentatiously bought up a few shares here and there so as to restore public confidence.

  “I would buy more,” he said, freely, “and make my fortune; only, as I was one of those who happened to spend last night at Sir Adolphus’s, people might think I had helped to spread the rumour and produce the slump, in order to buy in at panic rates for my own advantage. A chairman, like Caesar’s wife, should be above suspicion. So I shall only buy up just enough, now and again, to let people see I, at least, have no doubt as to the firm future of Cloetedorps.”

  He went home that night, more harassed and ill than I have ever seen him. Next day was as bad. The slump continued, with varying episodes. Now, a rumour would surge up that Sir Adolphus had declared the whole affair a sham, and prices would steady a little; now, another would break out that the diamonds were actually being put upon the market in Berlin by the cart-load, and timid old ladies would wire down to their brokers to realise off-hand at whatever hazard. It was an awful day. I shall never forget it.

  The morning after, as if by miracle, things righted themselves of a sudden. While we were wondering what it meant, Charles received a telegram from Sir Adolphus Cordery:—

  “The man is a fraud. Not Schleiermacher at all. Just had a wire from Jena saying the Professor knows nothing about him. Sorry unintentionally to have caused you trouble. Come round and see me.”

  “Sorry unintentionally to have caused you trouble.” Charles was beside himself with anger. Sir Adolphus had upset the share-market for forty-eight mortal hours, half-ruined a round dozen of wealthy operators, convulsed the City, upheaved the House, and now—he apologised for it as one might apologise for being late ten minutes for dinner! Charles jumped into a hansom and rushed round to see him. How had he dared to introduce the impostor to solid men as Professor Schleiermacher? Sir Adolphus shrugged his shoulders. The fellow had come and introduced himself as the great Jena chemist; he had long white hair, and a stoop in the shoulders. What reason had he for doubting his word? (I reflected to myself that on much the same grounds Charles in turn had accepted the Honourable David Granton and Graf von Lebenstein.) Besides, what object could the creature have for this extraordinary deception? Charles knew only too well. It was clear it was done to disturb the diamond market, and we realised, too late, that the man who had done it was—Colonel Clay, in “another of his manifold allotropic embodiments!” Charles had had his wish, and had met his enemy once more in London!

  We could see the whole plot. Colonel Clay was polymorphic, like the element carbon! Doubtless, with his extraordinary sleight of hand, he had substituted real diamonds for the shapeless mass that came out of the apparatus, in the interval between handing the pebbles round for inspection, and distributing them piecemeal to the men of science and representatives of the diamond interest. We all watched him closely, of course, when he opened the crucibles; but when once we had satisfied ourselves that something came out, our doubts were set at rest, and we forgot to watch whether he distributed those somethings or not to the recipients. Conjurers always depend upon such momentary distractions or lapses of attention. As usual, too, the Professor had disappeared into space the moment his trick was once well performed. He vanished like smoke, as the Count and Seer had vanished before, and was never again heard of.

  Charles went home more angry than I have ever beheld him. I couldn’t imagine why. He seemed as deeply hipped as if he had lost his thousands. I endeavoured to console him. “After all,” I said, “though Golcondas have suffered a temporary loss, it’s a comfort to think that you should have stood so firm, and not only stemmed the tide, but also prevented yourself from losing anything at all of your own through panic. I’m sorry, of course, for the widows and orphans; but if Colonel Clay has rigged the market, at least it isn’t you who lose by it this time.”

  Charles withered me with a fierce scowl of undisguised contempt. “Wentworth,” he said once more, “you are a fool!” Then he relapsed into silence.

  “But you declined to sell out,” I said.

  He gazed at me fixedly. “Is it likely,” he asked at last, “I would tell you if I meant to sell out? or that I’d sell out openly through Finglemore, my usual broker? Why, all the world would have known, and Golcondas would have been finished. As it is, I don’t desire to tell an ass like you exactly how much I’ve lost. But I did sell out, and some unknown operator bought in at once, and closed for ready money, and has sold again this morning; and after all that has happened, it will be impossible to track him. He didn’t wait for the account: he settled up instantly. And he sold in like manner. I know now what has been done, and how cleverly it has all been disguised and covered; but the most I’m going to tell you today is just this—it’s by far the biggest haul Colonel Clay has made out of me. He could retire on it if he liked. My one hope is, it may satisfy him for life; but, then, no man has ever had enough of making money.”

  “You sold out!” I exclaimed. “You, the Chairman of the company! You deserted the ship! And how about your trust? How about the widows and orphans confided to you?”

  Charles rose and faced me. “Seymour Wentworth,” he said, in his most solemn voice, “you have lived with me for years and had every advantage. You have seen high finance. Yet you ask me that question! It’s my belief you will never, never understand business!”

  Colonel Clay in THE EPISODE OF THE ARREST OF THE COLONEL, by Grant Allen

  How much precisely Charles dropped over the slump in Cloetedorps I never quite knew. But the incident left him dejected, limp, and dispirited.

  “Hang it all, Sey,” he said to me in the smoking-room, a few evenings later. “This Colonel Clay is enough to vex the patience of Job—and Job had large losses, too, if I recollect aright, from the Chaldeans and other big operators of the period.”

  “Three thousand camels,” I murmured, recalling my dear mother’s lessons; “all at one fell swoop; not to mention five hundred yoke of oxen, carried off by the Sabeans, then a leading firm of speculative cattle-dealers!”

  “Ah, well,” Charles meditated aloud, shaking the ash from his cheroot into a Japanese tray—fine antique bronze-work. “There were big transactions in live-stock even then! Still, Job or no Job, the man is too much for me.”

  “The difficulty is,” I assented, “you never know where to have him.”

  “Yes,” Charles mused; “if he were always the same, like Horniman’s tea or a good brand of whisky, it would be easier, of course; you’d stand some chance of spotting him. But when a man turns up smiling every time in a different disguise, which fits him like a skin, and always apparently with the best credentials, why, hang it all, Sey, there’s no wrestling with him anyhow.”

  “Who could have come to us, for example, better vouched,” I acquiesced, “than the Honourable David?”

  “Exactly so,” Charles murmured. “I invited him myself, for my own advantage. And he arrived with all the prestige of the Glen-Ellachie connection.”

  “Or the Professor?” I went on. “Introduced to us
by the leading mineralogist of England.”

  I had touched a sore point. Charles winced and remained silent.

  “Then, women again,” he resumed, after a painful pause. “I must meet in society many charming women. I can’t everywhere and always be on my guard against every dear soul of them. Yet the moment I relax my attention for one day—or even when I don’t relax it—I am bamboozled and led a dance by that arch Mme. Picardet, or that transparently simple little minx, Mrs. Granton. She’s the cleverest girl I ever met in my life, that hussy, whatever we’re to call her. She’s a different person each time; and each time, hang it all, I lose my heart afresh to that different person.”

  I glanced round to make sure Amelia was well out of earshot.

  “No, Sey,” my respected connection went on, after another long pause, sipping his coffee pensively, “I feel I must be aided in this superhuman task by a professional unraveller of cunning disguises. I shall go to Marvillier’s tomorrow—fortunate man, Marvillier—and ask him to supply me with a really good ’tec, who will stop in the house and keep an eye upon every living soul that comes near me. He shall scan each nose, each eye, each wig, each whisker. He shall be my watchful half, my unsleeping self; it shall be his business to suspect all living men, all breathing women. The Archbishop of Canterbury shall not escape for a moment his watchful regard; he will take care that royal princesses don’t collar the spoons or walk off with the jewel-cases. He must see possible Colonel Clays in the guard of every train and the parson of every parish; he must detect the off-chance of a Mme. Picardet in every young girl that takes tea with Amelia, every fat old lady that comes to call upon Isabel. Yes, I have made my mind up. I shall go tomorrow and secure such a man at once at Marvillier’s.”

  “If you please, Sir Charles,” Césarine interposed, pushing her head through the portière, “her ladyship says, will you and Mr. Wentworth remember that she goes out with you both this evening to Lady Carisbrooke’s?”

  “Bless my soul,” Charles cried, “so she does! And it’s now past ten! The carriage will be at the door for us in another five minutes!”

  Next morning, accordingly, Charles drove round to Marvillier’s. The famous detective listened to his story with glistening eyes; then he rubbed his hands and purred. “Colonel Clay!” he said; “Colonel Clay! That’s a very tough customer! The police of Europe are on the look-out for Colonel Clay. He is wanted in London, in Paris, in Berlin. It is le Colonel Caoutchouc here, le Colonel Caoutchouc there; till one begins to ask, at last, is there any Colonel Caoutchouc, or is it a convenient class name invented by the Force to cover a gang of undiscovered sharpers? However, Sir Charles, we will do our best. I will set on the track without delay the best and cleverest detective in England.”

  “The very man I want,” Charles said. “What name, Marvillier?”

  The principal smiled. “Whatever name you like,” he said. “He isn’t particular. Medhurst he’s called at home. We call him Joe. I’ll send him round to your house this afternoon for certain.”

  “Oh no,” Charles said promptly, “you won’t; or Colonel Clay himself will come instead of him. I’ve been sold too often. No casual strangers! I’ll wait here and see him.”

  “But he isn’t in,” Marvillier objected.

  Charles was firm as a rock. “Then send and fetch him.”

  In half an hour, sure enough, the detective arrived. He was an odd-looking small man, with hair cut short and standing straight up all over his head, like a Parisian waiter. He had quick, sharp eyes, very much like a ferret’s; his nose was depressed, his lips thin and bloodless. A scar marked his left cheek—made by a sword-cut, he said, when engaged one day in arresting a desperate French smuggler, disguised as an officer of Chasseurs d’Afrique. His mien was resolute. Altogether, a quainter or ’cuter little man it has never yet been my lot to set eyes on. He walked in with a brisk step, eyed Charles up and down, and then, without much formality, asked for what he was wanted.

  “This is Sir Charles Vandrift, the great diamond king,” Marvillier said, introducing us.

  “So I see,” the man answered.

  “Then you know me?” Charles asked.

  “I wouldn’t be worth much,” the detective replied, “if I didn’t know everybody. And you’re easy enough to know; why, every boy in the street knows you.”

  “Plain spoken!” Charles remarked.

  “As you like it, sir,” the man answered in a respectful tone. “I endeavour to suit my dress and behaviour on every occasion to the taste of my employers.”

  “Your name?” Charles asked, smiling.

  “Joseph Medhurst, at your service. What sort of work? Stolen diamonds? Illicit diamond-buying?”

  “No,” Charles answered, fixing him with his eye. “Quite another kind of job. You’ve heard of Colonel Clay?”

  Medhurst nodded. “Why, certainly,” he said; and, for the first time, I detected a lingering trace of American accent. “It’s my business to know about him.”

  “Well, I want you to catch him,” Charles went on.

  Medhurst drew a long breath. “Isn’t that rather a large order?” he murmured, surprised.

  Charles explained to him exactly the sort of services he required. Medhurst promised to comply. “If the man comes near you, I’ll spot him,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “I can promise you that much. I’ll pierce any disguise. I should know in a minute whether he’s got up or not. I’m death on wigs, false moustaches, artificial complexions. I’ll engage to bring the rogue to book if I see him. You may set your mind at rest, that, while I’m about you, Colonel Clay can do nothing without my instantly spotting him.”

  “He’ll do it,” Marvillier put in. “He’ll do it, if he says it. He’s my very best hand. Never knew any man like him for unravelling and unmasking the cleverest disguises.”

  “Then he’ll suit me,” Charles answered, “for I never knew any man like Colonel Clay for assuming and maintaining them.”

  It was arranged accordingly that Medhurst should take up his residence in the house for the present, and should be described to the servants as assistant secretary. He came that very day, with a marvellously small portmanteau. But from the moment he arrived, we noticed that Césarine took a violent dislike to him.

  Medhurst was a most efficient detective. Charles and I told him all we knew about the various shapes in which Colonel Clay had “materialised,” and he gave us in turn many valuable criticisms and suggestions. Why, when we began to suspect the Honourable David Granton, had we not, as if by accident, tried to knock his red wig off? Why, when the Reverend Richard Peploe Brabazon first discussed the question of the paste diamonds, had we not looked to see if any of Amelia’s unique gems were missing? Why, when Professor Schleiermacher made his bow to assembled science at Lancaster Gate, had we not strictly inquired how far he was personally known beforehand to Sir Adolphus Cordery and the other mineralogists? He supplied us also with several good hints about false hair and make-up; such as that Schleiermacher was probably much shorter than he looked, but by imitating a stoop with padding at his back he had produced the illusion of a tall bent man, though in reality no bigger than the little curate or the Graf von Lebenstein. High heels did the rest; while the scientific keenness we noted in his face was doubtless brought about by a trifle of wax at the end of the nose, giving a peculiar tilt that is extremely effective. In short, I must frankly admit, Medhurst made us feel ashamed of ourselves. Sharp as Charles is, we realised at once he was nowhere in observation beside the trained and experienced senses of this professional detective.

  The worst of it all was, while Medhurst was with us, by some curious fatality, Colonel Clay stopped away from us. Now and again, to be sure, we ran up against somebody whom Medhurst suspected; but after a short investigation (conducted, I may say, with admirable cleverness), the spy always showed us the doubtful person
was really some innocent and well-known character, whose antecedents and surroundings he elucidated most wonderfully. He was a perfect marvel, too, in his faculty of suspicion. He suspected everybody. If an old friend dropped in to talk business with Charles, we found out afterwards that Medhurst had lain concealed all the time behind the curtain, and had taken short-hand notes of the whole conversation, as well as snap-shot photographs of the supposed sharper, by means of a kodak. If a fat old lady came to call upon Amelia, Medhurst was sure to be lurking under the ottoman in the drawing-room, and carefully observing, with all his eyes, whether or not she was really Mme. Picardet, padded. When Lady Tresco brought her four plain daughters to an “At Home” one night, Medhurst, in evening dress, disguised as a waiter, followed them each round the room with obtrusive ices, to satisfy himself just how much of their complexion was real, and how much was patent rouge and Bloom of Ninon. He doubted whether Simpson, Sir Charles’s valet, was not Colonel Clay in plain clothes; and he had half an idea that Césarine herself was our saucy White Heather in an alternative avatar. We pointed out to him in vain that Simpson had often been present in the very same room with David Granton, and that Césarine had dressed Mrs. Brabazon’s hair at Lucerne: this partially satisfied him, but only partially. He remarked that Simpson might double both parts with somebody else unknown; and that as for Césarine, she might well have a twin sister who took her place when she was Mme. Picardet.

  Still, in spite of all his care—or because of all his care—Colonel Clay stopped away for whole weeks together. An explanation occurred to us. Was it possible he knew we were guarded and watched? Was he afraid of measuring swords with this trained detective?