Part 1

THE STRAND MAGAZINE _An Illustrated Monthly_

EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES Vol VII., Issue 38. February, 1894

It was in 1870, when war had just been declared.

MacMahon had received orders to cross the frontier, and strike a decided blow against the combined armies of North and South Germany.

In Paris, as indeed throughout the whole of France, everyone was in a state of feverish anxiety; but in the gay capital, the Parisians endeavoured to make the days of suspense pass more quickly by _féting_ the expected victory.

One could hear the clinking of glasses at the out-door restaurants, the music of the _cafés-chantants_, and the carriages filed incessantly along the broad avenue of the Champs Elysées.

The theatres, too, were well patronized, particularly one on the Boulevards a certain evening when Mlle. Jeanne de Bolney was to make her _début_.

The papers had foretold a most brilliant success for the beautiful young actress, who was so marvellously gifted, and who would no doubt become the star of the season. She had chosen for her _début_ "La Dame aux Camélias," which was at that time in the height of its popularity, and the author himself had said that the rôle of _Marguerite_ might have been written for this talented young actress, so admirably did it suit her in every respect. From the very first act it was quite evident that her beauty and her talent had not been overrated.

The sight of her even had won all hearts. A faultless figure, a delicate, refined face, with lips which were at once proud and tender, eyes of deep blue with the most frank expression, a perfectly shaped head, and a carriage which would have done honour to any queen.

At the sight of this exquisite creature a murmur of approbation ran through the house and interrupted, for a few seconds, the dialogue.

At the end of each scene the ovations increased, and after the second act there was a perfect explosion of applause. Among those who were most delighted at Jeanne's triumph was a young man who belonged to the theatre--Louis Belcourt. It was through his influence that she had succeeded in making her _début_, for the manager of this theatre always preferred pupils from the Conservatoire.

Louis had known and loved Jeanne from boyhood, and there was something infinitely noble and touching in this devoted yet hopeless love. It was, indeed, of a kind rarely seen in any man, for it had not blinded him, and he could see and admire the good qualities of his rival--the man to whom Jeanne had given all her love.

It had been very romantic, the engagement of the beautiful young actress. A short time before, at the Longchamps races, she had been glancing at the grand stand, where Napoleon III. and the ladies of the Court were seated, when suddenly she became aware of two handsome dark eyes fixed upon her. She looked away, but, as though fascinated, a few minutes later she glanced again at the place behind the Court ladies, and she saw a military-looking man, whose face was bronzed by the southern sun, and who had risen from his seat and was gazing earnestly at her, as though he too were fascinated by some spell.

Not long after, Roger de Morfeuille, officer in the Emperor's regiment, had discovered who Jeanne was. It was an extraordinary engagement; no word of the future had been spoken between them. Roger knew that he would have to leave, for war had been declared, and that until the result of that war should be known he could promise nothing. The subject of the future was not even broached between them. Jeanne knew only that their path in life must be together: she felt that it must be so, and there was no need for words. Only when the terrible parting came, when Roger had to leave to join his regiment, he slipped a ring he always wore on to her finger and took from hers one for himself, and still no words were spoken as to the future.

* * * * *

After the second act of the "Dame aux Camélias," when the curtain had been lowered for the sixth time, and Jeanne had for the sixth time answered to the enthusiastic recalls, she went slowly up to her room. She felt overwhelmed: perhaps it was the excess of happiness at her good fortune which weighed on her like this. Roger knew that it was the day of her _début_; she felt certain that, even amid the smoke of the battlefield, he would not forget it. She hardly dared own it even to herself, but all day she had expected some little souvenir from him, some sign or word of sympathy; for was she not too fighting a battle, one of those battles which decided the life of individuals just as much as his did that of nations? On opening her dressing-room door a flash of mingled triumph, love, and pride came over her as she caught sight of a telegram on her table.

She closed her door quickly, not noticing that Louis Belcourt was following her quietly along the corridor.

Suddenly, through the thick doors and curtains, in the silence of the empty corridor, Belcourt heard a fearful cry. It was so wild and passionate that a shiver ran through him. He opened the door and was just in time to catch Jeanne in his arms. She was livid with horror, and was clutching the fatal telegram in her hands.

Just as he was wondering what to do for the best, Jeanne's pallor gave way to a rush of colour to her cheeks. She read the telegram to him: "We have been defeated at Woerth. They are taking me to a house near by. Amputation probable. Pray for me. My love, darling.--ROGER." Belcourt glanced at the telegram and saw that it was unintelligible, but a kind of alphabet on the table showed him that it had been written by signs agreed upon.

He stood as though thunderstruck. Suddenly Jeanne put on a hat and threw a long brown cloak over her stage dress.

"What are you going to do?" he exclaimed.

"I am going to Roger!"

"But, in Heaven's name, Jeanne, stay a little while. The curtain will be going up. Think what you are doing. You will be ruined--you will spoil your whole life. Wait till to-morrow!"

"Listen," said Jeanne, in a clear, decided tone. "It is now a quarter to ten. I know there is a train from the Gare de l'Est at eleven, for I have sent my letters by a friend of Roger's who is going by it. If you prevent my going by that train, you see this dagger; well, I will kill myself with it!"

Louis stepped back, dazed and horror-struck. Jeanne opened the door, went quickly out by a back door, and Louis followed her, watched her hail a cab, and drive away.

* * * * *

When Belcourt re-entered the theatre he found everyone behind the scenes in a terrible state of excitement.

Mlle de Bolney could not be found. The house was impatient, and the manager desperate. He was sending for the police that she might be found and arrested. Suddenly Belcourt, at the idea of the possible fatal consequences of Jeanne's flight, determined on a bold move.

He stepped up to one of his friends who had been taking part in the play, whispered to him, and appeared to be begging him to consent to what he asked.

Finally the friend yielded, opened the door and walked towards the stage. Then Belcourt, pushing away the director and stage manager who attempted to stop him, gave the signal to lift the curtain, and appeared himself before the house. A deep silence ensued.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Belcourt, "Mlle. de Bolney has received a telegram announcing that there has been a disaster on the German frontier and our army has sustained a defeat. She is overwhelmed by the news, and we must ask you to have patience until she feels able to continue her rôle."

A dismal silence followed these words. Belcourt's friend now stepped forward and executed the order he had received:--

"We, too, are surely as good patriots as Mademoiselle de Bolney! Surely the play ought not to be finished before a French audience, who have just heard that our army is defeated!"

Cries of "_Bravo!_" were heard, and, unanimously, the whole house rose and prepared to leave the theatre.

Belcourt had saved the honour of Jeanne and of the theatre.

The rumour of the defeat of Reichshoffen, which the Government was keeping secret, was soon spread abroad in Paris by the spectators who had heard it from Belcourt, and the news caused a fearful calm in the gay capital.

Belcourt had been congratulated by all the authorities of the theatre on his happy idea, but just as he was preparing to leave the theatre that same night he was seized by a police official and conducted to the Mazas prison on a charge of "having divulged a State secret," a crime always punished at least by hard labour, and, in time of war, by death.

* * * * *

For more than a month Belcourt had been in Mazas prison, with nothing to look forward to but dishonour or death. He had been questioned over and over again as to how he had discovered the secret, but in vain; nothing could induce him to give any details, for he did not know whether Jeanne would forgive him for having said so much as he had. The next day sentence was to be passed upon him.

Successive defeats had embittered the minds of his judges, and it was pretty sure that he had little chance of getting off without paying the full penalty of his _crime_. Belcourt was thinking sadly of his hopeless love for Jeanne, which had caused him to act as he had done in order to save her, when suddenly the door of his cell opened and the porter announced: "Madame the Countess de Morfeuille." It was Jeanne herself, dressed in the deepest mourning.

Her beautiful hair had some silvery threads, her face was cold and severe as marble, her beautiful mouth was rigid, her eyes seemed to be gazing at some invisible object, and she had a deathly pallor--such as one sees on the faces of those who have received some mortal wound.

It was pathetic to see so fair and so young a girl in such hopeless despair, and Belcourt was deeply touched by it.

"You are free, Louis," she said, gently but sadly. "The Empress herself has asked for your release. Thank you so much, my friend, for all you did for me. I came directly I heard of your imprisonment. My husband had only just been brought home and buried at Morfeuille."

Very soon after, Jeanne returned to her husband's stately home, that she might visit daily the tomb of him she had so dearly loved, and who had married her on his death bed.

When Louis had tried to console her and gently hinted that she was too young to go through the rest of her life alone, she had answered, decidedly:--

"Do not ever speak to me of anyone else. I will live and die the widow of Roger, and will certainly never be anyone else's wife."

It was thus that a great artiste was lost to the French stage, but the memory of that _début_ will never be lost to any of those who witnessed it.

_Crimes and Criminals._

NO. I.--DYNAMITE AND DYNAMITERS.

It is not intended that the series of articles we propose publishing in these pages under the above title should in any way give rise to alarm, or be an incentive to disturbed and restless nights. On the other hand, a better knowledge of how crimes are concocted and ultimately carried into effect may, perhaps, provide a course of much-needed lessons usually omitted in one's early education. It is said that the public seldom trouble to protect themselves, and for a very good reason, they don't know how; and it is only by becoming on a more familiar footing with the manners and customs of those enterprising individuals who seek to shatter anything between our nerves and our residences, either by relieving us of our purse or planting a dangerous species of explosive at our front doors, that we are the better able to take care of ourselves, our relatives, and our belongings--ourselves, perhaps, for choice.

At New Scotland Yard a large apartment is devoted to the exhibit of ten thousand and one records of crime, in the shape of the actual weapons, and what not, associated with particularly notorious, and, in some instances, almost historic, deeds. A visit to this place is the finest and most complete nerve-tester in the world! The authorities at New Scotland Yard have kindly placed this room and its contents at our disposal; and each of the separate cases, which severally contain exhibits of some distinctive branch of punishable offences, requires a chapter to itself. The most recently arrived exhibit is one which, at the present time, possesses a peculiar interest. In the centre of the room is a glass case, which provides a resting-place for mementos of the more important outrages and attempts and suspicious cases of discoveries of explosives which have called for the attention of Her Majesty's Inspectors of Explosives for the last fifteen or twenty years--Colonel V. D. Majendie, C.B., H.M. Chief Inspector of Explosives, and Colonel A. Ford; whilst Dr. Dupré has throughout been associated with these gentlemen as chemical expert. As an expert in explosives, no name is better known than that of Colonel Majendie, a man in the prime of life, of indomitable energy and immovable disposition; who may be singled out as being engaged in the two extremes of business and pleasure. His business: dynamite, gunpowder, and all the kindred blasting operatives; his pleasure: the "Children of Paules," as the choir boys of St. Paul's Cathedral used to be designated. In his room at the Home Office slabs of American dynamite, infernal machines, and detonators; in his rooms at home walls covered with portraits of these tuneful youngsters, many of them in the whitest of white surplices; while the drawers of his desk are brimming over with youthful letters from the past and present choristers of the great Cathedral. Colonel Majendie never destroys a dynamite relic--or a child's letter. Both are too precious.

Such is Colonel Majendie, the sworn enemy of dynamiters; and it was in company with him that the writer visited New Scotland Yard and examined, one by one, the contents of the case already referred to, and associated them with the various incidents in which they were designed to play--and, in some instances, succeeded in playing--so prominent a part.

It may be said that the more serious attempts to devote dynamite to the very reverse purpose from what it was intended for commenced in 1881, when, on the 14th January of that year, an attempt was made to blow up the barracks at Salford. Very little damage was done to the barracks, but a lad was killed and another injured. In all the subsequent attempts to destroy life and property, only one other death has occurred. On the Christmas Eve of 1892, an infernal machine exploded outside the Detective Office in Exchange Court, Dublin Castle, when a detective officer was killed (Fig. 1). Without including minor explosions, the numbers of important dynamitic efforts from the year 1881 to 1892 are as follows:--In 1881, 9 attempts; 1882, 5; 1883, 10; 1884, 12; 1885, 8; 1886, 4; 1887, 15; 1888, 2; 1889, 3; 1890, 5; 1891, 6; and in 1892, 7 outrages. It is not necessary to say that the initial explosion at Salford, in 1881, greatly alarmed the public. Anything found of a suspicious character was at once associated with dynamite, and the earliest relic treasured at New Scotland Yard is a strange-looking object which was found in a tram-car, and owing to the excited state of the mind of the British public at that time, was immediately put down as an infernal machine. There is, however, some reason to believe that it was nothing more than a model for a new idea in babies' feeding-bottles (Fig. 2). Its inventor never put in a claim for it, but it still remains at "The Yard" for anybody who can justify his or her claim to its possession. By its side is an imitation piece of coal--(Fig. 3)--a most deadly weapon when used, for it is intended to be filled with explosive and thrown in the stoke-hole of vessels, in the hope that the stoker may shovel it into the furnace with some of the other fuel. Another relic of this year is one of four machines which were found on the 2nd July at Liverpool in the _Bavaria_ (Fig. 4), six other infernal machines having been found in the _Malta_ two days previously. They were discovered in barrels of cement. They contained lignin-dynamite, with a very cheap clock arrangement for firing it. The machines proper were in leaden boxes about nine inches long by four inches square. A second machine of the 1881 period is of the clockwork pattern (Fig. 5), and is controlled by a small knife, which falls at the set time, cutting a string, releasing a spring which falls on a percussion cap, and so brings about an explosion.

An 1882 relic is a most interesting one, and its surrounding companions are equally curious. Here is the revolver with which O'Donnell shot Carey (Fig. 6). It is of an American pattern, and marked 147A in the catalogue. A most ingenious contrivance also in this part of the collection is a tin can, made in two compartments (Fig. 7). It was used for conveying contraband gunpowder to Egypt. It is so made that when it is probed by the Customs' officials to see what it contains, the probe used comes out covered with oil.

A few samples of a not particularly choice brand of cigars are also shown (Fig. 8). A gentleman who has no great love for you, and who fully appreciates the weakness of human nature of the male persuasion in seldom refusing a cigar, offers you one out of his case:--

"Something very choice, sir, I assure you," he says. He is a perfect stranger to you, but--well, a cigar's a cigar, and you accept his kind offer. The benevolent cigar proprietor sees you light up, and you puff away in peace. He is suddenly called away. The cigar explodes! It contains an explosive, which is wrapped up in a piece of blue paper, and is placed about half-way down the cigar.

But the most interesting relic of 1882 is a little canister very much resembling a diminutive milk can (Fig. 9). It is supposed to contain dynamite, and has never been opened since its receipt at the House of Commons in that year, addressed to Mr. Forster, then Chief Secretary for Ireland.

It was not, however, until 1883 that the authorities were fully aroused. The Explosives Act of 1875 had controlled all substances of this nature; but it was not designed to control the criminal use of explosives, although it is true that certain clauses were found available to some extent. But the Act of 1883 was passed by the House of Commons in a single sitting--a most important and far-reaching Act, which deals with every possible phase of the question of explosives. No wonder this Act was passed.

Before the New Year of 1883 was many days old a series of attempts was made which, together with the two subsequent years, afforded more trouble and anxiety to Colonel Majendie and his colleagues than any trio of years since these more serious efforts were made. Glasgow was the scene of operations, and on the night and morning of the 20th and 21st January three explosions occurred, in all of which lignin-dynamite was used. The first was at Tradeston Gasworks on the 20th, the remainder at Possil Bridge and at Buchanan Street Station on the 21st. No lives were lost, though considerable damage was done. Photographs are of the greatest possible use to the expert when engaged in making his experiments, in order to find out the probable cause of any explosion, and through the courtesy of Colonel Majendie, we are enabled to show a number of these.

The picture of the explosion at the Glasgow Gasworks was taken in the interior of a holder, and shows the perforations of the plates by projected _débris_ on the side of the holder opposite to that on which the explosion occurred (Fig. 10). It is fortunate that the perpetrators of this deed--ten persons were convicted--possessed but a very crude knowledge of the best method of blowing up a gasworks. They adopted the same method as at the siege of Paris, but not with the effect desired. There is a common belief that it is an easy matter to blow up a gasworks; but the only condition in which a holder is really dangerous is _when it is empty_. If the holder is full of gas there is no air present--and gas must have air mixed with it if it is to assist the explosion. In this case the dynamite was applied, but it only blew great holes in the gasometer, the gas was consumed, and part of Glasgow was for some time in darkness. In the Possil Road Canal Bridge incident--the idea being to let the water out and do no end of damage--a miserable failure was the result. The detonator did not go off!

Colonel Majendie tells a good story in connection with the Glasgow affair. He went to Scotland in a great hurry, only taking one suit of clothes. After spending a considerable time in the gasholder, his clothes--not to put too fine a point upon it--smelt. Indeed, the next morning at breakfast Sir John Hawkshaw comforted him with the assurance that he "smelt like a rat out of a hole!"

When paying his bill in company with the engineer, one of the restaurant assistants turned to a companion and exclaimed:--

"Good gracious, Jessie, there's a dreadful escape of gas!"

"Then here goes for the escape of the engineer," cried that gentleman, rushing out of the place.

The Glasgow occurrences were followed up by two explosions on the 15th March--one outside a window at the _Times_ office, and another causing considerable damage at the Local Government Board Office, Whitehall (Fig. 11). The explosion at the _Times_ was abortive, and Colonel Majendie found the stuff used, together with a tube. This tube was a silent witness. It was ascertained that it was similar to that used in the Glasgow explosion, and of a similar pattern to those found on the men who were convicted.

Now came a very serious business; in Colonel Majendie's opinion, the most serious he ever had to deal with. It created the greatest possible excitement at the time. This was the discovery at Birmingham, on the 5th April, 1883, of a factory of nitro-glycerine, and of a large amount of the same substance brought thence to London. It is due to the Birmingham police to state here that they kept their heads magnificently, laid their traps with consummate skill, and communicated with the authorities at the Home Office just at the right moment. Some of the nitro-glycerine found its way to London, the Birmingham police actually travelling up to the Metropolis with a man whose luggage consisted of a pair of fishing stockings, containing some 70lb. of this terrible explosive agent! He was arrested, the explosive was lodged at a special magazine near Woolwich, and subsequently made into dynamite and then destroyed.