A Prince of Swindlers

by Guy Boothby

  “Well, to put the matter in a nutshell, there has been a good deal of small pilfering down at my trainer’s place lately, and I want to get it stopped.”

  “If I were you I should wait till after the race, and then have him down. If one excites public curiosity just now, one never knows what will happen.”

  “I think you are right. Anyhow, I’ll act on your advice. Now what do you say to coming along to the Rooms with me to see how our horses stand in the market? Your presence there would do more than any number of paper denials towards showing the fallacy of this stupid report. Will you come?”

  “With pleasure,” said Carne, and in less than five minutes he was sitting beside the noble Earl in his mail phaeton, driving towards the rooms in question.

  When he got there, he found Lord Calingforth had stated the case very correctly. The report that Knight of Malta had been stolen had been widely circulated, and Carne discovered that the animal was, for the moment, almost a dead letter in the market. The presence of his owner, however, was sufficient to stay the panic, and when he had snapped up two or three long bets, which a few moments before had been going begging, the horse began steadily to rise towards his old position.

  That night, when Belton waited upon his master at bedtime, he found him, if possible, more silent than usual. It was not until his work was well-nigh completed that the other spoke.

  “It’s a strange thing, Belton,” he said, “and you may hardly believe it, but if there were not certain reasons to prevent me from being so magnanimous, I would give this matter up, and let the race be run on its merits. I don’t know that I ever took a scheme in hand with a worse grace. However, as it can’t be helped, I suppose I must go through with it. Is the van prepared?”

  “It is quite ready, sir.”

  “All the furniture arranged as I directed?”

  “It is exactly as you wished, sir. I have attended to it myself.”

  “And what about the man?”

  “I have engaged the young fellow, sir, who assisted me before. I know he’s quick, and I can stake my life that he’s trustworthy.”

  “I am glad to hear it. He will have need to be. Now for my arrangements. I shall make the attempt on Friday morning next, that is to say, two days from now. You and the man you have just mentioned will take the van and horses to Market Stopford, travelling by the goods train which, I have discovered, reaches the town between four and five in the morning. As soon as you are out of the station, you will start straight away along the high road towards Exbridge, reaching the village between five and six. I shall meet you in the road alongside the third milestone on the other side, made up for the part I am to play. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “That will do then. I shall go down to the village to-morrow evening, and you will not hear from me again until you meet me at the place I have named. Good-night.”

  “Good-night, sir.”

  Now, it is a well-known fact that if you wish to excite the anger of the inhabitants of Exbridge village, and more particularly of any member of the Pitman Training Establishment, you have but to ask for information concerning a certain blind beggar who put in an appearance there towards sunset on the Thursday preceding the Derby of 18—, and you will do so. When that mysterious individual first came in sight he was creeping along the dusty high road that winds across the Downs from Market Stopford to Beaton Junction, dolorously quavering a ballad that was intended to be, though few would have recognised it, “The Wearing of the Green.”

  On reaching the stables he tapped along the wall with his stick, until he came to the gate. Then, when he was asked his business by the head lad, who had been called up by one of the stable boys, he stated that he was starving, and, with peculiar arts of his own, induced them to provide him with a meal. For upwards of an hour he remained talking with the lads, and then wended his way down the hill towards the village, where he further managed to induce the rector to permit him to occupy one of his outhouses for the night.

  After tea he went out and sat on the green, but towards eight o’clock he crossed the stream at the ford, and made his way up to a little copse, which ornamented a slight eminence, on the opposite side of the village to that upon which the training stables were situated.

  How he found his way, considering his infirmity, it is difficult to say, but that he did find it was proved by his presence there. It might also have been noticed that when he was once under cover of the bushes, he gave up tapping the earth with his stick, and walked straight enough, and without apparent hesitation, to the stump of a tree, upon which he seated himself.

  For some time he enjoyed the beauty of the evening undisturbed by the presence of any other human being. Then he heard a step behind him, and next moment a smart-looking stable lad parted the bushes and came into view.

  “Hullo,” said the new-comer. “So you managed to get here first?”

  “So I have,” said the old rascal, “and it’s wonderful when you come to think of it, considering my age, and what a poor old blind chap I be. But I’m glad to find ye’ve managed to get away, my lad. Now what have ye got to say for yourself?”

  “I don’t know that I’ve got anything to say,” replied the boy. “But this much is certain, what you want can’t be done.”

  “And a fine young cockerel you are to be sure, to crow so loud that it can’t be done,” said the old fellow, with an evil chuckle. “How do you know it can’t?”

  “Because I don’t see my way,” replied the other. “It’s too dangerous by a long sight. Why, if the Guv’nor was to get wind of what you want me to do, England itself wouldn’t be big enough to hold us both. You don’t know ’im as well as I do.”

  “I know him well enough for all practical purposes,” replied the beggar. “Now, if you’ve got any more objections to raise, be quick about it. If you haven’t, then I’ll talk to you. You haven’t? Very good then. Now, just hold your jaw, open your ears, and listen to what I’ve got to say. What time do you go to exercise to-morrow morning?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “Very good then. You go down on to the Downs, and the Boss sends you off with Vulcanite for a canter. What do you do? Why, you go steadily enough as long as he can see you, but directly you’re round on the other side of the hill you stick in your heels, and nip into the wood that runs along on your right hand, just as if your horse was bolting with you. Once in there, you go through for half a mile until you come to the stream, ford that, and then cut into the next wood, riding as if the devil himself were after you, until you reach the path above Hangman’s Hollow. Do you know the place?”

  “I reckon I ought to.”

  “Well, then, you just make tracks for it. When you get there you’ll find me waiting for you. After that I’ll take over command, and get both you and the horse out of England in such a way that nobody will ever suspect. Then there’ll be five hundred pounds for your trouble, a safe passage with the horse to South America, and another five hundred the day the nag is set ashore. There’s not as much risk as you could take between your finger and thumb, and a lad with a spirit like yours could make a fortune with a thousand pounds on the other side. What have you to say now?”

  “It’s all very well,” replied the lad, “but how am I to know that you’ll play straight with me?”

  “What do you take me for? “said the beggar indignantly, at the same time putting his hand in his coat pocket and producing what looked like a crumpled piece of paper. “If you doubt me, there’s something that may help to convince you. But don’t go showing it around to-night, or you’ll be giving yourself away, and that’ll mean the Stone Jug for you, and ‘Amen’ to all your hopes of a fortune. You’ll do as I wish now, I suppose?”

  “I’ll do it,” said the lad sullenly, as he crumpled the bank-note up and put it in his pocket. “But now I must be off. Since there’s been this fuss ab
out Knight of Malta, the Guv’nor has us all in before eight o’clock, and keeps the horse under lock and key, with the head lad sleeping in the box with him.”

  “Well, good-night to you, and don’t you forget about to-morrow morning; niggle the horse about a bit just to make him impatient like, and drop a hint that he’s a bit fresh. That will make his bolting look more feasible. Don’t leave the track while there’s any one near you, but, as soon as you do, ride like thunder to the place I told you of. I’ll see that they’re put off the scent as to the way you’ve gone.”

  “All right,” said the lad. “I don’t like it, but I suppose I’m in too deep now to draw back. Good-night.”

  “Good-night, and good luck to you.”

  Once he had got rid of the youth, Carne (for it was he) returned by another route to the rector’s out-building, where he laid himself down on the straw, and was soon fast asleep. His slumbers lasted till nearly daybreak, when he rose and made his way across country to the small copse above Hangman’s Hollow, on the road from Exbridge to Beaton Junction. Here he discovered a large van drawn up, apparently laden with furniture both inside and out. The horses were feeding beneath a tree, and a couple of men were eating their breakfast beside them. On seeing Carne, the taller of the pair—a respectable-looking workman, with a big brown beard—rose and touched his hat. The other looked with astonishment at the disreputable beggar standing before them.

  “So you arrived here safely,” said Carne. “If anything you’re a little before your time. Boil me a cup of tea, and give me something to eat as quickly as possible, for I am nearly famished. When you have done that, get out the clothes I told you to bring with you, and let me change into them. It wouldn’t do for any of the people from the village back yonder to be able to say afterwards that they saw me talking with you in this rig out.”

  As soon as his hunger was appeased he disappeared into the wood, and dressed himself in his new attire. Another suit of clothes, and an apron such as might be worn by a furniture remover’s foreman, a grey wig, a short grey beard and moustache, and a bowler hat, changed his identity completely; indeed, when his rags had been hidden in the hollow of a tree, it would have been a difficult matter to have traced any resemblance between the respectable-looking workman eating his breakfast and the disreputable beggar of half an hour before.

  It was close upon nine o’clock by this time, and as soon as he realized this Carne gave the order to put the horses to. This done, they turned their attention to the back of the van, and then a strange thing became apparent. Though to all appearances, viewed from the open doors at the end, the inside of this giant receptacle was filled to its utmost holding capacity with chests of drawers, chairs, bedsteads, carpets, and other articles of household furniture, yet by pulling a pair of handles it was possible for two men easily to withdraw what looked like half the contents of the van.

  The poorest observer would then have noticed that in almost every particular these articles were dummies, affixed to a screen, capable of being removed at a moment’s notice. The remainder of the van was fitted after the fashion of a stable, with a manger at the end and a pair of slings dependent from the roof.

  The nervous tension produced by the waiting soon became almost more than the men could bear. Minute after minute went slowly by, and still the eagerly expected horse did not put in an appearance. Then Belton, whom Carne had placed on the look-out, came flying towards them with the report that he could hear a sound of galloping hoofs in the wood. A few seconds later the noise could be plainly heard at the van, and almost before they had time to comment upon it, a magnificent thoroughbred, ridden by the stable boy who had talked to the blind beggar on the previous evening, dashed into view, and pulled up beside the van.

  “Jump off,” cried Carne, catching at the horse’s head, “and remove the saddle. Now be quick with those cloths; we must rub him down or he’ll catch cold.”

  When the horse was comparatively dry he was led into the van, which was to be his stable for the next few hours, and, in spite of his protests, slung in such a fashion that his feet did not touch the floor. This business completed, Carne bade the frightened boy get in with him, and take care that he did not, on any account, neigh.

  After that the mask of furniture was replaced, and the doors closed and locked. The men mounted to their places on the box and roof, and the van continued its journey along the high road towards the Junction. But satisfactory as their attempt had so far proved, the danger was by no means over. Scarcely had they proceeded three miles on their way before Carne distinguished the sound of hoofs upon the road behind him. A moment later a young man, mounted on a well-bred horse, came into view, rode up alongside, and signalled to the driver to stop.

  “What’s the matter?” inquired the latter, as he brought his horses to a standstill. “Have we dropped anything?”

  “Have you seen anything of a boy on a horse?” asked the man, who was so much out of breath that he could scarcely get his words out.

  “What sort of a boy, and what sort of a horse?” asked the man on the van.

  “A youngish boy,” was the reply, “seven stone weight, with sandy hair, on a thoroughbred.”

  “No: we ain’t seen no boy with sandy ’air, ridin’ of a thoroughbred ’orse seven stone weight,” said Carne. “What’s ’e been an’ done?”

  “The horse has bolted with him off the Downs, back yonder,” answered the man. “The Guv’nor has sent us out in all directions to look for him.”

  “Sorry we can’t oblige you,” said the driver as he prepared to start his team again. “Good day to you.”

  “Much obliged,” said the horseman, and, when he had turned off into a side road, the van continued its journey till it reached the railway station. A quarter of an hour later it caught the eleven o’clock goods train and set off for the small seaside town of Barworth, on the south coast, where it was shipped on board a steamer which had arrived that morning from London.

  Once it was safely transferred from the railway truck to the deck, Carne was accosted by a tall, swarthy individual, who, from his importance, seemed to be both the owner and the skipper of the vessel. They went down into the saloon together, and a few moments later an observer, had one been there, might have seen a cheque for a considerable sum of money change hands.

  An hour later the Jessie Branker was steaming out to sea, and a military-looking individual, not at all to be compared with the industrious mechanic, who had shipped the furniture van on board the vessel bound for Spain, stood on the platform of the station waiting for the express train to London. On reaching the metropolis he discovered it surging beneath the weight of a great excitement. The streets re-echoed with the raucous cries of the news-vendors:

  “The Derby favourite stolen—Vulcanite missing from his stable!”

  Next morning an advertisement appeared in every paper of consequence, offering “A reward of Five Hundred Pounds for any information which might lead to the conviction of the person or persons who on the morning of May 28th had stolen, or caused to be stolen, from the Pitman Training Stables, the Derby favourite, Vulcanite, the property of the Right Honourable the Earl of Calingforth.”

  The week following, Knight of Malta, owned by Simon Carne, Esq., of Porchester House, Park Lane, won the Derby by a neck, in a scene of intense excitement. The Mandarin being second, and The Filibuster third. It is a strange fact that to this day not a member of the racing world has been able to solve the mystery surrounding the disappearance of one of the greatest horses that ever set foot on an English racecourse.

  To-day, if Simon Carne thinks of that momentous occasion, when, amid the shouting crowd of Epsom he led his horse back a winner, he smiles softly to himself, and murmurs beneath his breath:

  “Valued at twenty thousand pounds, and beaten in the Derby by a furniture van.”

  CHAPTER 3

  A SERVICE TO THE STATE

 
It was the day following that upon which Simon Carne, presented by the Earl of Amberley, had made his bow before the Heir Apparent at the second levée of the season, that Klimo entered upon one of the most interesting cases which had so far come into his experience. The clock in his consulting room had just struck one when his elderly housekeeper entered, and handed him a card, bearing the name of Mrs. George Jeffreys, 14, Bellamer Street, Bloomsbury. The detective immediately bade his servant admit the visitor, and, almost before he had given the order, the lady in question stood before him.

  She was young, not more than twenty-four at most, a frail wisp of a girl, with light brown hair and eyes that spoke for her nationality as plain as any words. She was neatly, but by no means expensively dressed, and showed evident signs of being oppressed by a weight of trouble. Klimo looked at her, and in that glance took in everything. In spite of the fact that he was reputed to possess a heart as hard as any flint, it was noticeable that his voice, when he spoke to her, was not as gruff as that in which he usually addressed his visitors.

  “Pray sit down,” he said, “and tell me in as few words as possible what it is you desire that I should do for you. Speak as clearly as you can, and, if you want my help, don’t hesitate to tell me everything.”

  The girl sat down as ordered, and immediately commenced her tale.

  “My name is Eileen Jeffreys,” she said. “I am the wife of an English Bank Inspector, and the daughter of Septimus O’Grady, of Chicago, U.S.A.”

  “I shall remember,” replied Klimo. “And how long have you been married?”

  “Two years,” answered the girl. “Two years next September. My husband and I met in America, and then came to England to settle.”