The Golden Face: A Great 'Crook' Romance

I was quite unaware until long afterwards of the deeply laid attempt upon Benton’s life, how the mysterious Dutchman was really a waiter much wanted by the French police for a poisoning affair in Marseilles, and that he had been able, by means best known to Rayne, to obtain temporary employment at the Elgin Rooms on the night of the banquet. It was he who had served the table at which had sat the unsuspicious detective superintendent.

The latter fortunately did not succumb, but he was incapacitated from duty for over twelve months, during which period the inquiries regarding the unknown head of the criminal band were dropped, much to the relief of Rayne and Duperré.

All this, however, was, I saw, preliminary and in preparation for some great coup.

I suppose I had been kicking my heels about Folkestone for perhaps ten days when, without warning, Rayne and Lola arrived with Tracy and a quantity of luggage. No doubt the mysterious Dutchman had returned to the Continent by the fishing-boat in which he had come over to act at Rayne’s orders.

“We are going to the Continent by the morning service the day after to-morrow, George,” Rayne told me. “Tracy leaves to-night. Lola will go with us as far as Paris, where Duperré will meet us, and we go south together.”

And he produced a batch of tickets, among which I saw coupons for reserved compartments in the wagon-lit.

Afterwards he gave some peculiar instructions to Tracy.

“You’ll recollect the map I showed you,” he said. “Crèches is two miles south of Mâcon. At about two kilomètres towards Lyons there is a short bridge over a ravine. That’s the spot. The train passes there at three-eighteen in the morning.”

“I follow you exactly,” replied his stout, bald-headed accomplice. And I was left wondering what was intended.

That evening Tracy left us and crossed to Boulogne, while two days later we went on board the morning cross-Channel steamer, where, to my surprise, we met Mr. and Mrs. Blumenfeld.

The encounter was a most unexpected and pleasant one. The great financier and his wife were on their way to the Riviera, and we were going as far as Cannes.

“I had no idea that you were going south!” laughed Rayne happily as Lola, warmly dressed in furs, stood on deck chatting with Mrs. Blumenfeld and watching the boat casting off from the quay. “It will be most delightful to travel together,” he went on. “Lola stays in Paris and we go on to the Riviera. I suppose you’ve got your sleeping berths from Paris to-night?”

“Yes,” replied the financier, and then on comparing the numbers on the coupons the old man discovered that by a coincidence his berth adjoined the one which had been taken for myself.

We travelled merrily across to Boulogne, the weather being unusually fine, and took our déjeuner together in the wagon-restaurant on the way to Paris. With old Blumenfeld was his faithful valet who looked especially after two battered old leather kitbags, a fact which, I noticed, did not escape Rudolph’s watchful eye.

Arrived at the Gare du Nord, Lola was met by an elderly Englishwoman whom I recollected as having been a guest at Overstow, and after hurried farewells drove away in a car, while we took taxis across to the big hotel at the Gare de Lyon. There we dined, and at half-past eight joined the Marseilles express upon which was a single wagon-lit.

Just as I was about to enter it, Rayne took me by the arm, and walking along the platform out of hearing, whispered:

“Vincent is here. Don’t recognize him. Be alert at three o’clock. I may want you!”

“For what?”

“Wait! We’ve something big in progress, George. Don’t ask any questions,” he said in that blustering impelling manner which he assumed when he was really serious.

Several times in the corridor I met the financier and his wife with their bony-faced valet, and, of course, I made myself polite and engaging to Mrs. Blumenfeld.

While the express roared through its first stage to Moret, I chatted with Rudolph and Blumenfeld after the latter’s wife had retired, and as we sat in the dim light of the corridor of the sleeping-car smoking cigarettes, all seemed absolutely normal.

Suddenly from the end compartment of the car Duperré came forth. As a perfect stranger he apologized in French as he passed us and walked to the little compartment at the end of the car where he ordered a drink from the conductor.

Hence old Mr. Blumenfeld was in ignorance that Vincent had any knowledge of us, or that Signorina Lacava, who was another of the passengers, was our friend. Yet the thin-faced valet who had brought up my early cup of tea when we had stayed at Bradbourne continually hovered about his master.

Later, as the express was tearing on at increased speed, Mr. Blumenfeld retired to his compartment, with his wife sleeping in the adjoining one, and within half an hour Rayne beckoned me into his compartment at the farther end, where we were joined by Duperré.

“I want you to be out in the corridor at three o’clock,” Rayne said to me. “Open the window and sit by it as though you want fresh air. The conductor won’t trouble you as he’ll be put to sleep. After the train leaves Mâcon, Vincent will pass you something. You will watch for three white lights set in a row beside the railway line. Tracy will be down there in waiting. When you see the three lights throw out what Vincent gives to you. Understand?”

I now saw the plot. They had knowledge that old Blumenfeld was travelling with a quantity of negotiable securities which he intended to hand to his agent at Marseilles on his way to Cannes, and they meant to relieve him of them!

“I shall be fast asleep,” Rayne went on, and turning to Duperré, he said: “Here’s the old fellow’s master-key. It opens everything.”

“By Jove!” whispered Vincent. “That was a clever ruse of yours to contrive the old man to faint and then take an impression of the key upon his chain.”

“It was the only way to get possession of it,” Rayne declared with an evil grin. “But both of you know how to act, so I’ll soon retire.”

And a few moments later I went out leaving both men together. The train roared into a long tunnel and then out again across many high embankments and over bridges. Rain was falling in torrents and lashed the windows as we sped due south on our way to Dijon. At last I knew the cause and motive of the old financier’s fainting fit. The reason of our visit to Bradbourne had been in order to obtain an impression of the old fellow’s little master-key which opened all his luggage, his dispatch-boxes, and even the great safes at the office in Old Broad Street.

I hated the part I was forced to play, yet there certainly was an element of danger in it, and in that I delighted. Therefore I partially undressed, turned in, and read the newspaper, anxiously waiting for the hour of three and wondering in what manner Duperré intended to rob the victim. I hoped that no violence would be used.

The minutes crept on slowly as, time after time, I glanced at my watch. In the compartment next to mine the millionaire was sleeping, all unconscious of the insidious plot. The brown-uniformed conductor was asleep – no doubt he had taken a drink with Duperré. Besides, the corridor at each end of the sleeping-saloon was closed and locked.

At last, at five minutes to three, I very cautiously opened my door and stepped into the empty corridor. The train was again in a tunnel, the noise deafening and the atmosphere stifling. As soon as we were out in the open I noiselessly lowered the window and found that we were passing through a mountainous country, for every moment we passed over some rushing torrent or through some narrow ravine.

It was already three o’clock when my nostrils were greeted with a pungent sickly odor of attar of roses, which seemed to be wafted along the corridor. It emanated, I imagined, from one of the compartments occupied by lady travellers.

Of a sudden we ran into the big station at Mâcon, where there was a wait of about five minutes – for the wheels to be tested. Nobody left or entered. All was quite still after the roaring and rocking of the express.

As we waited the odor of roses became much more pronounced, yet I sat at my post by the open window as though wanting fresh air, for the big sleeping-car was very stuffy, the heating apparatus being on. At last we moved out again, and I breathlessly waited for Duperré to hand me something to toss out to Tracy who was ready with the three signal lights beside the line.

The train gathered speed quickly. We had travelled two hundred and seventy miles and now had only a little farther to go. With my eye upon the side of the track, I sat scarce daring to breathe.

The ravine! We were crossing it! I glanced along the corridor. Nobody came in sight.

Next instant I saw three white lights arranged in a row. But we flashed past them!

For some reason, why, I knew not, the plot had failed!

I dared not go to the compartment of either of my companions, so after sitting up a further half-hour I crept back to my sleeping-berth feeling very drowsy, and turning in, slept heavily.

I was awakened by a loud hammering upon my door, and an excited voice outside calling:

“Mr. Hargreave! Mr. Hargreave!”

I opened it in astonishment to find the gray-headed old millionaire in his pajamas.

“I’ve been robbed!” he gasped. “I can’t wake the conductor. He’s been drugged, I believe! What number is Mr. Rayne’s compartment?”

“Number four,” I answered. “But what has been taken?” I asked.

“Bonds that I was taking to my agent in Marseilles – over sixty thousand pounds’ worth! My kitbag has been opened and the dispatch-box has been opened also while I’ve been asleep. The thief has evidently had the conductor’s key or he couldn’t have got into my compartment! The bonds must be still in the possession of one of the passengers,” he added. “Our last stop was at Mâcon and I was awake then.”

Together we woke up Rayne, who at once busied himself in great alarm.

“Possibly the bonds have been thrown from the train to an accomplice,” he suggested, exchanging glances with me.

“No. I’m sure they are still here – in the car. When next we stop I will prevent anyone leaving, and have all the passengers searched. The one thing that puzzles me is how the thief got to work without waking me, as I always place a little electric alarm on my bag when travelling with securities – and secondly, how did he manage to open both the bag and the dispatch-box it contained?”

“Well,” said Rayne. “Don’t let us raise any alarm, but just wait till we get to Lyons. Then we’ll see that nobody alights before we call the police.” Then, turning to me, he said: “You’ll keep one door, Hargreave, and I’ll keep the other, while Mr. Blumenfeld gives information.”

Thus we waited. But I was sorely puzzled as to the whereabouts of the stolen bonds. If Duperré had taken them, how had he got rid of them? That he had done so was quite plain by Rayne’s open attitude.

Presently, in the dawn, we ran slowly into Lyons, whereupon, with Rayne, I mounted guard, allowing no one to leave. Two men wanted to descend to obtain some café au lait, as is customary, and were surprised when prevented.

The commissary of police, with several plain-clothes officers, were quickly upon the spot, and to them Mr. Blumenfeld related his story – declaring that while lying awake he smelt a very strong odor of roses which caused him to become drowsy, and he slept. On awakening he saw that his dispatch-box had been rifled.

When the millionaire explained who he was and the extent of his loss, the commissary was at once upon the alert, and ordered every passenger to be closely searched. In consequence, everyone was turned out and searched, a woman searching the female passengers, Signorina Lacava waxing highly indignant. Rayne, Duperré and myself were also very closely searched, while every nook and cranny of the compartments and baggage were rummaged during the transit of the train from Lyons down to Marseilles. The missing bonds could not be discovered, nor did any suspicion attach to anyone.

I confess myself entirely puzzled as to what had actually occurred. The well-arranged plan to drop them from the train beyond Dijon had failed, I knew, because old Mr. Blumenfeld was still awake; but what alternative plan had been put into action?

It was only when we arrived in Marseilles that the bewildered conductor, a most reliable servant of the wagon-lit company, recovered from his lethargy and could not in the least account for his long heavy sleep. He had, it appeared, smelt the same pleasant perfume of roses as Mr. Blumenfeld. At Marseilles there was still more excitement and inquiry, but at last we moved off to Toulon and along the beautiful Côte d’Azur, with its grey-green olives and glimpses of sapphire sea.

We were passing along by the seashore, when I ventured to slip into Duperré’s compartment, old Blumenfeld and his wife being then in the luncheon-car adjoining.

I inquired in a whisper what had happened.

For answer he crossed to one of the windows and drew down the brown cloth blind used at night, when upon the inside I saw, to my astonishment, some bonds spread out and pinned to the fabric!

He touched the spring, the blind rolled up and they disappeared within.

Each of the four blinds in his compartment contained their valuable documents which, in due course, he removed and placed in his pockets before he stepped out upon the platform at Hyères. He was, of course, an entire stranger to Rudolph and me, and we continued our journey with the victimized millionaire to Cannes, where we were compelled to remain for a week lest our abrupt return should excite anybody’s suspicion. Meanwhile, of course, Duperré was already back in London with the spoils.

In the whole affair Rayne, whose master-brain was responsible for the ingenious coup, remained with clean hands and ready at any moment to prove his own innocence.

The original plan of tossing out the sixty thousand pounds’ worth of bonds to Tracy, who was waiting with his three warning lights, failed because of old Blumenfeld’s sleeplessness, but it was substituted by a far more secretive yet simple plan – one never even dreamed of by the astute police attached to the Paris, Lyons and Mediterranean Railway. It being daylight at Lyons, the blinds were up!

CHAPTER VII

LITTLE LADY LYDBROOK

From the very first I felt that, owing to my passionate love for Lola, I was treading upon very thin ice.

As the cat’s-paw of her father I was being drawn into such subtle devilish schemes that I felt to draw back must only bring upon my head the vengeance, through fear, of a man who was so entirely unscrupulous and so elusive that the police could never trace him.

Why a few weeks later I had been sent to Biarritz with Vincent was an enigma I failed to solve. At any rate, at Rayne’s suggestion, we had gone there and had stayed under assumed names at the Hôtel du Palais, that handsome place standing high upon the rocks with such charming views of the rocky headland of St. Martin and the dozen grey-green islets.

We both lived expensively and enjoyed ourselves at the Casino and elsewhere, but the object of our visit was quite obscure. I knew, however, that Duperré was prospecting new ground, but in what direction I failed to discover. One day we returned to London quite suddenly, but he refused to disclose anything concerning the object of our visit, which, after all, had been for me quite an enjoyable holiday.

About a week after our return Rayne called me into the morning-room. The keen grey-eyed middle-aged man was smoking a cigar and with him was Madame, whose cleverness as a crook was only equalled by that of her husband.

“Well, Hargreave!” exclaimed Rayne. “I hope you had a nice time at Biarritz, eh? Well, I want you to go on a further little holiday down to Eastbourne. Drive the Rolls down to the Grand Hotel there and stay as a gentleman of leisure.”

“I’m always that nowadays,” I laughed.

“Stay there under the name of George Cottingham,” he went on, “and spend rather freely, so as to give yourself a good appearance. You understand?”

“No, I don’t understand,” I said. “At least, I don’t understand what game is to be played.”

“You needn’t, George,” was his short reply. “You are paid not to understand, and to keep your mouth shut. So please recollect that. Now at the hotel,” he went on, “there is staying Lady Lydbrook, wife of the great Sheffield ironmaster. I want you to scrape up acquaintance with her.”

“Why?” I asked.

“For reasons best known to myself,” he snapped. “It’s nice weather just now, and you ought to enjoy yourself at Eastbourne. It’s a smart place for an English resort, and there’s lots going on there. They will think you such a nice sociable young man. Besides, you will spend money and make pretense of being rich. And let me give you a valuable tip. On the first evening you arrive at the hotel call the valet, give him a pound note and tell him to go out and buy a pound bottle of eau-de-Cologne to put in your bath. There’s nothing that gets round an hotel so quickly as wanton extravagance like that. The guests hear of it through the servants, and everyone is impressed by your wealth.”

I laughed. Only a man with such a brain as Rudolph Rayne could have thought of such a ruse to inspire confidence.

Two days later I arrived at the smart south coast hotel. Though not the season, Eastbourne was filled by quite a fashionable crowd. The Grand, situated at the far end of the town towards Beachy Head, is the resort of wealthy Londoners. I arrived alone in the showy Rolls just before luncheon, when many of the visitors were seated in the cane chairs outside or on the glass-covered veranda.

I noticed, too, that the Rolls was well scrutinized, as well as myself. Under my assumed name, I took one of the most expensive rooms, and later, in the big dining-room, the waiter pointed out to me Lady Lydbrook, a young, blue-eyed, fluffy-haired little lady who, exquisitely dressed, was seated in a corner with another young woman about her own age.

They were chatting merrily, quite unconscious of the fact that I was watching them.

Her companion was dark and exceedingly well dressed. I learnt from the waiter that Sir Owen Lydbrook was not with his wife, and that the name of her companion was Miss Elsie Wallis.

“I fancy she’s on the stage, sir,” the man added confidently. “Only I don’t know her stage name. They’ve been ’ere nearly a month. Sir Owen is in Paris, I think. They say ’e’s a lot older than ’er.”

I realized in the cockney waiter a man who might be useful, hence I gave him a substantial tip when I signed the bill for my meal.

Why Rayne had ordered me to contrive to make the acquaintance of the fluffy-haired little woman was a problem that was beyond me, save that I knew full well the motive was, without doubt, an evil one.

It goaded me to frenzy to think that Lola should eventually be called upon in all her innocence to become, like myself, an unwilling agent in the carrying out of Rayne’s subtle and insidious plots.

I was his paid servant, hence against my will I was forced to obey. My ever-present hope was to be able one day to extricate Lola from that atmosphere of criminality and mystery in which she lived, that environment of stealthy plotting and malice aforethought.

On the evening of my arrival there happened to be a dance in the hotel, and watching, I saw Lady Lydbrook enter the ballroom. She looked very charming in a dance frock of bright orange, with a wreath of silver leaves in her hair. Her gown was certainly the most chic of any in the room, and she wore a beautiful rope of pearls.

Presently I summoned courage, and bowing, invited her to dance with me. She smiled with dignity and accepted. Hence we were soon acquaintances, for she danced beautifully, and I am told that I dance fairly well. After the fox-trot we sat down and chatted. I told her that I had only arrived that day.

“I saw you,” she said. “What a topping car you have! Ours is a Rolls but an old pattern. I’m always pressing my husband to get rid of it and buy a new model. But he won’t. Business men are all the same. They tot up figures and weigh the cost of everything,” and she laughed lightly, showing a set of pearly teeth. “They weigh up everything one eats and wears. I hope you’re not a business man?”

“No. I’m not,” I replied with a smile. “If I were I might be a bit richer than I am.”

“Money! Bah!” she exclaimed as she waved the big ostrich feather that served her as fan. “It’s all very well in its way, but some men get stifled with their money-bags, just as Owen is. Their wealth is so great that its very heaviness presses out all their good qualities and only leaves avarice behind.”

“But to have great wealth at one’s command must be a source of great joy. Look how much good one could do!” I said philosophically.

“Good! Yes,” she laughed. “The rich man can be philanthropic – if he is not a business man, Mr. Cottingham. The latter – if he tries to do good to his fellow-creatures – is dubbed a fool in his business circles and invariably comes to grief. At least that is what Owen tells me. He’s double my age, and he ought to know,” added the charming little woman.

I admitted that there was much truth in what she had said. Indeed, we had already grown to be such good friends that, at her invitation, the night being clear and moonlit, we strolled out of the hotel and along the promenade, half-way to the pier, and back.

Her companion, Miss Wallis, I had seen in the ballroom dancing with an elderly man who had “the City” stamped all over him. We chatted upon many subjects as we strolled in the balmy moonlit night.

“I expect my husband back in a day or two. He has been to Warsaw upon some financial business for the Government. When we leave here we go to Trouville for a week or so, and in the autumn I believe we go to America. My husband goes over each year.”

Then I learned from her that they had a town house in Curzon Street, a country place in Berkshire, and a villa at Cannes. They had, it appeared, only recently been married.

“We generally manage to get to Cannes each winter for a month or two. I love the Riviera,” she said. “Do you know it?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I’ve been there once or twice.”

“The Villa Jaumont is out on the road to Nice, on the left. Perhaps if you happen to be there this winter you will call. I shall be most delighted to see you.”

When presently we were back in the hotel and I had gone to my room, I realized that I had made rather good progress. I had ingratiated myself with her, and she had grown very confidential, inasmuch as I was already able to judge that she rather despised her elderly and parsimonious husband, and that she preferred to lead her own untrammelled life.

But what was the real object of my mission?

A few days later I received a scribbled note signed “Rudolph” to say that a friend of his, an Italian named Giulio Ansaldi, was arriving at the hotel and would meet me in strictest secrecy. I was to leave my bedroom door unlocked at midnight, when he would enter unannounced. Enclosed was half one of Duperré’s visiting-cards torn across in a jagged manner.

“Your visitor will present to you the missing half of the enclosed card as credential,” he wrote. “If the two pieces fit, then trust him implicitly and act according to his instructions which he will convey from me.”

I turned over the portion of the torn visiting-card, wondering what fresh instructions I was to receive in such strict secrecy.

I thought of Lola and wondered whether she had returned home from a visit she was paying in Devonshire, and whether, by her watchfulness, she had gained any inkling of the nature of this latest plot.

Little Lady Lydbrook had now become my constant companion. Her friend, Elsie Wallis, had apparently become on friendly terms with a tall, slim, dark-haired young man who often took her out in his car, while on several occasions Lady Lydbrook had accepted my invitation for an afternoon run and tea somewhere. The one fact that I did not like was that a quiet, middle-aged man seemed always to be watching our movements, for whether we chatted together in the lounge, went out motoring, walking on the promenade, or dancing, he always appeared somewhere in the vicinity. But on the day I received Rayne’s note he had paid his bill and left the hotel, a fact by which my mind was much relieved.