The Memoirs Of Constantine Dix/The Change

this time, under circumstances of no particular interest, I secured for myself two days' takings of the Stafford Restaurant in Regent Street and the weeks' wages of the Estville Drug Factory in Northampton. I was also present at a large and fashionable bazaar in South Kensington, and after I had gone it was found that the money received for admission at the doors had gone also. I could not approve of the object of the bazaar—the restoration of a church. It is not so much the churches as the congregations that it is necessary to restore. At the same time, I had no intention of taking this money when I went to the bazaar. I went there, because at such gatherings I frequently pick up information which is afterwards useful. I took the money because the opportunity arose. It has often happened that opportunity has done more for me than the most elaborate and well-matured plan; but one must have great rapidity of mind to see the chance and to avail one's self of it As I have said, these little incidents, though profitable and therefore welcome, were too commonplace for detailed record.

Rather more interesting was the case of the bank messenger. I first came upon it two years before in the morning papers. The messenger, James Gladden by name, was a man of great experience, perfect probity, and remarkable physique. No ordinary man would have cared to tackle him, at any rate with Nature's weapons. He had been sent to the office of a, solicitor in Westminster, to receive a large sum in gold and notes, with which he was to return to the city. He put the money in his bag, which was chained and locked in the usual way, and it was suggested to him that he should take a cab back. Gladden said that he considered the railway safer, quicker, and cheaper; besides he had taken a return ticket. He entered an empty second-class compartment at Westminster Bridge. At the Temple Station a lady opened the door of the carriage, and found Gladden lying senseless on the floor; his bag with the chain attached to it had vanished. Gladden's story, when he recovered consciousness, was plain and simple enough. The train had been stopped outside Charing Cross Station, and Gladden had put his head out of the window to see if he could make out the reason for the stop. As he drew his head back again, it was struck violently from behind and he fell senseless. He never saw his assailant, who must either have been concealed under the seat or have entered the carriage from the other side while Gladden was looking out of the window. Naturally, Gladden was closely questioned and watched, but he was never really suspected. He was, indeed, quite guiltless in the matter, and I cannot even think that he was indiscreet. The bank took the same view, and still employs him.

The affair created a good deal of sensation at the time. One man was arrested on suspicion, but it was clear that he had nothing to do with this particular crime, and he was released. The numbers of the notes had, of course, been taken, and these numbers were published and the notes were stopped. Weeks passed and no attempt was made to present the notes, and public interest in the matter lapsed. The thief, whoever he was, might have got clear away at Charing Cross before the theft was discovered.

The success of the detective depends in stories on his remarkable acumen and his still more remarkable luck. I have analysed some of these stories and found always some thousand-to-one chance favouring the detective. In real life the detective depends less on his own personal brilliance or on thousand-to-one chances than on a well-managed organisation, placing unusual sources of information at his disposal. In the case of the bank messenger Scotland Yard had nothing to go upon, no point from which to start, and was completely at fault. The detectives could put their hands easily on a number of known men who were quite likely to commit a crime of this kind, but there was no evidence to connect any one of them with it.

I also had my sources of information. I have worked long among the criminal classes, and have laboured hard and not without success at the reformation of some of these poor fellows. But it has never been as a servant of the police that I have worked; if the slightest suspicion of "narking" had ever fallen upon me my work would have been ruined. I depend absolutely on their trust and confidence in me. I am not seeking to bring them to human justice but to a mercy more than human. Yes, I can imagine the scorn on my reader's face, the words of contempt that he will hiss at me. Believe me, they are unfair. I have been a man of double life, but each side has been sincere and genuine. I may go further than that, and say that, on the whole, the better side is the more potent, and will last the longer. If you have the patience to read on, you will see what reason I have to say this.

As I have said, I had my sources of information. I talked to one or two men of my acquaintance who had in their time been criminals, and were still likely to hear of any important coup in the criminal world. They had no definite information to give me, but one of them, Alfred Gimbrell, had a theory. Gimbrell was a man of low intelligence and the simplest arithmetical problem would have been beyond him; but he showed a certain amount of cunning in criminal matters.

"That were none of us," said Gimbrell decisively. "It were a ammyture what done that, and he were a lucky 'un." A professional would have had a plan; the assailant clearly had none, for he could not have told that the train would stop just outside Charing Cross, or that, if the train did stop, Gladden would put his head out of the window. A professional would not have taken absurd and unnecessary risks; he would not have changed carriages; he would have committed the robbery just after leaving a station, not when the train was on the point of entering a station and interruption was probable; he would have hit much harder—the injury to Gladden had been very slight—and he would have rolled the senseless body out of sight under the seat.

Such, put in other words, were Gimbrell's arguments, and there was undoubtedly something in them. But a clever criminal is as ready to take advantage of a sudden opportunity as to work on a pre-conceived plan, though he may prefer the plan. There seemed to be no prospect of my finding out any more than the police had done, and after all detective business has no attractions for me. I carefully memorised the numbers of the missing notes—there were six of £100 and one of £50—in case some unprincipled person might attempt to get me to change any of them. Otherwise, I gave the matter no more attention.

An incident now occurred to recall the whole thing to my memory. Shortly after my profitable little adventure at that fashionable bazaar, I determined to take a short holiday. I had had much work in connection with a series of revivalist meetings, and I felt that I had earned a period of luxurious rest. Also, I could very well afford it; quite apart from the money which I had made in other ways, some speculative investments of mine had turned out remarkably well. Indeed, I was in such a position that I could live in fair comfort for the remainder of my days without resorting to those methods of increasing my income which I had hitherto employed. I thought this over, but without any immediate intention of relinquishing these methods. It was not the fascinating excitement of theft or burglary which mastered me; this it is which has often led criminals of great ability to attempt some impossible coup to their undoing. I was influenced in some degree by a desire to make yet more money, and to a still greater degree by fatalism. I saw myself as the winning piece on the board, checkmating time after time the feeble defence of stupid people against relentless and unscrupulous brains, but yet moved by a hand which I was powerless to resist All that I determined at present was to leave England for a period of rest and enjoyment.

A few weeks later I was in the bureau of my hotel at Nice, making some enquiries, when a woman entered whose appearance made some impression upon me. Her age was perhaps twenty-eight, her figure was slight and graceful. She was beautiful, and at a first glance seemed to me to be unhappy; I looked at her again and judged her to be absolutely desperate. Yet when she addressed the clerk it was with perfect composure. She spoke good and fluent French, but was clearly an Englishwoman.

"I want you to take charge of these," she said, handing over a note-case, stamped in gold with the initials G. E. "Please put them in your safe, and give me a receipt for them."

The clerk took out the notes. There were six of them of £100 and one of £50, and wrote down their numbers. He handed her a receipt, and she passed out. She had dropped her handkerchief in drawing the note-case from her muff. I now dropped my own handkerchief and under cover of it picked up hers as well. I had intended to go over to Monte Carlo that morning, but this promised to be more interesting than the tables. I went for a stroll by myself.

The lady had given the name of Miss Endelwode—the clerk had had some difficulty in spelling it—and the number of her room was 127. The notes were those which had been stolen from Gladden, the bank messenger. I had read the numbers at a glance as the clerk wrote them down. It is quite easy to read upside-down writing with a little practice. On my lonely walk I examined the lady's handkerchief. It was of exquisite quality, perfumed with Russian leather, and bore in one corner the initials E. E.

In the case of a man or, indeed, of most women, my course would have been clear enough. I should have practised some veiled and discreet method of blackmail, and made my holiday expenses, and there the matter would have ended. As it was, my judgment was perhaps somewhat warped by my feelings. For instance, I felt a distinct relief that the initials on the handkerchief were not identical with those on the note-case. On my return to the hotel I wrote the following letter:

{{block center|{{fine block| "{{sc|Dear Madam}},

Permit me to return to you the handkerchief which you dropped in the bureau this morning. May I at the same time add that the numbers of the notes which you then left with the cashier are of great interest to many people, and that you will be well advised to exercise the greatest care in dealing with them in any way?—I am, madam, your obedient servant,{{em|2}} {{float right|{{sc|Constantine Dix}}." }}

I had this letter sent to her room, and then waited for her to take the next step. She took it after dinner, as I sat in the lounge and sipped my coffee. She came straight up to me, and she no longer looked desperate or even unhappy. But she did look decidedly angry.

"You are Mr Dix, I believe."

"I am."

"An extremely impertinent letter has been left in my room signed with your name."

"I sent a letter to your room, but without any intention of being impertinent. My only intention was to warn you. You are running a very serious risk—unconsciously, no doubt."

She shrugged her pretty shoulders. "I don't understand you in the least. How long would it take you to explain yourself?"

"Two minutes—in any place where I can speak privately."

"I will give you two minutes. Come out into the garden,"

I followed her into the garden of the hotel. It was a gorgeous night, full of flowers and fragrance and moonlight.

"As quickly as you can," she said.

"Certainly. I have no means of knowing how these notes came into your possession, but they were stolen two years ago in the underground railway near Charing Cross, from James Gladden, a bank messenger in the employment of Stanniwell & Co., of Lombard Street."

She perceptibly flinched, and hesitated for a moment. "How am I to know that there is a word of truth in this?"

"Send the numbers of the notes to Stanniwell & Co., or to Scotland Yard, or to the Bank of England, and ask for information."

Again there was a perceptible hesitation.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "you think that I stole the notes."

"On the contrary, I am quite certain that you did not."

"And what makes you certain?"

"If it is not impertinent to say so, I have seen and observed you. I trust appearances when I observe them myself."

"Why didn't you declare that the notes were stolen when you saw me at the bureau? Why didn't you go to the police at once? Unless, of course, you expected to make more out of it in this way."

I laughed. "Quite a natural idea," I said, "not very complimentary to myself, but quite natural. It leaves me with nothing more to say—besides, my two minutes are up. Good-evening, Miss Endelwode."

Her whole manner changed in a flash. "I'm sorry I said that—I didn't mean it. I will believe that you want to—to help me. Only, if you do, help me a little further. Hear what I've got to say, Do stay." She sat down on a rustic seat beside the path, and I took my place next to her. Away, through the trees, one saw the scattered lights of the hotel, and caught the sound of violins and the deep vibrating note of the 'cello.

"Perhaps you were mistaken this morning," she said, "when you felt so sure that I was perfectly honest."

"I felt sure that you were naturally and intrinsically honest. Circumstances are very strong, and few—if any—are always perfectly honest."

"I don't mean that I knew definitely these notes were stolen. They came into my possession quite properly; but I did know there was something wrong about them."

"Only," I continued, "this morning you were at your wit's end. You were desperate. You could not see what else to do."

"You're rather wonderful, for that is quite true. Listen, I'll tell you the whole story. About a year and a half ago my uncle died suddenly. I had never been allowed to see him, and a vague impression had been given me that he was a bad lot. My father went up to my uncle's lodgings in London, attended the funeral, and arranged matters generally. My uncle had been a constant source of trouble and expense to my father, and I think my father felt the death rather as a relief than as a sorrow. Certainly, I remember him saying when he came back home after the funeral, that much worse might have happened, and heaven alone knew what calamity we had been spared. A few days later my father had a paralytic stroke, and within a few hours he also was dead, and I was left alone in the world, I am, I believe, the last living Endelwode."

"Your mother?"

"She died when I was a child of eight. My father was a country vicar; the living was small, and he used to say that he was the poorest man in his parish. However, he kept up his insurance premiums, and when everything was settled up I had a thousand pounds absolutely at my disposal. What unending wealth it seemed to me then! I came up to London, first to a hotel and afterwards to lodgings; I visited some distant relatives, and tried to make up my mind what to do with my life."

She paused, almost as if her story were done. I watched her intently. At the mention of these relatives the expression of her face grew hard and bitter.

"Doesn't all this bore you?" she asked. "No? Well, I've not yet told you about the notes, have I? I had brought with me a portmanteau packed with my father's papers. They were mostly sermons, or letters from churchwardens on parish matters, or letters from my uncle asking for a loan. However, I had to go through them before destroying them. On the top of these bundles was a sealed envelope, and inside were the notes in the case with my uncle's initials, just as you saw it to-day. And—I'm not going to shield myself—there was a pencil memorandum in my father's writing. It was headed 'In the event of my death'—it is queer how often people who have these strokes have some presentiment of coming ill—and then it said, 'Found at 42 Denworth Square. To be returned to their rightful owner when found, and until then to be kept intact' My uncle's lodgings were at 42 Denworth Square. My father must have found them there on my uncle's death, and must have known that if my uncle had dared to use them to free himself from debt or for some further self-gratification, he would certainly have done so."

"And what have you done," I asked, "to find out who was the rightful owner of this money?"

"Yes," she said slowly, twisting her handkerchief in her hands, "you are right to ask that. By the light of transparent masculine honesty a woman can see how vain and mean she has been."

Transparent masculine honesty—that phrase cut me like a whip-lash across the face. Yet so far as she was concerned I was honest.

"Pardon me," I said, "but I have no rights at all in the matter. Whatever you tell me, I shall still believe that you are naturally honest. Whatever you tell me, I shall still be anxious to serve you in any way that you will permit. Tell me as much as you will or as little. If it gives you a moments pain to speak, I pray you to tell me nothing. My belief in you will still be the same."

Then rather a disconcerting thing happened. Miss Endelwode put her head in her hands and began to cry. It was only for a moment or two. She controlled herself wonderfully.

"I'm sorry I've made a fool of myself. I've been through the most awful strain to-day—you shall hear about it directly—and I suppose it has rather broken me up. I must tell you everything. You trust me like that—why, I couldn't be happy if I didn't tell you. What did I do to find the owner of the notes? Very little. I hunted the papers for advertisements referring to them and found none. But I myself never advertised. My father would have done so—he had more courage than I in matters of principle—and it was not any desire to keep the notes which stopped me. I had my own thousand pounds, and wanted no more then. It was simply that I was afraid of any enquiry. I suspected that my uncle had not come by these notes honestly, and I imagined our name in all the papers, and myself in the witness-box. I could not face it Then something happened to turn my mind to other things, and I tell it from no vanity. I have spoken of a visit to some distant relatives. They lived at Hampstead, and I did not find them very sympathetic. There was a girl in the house—she was some far-away cousin of mine—she had canary-coloured hair and a general exuberance, and I took little interest in her. She was engaged to a young man in whom I took even less interest; he was just beautifully and perfectly average. I thought I knew absolutely everything that he would do and say, until one day he suddenly proposed to me. Well, I flayed him alive. At least I did my best."

I laughed. "I have some reason to know that your best in that direction is pretty good, Miss Endelwode."

"Don't!" she said pleadingly. "I know I was horrible at first, when I had only your letter to go by. But I did see afterwards that I had made a mistake—no, it was not only what you said—I also judge a good deal by appearances. Yes, I was telling you about that young man. I suppose some brilliant idea of sex-revenge struck him. At any rate he jilted the canary-coloured girl, and then my relatives said things to me and about me which I simply could not stand. Remember, my father was not long dead. I was filled with unspeakable disgust. I longed to get to some other country. Why not? I had a thousand pounds. For the last ten months I have been travelling about with a maid."

"You have been living on your capital then."

"Exactly. I imagined that before I came to the end of it I should be dead, or married, or should have discovered some way of earning a livelihood." "But, even so, you travelled with a maid. Your tastes—in dress, for instance—do not seem to me, if I may be impertinent enough to express an opinion, to be of the most economical. This hotel, too—and you have been here some time—is charming and most comfortable, but it is also most expensive."

'My thousand lasted better than you imagine. Jeanne, my maid, is a good girl, devoted to me and not extravagant. And I was economical at first; yes, we have seen the inside of some cheap and horrible pensions, Jeanne and I. But I have been here several weeks without paying anything at all—don't trouble, for it will all be paid to-morrow. I left fourteen hundred louis at the bureau before dinner."

"Then you have been gambling."

"I have. This morning my position was terrible; I could see ruin closing a lean paw on my neck. I had had hints from the hotel people—and something more than hints. I heard the gossip of the hotel servants from my faithful Jeanne. I have no valuable jewels, and I do not travel in great state. The marvel of marvels is that I have been allowed to go on so long. I had to do something this morning to restore my credit. There were the bank-notes in their case, locked away in my dressing-bag. I dared not change one of them, but I was only taking a safe precaution in leaving them with the hotel people, and they would make my credit good again. There would be no enquiry as to the numbers, unless I tried to change them. Then I went off to the rooms to play for my life, knowing that I was playing for my life. I had paid Jeanne before starting out, and I had just five louis left in my purse. You know the result—luck has never left me all day. Now that you have been so kind to me, I think the luck still holds." "But you will not play again?"

"Never, never!"

"And these notes?"

"I wish you would be kind enough to send them back to that bank for me at once—anonymously, of course."

"You shall send them yourself, but I will address an envelope to Stanniwell & Co. for you and write an anonymous message for you to enclose with them. It will explain that the sender had nothing to do with the theft, and ask that the receipt may be acknowledged in the Morning Post."

"Yes. Thanks very much. You have been so good to me about this."

"Perhaps you would join me in the writing-room in five minutes. I shall have everything ready by then."

"Yes, I will come there. Oh please wait a minute! I forgot, I forgot. I have never thanked you for returning my little handkerchief."

She was most naïve and ridiculous and charming. We were all alone in the garden. I caught her in my arms, and kissed her many times, and neither of us said a word.

Later in the evening we sent off the notes to Stanniwell & Co. I had naturally thought it better that her handwriting should not appear in the matter, though there was but the slightest chance of anything being traced in that way. I may add that the unexpected restitution of the notes after this lapse of time made a considerable sensation in London. Their receipt was duly acknowledged in the way we had prescribed.

I do not know—and probably never shall know—whether George Endelwode was the actual thief, or merely a receiver, or if he had simply taken care of the notes on behalf of some friend who did not dare to claim them when George Endelwode died. {{***|5|3em|char={{smaller|•}}}} On the following morning—the morning of the day on which I write this—I asked Miss Endelwode to marry -me. The wedding will be in two months' time.

I shall have but one more exploit to record. Information has reached me with regard to Lady Seaforth's jewels, and I must act upon it. But as soon as that is brought to a successful issue, I break with the past. I will be stronger than my fate.

I see the only true happiness awaiting me, and happy people have no memoirs.

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