by Guy Boothby
“Where so many have failed,” he said to himself, as he wrapped it in the handkerchief again and locked it in his safe, “it is pleasant to be able to congratulate oneself on having succeeded. It is without its equal, and I don’t think I shall be over-stepping the mark if I say that I think when she receives it Liz will be glad she lent me the money.”
Next morning all London was astonished by the news that the famous Wiltshire diamonds had been stolen, and a few hours later Carne learnt from an evening paper that the detectives who had taken up the case, upon the supposed retirement from it of Klimo, were still completely at fault.
That evening he was to entertain several friends to dinner. They included Lord Amberley, Lord Orpington, and a prominent member of the Privy Council. Lord Amberley arrived late, but filled to overflowing with importance. His friends noticed his state, and questioned him.
“Well, gentlemen,” he answered, as he took up a commanding position upon the drawing-room hearthrug, “I am in a position to inform you that Klimo has reported upon the case, and the upshot of it is that the Wiltshire Diamond Mystery is a mystery no longer.”
“What do you mean?” asked the others in a chorus.
“I mean that he sent in his report to Wiltshire this afternoon, as arranged. From what he said the other night, after being alone in the room with the empty jewel case and a magnifying glass for two minutes or so, he was in a position to describe the modus operandi, and, what is more, to put the police on the scent of the burglar.”
“And how was it worked?” asked Carne.
“From the empty house next door,” replied the other. “On the morning of the burglary a man, purporting to be a retired army officer, called with an order to view, got the caretaker out of the way, clambered along to Wiltshire House by means of the parapet outside, reached the room during the time the servants were at breakfast, opened the safe, and abstracted the jewels.”
“But how did Klimo find all this out?” asked Lord Orpington.
“By his own inimitable cleverness,” replied Lord Amberley. “At any rate it has been proved that he was correct. The man did make his way from next door, and the police have since discovered that an individual, answering to the description given, visited a pawnbroker’s shop in the city about an hour later, and stated that he had diamonds to sell.”
“If that is so it turns out to be a very simple mystery after all,” said Lord Orpington as they began their meal.
“Thanks to the ingenuity of the cleverest detective in the world,” remarked Amberley.
“In that case here’s a good health to Klimo,” said the Privy Councillor, raising his glass.
“I will join you in that,” said Simon Carne. “Here’s a very good health to Klimo and his connection with the Duchess of Wiltshire’s diamonds. May he always be equally successful!”
“Hear, hear to that,” replied his guests.
CHAPTER 2
HOW SIMON CARNE WON THE DERBY
It was seven o’clock on one of the brightest mornings of all that year. The scene was Waterloo Station, where the Earl of Amberley, Lord Orpington, and the Marquis of Laverstock were pacing up and down the main line departure platform, gazing anxiously about them. It was evident, from the way they scrutinised every person who approached them, that they were on the look-out for some one. This some one ultimately proved to be Simon Carne, who, when he appeared, greeted them with considerable cordiality, at the same time apologising for his lateness in joining them.
“I think this must be our train,” he said, pointing to the carriages drawn up beside the platform on which they stood. “At any rate, here is my man. By dint of study he has turned himself into a sort of walking Bradshaw, and he will certainly be able to inform us.”
The inimitable Belton deferentially insinuated that his master was right in his conjecture, and then led the way towards a Pullman car, which had been attached to the train for the convenience of Carne and his guests. They took their seats, and a few moments later the train moved slowly out of the station. Carne was in the best of spirits, and the fact that he was taking his friends down to the stables of his trainer, William Bent, in order that they might witness a trial of his candidate for the Derby, seemed to give him the greatest possible pleasure.
On reaching Merford, the little wayside station nearest the village in which the training stables were situated, they discovered a comfortable four-wheeled conveyance drawn up to receive them. The driver touched his hat, and stated that his master was awaiting them on the Downs; this proved to be the case, for when they left the high road and turned on to the soft turf they saw before them a string of thoroughbreds, and the trainer himself mounted upon his well-known white pony, Columbine.
“Good-morning, Bent,” said Carne, as the latter rode up and lifted his hat to himself and friends. “You see we have kept our promise, and are here to witness the trial you said you had arranged for us.”
“I am glad to see you, sir,” Bent replied. “And I only hope that what I am about to show you will prove of service to you. The horse is as fit as mortal hands can make him, and if he don’t do his best for you next week there will be one person surprised in England, and that one will be myself. As you know, sir, the only horse I dread is Vulcanite, and the fact cannot be denied that he’s a real clinker.”
“Well,” said Carne, “when we have seen our animal gallop we shall know better how much trust we are to place in him. For my own part I’m not afraid. Vulcanite, as you say, is a good horse, but, if I’m not mistaken, Knight of Malta is a better. Surely this is he coming towards us.”
“That’s him,” said the trainer, with a fine disregard for grammar. “There’s no mistaking him, is there? And now, if you’d care to stroll across we’ll see them saddle.”
The party accordingly descended from the carriage, and walked across the turf to the spot where the four thoroughbreds were being divested of their sheets. They made a pretty group; but even the most inexperienced critic could scarcely have failed to pick out Knight of Malta as the best among them. He was a tall, shapely bay, with black points, a trifle light of flesh perhaps, but with clean, flat legs, and low, greyhound-like thighs, sure evidence of the enormous propelling power he was known to possess. His head was perfection itself, though a wee bit too lop-eared if anything. Taken altogether, he looked, what he was, thoroughbred every inch of him. The others of the party were Gasometer, Hydrogen, and Young Romeo, the last named being the particular trial horse of the party. It was a favourite boast of the trainer that the last named was so reliable in his habits, his condition, and his pace, that you would not be far wrong if you were to set your watch by him.
“By the way, Bent,” said Carne, as the boys were lifted into their saddles, “what weights are the horses carrying?”
“Well, sir, Young Romeo carries 8st. 9lb.; Gasometer, 7st. 8lb.; Hydrogen, 7st. 1lb.; and the Knight, 9st. 11lb. The distance will be the Epsom course, one mile and a half, and the best horse to win. Now, sir, if you’re ready we’ll get to work.”
He turned to the lad who was to ride Hydrogen.
“Once you are off you will make the running, and bring them along at your best pace to the dip, where Gasometer will, if possible, take it up. After that I leave it to you other boys to make the best race of it you can. You, Blunt,” calling up his head lad, “go down with them to the post, and get them off to as good a start as possible.”
The horses departed, and Simon Carne and his friends accompanied the trainer to a spot where they would see the finish to the best advantage. Five minutes later an ejaculation from Lord Orpington told them that the horses had started. Each man accordingly clapped his glasses to his eyes, and watched the race before them. Faithful to his instructions, the lad on Hydrogen came straight to the front, and led them a cracker until they descended into the slight dip which marked the end of the first half-mile.
Then he retired
to the rear, hopelessly done for, and Gasometer took up the running, with Knight of Malta close alongside him, and Young Romeo only half a length away. As they passed the mile post Young Romeo shot to the front, but it soon became evident he had not come to stay. Good horse as he was, there was a better catching him hand over fist. The pace was all that could be desired, and when Knight of Malta swept past the group, winner of the trial by more than his own length, the congratulations Simon Carne received were as cordial as he could possibly desire.
“What did I tell you, sir?” said Bent, with a smile of satisfaction upon his face. “You see what a good horse he is. There’s no mistake about that.”
“Well, let us hope he will do as well a week hence,” Carne replied simply, as he replaced his glasses in their case.
“Amen to that,” remarked Lord Orpington.
“And now, gentlemen,” said the trainer, “if you will allow me, I will drive you over to my place to breakfast.”
They took their places in the carriage once more, and, Bent having taken the reins, in a few moments they were bowling along the high road towards a neat modern residence standing on a slight eminence on the edge of the Downs. This was the trainer’s own place of abode, the stables containing his many precious charges lying a hundred yards or so to the rear.
They were received on the threshold by the trainer’s wife, who welcomed them most heartily to Merford. The keen air of the Downs had sharpened their appetites, and when they sat down to table they found they were able to do full justice to the excellent fare provided for them. The meal at an end, they inspected the stables, once more carefully examining the Derby candidate, who seemed none the worse for his morning’s exertion, and then Carne left his guests in the big yard to the enjoyment of their cigars, while he accompanied his trainer into the house for a few moments’ chat.
“And now sit down, sir,” said Bent, when they reached his own sanctum, a cosy apartment, half sitting-room and half office, bearing upon its walls innumerable mementoes of circumstances connected with the owner’s lengthy turf experiences. “I hope you are satisfied with what you saw this morning?”
“Perfectly satisfied,” said Carne, “but I should like to hear exactly what you think about the race itself.”
“Well, sir, as you may imagine, I have been thinking a good deal about it lately, and this is the conclusion I have come to. If this were an ordinary year, I should say that we possess out and away the best horse in the race; but we must remember that this is not by any means an ordinary year—there’s Vulcanite, who they tell me is in the very pink of condition, and who has beaten our horse each time they have met; there’s the Mandarin, who won the Two Thousand this week, and who will be certain to come into greater favour as the time shortens, and The Filibuster, who won the Biennial Stakes at the Craven Meeting, a nice enough horse, though I must say I don’t fancy him over much myself.”
“I take it, then, that the only horse you really fear is Vulcanite?”
“That’s so, sir. If he were not in the list, I should feel as certain of seeing you leading your horse back a winner as any man could well be.”
On looking at his watch Carne discovered that it was time for him to rejoin his friends and be off to the railway station if they desired to catch the train which they had arranged should convey them back to town. So bidding the trainer and his wife good-bye, they took their places in the carriage once more, and were driven away.
Arriving at Waterloo, they drove to Lord Orpington’s club to lunch.
“Do you know you’re a very lucky fellow, Carne?” said the Earl of Amberley as they stood on the steps of that institution afterwards, before separating in pursuit of the pleasures of the afternoon. “You have health, wealth, fame, good looks, one of the finest houses in London, and now one of the prospective winners of the Derby. In fact, you only want one thing to make your existence perfect.”
“And what is that?” asked Carne.
“A wife,” replied Lord Amberley. “I wonder the girls have let you escape so long.”
“I am not a marrying man,” said Carne; “how could a fellow like myself, who is here to-day and gone to-morrow, expect any woman to link her lot with his? Do you remember our first meeting?”
“Perfectly,” replied Lord Amberley. “When I close my eyes I can see that beautiful marble palace, set in its frame of blue water, as plainly as if it were but yesterday I breakfasted with you there.”
“That was a very fortunate morning for me,” said the other. “And now here is my cab. I must be off. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” cried his friends, as he went down the steps and entered the vehicle. “Don’t forget to let us know if anything further turns up.”
“I will be sure to do so,” said Simon Carne, and then, as he laid himself back on the soft cushions and was driven by way of Waterloo Place to Piccadilly, he added to himself, “Yes, if I can bring off the little scheme I have in my mind, and one or two others which I am preparing, and can manage to get out of England without any one suspecting that I am the burglar who has outwitted all London, I shall have good cause to say that was a very fortunate day for me when I first met his lordship.”
That evening he dined alone. He seemed pre-occupied, and it was evident that he was disappointed about something. Several times on hearing noises in the street outside he questioned his servants as to the cause. At last, however, when Ram Gafur entered the room carrying a telegram upon a salver, his feelings found vent in a sigh of satisfaction. With eager fingers he broke open the envelope, withdrew the contents, and read the message it contained:
“Seven Stars Music Hall—Whitechapel Road. Ten o’clock.”
There was no signature, but that fact did not seem to trouble him very much. He placed it in his pocket-book, and afterwards continued his meal in better spirits. When the servants had left the room he poured himself out a glass of port, and taking a pencil proceeded to make certain calculations upon the back of an envelope. For nearly ten minutes he occupied himself in this way, then he tore the paper into tiny pieces, replaced his pencil in his pocket, and sipped his wine with a satisfaction that was the outcome of perfected arrangements.
“The public excitement,” he said to himself, not without a small touch of pride, “has as yet scarcely cooled down from the robbery of the famous Wiltshire jewels. Lord Orpington has not as yet discovered the whereabouts of the gold and silver plate which disappeared from his house so mysteriously a week or two ago, while several other people have done their best to catch a gang of burglars who would seem to have set all London at defiance. But if I bring off this new coup, they’ll forget all their grievances in consideration of the latest and greatest scandal. There’ll be scarcely a man in England who won’t have something to say upon the subject. By the way, let me see how he stands in the betting to-night.”
He took a paper from the table in the window, and glanced down the sporting column. Vulcanite was evidently the public’s choice, Knight of Malta being only second favourite, with the Mandarin a strong third.
“What a hubbub there will be when it becomes known,” said Carne, as he placed the paper on the table again. “I shall have to take especial care, or some of the storm may blow back on me. I fancy I can hear the newsboys shouting: ‘Latest news of the turf scandal. The Derby favourite stolen. Vulcanite missing. An attempt made to get at Knight of Malta.’ Why! It will be twenty years before old England will forget the sensation I am about to give her.”
With a grim chuckle at the idea, he went upstairs to his dressing-room and locked the door. It must have been well after nine o’clock when he emerged again, and, clad in a long ulster, left the house in his private hansom. Passing down Park Lane he drove along Piccadilly, then by way of the Haymarket, Strand, Ludgate Hill, and Fenchurch Street to the Whitechapel Road. Reaching the corner of Leman Street, he signalled to his man to stop, and jumped out.
His appearance was now entirely changed. Instead of the deformed, scholar-like figure he usually presented, he now resembled a common-place, farmerish individual, with iron grey hair, a somewhat crafty face, ornamented with bushy eyebrows and a quantity of fluffy whiskers. How he had managed it as he drove along goodness only knows, but that he had effected the change was certain.
Having watched his cab drive away, he strolled along the street until he arrived at a building, the flaring lights of which proclaimed it the Seven Stars Music Hall. He paid his money at the box office, and then walked inside to find a fair-sized building, upon the floor of which were placed possibly a hundred small tables. On the stage at the further end a young lady, boasting a minimum of clothing and a maximum of self-assurance, was explaining, to the dashing accompaniment of the orchestra, the adventures she had experienced “When Billy and me was courting.”
Acting up to his appearance, Carne called for a “two of Scotch cold,” and, having lit a meerschaum pipe which he took from his waistcoat pocket, prepared to make himself at home. As ten o’clock struck he turned his chair a little, in order that he might have a better view of the door, and waited.
Five minutes must have elapsed before his patience was rewarded. Then two men came in together, and immediately he saw them he turned his face in an opposite direction, and seemed to be taking an absorbing interest in what was happening upon the stage.
One of the men who had entered, and whom he had seemed to recognise—a cadaverous-looking individual in a suit of clothes a size too small for him, a velvet waistcoat at least three sizes too large, a check tie, in which was stuck an enormous horseshoe pin composed of palpably imitation diamonds, boasting no shirt as far as could be seen, and wearing upon his head a top hat of a shape that had been fashionable in the early sixties—stopped, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.