Tracking an Adept in Disguises

Te Aroha News, Volume II, Issue 72, 18 October 1884, Page 5

Tracking an Adept in Disguises

" The neatest and about the longest job ever was concerned in," says a writer in "Time," -was "young Mr Burbridge's case, and that I did in London without any help from the London police. He was in tho theatrical profession ; a smart young chap, greatty trusted by his manager— made a sort of confidental secretary of, and allowed to keep the accounts and all the cash. No ont checked one counted t'other. Ono fine morning he went off with a big sum. He'd been to the bank and drawn a cheque to pay the weekly wages, but he went off instead, leaving the treasury empty and the whole company whistling for their 'screws. 5 The manager was half mad, and he came at once to the police. The chief sent for me. " ' It's a bad business ; thoroughly bad, and we must get him,' he said. " ' No idea which way he's gone V I asked. " ' None ; that's for you to find out. So take up the case at once. Spare no pains — spend what money you like, only catch him, if you can.' "In jobs of that sort, sir, time goes a long way, of course. Butitain't everything. Burbridge had a good start, several hours or more, but it was no use my rushing off J after him in a hurry, particularly as I did not know which way te rush. So I set nryself to think a little before I commenced work. The ' swag ' stolen was large. The thief would probably try to make tracks out of the country as soon as he could, but which way ? To Liverpool, perhaps, and by one of the ocean steamers to the States ; or to Hull, and so to Sweden and Norway ; or to London, and so toFrance and Spain. " I sent one of my men to the railway station to make inquiries, and another to wire to the police at the ports, and to Scotland Yard to watch the Continental trains. The job I kept for myself was to find out what I could about young Burbridge's ways — who his friends were, and how ne spent his time. It's the only way to gets line on a man who's made off in a hurry, and left no clue. So 1 made at once for the fellow's rooms. He lived in comfortable apartments over a tobacconist's, and was a good customer to his landlord, to judge by the number of pipes I saw over the mantelpiece, all of which were as well coloured as a black-and-tan. The rooms were just as he left them : he might really have been coming back in half-an-hour, only he did not quite intend to, not of his own accord. The chest of drawers was full of clothes ; there were boots all ready polished i brush and comb on the dressing-table. In the sitting-room the slippers were on the hearth ; books, actingplays lying on the sofa and about the floor, a writing-desk, and ' ' ' Papers ?' " Not a single serap — not a letter, or an envelope, or even an unreceipted bill. He'd ma Je up his mind to bolt, and he'd removed everything which might give us the smallest notion of which way he'd gone. It was just the same at the theatre. He'd had a sort of dressing-room there which he'd used as an office, with a desk in it, and pigeon-holes and a nest of drawers. It was all left ship-shape enough. Files of play-bills, of accounts receipted and not, ledgers, and all that ; but not a paper of the kind I looked for. I made a prcety close search, too. I took every piece of furniture bit by bit, and turned over every scrap of stuff with writing on it or without. I forced every lock and ransacked every hid-ing-place, but I got nothing anywhere for my pains. The manager was with me all the time, and he didn't half like it, I can tell you. No more did I, although I wouldn't for worlds show that I was vexed. I tried to keep him up, saying it'd come all right — that patience in these things never failed in the long run, and I got him to talk about the young chap, to see if I could come upon his habits that way. " • Who were his friends, now ? ' I asked. " 'He'd none in particular — not in the company, at least, or out of it. ' "'That's queer. None at all — no lady friend ? Wasn't he sweet upon one or other of your stars ? There's Miss Plantagenet, now, and Miss ' " 'He could'nt bear the sight of them ; that's why I liked him so much ; he was so quiet and steady ; no flirting and philandering ; stuck close to his books and his business.' " 'Never took a holiday even ? ' " ' Well, now and again he went auay for a few days at a time ; not far — to London only. His mother lived there, he said, a widowed mother ' " • Who wore silk tights, and danced breakdowns, and played in burlesques ?' I said quietly, as I drew out of the blottingpaper a photograph of a young lady, a fairhaired little bit of a thing, with a pretty, rather modest face, which I felt I should know again. The carte-de-visite had the photographer's name on it and his address, that of a good street. This was my line, of course. I made up my mind to follow on to London at once. Then one of my men came in to say that Burbridge had been seen taking a tieket — to London? No; only to Shrivelsby — a long way short of it. It was some game, I felt certain. He might have gone to London, and paid excess fare ; but I wired to Shrivelsby, and also to town. No one like him had been seen at Shrivelsby ; he hadn't got out there, that was clear. Only «ne person did, and it wasn't him ; at least the person did not answer to his description. It was only a man in a working: suit — a mechanic on the look-out for work. Nor had he been seen at Euston ; but that was a big place, and he might easily have been missed. So I started for London at once, taking the photograph and another of Burbridge, whom I had never seen in my life. ** It is not difficult to hunt out who owns to a carte-de-visite, particularly when the portrait's that of a theatrical. I found the person who answered fast enough directly I went into the photographer's place. There was a likeness of her m his album, in the very same dress, and her name to it, Miss Jessie Junniper. I soon found out more too. Before night I knew that she was playing at the Royal Rosicus, and that she lived in a street of little villaß down Hammersmith way. I took lodgings myself in the house just opposite, and set up a close watch. In the morning, early, Miss Jessie came out, and I followed her to the underground railway. She took a ticket for Temple Station. So did I, and tracked her down to the theatre. Rehearsal, of course. Three hours passed before she came out again. Then a man met her at the stage-door, a very old gentleman, who leant on a stick, and seemed very humpy-backed and bent. They went down the Strand together to Allens, the freattrunk-maker, and through the windows saw them buy a couple of these big trunks, baskets covered with black leather, such as ladies take on their travels. ' Urn,' thought I, 'she's on the fit.' I was only just in time. Then they went down the Charing Cross Station, and so back to Hamraeremith. The old gentleman went into the house with Miss Junniper, and stayed an hour or two, and then took his leave. " Next day Miss Junniper did not go out. The boxes arrived, and towards midday an oldish lady — a middle-aged, poorlydressed, shabby-genteel lady—called and stayed several hours. But no Burbridge, ana nobody at. all like him. I began to feel disappointed. The third day Mibs Junniper went out again to rehearsal j the pld gentleman met her as before, and. the

two drove this time in a cab to the city. I followed thorn to Leadenhall-street, whore they went into tho office of the White Star Lino. I did not go upstairs with them, and somehow I lost them when they came out. I ought to have guessed then what I did not think of till late that night. Of course the old gentleman was Burbridge himself. He was an actor, and a nipper, therefore, at disguises. He'd been play-acting all along. He *vas the mechanic at Shrivelsby, the shabby-genteel old lady, and the old man most of all. I won't tell you how I cursed myself for not thinking of this sooner. It was almost too late when I did. My gent had left the villa (to which they had returned), and he did not come back next day, nor yet ths day after, and I was nearly wild with the chance I'd lost. He got ' the office,' that's what I thought, and I was up a troe. "But the third day came a telogram for the young lady. I saw the boy deliver it and go off, as though there was no answer. Then she came out, and I followed her to the telegraph office. I saw her write her message and send it off. I'd havo given pounds to read it, but I couldn't manage it ; the clerk—it's his duty— wouldn't let mo. I was countered again, and I was almost beat, and thinking of writing home to say so, when I saw in the compartment where Miss Junniper had been writing her message — she'd done it with a hard pencil, which showed through ; there was the address as plain as ninepenco — no mystery or circumlocution — 'Burbridge, King's Head Hotel, Kingston.', " I was there the same evening, just before his dinner. I asked if Mr Burbridge was here. Sure enough. He wasn't a bit i afraid of being took, 1 suppose, so far off | the line of pursuit ; so he'd stuck to his own name, and was not even disguised. He i gave in without a word. The tickets were on him, and in his bag up-stairs a lot of the cash he'd stolen — likewise a wardrobe of clothes — the old gentleman's suit, and all the rest. " ' Did he enjoy his dinner ? ' ' "' Well, not much. I joined him, and ' didn't handcuff him ; but I eat tho best ( part of it myself, and I think I deserved it too."'