was one of the aristocrats of crime; at least Mathurin was the name under which he had accomplished a daring bank robbery in Detroit which had involved the violent death of the manager, though it was generally believed by the police that the Rossiter who was at the bottom of some long firm frauds in Melbourne was none other than Mathurin under another name, and that the designer and chief gainer in a sensational murder case in the Midlands was the same mysterious and ubiquitous personage.
But Mathurin had for some years successfully eluded pursuit; indeed, it was generally known that he was the most desperate among criminals, and was determined never to be taken alive. Moreover, as he invariably worked through subordinates who knew nothing of his whereabouts and were scarcely acquainted with his appearance, the police had but a slender clue to his identity.
As a matter of fact, only two people beyond his immediate associates in crime could have sworn to Mathurin if they had met him face to face. One of them was the Detroit bank manager whom he had shot with his own hand before the eyes of his fiancée. It was through the other that Mathurin was arrested, extradited to the States, and finally made to atone for his life of crime. It all happened in a distressingly common-place way, so far as the average spectator was concerned. But the story, which I have pieced together from the details supplied—firstly, by a certain detective sergeant whom I met in a tavern hard by Westminster; and secondly, by a certain young woman named Miss Van Snoop—has an element of romance, if you look below the surface.
It was about half-past one o’clock, on a bright and pleasant day, that a young lady was driving down Regent Street in a hansom which she had picked up outside her boarding-house near Portland Road Station. She had told the cabman to drive slowly, as she was nervous behind a horse; and so she had leisure to scan, with the curiosity of a stranger, the strolling crowd that at nearly all hours of the day throngs Regent Street. It was a sunny morning, and everybody looked cheerful. Ladies were shopping, or looking in at the shop windows. Men about town were collecting an appetite for lunch; flower girls were selling “nice vi’lets, sweet vi’lets, penny a bunch”; and the girl in the cab leaned one arm on the apron and regarded the scene with alert attention. She was not exactly pretty, for the symmetry of her features was discounted by a certain hardness in the set of the mouth. But her hair, so dark as to be almost black, and her eyes of greyish blue set her beyond comparison with the commonplace.
Just outside the Café Royal there was a slight stir, and a temporary block in the foot traffic. A brougham was setting down, behind it was a victoria, and behind that a hansom; and as the girl glanced round the heads of the pair in the brougham, she saw several men standing on the steps. Leaning back suddenly, she opened the trapdoor in the roof.
“Stop here,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind.”
The driver drew up by the kerb, and the girl skipped out.
“You shan’t lose by the change,” she said, handing him half-a-crown.
There was a tinge of American accent in the voice; and the cabman, pocketing the half-crown with thanks, smiled.
“They may talk about that McKinley tariff,” he soliloquised as he crawled along the kerb towards Piccadilly Circus, “but it’s better ’n free trade—lumps!”
Meanwhile the girl walked slowly back towards the Café Royal, and, with a quick glance at the men who were standing there, entered. One or two of the men raised their eyebrows; but the girl was quite unconscious, and went on her way to the luncheon-room.
“American, you bet,” said one of the loungers. “They’ll go anywhere and do anything.”
Just in front of her as she entered was a tall, clean-shaven man, faultlessly dressed in glossy silk hat and frock coat, with a flower in his button-hole. He looked around for a moment in search of a convenient table. As he hesitated, the girl hesitated; but when the waiter waved him to a small table laid for two, the girl immediately sat down behind him at the next table.
“Excuse me, madam,” said the waiter, “this table is set for four; would you mind——”
“I guess,” said the girl, “I’ll stay where I am.” And the look in her eyes, as well as a certain sensation in the waiter’s palm, ensured her against further disturbance.
The restaurant was full of people lunching, singly or in twos, in threes, and even larger parties; and many curious glances were directed to the girl who sat at a table alone and pursued her way calmly through the menu. But the girl appeared to notice no one. When her eyes were off her plate they were fixed straight ahead—on the back of the man who had entered in front of her. The man, who had drunk a half-bottle of champagne with his lunch, ordered a liqueur to accompany his coffee. The girl, who had drunk an aerated water, leaned back in her chair and wrinkled her brows. They were very straight brows, that seemed to meet over her nose when she wrinkled them in perplexity. Then she called a waiter.
“Bring me a sheet of notepaper, please,” she said, “and my bill.”
The waiter laid the sheet of paper before her, and the girl proceeded, after a few moments thought, to write a few lines in pencil upon it. When this was done, she folded the sheet carefully, and laid it in her purse. Then, having paid her bill, she returned her purse to her dress pocket, and waited patiently.
In a few minutes the clean-shaven man at the next table settled his bill and made preparations for departure. The girl at the same time drew on her gloves, keeping her eyes immovably upon her neighbour’s back. As the man rose to depart, and passed the table at which the girl had been sitting, the girl was looking into the mirror upon the wall, and patting her hair. Then she turned and followed the man out of the restaurant, while a pair at an adjacent table remarked to one another that it was a rather curious coincidence for a man and woman to enter and leave at the same moment when they had no apparent connection.
But what happened outside was even more curious.
The man halted for a moment upon the steps at the entrance. The porter, who was in conversation with a policeman, turned, whistle in hand.
“Hansom, sir?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the clean-shaven man.
The porter was raising his whistle to his lips when he noticed the girl behind.
“Do you wish for a cab, madam?” he asked, and blew upon his whistle.
As he turned again for an answer, he plainly saw the girl, who was standing close behind the clean-shaven man, slip her hand under his coat, and snatch from his hip pocket something which she quickly transferred to her own.
“Well, I’m——” began the clean-shaven man, swinging round and feeling in his pocket.
“Have you missed anything, sir?” said the porter, standing full in front of the girl to bar her exit.
“My cigarette-case is gone,” said the man, looking from one side to another.
“What’s this?” said the policeman, stepping forward.
“I saw the woman’s hand in the gentleman’s pocket, plain as a pikestaff,” said the porter.
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said the policeman, coming close to the girl. “I thought as much.”
“Come now,” said the clean-shaven man, “I don’t want to make a fuss. Just hand back that cigarette-case, and we’ll say no more about it.”
“I haven’t got it,” said the girl. “How dare you? I never touched your pocket.”
The man’s face darkened.
“Oh, come now!” said the porter.
“Look here, that won’t do,” said the policeman, “you’ll have to come along of me. Better take a four-wheeler, eh, sir?”
For a knot of loafers, seeing something interesting in the wind, had collected round the entrance.
A four-wheeler was called, and the girl entered, closely followed by the policeman and the clean-shaven man.
“I was never so insulted in my life,” said the girl.
Nevertheless, she sat back quite calmly in the cab, as though she was perfectly ready to face this or any other situation, while the policeman watched her closely to make sure that she did not dispose in any surreptitious way of the stolen article.
At the police-station hard by, the usual formalities were gone through, and the clean-shaven man was constituted prosecutor. But the girl stoutly denied having been guilty of any offence.
The inspector in charge looked doubtful.
“Better search her,” he said.
And the girl was led off to a room for an interview with the female searcher.
The moment the door closed the girl put her hand into her pocket, pulled out the cigarette-case, and laid it upon the table.
“There you are,” she said. “That will fix matters so far.”
The woman looked rather surprised.
“Now,” said the girl, holding out her arms, “feel in this other pocket, and find my purse.”
The woman picked out the purse.
“Open it and read the note on the bit of paper inside.”
On the sheet of paper which the waiter had given her, the girl had written these words, which the searcher read in a muttered undertone—
“I am going to pick this man’s pocket as the best way of getting him into a police-station without violence. He is Colonel Mathurin, alias Rossiter, alias Connell, and he is wanted in Detroit, New York, Melbourne, Colombo, and London. Get four men to pin him unawares, for he is armed and desperate. I am a member of the New York detective force—Nora Van Snoop.”
“It’s all right,” said Miss Van Snoop, quickly, as the searcher looked up at her after reading the note. “Show that to the boss—right away.”
The searcher opened the door. After whispered consultation the inspector appeared, holding the note in his hand.
“Now then, be spry,” said Miss Van Snoop. “Oh, you needn’t worry! I’ve got my credentials right here,” and she dived into another pocket.
“But do you know—can you be sure,” said the inspector, “that this is the man who shot the Detroit bank manager?”
“Great heavens! Didn’t I see him shoot Will Stevens with my own eyes! And didn’t I take service with the police to hunt him out?”
The girl stamped her foot, and the inspector left. For two, three, four minutes, she stood listening intently. Then a muffled shout reached her ears. Two minutes later the inspector returned.
“I think you’re right,” he said. “We have found enough evidence on him to identify him. But why didn’t you give him in charge before to the police?”
“I wanted to arrest him myself,” said Miss Van Snoop, “and I have. Oh, Will! Will!”
Miss Van Snoop sank into a cane-bottomed chair, laid her head upon the table, and cried. She had earned the luxury of hysterics. In half an hour she left the station, and, proceeding to a post-office, cabled her resignation to the head of the detective force in New York.