Part 10

At the time I thought this was hard, not to say foolish. On further reflection, however, I can see he is wise; he does not want his demesne to become a magnet, drawing hospitals, almshouses, and what not to its immediate vicinity from the uttermost ends of the earth.

When I am given a job, I usually keep quiet about it beforehand. It is no use attracting a crowd, and that is precisely what happens if the news gets spread abroad. The work of a steeplejack seems to exercise a quite extraordinary fascination over all sorts and conditions of men.

Thus, at Aldershot recently, some twenty thousand people assembled to see me throw two chimneys. They flocked to the scene from the surrounding neighbourhood, and Aldershot itself made high holiday of the occasion, most of the big works being closed.

The authorities kept the ground clear, although I must say that the crowd showed no disposition to invade the immediate proximity of the stacks, when once we had got fairly to work on them. Even the dwelling-houses within a possible radius of the falling masses were deserted, and one family erected a tent in a neighbouring field and camped out in it until all danger was at an end.

They need not have been scared, however, for the stacks fell exactly upon the lines I had chalked out for them. Outsiders can rarely be made to understand how comparatively simple it is for a steeplejack who knows his business to make a chimney fall precisely where he wills it to.

In many instances exactitude in this matter is the first essential. In the case of the great Par stack, in Cornwall, for example, I was under forfeit of two hundred pounds not to deviate more than a yard either way from the space marked out for it, which was only a foot or two wider than its own diameter.

This insistence was quite reasonable, for the chimney was surrounded with cottages, and stood close alongside the main line of railway. Officials and populace were alike alarmed, and the former begged of me to desist. When I declined, they held up the traffic as a measure of precaution until I had completed the job. As a matter of fact, not even a window in the cottages was broken nor a shilling's-worth of damage done to the railway line.

People are always asking me to take them with me to the tops of shafts and steeples. Usually I decline, but I have to make exceptions. I have piloted some scores of clergymen to the summits of the steeples of their own churches; and once I escorted the reverend incumbent's daughter, a sprightly girl of eighteen. I was rather nervous about it, but I need not have been. She was the steadiest and coolest climber, for an amateur, that I ever had any dealings with.

I cannot end this article without speaking about what I always call "my most romantic climb." This was at Athenry, in County Galway. A steeple had been struck by lightning and knocked out of the perpendicular. After this it had been taken down--an easy job--but nobody could be found who could put it up again. When several other steeplejacks had failed I was sent for as a forlorn hope, and succeeded. The romance of the climb, however, lies not in this feat, but in the fact that it was from the spire, after its replacement, that I first caught sight of the young lady who is now my wife.

THE LONGEST CHASE ON RECORD

BY VINCENT M. HEMMING.

Being the strange experience of Detective Albert Brissard, who searched France, England, Belgium, and America for a "wanted" man, finally landing his quarry by accident ten months after the search began and seven and a half years after the crime was committed.

Never in the annals of police history has a detective officer been so long engaged in the search for a fugitive from justice as in the case I am about to relate. There have been and are many men "wanted" for whom warrants are held indefinitely, but never before has an officer spent ten entire months with but one aim--to "get his man," and that after an interregnum of more than seven years. On June 3rd, 1900, the Baroness de Martigny, of Paris, took into her employment as footman an intelligent, good-looking young man, who had previously been in the service of General Pellissier, of the French army. The Baroness, the grand-daughter of a famous soldier who had been one of Napoleon's closest friends, lived in a beautiful hotel in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, and also occupied a villa for the season each year at Nice. Her collection of jewels was the envy of the ladies of the French aristocracy, and she had times without number been offered enormous sums for them by dealers and collectors. Many of the ornaments had once belonged to the Queens of France, and one pearl necklace was even said to have at one time adorned the person of an Egyptian princess famous in history. These jewels were always kept in a leather-covered steel box, made expressly for the purpose. When not deposited at her bankers', this box was in the keeping of a trusted maid, who was in turn guarded by a "valet de pied" at times when the Baroness might have occasion to take her jewels with her when travelling.

In December, 1900, the Baroness, accompanied by two maids and the valet engaged some months before, was to travel to London for a few days' stay in the capital on a visit to friends. She seldom carried all her jewels with her, but on this occasion she did so, as an august personage had expressed a desire to see them. Two servants of the bank, under the eye of a sub-manager, had delivered the morocco-covered box to the Baroness in person, and she in turn gave it over to her maid, Marcelle.

All the luggage had gone on ahead, and the brougham was at the door to take the Baroness to the Gare St. Lazare Station, when the maid, Marcelle, came running into the lady's presence and attempted to speak. Her tongue refused to move, however, and there the girl stood, her eyes almost out of her head, shivering from head to foot. When at last she gained control of herself she stammered, "Madame--the jewel-case--it is gone!"

The Baroness tried to get the girl into a rational frame of mind, saying the box could not have been removed from the house; Marcelle must have placed it somewhere else than in its accustomed place. No; the girl was positive she had put the treasure-box on milady's dressing-table just for a moment while she had gone for her hat and coat. When she returned the case was gone!

Orders were at once given to lock the doors, and all the servants were called together and questioned, but no one knew anything at all about the matter. Had anyone entered the house? Had anyone left it? Only Henri, milady's valet. He was at the door with the brougham. "Let him be called," ordered the Baroness. One of the servants went to the door. The brougham was there, as was also the coachman, but Henri was nowhere to be seen.

"Henri has gone to the station," said the coachman. "Yes, he had a leather bag or box with him." This information was duly transmitted to the Baroness.

"Very unusual for him to do such a thing," she commented; "but perhaps he was anxious about the jewels."

Thereupon the trustful lady sent them all about their business, got into her brougham, and was driven to the station. But where was Henri? Well, to cut a long story short, Henri had not gone to the station, and the noble lady, now disillusioned, at once postponed her London journey, and set the machinery of the law in motion to discover the young man who had ten thousand pounds' worth of jewels and five hundred pounds in cash in his possession. No sooner were the police notified than the criminal quarters of Paris were literally "turned inside out." The Baroness de Martigny was not only a lady of great prominence and influence, but she offered enormous rewards for the recovery of her property. The intrinsic value of the jewels was a secondary consideration, their romantic associations and the fact of their having been family heirlooms making them priceless in the lady's eyes. Every possible loophole of escape was watched, and Herculean efforts were made by the police; but for the moment the thief had made good his escape, leaving no clue behind him, and three long weeks elapsed before anything tangible manifested itself. Then, one morning the bell rang at the Baroness's house in the Bois de Boulogne, and a gentleman presented himself, asking that his card should be taken to the Baroness. It read, "Monsieur Albert Brissard--Agent." The caller was asked to state his business, and answered by saying, simply, "Henri Dessaure." This gained him the desired audience, and half an hour later M. Brissard left the house, having induced the loser of the steel box and its precious contents to place the whole matter unreservedly in his hands.

M. Brissard, who was known among his intimates as "The Ferret," had left the French detective service some time previously and started an inquiry agency of his own. In starting work upon this jewel-case he followed the idea usually worked on by detectives in such cases, at least on the Continent--"Look for the woman," and succeeded where several other officers, working on the case officially, had hitherto failed. He found the woman.

In the Rue de Mesrominil there was a little _brasserie_, or public-house, much frequented by servants of the upper class. This place was owned by a man named Edouard Morant, whose daughter, a girl of eighteen, had been the sweetheart of Henri Dessaure, the absconding footman. This girl, learning that Dessaure had been false to her, made it her business to find out who had supplanted her in the affections of her sweetheart, and discovered that Dessaure had been seen very often in the company of a dancing-girl from the Bal Boullier, and also that this girl had left Paris only a few days ago, having purchased a second-class ticket to New York. She further ascertained that the girl had been somewhat in debt, but that shortly before leaving she had discharged her obligations, and also purchased a large amount of clothes and finery. All this the jealous Mlle. Morant told M. Brissard. It was now Saturday, and the dancing-girl had sailed for America on Wednesday. M. Brissard at once communicated with the American police, and when the French Line steamer _La Touraine_ arrived at New York a certain young lady, a second-cabin passenger, was closely followed when she left the ship. No one was at the docks to meet her, but after her luggage had passed the Customs inspection she engaged an express wagon to convey her trunks and bags to an address in First Avenue, near Twelfth Street, giving the address to the driver from a card on which it had been written, no doubt for her guidance. One detective followed the luggage, while a second kept his eye on the girl. Calling a cab, she again showed the card and was driven off, followed by Officer O'Brien, whose colleague, Kernohan, remained with the express wagon. Arrived at her destination, the girl, looking up to make sure of the number, ascended the stairs of a four-storey brick building, the ground floor of which was occupied by a small French restaurant. The cab waited, and shortly a young man came down, who proceeded to pay the driver. The young man exactly answered the description sent over from Paris of the missing Henri Dessaure!

After paying the cab fare he returned into the house, while Officer O'Brien called a policeman and instructed him to telephone to head-quarters. So it happened that just about the time Detective Kernohan appeared with the express-man, a third detective arrived on the scene with a provisional warrant, granted by the magistrate at Jefferson Market police-court, for the arrest of Dessaure on suspicion of being a fugitive from justice.

The express-man proceeded to unload his wagon, having first rung the door-bell, and once again the young man who bore so striking a resemblance to the Baroness de Martigny's late valet came to the door. This time he was confronted by two officers, who promptly informed him that he was under arrest.

"We believe you to be Henri Dessaure, late of Paris," said Detective O'Brien.

The accused turned pale, then, pulling himself together, answered in French (in which tongue the detective had addressed him), "That is my name. It is no use my trying to deny it. Surely you have something to work upon, or you would not be here."

The officers next searched the rooms occupied by Dessaure, but found only some fifteen hundred dollars in American money and a few French franc pieces.

"Come," said Officer Kernohan, "you may as well give up the jewellery. It will save you much unpleasantness."

"I know of no jewellery," replied Dessaure. "I have come to America to be married; I have done no wrong."

Seeing that the man could not be induced to speak he was taken to police head-quarters, and the next morning, having been formally charged with being "wanted" by the French authorities, he was remanded and the French police notified. Ten days later two detectives from Paris arrived with a servant from the household of the Baroness for the purpose of identifying the prisoner. This accomplished, his extradition was asked for. Dessaure protested his innocence, and it is quite likely would have succeeded in resisting successfully, had not for a second time a woman proved his undoing. The detectives arrested the dancing-girl as an accomplice, and she at once turned informer, saying that Dessaure had told her in Paris that he had safely stored away "enough jewels to give us every comfort for life." Believing him, she had come to America, Dessaure having given her two thousand five hundred francs for that purpose, and to purchase some necessary things. Confronted with this statement, the ex-footman assumed an air of bravado, saying, "You have got me, but you'll never get what it took me many hours of thought to annex. Now let us see just how clever you are."

Dessaure returned to Paris some days later in the company of the French officers, the girl having been released. Once in the French capital, he was lodged in the Santé Prison to await his trial, and meanwhile every effort was made to get some clue as to the whereabouts of the steel box and its contents; but the police could make no impression on Dessaure, who absolutely refused to speak. Promises and threats were alike useless, and finally he was brought to trial. The newspaper notoriety given to the matter had completely turned the ex-valet's head, and he imagined himself a hero. He entered the court-room with a smiling face and answered questions in a most flippant manner. Even at this late stage the Baroness de Martigny offered to withdraw the prosecution--at least, so far as she was concerned--if he would divulge the hiding-place of the gems. But Dessaure merely folded his arms and said: "Whatever happens, you cannot kill me. You were clever enough to capture me; now find the jewels."

Evidence was given by a housemaid who had seen the footman in milady's rooms and the coachman who had noticed him leave the house with the morocco-covered box in his hand, carrying it openly by the handle as though sent out with it. It was also proved that Dessaure had changed a thousand-franc note at the little _brasserie_ in the Rue Mesrominil on the evening of the day of the robbery; and, lastly, Detective Brissard came forward with a small antique necklet--the property of the Baroness--which Dessaure had given to the daughter of the _brasserie_ keeper. On this evidence Dessaure was found guilty and sentenced to seven years' imprisonment, the judge remarking that on his release, no doubt, such a close watch would be kept on his movements that a further charge would be made should the prisoner at any time be found in possession of the stolen jewels.

The prisoner took his sentence most coolly, and, as the officers were leading him away, turned towards the persons in the court-room and, bowing low, said, "Until then, gentlemen, _au revoir_!"

For some months Dessaure was left to serve his sentence in peace, the detectives believing that a taste of prison life might have a salutary effect on him, or at least induce him to confess where the stolen jewels were. True, no promises could be made to him, but at the same time it certainly would not _add_ to his sentence should he divulge the hiding-place of the Baroness de Martigny's jewels. Detective Brissard had several long talks with the convict, but they all ended in the same way, Dessaure saying, "I will serve my sentence and then enjoy what I have earned; you will not catch me a second time."

Spite of this uncompromising attitude the detective worked assiduously, doing his utmost to locate the jewels, the hiding-place of which one man alone knew. Finally, however, M. Brissard was obliged to consider the case closed, for the time being, and gave his attention to other matters.

So time went on, until Dessaure had but a few months more to serve. Then one day he wrote a letter, in which he asked the person to whom it was addressed, for old times' sake, to supply him with a new suit of clothes and other articles of wearing apparel, saying he would repay the kindness a hundredfold. This letter came back to the prison, the addressee--Mlle. Morant, daughter of the _brasserie_ keeper--having removed several years back. This upset Dessaure greatly, and he asked and received permission to write another letter, which was addressed to the girl's father. Again the letter came back, marked as before. Dessaure's excitement was now great; he cursed and cried in turn. The warders reported that he did not sleep at night, and ate scarcely any food.

At last came the morning of his release. The liberated man left the prison almost a wreck from mental anguish. He was met at the gates by an aged aunt, who gave him a few francs and took him home with her to her house in the environs of Paris. Dessaure could not be induced to eat, and he would not sit down quietly, but walked about the small house, gazing continually out of the window. No sooner was it dark than he left the place, looked quickly about him, then hurried to the nearest point whence he could get an omnibus cityward. Mounting to the top of the vehicle, he looked about him every few moments to see if he was being followed. He left the bus at the Madeleine; then, cutting through the back streets, made his way to the Rue de Mesrominil. He walked on the right-hand side of the street until he came to the place where the _brasserie_ of M. Morant had been located. Yes, there was still a business of the same kind there, but the place had changed hands.

Dessaure crossed the street and entered the little wine-shop, the floors above which were rented out to lodgers, as formerly. In the basement was a long room used as a dining-room for the guests of the house; behind this was a kitchen, and to the left, at the end of a short passage, a small yard which was used to store empty casks and bottles. Dessaure called for a drink and ordered some food; then, as though an old customer thoroughly familiar with the place, he deliberately went down into the basement. The cook had received Dessaure's order, and the latter stood in the doorway chatting to her. After a moment or two he slowly walked through the passage and stood in the yard whistling. The cook was busy getting his meal ready and offered no objection to his proceedings. One stealthy backward glance, and Dessaure swiftly crossed the yard. Taking a short iron bar, flattened at one end, from his pocket, he pushed it deeply into the ground exactly in the corner of the yard, next a brick wall. Again and again he did this; then, in a frenzy, he tore up the earth to a depth of two feet, but nothing rewarded his efforts. Jumping to his feet, shaking with rage, he shrieked out, "All for nothing! All for nothing!" Then, like a wild man, he rushed up the steps and out of the place, knocking over a waiter in his headlong flight.

The half-crazed man made his way to the Seine embankment, where he walked up and down, trying in vain to think calmly. When he left the Baroness de Martigny's house with the stolen jewel-case he had made direct for the _brasserie_ in the Rue de Mesrominil, in accordance with a plan he had thought out. He hid the jewel-case as much as possible under his long servant's coat, and, after having a drink, went down into the yard described and buried the jewels with the aid of a shovel he had previously placed there in readiness. Then, covering the case over, he stamped the ground down solidly, threw some earth and stones on the spot, and returned upstairs. Dessaure, however, as transpired later, had not taken the precaution to ascertain whether anyone was watching him from the windows overlooking the yard. It was obvious to him now that someone must have seen him bury the gems, or else have discovered them subsequently. And now they were for ever lost to him! Covering his face with his hands, the heart-broken man repeated to himself the words, "All for nothing! All for nothing!" Suddenly he pulled himself together, and, walking toward the embankment balustrade, stood there for a moment gazing hesitatingly into the waters of the Seine. Then a hand was placed on his shoulder, and a voice said:--

"Don't do it, Dessaure! Life is all too short in any case."

The startled man wheeled round, to behold Detective Brissard at his elbow! Dessaure was about to speak, when the officer anticipated him.

"I have watched you ever since your release this morning," he said. "Come, don't be a fool. We will go to my place and have a talk."

Dessaure, unnerved by the loss of the jewels, for the sake of which he had served those long years of imprisonment, was as a child in the hands of the shrewd Brissard, and very soon the two men were talking the matter over in Brissard's rooms. Dessaure now told the entire story of how he had stolen the jewels, and the detective in turn informed him that the large reward offered for their recovery was still open, and that, if Dessaure cared to assist him, they might yet obtain possession of them and return them to their owner. The ex-valet, eager to obtain revenge against the unknown who had annexed "his" property, readily agreed. So the curious situation arose of "setting a thief to catch a thief."

Next morning Detective Brissard made diligent inquiries as to the movements of the Morant family, and these inquiries led to what developed into the longest chase on record. Just one year after Dessaure's conviction, it appeared, the former wine-shop proprietor had sold his business in the Rue de Mesrominil and removed with his wife and daughter to London, where he opened a restaurant in Greek Street, Soho, but, curiously enough, under another name. He had been in business there for some months, when one day a former customer at the Paris wine-shop entered and recognised M. "Martin," the proprietor, as Morant. He thought nothing of this, as people often change their names for business purposes when in other countries. But what _did_ strike the customer was the fact that Mme. "Martin" was wearing a pair of earrings of very great value. Now where did Morant, who had owned only a third-class wine-shop in Paris, get possession of jewels worth at least several thousand pounds--for madame wore also several costly rings and a brooch? The customer jocularly remarked that M. "Martin" must have "backed a winner." The latter, instead on answering in like manner, turned pale, and gruffly told his former patron to mind his own business. Within three days the little restaurant in Greek Street had changed hands, and the "Martin" family disappeared.