"You should understand," said Madame Rachel, leaning back in an arm-chair, and speaking in an impressive manner, "that the process I have discovered is known only to myself, and that it is a very expensive one to work. I have to charge high fees not only for that reason, but to make sure that only ladies of rank and fortune will patronize me. Ladies will keep my secret, I know. If they didn't I should be out of work"—here she laughed—"in a month. I am sorry that you cannot afford the course of treatment, for I am sure that it would do all you require. Still, it can't be helped."
The widow went off to tell her acquaintances, and, incidentally, to get half a dozen friends to lend her sufficient money to undergo the expensive treatment. In return she promised that as soon as she had discovered the secret process she would reveal it to them, and then they could make themselves beautiful without having to spend another penny or consult the beauty doctor.
A week later the widow paid Madame Rachel the five hundred guineas, and at once began the treatment. It continued for a month, during which time the victim drank all sorts of medicines, had innumerable baths, sat in dark rooms for hours, and painted her skin with vile concoctions. Instead of becoming more beautiful, she got even uglier, and at last she came to the conclusion that she was being trifled with. As soon as she realized this she demanded the return of her five hundred guineas.
Madame Rachel, who had hitherto acted the part of the sleek, half-obsequious, half-familiar friend, burst into a roar of laughter when the request was made, and, towering over the widow, with her greasy face distorted with passion, and her heavy thick hands clenched, she cursed, threatened and jeered.
"I will not give you more than a minute to leave my premises," she shouted, in conclusion, and she looked capable of murdering her dissatisfied client. "I suppose you think that because I am an unprotected woman trying to earn an honest living that you can bluff me? I have spent the whole of your fee on the treatment and haven't made a penny profit, and now—"
"That's a lie," cried the courageous widow. "Don't shout at me, woman. I am going straight to my solicitor to instruct him to issue a writ against you."
Madame Rachel laughed horribly.
"Splendid," she cried, clapping her hands. "Nothing would please me better. I should revel in such a law case, and so would your friends. Wouldn't they laugh when they heard that the ugliest woman in England was so stupidly vain as not to know that only a miracle could make her beautiful! How they will jeer at you! You'll be the laughing stock of London! I can imagine how the papers will report the case. And the headlines! It will be a treat to listen to the cross-examination by my counsel, who will know all that has passed between you and me. Oh, by all means go to your solicitor, and as a personal favour I implore you to bring an action against me. It would be the best possible advertisement for my business."
The widow went, but the writ never came, for on second thoughts she decided that it would be better to forego the luxury of revenge than to hold herself up to ridicule. Madame Rachel had anticipated this, and it was the real reason why she dealt only with persons of good social position who would not dare to invite publicity.
Another victim was the wife of a man who was a prominent member of the Conservative Party. She had heard a lot about Madame Rachel, and she decided to seek her advice as to the best method of improving her skin, which was unpleasantly sallow. The swindler pretended that she had an infallible remedy for this, and when the statesman's wife called she did not hesitate to guarantee a cure, provided her instructions were followed. Madame Rachel advised daily baths and the use of certain cosmetics, and for these a very stiff fee was paid in advance. Three times a week the lady came to the establishment to undergo the treatment, and Madame Rachel was always in attendance, with a huge smile and plenty of flattery.
It happened that in the course of conversation Madame Rachel had learned from her client that she was taking the treatment unknown to her husband because she wished to give him a pleasant surprise. Husband and wife were as deeply in love with one another as they had been on their wedding day, and the lady lived only to please him, and she thought that if she suddenly presented herself before him with a beautiful skin he would be enchanted. The information greatly interested the swindler, whose greedy eyes had noticed that the lady wore on her fingers diamond rings which could not have cost less than a thousand pounds.
During the first week of the treatment, which mainly consisted of taking baths, the client wore her rings all the time. But Madame Rachel pretended that they hampered her process, and so she insisted upon the lady discarding them with her clothes before entering the bath. The request was complied with—the "beauty specialist" had a wonderful power over her customers—and as a result the "patient" never saw her rings again. When she missed them after returning from the bath, she immediately rang the bell and complained to the maid. The next moment Madame Rachel burst into the room in a rage and began to pour a stream of filthy abuse upon her client, who saw at once that the "beauty specialist" was the thief, and taxed her with the crime. Instead of repudiating the accusation, she retorted by declaring that unless the lady went at once and gave no more trouble she would declare that she had been to her house to meet a gentleman by appointment who was not her husband.
"You never told your husband that you've been coming here," she screamed triumphantly, noticing the look of dismay and fright on her client's face. "It's been a secret to him. What would he say if I told him, and my assistants confirmed me, that you'd been keeping clandestine appointments with a lover? Go and let me hear no more of your alleged losses, or it'll be the worse for you."
That lady was not very wise, for she did not tell her husband at once how she had been tricked. Had she consulted him immediately he would have taken steps to recover the jewellery, but it was too late to do anything when she admitted how she had allowed herself to be robbed.
All the time there was a steady flow of clients who paid enormous fees and solemnly went through the farcial programme which Madame Rachel guaranteed would confer everlasting beauty upon them. They were mainly middle-aged widows and old maids, who fancied that certain distinguished men of their acquaintance had grown "interested" in them, and would propose if only they were a little more attractive or appeared just a few years younger. When clients were without eligible male friends the "beauty specialist" undertook to supply them with husbands for a consideration. Indeed, there was nothing she would not promise in return for a substantial sum of money.
Her strongest protection was the knowledge that her patrons feared ridicule more than the loss of their money. Dissatisfied clients occasionally created scenes at the beauty shop, and then Madame Rachel treated them to language which sent them scampering from her premises. But the majority took their disappointment quietly, not even registering a protest when after months of "treatment" they found themselves worse than when they had started.
Meanwhile, the money rolled in, and Madame Rachel, who had once told fortunes in vile public-houses at a penny a time, now sported a carriage and pair, and was frequently seen in the most fashionable restaurants. When strangers saw her they invariably inquired as to the identity of the vulgar creature, and the usual answer was, "She's the famous Madame Rachel, who is the greatest beauty specialist in the world. She has accomplished miracles, I am told." Thus was her fame extended.
But suddenly the number of patrons began to diminish perceptibly, greatly to the alarm of the swindler, whose great ambition was to provide such handsome dowries for her two daughters as would win for them titled husbands. She had already saved thousands of pounds, but she required much more for her purpose, and it was quite by accident she discovered how to improve upon her swindle.
A certain woman of thirty, plain and uncouth, came to her to be changed into a beauty. She had the money to pay for the process, and Madame Rachel took her in hand. Alice Maynard was one of those women who never attract men, and she was fully conscious of the fact. When she confided her griefs to the "sympathetic" sharper she was at once promised a husband with a title on the condition that she would reward her benefactress for her trouble. Miss Maynard cheerfully promised anything, and from time to time handed over various sums, ranging from ten guineas to a hundred.
When informed that the woman's savings were exhausted Madame Rachel introduced her to a man who called himself the "Hon. George Sylvester." He proposed at once, was accepted, and married the girl shortly afterwards. Then the "Hon. George," having borrowed fifty pounds from his bride, disappeared, and it was only when the weeping woman consulted a book on the peerage with a view to communicating with her husband's relatives that she discovered that there was no titled family of the name of Sylvester. Later a solicitor elicited the information for her that the man she had married was a bookmaker's tout, who had escorted other ladies to the altar, and for whom the police were searching.
Alice Maynard, broken-hearted and ashamed, retired to the country, to die within a few months, leaving Madame Rachel in peaceful possession of the seven hundred pounds she had had from her. Madame had paid the "Hon. George Sylvester" five pounds to pose as the son of a peer and marry the forlorn young lady, and, as she anticipated, it proved a cheap method for getting rid of her.
The success, from Madame Rachel's point of view, of this affair caused her to develop it on a larger scale, and very soon another victim presented herself for the purpose of being plucked. As this deluded creature seemed likely to yield thousands of pounds, the "beauty specialist" prepared to reap a rich harvest.
One evening a thin, spare, scraggy little woman with yellow hair, obviously dyed, painted face and eyebrows, and the affected giggle of a schoolgirl, called at the beauty shop in Bond Street. She introduced herself as Mrs. Borradaile, the widow of Colonel Borradaile, and she asked that she might be made beautiful for ever, because, although fifty, she had the heart of a child, and she wished to marry again, if possible.
Even Madame Rachel, with all her experience, had the greatest difficulty in preventing herself from laughing at this human caricature, but as Mrs. Borradaile made no secret of her strong financial position she entered seriously into negotiations. Her first question was about the amount the widow wished to spend, and the answer was that she did not want to pay more than a hundred pounds.
Madame Rachel pretended to be satisfied, and there and then she accepted ten pounds on account, a sum she had often before refused with scorn. But she knew that Mrs. Borradaile could be bled if properly treated, and she proved the correctness of this view by getting from her in the course of the first month four hundred guineas.
The widow was crazy to become beautiful, and, when chance enabled the swindler to get Mrs. Borradaile completely in her power, the rest was easy. The two women were discussing the treatment in Madame Rachel's private room when a maid entered with a card.
Madame Rachel read the name on it with surprise.
"Lord Ranelagh!" she exclaimed, and her astonishment was genuine, for she did not know the peer. "I wonder why he has come! It can't be that he wishes to be a client."
Mrs. Borradaile was greatly impressed by the rank of the visitor, and during the quarter of an hour the "beauty specialist" was absent from the room she thought of nothing else except the exclusiveness of her visiting-list. Evidently the woman's oft-repeated claim to be in society was true.
Mrs. Borradaile knew nothing of Lord Ranelagh's reputation. He was an idler of doubtful habits, who, with advancing years, could not lose the delusion that he was a lady-killer. He spent his time running after women, and his call on Madame Rachel was simply inspired by curiosity. He did not know the woman, but he wanted to hear something of her wonderful method, rightly guessing that he would not be repulsed on account of his social position.
Madame Rachel received him with flattering cordiality, and invited him to come again. The peer accepted the invitation, and in that moment the "beauty specialist," who knew how to take advantage of an opportunity, evolved quite a brilliant scheme for the discomfiture of the widow who was waiting her return.
Affecting enthusiasm and surprise, she sank into the chair beside Mrs. Borradaile, looked at her meaningly, seized her hand, and pressed it between her own.
"I congratulate you, my dear," she whispered, to Mrs. Borradaile's unfeigned amazement. "You have achieved a wonderful conquest."
"I—I don't understand," Mrs. Borradaile stammered, thinking that Madame Rachel had gone mad.
"Lord Ranelagh!" she replied, with another pressure of her hot, fat hands. "He really came to see you. He's been following you to my establishment every day, and he called just now to inquire about you." She giggled, and her large black eyes twinkled. "Lord Ranelagh is the wealthiest bachelor peer in England," she whispered. "I congratulate you, Mrs. Borradaile, for when the treatment is finished, and you have satisfied his lordship's standard of beauty, he will make you Lady Ranelagh. He told me so in confidence, and you must never let a soul know that I've imparted the secret to you. What a great future is yours!"
From that moment Mrs. Borradaile was Madame Rachel's body and soul. The foolish woman actually agreed to pay three thousand pounds to be made beautiful, and she paid six hundred pounds on account. She was too vain to entertain the slightest doubts as to Madame Rachel's truthfulness, and when she was introduced to Lord Ranelagh at her own request, and a few commonplace remarks passed between them, she was absolutely convinced that the peer had fallen in love with her, and that when the "beauty specialist" had finished with her she would become the "Right Hon. Lady Ranelagh."
It was a very remarkable "courtship," and it is sometimes difficult to believe, judging by her part in it, that Mrs. Borradaile was quite sane, although later she recovered sufficiently to start the criminal proceedings that brought the "beauty shop" to an end. But during the period when she was daily undergoing baths and using up a large amount of cosmetics she swallowed every story the adventuress told her, and allowed herself to be led by the nose.
No courtship being complete without love-letters, the ingenious Madame Rachel had not the heart to deprive Mrs. Borradaile of the pleasure of hearing from her lover. It was true that Lord Ranelagh had no intention of marrying Mrs. Borradaile, for he was only interested in her because he was curious to see whether the "beauty doctor" could succeed in transforming the ugly little widow into a handsome woman. However, Madame Rachel had her own way of producing love-letters, and she showered them upon Mrs. Borradaile, who believed that they all came from the peer who had fallen in love with her at first sight.
Many of the letters were published in the papers subsequently, and created astonishment and mirth. It was never actually proved who wrote them, because Madame Rachel always insisted upon taking the originals from the widow, though allowing her to keep copies.
One specimen of the curious correspondence will suffice to show the sort of stuff Mrs. Borradaile was willing to swallow. The term "granny" applies to Madame Rachel, who bestowed this endearing term upon herself:
"My only-dearly beloved Mary,
"The little perfume-box and the pencil-case belonged to my sainted mother. She died with them in her hand. When she was a schoolgirl it was my father's first gift to her. Granny has given the watch and locket to me again. Your coronet is finished, my love. Granny said you had answered my last letter, but you have forgotten to send it. I forgot yesterday was Ash Wednesday. Let old granny arrange the time, as we have little to spare.
"My dearest one, what is the matter with the old woman? She seems out of sorts. We must manage to keep her in good temper for our own sakes, because she has to manage all for us, and I should not have had the joy of your love had it not been for her. Darling love, Mary, my sweet one, all will be well in a few hours. The dispatches have arrived. I will let you know when I hear from you, my heart's love. Bear up, my fond one. I shall be at your feet—those pretty feet that I love—and you may kick your ugly old donkey. Two letters, naughty little pet, and you have not answered one.
"With fond and devoted love,
"Yours, until death,
"William."
All the letters, inspired, it is certain, by Madame Rachel, were in this strain, and each one contained a warning not to offend her.
The letters the peer was alleged to have written also dropped hints that the woman's monetary demands were to be met without hesitation, and by way of compensation he was made to promise a fortune as well as a title for his bride. Sometimes Lord Ranelagh's letter requested Mrs. Borradaile to settle certain debts he owed Madame Rachel, and so artfully interspersed were his epistles with criticisms of her that Mrs. Borradaile never guessed that they were all forgeries, and very likely had been dictated by "granny" herself to her daughters.
Madame Rachel's constant advice to Mrs. Borradaile was to persevere with the treatment, and to start to collect jewellery, because Lord Ranelagh loved diamonds and pearls. The coronet mentioned in the letter quoted never had any existence, although the swindler was given eight hundred pounds to pay for it. She told Mrs. Borradaile that she was minding it for her, and the deluded woman accepted her assurance that it was quite safe.
The beauty shop in New Bond Street became Mrs. Borradaile's second home, because Madame Rachel insisted that she should not do anything without consulting her. The widow was a gold mine to the adventuress. She parted with her money readily and cheerfully. Once Madame Rachel required two hundred guineas for a certain purpose, and, as she did not wish to draw a cheque on her own account, she told Mrs. Borradaile that she must purchase a carriage for her wedding, and have the Ranelagh arms painted upon it. The simple-minded and trusting widow did as she was told, but, of course, the carriage was never bought, Madame Rachel utilizing the cheque for her own needs.
It was the same with her trousseau. Mrs. Borradaile chose it, and gave Madame Rachel the money to settle with the tradespeople. Certain of the articles, having been delivered, had to be paid for, but the creature promptly pawned them all because they were of no use to her.
In the course of some months Mrs. Borradaile had bought and paid for jewellery, clothes, some choice pieces of furniture, a coronet and a carriage, and she was under the impression that Madame Rachel was minding them all for her. That was not surprising, seeing that when the swindler informed her that she and Lord Ranelagh were to be married by proxy she unhesitatingly accepted that extraordinary way of becoming a peeress. But Mrs. Borradaile was so delighted to think that some one had fallen in love with her that she was eager to believe anything.
However, a worm will turn, and when Madame Rachel had bled Mrs. Borradaile of nearly four thousand pounds as well as securing promises in writing to pay as much again, the widow suddenly woke up and consulted her solicitor. That hardheaded man of the world had no difficulty in proving to her that she had been the victim of a scandalous swindle, and he counselled an appeal to the law. Accordingly Madame Rachel was arrested on a charge of having obtained money by false pretences, and was committed for trial at the Old Bailey.
The trial was a notable one, and attracted crowds to the court. Lord Ranelagh was given a seat on the bench, and when called as a witness he denied having met Mrs. Borradaile, and laughed at the idea that he had written the letters, copies of which were exhibited by the prosecution. Counsel for the defence cross-examined severely, and Mrs. Borradaile had a rough time at their hands, and as Madame Rachel noticed that the case was going favourably for her she began to assume a haughty attitude, reclining in the dock like a tragedy queen, and sniffing scornfully whenever any damaging statement was made by a witness for the other side.
Considering the overwhelming nature of the evidence for the prosecution it was a remarkable feat on the part of Madame Rachel's counsel that they should succeed in preventing the jury coming to a decision. The twelve good men and true took five hours to argue the case amongst themselves, and then had to announce that they were unable to agree.
Madame Rachel's smile of triumph when the trial was declared abortive was remarkable, and when the judge ordered a new trial at the next sessions, and assented to admitting the prisoner to bail, two sureties at five thousand pounds each, the "beauty specialist" had no difficulty in obtaining the necessary backing.
Her freedom, however, was destined to be short, for the second trial—which took place on September 21-25, 1868—ended disastrously for her.
The prosecution, represented by Mr. Sergeant Ballantine and Montague Williams and Douglas Straight, advanced no new facts, relying upon a repetition of the proof they had given at the first trial. But Madame Rachel's clever array of lawyers—Digby Seymour, Q.C., headed a legal team of four—were unable to hoodwink a jury again. On this occasion the twelve men had no difficulty in arriving at an adverse decision, unanimously finding the prisoner guilty after an extraordinary summing-up by Mr. Commissioner Kerr. She was white to the lips and shaking with fear when she stood up to receive sentence of five years' penal servitude, and she could not leave the dock without the aid of the wardresses. The last the packed court saw of the ugly old hag was a deathly white face and a pair of black eyes gleaming unnaturally.
She served her time, and soon after her release, with amazing impudence, started business again as a "beauty specialist." Undeterred by previous experience, she sought for another victim of the Borradaile type, and, finding one, swindled her with cynical effrontery until the dupe turned against her. Then followed another trial for obtaining money and jewels by false pretences, and again the sentence was five years' penal servitude. Madame Rachel was convicted on April 11th, 1878, and she died in prison.
CHAPTER VI
THE MONTE CARLO TRUNK MURDERESS
When a young woman deliberately embarks upon a career of crime she is certain of a fair amount of success, provided she is pretty enough to attract men to her side. A beauty, however black her record may be, need never want for male assistance. If she is clever and designing she can, as a rule, lay her plans with such discretion that if arrest follows she is able to plead that she was merely the tool of a designing man.
The trick has succeeded nine times out of ten. Juries naturally pity the "weaker sex," and at the Old Bailey I have seen women let off with a few months' imprisonment whilst their really less culpable partners in wrongdoing have been sent to penal servitude for no other reason than that they were of the masculine gender. Thus, it will be admitted that the female criminal has at least one advantage over her male colleague.
But Marie Goold never was a beauty. As a young girl she was plain-looking and her manner repelled. She made no friends, and the passage of time did not bring any improvement in her appearance. She was clever and resourceful, however, and when a desire to mix in fashionable circles and to acquire riches quickly determined her to turn criminal she relied solely on her brains and not on her face. Yet she married three times, and on each occasion above her own position, and from first to last she always had at least one man in tow who was completely dominated by her and obeyed her implicitly.
Her first marriage was the result of pique on her part. There was a youth in her native village—she was born in France—who for some quaint reason fell in love with her. He may have admired her vitriolic tongue and her fearlessness, but the fact remains that he proposed. Marie Girodin refused him, but the youth did not tell his parents of his failure, and they, in their anxiety to save him, began a campaign of calumny against the "charmer." It was a fatal move on their part, for Marie, just to spite them, married their son and then discarded him, because she decided that he could be of no use to her. He was wretched and unhappy, but so hypnotized by his wife that when she returned to him after a long absence he was almost delirious with joy, and promptly handed over his savings. Marie had been in Paris and London in the meantime, but she only remained at home for three months. Her husband died suddenly, and the widow immediately went abroad again. It was perhaps merely a coincidence that the young man expired just when Marie had made up her mind that she would accept the gallant English army officer who had been courting her under the impression that she was free.
Once more Marie ventured on the matrimonial sea. Her second marriage was an improvement on the first, and for a while she was content to spend money and enjoy herself. The captain's means, however, would not stand the strain, and Marie left for a Continental tour by herself. She stopped for a couple of days at Nice and then departed; and when she had gone two thousand pounds' worth of jewellery disappeared with her. There was no proof of her guilt, and she was not molested, but Marie's poverty ceased abruptly, and for a few months she was able to indulge herself.
Then the captain died, for Marie had, curiously enough, grown very tired of him too. His ideas of honour and honesty had disturbed her. She knew that he sternly disapproved of theft and forgery, and to obtaining money by false pretences—one of her little hobbies—the captain was fanatically opposed. Therefore, his death came as a welcome release to her. Black suited her, and if money was scarce she had a collection of jewellery which was her precaution against a "rainy day."
She was now nearer thirty than twenty, and it required all the art of which she was capable to make herself presentable. Her face was thin and marked, her eyes were black and repellent, and her skin sallow. People shrank from her until she began to talk, for then her rippling voice poured forth stories of adventures in which names of famous men and women in France and Great Britain appeared with her own.
Strangers were impressed by her. She never asserted that she was on intimate terms with Presidents and Cabinet Ministers, but she inferred it, and the credulous crowded round her. Once she got them interested she held them. She was clever enough to be able to do that.
But talking did not produce money, and Marie, who owed thousands, began to feel a draught. She did not ask for loans. Such a procedure would be tantamount to suicide, but she resorted to trickery to replenish her purse. Thus she flattered and coaxed an English lady into giving her the position of secretary-companion. Marie protested that she only wanted companionship herself, and that she would not accept a salary, as she had plenty of money lying at her bankers. The English woman, captivated by her chatter, agreed, and a few weeks later was lamenting the loss of six hundred pounds which had "gone astray" while she and her "companion-secretary" were travelling to San Sebastian.
The day after the disaster Marie told her that she had been summoned to Paris to consult her lawyers about some property left to her by her husband. She parted from her employer with tears in her eyes, but she did not go to the French capital. She fixed upon Marseilles, and, taking up her headquarters in the leading hotel there, had a riotous time on the money she had stolen from the English lady.
The six hundred pounds and Marie were soon separated, and once more she was penniless. She still had her jewellery, but she was loath to sell it, and in desperation she set on foot various swindles. They all came to nothing, and at last, feeling that the police were watching her, she became panic-stricken, and fled to London. They could not harm her there, as she was, by virtue of her second marriage, a British subject.
In London she was friendless, while hotel managers were hard-hearted and would allow no credit. Poor Marie was compelled to work, and, of course, she hated the prospect, but necessity compelled her to dispose of her jewellery, and with the money to start a dressmaker's establishment. She found a coy-looking shop in an unobtrusive street in the West End of London, and with a small and select stock began her new career.
The woman, a criminal to the finger-tips, utterly unscrupulous and merciless, had no intention of settling down to the drudgery of a dressmaker's life. She regarded her establishment as a spider must regard his web. Money was not to be earned legitimately, but by trickery. Money and more money was all Marie thought of, and, with the aid of her crafty tongue, she extracted various sums from trusting and sympathetic clients.
She could ingratiate herself into the confidences of middle-aged English ladies who were losing their attractions by grossly flattering them, and, because she was no rival so far as looks were concerned, they became friends of hers rather than clients.
Her first exploit in London was a great success. A well-to-do woman of fifty, who had been fascinated by "Madame's" promise to keep her young, called to see her, and found the dressmaker in tears. The usual question ensued, and then Marie whispered that the broker's men were in the next room, and that she was ruined. The sympathetic customer paid the amount which Marie said was owing, and as the whole story was a lie the "dressmaker" was sixty pounds to the good.
Hitherto Marie's criminal activities had centred on obtaining money by means of fraud. Her first two husbands may have died under suspicious circumstances, but it was only suspicion after all, and it was not until she was a British subject and a resident in the West End of London that she soared to greater criminal heights.
The widow began to think of marrying again. A husband would be decidedly useful in London. The English were inclined to regard her with suspicion because she had no man attached to her, and Marie meant to abandon the dressmaking business because the comparatively small sums which she obtained from confiding customers were of little use to her. She wanted thousands now, for she had become a confirmed gambler, and the luck as a rule went against her. She therefore, as a preliminary, commenced a campaign to find a husband, and she had not to wait long for success.
It was said at the time of the final catastrophe that Marie first met Vere Goold when the latter called to pay an account for a relative, but there was no confirmation of this, and there is reason to believe that she made his acquaintance at a restaurant in the West End.
Vere Goold was an Irishman of good family, who devoted his time to absorbing intoxicating liquors. A man of education and some ability, drink and drugs had robbed him of all his will power. He had been sent to London by friends and relations who were anxious for him to reform, and they made him a small allowance, hoping that he would find it impossible to live on it, and would, therefore, seek some form of employment.
Goold, however, was content to take the part of the shabby genteel "loafer," and for some years he was well known in most of the taprooms in the West End. When he was in funds he was in the habit of entertaining acquaintances in one of the cheap Soho restaurants, but these rare appearances in the rôle of host were invariably marked by ejection from the particular restaurant. Now and then he paid a small fine at Marlborough Street for being "drunk and disorderly," but on the whole Vere Goold had only one enemy, and that was himself. He was otherwise quite inoffensive until he came into the life of the adventuress.
The moment she decided to become Vere Goold's wife there was no way of escape for him. The woman was a human snake, and he was the frightened, timid rabbit. She dosed him with liquor and did all the thinking for him. When she led him to the nearest register office he plaintively said "Yes" to everything, and it took his drink-soddened mind some hours to realize that he was a married man, the husband of Marie, the woman with the evil face and the tongue of honey.
Marie Goold was delighted with her third husband. She compiled a list of his relatives, most of them of good social position, and, what was more important, she discovered there was a baronetcy in the family, and that if only certain persons died her husband would succeed to it and she would become Lady Goold! Ambition and vanity caused her to make her husband assume the baronetcy. By now the dressmaking business had been disposed of, and the married couple had about a hundred pounds between them. Marie voted for a protracted honeymoon on the Continent, and, to lend distinction to their adventures, it was as Sir Vere and Lady Goold that they left London for Paris, "her ladyship" plentifully stocked with clothes which she had obtained from the wholesale houses without troubling to pay for them.
But when their funds vanished they experienced many vicissitudes of fortune, and Vere Goold, who waited on his wife like a slave, came in for much abuse. He would listen meekly to her upbraidings, and then wander forth, hoping to meet an acquaintance on the boulevards whom he might "tap" for a few francs. They were turned out of several hotels and boarding-houses. Once Goold borrowed a little money and gave it to Marie. She promptly took a room at an hotel, and as the manager insisted upon cash down, even for their meals, she let her husband go without food, whilst she enjoyed the excellent cuisine of the hotel.
They experienced occasional bursts of sunshine when Marie succeeded in extracting loans from confiding hotel acquaintances, but the inevitable sequel to these minor triumphs was flight to escape prosecution for fraud. The helpless husband followed her about like a tame dog, and when she told him that she had found a way out of all their troubles he believed her, and declared his acquiescence in everything she said and did.
I have mentioned that Marie Goold was a gambler, and in the darkest hour she remembered Monte Carlo. She was positive that she knew the way to break the bank. Given a little capital, she was confident that she would make them both rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
The adventuress craved for big money now. For years she had lived by her wits, and the result was misery, mental and physical. She had swindled scores of acquaintances, and it was hardly safe for her to appear in London, Paris and other cities. She knew that the police of several countries had her name on their books, and for all her cleverness she had nothing to show except a weak-minded drunkard of a husband and her own ill-nourished condition. But she felt certain that Monte Carlo would prove their salvation. It was her last hope. She had expended all other sources of income, and now everything would depend on her cleverness as a gambler and the system she had invented.
For ten days they were held up in Paris owing to lack of funds, but Vere Goold wrote pitiful letters to friends in England, and a few of them responded, while Marie, making the most of her assumed title of "Lady Goold," obtained on approval a diamond ring from a jeweller. She was to have it on approval for twenty-four hours, and then, if she decided to keep it, was to pay cash down. But before the twenty-four hours elapsed the ring was pawned and she and the "baronet" were in the express for the Riviera, exulting over the good time coming. She had worked out an infallible system with which she could smash the bank, and henceforth they were—so she assured him—to have no difficulty in living up to their "baronetcy."
Marie was so anxious to keep as much of her small store of money as possible for the tables in the Casino that she became economically minded, and, instead of going to an hotel, took apartments in a Villa. She sent for her niece to act as a sort of housekeeper, because she would have to spend her days in the gaming-rooms. The niece, who was only twenty-four, was delighted to accept the invitation. She had not experienced much pleasure in her life, and the prospect of a season at Monte Carlo enchanted her.
It is not difficult to guess Marie Goold's experiences as a would-be breaker of the bank at Monte Carlo. The "infallible system," which had worked out so well on paper, proved a delusion and a snare, and Marie returned from the Casino in a towering rage with everybody. For hours her husband had patiently waited outside the Casino to accompany her home. He was not allowed to enter by his strong-minded wife, who had ordered him to hang about outside until she was tired of playing. Vere Goold would have willingly allowed her to use him as a door mat, and he was quite content to take her to the Casino and remain in the grounds until she was ready for him. He had a vague idea that his clever wife would overcome all difficulties, for he believed her to be a genius.
Four visits to the Casino resulted in Marie being penniless again. The position was desperate. They had obtained the rooms at the Villa Menesimy without the formality of rent in advance or references, the landlord having been overwhelmed by the honour of "Sir Vere and Lady Goold's" acquaintance. Nevertheless, at the end of the month he would demand what was owing, and the sum was so small that inability to pay it would arouse his suspicions, and then they would have to fly from Monte Carlo, and Marie would be unable to test her system further. But she refused to admit that her system was faulty. Her reverses she put down to sheer bad luck.
Marie had to search Monte Carlo for a likely victim to provide funds. In this way precious hours were wasted. She told her husband that she ought to be at the Casino coining money instead of lunching as cheaply as possible in expensive hotels and restaurants, but it was necessary for the vulture to go after her prey, and the loss of time could not be helped.
She achieved her object with characteristic cunning. One afternoon she "accidentally" stumbled against a lady in the hall of an hotel, and instantly apologized very humbly. From apology to general conversation was an easy step, and the stranger was fascinated by Marie's ready tongue. When they had made their names known to one another, "Lady Goold" begged to be allowed to present her husband "Sir Vere," to Madame Levin, and the latter, who was the widow of a wealthy Stockholm merchant, gladly accorded permission. She had social ambitions, and she welcomed "Sir Vere and Lady Goold" with more than ordinary cordiality. Marie, fashionably dressed and with her sallow cheeks lightened by a skilful use of powder, deferred in the most alluring manner to the rich widow. That she was wealthy was obvious from her display of jewellery, for Madame Levin carried thousands of pounds worth with her and frankly invited the admiration of strangers.
Marie Goold thought that Madame Levin would prove a source of income, and she was, therefore, surprised and exasperated when she discovered that the lady was close-fisted. Instead of obtaining hundreds it took Marie a fortnight to borrow forty pounds from her rich friend, and in return for that small loan she had to bow and scrape to her, and agree with everything she said. In fact, the clever adventuress had to subordinate her own opinions to the clumsily-expressed and frequently irritating statements to which the widow gave vent.
Her experiences leading up to the borrowing of that forty pounds should have convinced her that Madame Levin would prove a worrying creditor. The loan eventually passed into the keeping of the owner of the Casino, and Marie once again had to try and "raise the wind."
It maddened her to think that Monte Carlo was crowded with wealthy persons of both sexes on whom she was unable to practise any of her money-raising tricks, simply because they would not have anything to do with her. "Sir Vere and Lady Goold" were for some unexplained reason at a discount, and squabbles and hysteria were of frequent occurrence at the Villa Menesimy when Marie came back from the gaming-tables without a sou.
Then Madame Levin began to press for repayment, and when her debtor pleaded temporary embarrassment owing to non-receipt of a large remittance from her husband's agent in London she showed her teeth. Clearly Madame Levin regarded forty pounds as a very large sum, and she pestered "Lady Goold" every time they met. The adventuress was at her wit's end. She had to look pleasant and chat amiably with the rich widow, and ignore her insults, and yet she longed to get her white hands round the throat of her persecutor. She hated the Stockholm widow with a ferocity that was akin to madness, for Madame Levin was angrily demanding payment of the debt while Marie was actually in want of money to buy the necessaries of life.
The two women had a violent quarrel, and Marie must have unconsciously revealed something of her real self, for Madame Levin became afraid of her. Perhaps she saw murder in the evil eyes of the adventuress. She had been told already that Marie Goold was not entitled to the prefix "Lady," and from a trustworthy source she had ascertained that they were a couple of needy adventurers with a very shady and shadowy past.
After that Madame Levin seldom saw her, though she continued to write angry letters asking for the return of her money. Marie Goold ignored these appeals and threats. She was too absorbed in her own immediate difficulties now. Even poor Vere Goold, that helpless incompetent, was feeling the strain. For some days he was actually obliged to keep sober owing to the shortage of ready money.
Every day made matters worse. The Casino was not mentioned, and the Goolds were living in dire poverty, chained to the Villa Menesimy by their penniless condition. Then it was that the wolfish woman thought out the second great plan which she declared could save them.
She did not condescend to take her husband into her fullest confidence, but she gave him an outline of her latest plans. He agreed, of course. It was too late now for this weak-minded sot to try and emancipate his soul from the thraldom of his domineering wife, and as usual he was content to leave everything to her.
The first move was to get Marie's niece to spend a couple of days away from the apartments in the Villa Menesimy. This was accomplished easily. Then Marie called on Madame Levin with a smile and an apology, and asked her to come to the Villa Menesimy on the following Sunday to have tea with herself and her husband, and receive the forty pounds to which she was entitled.
Madame Levin hesitated. She disliked Vere Goold, the victim of drink and drugs, and she was afraid of Mrs. Goold, who was obviously a person who would stick at nothing. But when Marie emphasized her willingness to settle her debt the widow forgot her fears. She had arranged to leave Monte Carlo within a few days, and she was anxious to recover her forty pounds before she took her departure.
The Sunday came, and at half-past four Madame Levin entered the apartments the Goolds occupied at the Villa Menesimy. She was never seen alive again, for Marie Goold in inviting her to tea did so to take her life. Vere Goold, his faculties paralysed by drugs, opened the door to Madame Levin, and presently Marie emerged from the kitchen to greet her and to explain laughingly that her niece had been called away, and that she was compelled to prepare the tea herself. She placed a chair for her visitor, and returned to the kitchen, whilst Vere Goold, his whole body trembling, sat facing Madame Levin, trying to make conversation.
The widow forgot her doubts and fears, and chatted brightly to the accompaniment of the pleasant jingle of tea-things from the kitchen. Goold mumbled answers to her remarks, but the widow thought that his nervousness and distracted condition were due to drink and drugs, and she did her best to put him at his ease.
The noise in the kitchen ceased abruptly, but Madame Levin did not turn her head. She talked on of her home in Stockholm and of her future plans, and her voice was the only one heard as Marie Goold crept from the kitchen with a formidable-looking poker in her right hand. Madame Levin's back was towards the kitchen door, and she never heard the footfalls of her murderess.
Vere Goold sprang to his feet as the poker was raised by his wife and brought down with terrific force upon the head of the unfortunate visitor. She collapsed without a sound, and then Marie finished her off with a knife, her husband looking on dazed and stupefied.
She roused him with an oath, and, realizing that they were both in danger, he worked as she commanded. They had a big trunk in the bedroom, and this was hauled out. A large carpet-bag was found which could hold the head and legs of the murdered woman, and the rest of the corpse was packed in the trunk.
Late that night the niece returned, and she noticed at once that the carpet and curtains of the sitting-room were splashed with blood, but her aunt anticipated questions by informing her that her uncle had had a fit, during which he had vomited blood.
The next evening—the murder took place on Sunday, August 4, 1907—the guilty couple prepared for flight. They could not leave the trunk and the carpet-bag behind them, and they took both with them, Goold carrying the latter. The trunk was conveyed in a cab to the railway station, and tickets taken for Marseilles.
They arrived at their destination in the early hours of Tuesday morning, and Goold immediately ordered the trunk to be labelled "Charing Cross, London," and despatched there. Then with his wife he went to an hotel for rest and refreshment.
It was now the duty of the goods clerk at Marseilles Station to attend to the trunk, but when he came near it he was surprised by a fearful odour. Closer examination proved that blood was oozing from beneath the lid. Pons—that was the clerk's name—went at once to the hotel and saw the Goolds. They explained that the trunk was filled with poultry, hence the blood, but the railway official was not satisfied, and he called at a police station, where the inspector instructed him to inform the Goolds that the trunk would not be allowed to leave Marseilles until it had been opened and the contents examined in their presence.
Pons's first visit to the hotel had aroused doubts in Marie's mind, and she told her husband to get ready to steal out of Marseilles. He quickly obeyed, and they were actually emerging from the hotel when the goods clerk arrived for the second time. He conveyed to them the decision of the police, and Marie, conscious that they were in a tight corner, staked her life on bluff.
"Very well," she said haughtily, "we will take a cab and drive to the station, and when you have opened the trunk you can apologize for having been so impertinent as to doubt my word." The cab was called, and Marie and her husband with the large carpet-bag got in, but the woman's heart must have sunk when Pons entered after them, as though they were under arrest already.
The cab rattled along, and no one spoke until Mrs. Goold clutched the clerk's arm and whispered to him that she would be willing to pay ten thousand francs if he would let them go. Pons sat immovable. He was not to be bribed, and the attempt to do so proved that his suspicions were well-founded.
The examination of the contents of the trunk and carpet-bag indicated that a brutal murder had been committed, and before the two prisoners had time to confess the police identified the victim, and unravelled the whole story. Marie and her husband were accordingly sent back to Monte Carlo to stand their trial.
The woman was the chief figure in Court, her husband always presenting a shivering, weak-kneed appearance in the dock. Marie Goold was clearly the person who had murdered Madame Levin, and the sentence in her case was death. Her husband was consigned to penal servitude for life.
After a sensational trial they were removed to the French prison at Cayenne, and there in July, 1908, Marie Goold died of typhoid fever. Fourteen months later Vere Goold, driven insane by remorse and the deprivation of drink and drugs, committed suicide.
The fate of the niece was pathetic. She was so upset by her association with the murderers that despite every attention she faded away, dying before she attained her twenty-seventh birthday.
CHAPTER VII
MARTHA KUPFER, SWINDLER
The European War produced many German criminals, but the most resourceful of them all was Martha Kupfer, a middle-aged widow with a plausible manner and a pretty daughter, whose only capital was a profound knowledge of the weaknesses of her compatriots, out of which she made over £200,000 before she was arrested. She obtained this fortune in less than a couple of years, and there is every reason to believe that had she not grown careless she would never have been detected.
Anybody who is conversant with the German people must be aware that they worship three gods—Food, Money and Decorations. Every Hun before the war would have sold his soul for a medal, and although the ex-Kaiser cheapened the Iron Cross and similar gew-gaws by his lavish and ridiculous bestowal of them, they are still prized in Prussia.
When the Allies proclaimed a blockade of Germany, they incidentally turned the thoughts of all true Huns to food, not only because they are the heaviest, grossest and coarsest eaters in Europe, but because the rising prices clearly indicated an easy way to wealth for speculators. Money and food, therefore, were supreme, and decorations were temporarily forgotten.
An elderly Bavarian four years ago, summed up the situation neatly: "There are two things a German cannot escape—Death and the Iron Cross." He got six months in gaol for his humour.
Frau Kupfer, a stoutish little woman with a smiling face and large blue eyes, was one of the many who pondered over the situation. She was poor, and struggling hard to make both ends meet, and she listened with envy and attention to the various stories her neighbours told of the fortunes dealers in food were accumulating. They all wished they had the opportunity to share in their profits, and they spoke wistfully of money invested in banks and insurance companies which were paying miserably small dividends whilst corn dealers and grocers were turning their capital over in less than a month!
As the woman watched the bloated faces grow red and the dull eyes light up with greed, she realized that if only she could persuade them to believe that she had the power to buy and import provisions on wholesale lines and retail them at exorbitant prices to the community they would gladly entrust her with their savings, and she and her daughter would have a good time and never want again.
This was in the early part of 1915, when Martha Kupfer was living in a poverty-stricken flat in Leipzig. She thought the matter over for some days, and at last decided to enter upon a swindling career. She was certain that she had found a royal road to riches, and believing that she would do better in the metropolis she made preparations to live in Berlin.
But she had first to raise at least a hundred pounds to pay her expenses. It would not do to begin without capital, for if she looked poor she would not be able to influence the well-to-do, and she had, therefore, to try her hand in her native town. Frau Kupfer's first exploit was characteristic. She went to the widow of a doctor whom she knew to have a considerable sum in the bank, and she told her a wonderful story of how Wertheim, the great Berlin merchant, had sent for her to act as buyer for his grocery department because she had special facilities for getting the Danish farmers to sell cheaply to her. She added that she was to have half the profits, and she finally persuaded the old lady to part with five hundred pounds by promising that every month she would receive from her interest amounting to fifty pounds! This was at the rate of 120 per cent per annum! The doctor's widow was too good a German to be able to resist the temptation. She handed over the money, and Frau Kupfer and her daughter went to Berlin to start the great campaign.
Thanks to the capital provided by the credulous widow, Frau Kupfer was in a position to rent an expensive flat close to the one-time palatial building known as the British Embassy. Then she did a little shopping, and the outcome of this was that her neighbours—and Germans are renowned for their curiosity—began to babble excitedly about the fashionably-dressed widow and her daughter, who were obviously persons of great wealth.
Frau Kupfer and Gertrude wore the latest gowns, and their hats were wonderful. Every morning a beautifully-appointed motor-car took them for drives, and the two servants—being patriotic, she restricted herself to a couple—exhibited to their friends, when their mistress was out, cards bearing the names of some of the greatest personages in Berlin. Princesses, countesses, generals, admirals, and hosts of the nobility, learned professors, and several millionaire business men and their wives appeared to be on calling terms with the new-comers.
Meanwhile, Frau Kupfer and Gertrude went their own way, seeking no acquaintances, but always charming and good-tempered and charitable.
The fact was that Frau Kupfer knew that to attract people one must appear not to want them. They must come to the gilded parlour of their own accord, but until she was quite ready to swindle them she must pretend not to be anxious to extend her "large circle of acquaintances." It seems unnecessary to add that the cards which so impressed the servants were fakes.
Curiously enough, it was a doctor who started the ball rolling in Berlin. About this time the Berlin newspapers were full of fictitious stories of German victories on land and sea. Twice already it had been reported that Zeppelins had wiped London out of existence, and the daily boast of the papers was that Great Britain had ceased to rule the waves, her ships having been destroyed by the gallant German Navy.
But while the Huns believed anything they wished to believe these flattering reports did not make bread and meat more plentiful, and the food difficulties were increasing instead of diminishing. Only a few persons wondered how it was that London could have been rebuilt between the first and second Zeppelin raids. The majority accepted each lie with delightful simplicity. But only the rich experienced no privations, and Frau Kupfer and pretty Fraulein Gertrude were apparently very well off, for they, at any rate, did not want for the necessaries or the luxuries of life.
One morning, however, Frau Kupfer pretended that she had a headache, and she summoned by telephone a Dr. Richter, a physician who has one of the largest and most fashionable practices in Berlin. Now the doctor, being a near neighbour of the Kupfers, had heard the rumours of their wealth, and he obeyed the summons with alacrity. He found Frau Kupfer charming and amiable, apologizing a dozen times for giving him so much trouble, and murmuring that she was suffering from overwork.
The doctor was sympathetic, and when Gertrude brought him some refreshment he was only too eager to linger over it as his patient chattered. He was curious to discover the secret of her wealth, and as she talked volubly Frau Kupfer "unconsciously" gave him the desired information.
"My agents in Denmark," she said, with a wan smile, "are angry with me because I can't take all the food they have bought on my account. You see, Herr Doctor, I lived for many years in Denmark, and when the war broke out and those terrible English began their blockade it occurred to me that I could help my beloved country by importing food from Denmark, especially as I have unique facilities, owing to the largest farmers being related to me. I didn't mean to make money, but I find that the shops in Berlin are so anxious to buy that they will pay any price. I can turn my capital over ten times a month.
"It seems that there are enormous profits waiting to be picked up, but I haven't the necessary capital. I am quite content, but my agents think I am foolish not to raise another hundred thousand pounds and make as much a month by using it. You have no idea the money that can be coined, but, of course, one must know how to work it." She laid a hand on the doctor's arm and looked at him appealingly. "I have spoken candidly, because I know I can trust you, Herr Doctor," she added, in a musical undertone. "You won't tell your friends, will you? I am only a widow, and I don't want to be bothered. I am quite content with the present profits, they will enable me to complete my darling child's education and give her a large dowry when she marries."
The doctor hastened to assure her that her secret was safe with him. Then he took his departure, and it happened that his next patient was Countess von Hohn, the wife of General Count von Hohn, an aide-de-camp to the Kaiser, and a first cousin of Prince von Bülow, the ex-Chancellor. To her the doctor revealed the great secret, knowing that the countess loved money better than life itself. As he anticipated he fired her imagination, and she instantly commanded him to bring about a meeting between herself and the wonderful Frau Kupfer.
"I have twenty thousand pounds lying idle at my banker's," she said, and in her excitement she forgot that she was ill, and began to walk up and down the apartment. "Frau Kupfer, you say, can turn it into forty thousand within three months? I must see her at once. Herr Doctor, send your wife to call on her, and after that, when she's at your house, you can ring me up on the telephone, and I will hasten round. If this war goes on against Germany, it behoves us to have something to fall back upon. Everybody knows that dealers in provisions are amassing fortunes. Why shouldn't I have some of the profits too?"
Of course there was no difficulty in effecting an introduction to Frau Kupfer. The two met at Dr. Richter's house at afternoon tea, and Countess von Hohn made herself very charming to the widow, whose dress and jewellery must have cost a small fortune. Indeed, they became so cordial that, although this was their first meeting, the countess willingly accepted an invitation to call at Frau Kupfer's flat the following afternoon.
When she arrived she was shown into the magnificently furnished drawing-room, and there she was purposely left alone for a few minutes. During that time the inquisitive, money-mad woman searched the room for signs of wealth. There were many to be found.
On the mantelpiece was a letter from the manager of the Deutsche Bank acknowledging a deposit of sixty thousand pounds; on a costly desk was a letter from another bank informing Frau Kupfer that their Copenhagen correspondents had advised them to place to her credit one hundred and eleven pounds. Other papers and letters were in the same strain, and when the countess had mastered their contents she was positively trembling with anxiety to get a finger in the financial pie belonging to her newly-made friend.
It was against all etiquette for the countess to be left unattended in the drawing-room, but when Frau Kupfer, clothed in a glorious tea-gown, fluttered in and began to apologize most profusely and extravagantly for her neglect and rudeness, the countess, who would in any other circumstances have been furious, hastened to reassure her.
"These are war-times, Frau Kupfer," she said, with a smile, "and we can afford to dispense with etiquette. I assure you I have not been sorry for the opportunity to inspect your beautiful furniture and pictures."
Martha Kupfer smiled in acknowledgment, but she knew what her visitor had been doing. One glance had told her that the letters on the table and the mantelpiece had been touched. They were not in the same position that she had left them in. Her little ruse had succeeded, for she had purposely baited the room with these letters and given the countess plenty of time to read them.
Tea was served, and a short time was spent in conversation, in which Gertrude Kupfer discreetly joined, but at the right moment she made an excuse and went out.
The countess was relieved. She had been unable to touch any of the expensive cakes owing to her anxiety to get to business. The moment Gertrude had gone she mentioned the subject uppermost in her mind.
"My dear Frau Kupfer," she said, in her most winning manner, "I want you to promise not to be angry with me if I ask you to let me invest twenty thousand pounds in your little provision enterprise."
Frau Kupfer started and looked embarrassed.
"I feel as if we had known one another for years; you can trust me," she added, appealingly.
But the swindler did not speak, and the countess proceeded:
"I am sure you need capital. Why not let me help?"
Suddenly Frau Kupfer looked up at her.
"You are right, countess," she said, with a charming blush. "It would be selfish of me to deny my friends a share of the profits. I will take your money, and you shall have ten per cent on it every month. I am making that and more.
"Do you know that I can import bacon, for which the people of Berlin pay eight shillings a pound for less than a shilling a pound? The profits on flour are bigger, and I can get a hundred per cent on soap and candles, and practically everything of which the English are trying to deprive us. I have a contract to supply three palaces of the Kaiser's with provisions for a year. You see, I am protected in high quarters. Of course, His Majesty is paying the highest price for the very best, and on that contract alone I shall make thirty shillings profit on every pound I spend. I liked you countess, from the moment we met. You shall have a share. It is a pity you have not more money saved, because that would mean a bigger return. However, you can reinvest your dividends."
Within forty-eight hours the twenty thousand pounds which the Countess von Hohn had received by the sale of her British and French securities was in the hands of Frau Kupfer.
I should mention that six weeks before the war started the German Foreign Minister notified all those who could be trusted to keep the secret that they had better realize their investments in Great Britain, France and Russia. As the countess' husband was one of the inner set, he got the information early, and was able to save his own and his wife's fortune.
This unexpected windfall delighted Frau Kupfer and Gertrude. The first thing they did was to send fifty pounds' "interest" to the doctor's widow at Leipzig, and the second to take a larger and better flat, retaining their original residence, however, and using it mainly as a hiding-place for the choicest provisions.
Frau Kupfer paid her two maids lavishly and fed them luxuriously, and they were hers body and soul in a city where famine threatened to stalk abroad. It was easy, therefore, to stock the flat with preserves, bacon, ham, wines, cigars, cigarettes and soap, besides a huge amount of clothing.
The stock was replenished from time to time, while now that their headquarters were at one of the finest flats in Berlin, Frau Kupfer and Gertrude were able to proceed from financial triumph to social triumph.
Countess von Hohn was promptly paid her first dividend of two thousand pounds a month after she had invested her money, but she promptly sent the cheque back with a request that it might be added to her capital.
Frau Kupfer must have screamed with laughter when she read this proof of how complete was her power over her first great dupe. She was, indeed, succeeding beyond her wildest dreams.
The widow at Leipzig also helped considerably, for she wrote to a rich and highly placed friend in Berlin about her luck, and that friend promptly called on Frau Kupfer, and begged to be permitted to invest in the great food trust. She found the woman entertaining half a dozen ladies, all of whom bore names that were household words in the country, and when she rather pettishly complained of being bothered she did not resent her manner, but became more supplicating than ever, and eventually went away poorer by a thousand pounds, which she had "invested."
Frau Kupfer was now fairly launched on a career of gigantic swindling. It was no longer necessary to pretend that she had tens of thousands of pounds at her bankers. It was a fact. The money simply poured in upon her every day.
All sorts and conditions of people clamoured to be allowed to join the secret food trust. They quite understood that everything had to be done quietly. The common people, who had no inkling of the tremendous profits that were being made by speculators in food, must be kept in ignorance lest they should complain, and the horrible Socialist papers make trouble for the profiteers.
Besides, as Frau Kupfer said, they must not forget that they were all partners in a scheme that was daily contravening the Government regulations as to maximum prices.
Thus the times were in her favour. The war dominated everybody's thoughts, and food was so scarce that it ceased to be a question of prices. All were willing to pay provided they obtained the provisions, and so with the necessity for secrecy and the blind, unquestioning obedience and trustfulness of her clients, Frau Kupfer's position seemed impregnable.
Six months after her arrival in Berlin Frau Kupfer launched out as a woman of fashion and means. She went everywhere. The nobility received her, and she was the constant companion of aristocratic dames, who gave her and her daughter seats in their boxes at the theatre.
No one could rival them in the art of dressing. It was the talk of fashionable Berlin that Frau Kupfer and Gertrude paid eighteen shillings a pair for stockings, and never wore them twice, and that they had the most expensive wardrobe in Germany. The swindler maintained the deception by giving dinners, for which the élite scrambled to obtain invitations. The very rarest dishes and vintages were provided for her guests, and despite food restrictions Frau Kupfer could entertain as though there was not a war on and the British blockade a myth.
There might be food riots in Berlin, Leipzig, Hamburg and scores of other places, but the friends of the swindler never wanted for anything, and Frau Kupfer's dinners were her best protection against exposure. She was a charming hostess, and her sympathetic interest in the relatives of her guests who were in the trenches was enchanting.
One of her most profitable deals arose out of her pretended interest in the son of a retired general who was introduced to her by the Countess von Hohn. General von Demidoff, a German of Polish extraction, was known to be a rich man. He had served for fifty years in the army, and had spent at least half that time enriching himself at the expense of the troops under him.
But although he must have had plenty of cash he did not succumb to Frau Kupfer's scheme as quickly as she expected. General von Demidoff—he won the coveted "von" in the Franco-Prussian War—was an old man, and he was reluctant to engage in hazardous speculation, but he was greatly pleased with Frau Kupfer and her daughter.
The arch-swindler never even hinted that he should take shares in the secret food trust, and as he got many luxurious dinners at her expense he was only too glad to number her amongst his acquaintances. They often met at the theatre or at the house of a mutual friend, and it was even rumoured that the old man was keen on the wealthy widow; but this was only an invention. Frau Kupfer had no desire for matrimony. She was aware that marriage would inevitably lead to the discovery of her colossal frauds.
But when Frau Kupfer began to talk about the general's son, and to ask permission to send him parcels of dainties, which she knew he could not obtain for himself, he thought that a woman with such a kind heart must be amongst the best of her sex, and although he took a month to make up his mind he finally decided to entrust ten thousand pounds to her for investment in her business.
When he called on her with this intention he found her reclining gracefully on a sofa reading, in the Lokalanzeiger, an account of the victory of the Crown Prince's Army at Verdun. Her eyes were shining with enthusiasm, and she was all smiles when General von Demidoff was announced.