The Golden Face: A Great 'Crook' Romance

Nevertheless, we were a great deal in each other’s company, and had many confidential chats. I loved her, yet somehow I could not be frank and open. How could I without revealing the secret of her father?

One spring afternoon we had been playing tennis and were sitting together in the pretty arbor at the end of the well-kept lawn, both smoking cigarettes after a strenuous game, when suddenly she turned to me, saying:

“Do you know, Mr. Hargreave, I don’t like the look of things at all! Mr. Duperré is not playing a straight game – of that I’m sure!”

“Oh – why?” I asked with affected ignorance.

“I have again overheard something. Yesterday I was just going into the morning-room, the door of which stood ajar, when I heard father warning Duperré of something – I couldn’t quite catch what it was. Only he said that he didn’t approve of such drastic measures, and that ‘the old man might lose his life.’ To that Duperré replied: ‘And if he did, nobody would be any wiser.’ What can it mean?”

“I fear I am just as ignorant as yourself,” I replied, looking the arch-crook’s pretty daughter full in the face.

“Well,” she said, “I know I can trust you, Mr. Hargreave. I have only you in whom I can confide.”

“Yes,” I assured her, bending across to her. “You can trust me implicitly. I, too, am just as puzzled as yourself.”

“I know they have some business schemes together, Madame has often told me so,” went on the girl. “But while I was away at Keswick I purposely got into conversation with an old gentleman named Lloyd at Madame’s suggestion, as she told me our acquaintanceship would be useful to some business scheme of Vincent’s. It appears that he wanted to become acquainted with Mr. Lloyd.”

“And you acted upon her suggestion?” I asked, horrified that she was becoming the decoy of that circle of super-crooks.

“Yes, though it was against my will,” was her reply. “I contrived to allow him to have an opportunity to chat with me, and I afterwards introduced Madame as my companion.”

“And what followed?” I asked eagerly.

“Oh, he was very often with us, and took us for rides in his car all through the Lakes. The hotel was full of smart people, and I think they envied us.”

I was silent for a moment.

“Have you any idea who Mr. Lloyd may be?” I asked.

“No, except that Madame told me that he is immensely rich. A few days later father came over to Keswick and stayed a few days and met him. But the whole affair was most mysterious. I can’t make it out,” declared the girl. “Mr. Duperré never met him after all.”

“We must remain patient and watch,” I urged.

This we did, and very soon there came a strange development of that carefully planned introduction.

One day, on entering Rayne’s study, I found him in conversation with a tall, dark, fashionably dressed foreign woman – Spanish, I believed her to be. As I went in unexpectedly she seemed to have risen and assumed a fierce defiant attitude, while he, seated at his writing-table, was smoking one of his favorite expensive cigars and contemplating her with amusement.

“My dear Madame,” he said, laughing, “pray sit down and let us discuss the matter coolly. I do not wish you to act in any way to jeopardize yourself. I have made certain plans; it is for you and your friends to carry them out. And I know how clever is your friend Louis Larroca. So there is no need for apprehension. Besides, if you trust me, as you have done hitherto, you will find the whole affair works quite easily – and without the least risk to yourselves.”

Next second he realized that I had entered, and turning to me, said quite quietly:

“I’m engaged just now, Hargreave.”

So I was forced to withdraw, full of wonder as to the nature of the latest conspiracy.

I found that a hired car from a garage at Thirsk was awaiting the lady, who, I learned from the young footman, had given her name as Madame Martoz.

A quarter of an hour later she drove away without, so far as I could discern, having seen either Duperré or his wife.

Next day Rayne, whom I drove into York in the new two-seater Vauxhall, told me as we went along that he was having a small house-party on the following Thursday.

“Just a few personal friends,” he added.

I smiled within myself, for I knew the character of the personal friends of “The Golden Face.”

Yet to my surprise, when Thursday came I found assembled half a dozen perfectly honest and respectable men and their wives, and in some cases their daughters. One was a London barrister, another a well-known member of Parliament, a third a rich Leeds manufacturer, while the others were more or less well known, and certainly all of the highest respectability. When Rayne gave a house-party he always did the thing well, and the days passed in a round of well-ordered enjoyment, motoring, golf, tennis and visits to neighbors to the full delight of everyone. In the evening there were dancing and billiards, Duperré being the life and soul of the smart party.

On the fourth day, about twelve o’clock, Lola, who had made friends with Enid Claverton, the barrister’s daughter, who was about the same age as herself, came to me in the garage, and said:

“Mr. Lloyd, whom we met at Keswick, has just arrived. He’s come on a visit. Father told me nothing about it. Did he tell you?”

“Not a word,” I replied, wondering why the person in question had been enticed into the spider’s parlor. No doubt the highly respectable house-party had been invited to form a suitable setting for some secret villainy.

I met the new guest just before luncheon and found him a white-bearded, bald-headed, fresh-complexioned and rather dapper little man, whose merry eyes and easy-going manner marked him as a bon vivant and something after Rayne’s own style.

He greeted me when in the big hall with its long armorial windows, its old family portraits, and the many trophies of the chase that had been secured by the noble family who were previous owners of the Hall. Rayne introduced me as his secretary.

I looked into the smartly dressed old fellow’s blue eyes and wondered what foul plot against him had emanated from the abnormal brain of the arch-criminal who was his host. I smiled when I reflected on the horror of those guests did they but know who Rudolph Rayne really was. But in their ignorance they enjoyed his unbounded hospitality and voted him a real good sort – as outwardly he was.

My time was occupied mostly in driving the Rolls, but when at home I watched narrowly yet was utterly unable to discern why the friendship of Mr. Gordon Lloyd, whose profession or status I failed to discover, had been so cleverly secured and carefully cultivated until he had now become a welcome guest under Rayne’s roof.

There was a sinister design somewhere, but in what direction? Rudolph Rayne never lifted a finger or smiled upon a stranger without some evil intent by which to enrich himself. Usurers in the City have always been clever people backed by capital, but this super-crook had, I learned, risen in a few years from a small bookmaker in Balham to control the biggest combine of Thiefdom ever known in the annals of our time.

One day I drove Mr. Lloyd with Lola and a Mrs. Charlesworth, one of the guests, into Ripon to see the cathedral. We had inspected the fine transepts, the choir and the famous Saxon crypt – of which there is only one other in England – and had gone to the old Unicorn to tea.

We had sat down when, chancing to glance around, I saw, to my surprise, seated in a corner alone, the handsome Madame Martoz, who had had that confidential interview with Lola’s father some days before. Our recognition was mutual, I saw, for she lowered her dark eyes and busied herself with the teapot before her. Yet I noticed that with covert glances she was still regarding us with some curiosity.

Ten minutes later a tall, swarthy-faced man with well-trimmed black mustache, a typical Spaniard, lounged in and sat at her table, while she gave him tea. Mr. Lloyd, Lola and Mrs. Charlesworth were busily chatting, but I noted that the Spanish woman whispered some words to her companion which caused him to glance in our direction. Afterwards they both rose and went out.

Later, when we had finished our tea, I went to the office in order to pay – for on such excursions I always paid on Rayne’s behalf – and when doing so, I asked casually:

“Have you a Spanish gentleman staying here – a Mr. Larroca?”

“No, sir,” replied the rather stout, pleasant bookkeeper. “We have a Mr. Bellido, a Spanish gentleman. He’s just gone out with Madame Calleja, who is also Spanish, though they both speak English well.”

I thanked her and rejoined my party. At least I had ascertained the names under which they were known, for Larroca was no doubt the real name of Bellido.

What mischief was intended? It was evident that we had been purposely sent by Rayne to that hotel in Ripon in order that Madame and her accomplice should see us, so that we could be identified again. Certainly it was unnecessary for them to see Lola, Mrs. Charlesworth or myself. We had, I felt convinced, made that excursion in order that old Mr. Lloyd should be seen and known to the mysterious pair.

Two days afterwards our guests dispersed, but Mr. Lloyd, pressed by Madame Duperré, remained behind.

To me he seemed one of those wealthy, rather faddy men whom one encounters sometimes in the best hotels, men who move up and down the country aimlessly during the spring and summer and in winter go abroad for a few months; men with piles of well-battered and be-labelled baggage whose home is always in hotels and whose chief object in life is to dress in the fashion of the younger generation, to be seen everywhere, to give cosy little luncheon and dinner-parties, and be the “fairy” uncle of any pretty girl they may come across.

We have lots of such in England to-day. Ask the chef-de-réception of any of our smartest hotels, and they will reel off the names of half a dozen or so elderly bachelors, widowers or wife-quarrelers with huge incomes who prefer to pass along the line of least resistance in domesticity – the private suite in an up-to-date hotel.

Mr. Gordon Lloyd was one of such, and it seemed that Rudolph Rayne, who now treated me with the greatest intimacy because he saw that he had drawn me so completely into his net, had become his dearest friend.

On the night when the last guest had departed I sat with the pair over the port, after Lola and Madame had left the dinner-table.

“Really,” said the merry old gentleman with his glass of ’74 poised in his hand, “I don’t know whether I shall go back to Colwyn Bay again this winter – or go abroad. I’ve no ties, and I’m getting fed up. I haven’t been abroad since the war.”

“Go abroad, my dear fellow,” said Rayne. “The change would certainly do you good – go somewhere in the south. The Riviera is played out. Why not go to Sicily?”

“I’ve been there,” replied old Mr. Lloyd as he sipped his glass of fine wine.

“Then why not try Italy? Glorious bright weather all through our foggy season – Rome or Florence, for instance?”

“No, I hate Italy.”

“Spain, then? Good hotels in Madrid and Barcelona. In Madrid there is a small circle of English society, good opera, and lots of interesting places to visit by motor,” Rayne suggested, for, as a rapid traveler all over Europe, he knew every Continental city of importance.

The old man was rather struck by the latter suggestion.

“I certainly am rather tired of Bournemouth and Colwyn Bay and Hove in winter,” he admitted. “I’ve never been to Madrid.”

“Then go, my dear fellow. Go by all means. The journey is quite easy. Just the train by day to Paris, and then by sleeping-car on the Sud Express right through to Madrid.”

“Yes. But it’s an awful trouble,” replied the rich old man.

“No trouble at all!” laughed Rayne as he pulled at his cigar. “I don’t like to see you in this rut of hotels. It’s bad for you! It only leads to drinks in the bar till late and bad headaches in the morning. You must buck up and get out of it.”

“Well, I’ll see,” replied the old fellow, and then we all three rose and rejoined the ladies.

Oh, what a farce the whole thing was! I longed – I yearned to yell my disclosures against the man who like an octopus had now placed his tentacles around me. But I saw that it was futile to kick against the pricks. I had only to wait and to watch.

For a whole week things proceeded in good, well-ordered regularity. Mr. Lloyd was our guest and everyone made themselves pleasant towards him. Lola, with whom I had frequent chats in secret, had somehow become disarmed. She no longer suspected her father of any sinister intent, the reason being that he had taken the old man as his dearest and most intimate confidant.

One night after I had beaten old Mr. Lloyd at billiards and he had gone to bed, I passed by the door of the library and saw a streak of light beneath the door.

Therefore, believing that the electric light had been inadvertently left on, I opened the door, when I had a great surprise.

Rayne was seated in an arm-chair chatting with Madame Martoz, while on a settee near the window sat Madame Duperré.

All three started up as I entered, but a word of apology instantly rose to my lips, and Rayne said: “That’s all right, Hargreave. Indeed, I wanted to talk to you. Look here,” he went on, “I want you to go to Madrid after old Mr. Lloyd goes there, as no doubt he will. You’ll stay at the Ritz in the Plaza de Canovas, and ask no questions. I’ll send you instructions – or perhaps Duperré may be with you.”

“When?” I asked in surprise, as it appeared that the rich old gentleman had, after all, arranged to go to Spain.

“In ten days or so. When I tell you. Till then, don’t worry, my dear boy. When I make plans you know that you have only to act.”

“To the detriment of our unsuspecting guest, eh?” I remarked in a low bitter voice.

“That is not polite, George,” he said sharply. “You are our paid servant, and such a remark does not befit you.”

“Whether it does or not, Mr. Rayne, I repeat it,” I said defiantly. “I am not blind to your subtle machinations by which I have become your accomplice.”

He laughed triumphantly in my face.

“You are paid – and well paid for it all. Why should you resent? Are you an idiot?”

“I certainly refuse to be your tool!” I cried furiously.

“You have thrown in your lot with me as one who ventures constantly in big things just as any man who operates on the Stock Exchange. It is good sport. You, George, are a sportsman, as I am. And from one sport we both derive a good deal of fun.”

“And the victim of our fun, as you term it, is to be old Mr. Lloyd!” I remarked, looking him straight in his face.

But he only laughed, and said:

“Don’t be a fool. You are a most excellent fellow, Hargreave, except when you get these little fits of squeamishness.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to roundly refuse to have anything further to do with him and leave the house, but I knew, alas! that now I had stolen the famous ruby in Paris he would have no compunction in giving me over to the police.

And if I, in turn, gave information against him, what could I really prove? Practically nothing! Rayne was always clever enough to preserve himself from any possibility of suspicion. It was that fact which marked him as the most amazing and ingenious crook.

So I was forced to remain silent, and a few minutes later left the room.

On the following Friday Mr. Lloyd left us. Rayne bade him a regretful farewell, after making him promise to return to us for a fortnight when he got back from Spain.

“Probably my secretary, Hargreave, will have to go to Madrid upon business for me. I have some interest in a tramway company at Salamanca. So you may possibly meet.”

“I hope we do, Mr. Hargreave,” said the old gentleman, turning to me warmly. “I shall certainly take your advice and try Madrid for a few weeks.”

“Yes, do. You’ll like it, I’m sure,” his host assured him, and then we drove away.

“When are you going to Spain?” Mr. Lloyd asked me as he sat at my side on our way to Thirsk station.

“I really don’t know,” was my evasive reply. “Mr. Rayne has not yet fixed the date.”

“Well, here’s my address,” he said, handing me a card with his name and “Reform Club” on it. “I wish you’d write me when your journey is fixed and perhaps we might travel together. I’d be most delighted to have you as my companion on the journey.”

I took the card, thanked him, and promised that I would let him know the date of my departure.

CHAPTER X

THE PAINTED ENVELOPE

On my return I told Rayne of the old man’s invitation, whereat he rubbed his hands in warm approval.

“Excellent!” he cried. “You must travel with him and keep an eye upon him – just to see that nobody – well, that nobody molests the poor old fellow,” he laughed grimly.

I saw his meaning, but I was in no way anxious to become the traveling companion of a man who had, without doubt, been marked down as the next victim.

A fact that aroused my curiosity was that all the time Mr. Lloyd had been with us Duperré had been absent – in Brussels, I believe. His identity was evidently being concealed with some distinctly malicious purpose.

I waited with curiosity. Next day Lola, who with her woman’s intuition had scented that something sinister was intended, expressed surprise to me that Mr. Lloyd was going to Spain.

We were walking together across the park beyond the lower gardens on our way to the village.

“Mr. Lloyd told me that he was going to Spain at father’s suggestion,” she said. “It seems to me rather strange that I should have been the means of bringing father and him together. I can’t understand the reason of it all,” she added, evidently much puzzled.

“Perhaps your father has some idea of transacting some lucrative business with him. Remember, he has a lot of financial interests in Spain.”

“Ah! yes,” replied the girl. “Of course. I never thought of that! Father has been to Madrid several times of late.”

I feared to tell her what I suspected of the secret visit of that handsome Spanish woman, or of how we had been observed at the Unicorn at Ripon.

On that same day Duperré returned. He had been abroad, for when I met him at the station I noticed that his luggage bore fresh labels of the Palace Hotel, at Brussels, and some railway destinations. At ten o’clock that night, after Lola had retired to bed, I was called to consult with Rayne and Duperré, who were smoking together in the billiard-room. Duperré had evidently related to him the result of his mysterious journeyings, and Rayne seemed in an unusually good humor.

“Sit down, George, and listen,” he said. “We have a little piece of important business to transact – something that will bring in big money. Duperré will explain.”

Vincent turned, and looking at me through the haze of his cigarette-smoke, said:

“There’s not much to explain, George. You have only to act on Rayne’s instructions. The matter does not concern you as, after all, you’re only a pawn in this merry little game which will do no harm to anyone – ”

“Only to old Lloyd,” I interrupted.

“To his pocket, perhaps,” Duperré laughed.

“Frankly, you mean to rob him, as you have so many others.”

Duperré frowned darkly, and exchanged angry glances with Rayne.

“I think that remark is entirely uncalled for,” Rayne said resentfully. “You have thrown in your lot with us, as I have told you before, and with your eyes wide open have become one of my trusted assistants. As such you will receive my instructions – and act upon them without question. That is your position. And now,” he added, turning to Duperré, “please explain.”

Duperré laid down his cigarette-end in the tray, and said:

“Well, look here, George. What you must do is this. You will write to old Lloyd at the Reform Club to-morrow and tell him that you are leaving for Madrid on Tuesday week upon important business for our friend Rayne. You will suggest that he goes to the Ritz while you go to the Hôtel de la Paix in the Puerta del Sol, as being less expensive. You, as Rayne’s secretary, cannot afford to stay at the Ritz, you understand?”

“Then there is a specific reason why we should not stay at the same hotel, eh?” I asked.

Duperré hesitated, and then nodded.

“I may come out to Spain and join you in a few days after your arrival. At present I don’t exactly know.”

So, though full of resentment, I was compelled to the inevitable. Next day I wrote to the Reform Club, and in reply received a letter appointing to meet me at Charing Cross Station on the following Tuesday week.

Lola became even more inquisitive next day. Whether her father had inadvertently dropped a word in her presence I know not, but she had somehow become aware that I had received orders to travel with Mr. Lloyd to Spain.

What was intended? The “business” upon which I was being sent to Spain was some coup which Rayne’s ever-active brain had carefully conceived. He had used his daughter’s bright and winning manners in order to become friendly with the wealthy and somewhat mysterious old man whom I was to conduct to Spain.

Naturally I was evasive as usually. I loved her, it was true. She was all the world to me. And my love was, I believed, reciprocated, but how could I admit my shameful compact with her father? I was now a thief, having been drawn into that insidious plot which I described in the previous chapter of my reminiscences as a servant to the King of Crookdom.

So we walked pleasantly along to the white-headed old village clockmaker, who was grandson of a well-known man who had fashioned the little grandmother clocks which to-day are so rare – the pet timekeepers of our bewigged ancestors. The name of the old fellow’s grandfather was on the list of famous makers of clocks in the days of George the Third, which you can find in any book upon old clocks.

On our walk back to the Hall we chatted merrily.

“I rather envy you your run out to Madrid,” Lola laughed. “I wish I could go to Spain.”

She was wearing a canary-colored jersey, stout boots, and carried a hefty ash stick, for she was essentially an out-of-door girl, though at night she could put on a short and flimsy dance frock and look the perfection of charm.

I took no notice of her remark, but purposely turned the conversation, and as we strolled back together we discussed a dance which was to be given two nights later by her friends the Fishers at Atherton Towers, about five miles distant.

On the morning appointed I met old Mr. Lloyd, who, to my surprise, had with him his niece, Miss Sylvia Andrews, a smart and pretty dark-haired girl of about twenty-five.

“At the last moment Sylvia wanted to come with me to see Spain,” the old gentleman explained as we sat in the boat-train speeding towards Dover. “I managed yesterday to get an extra sleeping-berth in the Sud Express.”

“I hope you will like Madrid, Miss Andrews,” I said gallantly. “You will find life there very bright and gay – quite an experience.”

“I’m greatly looking forward to it,” she said. “I’ve read all about it, and though I’ve been in France and in Italy quite a lot, I’ve never been in Spain, though I’ve always longed to see it.”

“I propose we break our journey at San Sebastian,” said Mr. Lloyd. “I want to see the place, and the Casino which is making such a bid against the counter-attraction of Monte Carlo. What do you say?”

“I’m quite agreeable,” I replied. “A couple of days’ delay makes no difference to me. As long as I am in Madrid on the sixteenth it will be all right. I have to attend a directors’ meeting on behalf of Mr. Rayne on that day.”

“Good! uncle,” cried the girl. “Then we’ll break our journey at San Sebastian, eh?”

And so it was arranged.

Two days later we stepped from the dusty sleeping-car in which we had traveled from Paris, and soon found ourselves driving around a wide bay with calm sapphire sea and golden sands – the far-famed La Concha.

We remained for two days at that luxurious hotel the Continental, on the Paseo, and visited all the sights, including the Casino, where we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Old Mr. Lloyd was an amusing companion, as I well knew, a man who seemed never tired notwithstanding his advanced age, while his niece was a particularly jolly girl who enjoyed every moment of her life.