The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Well—for your own sake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this,” said Regnier, with a glance at his silent friend, who still retained his mask, and to whom he had not introduced me. “You’re putting your head into a noose by going about with her. You should avoid her.”

  “Why? She’s most charming.”

  “I admit that. But for your own sake you should exercise the greatest care. I follow the same profession as you and your people do—and I merely warn you,” he said very seriously.

  The man standing by him exclaimed in French—

  “Phew! What an atmosphere!” and removed his velvet mask.

  It was the gay boulevardier whom I had seen on the Jetée Promenade.

  “Why do you warn me?” I inquired, surprised at the reveller’s grave face, so different from what it had been when he had shaken his bells and sung the merry chorus of “La Noire.”

  “Because you’re acting the fool, Ewart,” Regnier replied.

  “I’m merely taking them about on the car.”

  “But how did you first come across them?” he repeated.

  “That’s my own affair, mon cher,” I responded, with a laugh; for I could not quite see why he took such an interest in us both, or why he should have been watching us.

  “Oh, very well,” he answered in a tone of slight annoyance. “Only tell your people to be careful. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. I know her—and you don’t.”

  “Yes,” interposed his companion. “We both know her, Henri, don’t we—to our cost, eh?”

  “She recognised you this evening,” I said.

  “I know. I was amazed to find her here, in Nice—and with the old woman, too!”

  “But who is she? Tell me the truth,” I urged.

  “She’s somebody you ought not to know, Ewart,” replied “The President.”

  “She can do you no good—only harm.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I tell you this much, that I wouldn’t care to run the risk of taking her about as you are doing.”

  “You’re talking in riddles. Why not?” I queried.

  “Because, as I’ve already told you, it’s dangerous—very dangerous.”

  “You mean that she knows who and what we are?”

  “She knows more than you think. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could see her. Would you, Raoul?” he asked his companion.

  “But surely she hasn’t long been out of the schoolroom.”

  “Schoolroom!” echoed Regnier. And both men burst out laughing.

  “Look here, Ewart,” he said, “you’d better get on that demon automobile of yours and run back to your own London. You’re far too innocent to be here, on the Côte d’Azur, in Carnival time.”

  “And yet I fancy I know the Riviera and its ways as well as most men,” I remarked.

  “Well, however much you know, you’re evidently deceived in Pierrette.”

  “She’d deceive the very devil himself,” remarked the man whom my friend had addressed as Raoul. “Did she mention me after I had passed?”

  “No. But she seemed somewhat upset at the encounter.”

  “No doubt,” he laughed. “No doubt. Perhaps she’ll express a sudden desire to return to Paris to-morrow! I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “But tell me, Regnier,” I urged, “why should I drop her?”

  “I suppose Bindo has placed her in your hands, eh? He’s left the Riviera, and left you to look after her!”

  “Well, and what of that? Do you object? We’re not interfering with any of your plans, are we?”

  The pair exchanged glances. In the countenances of both was a curious look, one which aroused my suspicion.

  “Oh, my dear fellow, not at all!” laughed Regnier. “I’m only telling you for your own good.”

  “Then you imply that she might betray us to the police, eh?”

  “No, not that at all.”

  “Well, what?”

  The pair looked at each other a second time, and then Regnier said—

  “Unfortunately, Ewart, you don’t know Pierrette—or her friend.”

  “Friend! Is it a male friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a mystery.”

  “Well,” I declared, “I don’t fear this Mister Mystery. Why should I?”

  “Then I tell you this—if you continue to dance attendance on her as you are doing you’ll one night get a knife in your back. And you wouldn’t be the first fellow who’s received a stab in the dark through acquaintanceship with the pretty Pierrette, I can tell you that!”

  “Then this mysterious person is jealous!” I laughed. “Well, let him be. I find Pierrette amusing, and she adores motoring. Your advice, mon cher Regnier, is well meant, but I don’t see any reason to discard my little charge.”

  “Then you won’t take my advice?” he asked in an irritated tone.

  “Certainly not. I thank you for it, but I repeat that I’m quite well able to look after myself in case of a ‘scrap’—and further, that I don’t fear the jealous lover in the least degree.”

  “Then, if you don’t heed,” he said, “you must take the consequences.”

  And the pair, turning on their heels, walked off without any further words.

  VI

  THE MAN WITH THE LONG NOSE

  The next day, the next, and three other succeeding days, I spent nearly wholly with Pierrette and Madame.

  A telegram I received from Bindo from the Maritime Station at Calais asked if Mademoiselle was still at Beaulieu, and to this I replied in the affirmative to Clifford Street.

  I took the pair up the beautiful Var valley to Puget Theniers, to Grasse and Castellane, and through the Tenda tunnel to Cuneo, in Piedmont—runs which, in that clear, cloudless weather, both of them enjoyed. When alone with my dainty little companion, as I sometimes contrived to be, I made inquiry about her missing father.

  Mention of him brought to her a great sadness. She suddenly grew thoughtful and apprehensive—so much so, indeed, that I felt convinced her story as told to me was the truth.

  Once, when we were seated together outside a little café up at Puget Theniers, I ventured to mention the matter to Madame.

  “Ah! M’sieur Ewart,” exclaimed the old lady, holding up both her hands,“it is extraordinary—very extraordinary! The whole affair is a complete mystery.”

  “But is there no suspicion of foul play? Do not the police, for instance, suspect Monsieur Martin?”

  “Suspect him? Certainly not,” was her quick response. “Why should they?”

  “Well, he has disappeared also, I understand. He is missing, as well as the jewels.”

  “Depend upon it, m’sieur, both gentlemen are victims of some audacious plot. Your London is full of clever thieves.”

  I smiled within myself. Little did Madame dream that she was at that moment talking with a member of the smartest and boldest gang of jewel-thieves who had ever emerged from “the foggy island.”

  “Yes,” I said sympathetically, “there are a good many expert jewel-thieves in the metropolis, and it seems very probable that they knew, by some means, that Monsieur Dumont and his clerk were staying at the Charing Cross Hotel and—” I did not finish my sentence.

  “And—what?” asked Madame.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “It must be left to the police, I think, to solve the mystery.”

  “But they are powerless,” complained Madame. “Monsieur Lepine, in Paris, expressed his utter contempt for your English police methods. And, in the meantime, Monsieur the father of Mademoiselle has disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed him
up.”

  “What I fear is that my dear father is dead,” exclaimed the pretty Pierrette, with tears in her fine eyes. “One reads of such terrible things in the journals.”

  “No, no,” I hastened to reassure her. “I do not think so. If one man alone lay between the thieves and jewels of that value—well, then we might perhaps apprehend such a catastrophe. But there were two—two able-bodied men, who were neither children nor fools. No,” I went on,“my own opinion is that there may be reasons—reasons of which you are entirely unaware—which have led your father to bury himself and his clerk for the present, to reappear later. Men often have secrets, mademoiselle—secrets that they do not tell others—not even their wives or daughters.”

  Mine was a somewhat lame opinion, I knew, but I merely expressed it for want of something better to say.

  “But he would never have kept me in this suspense,” she declared. “He would have sent me word in secret of his safety.”

  “He may have gone on a long sea-voyage, and if so, would be unable. Suppose he has gone to Rio de Janeiro or Buenos Ayres?”

  “But why should he go?” asked the dark-eyed girl. “His affairs are all in order, are they not, madame?”

  “Perfectly,” declared the old woman. “As I was saying last evening to the English gentleman whom we have met in the hotel—what was his name, Pierrette?”

  “Sir Charles Blythe,” replied the other.

  I could not help giving a start at mention of that name.

  Blythe was there—at Beaulieu!

  I think Pierrette must have noticed the change in my countenance, for she asked—

  “Do you happen to know him? He’s a most charming gentleman.”

  “I’ve heard of him, but do not know him personally,” was my response.

  I had last seen Sir Charles in Brussels, three months before; but his reappearance at Beaulieu showed quite plainly that there was more in progress concerning the pretty Pierrette than even I imagined.

  “Then you told Sir Charles Blythe about Monsieur Dumont’s disappearance?” I asked Madame, much interested in this new phase of the affair, and yet at the same time puzzled that Pierrette had apparently not told Bindo about the affair when they met in London.

  “Yes,” answered the queer old lady with the rough voice. “He was most sympathetic and interested. He said that he knew one of the chiefs at your Scot-len Yarde, and that he would write to him.”

  The idea of an old thief like Blythe writing to Scotland Yard was, to me, distinctly amusing.

  Had Bindo sent him to Beaulieu to keep in touch with Pierrette? I wondered. At any rate, I felt that I must contrive to see him in secret and ascertain what really was in progress.

  “Sir Charles has, I believe, great influence with the police,” I remarked, with the idea of furthering my friend’s interests, whatever they were. “No doubt he will write home, and whatever can be done to trace Monsieur Dumont will be done.”

  “He is extremely courteous to us,” Madame said. “A lady in the hotel tells me that he is very well known on the Riviera.”

  “I believe he is. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, he is one of the English members of the Fêtes Committee at Nice.”

  “Well, I only hope that he will carry out his kind promise,” declared Pierrette. “He seems to know everybody. Last night he was taking coffee with the Duchess of Gozzano and her friends, who seem a most exclusive set.”

  She was not mistaken. Blythe certainly had a very wide circle of friends. It was he who idled about the most expensive hotels at Aix, Biarritz, Pau, Rome, or Cairo, and after fixing upon likely jewels displayed by their proud feminine possessors, mostly wives of aristocrats or vulgar financiers, would duly report to Bindo and his friends, and make certain suggestions for obtaining possession of them.

  To the keen observation of the baronet, who moved always in the smartest of cosmopolitan society, were due those robberies of jewels, reports of which one read so constantly in the papers. He was the eye of the little ring of clever adventurers who, with capital at their command, were able to effect coups so daring, so ingenious, and so cleverly devised that even Monsieur Lepine and his department in Paris were from time to time utterly aghast and dumbfounded.

  That night I wrote a note to him, and at eleven o’clock next morning we met in a small café down in La Condamine. It was never judicious for any of our quartette to meet openly, and when on the Riviera we usually used the quiet little place if we wished to consult.

  When the pseudo-baronet lounged in and seated himself at my table, he certainly did not present the appearance of a “crook.” Tall, erect, of peculiarly aristocratic bearing, and dressed in a suit of light flannels and a soft brown felt hat set jauntily on his head, he was the picture of easy affluence. His face was narrow, his eyes sparkling with good humour, and his well-trimmed beard dark, with a few streaks of grey.

  He ordered a “Dubonnet,” and then, finding that we were practically alone, with none to overhear, he asked—

  “Why did you write to me? What do you want?”

  “To know the truth about Pierrette Dumont,” I said. “Madame has been telling me about you. When did you arrive?”

  “The day before yesterday. Bindo sent me out.”

  “What for?”

  “I can’t tell. He never gives reasons. His only instructions were to go to the Bristol, make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle and her chaperon, and create an impression on them.”

  “Well, you’ve done that, if nothing else,” I assured him, laughing. “But the whole affair is such a complete mystery that it certainly is to the interests of all of us if I’m let into the secret. At present I’m working in the dark.”

  “And so am I, my dear fellow,” was Sir Charles’s response. “Bindo met me in the Constitutional, gave me a hundred pounds, and told me to go out at once. So I came.”

  “And when is he returning?”

  “Only he himself knows that. He seems tremendously busy. Henderson is with him. When I left he was just going to Birmingham.”

  “You know who Pierrette is?”

  “Yes. Daughter of old Dumont, the jeweller in the Rue de la Paix. Bindo told me that much. Her father disappeared from the Charing Cross Hotel, as well as his clerk and a bagful of jewellery.”

  “Exactly. I suspect Martin, the clerk, don’t you?”

  He smiled, his eyes fixed upon me.

  “Perhaps,” he remarked vaguely.

  “And you know more about the little affair, Blythe, than you intend to tell me?”

  “Bindo ordered me to say nothing,” was his reply. “You ought surely to know by this time that when he has a big thing on he never talks about it. That is, indeed, the secret of his success.”

  “Yes, but in certain circumstances he ought to let me know what is intended, so that I may be forearmed against treachery.”

  “Treachery!” he echoed. “What do you mean?”

  “What I say. There are other people about here who know Mademoiselle.”

  “Who?”

  “‘The President,’ for one.”

  “What!” he cried, starting up. “Do you mean to say that? Are you sure of it?”

  “Quite. I saw them recognise each other in the Rooms the other afternoon. I afterwards met him alone, and he admitted that he knew her.”

  “Then the affair is far more complicated than I believed,” exclaimed my companion, knitting his brows thoughtfully. “I wonder—”

  “Wonder what?”

  “I wonder if Bindo knows this? Have you told him?”

  “No. It was after he had left.”

  “Then we ought to let him know at once. Where is Regnier staying?”

  “At the Hermitage, as usual.”

  “H’m.”

 
“Anybody with him?”

  “Nobody we know.”

  “Have you spoken to Pierrette?”

  “Yes. But, curiously enough, she denied all knowledge of him.”

  “Ah! Then it is as I suspected!” Blythe said. “We’ll have to be careful—confoundedly careful; otherwise we shall be given away.”

  “By whom?”

  “By our enemies,” was his ambiguous response. “Did Regnier tell you anything about the girl?”

  “He warned me to have nothing whatever to do with her.”

  “Exactly. Just as I thought. It was to his interests to do so. We must wire at once to Bindo.”

  While we were talking, however, a thin, rather well-dressed, long-nosed Frenchman, in a brown suit and grey suede gloves, entered, and sat at a table near. He was not thirty, but about him was the unmistakable air of the bon viveur.

  At his entry we broke off our conversation and spoke of other things. Neither of us desired the presence of a stranger in our vicinity.

  Presently, after the lapse of ten minutes, we paid, rose, and left the café.

  “Who was that fellow?” I asked Sir Charles, as we walked through the narrow street down to the quay.

  “Couldn’t make him out,” was my friend’s reply. “Looks very suspiciously like an agent of police.”

  “That’s just my opinion,” I said anxiously. “We must be careful—very careful.”

  “Yes. We mustn’t meet again unless absolutely necessary. I’m just going up the hill to the post-office to send a cipher message to Bindo. He ought to be here at once. Good-bye.”

  And he turned the corner and left me.

  The sudden appearance of the long-nosed person puzzled me greatly.

  Was it possible that we had fallen beneath the active surveillance of the Sureté?

  VII

  ON DANGEROUS GROUND

  I don’t think that in the whole course of my adventurous career as chauffeur to Count Bindo di Ferraris, alias Mr. Charles Bellingham, I spent such an anxious few days as I did during the week following my meeting with the redoubtable Sir Charles Blythe.