Kate plus 10
me. I told him he might, but, unfortunately, he forgot to ask me my
address--” she broke off suddenly, “what is Gregori kicking about?”
“That Madrid affair didn’t go off as well as it might,” said the
Colonel, avoiding her eye.
She nodded.
“I know; and Gregori blames me, I presume.”
“Gregori never blames you,” said the Colonel, “I think Gregori would
knife anybody who said a word against you.”
“No,” she said, nodding her head, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall,
“the Madrid affair went badly, in spite of the fact that there were
forty-two sheets of manuscript in Spanish and English giving the most
elaborate directions. It was a month’s work for me and it was all
wasted and the greater part of a hundred thousand pesetas because
Gregori’s trusted Señor Rahboulla thought he could improve upon my
instructions and joined the train at Cordova in a light grey suit when
I told him to wear the conventional black of the _madrilleno_ and when
I insisted upon his making his entrance to Madrid from Toledo. I knew
that Cordova was watched by the French and Spanish police and I knew
too that they would be looking for a stranger. Rahboulla advertised
himself, was arrested and the chain, which I had carefully pieced
together, was broken. By the time he had shaken off the police and
arrived in Madrid the closing hour of the Prado had been advanced from
six to five and the consequence is, that the Velasquez is still in the
picture gallery and we are a hundred thousand pesetas the poorer.”
The Colonel shook his head.
“You are a wonderful girl and I will admit you are right. Heavens! the
patience required to work out these details!”
“The ideal criminal is a strategist,” said the girl. “He foresees
every move of the enemy and forestalls him. He makes a diversion at
one point and his real attack at another. He prepares the way for
retreat at the same time as he is preparing his advance. It took me
six months to obtain all the information I wanted and it took six
minutes for Rahboulla to upset our plans.”
She laughed.
“If things go wrong, you blame the general,” she said. “Three years
ago, Gregori the Kicker introduced an Italian into one of our
schemes--the business of the Nottingham Post Office. That went wrong,
too.”
“There I admit you were right,” the Colonel hurried to say; “Tolmini
made a mess of it.”[1]
“And tried to drag us all into it when he was caught,” said the girl;
“he went to prison under the impression that I had led him into a
trap--though the fool was told the mail bags were not to be touched
until the night shift came on duty.”
“Why do you mention him now with such emphasis?” asked the Colonel
curiously.
“Because he’s out of prison--and he’ll be kicking, too,” she replied,
“just as Gregori kicks!”
“‘Let the dead past bury the dead,’” quoted the Colonel. “And how is
the new scheme?”
“Much farther advanced than you think. There are still one or two
roads to be made smooth, one or two outposts to be rushed, some barbed
wire to be cut.”
“By Gad!” cried the Colonel admiringly. “You ought to have been a
soldier, Kate.”
She leant back in the chair with her hands clasped behind her head and
looked at him searchingly.
“You were once a gentleman, uncle,” she said in that direct way of
hers and Colonel Westhanger flushed and frowned.
“Well, my dear uncle,” she expostulated, “you are not a gentleman by
the ordinary code now are you?”
“I have certain instincts,” protested the Colonel gruffly; “hang it
all, Kate, you don’t let a fellow down very lightly.”
“I suppose you are still something of a gentleman,” said the girl
reflectively; “the mere fact that you are annoyed at the suggestion
that you are not proves that. But what I mean to say is this: there
was a time when you obeyed another code, when you thought stealing was
a disgraceful thing and robbery under arms a crime. You must have
associated with men on whose word you could rely and who would never
commit a dishonest or a mean action--men who were prepared in battle
to give their lives for you. And you must have commanded men who had
the same views and have punished soldiers who stepped aside from the
straight path and committed little crimes which, compared with yours,
were as pin-heads to the dome of St. Paul’s.”
“I can’t see why you want to talk about the past,” said the Colonel
irritably. He was still a fine figure of a man, grey-moustached, broad
of shoulder, tall and straight of back and had about him that
indefinable something which men who have commanded men never entirely
lose.
“I am merely comparing you with me,” she said; “you have the advantage
of having seen both sides. Tell me, which is the better?”
“Which do you think?” he demanded suspiciously.
She tossed her cigarette into the grate.
“I think this is the better,” she said frankly; “it is very pleasant
and very exciting. And all the good people I have met have been very
dull. I think that is because all good people are dull.”
“There are some good people,” said the Colonel virtuously, “who are
very interesting.”
“Not because of their goodness,” rejoined the girl quickly; “if you
meet a very popular good man it is because there is something about
him which is not absolutely good. If you hear a man speak of a parson
as a good fellow you will generally discover that he goes to the
National Sporting Club and sees boxing or rides to hounds or does
something which is quite unassociated with his professional duties or
the exercise of his innocent qualities. But you have not answered me.
Which is better?”
“If I had my life to live over again--” began the Colonel with a wry
face.
“That’s silly,” said the girl calmly. “You won’t have your life to
live over again, so why speculate upon the possibility? Anyway, if you
could live your life over again, you could not possibly benefit by
your present experience, because you would not remember it. You have
lived two lives, which is the better?”
“You are in a queer mood, to-night,” said Colonel Westhanger, rising
and stalking past her to the fire-place. “Have you got religion, or
something?”
“Which is the better?” she asked again. “To be a free thief or to be
in the dull bondage of honesty?”
“For your peace of mind the honest life is the better,” said the
Colonel. “You have no sleepless nights, no agony of mind which you
have to conceal with whatever skill you possess at every knock at the
door, no fear of the police, no wondering what the next day is going
to bring forth.”
“Really!” she looked up at him quizzically. “Do honest men never have
any of those experiences? Do honest men get into debt, for example,
and dread the coming of the collector? Does an honest man who is
getting grey feel a little sickening sensation in his heart every time
his employer looks at him thoughtfully?”
The Colonel turned round and snarled over his shoulder.
“As you seem to have all your answers ready-made, I don’t know why you
trouble to ask me,” he snapped; “there are advantages and
disadvantages on both sides of the picture.”
The girl was in a restless mood and presently she sprang up, walked to
the window, opened the little square of shutter and looked out into
the darkening street. Then she crossed to her little desk at one side
of the fireplace. She sat down and wrote for a while, then, as
suddenly, she dropped her pen and got up again.
“You are going to ask another question,” warned the Colonel.
“Only one,” she pleaded.
“Well, fire away,” he grumbled ungraciously.
“What would induce you to forsake your career and apply your undoubted
talents, as the assize judge said to poor dear Mr. Mulberry, to better
purpose?”
“Wealth,” said the Colonel promptly,--“enough stuff put aside to bring
me in a nice little income. And here again, let me say, Kate, that you
and I could well afford to knock off--”
She interrupted him.
“That is a purely material inducement,” she said. “What
other--spiritual or ethical?”
“Oh, rot!” he snapped. “Why do you ask these fool questions?”
“Because I am wondering,” she said, “what influence could be brought
to bear upon me. The opinion of my fellow creatures? No, I don’t care
what they think. I know they are mostly fools and so why should they
influence me? Wealth? No, if I were rich as Crœsus I should go on,
for the sport of it. Punishment? No, I should use my spare time in
correcting the faults in me which had resulted in my detection. I am
afraid I am incorrigible, uncle, for there is something about this
life which appeals to me no end--and now I am going to dress,” she
said, making for the door.
“Going out?” asked the Colonel in surprise.
She nodded.
“But Gregori--”
“Gregori can wait,” said Kate, “and Gregori bores me. He is always
trying to make love.”
“Is that remarkable?” suggested the Colonel archly.
“It is remarkably annoying,” said the girl. She flung open the door
and stepped back. Gregori, politest of cavaliers, stood deferentially
in the entrance and she surveyed him coolly.
“Were you listening?” she asked.
“Señorita!” he said, shocked.
She laughed and passed out. Gregori watched her as she mounted the
stairs till she turned out of sight, then he closed the door and came
across to the Colonel.
“Our little friend is hard on me,” he said with no hint of malice in
his voice.
“She is a queer girl, Gregori,” replied the Colonel, shaking his head.
“She is a queer girl,” repeated Gregori; “queer indeed, yes.”
He stroked his little black moustache.
“She doesn’t like me.”
“Who does she like?” snapped the older man.
“You, I trust,” smiled the Spaniard.
The Colonel tossed his head despairingly.
“I hardly know,” he said. “What a reversal of positions!”
The Spaniard took the seat the girl had vacated.
“I know what you are thinking about,” he nodded; “a few years ago she
was the obedient child absorbing our code--to-day she is the
tyrannical mistress of the situation.”
He deftly unrolled and rolled a Spanish cigarette, licked its edges
and fumbled for a match in his waistcoat pocket.
“She is all brain, our Kate,” he said admiringly, “but her
heart--pouf!” he puffed out a cloud of smoke to emphasize the word.
“There is no end to her energy,” he went on; “sometimes I think she is
dangerous and then when I come to consider all things it is impossible
to say that she can be. After all, hers is only the plan. The
responsibility for the bungling is with us--the plan is so perfect
that you can hardly pick a hole in it. She works out to the last
minute detail the chronology of a coup, she dresses it, rehearses it.
She never fails. Yes, it was Rahboulla,” he agreed, “and I was wrong
to kick. What was it she called me, a ‘centre forward’ and a ‘dago’,”
he laughed softly.
“She is very young,” said the Colonel apologetically, “and a little
impetuous of speech--she talks too much, I think.”
“A pretty woman can never talk too much,” said the gallant Gregori;
“she can think too much and talk too little. A person who talks is
like a lighted house with all the blinds up and the doors open, you
know where you are. Now, Colonel _mio_, how far have we got with this
new scheme?”
The Colonel brought a chair in one hand and a light table in the other
to where the Spaniard sat, produced from his inside-pocket a bunch of
memoranda and in a few minutes the men were deep in the discussion of
the most remarkable, the most startling and the most daring enterprise
that Crime Street had ever undertaken.
CHAPTER V.
A CHORUS GIRL AT SEBO’S
Sebo’s Club was crowded, for it was the dinner hour and Sebo’s is
the most extensively patronized of the dining clubs. Here, all that
was beautiful, all that was smart, all that was famous and brilliant
in the world of society, letters and the drama met on common