‘The police examined it?’
‘Yes. They were meticulous. No fingerprints. No forced entry. Nothing.’
Pargeter leaned forward and began to spin the combination dial. Sixteen to the left, five to the right, back to twenty-two on the left . . . there were seven separate movements before the wheel flies aligned. He turned the key in the lock, then pulled the handle. There was a click and the door opened. Looking past him, Pünd saw that there was indeed nothing inside.
Pünd swung the safe door open and shut again, feeling the weight of it, its solidity, in his hand. There was nothing more to be seen. He straightened up and turned his attention to the surrounding walls, tapping them with his knuckles as if searching for a secret passage. Elaine Pargeter was watching him from the bedroom and did not look impressed. Pünd ran a finger over a small tear in the wallpaper, then rubbed his thumb against it, deep in thought. The safe was locked again. The three of them went back downstairs.
They went into the drawing room and Pünd accepted a second offer of coffee, which was brought in by the maid, who had been away on the night of the crime and seemed unaware that anything untoward had taken place. The Pargeters were sitting opposite him on a sofa. He was perched, slightly above them, on a high-backed antique chair that might have come out of a church.
‘It might be helpful to speak to your friend, Mr Berkeley,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure what he can tell you,’ Pargeter replied. ‘He gave the police a full statement and now he’s back in New York. But I can put a call into Shell for you, if you like.’
‘The police . . .’ Pünd took a sip of his coffee, carefully lowering the cup onto its saucer, which he had balanced on his knee. He turned to Elaine. ‘It was you, Mrs Pargeter, who telephoned them?’
‘Yes. Detective Inspector Gilbert arrived about thirty minutes later. He had a sergeant with him, a pleasant young man. It was two o’clock in the morning by that time; the two of them were on night duty. They interviewed us in the room where we’re sitting now and asked a great many questions. They went upstairs and they also looked round the side of the house, where the window had been broken. They told us not to go into the closet – John had been right about that. The next morning we had a whole crowd of people from Scotland Yard: forensics, photographers, the lot!’
‘I would be interested to know if, at any stage, the police suggested that you yourself might be involved in the disappearance of the diamond.’
‘No. Quite the opposite,’ Pargeter said. ‘They were scrupulously polite. They were interested in the safe and the way it operated. They examined the key – they had obviously never seen anything quite like it.’ He paused. ‘They did, however, want to know who else had been given the combination.’
‘You told them the same as you have told me.’
‘Exactly. There are only three people in the world who have it. My wife, myself and my lawyer.’
‘But that is not true, Mr Pargeter.’
‘What?’ The businessman glanced angrily at Pünd, unhappy at being contradicted.
‘Nobody else knows the combination,’ his wife insisted.
Pünd closed his eyes. ‘Sixteen left, five right, twenty-two left, thirty right, twenty-five left, eleven right, thirty-nine left.’ He opened them again. ‘That is correct, is it not?’
Pargeter flushed. ‘You were watching me when I opened it!’
‘That is exactly what I did.’
‘Well, that’s a cute trick, Mr Pünd, but I’m not quite sure what point you are trying to make. Nobody else ever came into that room with me apart from my wife, and for what it’s worth, I saw you looking over my shoulder. You’ve got a good memory, but you might as well forget those numbers. They don’t matter any more. That horse has bolted, as the saying goes. I’ll be getting rid of the safe and buying a new one.’
‘Ah, yes! You do not close the door after the horse has bolted. That is the saying to which you refer.’ Pünd smiled. ‘And for me, you open it!’
‘I’m sorry?’
Pünd got to his feet. ‘I need to make a few enquiries,’ he said. ‘But it is clear to me how the Ludendorff Diamond and all the other contents were removed from the safe and by whom. You will be in England for a few more days?’
‘I’ll stay as long as it takes.’
‘Not long, Mr Pargeter. Then all will be revealed!’
The arrests had taken place four days later and in the end the diamond, all of Mrs Pargeter’s jewellery and most of the money had been recovered. And Pargeter had been true to his word. Sitting in his brand-new living room with his sherry and his cigarette, Pünd thought about the cheque that had arrived with a brief note of thanks, more money than he had earned in several years. He had put down a deposit on Tanner Court the same day. He had bought new furniture, including a handsome Biedermeier desk. He had hired a secretary to assist him with his administrative work. That reminded him. He must tell Miss Cain to get rid of the bed. That had definitely been a mistake.
And the culprits?
It hadn’t taken him long to discover that John Berkeley, Pargeter’s old school friend, had serious money problems. Pargeter had more or less told him that himself. He had stayed in the house because he couldn’t afford a hotel. A little further digging had revealed that it was no coincidence that Detective Inspector Gilbert (who was getting divorced) and Detective Sergeant Dickinson (who had a fondness for racing) had been in the Knightsbridge police station at half past one in the morning. They had actually volunteered for the night shift, knowing they would be called out. It had taken three of them to get past the security of the world’s most impregnable safe, and although Pünd couldn’t be certain of all the details, there was only one way it could have worked.
Berkeley had been the key. He had left with the Pargeters, knowing that the house was empty apart from an elderly butler who would sleep through the whole thing. While they were away, Dickinson had broken in, smashing a window and silencing the alarms. He would have had plenty of time to prepare the scene for the robbery. First, he had placed a simple flat – a piece of theatrical scenery covered in dark red Chinese wallpaper – in front of the locked safe. Then he had brought in a second safe, a perfect replica of the Sentry model, but made out of much lighter material – painted wood – with the door open and the interior obviously empty.
When the Pargeters had got back from the party, Berkeley had ‘spotted’ the broken pieces of glass on the drive. It was actually important that Pargeter and his wife should realise that they had been burgled before they went into the house; it would influence how they behaved. Of course, they went straight to the safe and once again it was Berkeley who had taken control of the situation. Those were the exact words that Pargeter had used. He had stopped them from turning on the light in the alcove. He had told them not to go in. From a distance of ten feet, and even with the reflected light, the illusion would have been perfect. The fake wall blended in with the real one. The real safe was concealed behind it. The wooden safe was open and empty.
The Pargeters believed that they had been robbed even though they had no idea how it had happened. Berkeley had led his friend downstairs, supposedly to look after him but in reality to prevent him investigating too closely himself. Of course, at this stage, if the Pargeters had worked out they were being tricked, there would have been no danger to Berkeley or to his co-conspirators. The whole thing would have been put down as some sort of bizarre hoax. Nobody would ever find out what had been planned.
Things changed with the arrival of Gilbert and Dickinson. Pünd could imagine exactly how it had worked. ‘And what exactly is the combination of the safe, sir?’ Charles Pargeter would have volunteered the numbers without a second thought. After all, these were the police. And the horse had bolted. ‘I wonder if I might take a look at this key of yours, sir?’ Again, Pargeter would have handed it over. He believed he had already been robbed, but in fact the robbery took place while he was sitting in the downstairs living room being in
terviewed. One of them – probably Dickinson again – had hurried back upstairs and opened the real safe, removing the contents. Then he had taken them outside, using the back door, along with the fake safe and the theatrical flat, leaving things exactly as they had appeared when the Pargeters got home.
He had made just one small mistake. Moving the flat, which had been wedged into place across the alcove, he had very slightly torn the wallpaper. Pünd had found that tear and everything else had fallen into place.
He looked at the clock. Half past six. It was time to go. He finished his sherry, stubbed out his cigarette and finally picked up the rosewood walking stick that he carried as an affectation and not because it was needed. He glanced at himself one last time in the mirror, patted the speech nestling in his inside pocket, and left.
Six
Crime and Punishment
There were three hundred people in Goldsmiths’ Hall, the women in long gowns, the men in black tie. They were sitting at four long tables in a room whose magnificence was beyond anything Pünd had ever experienced: soaring columns, massive chandeliers and more than enough gold ornamentation to remind those present of the industry to which it owed its existence. Perhaps it was because he was a foreigner that he felt a particular admiration for this ancient British tradition. The guild had been formed in the Middle Ages and now, six hundred years later, it still existed to provide education and support for its fellow citizens. The meal had been excellent, the conversation lively. He was glad that he had come.
His speech had also been well received. He had been talking for half an hour and had covered his experiences as a police officer in the Ordnungspolizei in Germany and what had happened when it had been brought under Nazi control. But as he approached the last few pages, he changed direction. He had, after all, been given free rein when he was invited to speak and there was a point he wanted to make.
‘You will be aware,’ he said, ‘that the Royal Commission on Capital Punishment set up by the last prime minister will be reporting in the next few months and it is my hope and belief that even if we do not see the end of capital punishment altogether, the law will soon be changed. It is not just the possible mistakes that were made in the cases of Timothy Evans and Derek Bentley earlier this year. No, surely, if our experience of Nazism and the war has taught us anything it is that we must believe in the sanctity of life, even the life of a criminal.
‘Is it right that all murderers should die? Is the man who loses control for one terrible moment, who perhaps lashes out and kills his wife or best friend in an argument, to be treated no differently from the man who has planned and cold-bloodedly executed a murder for his personal gain? Is it not time to consider different types of murder and to apply appropriate sentences?
‘Judges no longer have any appetite for the death penalty, ladies and gentlemen. You should be aware that almost half of all murderers are reprieved. In the first half of this century, five hundred and thirty-three death sentences out of one thousand, two hundred and ten were commuted, and that figure is rising. I have met many murderers. I have abhorred what they have done, but often I have found some sympathy for the terrible circumstances that have led them to commit their crimes. At the end of the day, they are human too.
‘To kill the killer is to descend to his or her level. I await the result of the Royal Commission with interest. I believe it will lead us to a new age.’
Pünd had feared that his comments might not connect with this audience but the applause as he sat down was warm and sustained. It was only later, as the port and cigars were being passed round, that the treasurer, a slightly hard-edged man who was sitting next to him, suddenly remarked: ‘I don’t suppose you saw that story about Melissa James?’
‘The actress who was killed in Devonshire a few days ago?’
‘Yes. Forgive me, Mr Pünd, but I really wonder if what you said just now would apply to what happened to her.’
‘The police have yet to identify her killer, I believe.’
‘Well, it all points to the husband from what I understand. He was the last person to see her alive. Strangling someone is a very personal way of killing them, I would say, and all the circumstances would seem to suggest what the Americans call a “crime of passion”. Now, here’s a beautiful and talented young woman, loved all over the world. She made some superb films. My wife and I were definitely fans. Would you really be so willing to forgive her assassin?’
‘Clemency and forgiveness are not the same thing.’
‘Are you so sure of that? I would say it sends out a message. Lose your temper. Kill your wife. The law understands!’
Pünd did not agree but he kept his thoughts to himself. He had made his speech, which is what he had been asked to do, and that was the end of it. Even so, he was still thinking about the treasurer’s words the following morning as he finished his breakfast and went into his office. His secretary had arrived promptly at nine o’clock and was waiting for him, sorting through his mail.
‘How did your speech go, Mr Pünd?’ she asked.
‘It went extremely well, I think, Miss Cain.’ He had brought home a cheque and he handed it to her. ‘Could you send this, please, to the Police Orphans Fund.’
Miss Cain picked up the slip of paper and glanced at the amount. Her eyebrows rose. ‘That was very generous of them,’ she said.
‘It is certainly a considerable donation,’ Pünd agreed.
‘And very good of you to give up your time, Mr Pünd.’
Atticus Pünd smiled. He had, he thought, found the perfect secretary in Madeline Cain, who had come to him through a highly respected agency. He had actually interviewed three women and she had seemed the most formidable, answering his questions with the brisk efficiency that she now brought to her work. She was forty-five years old, a graduate of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, unmarried, with a flat in Shepherd’s Bush. She had worked as the private secretary to a small number of senior businessmen, all of whom had given her excellent references. With her jet black hair, her dress sense – which was definitely on the austere side – and her horn-rimmed spectacles, she might seem daunting on first appearance. But she could be warm-hearted too. She had only been with Pünd for three months but she was already devoted to him.
‘May I ask you a question, Miss Cain?’
‘Of course, Mr Pünd.’
‘What was your opinion of what I said last night?’
‘The speech?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m not sure it’s my place to say.’ Miss Cain frowned. She had, of course, typed the speech and was familiar with its contents. ‘I thought your description of Germany in the forties was very interesting.’
‘And my remarks on capital punishment?’
‘I don’t really know. It’s not something I’ve ever really thought about. I think it’s right to show mercy in certain cases, but you don’t want to encourage people to believe that evil will go unpunished.’ She changed the subject. ‘You have a Mrs Allingham coming in at eleven o’clock. She wants to talk to you about her husband.’
‘And what is it that her husband has done?’
‘He’s disappeared with his secretary. Would you like me to be present?’
‘It would most certainly be a good idea.’
Miss Cain had already opened the mail and had been glancing through the various letters as she spoke. Now she stopped with one of them in her hand. ‘Someone’s written to you from New York,’ she said.
‘Is it perhaps Herr Pargeter?’
‘No, no. It’s an agency.’ She slid the letter in front of him.
Pünd picked it up, noticing that it had been typed on high-quality paper. According to the letterhead, it had been sent from the William Morris Agency, 1740 Broadway, New York. It read:
Dear Mr Pünd,
My name is Edgar Schultz and I am a senior partner at the William Morris Agency in New York. It was my privilege to represent Miss Melissa James, a major motion-picture talent and a wond
erful human being. I am sure you will understand how shocked we all are by the news of her passing.
As I write this, there have been no answers as to what took place at her home in Devonshire one week ago. Without wishing to disparage the work of the British police, my partners and I would like to engage you to investigate the crime.
If you would like to call my office on Judson 6–5100, I would be most glad to speak with you.
Yours sincerely,
Edgar Schultz
Pünd read the letter carefully, then laid it down. ‘It is most curious,’ he said. ‘I was speaking of this matter only yesterday.’
‘Everyone’s talking about Melissa James,’ Miss Cain agreed.
‘That is indeed so. It is a story of great public interest and this invitation is as timely as it is unexpected. And yet, on reflection, it seems to me that Devonshire is a great distance from here and the facts of the case, insofar as I am aware, are quite straightforward. I am surprised that the police have not yet come up with a solution.’
‘Maybe they need your help.’
‘That is often the case. But to travel such a distance . . .’
‘Whatever you say, Mr Pünd.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But Miss James was a very good actress and you don’t really have anything on your desk at the moment.’
‘What of Mrs Allingham?
‘I thought it sounded rather sordid. I’m sure this would be much more up your street.’
Pünd smiled. ‘Yes, you may perhaps be right.’ He made up his mind. ‘Let us see. If you would be so kind as to book a transatlantic call for this afternoon, we will hear what this man, Herr Schultz, has to say.’
‘Certainly, Mr Pünd. I’ll see to that for you.’
The call was arranged for three o’clock, which would be midmorning in New York. Miss Cain made the connection and was put through to Schultz’s office. Only then did she hand the receiver to Pünd. As he held it against his ear, he heard a low hissing and then, surprisingly clear, a voice with a strong Brooklyn accent.
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