The Red Book Magazine/Volume 5/Number 5/The Cape Conspiracy

by Owen Oliver

The Cape Conspiracy

BY OWEN OLIVER

When my father died, just as I was leaving Oxford, the estate proved to be heavily encumbered, and I found it necessary to seek a profession. My relatives gave me a deal of advice, but little real help; and I found my lack of experience or special training an absolute bar to anything but poorly paid clerical employment. I had almost resolved to accept a junior mastership in a school which would put up with indifferent learning for the sake of athletic proficiency, when Mr. Vaughan, of whom I had heard my father speak with great esteem, called to ask whether he could be of any service to me.

He was a “confidential political agent,” he informed me, and had served the Government as such under many names, and in many disguises. During the six weeks that I was with him, he played so many parts, and with such skill, that he seemed to lose his identity in them. Probably this is the reason why I cannot describe him more exactly than as a slight, fair man of about thirty-five, with a small-featured, hairless face, and unusually large, dark eyes.

It was clear that he had a great regard for my father, who, he told me, had helped him with great chivalry at a moment of especial difficulty; and that he had been in his confidence. So when he proposed to employ me as his assistant I jumped at the idea.

“I am afraid I sha’n’t be much use at first,” I warned him, “but I shall improve with practice.” He smiled.

“You won’t have much time for practice. We sail for the Cape on Saturday in the Dover Castle. I don’t need technical assistance; only courage, honesty and obedience. I’m satisfied. Now as to terms. I’ll pay your expenses and give you £20 a month for pocket money. Otherwise it is a case of payment by results. If we succeed I'll give you £5,000.” I nearly jumped out of my chair with astonishment. “You must learn not to show surprise at anything. It’s a good plan to grip something tightly when you expect to be startled.”

I gripped the arms of my chair ostentatiously.

“What is the result; and what are the means?” I asked.

“We sha’n’t quarrel about means. As to results—well, I’ll trust your father’s son. The Government wishes to stifle quietly what is known as ‘The Cape Conspiracy’—a gang of the worst rascals in South Africa, where rascals abound. It is primarily an organization for financial purposes, but it uses political means to achieve its ends. It is believed that it aided the Boers during the war, and tried to obtain foreign intervention; and that it is now fostering enmity to the British rule in South Africa. Our object is to obtain proof of this. For reasons of state it is not desirable to proceed openly against the members, and I doubt if they will be punished even if we obtain the proof; but the Government would then have sufficient hold over them to quash the business.

“The incriminating papers are practically known to be in the possession of Count Ossoski, a Pole—the worst scoundrel of the whole gang; the worst scoundrel of all the scoundrels I have ever known. I have reason to know him. He is now in England; but the association wants the papers at Johannesburg, as they include certain financial agreements between the members. If we were an enlightened country, like Russia, we should simply seize Master Ossoski and take the papers. As we aren’t—I am employed. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“No,” I said, “only—I’m not worth what you offer.”

He laid his hand on my shoulder.

“There are two reasons why I make you so large an offer. In the first place, I wish to help you for your father’s sake. In the second place, I would give every penny I possess—I am not a poor man—to succeed in this undertaking. I am not usually revengeful; but I have terrible cause to hate Ossoski—cause such as you could never guess. He is clever and unscrupulous, and I consider it necessary to have an assistant upon whose courage and loyalty I can absolutely rely. I expect these qualities, as a matter of course, from your father’s son. Now, I have told you all I can. Will you come?”

“Of course I will come,” I said. “Give me my instructions.”

“Here is £100 to meet preliminary expenses. Book to Cape Town by Saturday’s mail. I shall be aboard, but I shall be disguised, and you won’t recognize me. Just make friends and enjoy yourself. When I need you, I will use one word—Visionary. Don’t show surprise, but find an opportunity of speaking to me alone. Take a revolver. We may have to run risks. Above everything, hold your tongue. You can tell your friends that you are going to try your luck in South Africa—they won’t see anything suspicious in that. We’ll have a good time together, because—” He changed suddenly from his crisp manner to almost feminine gentleness, “we like one another!”

“Yes,” I said emphatically. Then he went.

I made my arrangements as he had directed; and on the following Saturday we started from Southampton, followed by great flocks of screaming sea-gulls.

There were some two hundred passengers in the first saloon of the Dover Castle, and I suspected about fifty in turn of being Vaughan, but when we were a week past Madeira I had utterly failed to detect him. This did not prevent me from enjoying the voyage. I played in all the deck cricket and tournaments, danced all the dances, fell in love with Lucy Hardy, and took a violent dislike to Ossoski, a thin-lipped, sandy-haired man, with an evil smile, and a thin, grating voice, who made friends with nobody.

On the evening of the thirteenth day out, I was leaning on the rail, looking at the sea, just after Lucy had gone below for the night, when little Mrs. Filmer—one of the nicest of my many acquaintances—stopped beside me.

“Your thoughts are worth more than a penny, I suppose?” she asked in her bright, pleasant way.

“If they come true,” I agreed. I was thinking of Lucy, of course.

“I sincerely hope they will,” she said. “You see, I know them. You can’t hope to disguise yourself aboard ship, unless you’re a—visionary!”

I stifled an exclamation and stared at her. It had occurred to me that Vaughan might be disguised as a female—one of the spectacled, blue-veiled ladies of advanced views—but I could scarcely believe even now that this pretty, lady-like, feminine creature could be a man, although I could detect a resemblance to Vaughan in her features now that I looked for it.

We did not speak for a whole minute. Then she—as I had to call him—laughed.

“You are very properly discreet,” she said. “We shall need discretion. If I am not mistaken, Ossoski suspects me.”

“Does he know you? As yourself, I mean?”

“He does not know me as Vaughan. He suspects that I am Ralph Venning, a cousin of his wife. I am rather like him. I'll be candid with you. Two years ago, before I had taken to this profession, I entered Ossoski’s rooms to obtain a certain document for his wife’s friends. It was one that they had a right to—a forged certificate of her death.”

“Is she dead?”

“It is generally believed so. However, that’s immaterial. I was made up to look as much like Venning as possible. He was away abroad, and could prove an alibi if he were suspected. I obtained the document and others—sufficient to keep the Countess’s property from her husband—but Ossoski met me just outside the house as I was going away. When he missed the papers, he moved heaven and earth to find Venning; but I had become Vaughan. Now he suspects me, and he has people at the Cape who would profess to identify me with Venning—or anybody else. My disguise would be against me, and—well, there are other things that I can’t tell you. You'd better keep out of it.”

“Not while I can be of service to you,” I said stoutly. “What shall I do?”

“He does not suspect you. Watch him when he is watching me, and—here comes somebody. Chaff me about the moon—my eyes—anything. This saucy boy is behaving dreadfully, Mrs. Green Oh! I’m an old woman, you know. He’s just keeping his hand in——Good night.”

The next day I was talking to the Count when “Mrs. Filmer” passed with a smile and a nod. He scowled after her.

“Introduce me to her,” he asked abruptly.

“I—I hardly know her well enough,” I demurred.

He shrugged his shoulders. When she reached us again he bowed.

“May I take a traveler’s privilege to introduce myself?” he asked politely.

She tapped on the deck with her foot, and smiled at him archly, as she consented. I could not help admiring Vaughan’s composure, as, after a few commonplaces, they walked away together. It was evident that neither wished for my company, so I went to Lucy. Half an hour later “Mrs. Filmer” came and chatted merrily to us. Incidentally, she termed me a “visionary.” There was a dance that night, and I promptly asked her for the first waltz. It was “Myosotis,” and I shall always hear it mingled with the terrified voice of a woman; for so convincing was Vaughan’s disguise, that I could only think of him as such.

“He’s found me out, Frank, found me out. It isn’t just failure. It’s—oh! It’s worse than I can tell you—worse than you can dream. ’Ssh! He’s coming. Talk nonsense.——Fie, you naughty man! I’m sure it’s natural!——He says he’ll have me apprehended at Cape Town. I’m at his mercy, unless——Ssh! Someone will hear. Quite the handsomest man aboard, I think.——It’s nothing wrong on my part, but if you knew all, dear boy, you’d pity me.——No, I can’t tell you.——Thanks! I think I left my wrap in the corner seat——Don’t think badly of me. Read this, then tear it up.——Ours is the next, is it, doctor? Would you mind sitting it out? I’ve something to tell you.”

I was engaged for every other dance. She was engaged in earnest conversation with the doctor till she suddenly disappeared. So I did not speak to her again. The last dance was with Lucy; and we sat on deck for some time afterwards. When she retired, I thought it wise to go to the smoking room as usual. Ossoski invited me to drink, and I rallied him on not getting a dance with Mrs. Filmer; but he laughed softly. His laugh was a warning against the man.

“She is not clever enough for me,” he said complacently.

Then I pleaded sleepiness and went below. I had a cabin to myself, and I fastened the door before I opened Vaughan’s letter. It contained bank notes for £100, and this message in pencil:

“Do not intervene without the word, even if you think my life depends on it. If anything happens to me, find out what hotel Ossoski is staying at and stay there, too. Find out when he travels to Jo’burg. When you have done so, walk along Government Avenue at 10 A.M., 4 or 10 o’clock at night, wearing a flower in your buttonhole. Destroy this note.

“Under no circumstances take action without the word. Everything depends on your implicit obedience.”

 

The next day “Mrs. Filmer” did not appear. The following afternoon everyone was horrified to hear that she had died suddenly of heart failure.

“Fortunately,” the doctor told me, “we reach Cape Town tomorrow, so we can bury her ashore. She recovered for a few moments before the end. Her last instructions were to tell you that she hoped to meet you again some day. Poor woman!”

It flashed upon me in a moment that Vaughan was not dead, but shamming, and that when we reached Cape Town the next day he hoped to escape.

The following morning I was awakened by the hooting of fog horns. Nothing was visible through the port holes but a dense mist. When the steward brought my tea, he said that we were to anchor in the bay, and defer landing till the fog lifted. At luncheon time it was thicker than ever, and the good old captain made us a little speech.

“We have had many pleasant functions,” he said, “on the voyage. The last is a very sad one. It is impossible to keep any longer the remains of the poor lady who has left us, and I have been unable to arrange to land them. So they will find their last home in the sea. The law requires that the burial shall take place not less than three miles from the shore, I am therefore sending a boat. When they have had time to row a sufficient distance, I shall commence tolling a bell, and shall continue doing this at intervals to guide them back. The undertaking is not without risk, and I ask your prayers for their safe return. The service will take place after they have left the ship.”

All heads were bowed for a few moments. Then the passengers slowly rose and passed out. Most of the ladies were wiping their eyes; and the men looked pale and depressed. “Mrs. Filmer” had been a general favorite on board. Ossoski alone looked cheerful. He made some jesting remark to me, but I brushed him angrily aside, and went to my cabin to think out the situation. From Vaughan’s note and his farewell message through the doctor I had conjectured that he was only shamming death, and intended either to “come to” from his pretended trance when the passengers had landed, or after he had been carried ashore. As it was, he would probably think he was merely being taken to land till he found himself in the sea. His orders to me were positive enough—“Do not intervene without the word, even if you think my life depends upon it”—and my confidence in him was so great that I would have obeyed him in any event that he could have conceivably foreseen; but it was not possible that he could have forseen this. I wavered between confiding in the captain and going in the boat to try and give him some hint if he were alive in the ghastly bundle. Finally I decided upon the latter. and went in search of the chief officer.

“When does the—it go?” I asked huskily, when I found him.

He drew a deep breath and took my arm.

“We knew how everyone would feel about it,” he said, “so we sent it off while you were at lunch. Hark!”

The bell began tolling. I staggered and nearly fell. Dead or alive, Vaughan was in the sea!

I had a lingering hope that he might have discovered what was happening, and announced the fact that he was alive to those in the boat; but when it came back, it brought only a pale young officer and wild-eyed sailors, who trembled as they reached the deck. The bundle did not sink readily, they said, and some of them declared that they saw the canvas with its load drifting behind them all the way back, as if it were chasing them.

The captain pooh-poohed the idea, and said it was only the fog that had shaken their nerves. He gave orders for a special grog ration, but the sailors still went about shaking their heads. The ladies were tearful, and the men silent. I went below again and sat shuddering and shivering on my berth. I dared not look out of my port-hole for fear of a shapeless bundle that I pictured bobbing up and down on the waters through the fog.

The fog cleared up during the night, and we landed early the next morning? I found that Ossoski was going to the Mount Nelson” and followed him there, determined to obey Vaughan’s instructions to the letter. It relieved my feelings to do something that he had wished; and I thought it just possible that he had written to some confederate ashore, who might know the sign agreed upon and have some further orders for me. On the Saturday after we landed, Ossoski mentioned that he was going up country on Monday night. I put a rose in my buttonhole and walked down the avenue at 10 in the morning and 4 in the afternoon. In the evening I went to see Lucy, who was staying with her brother out at Sea Point, but excused myself at half past nine. I got off the tram at the end of the avenue, and walked up it punctually to time. An old Boer gentleman with a long white beard stopped me in the middle of the avenue.

“Visionary!” he muttered.

“You are a friend of V—” I checked the word, and he laughed in a voice that made my heart thump. It was Vaughan!

“His best friend, and his worst !——Good boy!”

We seized one another’s hands and pumped them for a full minute. When I told him how I proposed to go in the boat, and couldn’t, and how I felt about it, he nearly wrung my hand off.

“The doctor and his man worked it,” he explained. “They put some old rubbish in the bundle and hid me down below—a beastly, damp, dark hole, that smelt horribly of vile water. I felt as if I might be dead. Ugh!——They got me off in the afternoon. It cost £1,000. The doctor wouldn’t have done it for that if I hadn’t pointed out that for my own sake I could never reappear.”

“What!” I cried. “You mean to disappear altogether?”

“I must. It won’t be the first time.” He laughed bitterly. “Well, when does he go?”

“Monday night. He has a reserved compartment. I’ve taken a berth in the next one.”

“Take the whole compartment. At the station a worthy old Boer—Dr. Von Ry— will appeal to you to allow him to share it. You will reluctantly consent. We will arrange our plans on the journey. Walk here tomorrow night with another flower if it’s arranged all right. It must be arranged if it costs another £1,000. If you want money, come here in the afternoon.——Good night, old chap.”

I obtained the compartment, and signified the fact as directed, and we set out from Cape Town on Monday night. Our compartment and Ossoski’s were those which are usual in the first class carriages of the Cape Government Railway. The seats formed two sleeping berths, and the upper berths folded up against the sides when not required. The windows had wooden shutters to keep out the sun, and each compartment had a long narrow table with flaps between the seats. They opened upon the corridor with sliding doors, which could be bolted at night, when the doors could, however, be opened from outside by the guard’s key. The carriages had high roofs, with ventilating passages at each side, above the carriage proper. At the end of the carriage there was a little platform in the open air, and one could pass by a flexible platform with netted side-rails from one carriage to another. The reason of this description will appear later.

As soon as we closed the door for the night, Vaughan abandoned his assumed character; but he did not speak of Ossoski till the following morning, when he asked me to take an opportunity of engaging him in conversation on the platform.

I sat beside Ossoski at breakfast at Matjesfontein, and tried to engage his sympathy, by complaining of the stuffy habits of the Boer whom I had allowed to share my compartment. He informed me curtly that a good natured fool was the worst fool in the world, and made it clear that he did not wish for further conversation. In the afternoon, however, the heat drove him out on the platform, and he seemed glad to have some one to listen to his abuse of the scenery.

“Hills and ant-hills; scrub and stones!” he growled. “That’s the country you’ve spent millions of pounds and thousands of lives for!”

When I returned to my seat “Dr. Von Ry” appeared to be fast asleep, and he only spoke in broken English till we closed the door at half past ten.

Then he produced a bottle like a two pound glass jam jar, with a cork fitted in it, and a very long india rubber tube running through the cork; also two packets of crystals, and a large flask of water.

“This bottle,” he said, emphasizing his words with his forefinger, “will shortly contain a narcotic gas. When he has had time to go to sleep, I shall inject the gas into the ventilator. While you were talking to him, I ascertained with your stick that it runs along both compartments. The air coming in from outside will blow the gas into his.”

“It will not kill him,” I asked quickly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“It will not even stupefy him for long. I shall use a little chloroform when I go in. I have a guard’s key. When I have found what I want, I shall bind and gag him. The guard will find him at seven o’clock in the morning. I get off at De Aar at midnight. I have friends there. It is all arranged.”

“How about me?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be bound and gagged too. It isn’t nice, but I’m afraid it’s the only way to avert suspicion. You will make out that you’ve been drugged, of course. Say that you half woke, and heard a noise as if wheels were whizzing round, and felt as if you had a weight on your head. When you came to, you found yourself bound and gagged. You had a headache, and a coppery taste in your mouth, and felt sick. No one will suspect you—or look for the papers in your pocket!”

“What!” I cried. “I am to keep them?——All right. What am I to do with them?”

“Take them to England, and deliver them to the person I told you of. Use the word, and he will pay you £10,000. “I’ll write to you about my share.”

“But why not take the papers yourself?”

“For two reasons. First, I shall never return to England. I am ‘dead’ and intend to remain so. Secondly, I shall probably be caught and searched.”

“But if they catch you, and Ossoski can prove things against you? How will you get away then?”

He laughed.

“He cannot prove anything against me up here. His witnesses are at Cape Town. Also, I’ve a card that he little suspects, to play. No, I can’t tell you.” He looked me right in the eyes. “I am running straight with you, dear boy.”

“I never doubted that,” I told him. “I’m ready.”

After listening several times at Ossoski’s door he pronounced him asleep. He mixed the chemicals with water, and bubbles of sweet smelling gas—something like the laughing gas of the dentist—oozed out before he fitted in the cork. Then he stood on the table, and pushed the india-rubber tube along the ventilating passage. After a few minutes he got down and went out, taking a little bag in his hand. I heard Ossoski’s door slide open, and close again. Then I heard a heavy fall. The truth flashed on me in a moment. Vaughan had himself been overpowered by the gas. I rushed into the passage and tried to open Ossoski’s door. Vaughan had fastened it behind him!

I stood gazing vacantly at the door for a few seconds. If I burst it open, the noise would wake everyone. If I did not, everything depended on whether Ossoski or Vaughan woke first—presumably it would be Ossoski, as he was drugged first, and more gradually. I took out my penknife and tried to cut around the edge of a panel, but the knife was too blunt, or the wood too hard. Then I fetched my walking stick, and pressed it steadily against the panel near the keyhole. After some effort I broke through without much noise. The gas rushed out and made me feel faint, but I opened the opposite window in the corridor to let it out, and tore away enough of the panel to get my hand in, and unlatch the door. Then I dragged Vaughan back to his berth and dabbled his face with a wet towel. There was water in the lavatory. In a minute or two he opened his eyes. Before I had finished telling him what I had done, he staggered to his feet.

“What a fool I was!” he said. “Stop here. Yes, yes, I’m all right.”

He shut me in again. I heard him stumbling around in Ossoski’s compartment, and waited in an agony of suspense for fear the conductor should come round and notice the rent in the door. To my relief, Vaughan returned very quickly. He had a small flat package of papers which he handed to me.

“Now, I must tie you up,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed. I give you my word it will be all right. Remember that you have been drugged. We’re nearly at De Aar now. If the guard comes round I'll stand with my back against the hole in the door. That’s it. Now the gag.” He smiled at me and stroked my hair gently. “Good bye, dear boy, and good luck to you and your Lucy.——You'll be very happy together. Keep my half of the reward for a wedding present,——Good bye!”

He went out, leaving me stretched helplessly on the seat. Presently I heard him talking to the conductor. Then the train slowed down and stopped. I heard the baggage being moved about, and the jabbering of Kaffirs on the platform. Trunks were taken off the train, and others put on with a bang. Then the train went on. I began to feel cramped, and horrible doubts came into my mind whether I might be undiscovered, and left there to choke or starve. Then I heard the conductor shouting in the corridor; then a rush of footsteps, and a commotion in Ossoski’s compartment. In a few moments the conductor and some passengers burst in upon me.

“It’s that rascally Boer,” the conductor cried. “I always had my suspicions about him. He’s murdered both these poor gents, and robbed them.”

They untied me, sat me up, and sluiced my face with water. I pretended to come to slowly, and sat back against the corner, trying to look dazed. They stopped the train and fetched a doctor from another carriage. He brought Ossoski to, after we had been backed into De Aar. He described his symptoms as I had described mine. The only difference, the doctor said, was that he had been drugged more heavily.

Ossoski explained volubly that he believed “Dr. Von Ry” to be a man named Venning who had come out in the Dover Castle disguised as a woman, and was supposed to have died on board, but had probably only shammed death and escaped. He evidently had no suspicions of me. The police, however, insisted that I must stop at De Aar for the present, to help to identify the Boer, if he was caught.

An hour after breakfast they reported that they had found his clothes and his big bag in the field. Just after lunch they brought in a slight, nervous, rather pretty lady. I felt quite sure that she was Vaughan. Ossoski shook his fist at her, and swore that she was “Venning” alias “Mrs. Filmer.” He sneered at me when I denied any resemblance to the latter.

“He’s probably made away with the papers,” Ossoski said, “but the fact that he’s a man in disguise will be enough for you.”

“Quite enough,” said the head policeman. “I’ve no doubt in my own mind about it.”

The conductor said that he had no doubt, and so said most of the passengers; but the lady, who called herself Mrs. Leicester, insisted with tearful indignation that it was all a mistake. Finally she demanded to be searched by some ladies. Four matrons who were on the train undertook the task, and she retired with them to one of the station offices. The police officer waited with great importance outside the door, and Ossoski walked up and down on the platform, twitching his skinny hands with impatience.

After about ten minutes the police officer came forward, followed by “Mrs. Leicester,” looking flushed and triumphant, and by four indignant ladies.

“You’d best apologize,” he advised. “There are no papers, and he—that is she—is a lady. There’ll be a row about this. I had my doubts all along.”

Ossoski showed his teeth and snarled like a vicious dog.

“It’s a lie,” he shouted. “You're all in league with her.”

The four ladies bridled up with one accord.

“Perhaps you'll inform this—this man—who I am,” said the one who had taken the lead.

The police officer drew Ossoski a little aside.

“She’s the wife of Sir Ewan Jones,” he declared in a hoarse whisper, “and two of the others are the wives of high officials. If you don’t apologize there’ll be trouble.”

Ossoski stared at them with his lips drawn back from his large yellow teeth.

“If this is a woman,” he snarled, “Venning was a woman. It’s Venning. I won’t apologize. They lie!”

The ladies started a shrill clamor, and the police officer began to pull Ossoski away rather roughly, but “Mrs. Leicester” interceded.

“I do not think he is responsible for his actions,” she said sweetly. “What did you say his name was?——Ossoski?.——Now I remember. He’s mad. His wife had to leave him. Her maiden name was Venning, and——”

Ossoski gave a sudden yell and sprang at her; but the police officer and I caught him.

“It is my wife!” he yelled. “My wife——Don’t let her go.——She’s my wife, I tell you!”

“I told you he was quite mad,” she whispered. “Hadn’t I better humor him?——Yes, I’m your wife. Of course, I’m your wife, dear?”

He tried again to spring at her, but the police officer held him firmly.

“Come along with me,” he said. “I’ll find you a nice compartment to yourself; and someone to look after you!”

And in spite of his protests, he was forced into the train and taken to Johannesburg, leaving “Mrs. Leicester” on the platform waving her hand.

 

The great personage who took the papers and gave me the reward supplied what little remains of the story.

“Ossoski,” he said, “had a charming English wife whom he treated badly. About three years ago she disappeared. Some people said that he had killed her; others that she had run away from his ill usage. He said that she was dead; but that the proofs of her death had been stolen from his rooms by one Venning, her cousin, who could not be found. Apparently she was Venning, and Venning became Vaughan, and I imagine that your father, who knew her people, befriended her.——Anyhow we shall hear no more of the Cape Conspiracy; and I doubt if you’ll ever hear any more of her.”

There he was wrong, as even great personages sometimes are. For a year later Ossoski died, and the Countess reappeared at my wedding to Lucy. She was an old friend of my father’s, she explained, and my wife is as fond of her as I am. Her portrait stands on my desk now—a slight, beautiful woman, with wonderful eyes; and underneath is written in her hand—

“A strong friend and a strong foe, and ever your friend. Pauline Ossoski.”

Lucy smiles when she reads the inscription.

“It shows how people deceive themselves about themselves,” she says. “She couldn’t hurt a fly—our dear Pauline!”

But I have not told even Lucy the story of the Cape Conspiracy!