The Count's Chauffeur

From the hall-porter I presently learned that she was a Mrs. Clayton, of St. Mellions Hall, near Peterborough, the widow of a wealthy Oldham cotton-spinner, who generally spent a month at that hotel each year.

“She’s a quaint old girl,” he informed me in confidence. “Thinks no end of herself, and always trying to hang on to some woman with a title, even if she’s only a baronet’s wife. Some ill-natured woman has nicknamed her the Chameleon – because she changes her dresses so often and is so fond of bright colours. But she’s a good old sort,” he added. “Always pretty free with her tips. Her son is here too.”

Whoever or whatever she was, it was evident that Bindo was busily engaged ingratiating himself with her, having previously established a firm friendship with her son, who, by the way, had left Scarborough on the previous day.

I happened to have a friend who was chauffeur to a doctor in Peterborough, therefore I wrote to him that evening, making inquiries regarding St. Mellions and its owner. Three days later a reply came to the effect that the Hall was about ten miles from Peterborough, and one of the finest country seats in Northamptonshire. It had been the property of a well-known earl, who, having become impoverished by gambling, had sold it, together with the great estate, to old Joshua Clayton, the Lancashire millionaire. “She keeps a couple of cars,” my friend concluded. “One is a Humber voiturette, and the other a twenty-four Mercedes. You know her chauffeur – Saunders – from the Napier works.”

Of course I knew Saunders. He was once a very intimate friend of mine, but for the past couple of years I had lost sight of him.

Why, I wondered, was Bindo so intensely interested in the over-dressed old crone? He walked with her constantly on the Spa, or along the Esplanade; he lounged at her side when she sat to watch the parading summer girls and their flirtations, and he idled at coffee with her every evening. After a few days Sir Charles Blythe, alias Sinclair, was introduced. By prearrangement the bogus baronet chanced to be standing by the railings looking over the Spa grounds one morning when Bindo and his companion strolled by. The men saluted each other, and Bindo asked Mrs. Clayton’s leave to introduce his friend. The instant the magic title was spoken the old lady became full of smiles and graces, and the trio walking together passed along in the direction of Holbeck.

Two days later Henderson appeared on the scene quite suddenly. I was walking along Westborough late one evening when somebody accosted me, and, turning, I found it was our friend – whom I believed to be still on the Continent. He was dressed as foppishly as usual, and certainly betrayed no evidence that he was a “crook.”

“Well, Ewart?” he asked. “And how goes things? Who’s this old crone we’ve got in tow? A soft thing, Bindo says.”

I told him all I knew concerning her, and he appeared to be reassured. He had taken a room at the Grand, he told me, and I afterwards found that on the following morning Bindo pretended to discover him at the hotel, and introduced him to the unsuspecting old lady as young Lord Kelham. Mrs. Clayton was delighted at thus extending her acquaintanceship with England’s bluest blood.

That same afternoon the old lady, who seemed to be of a rather sporting turn of mind, expressed a desire to ride upon a racing-car; therefore I brought round the “forty,” and Bindo drove her over to Malton, where we had tea, and a quick run back in the evening. There are no police-traps on the road between Scarborough and York, therefore we were able to put on a move, and the old lady expressed the keenest delight at going so fast. As I sat upon the step at her feet, she seemed constantly alarmed lest I should fall off.

“My own cars never go so quickly,” she declared. “My man drives at snail’s pace.”

“Probably because you have traps in Northamptonshire,” Bindo replied. “There are always lurking constables along the Great North Road and the highways leading into it. But you must let me come and take your driver’s place for a little while. If the cars are worth anything at all, I’ll get the last mile out of them.”

“I only wish you would come and pay me a visit, Mr. Cornforth. I should be so very delighted. Do you shoot?”

“A little,” Bindo answered. “My friend, Sir Charles Sinclair, is said to be one of the best shots in England. But I’m not much of a shot myself.”

“Then can’t you persuade him to come with you?”

“Well, I’ll ask him,” my employer replied. “He has very many engagements, however. He’s so well known – you see.”

“He’ll come if you persuade him, I’m sure,” the old lady said, with what she believed to be a winning smile. “You can drive my Mercedes, and he can shoot. I always have a house-party through September, so you both must join it. I’ll make you as comfortable as I can in my humble house. Paul will be at home.”

“Humble, Mrs. Clayton? Why, I have, years ago, heard St. Mellions spoken of as one of the show-houses of the Midlands.”

“Then you’ve heard an exaggeration, my dear Mr. Cornforth,” was her response, as she laughed lightly. “Remember, I shall expect you, and you can bring your own car if you like. Our roads are fairly good, you’ll find.”

Bindo accepted with profuse thanks, and shot me a glance by which I knew that he had advanced one step further towards the consummation of his secret intentions – whatever they were. Sir Charles would, no doubt, go with us. What, I wondered, was intended?

Three weeks later we arrived one evening at St. Mellions, and found it a magnificent old Tudor mansion, in the centre of a lordly domain, and approached from the high road by a great beech avenue nearly a mile in length. The older wing of the house – part of an ancient Gothic abbey – was ivy-covered, while in front of the place was a great lake, originally the fish-pond of the Carmelite monks.

It wanted an hour before dinner when we arrived, and at sound of our horn nearly a dozen merry men and women of the house-party came forth to greet us.

“They seem a pretty smart crowd,” remarked Bindo under his breath to Sir Charles, seated beside him.

“Yes, but we’ll want all our wits about us,” replied the other. “I hear that the wife of Gilling, the jeweller in Bond Street, is here with her daughter. Suppose her husband takes it into his head to run down here for the week-end – eh?”

“We won’t suppose anything of the sort, my dear fellow. I always hate supposing. It’s a bad habit when you’ve got your living to earn, as we have.”

And with those words he ran along to the main entrance, and pulled up sharply, being greeted by our hostess herself, who, in a cream serge dress, stood upon the steps and shouted us a warm welcome.

My two friends were quickly introduced by Paul to the assembled party, while several of the men came around the car to admire it, one of them questioning me as to its horse-power, its make, and other details, inquiries which showed his ignorance. Round in the garage I found my friend Saunders, and later on he took me over the splendid old place, filled as it was with the relics of the noble but now decadent English family.

My eyes and ears were open everywhere. The house-party, numbering eighteen, consisted mostly of the parvenu set, people who having made money by trade were now attempting to pass as county families. The men possessed for the most part the air of “the City,” and the womenkind were painfully “smart” without the good breeding necessary to carry it off.

After dinner, under the guidance of Saunders, I managed to get a glimpse of the great hall, where the party had assembled for coffee. It was a fine, lofty, oak-panelled old place, once the refectory of the monks, with great Gothic windows of stained glass, antique cabinets, and stands of armour. Against the dark oak, from floor to ceiling, the dresses of the women showed well, and, amid the laughter and chatter, I saw the gay, careless Bindo – a well-set-up, manly figure in his evening clothes – standing beside his hostess, chatting and laughing with her, while Sir Charles was bending over the chair of a pretty, fair-haired girl in turquoise, whom I recognised as the same girl I had seen with Paul at Scarborough. Her name was Ethel Gilling, Saunders said, and told me that young Clayton was, in secret, deeply in love with her. Would her father arrive and put a premature end to our conspiracy? I feared that he might.

Saunders asked me a good deal about my berth and position, and I fancy he envied me. He did not know that I had become a “crook” like my master, but believed me to be a mere chauffeur whose duties took him hither and thither across Europe. No chauffeur can bear private service with a cheap car in a circumscribed area. Every man who drives a motor-car – whether master or servant – longs for wide touring and a high-power car.

Contrary to Bindo’s declaration, he proved to be a very good shot, while Sir Charles provoked the admiration of all the men when, next morning, they went forth in search of birds. That same afternoon Bindo drove the Mercedes containing Mrs. Clayton and three ladies of the party, while I drove one of the men – a Captain Halliday – in our own car, and we all went over to the ruins of Crowland Abbey. Saunders had told me that he had never driven the Mercedes to her full power, as his mistress was so nervous. But, with Bindo driving, the old lady now seemed to want to go faster and faster. Our car was, of course, the more powerful, and ere we had gone ten miles I put on a move, and passed my master with ease, arriving at Crowland fully twenty minutes before him.

It was, however, very apparent that Bindo, the good-looking adventurer, had wormed himself entirely into the Chameleon’s good graces. Both he and Halliday escorted the ladies over the ruins, and after tea at the old-fashioned “George,” we made a quick and enjoyable run home in the sunset by way of Eye, Peterborough, Castor, and Wansford.

The autumn days went by, and, amid such pleasant surroundings, our visit was proving a most merry one. Yet, try how I would, I could not see what Bindo and his friend intended.

The girl in turquoise who flirted so outrageously with young Clayton was, I discovered, also very friendly with Sir Charles. Then I saw that his partiality towards her was with a distinct object – namely, in order to be aware of her father’s movements.

Truly, Bindo and Blythe were past-masters in the art of genteel scoundrelism. Adventurers of the very first water, they seldom, if ever, let me into their secrets until their plans were actually matured. Their reason for this reticence was that they believed I might show the white feather. They could not yet rely upon my audacity or courage.

Within a week Bindo was the most popular man in the house-party, the humorist of the dinner-table, and an expert in practical jokes, of which many were being played, one half the party being pitted against the other half, as is so often the case.

In the servants’ hall we were also having a pretty merry time. Medhurst, the maid of Mrs. Clayton, was a particularly prepossessing young woman, and I had many chats and a few walks with her. From her, at Bindo’s instigation, I learned a good deal regarding her mistress’s habits and tastes, all of which I, in due course, reported to my master. A shrewd girl was Medhurst, however, and I was compelled to exercise a good deal of judicious tact in putting my questions to her.

One evening, however, while sitting alone in the park smoking, just before going to bed, I saw Bindo himself strolling at her side. She was speaking softly, but what about I could not make out. They were in a part of the park into which the guests never went, and it seemed as though she had kept a secret tryst. Not wishing to disturb them, I slipped away unobserved.

Next morning Paul Clayton went up to London in order to see his mother’s solicitors, and that same afternoon, about four o’clock, Mrs. Clayton received a very urgent telegram to come at once, as her lawyers desired some instructions immediately. The message she received evidently caused her very great anxiety, for she took Medhurst, and drove in the Mercedes to Peterborough Station, where she caught the up-express at seven o’clock.

She had apologised to her house-party for her absence, explained the urgency of her presence in London, and promised to be back in time for dinner on the morrow.

She left the Hall at half-past six. At seven Bindo called me out of the servants’ hall and whispered —

“Hold yourself in readiness. Go to my room at nine punctually, and you’ll find on the table half a dozen novels done up in a strap. Just take them carefully, put them in the car, and then get away, first to Northampton to change the body of the car, and then to Parkeston Quay. Wait for me there at the Great Eastern Hotel, in the name of Parker. Take great care of the books. I shall give you other instructions before people presently, but take no notice of them. I’ll join you as soon as it’s safe.”

And with that, he turned upon his heel and left me.

The dressing-gong was just sounding as I walked across to the garage, in order to look through the car and charge the lamps, prior to my night journey. I was wondering what was about to happen. That some coup was to be made that night was very evident. I spent half an hour on the car, and had all in order, when a servant came to say that my master wanted me.

I found Bindo in the hall, laughing gaily with some ladies, prior to going in to dinner.

“Oh, Ewart,” he said, when I entered, cap in hand, “I want you to run the car over to Birmingham to-night, and bring Colonel Fielding here to-morrow. You know where he lives – at Welford Park. He’s expecting you. The roads are all right, so you’ll make good time. You’d better get a couple of outer covers, too, when you’re there. You’ll bring the Colonel back in time for dinner to-morrow – you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, and, bowing, went out, while with the ladies he turned in the direction of the dining-room.

I idled about until the stable clock was just on the point of striking nine, when I made my way by the servants’ staircase to my master’s room. The corridor was in semi-darkness. I rapped, but there being no one there, I entered, switched on the light, and there upon the table found the small pile of new, cloth-bound six-shilling novels, held together with a strap of webbing, such as lawyers use to tie up their papers.

I took them up, switched off the light, and carried them downstairs to the car, which I had previously brought out into the stable-yard. My lamps were already lit, and I was in the act of putting on my frieze coat when Saunders, driving the Mercedes, passed me, going towards the main entrance of the Hall. He had a passenger – a guest from the station, judging from his dress.

As the stranger descended from the car the light over the steps revealed his face. I started. It was the jeweller I had spoken to in Bond Street – the man I had taken for the manager, but who was none other than Mr. Gilling himself!

I saw that all was lost. In a few moments he would come face to face with Bindo!

In an instant, however, I had made up my mind, and, re-entering the house, I made my way quickly through into the large hall. But Gilling was already there, kissing his wife and daughter. I glanced round, but was reassured to see both Bindo and Sir Charles were absentees. Did they know of Gilling’s impending arrival?

I ran up to the rooms of both my friends, but could not find them. In Bindo’s room a dress-coat had been thrown upon the bed. He had changed since I had been up there for the books. Alarmed by the news of the jeweller’s arrival, they had, in all probability, changed hurriedly and slipped away. Therefore I ran down to the car, and, telling Saunders that I was off to Birmingham and should return on the morrow, I ran quietly down the long, dark avenue.

From St. Mellions to Harwich, as the crow flies, is about one hundred and thirty miles. First, however, I went to Northampton, and put the previous body on the car. Then the road I took was by Huntingdon, Cambridge, Halstead, and Colchester – in all, about one hundred and seventy miles. The night was dark, but the roads were in fairly good condition, therefore I went at as high a speed as I dared, full of wonder as to what had really happened.

Bindo’s dress-coat on the bed showed that he had left, therefore I had every hope that he had not been recognised by the jeweller. After I had changed the body at the coachbuilder’s at Northampton, the run to the Essex coast proved an exciting one, for I had one narrow escape at a level crossing. But to give details of the journey would serve no purpose. Suffice it to say that I duly arrived at the Great Eastern Hotel at Parkeston next morning, and registered there in the name of Parker.

Then I waited in patience until, two days later, I received a note from Bindo, and met him at some distance from the hotel. His personal appearance was greatly altered, and he was shabbily dressed as a chauffeur.

“By Jove!” he said, when we were alone, “we’ve had a narrow squeak. We had no idea when Henderson sent that telegram from London calling the old crone up to town that Gilling had been invited. We only heard of his impending arrival at the very moment we were bringing off the coup. Then, instead of remaining there, becoming indignant, and assisting the police, we were compelled to fly, thus giving the whole game away. If we had stayed, Gilling would have recognised us. By Jove! I never had such a tough quarter of an hour in all my life. Blythe has gone up to Scotland, and we shall ship the car across to Hamburg by to-night’s boat from Parkeston. You’ve got those books all right? Don’t lose them.”

“I’ve left them in the car,” I replied.

“Left them in the car!” he cried, glaring at me. “Are you mad?”

“Mad! Why?”

“Go and get them at once and lock them up in your bag. I’ll show you something when we get an opportunity.”

The opportunity came three days later, when we were alone together in a room in Höfer’s Hotel, in the Bahnhofs-Platz, in Hamburg. He took the books from me, undid the buckle, and, to my surprise, showed me that the centres of the popular books had been cleverly cut out, so that they were literally boxes formed by the paper leaves. And each book was filled with splendid jewels!

The haul was a huge one, for several of the diamond ornaments which had been taken from the Chameleon’s safe were of great value. The old lady was passionately fond of jewellery, and spent huge sums with Mr. Gilling. We afterwards discovered that several of the finest pieces we had taken had actually been sent to her on approval by Gilling, so, curiously enough, we had touched his property on a second occasion.

“It was a difficult affair,” Bindo declared. “I had to pretend to make love to Medhurst, or I should never have been able to get a cast of the safe-key. However, we’ve been able to take the best of the old lady’s collection, and they’ll fetch a good price in Amsterdam, or I’m a Dutchman myself. Of course, there’s a big hue-and-cry after us, so we must lie very low over here for a bit. Fancy your leaving those novels kicking about in the car! Somebody might have wanted to read them!”

CHAPTER VI

THE GENTLEMAN FROM LONDON

Months had passed since the affair of the six new novels.

In Hamburg Bindo had left me and gone to see the old Jew in Amsterdam, while I had driven the “forty” south through Lüneburg, Brunswick, and Nordhausen to Erfurt, where, passing as an English gentleman of means, I remained for three weeks at a very comfortable hotel, afterwards moving on to Dresden.

At regular intervals the Count sent me money, but he was, as usual, travelling constantly. I wrote to him to a newspaper-shop in the Tottenham Court Road, reporting my movements and my whereabouts; therefore I knew not from one day to another when I should receive sudden orders to rejoin him.

The London papers had been full of the affair of the six novels, for it was now well known that the person who had abstracted the jewels was the same who had executed such a neat manœuvre at Gilling’s. One or two of the papers actually published leaderettes upon the subject, severely criticising the incompetency of the police in such matters. I have since heard, however, that at Scotland Yard there is a proverb that the wealthier the thief the less chance of his being caught. Bindo and his friends certainly did not lack funds. The various hauls they had made, even since my association with them, must have put many thousands into their pockets.

They were a clever and daring trio. They never met unless absolutely necessary in order to arrange some ingenious piece of trickery, and they could all live weeks at the same hotel without either, by word or sign, betraying previous knowledge of each other. Indeed, Count Bindo di Ferraris was the very acme of well-dressed, well-groomed scoundrelism.

Under the name of Ernest Crawford I was idling away some pleasant weeks at the Europäischer Hof, in the Alstadt, in Dresden, where I had made the acquaintance of a fair-haired Englishman named Upton, and his wife, a fluffy little woman some five years his junior. They had arrived at the hotel about a week after I had taken up my quarters, and as they became friendly I often took them for runs. Upton was the son of a rich Lancashire cotton-spinner, and was, I believe, on his honeymoon. Together we saw the sights of Dresden, the Royal Palace, the Green Vault, the museums and galleries, and had soon grown tired of them all. Therefore, almost daily we went for runs along the Elbe valley, delightful at that season of the vintage.

One evening, while we were sitting at coffee in the lounge and I was chatting with Mrs. Upton, her husband was joined by a friend from London, a tall, rather loud-spoken, broad-shouldered man, with a pair of merry, twinkling eyes and a reddish moustache. He was a motor-expert, I soon discovered, for on the afternoon following his arrival, when I brought the car round to the hotel, he began to examine it critically.

I had invited him to go with us to the Golden Höhe, about six miles distant, and take tea at the restaurant, and he sat at my side as I drove. While passing through the little village of Rächnitz, Mr. Gibbs – for that was his name – suddenly asked —

“What make of car is yours?”

No wonder he asked, for so constantly had its identity been disguised that it nowadays bore about as much resemblance to a Napier as it did to a Panhard. I had always before me the fact that the police were on the look-out for a forty “Napier”; therefore I had managed to disguise it outwardly, although a glance within the “bonnet” would, of course, reveal the truth.

“Oh,” I replied lightly, “it’s quite an unknown make – Bellini, of Turin. I’ve come to the conclusion that small makers can turn out just as good a car as, and perhaps even better than, the larger firms – providing you pay a fair price.”

“I suppose so,” he said rather thoughtfully. “From her general build I took her to be an English Napier.”

“She has the Napier cut,” I remarked. “I think Bellini imitates the English style.”

It was fortunate, I thought, that the “bonnet” was strapped down and locked, for the engines were stamped with their maker’s name.

“You travel about a lot on her, I suppose,” he went on. “It’s a fine car, certainly. Did you come across the Continent?”

“Yes. I’ve been about Europe a good deal,” I answered. “Saves railway fares, you know.” And I laughed.

We were travelling quickly, and, the dust being troublesome, we pulled up, and then, after all four of us goggling, went forward again.

After tea at the Golden Höhe Mr. Gibbs again evinced a keen interest in the car, examining it carefully, and declaring it to be a most excellent one. Then, on the run back, he again turned the conversation to motoring topics, with a strenuous desire, it seemed, to know my most recent movements.

A couple of days passed, and I found Upton’s friend a most congenial companion. Each afternoon we all went out for a run, and each evening, after dining, we went to the theatre.

On the fourth day after Mr. Gibbs’s arrival a messenger brought me a note which, to my surprise, I found to be from Blythe, who directed me to meet him in secret in a certain café in the Grosse Garten at eleven o’clock that night.

Then I knew that something further had been planned.