The Burglars' Club Part 8

"Your death-knell's inside," said Mr. Driver. "Hear it rattle," and he shook the envelope in Mr. Toft's ear. "But it wants a stamp, or the Government might not take it in. On such trifles do our destinies depend, Septimus. Have you got a stamp?" He put an antic.i.p.atory penny on the table.

Mr. Toft hesitated no longer. From one end of his watch-chain he detached a gold key, which he handed covertly to Driver.

"Now your visitin' card."

Mr. Toft produced one, and handed it over. "You'll give me that letter now," he pleaded.

J. Driver shook his head, tore up the packet, and put it into the fire.

"Better there," he said oracularly. "Now, Toft, my boy, don't worry.

You'll have that key back by Friday, and all your spoons'll be in the box. If you don't interfere you'll never hear of me again, and the Admiralty won't either; but if you take one step behind my back I'll do all I've threatened, and a lot more, and you'll be building Portland Breakwater on Christmas Day. By-bye, Septimus."

With this Mr. Driver rose, and stalked out of the room. After a modest interval Mr. Toft followed.

At 9 a.m. on the following morning the bell of the Fellmongers' Company pealed vigorously. The porter hurried to answer it, and found a lady on the doorstep. She was neatly dressed, and was strikingly handsome. She might be twenty-five years old. A boy carrying a portfolio and a strapped-up easel stood behind.

"Is this the Fellmongers' Hall?" she asked.

"It is, Miss."

"I want to know if you will be good enough to allow me to copy a painting you have on your walls? I do not know if it is necessary to have any written permission, or where to apply for it."

"The 'All is open to the public under my supervision," said the porter pompously. "Come inside, please."

"Thank you," replied the lady. "Put those things down, Johnnie. That's right. I'll let you know when to come for them. Good-morning."

"We don't often 'ave hartists 'ere, miss," remarked the porter, "and I sometimes thinks as pictures is wasted on gentlemen dinin' with City Companies. They ain't runnin' pertic'ler strong on hart just then. Which one is it you want?"

"I don't know the t.i.tle," replied the artist, "but I shall know the picture when I see it. It's a portrait."

"P'raps Nicholas Tiffany," the porter suggested, "the first warden of the company, painted by 'Olbein. Born 1455. Lived to the ripe age of ninety-four, and died regretted by his sovereign and his country. His estates were seized by his creditors. Here he is, miss."

The man opened the door of the Livery Room, the walls of which were hung with many pictures. "This is Tiffany," he said, pointing to a disreputable-looking portrait.

The lady looked at it doubtfully. "The painting I want is the one nearest to the door of the plate room," she said.

"Then it's a good bit away from it, miss. The plate room is off the Banqueting 'All, and they are all windows on that side. The pictures are opposite."

"Dear me," said the lady. "How very stupidly I have been informed.

Please show me the room."

The porter led the way, and threw open the door with pardonable pride.

"The Banqueting 'All of the Honourable Company of Fellmongers!" he exclaimed. It was the famous hall in which heads of City Companies and ruling sovereigns are intermittently entertained. Down one wall were ranged portraits of eminent fellmongers. The other three were pierced by doors and windows.

"Which is the plate room?" asked the lady.

"This is the door of the plate room," the porter replied. "Anyone enterin' without authority, day or night, sets in action two peals of electric bells, and aut'matic'ly discharges a revolver shot through the sky-light."

"How very interesting!" the lady remarked. "Now I must find my picture."

She looked round the room, and finally selected one.

"Jeremiah Crumpet," said the porter. "A haberdasher by birth, but eventually Junior Warden of our Company. Painted by Merillo. Never gettin' beyond pot'ooks 'imself, he founded the Company's Schools at Ashby de la Zouch."

"I'm sure that's the man," said the artist. "I'll bring my things in if I may. Is there a Mrs. ----? Jeckell, thank you. I should like to see her about some water for my paints."

"I'll tell you what, Maria," said Mr. Jeckell some hours later. "If she's a hartist I ought to be President of the Royal Academy. I never saw such drawin' in my life. She can't get his face square nohow. He's smilin' in the picture, but she's made him lockjawed an' moonstruck. She says if she can't get him right she'll have to turn him into a s.h.i.+pwreck. She must be what the papers call an himpressionist. She spoke twice about the plate room, so I've wheeled my chair into the 'all to keep my eye on her. I'll go back now and see what she's hup to."

Mr. Jeckell would have wondered less at her drawing if he could have seen the note the lady had referred to in his absence:

"An attempt will be made during the next three days to steal a cup from the plate chest at the Fellmongers' Hall. For certain reasons warning of this must not come to the authorities from without. Apply for permission to copy painting or to sketch interior, and watch. Should any other than the Company's servant enter the plate room suggest doubt as to his credentials, and do all you can to secure his arrest. Another agent will watch the premises from 5 p.m. to 9 a.m."

While Mr. Jeckell was on his way to his chair there came another peal from the front-entrance bell. A man in a bowler hat, and carrying a handbag, was outside.

"Mr. Toft has sent me for the Nelson Goblet," he said.

The porter was surprised. "Got a note?" he asked.

"The guv'ner gave me this," said the man, handing a card, "and the key."

"What does he want it for?" Mr. Jeckell asked.

"Got a big guzzle on at 'ome. Wants to cut an extra dash in centre-pieces."

Mr. Jeckell shook his head gravely, but made no remark. "Come along," he said shortly.

He led the way across the vestibule into the Banqueting Hall, where, behind her easel, a lady was evidently busy with her picture. He stopped at a door, which he unlocked, and both men pa.s.sed through. Barely had they done so when the artist ran from behind her easel into the outer hall. "Mrs. Jeckell! Mrs. Jeckell!" she called out.

The porter's wife appeared.

"A man has gone into the plate room with your husband. I'm sure he is a thief. Warn Mr. Jeckell to get full authority before he does what this man wants."

"Gracious me!" cried the alarmed Mrs. Jeckell. "A thief! He may be murderin' Samuel!"

She rushed across to the plate room, and in a minute a storm of voices proceeded therefrom. Finally the three emerged, two hot and flurried, and the stranger, looking cool and determined, carrying a bag in one hand and a gold cup in the other. The porter hung on to his arm.

The artist was in front of the door. When she saw the man with the bag and cup she gave a little gasp of surprise, and a wave of colour overspread her face.

The man seemed equally astonished. "You!" he said at last.

"They're both thieves," whispered Mrs. Jeckell to her husband. "They're acting in collision. I'll shout for the perlice while you keep 'em." And she ran from the room.

"You are in danger," said the artist rapidly in French. "Put the cup in your pocket. Give me the bag, and knock the porter down."

The man obeyed with the prompt.i.tude of a soldier. Leaving Mr. Jeckell prostrate on the floor, they hurried from the Hall. At the street door was Mrs. Jeckell, wildly beckoning to a distant policeman.

"You take down there," said the artist. "Good-bye." She ran off in the opposite direction, still holding the bag, and dived down a side street.

Mrs. Jeckell grew frantically insistent to the policeman, who now came up. "Which one?" he puffed.