CHAPTER XI
A QUEER MÉNAGE
September 6th
The Shorlands!
Madame was very sweet and winning, but Monsieur was always a mystery.
He was about forty, tall, bony, yet robust. His hair was black, slightly tinged with grey at the temples, which brightened the darkness of his complexion. His rather prominent eyes were black, of an opaque blackness when their glance was tired, yet, somehow, a secret force seemed to animate them, giving an ardent, yet gloomy, character to the features. He was always alert and full of energy, his forehead ample and well defined, his nose aquiline, his chin long, showing an obstinate will.
And he always seemed to regard me with distinct suspicion.
True, I was Madame’s femme-de-chambre, hence he believed, I suppose, that she had taken me into her confidence.
The ménage of the Shorlands’ was a rather curious one. Monsieur and Madame lived in Albert Hall Mansions, which—as you know—are a big pile of red-brick facing the Memorial, in Kensington Gore. They rented it, I believe, from a retired judge who had gone to New Zealand to visit his son for a couple of years. A très joli apartment extremely well furnished, solidly and rather severely, as became a criminal judge.
I obtained the situation through a well-known agency in Edgware Road.
I say that the ménage was a trifle irregular, because of the mysterious movements of Madame.
She was a short, rather stout, fair-haired, over-dressed little person, with a fat hand and a snub nose. She deluded herself into the belief that she was good-looking, but oh! her face! Well, it was what we should vulgarly call in France “porky”—that is, bloated and mottled in such a manner that no face-cream and powder could effectually hide it.
Her habit was to speak sharply, almost snappishly, indeed so much so that in the first hour I was at Albert Hall Mansions I felt half inclined to “answer her back.”
But I did not know her. Ma foi! I did not. Perhaps it would have been better for me if I had never known her.
Bien! The days went by. Our personnel consisted of the chef, housemaid, John the man-servant and myself, yet the meals were served with a stateliness that would have befitted a château on the Loire.
In the cuisine no economy was practised, for Monsieur dearly loved good things; while Madame’s wardrobe was filled to overflowing with rich furs and smart gowns from the best houses in Paris.
Vraiment! she had a neat figure, had Madame, even though she was too short of stature and her nose was so markedly tip-tilted.
Her movements were truly mysterious. She came and went alone at all hours. She would rise at four in the morning and go out alone, returning in time for breakfast, or she would dress herself in a walking-gown at midnight and go forth, not to return until mid-day. Where she went, or what she did, greatly puzzled me.
Yet, from the first, she had given me to understand that I was not paid to reason, only to serve her as femme-de-chambre.
Monsieur was entirely complacent. He never troubled whither she went, or when she returned. He would sit at home and read, and never care at what hour Madame returned. His only care seemed to be that the front door was left unbolted for her to enter.
Bien! Therefore I scented mystery. Surely you also would have done so had you been in my place.
More than once I set myself to watch her. Slipping out after her late one night I followed her in a taxi. She had exchanged a pretty pale-blue dinner-gown for a neat black dress, and wearing a close-fitting hat and black jacket she looked very much like a superior maid herself.
She took a taxi from the rank and drove away, while I took another, and told the man to follow his friend.
First we went swiftly up Park Lane, and then, heading due north, passed through Highgate on to the North Road, continuing through Finchley to Whetstone, where, turning sharply to the right up a pleasant road of detached houses, we found ourselves passing a railway station, which I recognised as Oakleigh Park.
Beyond, on the right, lay Barnet Valley, and away to the north the houses of New Barnet. In a few moments we swung into the main road from Enfield, where, turning again to the left, my driver suddenly pulled up short.
“The lady’s got out at that white ’ouse at the end of the road, miss. I’d better get back to Oakleigh Park station and wait for you there—eh? If I wait ’ere I’ll be spotted.”
Evidemment this was not the first occasion that my driver had followed another cab.
I turned on my heel, and in the night strolled to the house where my mistress was calling.
My main fear was that she might glance out of the window, for the night was bright and moonlight. Fortunately a high privet hedge divided the garden from the road. As I passed I noted that, approached by a well-kept gravelled path, a small newly-built house lay, covered with ivy, behind which was a pleasant garden filled with flowers.
Who lived there? I wondered. Who could be Madame’s friend whom she had gone there to visit clandestinely—and at that hour!
The bright green taxi was drawn up against the gate, and the man was idly smoking a cigarette at the steering-wheel, therefore to slip within the garden and try and peer between the blinds was impossible.
So I was compelled to wait in the vicinity until about an hour later I saw her come forth and dismiss her cab, showing that she was remaining there the night.
I waited until four o’clock in the morning, but in vain. Then I returned to Albert Hall Mansions.
Madame returned about half-past nine, and sat with Monsieur at breakfast as though she had been calmly at home all the night.
Extraordinaire!
Moi, I was much mystified, but I resolved to watch and to wait.
The London season was drawing to a close.
It had been an exceptionally brilliant one, they said, for the principal hostesses had outvied with each other in entertaining; of balls there had been many that had been noteworthy, and in no previous season during my long service in London families had luxury and extravagance run such riot.
Vraiment! Thousands stood starving below those brilliantly-lit windows of the Savoy and Cecil, where smart London laughed and supped; but what does London care for outcasts such as those? They are the unemployed whom the smart woman, in her ignorance, believes to be the drunken and worthless scum of the metropolis.
Little Madame Shorland moved in quite a good set. She was really not more extravagant than any other woman who went to Dover Street or the Place Vendôme for her gowns, and to Bond Street and the Rue de la Paix for her hats.
She was always exquisitely gowned, and her taste in dress was perfect. And she always did me credit, I am very proud to declare.
Sometimes she would take me out with her when driving in the smart electric landaulette she so frequently hired. She hated to be alone, and Monsieur would scarcely ever drive out with her. He was a morose person, was Monsieur.
One afternoon we had stopped at Rumpelmeyer’s and were having tea when there entered a tall, fair-haired, clean-shaven young man, with an extremely well-dressed, rather handsome young woman.
The latter, recognising my mistress, came over effusively with outstretched hand, exclaiming, with a pronounced American accent—
“My! Mrs. Shorland! I’m real glad to see you. My husband and I called on you yesterday.”
“I was out—so sorry,” replied Madame, at the same time acknowledging the well-groomed, clean-shaven man’s bow.
Then the lady introduced her husband as “Mr. Lindermann,” and I quickly knew they were Mr. and Mrs. John R. Lindermann, of Pittsburg. The name of Lindermann is, as everybody knows, synonymous of great wealth. Old Silas Lindermann had died a year before, and his colossal fortune, derived from iron, had been inherited by his son John, the keen-eyed young man before us.
The pair were of a pronounced “loud” type, such as one meets constantly at the Carlton, the Savoy, and the Ritz during the season.
Madame seemed to be very intimate with them, especially with the young millionaire’s wife, yet I had never heard her speak of them before, and could only suppose that the friendship had been formed that season.
As we sipped our tea, Lindermann remarked that they had been in “Eu-rope” a year, and were just now at the Ritz.
Mrs. Lindermann chattered on in a high-pitched American voice that could be heard all over the room, when Lindermann himself suddenly said—
“My wife wants to take a chat-too in the Forest of Fontainebleau for the summer,” he explained. “Do you know it, Mrs. Shorland? What’s it like?”
“Delightful,” declared Madame. “In my younger days in Paris we often spent Sunday at Barbison, Marlotte or the Gorge de Loup. The forest is perfectly lovely—especially if you have a car.”
“We’ve got one. We brought it over, and went touring on it down in Italy. It was fine. But, say! Lady Sybil’s dining with us to-morrow night and going to the new piece at the Gaiety. Will you join us?”
Madame thanked him, and accepted. A friendship with a millionaire is always useful.
As I drove with Madame back I made discreet inquiry regarding the Lindermanns, and what she thought of them.
“Oh! they’re not our sort, of course, Mariette. But we must tolerate them, as they may be useful,” she laughed.
Another little histoire. One evening, four days after the encounter at Rumpelmeyer’s, Madame had given me leave to go out until eleven, but I had returned just before seven as I had forgotten a letter I wanted to post.
When close to Albert Hall Mansions I saw her emerge, therefore I drew back, so that she should not see me. She had, I noticed, put on that same plain black gown, and she carried in her hand a large bag. Turning, she walked in the direction of Knightsbridge, where she hailed a taxi, ordering the man to close it.
That action aroused my suspicion.
I hailed another taxi, and again followed her to that suburban house at Oakleigh Park.
I was impatient to discover the motive of these secret visits. Now, in the evening light, I saw, as I approached cautiously, that beyond the house lay a paddock, and by squeezing through the hedge, I could cross the grass, out of sight of the taxi-driver, and thus gain the side of the house. In half an hour it would be sufficiently dark for my purpose.
Bien! I passed on, and, when out of sight of the idling driver, I waited.
Darkness was a long time in falling that hot, breathless night. It is astonishing how slowly the daylight fades when one is watching.
Enfin, the dusk grew deeper; night crept on. Then, as silently as I could, I walked stealthily back under the shadows. The taxi driver had not lighted his lamps, preferring to wait until his fare emerged. Quietly I entered the paddock, and, slipping across the grass, gained the side of the detached house, close to a window, through which, approaching carefully, I peered.
It was a small, plainly furnished study, but no one was there.
Keeping still out of sight of the taxi-driver, I crept along the strip of garden beneath the windows in front of the house, where I could hear voices, until I got to a window whence a light shone out across the lawn.
The drab holland blind was down, but the edge was of lace insertion. Therefore, as I raised my head above the sill, I could see all that was in progress within the room.
What I witnessed caused my heart to leap.
In a big grandfather chair near the fireplace, propped up with pillows, sat a thin, pale-faced man of about sixty, evidently suffering from illness, for he moved his wasted hand languidly as he spoke to Madame, who was seated near him with her hat off, and with a look of keen anxiety upon her face.
The man was in a dark blue dressing-gown, and even as I looked I saw my little friend tenderly place a hassock beneath his slippered feet. As she did so he stretched forth his hand, and, placing it upon hers, looked into her face with an expression of deep thankfulness. For a moment he held her hand in his as she stood beside him. Then he slowly carried it to his lips.
I could hear that he spoke low, soft words, but what they were I could not distinguish.
She stood gazing at him in silence, and I saw that tears were welling in her eyes. For fully ten minutes she stood beside him sighing, with her lips pressed together, in a valiant effort to restrain her emotion.
Suddenly he raised his thin white finger towards a big dark-blue-and-white Chinese ginger-jar which stood upon a shelf in the centre of the big carved buffet on the opposite side of the room. She crossed to it, and, taking it down, removed the lid. Then, placing her hand within, she drew forth something which she carried across to the invalid.
It was, I saw, a small oblong box of dark green leather, which, on being opened, disclosed two short strings of very fine pearls of the same size and quality.
The white-haired invalid took them in his hand, exhibiting them in his palm beneath the light, while Madame bent to examine them, shaking her head in doubt. The invalid had evidently put to her a question to which she could give no reply.
At last he selected the shorter of the two strings, and after scrutinising them, mutely handed them to her. The other he placed back in their box, which she, in turn, restored to the jar, while the pearls he had given her she secreted in the breast of her silk blouse.
Ma foi! the whole proceeding was a strange one. What could it all mean?
Madame had reseated herself, apparently quite at home, and they were discussing something very seriously. Mine was a tantalising position, for I was unable to distinguish a single sentence.
Darkness had now fallen completely. Once a tap came at the door, and a nurse in uniform entered to ascertain whether her patient required anything. On another occasion the telephone on the writing-table near the window rang, and the nurse entered to answer it.
Then the invalid and his visitor were again left alone, and Madame seemed to be endeavouring to cheer up the man who had given her that couple of dozen fine pearls.
Again he had tenderly kissed her soft white hand, and his dark, deep-sunken eyes were fixed upon her. He had evidently been a good-looking man before the ravages of his illness had altered his countenance and given it the haggard, shrunken appearance it now presented.
She took up her hat, thrust the pins into it, and began to adjust her veil before the mirror over the fireplace, while I still crouched watching.
I saw her wish him good-bye, standing for some moments while the invalid clasped her hand.
Then I watched her bend with her hand upon his shoulder, and it seemed as though she urged him to be of good cheer.
Lower and lower she bent, till her full red lips met his.
I held my breath. This, then, was the reason of her secret visits!
I hardly know what happened in those moments that followed, save that I heard the rustle of her silk skirt close to me, and that, a few seconds later, the red back-light of the taxi was disappearing down the road.
I crept forth, and found that the name upon the gate was “Allandale.” Then I rejoined my taxi, and drove round until we found the nearest shops.
At four likely places I made inquiry, but without any result until, at a newsvendor’s, the man behind the counter said—
“Yes, miss. I serve ‘Allandale.’ There’s an old invalid gentleman lives there.”
“What is his name?” I inquired eagerly.
“Mr. March, miss. He’s lived there about two years, I think.”
“Is he married?”
“No, miss. He’s got an old woman as housekeeper, and can only go out in one of those long invalid carriages. They say he’s got something wrong with his spine. I supply him with lots of papers. Reading seems his only recreation, poor man,” added the newsvendor.
Then, after a further chat, I re-entered my taxi, and we sped back again down the hills to London.
What I had seen had increased the mystery.
Madame was quite unsuspicious that I had been watching her. Women are so seldom suspicious of their servants.
On the next night she was absent till morning, yet Monsieur slept calmly at home, not in the least perturbed by her non-return! Ah! truly some of the ménages of London are distinctly curious. You read strange things in your daily paper, but ma foi! they are not half so strange as the happenings in real life.
Madame Lindermann called one afternoon while I was attending upon Madame. She was sitting in the room while I tied Madame’s veil, when suddenly she exclaimed—
“Say, Mrs. Shorland, my husband has had a letter from his agent in Paris by to-day’s mail saying that he’s found a nice place for us in Fontainebleau Forest—the Chat-too de Bouligny, somewhere near a place called Marlotte.”
“I know it!” I exclaimed. “The most lovely part of the forest, Madame.”
“Looks fine from the pictures he’s sent. I’ve taken it for the summer. You’ll come over with us for a few weeks, now do, won’t you?” urged Mrs. Lindermann, who wore a wonderful gown of cream lace, that must have cost a good many thousand francs.
“I’ll be most delighted,” declared my mistress. “I love Fontainebleau.”
“Madame will enjoy it,” I declared. “It’s a perfect spot for the summer, and one can so easily run into Paris.”
On the following Monday therefore Madame and I travelled together to Paris, where, at the Gare du Nord, we found Lindermann’s fine car waiting to take us across the city and out to Fontainebleau.
It proved a delightful run, and soon after six o’clock we found ourselves at the great Château de Bouligny, about two miles from the pretty riverside village of Marlotte. It was a splendid place, the residence of the Comte de Bouligny, who, being in the Diplomatic Service, was abroad.
The Americans had apparently installed themselves rapidly, for there seemed to be a host of servants, and as we drove up before the great turretted house, our host and hostess came forward gaily to welcome us.
The Counts of Bouligny were one of the oldest families in France, and the château, filled with antiques, was a most delightful residence, situated on a slight eminence, with the lovely forest stretching in every direction.
Madame was the only guest, and after dinner in the huge oak-panelled salle-à-manger the trio played billiards.
Next day they took a long motor drive, through the forest to Recloses, Arbonne, and thence by Barbison to Chailly, returning by the lovely Route de Melun and the Route de Moret, past the picturesque village of Veneux-Nadon, and home.
Madame declared herself delighted. The day was perfectly cloudless, and the wonderful forest, perhaps the prettiest in all Europe, looked its best. For my own part I confess I enjoyed myself on that day, and on the many days that followed. There was a particularly good-looking valet-de-chambre. Assez!
Lindermann received daily visits from a tall, thin, well-dressed American named Lamb, his agent, with whom he spent an hour in the library each day.
“I’ve got so many interests that I’m continually being worried,” he explained one morning. “They’ll never let me alone. But Lamb’s a hustler—one of the smartest in Parrus.”
Madame led a pleasant life in those warm summer days, motoring each afternoon, lunching on the terrasse, and playing bridge or billiards in the evening.
One night, after I had retired, I sat in my room writing my diary. Then I turned out my lamp and strolled out on to the balcony to gaze over the forest, lying silent and weird in the bright moonlight.
Eh, bien, I had been there perhaps ten minutes, when suddenly I heard a light footstep on the gravel below, and saw Lindermann, still in his evening clothes, cross the drive hurriedly and slip across the grass towards the big gates which opened into the road.
Where could he be going at that hour? My curiosity was aroused, and I at once crept down the wide staircase, and followed him. Walking on the grass in my slippers I made no noise. I saw his dark figure pass through the gate, and I hurried forward to watch.
He walked about three hundred yards along the white forest road in the direction of Marlotte, when, from the shadow emerged a man whose face I could not see.
But, curiously enough, I heard Lindermann speaking in perfect French, a language which he had pretended to me not to know!
I halted and listened again. Yes! There was no doubt. The American, who spoke French splendidly, was upbraiding the man for not keeping an appointment on the previous night.
“There was danger, mon cher ami,” the stranger replied. “I did not wish to run any risk. It was certainly not wise in our mutual interests, you know.”
This clandestine meeting was curious, without a doubt, but when a man is a millionaire, I remembered, he often is compelled to hide from his right hand what his left hand is doing.
Therefore, at the time, I did not regard the circumstance as anything really remarkable. It was only in the light of later events that a strange truth became revealed.
Lindermann was often absent in Paris—transacting business with Lamb. One day, when he was at home, they had motored to Chartres, and, having lunched at the old-world Hôtel de la Poste covered with ivy, they went south to Arrou, and got back to the château rather late; indeed, only just in time to scramble into their clothes before the great gong in the turret went for dinner.
Lindermann’s wife looked particularly smart in a low-cut gown of carnation pink, her only ornament being one that she had worn on the one occasion when they had dined at Albert Hall Mansions, an antique crucifix set with magnificent emeralds, and suspended around her white neck by a thin gold chain. I recollected that Madame had remarked what an exquisite thing it was, whereon Lindermann had told her—
“Yes. It’s real fine, ain’t it? It belonged to Marie Antoinette, and was her talisman. She carried it with her at her execution in 1793. I bought it from the Janssen collection in Berlin a year ago.”
And as Madame’s hostess now sat beneath the shaded lamplight at the head of the table, I saw that the jewel of the ill-fated Queen of Louis XVI. gleamed with a green mystic light, which ever and anon caught one’s eye. That jewel worn by the Queen when she bravely faced the mob of women at Versailles, when she had dismissed Turgot and Necker in disgrace, and when, with horror, she had seen the head of her favourite Princess Lamballe flourished before her prison window, now graced the neck of the ostentatious wife of an American iron-master!
Madame was in excellent form that evening when I peeped in. Her conversation was brilliant, and they all laughed at her witticisms.
A long motor drive had been planned for the morrow, so they retired early.
At nine next morning, after breakfast, Madame, in her country kit of blouse, skirt and motor hat, approached me.
“Where’s the nearest post-office, Mariette?” she asked hurriedly.
“Down at Marlotte, a mile away, Madame.”
“I want to go there. Come with me,” she urged. “I can get back before the car is ready.”
So we walked along the shady forest road together to that picturesque village, so beloved by the Paris artists, and at the bureau de poste she dropped a thick heavy letter into the box.
Was it, I wondered, a letter to that haggard invalid out beyond Barnet, who had so tenderly kissed her upon the lips?
And as I strolled at her side on the way back I remained silent in wonder. What was her secret? Every mistress has some secret.
Lindermann had been suddenly called to Paris by telegram, but nevertheless the two ladies spent a delightful day travelling on the wide Lyons road to Auxerre, returning by Tonnerre and Joigny.
They found Lindermann at home on their return, but when about half-way through dinner I heard the sound of an approaching motor-car, and a few moments later Henri, the butler, approaching his master, whispered something in his ear.
He started from the table and came out, almost falling upon me. A few seconds later he went back, exclaiming—
“Say, Ida! Lamb’s come down to say that your mother got to Paris this evening very ill. She’s at the Athenée. He saw there wasn’t a train back till midnight, so he’s brought his car.
“My mother ill!” gasped Mrs. Lindermann, starting from the table in sudden alarm. “What’s the matter?”
“A sudden seizure in the train coming from Cherbourg. She only landed from New York this morning, it seems.”
“Let’s go at once,” she cried. “You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Mrs. Shorland?” And they both hurried out.
Five minutes later we watched them set out, each taking a dressing-case.
“Mrs. Lindermann told me that she expected her mother soon,” remarked Madame to me as she returned to the dinner-table. “This will no doubt be a great upset for them.”
I suppose we had been up-stairs in Madame’s room nearly an hour when Henri suddenly entered, saying in French—
“There is a gentleman who desires to speak with Madame. He has asked for Monsieur Lindermann, and now asks for you.”
Madame gave orders for him to be admitted, whereupon there entered a rather short, dark-eyed, little man in sombre black, while I saw a second man standing in the hall outside.
“You are Madame Shorland?” he said abruptly in French. “And Mademoiselle is Madame’s maid—eh? Is not that so? Well, Madame, I am Jacques Lesage, divisional inspector, Prefecture of Police, Paris.”
Madame drew a long breath. In an instant the light faded from her cheeks.
“I must apologise for disturbing Madame, but I am here in connection with a great robbery of jewels.”
I had risen prepared to defend my little mistress. I saw that he regarded us both with suspicion.
“Bien,” Madame said boldly. “And what have we to do with it, pray?”
“You are friends of the couple Lindermann,” said the detective. “They were warned an hour ago, and for the present have escaped.”
“Then, Monsieur is in search of Lindermann?” I gasped.
“Certainly. He and his wife, with a man who goes under the name of Lamb, are expert American thieves. Six months ago a case in the jewel-room of the Musée du Louvre was broken open, and among other very valuable objects the emerald crucifix of Marie Antoinette was abstracted. How the theft was accomplished we have not yet ascertained. We know, however, that Lindermann disposed of four antique rings in London a month ago, and that the woman carried some of the property to Brussels. Probably part of it, or of the proceeds of other robberies, is concealed here; therefore my men will search the place. I have sent a man to Moret with orders to telephone to the Hôtel de l’Athenée.”
Madame and I stood staring at the man, utterly dumfounded at those revelations.
Then, as he went out to direct his men to search the splendid old château, I called after him—
“Madame Lindermann wore the crucifix last night at dinner.”
But when he had passed down the hall, Madame whispered in my ear, smiling grimly—
“The crucifix is well on its way to London, Mariette. We posted it in Marlotte this morning!”
Horrible affair. We were both taken to the Prefecture of Police, in Paris, but by preserving strict silence we were released after only a few hours’ detention, and returned to London.
It was not long, however, before I discovered that Monsieur and Madame Shorland were actually members of an expert gang of daring jewel-thieves, and that Mr. March, the mysterious invalid up at Oakleigh Park, was Madame’s father—one of the best-known receivers of stolen jewels in London.
Moreover, the Paris police, having released us, discovered their error two days later, and telegraphed frantically asking Scotland Yard to effect the arrest of my master and mistress.
But, alas! they had already both disappeared, and, as far as I know, have never since been heard of.
I paid a visit to the interesting invalid up at Oakleigh Park, and from him received my wages—a substantial sum in order, I suppose, to secure my silence.
Surely it was no affair of mine. Madame had been very kind and generous towards me. Was it not my duty therefore to be loyal to her?
Perhaps in this you may differ?
But what would you have done in the circumstances—if you had been a femme-de-chambre? Mais oui, some of my adventures in London have, indeed, been strange ones!