The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан
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“I am at a loss, gentlemen,” he said, in an excited voice, “to account for this interruption.” He spoke with a tremor, yet with all the politeness to which we were accustomed in the little curate and the Honourable David.
“No nonsense!” Charles exclaimed, in his authoritative way. “We know who you are. We have found you out this time. You are Colonel Clay. If you attempt to resist—take care—I will handcuff you!”
The military gentleman gave a start. “Yes, I am Colonel Clay,” he answered. “On what charge do you arrest me?”
Charles was bursting with wrath. The fellow’s coolness seemed never to desert him. “You are Colonel Clay!” he muttered. “You have the unspeakable effrontery to stand there and admit it?”
“Certainly,” the Colonel answered, growing hot in turn. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of. What do you mean by this conduct? How dare you talk of arresting me?”
Charles laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Come, come, my friend,” he said. “That sort of bluff won’t go down with us. You know very well on what charge I arrest you; and here are the police to give effect to it.”
He called out “Entrez!” The police entered the room. Charles explained as well as he could in most doubtful Parisian what they were next to do. The Colonel drew himself up in an indignant attitude. He turned and addressed them in excellent French.
“I am an officer in the service of her Britannic Majesty,” he said. “On what ground do you venture to interfere with me, messieurs?”
The chief policeman explained. The Colonel turned to Charles. “Your name, sir?” he inquired.
“You know it very well,” Charles answered. “I am Sir Charles Vandrift; and, in spite of your clever disguise, I can instantly recognise you. I know your eyes and ears. I can see the same man who cheated me at Nice, and who insulted me on the island.”
“You Sir Charles Vandrift!” the rogue cried. “No, no, sir, you are a madman!” He looked round at the police. “Take care what you do!” he cried. “This is a raving maniac. I had business just now with Sir Charles Vandrift, who quitted the room as these gentlemen entered. This person is mad, and you, monsieur, I doubt not,” bowing to me, “you are, of course, his keeper.”
“Do not let him deceive you,” I cried to the police, beginning to fear that with his usual incredible cleverness the fellow would even now manage to slip through our fingers. “Arrest him, as you are told. We will take the responsibility.” Though I trembled when I thought of that cheque he held of mine.
The chief of our three policemen came forward and laid his hand on the culprit’s shoulder. “I advise you, M. le Colonel,” he said, in an official voice, “to come with us quietly for the present. Before the juge d’instruction we can enter at length into all these questions.”
The Colonel, very indignant still—and acting the part marvellously—yielded and went along with them.
“Where’s Medhurst?” Charles inquired, glancing round as we reached the door. “I wish he had stopped with us.”
“You are looking for monsieur your friend?” the landlord inquired, with a side bow to the Colonel. “He has gone away in a fiacre. He asked me to give this note to you.”
He handed us a twisted note. Charles opened and read it. “Invaluable man!” he cried. “Just hear what he says, Sey: ‘Having secured Colonel Clay, I am off now again on the track of Mme. Picardet. She was lodging in the same house. She has just driven away; I know to what place; and I am after her to arrest her. In blind haste, Medhurst.’ That’s smartness, if you like. Though, poor little woman, I think he might have left her.”
“Does a Mme. Picardet stop here?” I inquired of the landlord, thinking it possible she might have assumed again the same old alias.
He nodded assent. “Oui, oui, oui,” he answered. “She has just driven off, and monsieur your friend has gone posting after her.”
“Splendid man!” Charles cried. “Marvillier was quite right. He is the prince of detectives!”
We hailed a couple of fiacres, and drove off, in two detachments, to the juge d’instruction. There Colonel Clay continued to brazen it out, and asserted that he was an officer in the Indian Army, home on six months’ leave, and spending some weeks in Paris. He even declared he was known at the Embassy, where he had a cousin an attaché; and he asked that this gentleman should be sent for at once from our Ambassador’s to identify him. The juge d’instruction insisted that this must be done; and Charles waited in very bad humour for the foolish formality. It really seemed as if, after all, when we had actually caught and arrested our man, he was going by some cunning device to escape us.
After a delay of more than an hour, during which Colonel Clay fretted and fumed quite as much as we did, the attaché arrived. To our horror and astonishment, he proceeded to salute the prisoner most affectionately.
“Halloa, Algy!” he cried, grasping his hand; “what’s up? What do these ruffians want with you?”
It began to dawn upon us, then, what Medhurst had meant by “suspecting everybody”: the real Colonel Clay was no common adventurer, but a gentleman of birth and high connections!
The Colonel glared at us. “This fellow declares he’s Sir Charles Vandrift,” he said sulkily. “Though, in fact, there are two of them. And he accuses me of forgery, fraud, and theft, Bertie.”
The attaché stared hard at us. “This is Sir Charles Vandrift,” he replied, after a moment. “I remember hearing him make a speech once at a City dinner. And what charge have you to prefer, Sir Charles, against my cousin?”
“Your cousin?” Charles cried. “This is Colonel Clay, the notorious sharper!”
The attaché smiled a gentlemanly and superior smile. “This is Colonel Clay,” he answered, “of the Bengal Staff Corps.”
It began to strike us there was something wrong somewhere.
“But he has cheated me, all the same,” Charles said—“at Nice two years ago, and many times since; and this very day he has tricked me out of two thousand pounds in French bank-notes, which he has now about him!”
The Colonel was speechless. But the attaché laughed. “What he has done today I don’t know,” he said; “but if it’s as apocryphal as what you say he did two years ago, you’ve a thundering bad case, sir; for he was then in India, and I was out there, visiting him.”
“Where are the two thousand pounds?” Charles cried. “Why, you’ve got them in your hand! You’re holding the envelope!”
The Colonel produced it. “This envelope,” he said, “was left with me by the man with short stiff hair, who came just before you, and who announced himself as Sir Charles Vandrift. He said he was interested in tea in Assam, and wanted me to join the board of directors of some bogus company. These are his papers, I believe,” and he handed them to his cousin.
“Well, I’m glad the notes are safe, anyhow,” Charles murmured, in a tone of relief, beginning to smell a rat. “Will you kindly return them to me?”
The attaché turned out the contents of the envelope. They proved to be prospectuses of bubble companies of the moment, of no importance.
“Medhurst must have put them there,” I cried, “and decamped with the cash.”
Charles gave a groan of horror. “And Medhurst is Colonel Clay!” he exclaimed, clapping his hand to his forehead.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the Colonel interposed. “I have but one personality, and no aliases.”
It took quite half an hour to explain this imbroglio. But as soon as all was explained, in French and English, to the satisfaction of ourselves and the juge d’instruction, the real Colonel shook hands with us in a most forgiving way, and informed us that he had more