The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан
think that was where she was staying. She said that after making the appointment with my father she was compelled to go away to Scotland, and could not keep it until the morning of the day on which he disappeared. My father, accompanied by Monsieur Martin, called upon her and showed her the gems. One diamond tiara she liked, but it was far too expensive; therefore she decided to have nothing, declaring that she could buy the same thing cheaper in London. The jewels were repacked in the bag, and taken away. That appears to be the last seen of them. Four hours later my father left the Hotel Charing Cross alone, got into a cab, drove away, and nobody has seen him since. Monsieur Boullanger is still in London making inquiries.”
“And now, mademoiselle, permit me to ask you a question,” I said, looking straight at her. “How came you to be acquainted with Mr. Bellingham?”
Her countenance changed instantly. Her well-marked brows contracted slightly, and I saw that she had some mysterious reason for not replying to my inquiry.
“I—I don’t think I need satisfy you on that point, m’sieur,” she replied at last, with a slight hauteur, as though her dignity were offended.
“Pardon me,” I said quickly, “I meant to offer you no offence, mademoiselle. You naturally are in distress regarding the unaccountable disappearance of your father, and when one mentions jewels thoughts of foul play always arise in one’s mind. The avariciousness of man, and his unscrupulousness where either money or jewels are concerned, are well known even to you, at your age. I thought, however, you were confiding in me, and I wondered how you, in active search of your father as you are, could have met my employer, Mr. Bellingham.”
“I met him in London, I have already told you.”
“How long ago?”
“Three weeks.”
“Ah! Then you have been in London since the supposed robbery?” I exclaimed. “I had not gathered that fact.”
Her face fell. She saw, to her annoyance, that she had been forced into making an admission which she hoped to evade.
I now saw distinctly that there was some deep plot in progress, and recognised that in all probability my pretty little friend was in peril.
She, the daughter of the missing jeweller of the Rue de la Paix, had been entrapped, and I was carrying her into the hands of her enemies!
Since my association with Bindo and his friends I had, I admit, become as unscrupulous as they were. Before my engagement as the Count’s chauffeur I think I was just as honest as the average man ever is; but there is an old adage which says that you can’t touch pitch without being besmirched, and in my case it was, I suppose, only too true. I had come to regard their ingenious plots and adventures with interest and attention, and marvelled at the extraordinary resource and cunning with which they misled and deceived their victims, and obtained by various ways and means those bright little stones which, in regular consignments, made their way to the dark little den of the crafty old Goomans in the Kerk Straat at Amsterdam, and were exchanged for bundles of negotiable bank-notes.
The police of Europe knew that for the past two years there had been actively at work a gang of the cleverest jewel-thieves ever known, yet the combined astuteness of Scotland Yard with that of the Paris Sureté and the Pubblica Sicurezza of Italy had never suspected the smart, well-dressed, good-looking Charlie Bellingham, who lived in such ease and comfort in Clifford Street, and whose wide circle of intimate friends at country houses included at least two members of the present Cabinet.
The very women who lost their jewels so unaccountably—wives of wealthy peers or City magnates—were most of them Charlie Bellingham’s “pals,” and on more than one occasion it was Charlie himself who gave information to the police and who interviewed thirsty detectives and inquisitive reporters.
The men who worked with him were only his assistants, shrewd clever fellows each of them, but lacking either initiative or tact. He directed them, and they carried out his orders to the letter. His own ever-active brain formulated the plots and devised the plans by which those shining stones passed into their possession, while such a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan was he that he was just as much at home in the Boulevard des Capucines, or the Ringstrasse, as in Piccadilly, or on the Promenade des Anglais.
Yes, Count Bindo, when with his forty “Napier,” he had engaged me, and I had on that well-remembered afternoon first made the acquaintance of his friends in the smoking-room at the Hotel Cecil, had promised me plenty of driving, with a leaven of adventure.
And surely he had fulfilled his promise!
The long white road, winding like a ribbon through the dark olives, with the white villas of Cannes, the moonlit bay La Croisette, and the islands calm in the glorious night, lay before us.
And beside me, interested and trustful, sat the pretty Pierrette—the victim.
III
IN WHICH THE COUNT IS PUZZLED
My sweet-faced little charge had returned into the back of the car, and was sound asleep nestling beneath her rugs when, about three o’clock in the morning, we dashed through the little village of Cagnes, and ran out upon the long bridge that crosses the broad, rock-strewn river Var, a mile or two from Nice.
My great search-light was shining far ahead, and the echoes of the silent, glorious night were awakened by the roar of the exhaust as we tore along, raising a perfect wall of dust behind us.
Suddenly, on reaching the opposite bank, I saw a man in the shadow waving his arms, and heard a shout. My first impression was that it was one of the gendarmes, who are always on duty at that spot, but next instant, owing to the bend of the road, my search-light fell full upon the person in question, and I was amazed to find it to be none other than the audacious Bindo himself—Bindo in a light dust-coat and a soft white felt hat of that type which is de rigueur each season at Monty among smartly-groomed men.
“Ewart!” he shouted frantically. “Ewart, it’s me! Stop! stop!”
I put the brakes down as hard as I could without skidding, and brought the car up suddenly, while he ran up breathlessly.
“You’re through in good time. I was prepared to wait till daylight,” he said. “Everything all right?”
“Everything. The young lady’s asleep, I think.”
“No, she is not,” came a voice in French from beneath the rugs. “What’s the matter? Who’s that?”
“It’s me, Pierrette,” replied the handsome young adventurer, mounting upon the step and looking within.
“You! Ah! Why—it’s M’sieur Bellingham!” she cried excitedly, raising herself and putting out her hand encased in one of my greasy old fur gloves. “Were you waiting for us?”
“Of course I was. Didn’t I tell you I would?” replied Bindo in French—a language which he spoke with great fluency. “You got my telegram to say that Ewart had started—eh? Well, how has the car been running—and how has Ewart treated you?”
“He has treated me—well, as you say in your English, ‘like a father’!” she laughed merrily; “and, oh! I’ve had such a delightful ride.”
“But you must be cold, little one,” he said, patting her upon the shoulder. “It’s a long run from Paris to Nice, you know.”
“I’m not tired,” she assured him. “I’ve slept quite a lot. And M’sieur Ewart has looked after me, and given me hot bouillon, coffee, eggs, and all sorts of things—even to chocolates!”
“Ah! Ewart is a sad dog with the ladies, I’m afraid,” he said in a reproving tone, glancing at me. “But if you’ll make room for me, and give me a bit of your rug, I’ll go on with you.”
“Of course, my dear friend,” she exclaimed, rising, throwing off the rugs, and settling herself into the opposite corner, “you will come along with us to Monte Carlo. Are those lights over there, on the right, Nice?”
“They