On the night of 21–22 August 1911 – almost exactly four months after ‘Rivier’ had fled the country – an event took place which shook France to the core. A thief removed Leonardo da Vinci’s painting, the Mona Lisa, from the Louvre. The painting was a cherished part of the national heritage and there was hardly a Frenchman or woman who did not feel that they had personally been a victim of the crime. Octave Hamard, as head of the Sûreté, took immediate control of the situation. He had the Louvre closed to visitors for a week; each and every employee there was subjected to a harsh and unrelenting interrogation. Yet the police failed to discover any hint as to the fate of the portrait.
As crime of the century, the Rente Bi-mensuelle affair had been overtaken by this new outrage. It is not known for certain whether Detective Inspector Roux was temporarily reassigned to the Mona Lisa investigation, or whether he was left to continue the hunt for ‘Rivier’ with a greatly reduced staff. Either way, precious resources, which would otherwise have been used to track down the missing banker, were withdrawn and deployed elsewhere. But the disappearance of the painting proved to be an insoluble puzzle. Hamard searched every corner of the gallery, including the rooms where the guards left their civilian clothes and where the cleaning equipment was kept. Monsieur Bertillon – an early pioneer of forensic science – visited the scene in person and took photographs and fingerprints. Every day new and increasingly pessimistic reports appeared, one of which said, ‘Twelve days have elapsed since La Joconde disappeared, and every effort has ended in the same failure. At this moment we know nothing. Every day that passes the mystery deepens.’ A few days later, Le Figaro mournfully declared, ‘We have to accept the bad news – the Mona Lisa is lost.’
The police were criticised for their inability to reclaim the nation’s best-loved work of art, and it was clear that Hamard would need to produce results quickly or face the prospect of being removed from office. (In the end, the Mona Lisa case never was solved by the police. The painting only reappeared when the thief voluntarily returned it two years later.)
Attention shifted back to the Rente Bi-mensuelle. Hamard couldn’t find the painting but he redoubled the effort to find Wells, aka ‘Rivier’. The search for details of Wells’ marriage was begun afresh. This involved a mind-numbing trawl through thousands of pages of the marriage registers in Marseille, and possibly many other towns and cities, too.
At length, researchers stumbled upon the entry which had been omitted from the indexes – the 1866 record of Charles Wells’ marriage to Marie Thérèse Jartoux. Further investigation revealed the marriage of Wells’ daughter to Joseph Charles Vayre. The former actor was now a novelist. It was discovered that the couple lived at 267 Rue St Honoré, Paris, a prestigious address adjoining the Ministry of Finance, close to Charles Wells’ old territory around the Avenue de l’Opéra. The Rue St Honoré was popular with artists, writers and other creative people, and the house itself had once been the home of minor royalty. Wells’ estranged wife, Madame de Ville-Wells, resided here sometimes with her daughter and son-in-law; for the rest of the time her home was at Saint Tronc, the Marseille suburb where she had previously lived with Wells.
This new information revived Hamard’s hope that the case could be solved. There was every possibility that Madame de Ville-Wells or her daughter knew the whereabouts of Charles: but there also remained a distinct possibility that, if questioned by the police, they might alert him, and he would take flight again. Hamard ordered his men to keep both addresses under discreet surveillance and even arranged for the mail to be covertly scrutinised before it was delivered. In mid-September his persistence was rewarded with a positive clue when a registered letter was delivered to Madame de Ville-Wells. Its origin was the post office at Earls Court, London. Charles was almost certainly sending money to his wife and daughter.
The police could not very well open a registered letter: indeed, if they had failed to deliver it unopened, the sender – Wells – would eventually have realised, which was the last thing they wanted. Instead they wrote to Scotland Yard, asking the Metropolitan Police to confirm the originator of the letter. They also asked whether Macnaghten and his team could determine whether Charles Wells or Jeannette Pairis had placed large sums of money in British banks – an enquiry which would have been overwhelming, given the number of banks in London alone.
In Paris the police kept searching for Jeannette’s sister, Léonie, but she had moved away from her home in the Rue Cherubini – probably to escape unwanted attention from the media and the authorities. The Sûreté finally caught up with her at her new address, 1 Rue de la Collégiale, and began to keep her under close observation, too.
The Sûreté had discovered that Wells once lived with his wife and daughter in Plymouth, and suggested that enquiries might be made there. Their letter to Scotland Yard also claims (incorrectly) that in 1893 Charles Wells and Jeannette Pairis had lived in London at ‘Raydnor Street, Bermontsey [sic]’. Finally, among ‘Rivier’s’ papers at the bank, they had evidently discovered an old photograph of Jeannette, probably dating from the 1890s, when she first knew him. A copy of this photo was made, and was sent to the Metropolitan Police (Plate 4).
In reply, Sergeant George Nicholls said that he had interviewed the post office employee who had dealt with the letter to Madame de Ville-Wells, but the clerk could not remember who had posted it. The name of the sender of a registered letter was never recorded, apparently. He adroitly sidestepped the request to determine whether Wells had been depositing large sums of money in banks, with a vague assurance that the matter would be looked in to. The Plymouth Police had told him that Wells had not been seen there since 1892, when he had ‘a large steam yacht anchored in Plymouth Sound’. They had also given the routine answer that ‘enquiry has been made at all principal hotels, and other likely places in this town, but without success’.
As far as ‘Raydnor Street, Bermontsey’ was concerned, Sergeant Nicholls said that no such street, or street with a similar name, existed in Bermondsey, and he pointed out that at the time in question, 1893, Wells was in prison. (The correct reference is probably to Radnor Street in Chelsea, the area known to have been frequented by Charles and Jeannette. Radnor Street adjoins Redesdale Street, where the skipper of the Palais Royal, Captain Smith, used to live. Possibly, Jeannette lived there on her own while Wells was in jail.) Nicholls also paid a visit to the photographers who had taken the picture of Jeannette, the firm of W. & J. Stuart of 47–49 Brompton Road. He was told that the order could no longer be traced in their books, but if he could obtain the reference number on the back of the original, there was a possibility of identifying the original customer. This suggestion was not, it seems, followed up.
’Rivier’ had disappeared from France in April. It was now November, and although some progress was being made there was still no certainty that he would ever be caught.
Shortly after his escape from France to Britain, Charles Wells bought a smart 60ft steam yacht with two masts, a black hull and white funnel, from a broker in Southampton (Plate 15). The yacht’s official name was Harbinger, but Wells renamed her Excelsior, to mirror the name of his company, Excelsior Yachting and Trading – though he neglected to register this change officially. He engaged two local sailors as crew: Ernest Emery was appointed skipper, and Henry Knight became engineer. Together they sailed 200 nautical miles westwards, along the south coast, to Falmouth in Cornwall, where Charles and Jeannette had decided to settle.
In 1912, Falmouth was still a port of considerable significance to the British economy. Many ships stopped here as their last port of call before they set out across the Atlantic, or their first as they returned. The town benefited from ‘one of the finest and most capacious harbours in the country’ in the broad estuary of the River Fal. During the winter storms as many as 350 ships could find shelter here. Falmouth had foundries, engineering works, shipyards, tug services ‘and all other conveniences for repairing ships and taking in and discharging cargoes’. Yet its population was only 11,000, and it retained more of the atmosphere of a large village than that of a small town.1
Wells arranged to rent a mooring from a local firm, Cox & Co., shipbuilders and engineers. With more than 600 staff, they were the biggest employers in town. The company was run by Herbert Henry Cox, a man in his early forties. As well as his business interests, Cox was well known for his civic duties. He served as a local magistrate, an honorary position open to men of good character who wanted to help the community. From time to time he also chaired a committee of enquiry into shipwrecks.
Wells set about making improvements to his yacht. He spared no expense and the local shipbuilders and engineers received many profitable orders from him. Cox & Co. were no doubt contracted to carry out much of this work, and in return they allowed him to have mail sent to him at the company’s office, to be collected at his convenience.
With the boat safely at anchor off Custom House Quay, ‘Charles Deville’, as he now called himself, engaged two Falmouth men as extra crew members: William McClusky was given the job of steward, and Cecil Kiddell was taken on as deckhand. From the outset, the yacht and its unusual owners attracted much local curiosity. ‘Mr Deville’ acquired a reputation in the town as a ‘kind old gent’. As he spoke English with a slight foreign accent and almost invariably wore a yachting cap, the locals nicknamed him ‘the French Captain’. He gave the impression of being ‘a typical millionaire yacht owner with a fastidious taste for ease and luxury and enjoyment’.
The couple seldom came ashore, but sometimes a small boat would bring them to the quayside, and they would visit the local shops. ‘Mr Deville’ was a good customer and spent money on a lavish scale. One tradesman told him he could open an account and settle at the end of the quarter, but he replied, ‘I have plenty of money. Why should I not pay when I buy?’ When repairs and alterations were carried out on the Excelsior, ‘Deville’ ‘almost wanted to pay before the work was done’.
The elegant ‘Madame Deville’ – ‘quite thirty years his junior’ – was ‘thoroughly Parisian in her tastes and loved to come ashore in fashionable gowns and hats’. On the rare occasions when they ventured into town in the evening it was usually to attend a play or concert at the Star Theatre, or the Drill Hall. Sometimes they would visit one of the travelling booths in the marketplace to watch the new and increasingly popular moving pictures.
In fine weather they spent most of the time fishing and shooting. Wells constructed a little cabin at the aft end of the vessel from which Jeannette could ‘lie down unobserved and shoot wild fowl with a double barrelled gun while the yacht was anchored in one of the numerous small inlets on the Cornish coast’. He also designed and commissioned a machine to assist her when she was fishing:
The lines were paid out from a couple of reels fixed in the interior of the shooting-box, and outside was a small engine, also designed by him, which rapidly wound up the line when the bait was taken. By means of this mechanical arrangement Mademoiselle [sic] was able to land her own fish without the risk of cutting her fingers with the line.
Charles never tired of altering and improving the yacht to make it as comfortable as possible for Jeannette, and was once overheard by a crew member to say that all he wanted was ‘to make his little doll happy’. He had the entire vessel rigged up with electric lighting, including a new searchlight on deck. ‘[Jeannette’s] boudoir on the yacht was a model of exquisite ease, being supplied with luxurious settees and easy chairs. The sleeping cabins, too, were on the same scale of elegance and comfort.’
It can justly be said that the Excelsior was the fulfilment of Charles’ dreams – a smaller version of the Palais Royal. Twenty years earlier, Charles had promised Jeannette a floating palace, but events had conspired against him. Now his plans had succeeded at last, and he could fulfil his pledge.
The four crewmen came to form an affectionate bond with their new employers, though they suspected that some mystery surrounded the couple. ‘Mr and Mrs Deville’ were evidently extremely wealthy, but the source of their wealth was something the crew were unable to establish. Aside from a faint rumour that Madame had inherited a fortune of £45,000, nothing further was known. But the men did notice that at intervals of roughly three months the couple went to London, returning a few days later.
Unknown to the crew, these trips to the capital were for Charles and Jeannette to confer with their accountant and lawyer about their investments. Occasionally Charles went on his own, and wrote to Jeannette, telling her about the business he had conducted. One of his letters reads as follows:
30 June 1911
Adored love, more than you believe it.
I have just handed to the solicitor £1,800 to add to your little fortune. Tomorrow I think of adding some more money for the one I love so much. I am now going to the bank to arrange matters there as well … When I have finished your business today I shall look after you, for you are before everything in my body, heart and my soul. I love you so much, so much, so much. Tomorrow I shall have copies of all your mortgages which at the moment amount to £6,000 – 150,000 f for my Nana. I hope you will love me not for 150,000 f but for millions … I am waiting to squeeze you tightly in my devoted arms. Sweetheart, I embrace you, your Loulou.
Jeannette, meanwhile, was in regular contact with her sister, Léonie, in Paris. She wrote that Charles was planning to obtain boats in connection with a fishing business, and expressed the hope that they would always remain together near the sea. Charles also corresponded with Léonie, whom he had come to regard as an unofficial sister-in-law. To avoid detection, they always arranged for these letters to be posted from London, probably by Jeannette’s close friend, Marion White. The London postmark disguised their true place of origin. Similarly, Léonie had been instructed to reply poste-restante at the Earls Court Post Office.
Charles sent a letter to Léonie at the beginning of December, and was rather concerned when no reply came. He wrote again a few days later, ‘Not having had any news from you, I wait for your reply before writing at length. I will just say that we are well and we hope your letter will bring us good news about all the family.’ A few days later no reply has been received to either letter and he is becoming anxious. ‘If you do not reply straight away we will have been without any news from you these last three months, because we are leaving on Sunday [17 December]. Jeannette is anxious to know how you all are, especially her uncle, and her brother Léon.’
It was time for Charles and Jeannette to make their regular three-monthly trip to London to consult their accountant and lawyer. They returned to Falmouth on Christmas Eve and surprised their crew members by giving each man a week’s wages as a present.
The Sûreté’s painstaking surveillance of Léonie was about to repay the effort. Having noticed that she used a particular mail box to post her outgoing correspondence, they surreptitiously went through its contents for envelopes in her handwriting. She had sent letters to Charles in London, some addressed to him in his full name, others using just his initials, C. W. These were opened and scrutinised by the police.
They also intercepted any correspondence sent by Charles or Jeannette to Léonie. But the letters were written on plain paper, with no address shown. Apart from the obvious fact that they had been posted in London, they gave no clue whatsoever to Wells’ whereabouts.
Forensic science was still in its infancy. Subjecting the envelopes to a minute examination might seem an obvious step today, but in 1911 it was a giant leap. It gave the detectives their first big break in the case. Under the gummed strip along the edge of the flap, the name of the maker of the envelope was embossed. An urgent letter was sent to Scotland Yard:
20 December 1911
Further to my earlier communications concerning Charles Wells, also known as ‘Rivier’ … I have the honour of enclosing these letters sent by him to the sister of his mistress … One of these letters bears the stamp of the Earls Court Post Office; the paper seems to originate from Cosby Broom Ltd., 3 Station Buildings, Earls Court, whose mark it bears …
It was not until 12 January that Sergeant Nicholls replied, but his letter was well worth the wait:
I have … through Messrs Cosby Broom, the manufacturers of one of the two envelopes which were forwarded by Paris Police, ascertained that Wells is interested in a company formed here in London, and I believe that further enquiry will locate him.
It was the first time in the entire investigation that anything as hopeful as this had been heard. Hamard was so encouraged by the news that he immediately dispatched Inspector Jean Roux to London.
In mid-January, it was reported that Henry Labouchère had died at the age of 81. Wells would doubtless have received the news dispassionately, neither rejoicing in the passing of his nemesis, nor mourning the loss. In fact, with the exception of Jeannette, people did not mean very much to him. But, if only from a logical viewpoint, he felt that the world of Charles Wells was a much safer place without Labouchère.
Two or three days later, Nicholls called at the offices of Wells’ company at 235 High Holborn, where he was informed that Wells had not been seen for some time. Nicholls sent a memo to his chief on 19 January:
Further enquiries show that Wells has had letters or parcels addressed to him recently in the name of C. de Ville, c/o Messrs Cox & Co., Engineers, Falmouth. It seems therefore quite possible that Wells and the woman Pairis are on board the yacht which may be at Falmouth, or if not that he is living at Falmouth. At any rate discreet enquiry of Messrs. Cox, may lead to the discovery of Wells. … Detective Inspector Roux of the Paris Police has been here several days making enquiries, and he was also in charge of this matter in Paris, so that he is acquainted with all the details. He also can identify Wells.
Inspector Roux had no official powers to act as a police officer in Britain, though there was nothing to prevent him from asking questions. As he spoke practically no English, he was undoubtedly accompanied on these missions by Sergeant Nicholls. Nicholls wrote:
He is proceeding tonight to Falmouth and I respectfully beg to suggest that a copy of this report together with the [arrest] warrant be forwarded to the Falmouth Police with a request that they make enquiry and arrest Rivier and the woman Pairis if found and telegraph to this office, also that their property be seized.
Roux boarded the midnight train from Paddington to the West Country with arrest warrants for ‘Rivier’ aka Wells and for Jeannette Pairis aka ‘Mrs Burns’. The journey would be long and tiring but the inspector felt sure that it would be worthwhile, and that his search for the missing banker was almost over. Today was 19 January, which meant that it was precisely nine months since ‘Rivier’ had vanished.
Just over ten hours later Roux arrived at Falmouth, tired, bone-shaken and dishevelled. A welcome sight greeted him among the milling crowds of passengers and those waiting to meet them – a British bobby in full uniform, sent specially to look out for the important detective from far-away Paris. Out of Falmouth’s ten-man police force, 31-year-old PC Herbert John Crocker was the one best qualified for this assignment. To Inspector Roux’s delight, the young constable spoke excellent French, and had been detailed to act as his interpreter and guide.
A little later, the two men – already firm friends and conversing animatedly – went for a stroll through the town. It was Saturday morning. Ignoring the overcast sky and freezing temperature, the hardy citizens of Falmouth flocked into the narrow main street, busy with their weekend shopping. The sight of Constable Crocker (now in plain clothes) in the company of a burly foreigner did not go unnoticed and sparked a great deal of gossip and speculation among the townspeople. While Crocker was showing the French inspector around, and helping him to familiarise himself with the surroundings, Charles and Jeannette were strolling about the town at the same time. During their jaunt, Charles reserved two seats at a performance of the melodrama No Mother to Guide Her, which was being staged at the Drill Hall on the following Wednesday. The booking clerk asked for his name. ‘Wells,’ he replied, absentmindedly. Then he quickly corrected himself, ‘Deville’.
Falmouth is a long, narrow town, stretching for nearly a mile along the edge of the vast harbour, from the docks in the south-east to the yachting club in the north-west. The main street, where most of the shops are to be found, runs roughly parallel to the shoreline. Roux scrutinised the face of every passer-by, trying to recognise the man he had questioned in the Place Boïeldieu nine months earlier. But the fugitive was nowhere to be seen. The two parties must have been wandering around different parts of the town.
Charles and Jeannette returned to their yacht in the harbour. Their appetites sharpened by the fresh sea air, they started eating lunch at about one o’clock. At roughly the same time two policemen approached the quay. The tide was exceptionally low, and festoons of slippery brown-green seaweed hung down from the high watermark, like curtains on a pole. The sea rippled with the sluggish movement of water near the point of freezing. The two men, Falmouth’s superintendent of police and his sergeant, cautiously made their way down the slippery, grey, granite steps, lowered themselves into a borrowed dinghy, rowed across to the steam yacht Excelsior, and went on board.
Charles and Jeannette, though taken by surprise, quickly recovered their composure. The superintendent asked them whether they had any objection to a French detective coming on board, and Charles consented. Roux, who had been waiting impatiently on the quay, was then rowed out to the Excelsior. However unperturbed he may have seemed, Charles must have experienced the shock of his life when he recognised the portly inspector who had quizzed him so thoroughly the previous April.
Both Charles and Jeannette were arrested. ‘Time was given Mlle Jeanne Pairis to complete her shore-going toilette,’ it was reported, and she appeared on deck a little later, exquisitely dressed and wearing ‘a large quantity of beautiful jewellery’. Charles, with his ‘well-brushed, pointed, iron-grey beard and moustache, and grey hair’, looked ‘dapper and distinguished’ in a blue serge suit, heavy blue coat and the perennial yachting cap. Keen observers noticed that his trousers were fashionably pressed in the latest style, with creases2 fore and aft.
Escorted by the two British police officers and by Roux, they boarded the Excelsior’s motor launch. As the boat started for the shore Wells looked despondent, but Jeannette seemed quite unconcerned. ‘Keep the yacht clean,’ she called to the captain, ‘we’ll be back in a day or two.’ The party landed at the Prince of Wales Pier, and made their way up the steps, along the jetty and past the memorial to the late King Edward. Their 300 yard route cut across the Market Square, where only recently Charles and Jeannette had enjoyed the moving pictures. At the police station in Berkeley Vale they were both searched, and their belongings listed.
Jeannette had a veritable treasure trove on her person:
One £20 Bank of England note; 12s. 3d. in coin; 7 gold bangles; 2 gold watches (1 set with diamonds); 2 gold chains; 1 gold safety pin; 1 gold necklet; 4 gold rings (3 set with diamonds, 1 set with red stone); 2 pairs ear-rings set diamonds; 1 gold brooch; 1 gold bracelet; 1 diamond star brooch; a leather handbag; a leather bag purse.
Considering the weight of all these trappings, it seems a miracle that she was able to stand upright. The contents of Wells’ pockets were more modest: a gold watch and chain, a sovereign purse and £4 10s 2½d in cash.
An ecstatic Inspector Roux sent two telegrams, one to Scotland Yard, the other to the Sûreté, bearing the news that Wells and Pairis had been captured. For the French detective this moment marked the end of an exhausting and seemingly endless pursuit. But he could have had no idea of the obstacles that would still have to be overcome.
‘The accused had their meals at the police station together, and chatted freely with the police officials in whose charge they were,’ a local paper recorded. One officer showed Wells a photograph in a newspaper, supposedly of him. Wells laughed heartily and joked that if that picture had been all the police had to go on, they would never have found him. ‘The parties were allowed to have some meals from one of the principal hotels of the town’ (probably the King’s Hotel, near the police station). ‘They have had their meals together in a private room at the police station, and have been allowed to sit on a plain wooden form in front of a fire, thus being able to converse pleasantly together – always in French.’
News of the arrest spread quickly. The New York Times was first off the mark (thanks to the time difference of a few hours), and carried a report on the actual day of the arrest. Later, the Yorkshire Evening Post regaled its readers with:
ANOTHER EPISODE IN A REMARKABLE CAREER
The ‘Man who broke the Bank at Monte Carlo,’ the hero of the song which all London whistled and sang in the nineties, has been arrested in Falmouth Harbour on his own yacht under circumstances as dramatic as Scotland Yard has ever known.
In France, where thousands of investors had been anxiously waiting for news of their money for the past nine months, reports of the arrest of ‘Rivier’ were seized upon avidly. The French newspaper Gil Blas reminded its readers that nothing definite had been heard of ‘Rivier’ since his disappearance until very recently:
The Sûreté put one its finest bloodhounds, Inspector Roux, on to the search for Rivier. It has turned out brilliantly. Yesterday he announced the arrest of Rivier (a.k.a. Wells) and of his mistress, Jeanne Pairis, on a yacht … for which he had paid 250,000 francs, and that [Rivier] had in his possession at the moment of his arrest, a large sum of around one million [francs].
The piece must have raised the hopes of many a French victim – quite unrealistically, as it would turn out. A more subdued account appeared in the Paris journal L’Aurore, which stated that Monsieur Bourdeaux would be seeking ‘Rivier’s’ extradition, though it was unlikely that this would be granted by the British.
Some newspapers said he had forty-three aliases, while others claimed that he had fifty.3 And just as he changed his name whenever it suited him, he also claimed different nationalities at will. Le Figaro reminded its readers that no one knew for certain whether he was British or French, though his country of birth would undoubtedly be a crucial factor in deciding whether extradition could take place. He spoke fluent French, English and Italian, the report added, and would undoubtedly make life difficult for the justice system.
______________
1 Falmouth’s port has significantly declined since then in commercial terms. The emphasis now is on boating for pleasure.
2 The late King Edward VII had created a fashion for creases in trousers – but at the sides. Creases at front and back became the norm, however.
3 The presumed number of Wells’ aliases seems to have crept up day by day in the press. The actual number – excluding variant spellings – was about ten.