by Guy Boothby
“It is a large sum,” she said, “and it will be difficult to find.”
He smiled, as if her words were a joke and should be treated as such.
“The interest will be good,” he answered.
“But are you certain of obtaining it?” she asked.
“Have I ever failed yet?” he replied.
“You have done wonderful things, certainly. But this time you are attempting so much.”
“The greater the glory!” he answered. “I have prepared my plans, and I shall not fail. This is going to be the greatest undertaking of my life. If it comes off successfully, I shall retire upon my laurels. Come, for the sake of—well, you know for the sake of what—will you let me have the money? It is not the first time you have done it, and on each occasion you have not only been repaid, but well rewarded into the bargain.”
“When do you want it?”
“By mid-day to-morrow. It must be paid in to my account at the Bank before twelve o’clock. You will have no difficulty in obtaining it I know. Your respectable merchant friends will do it for you if you but hold up your little finger. If they don’t feel inclined, then put on the screw and make them.”
She laughed as he paid this tribute to her power. A moment later, however, she was all gravity.
“And the security?”
He leant towards her and whispered in her ear.
“It is well,” she replied. “The money shall be found for you to-morrow. Now tell me your plans; I must know all that you intend doing.”
“In the first place,” he answered, drawing a little closer to her, and speaking in a lower voice, so that no eavesdropper should hear, “I shall take with me Abdul Khan, Ram Gafur, Jowur Singh, and Nur Ali, with others of less note as servants. I shall engage the best house in London, and under the wing of our gracious Viceroy, who has promised me the light of his countenance, will work my way into the highest society. That done I shall commence operations. No one will ever suspect!”
“And when it is finished, and you have accomplished your desires, how will you escape?”
“That I have not yet arranged. But of this you may be sure, I shall run no risks.”
“And afterwards?”
He leant a little towards her again, and patted her affectionately upon the hand.
“Then we shall see what we shall see,” he said. “I don’t think you will find me ungrateful.”
She shook her pretty head.
“It is good talk,” she cried, “but it means nothing. You always say the same. How am I to know that you will not learn to love one of the white mem-sahibs when you are so much among them?”
“Because there is but one Trincomalee Liz,” he answered; “and for that reason you need have no fear.”
Her face expressed the doubt with which she received this assertion. As she had said, it was not the first time she had been cajoled into advancing him large sums with the same assurance. He knew this, and, lest she should alter her mind, prepared to change the subject.
“Besides the others, I must take Hiram Singh and Wajib Baksh. They are in Calcutta, I am told, and I must communicate with them before noon to-morrow. They are the most expert craftsmen in India, and I shall have need of them.”
“I will have them found, and word shall be sent to you.”
“Could I not meet them here?”
“Nay, it is impossible. I shall not be here myself. I leave for Madras within six hours.”
“Is there, then, trouble toward?”
She smiled, and spread her hands apart with a gesture that said: “Who knows?”
He did not question her further, but after a little conversation on the subject of the money, rose to bid her farewell.
“I do not like this idea,” she said, standing before him and looking him in the face. “It is too dangerous. Why should you run such risk? Let us go together to Burma. You shall be my vizier.”
“I would wish for nothing better,” he said, “were it not that I am resolved to go to England. My mind is set upon it, and when I have done, London shall have something to talk about for years to come.”
“If you are determined, I will say no more,” she answered; “but when it is over, and you are free, we will talk again.”
“You will not forget about the money?” he asked anxiously.
She stamped her foot.
“Money, money, money,” she cried. “It is always the money of which you think. But you shall have it, never fear. And now when shall I see you again?”
“In six months’ time at a place of which I will tell you beforehand.”
“It is a long time to wait.”
“There is a necklace worth five lacs to pay you for the waiting.”
“Then I will be patient. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, little friend,” he said. And then, as if he thought he had not said enough, he added: “Think sometimes of Simon Carne.”
She promised, with many pretty speeches, to do so, after which he left the room and went downstairs. As he reached the bottom step he heard a cough in the dark above him and looked up. He could just distinguish Liz leaning over the rail. Then something dropped and rattled upon the wooden steps behind him. He picked it up to find that it was an antique ring set with rubies.
“Wear it that it may bring thee luck,” she cried, and then disappeared again.
He put the present on his finger and went out into the dark square.
“The money is found,” he said, as he looked up at the starlit heavens. “Hiram Singh and Wajib Baksh are to be discovered before noon to-morrow. His Excellency the Viceroy and his amiable lady have promised to stand sponsors for me in London society. If with these advantages I don’t succeed, well, all I can say is, I don’t deserve to. Now where is my Babuji?”
Almost at the same instant a figure appeared from the shadow of the building and approached him.
“If the Sahib will permit me, I will guide him by a short road to his hotel.”
“Lead on then. I am tired, and it is time I was in bed.” Then to himself he added: “I must sleep to-night, for to-morrow there are great things toward.”
CHAPTER 1
THE DUCHESS OF WILTSHIRE’S DIAMONDS
To the reflective mind the rapidity with which the inhabitants of the world’s greatest city seize upon a new name or idea, and familiarise themselves with it, can scarcely prove otherwise than astonishing. As an illustration of my meaning let me take the case of Klimo—the now famous private detective, who has won for himself the right to be considered as great as Lecocq, or even the late lamented Sherlock Holmes.
Up to a certain morning London had never even heard his name, nor had it the remotest notion as to who or what he might be. It was as sublimely ignorant and careless on the subject as the inhabitants of Kamtchatka or Peru. Within twenty-four hours, however, the whole aspect of the case was changed. The man, woman, or child who had not seen his posters, or heard his name, was counted an ignoramus unworthy of intercourse with human beings.
Princes became familiar with it as their trains bore them to Windsor to luncheon with the Queen; the nobility noticed and commented upon it as they drove about the town; merchants, and business men generally, read it as they made their ways by omnibus or underground, to their various shops and counting-houses; street boys called each other by it as a nickname; music hall artistes introduced it into their patter, while it was even rumoured that the Stock Exchange itself had paused in the full flood tide of business to manufacture a riddle on the subject.
That Klimo made his profession pay him well was certain, first from the fact that his advertisements must have cost a good round sum, and, second, because he had taken a mansion in Belverton Street, Park Lane, next door to Porchester House, where, to the dismay of that aristocratic neighbourhood, he advertised that he was prepared to receive and be
consulted by his clients. The invitation was responded to with alacrity, and from that day forward, between the hours of twelve and two, the pavement upon the north side of the street was lined with carriages, every one containing some person desirous of testing the great man’s skill.
I must here explain that I have narrated all this in order to show the state of affairs existing in Belverton Street and Park Lane when Simon Carne arrived, or was supposed to arrive, in England. If my memory serves me correctly, it was on Wednesday, the 3rd of May, that the Earl of Amberley drove to Victoria to meet and welcome the man whose acquaintance he had made in India under such peculiar circumstances, and under the spell of whose fascination he and his family had fallen so completely.
Reaching the station, his lordship descended from his carriage, and made his way to the platform set apart for the reception of the Continental express. He walked with a jaunty air, and seemed to be on the best of terms with himself and the world in general. How little he suspected the existence of the noose into which he was so innocently running his head!
As if out of compliment to his arrival, the train put in an appearance within a few moments of his reaching the platform. He immediately placed himself in such a position that he could make sure of seeing the man he wanted, and waited patiently until he should come in sight. Carne, however, was not among the first batch; indeed, the majority of passengers had passed before his lordship caught sight of him.
One thing was very certain, however great the crush might have been, it would have been difficult to mistake Carne’s figure. The man’s infirmity and the peculiar beauty of his face rendered him easily recognisable. Possibly, after his long sojourn in India, he found the morning cold, for he wore a long fur coat, the collar of which he had turned up round his ears, thus making a fitting frame for his delicate face. On seeing Lord Amberley he hastened forward to greet him.
“This is most kind and friendly of you,” he said, as he shook the other by the hand. “A fine day and Lord Amberley to meet me. One could scarcely imagine a better welcome.”
As he spoke, one of his Indian servants approached and salaamed before him. He gave him an order, and received an answer in Hindustani, whereupon he turned again to Lord Amberley.
“You may imagine how anxious I am to see my new dwelling,” he said. “My servant tells me that my carriage is here, so may I hope that you will drive back with me and see for yourself how I am likely to be lodged?”
“I shall be delighted,” said Lord Amberley, who was longing for the opportunity, and they accordingly went out into the station yard together to discover a brougham, drawn by two magnificent horses, and with Nur Ali, in all the glory of white raiment and crested turban, on the box, waiting to receive them. His lordship dismissed his Victoria, and when Jowur Singh had taken his place beside his fellow servant upon the box, the carriage rolled out of the station yard in the direction of Hyde Park.
“I trust her ladyship is quite well,” said Simon Carne politely, as they turned into Gloucester Place.
“Excellently well, thank you,” replied his lordship. “She bade me welcome you to England in her name as well as my own, and I was to say that she is looking forward to seeing you.”
“She is most kind, and I shall do myself the honour of calling upon her as soon as circumstances will permit,” answered Carne. “I beg you will convey my best thanks to her for her thought of me.”
While these polite speeches were passing between them they were rapidly approaching a large hoarding, on which was displayed a poster setting forth the name of the now famous detective, Klimo.
Simon Carne, leaning forward, studied it, and when they had passed, turned to his friend again.
“At Victoria and on all the hoardings we meet I see an enormous placard, bearing the word ‘Klimo.’ Pray, what does it mean?”
His lordship laughed.
“You are asking a question which, a month ago, was on the lips of nine out of every ten Londoners. It is only within the last fortnight that we have learned who and what ‘Klimo’ is.”
“And pray what is he?”
“Well, the explanation is very simple. He is neither more nor less than a remarkably astute private detective, who has succeeded in attracting notice in such a way that half London has been induced to patronize him. I have had no dealings with the man myself. But a friend of mine, Lord Orpington, has been the victim of a most audacious burglary, and, the police having failed to solve the mystery, he has called Klimo in. We shall therefore see what he can do before many days are past. But, there, I expect you will soon know more about him than any of us.”
“Indeed! And why?”
“For the simple reason that he has taken No. 1, Belverton Terrace, the house adjoining your own, and sees his clients there.”
Simon Carne pursed up his lips, and appeared to be considering something.
“I trust he will not prove a nuisance,” he said at last. “The agents who found me the house should have acquainted me with the fact. Private detectives, on however large a scale, scarcely strike one as the most desirable of neighbours—particularly for a man who is so fond of quiet as myself.”
At this moment they were approaching their destination. As the carriage passed Belverton Street and pulled up, Lord Amberley pointed to a long line of vehicles standing before the detective’s door.
“You can see for yourself something of the business he does,” he said. “Those are the carriages of his clients, and it is probable that twice as many have arrived on foot.”
“I shall certainly speak to the agent on the subject,” said Carne, with a shadow of annoyance upon his face. “I consider the fact of this man’s being so close to me a serious drawback to the house.”
Jowur Singh here descended from the box and opened the door in order that his master and his guest might alight, while portly Ram Gafur, the butler, came down the steps and salaamed before them with Oriental obsequiousness. Carne greeted his domestics with kindly condescension, and then, accompanied by the ex-Viceroy, entered his new abode.
“I think you may congratulate yourself upon having secured one of the most desirable residences in London,” said his lordship ten minutes or so later, when they had explored the principal rooms.
“I am very glad to hear you say so,” said Carne. “I trust your lordship will remember that you will always be welcome in the house as long as I am its owner.”
“It is very kind of you to say so,” returned Lord Amberley warmly. “I shall look forward to some months of pleasant intercourse. And now I must be going. To-morrow, perhaps, if you have nothing better to do, you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner. Your fame has already gone abroad, and we shall ask one or two nice people to meet you, including my brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Gelpington, Lord and Lady Orpington, and my cousin, the Duchess of Wiltshire, whose interest in china and Indian art, as perhaps you know, is only second to your own.”
“I shall be most glad to come.”
“We may count on seeing you in Eaton Square, then, at eight o’clock?”
“If I am alive you may be sure I shall be there. Must you really go? Then good-bye and many thanks for meeting me.”
His lordship having left the house, Simon Carne went upstairs to his dressing-room, which it was to be noticed he found without inquiry, and rang the electric bell, beside the fireplace, three times. While he was waiting for it to be answered he stood looking out of the window at the long line of carriages in the street below.
“Everything is progressing admirably,” he said to himself. “Amberley does not suspect any more than the world in general. As a proof he asks me to dinner to-morrow evening to meet his brother and sister-in-law, two of his particular friends, and above all Her Grace of Wiltshire. Of course I shall go, and when I bid Her Grace good-bye it will be strange if I am not one step nearer the interest on Liz’s money.”
At this moment the door opened, and his valet, the grave and respectable Belton, entered the room. Carne turned to greet him impatiently.
“Come, come, Belton,” he said, “we must be quick. It is twenty minutes to twelve, and if we don’t hurry, the folk next door will become impatient. Have you succeeded in doing what I spoke to you about last night?”
“I have done everything, sir.”
“I am glad to hear it. Now lock that door and let us get to work. You can let me have your news while I am dressing.”
Opening one side of a massive wardrobe, that completely filled one end of the room, Belton took from it a number of garments. They included a well-worn velvet coat, a baggy pair of trousers—so old that only a notorious pauper or a millionaire could have afforded to wear them—a flannel waistcoat, a Gladstone collar, a soft silk tie, and a pair of embroidered carpet slippers upon which no old clothes man in the most reckless way of business in Petticoat Lane would have advanced a single halfpenny. Into these he assisted his master to change.
“Now give me the wig, and unfasten the straps of this hump,” said Carne, as the other placed the garments just referred to upon a neighbouring chair.
Belton did as he was ordered, and then there happened a thing the like of which no one would have believed. Having unbuckled a strap on either shoulder, and slipped his hand beneath the waistcoat, he withdrew a large papier-maché hump, which he carried away and carefully placed in a drawer of the bureau. Relieved of his burden, Simon Carne stood up as straight and well-made a man as any in Her Majesty’s dominions. The malformation, for which so many, including the Earl and Countess of Amberley, had often pitied him, was nothing but a hoax intended to produce an effect which would permit him additional facilities of disguise.
The hump discarded, and the grey wig fitted carefully to his head in such a manner that not even a pinch of his own curly locks could be seen beneath it, he adorned his cheeks with a pair of crépu-hair whiskers, donned the flannel vest and the velvet coat previously mentioned, slipped his feet into the carpet slippers, placed a pair of smoked glasses upon his nose, and declared himself ready to proceed about his business. The man who would have known him for Simon Carne would have been as astute as, well, shall we say, as the private detective—Klimo himself.