The master criminal

by G. Sidney Paternoster

When the lid was opened, Cornelius, at first sight of its contents, gave a sniff indicative of disgust. He saw a little lace handkerchief, a glove, an opera programme, a few withered rose leaves, and an infinite contempt for the young man he served swept over him. There was no trace of sentiment hidden away in the heart of Cornelius. But when he tossed the trumpery aside he drew a long breath of surprise. Beneath the valueless trifles was concealed an article of price—a little golden frame enclosing an exquisite miniature on ivory of a girl with a wealth of fair hair, the painting surrounded with a circlet of brilliants. At first he did not grasp the significance of the discovery. The likeness of the miniature to Meriel Challys seemed to him a full explanation as to why it should be in his employer's possession. But as he turned the frame over in his hand, counting the stones in the setting, weighing the trinket delicately on two fingers to estimate the weight of the gold, he remembered that somewhere he had seen a description of some such article. Where? He had not to rack his brain very long before he was able to recall where he had seen the miniature described. Like many another person who longs for the prize without incurring the attendant risks, Cornelius had assimilated every detail which had been made public concerning the Flurscheim robbery. His mouth had watered at the published descriptions of the stolen articles and now here—if he was not greatly mistaken—was one of them in his own hand.

At the heels of this thought came another which almost made his heart cease beating. Five thousand pounds reward! Five thousand pounds had been offered for such information as would lead to the conviction of the thief and to the recovery of the stolen property. Five—thousand—pounds! Five thousand pounds was lying waiting for him, Cornelius Jessel. Yet, dazzled as he was by the prospect of the acquisition of such wealth, he hesitated a long while before he could persuade himself to make use of the information which had come into his possession. It was the thought of the Master which gave him pause. In view of the discovery which he had made he began to be timorous. He could no longer believe that the Master's interest in Guy Hora was the interest of the hawk in the pigeon. Dimly he began to comprehend that unknowingly he was being used as pawn in a game which he did not comprehend. Supposing then that any effort of his own to secure that five thousand pounds should run counter to any plan of the Master's? He shivered at the thought, for he had a very real fear of the Master's capacity for mischief. He had locked the miniature and the glove and the rose leaves away again and set his wits to work to discover a plan by which he might obtain the five thousand pounds without the fact that he was the informer being disclosed to anybody. The more he pondered upon the subject the more convinced he became that fortune was within his grasp. He could not have made the discovery at a more opportune moment. He was in the country surrounded by a lot of simple country folk, and within reach was the victim of the burglary, who had offered the reward. What better plan could be conceived than that of taking his information straight to the fountain head? He would then be able to make his own terms. But he saw that it would be necessary to have some proof of the correctness of his statements. He paid another visit to Guy's dressing case after providing himself with a pencil and oiled paper. With these he made a series of tracings of the miniature, and, clumsy as they were, yet he trusted that they might be clear enough for identification. Thus provided, he determined to take the first opportunity afforded him of communicating with Mr. Hildebrand Flurscheim.

The determination carried with it as a necessary corollary the decision to keep his discovery concealed from everybody, particularly from the Master. He would have felt quite easy in his mind if he could have assured himself that the Master was not already acquainted with the fact that Guy possessed the miniature. On the other hand, Cornelius argued that it was quite possible that the man who was paying him to keep a watch upon Guy might be actuated by dread of a confederate playing him false. That was a strong reason why he should not postpone communicating with Flurscheim. The reward would go to the first in the field with the information. Then if the Master were implicated, and if he should be captured, Cornelius saw safety for himself. Therefore when he wrote his daily report to the Master of Guy's movements he entirely omitted to mention the momentous discovery he had made, and yet so terrified was he that he should bring his employer's vengeance upon himself by his failure to report it, that a dozen times on the way to the postoffice he drew the letter from his pocket and looked at it and considered whether he should not reopen the envelope and add the information which he had suppressed.

Even when he had dropped the letter into the box he nearly entered the postoffice to ask for it back again, and only prevented himself from doing so by declaring to himself that it would be easy to give the information thereafter if circumstances pointed to the desirability of his doing so. But once the letter was posted Cornelius became bolder. The posting of the letter was in the nature of a definite act committing him to a definite policy. It was no use looking back, especially with the prospect of five thousand pounds to be earned by merely speaking a few words. He forgot the heat. He walked briskly away from the postoffice towards the little embankment which Whitsea village proudly designated "The Front."

It seemed hotter than ever there. The tide was low and the air shimmered in the heat reflected from the silvery banks of mud. He placed his hand on the stone parapet of the low wall and drew it back hastily. The stone was nearly hot enough to have blistered his hand. He looked out on the river. Almost opposite him was Mr. Hildebrand Flurscheim's yacht, and if Cornelius's eyes were to be trusted Mr. Hildebrand Flurscheim himself was reclining beneath an awning on the deck. The opportunity was too good to be missed. Cornelius looked around for a boatman to put him aboard. There was none visible, and he could not muster up courage to hail the yacht. The Whitsea hotel showed an inviting open door just handy. Cornelius felt suddenly thirsty. He accepted the invitation of the open door, and while he quenched his thirst with a bottle of iced ginger beer with something in it, he made known his desire to be put aboard Mr. Flurscheim's yacht to the barmaid.

Before the words were well out of his mouth a man who had followed Cornelius into the hotel remarked, "I'll put you aboard the boat with pleasure, Mr. Jessel."

Jessel's first impulse was to fly. To be suddenly accosted by name when so far as he knew there was no one in Whitsea except the servants at the Hall who could be aware of his identity, was disconcerting to say the least. He stifled the impulse as best he could, and, turning on his heel, faced the speaker. He saw a pleasant, open-faced man of fifty or thereabouts holding out his hand.

"Didn't expect to see me here, eh, any more than I expected to have the pleasure of meeting you? But the world's a little place, and this sort of weather, if one is likely to knock up against old acquaintances, there's no spot more likely than where you find a pretty girl mixing long drinks with a lot of ice in 'em. That's right, isn't it, miss?"

The barmaid giggled.

"A slice of lemon, a bottle of Schweppe, a lump of ice, and a suspicion of white satin, if you please," he said before turning again to Jessel and continuing volubly. "You don't recognise me, eh? Well, I'm not surprised, for now I come to think of it we haven't exchanged more than a dozen words in our lives. My name's Kenly."