Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology/Chapter 4

HE afternoon boat from Kingstown to Holyhead was furnished that day with a bigger complement of passengers than usual. It was the day after the wind-up of Punchestown Races, and a goodly proportion of English sporting visitors were returning. A good many had already gone by the early morning boat; those who had lingered in Dublin until noon were chiefly of the leisured class, to whom a few hours’ difference in travelling is of no importance. I myself, having had business to transact at a country house near Kingstown, had motored out from the Shelbourne Hotel before noon, and I was on the boat when the train from Westland Row came alongside Kingstown Pier. Leaning over the rail, I lazily regarded the passengers bound for England—they were chiefly sporting folk of degree, varying from peers to fashionable jockeys. There were Society leaders, well known at Newmarket and Ascot; bookmakers, whom you would find at Tattersall’s; trainers, who were in evidence on an English racecourse on Wednesday, and at Chantilly or Longchamps the following Sunday; there was also the evidence of that curious, indefinite element which seems to drift wherever horse-racing is going on. And amongst all these people, as they streamed over the gangway and distributed themselves about the steamer, I recognised the tall figure and good-humoured, indolent, slightly-bored face of his Grace the Duke of Craye.

The Duke of Craye, as every one knows who knows him, is something of a character. He is immensely rich, he is an unusually good and popular landlord, he is a statesman and a sportsman, and he communicates the idea of being the laziest and most easy-going man in Europe. He has been known to yawn in the middle of an important speech in the House of Lords, and to nod, if not actually to fall asleep, in the stand at Epsom when one of his own horses was running in the Derby—wherever he is seen, he always looks as if he declined to be hurried or flurried. His imperturbability is celebrated; nothing can ruffle or disturb him, and the probability is that if his man woke him in the middle of the night, with news of an earthquake in Berkeley Square, he would ask to have further information supplied with his morning cup of tea, and go instantly to sleep again.

So far as I could see, the Duke, who was attired in his usual inconspicuous, not to say almost shabby fashion—a suit of tweeds and much-worn overcoat—was unattended. He was carrying a bag or valise, which, from its ancient appearance, had no doubt been in his possession since his schooldays at Eton, and he took it and himself below as soon as he stepped aboard. Folks of much less degree were travelling with great fuss and many servants; the Duke of Craye loved to go about unobtrusively, being, in fact, a great lover of his own personal liberty. He hated the trammels and conventions of high rank, and he was never so happy as when he was down at Craye, and could chat easily and unaffectedly with one of his tenant-farmers. I myself had had some experience of his simple manners, for he had once employed me to get a certain young relative of his out of a scrape, and I had been obliged to interview him personally several times.

In a few minutes after the train from Dublin had come alongside we were off, and as soon as we were clear of the harbour I went down to the saloon for luncheon. And at the foot of the stairway I came face to face with the Duke of Craye, and, for at least once in his life, his Grace looked somewhat disturbed out of his usual phlegmatic condition. In short, he looked as if something had upset him.

The Duke recognised me in the same moment in which I encountered him, and it seemed to me that his expression changed to one of relief. At any rate, he smiled quietly and he held out his hand.

“Ah, Campenhaye!” he said. “This is odd, but I was just thinking of you.”

“I am proud to be remembered in your Grace’s thoughts,” I said.

“Oh, well, I thought of you because something has occurred which made me reflect that you might be useful,” he remarked in his usual off-hand way. “Look here!—have you got a minute to spare?”

“As many as your Grace desires,” I replied.

“Come along here, then—I’ve got a cabin somewhere,” he said. “Not that I want it, or mean to use it, but these people seem to think that a duke must needs have separate accommodation, and be put in a sort of cattle-pen. Here we are—walk in, Campenhaye. Now, look here,” continued his Grace, when we were inside the private cabin and had the door closed on us. “Look here—I’ve been robbed.”

“Robbed?” I exclaimed. “When—where?”

“Just now—since I came on board,” he answered. “In fact, within this last few minutes. An old pocket-book, Campenhaye; but it contains about fifteen hundred pounds in banknotes.”

“Will your Grace give me the details?” I said.

“Details!” he exclaimed. “There aren’t any! When I came aboard, I went into the lavatory along there outside to wash my hands. I took off this overcoat, and hung it on a peg—the pocket-book was in the inside breast-pocket. When I put the overcoat on again—the pocket-book was gone.”

“Are you really sure it was there?” I asked.

“I’m certain it was there,” replied the Duke with some emphasis. “I had it at Westland Row when I took my ticket; I got a ten-pound note out of it then. Just before I got out of the train here at the pier I slipped the ticket inside the elastic band of the pocket-book. I know it was there when I hung my overcoat up, because I saw it protruding above the top of the pocket.”

“And when did your Grace miss it?” I inquired.

“As soon as I left the lavatory,” he answered. “I meant to transfer it then to my coat pocket, and felt for it. But it had gone. Somebody had collared it while I was washing my hands.”

“Were there many others in the lavatory at the time?” I asked. “And would your Grace recognise them again?”

“There were other men in there,” said the Duke reflectively. “Yes, I think there may have been six or seven men in at the time. I don’t know that I could recognise them. I didn’t take any particular notice of them.”

“Has your Grace the numbers of the notes?” I asked.

But his Grace shook his head. No, he had not the numbers of the notes, and he did not remember when he received them. It was his habit, he said, to carry a considerable sum in banknotes.

“There’s a thief on board,” he grumbled. “No doubt, he saw me pull out the pocket-book at Westland Row, and he followed me. It would be the easiest thing in the world to abstract the pocket-book when my back was turned. Of course, it’s my own fault. However, I thought I’d tell you, Campenhaye. And now I’m off to get some lunch. Are you coming?”

“Not until I’ve had a look round,” I replied. “I shall see your Grace later in the afternoon.”

While the Duke of Craye lounged off in his usual leisurely fashion in the direction of the dining-saloon, I began an indefinite inspection of the boat. I wanted to make myself acquainted with the folk it carried. It was only too likely that Punchestown Races, and the gaieties attendant upon that classic event, should attract some of the light-fingered gentry, and I felt quite sure that if any one of them had seen the Duke pull out a wad of bank notes in paying for his ticket, a brave attempt to secure that wad would certainly have been made. And obviously it had been made, and successfully made, and the thief must be on board.

I, naturally, had something of an acquaintanceship with some of the best known of the swell crooks of London, and I wanted to see if I could recognise any of them amongst my fellow-passengers. I might, and I might not; I probably should not, but I was going to attempt it. And, as luck would have it, I had no sooner set foot on deck than I met Barney Flint.

Now, Barney Flint was a gentleman who had a history, a deeply interesting history, which was well known to me. In his younger days Barney had been associated with, and the leading spirit of, a particularly smart gang of London sharpers, who accomplished some very clever deeds, and managed to keep clear of the police. Master Barney—who, needless to say, was not known by that name in those days—was remarkably adroit; but, like all very clever people, he went a little too far in his cleverness, and at last he was laid by the heels. He received a smart sentence, and when he had duly served it he was a changed man.

Some said Barney had been converted, but the fact was that Barney had had time to reflect and to weigh things up. He changed his name and he changed his profession; he blossomed out as a bookmaker. What is more, he quickly became known as a straight man. And at the time of which I am writing Barney Flint had several years of straight conduct behind him, and the naughtiness of his youth were matters of the past. But some people knew of them, and I was one of those people.

Barney knew me and I knew him, and we understood each other. He regarded me with an observant eye as I approached him where he stood in a quiet place, smoking a cigar. He was a little, clean-shaven, sharp-eyed fellow, who was generally taken for a music-hall artist.

“Hallo, Mr. Campenhaye!” said he. “How are you, sir?”

“Hungry, Barney,” I replied, “hungry. But I want a word with you before I lunch. Look here now; I’ve done you more than one good turn, do me one.”

“Anything you like,” said he. “Give it a name.”

“The Duke of Craye is on board,” said I.

“I saw his Grace ten minutes since,” said Barney.

“And he has been robbed,” I continued.

Barney nodded, and flicked the ash off his cigar.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” he observed calmly. “I saw his Grace take his ticket at Westland Row Station, and he pulled out a lot of notes, and handled them as if they were tissue paper. Somebody’s spotted that, and followed him.”

“Just so,” said I. “You haven’t seen any gentlemen of fortune about—eh, Barney?”

Barney shook his head, which was in a white hat.

“Well, and I have not, Mr. Campenhaye,” he answered. “No, I haven’t seen a single one. That is, one that I know. But, lord love you, sir, there’s plenty that I don’t know! Why, I’ve been robbed myself before to-day! Oh, yes!”

“Well, keep your eyes open, Barney, will you?” I said. “And if you see anybody, just put me up to it, eh?”

“All right, Mr. Campenhaye,” replied Barney. “I’ll just stroll about, finish this cigar, and go downstairs for lunch. See you later.”

I left Barney and continued my own peregrinations. A quarter of an hour afterwards I entered the saloon. Most of the passengers had already satisfied their hunger and were clearing out, and there was now plenty of room. The Duke of Craye sat munching cheese and celery at a far table. He caught sight of me, and beckoned me to a seat at his side.

“I’ve recognised one of the men who was in the lavatory when I was washing my hands, Campenhaye,” he said, when the steward had taken my order and we were alone. “There he is—the man in the corner over there, the dark man in the Homburg hat.”

I looked across the saloon in the direction indicated, and immediately recognised a man in whom I was just then much interested, whom, in fact, I had been over to Ireland to see. He was a Captain Mardyke, who had a small patrimony on the edge of the Wicklow Mountains and a comfortable flat in Mayfair, and the London flat saw a good deal more of him than the Irish demesne did. I had called on him at Ballinaphoca just before noon that very day, and had spent half an hour with him, and he had given me no indication of his intention of proceeding to England there and then.

Yet here he was on the same boat as myself, lunching away with all the ease in the world, in spite of the fact that he had gone through a pretty bad time with me. For I had had business relations with Captain Mardyke, and they were not of a pleasant sort—at any rate, so far as he was concerned.

“Yes, I remember seeing that man,” repeated the Duke. “I remember his uncommonly dark complexion.”

“Oh, I know that gentleman!” I answered carelessly. “He’s a sort of Irish squireen—a Captain Mardyke. He’s on the reserve of officers—used to be in the Wildshire Light Infantry.”

“Well, his is the only face that I have any recollection of,” said the Duke lugubriously. “I don’t suppose I shall ever see those bank-notes again. And I don’t mind much about the bank-notes, Campenhaye; but I’d had that pocket-book ever since I went to school—it was a present from my nurse. Of course, it’s all my own stupid fault; I always was careless.”

I made no answer to this ducal observation. I just then became aware of the entry of little Barney Flint, who, after a look round, took a seat at the next table to that which was occupied by Captain Mardyke and a friend to whom he was chatting. And Barney summoned a steward with a flick of his finger, and, whatever his thoughts may have been, became apparently absorbed in the question of lunch.

The Duke presently drank off the last mouthful of the bottled ale which he had been consuming, and remarking that he was going to smoke a pipe on deck, went off in his heavy, leisurely way. As for me, I took my time over my lunch and, having nothing else to do, amused myself by watching Captain Mardyke, concerning whom I had indulged certain theories since my interview with him that morning. He had finished his lunch by that time, and he was giving some instructions to a steward which seemed to amuse the man who sat by him. The steward went away—ten minutes later he came back with a small square parcel, which he handed to Mardyke, who, regarding his companion with a smile, bestowed it in the pocket of a light raincoat which lay on the seat at his side. Then the two rose and left the saloon.

Presently, I, too, left. In going, I went up to Barney Flint’s table and leaned over it. Barney spoke before I could say a word:

“You’re going through to Euston, of course?” he said. “Now, I might want to see you on the train, Mr. Campenhaye. Be in the first-class dining car at eight o’clock. Understand?”

I did not quite understand, but I nodded assent.

We were a good way past the Kish lightship when I went on deck again; the Wicklow Mountains, on the one hand, and the Hill of Howth, on the other, were fading in the grey distance, and the wind, having been steadily freshening all the morning, the sea was beginning to get decidedly choppy. There were, accordingly, few people on deck, for most had gone to lie down in their cabins and berths. I saw nothing of the Duke of Craye, but behind one of the awnings which the sailors had put up, Captain Mardyke and his companion were comfortably ensconced, smoking cigars. I sought out a similar refuge for myself, and, leaning back in a deck-chair, prepared to take things easily until we ran into Holyhead Harbour. And as I sat there, I thought over the business which had brought me to Ireland.

That business, as I have already said, was connected with Captain Mardyke. The fact was that that gallant officer, in addition to being a pretty well-known man about town, was not altogether unconnected with certain fashionable gaming-clubs, the doings at which were not above suspicion, and there was a strong belief in certain quarters that he sometimes played the part of rook to young gentlemen who were gullible enough to figure in the rôle of pigeon. And the real truth as to my business with him was that he held a certain amount of paper which had been signed by a sprig of nobility, who now insisted that he had never had proper value or consideration for it. There is no need to go more fully into that matter here—it is quite another story—but a great deal that was very serious depended upon that paper being recovered from its holder, and I had been sent over to Ireland to endeavour to recover it at a reasonable figure. And I had seen Captain Mardyke that very morning, and I had failed to effect any settlement with him. He was adamant.

Now, I had made it my business to find out all that I could about Mardyke, and I was astonished that he did not close with the really generous offer which I had been empowered to make him by the foolish young gentleman’s friends. I knew that Mardyke’s little estate in Wicklow was mortgaged to the value of the last penny, and that there was imminent danger of the mortgagees foreclosing; I also knew that he was in debt in London. The sum which I had been instructed to offer him in cash was a considerable sum—at any rate, to a man who was being hard pressed for ready money—and I wondered that he did not take it. It was quite true that, if he liked to hold out, he would doubtless get the full value of the papers which he held, but he would not get it for at least three years, whereas, if he had closed with my offer, I was empowered to pay him there and then. His firmness had made me think that there must be somebody behind him—probably some firm of London moneylenders. At any rate, he had been impervious to the cheque which I had shown him, filled up and signed. He wanted his full pound of flesh.

We were nearing Holyhead, and I was gazing at the Anglesey coast line, when Captain Mardyke suddenly approached and dropped into a chair next to mine.

“A word with you, Mr. Campenhaye,” he said. “I have changed my mind somewhat since we conversed this morning. I then told you that I would not take a penny less than eighteen thousand.”

“And I told you,” I said, “that my clients will not go beyond ten thousand.”

“Quite so,” said he. “But, as I said, I have changed my mind. I am willing to meet you.”

“Will you take ten thousand?” I suggested.

“Not at all!” he answered sharply. “I said I am willing to meet you. We must both concede something. I will take fourteen thousand—cash.”

“In other words,” said I, “you want to split the difference?”

“Just so,” said he, “that’s only fair. You go up—I come down. Quite a fair proposition.”

“It’s one that I can’t agree to, Captain Mardyke,” said I. “I have already told you that my powers do not go beyond ten thousand pounds. If you’ll take it, the cheque’s in my pocket-book.”

“No,” he answered, “fourteen thousand. I’ll give your clients until ten o’clock on the day after to-morrow; if they won’t agree to my terms by that time, I shall let it be known in other quarters—you know what I mean, Mr. Campenhaye—that I hold this paper, and how it was got. That’s my price—fourteen thousand.”

I made no answer, and he rose, turned on his heel and went away. The boat ran into the smooth water of Holyhead Harbour.

The train which was to carry us to Euston was one of unusual length, because of the unwonted number of passengers, and there was a good deal of bustle and confusion amongst people scurrying about to get comfortable seats. I was engineering my way to the neighbourhood of the first-class dining saloon when I felt a hand on my arm, and turned to meet the Duke of Craye, who was lugging his weather-beaten valise along. Amidst all the noise and bustle he was as cool, as imperturbable, and as bored-looking as ever.

“Come with me, Campenhaye,” he said. “I’ve got a reserved compartment somewhere, and I daresay it will be big enough for two. Seen or heard anything?” he continued, when we had found the compartment and settled ourselves. “I expect not, eh? Don’t see how you could.”

We were alone, and the Duke was a man of the strictest honour and the sternest rectitude. I told him of my meeting with Barney Flint, and of that gentleman’s cryptic remarks to me just after lunch on the boat. The Duke woke out of his usual half-somnolent state and betrayed an interest that was very nearly keen. His eyes lighted up and almost sparkled.

“That’s interesting—and amusing!” he said. “Illustrates the wisdom of the old adage, ‘Set a,’ you know.”

“Mr. Flint, however, is now a highly respectable gentleman,” I remarked. “He has gone very straight indeed since his first unfortunate—accident.”

“Won’t have forgotten his ancient wisdom all the same,” said his Grace with a chuckle. “You think he had some motive in his head, Campenhaye?”

“I don’t think Barney Flint would give me mysterious messages for nothing,” I answered. “He has probably seen somebody or noticed something; he is an uncommonly keen-eyed and very observant little man.”

“It would be good fun to have one’s property restored in that way,” mused the Duke. “Quite an original way, I think.”

Then he picked up a sporting magazine and began to read, while I turned to the English newspapers, and presently we set off on our long run to London.

Nothing happened until nearly eight o’clock, when the Duke awoke from one of his characteristic naps and suggested that we should dine. We accordingly repaired to the table which he had reserved, and we had only just taken our places at it when I became aware that, at a little distance, another table was occupied by Barney Flint, Captain Mardyke, and the man with whom I had seen Mardyke on the boat. They were all evidently on good terms with each other, and were laughing and talking joyously.

Barney Flint took no notice of me. The three men were dining in advance of the Duke and myself; they were busied, indeed, with coffee and liqueurs when we were consuming our soup. Presently they all left the restaurant-car together. But a moment or two later Barney Flint came strolling back, went to the table which he had just left, as if he were looking for something, and returning up the aisle of the car, slipped a folded note into my hand. Without a word or look he was gone.

The transfer of the bit of paper from Barney’s hand to mine had been so quickly and quietly made that my companion had not seen it. And while he was busied with his roast mutton, I smoothed out the note on my knee, and made myself acquainted with its contents. It was well that I have accustomed myself at not showing surprise at anything, for the little bookmaker’s communication was startling.


 * “I know where those notes are,” Barney Flint had scribbled on what was obviously a leaf torn out of an account-book, “and I’m keeping an eye on them. When you and the great man have dined, stroll along to the second car behind the restaurant. You’ll find me in a first-class with the two men you saw me with just now, playing cards. I’ll ask you in. After that you must take your cue from me.”

I read this message twice, and then, with an explanatory word as to how I had come by it, passed it across the table to the Duke. When he had mastered its contents, he glanced eagerly at me.

“Of course we’ll go?” he said. “It promises—an adventure.”

“It might be an unpleasant one,” I observed. “I don’t know whether your Grace ought”

“Oh, nonsense, Campenhaye!” he broke in quickly. “I’m going. The note has excited my curiosity.”

I took the note from him and tore it into infinitesimal fragments.

“Very well,” I said. “As your Grace pleases. I have no doubt that Barney Flint will provide us with entertainment. But if what I am beginning to suspect proves right, we may have a lively five minutes—even in the circumscribed quarter of an express railway train.”

The Duke of Craye did not suffer Barney’s communication to hurry him. He sipped his coffee and his liqueur at his usual rate of doing anything—slowly. He gave me a cigar out of his own case, and began to smoke one himself as if he meant to make it last an hour. But at length he pulled his big frame out of his seat.

“Well, shall we stroll along?” he remarked nonchalantly. “May as well. You go first, Campenhaye.”

I led the way along the dimly-lighted corridors, swaying to and fro with the motion of the express, which was now running at top speed. There were several men lounging about the corridors, for the train was very full, and the night was warm and close. A great many compartments had been reserved, and the doors of most of them were closed. But the door of that in which Barney Flint sat with his two companions was open, and as we reached it Barney hailed us with a shout. He was just in the act of dealing out cards upon a patent travelling-table, and he flung down the cards at sight of me.

“Hi, Camp, old sport!” he exclaimed, “come in and take a hand, and bring your friend in, too; I’ll sit quiet for a while.” Then, as we passed in, he started, and his comical face assumed a look of horror. “Blessed if it isn’t the Duke!” he murmured. “Beg pardon for speaking so familiarly, your Grace, but”

“Oh, all right, all right!” said the Duke. “Pleased to meet a friend of Mr. Campenhaye’s. Don’t let me interrupt”

By a swift movement Barney Flint, who was always as agile as a monkey, screwed his way past us, and closed the door of the compartment. At the same moment his hand went up to the rail on which light articles were stowed, and it fell on a raincoat which I recognised as that which I had seen in Captain Mardyke’s possession in the dining-room on the boat; and I also saw Mardyke half rise from his seat, as if to make for Flint. But the Duke and I were between him and Flint—and we were both big men.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Barney Flint, “there’s a little business to be done, and we’d best do it quickly. Mr. Campenhaye, keep your eye on the gentlemen in the corner there. Your Grace lost a pocket-book this morning, I think—with bank-notes in it, I believe, to the tune of fifteen-hundred?”

Barney had firm hold of the raincoat by this time, and Mardyke’s face had grown livid. He sprang to his feet with a snarl, and made as if he would spring at the little bookmaker.

“Drop that coat!” he growled.

Barney drew back. His right hand slid into the outer pocket of the raincoat, and drew out the square parcel which I had seen the steward hand to Mardyke on the boat. It was loosely tied about with white string, and Barney, conscious that the Duke and myself were guarding him, proceeded to untie the string and to unwrap the brown paper.

“Drop nothing, mister!” he retorted coolly. “Now, gentlemen, this innocent-looking little parcel seems to contains the toothsome dainty—a bit dry—known as ham sandwiches. Ham sandwiches are here certainly—a couple of layers of ’em—and between them reposes, a bit greasy, but intact—your Grace’s banknotes!”

I shall never forget the silence which followed this dramatic exposure—a silence which seemed to have a fitting accompaniment in the monotonous, steady rumble of the whirring wheels of the express. The man who had been playing cards with Mardyke and Barney gave Mardyke one searching look, and then turned away from him with contempt. As for Mardyke himself, he seemed to shrivel up in his corner, and his dark face became the colour of wet paste. But he darted one glance at Barney Flint, which, if glances could kill, would have slain that sharp-witted gentleman on the spot.

“Damn you!” he snarled. “I’ll pay you out yet!”

Barney laughed. In the midst of his laughter the Duke spoke, and his voice had lost all its indolence. There was something in it which was very hard and cold and terrible. He fixed Mardyke with one look.

“Well, who are you?” he asked.

Before Mardyke could answer I had drawn the Duke a little aside, and in a few words had told him—more than Mardyke would ever have told. And Mardyke sat in his corner and watched us, and I never saw any wretch in the dock, waiting to hear his doom, tremble as he trembled when the Duke at last turned to him.

“Ah!” said the Duke. “Well, I think we can deal with this matter here. Now you, sir—first of all you will hand over to Mr. Campenhaye all those papers and signatures he wants of you, and you will accept whatever Lord Sheddlecombe’s guardians think proper to give you. Do that at once.”

Mardyke, white to the very lips, pulled out some papers from a despatch-box and handed them to me. I looked them over, and signified to the Duke that they were correct. The Duke turned to the culprit again.

“Very good,” said he. “I know Lord Sheddlecombe’s guardians, and I shall advise them to give you just what you are legally entitled to—which is very little. Now for myself, I shall not give you in charge to-night, but first thing to-morrow morning you will resign your commission. If you have not done that by noon to-morrow, you had better blow out your brains!”

Then he stalked out of the compartment, and I followed him, and Barney Flint picked up his small impedimenta and followed me. And the other man followed Barney, and Mardyke was left alone.

His Grace the Duke of Craye never spoke until, we reached Euston, and there he bade me good-night. But before he stepped into his motor-brougham he took Barney Flint aside and talked earnestly to him. When the Duke had gone, Barney came up to me.

“Blessed if I ever knew such a rum ’un as his Grace is!” said Barney. “Look here! He forced me to take five hundred of that oof—wouldn’t hear of no denial. And what do you think’s troubling him, Mr. Campenhaye?”

“Well?” I asked.

“The loss of that old pocket-book, which Mardyke, no doubt, threw away when he planked the notes in that packet of sandwiches,” replied Barney. “Says his old nurse gave it to him when he was a nipper. Lord, what a sentimental world this is!”