by Otto Penzler
“A very valuable bird,” said Lester Leith. “A Peruvian bloodhound-canary. I was hoping to try him out.”
Sergeant Ackley stared at the cage.
“False bottom, maybe,” he said.
The detectives shook their heads.
“Nothing doing, sergeant,” said Joe. “Every inch of it has been checked.”
Sergeant Ackley fixed his moody eyes upon the canary.
“Birds have craws, boys, and maybe there’s a fine stone stuffed down this bird’s craw. Wring his neck and let’s have a look!”
Lester Leith’s voice suddenly became ominous.
“Sergeant, I’ve let you ride roughshod over my rights long enough. If you take the life of that canary, I’ll have you arrested for cruelty to animals, and, by God, I’ll spend a hundred thousand dollars prosecuting the charge! That’s a very rare species of canary, and very delicate. It’s worth thousands!”
Sergeant Ackley’s face broke into a smile.
“Now,” he gloated, “we’re getting close to home. Pull that damned bird out here and let’s see what he’s got inside of him.”
One of the detectives was more humane.
“We’ve got the house physician’s X-ray machine,” he said. “We can use that just as well, and then this guy won’t have any squawk.”
“Okay,” said Sergeant Ackley, too weary for further argument. “Give ’m the once over.”
The bird was held under the X-ray. The result was as the search had been, negative.
Lester Leith made a facetious comment.
“The bird in the hand,” he said.
“That’ll do!” bellowed Ackley.
Leter Leith continued to smile.
“All right. We’ve solved the Cogley murder. That’s a good night’s work. Let’s get home, boys,” said Sergeant Ackley. “It’s getting along—”
He fished mechanical fingers in his watch pocket, then let his jaw sag, his voice trail into silence as those searching fingers encountered nothing.
“My watch!” he said.
The men stared at him.
His hand darted to his necktie.
“And my pin! Good heavens! What’ll my wife …”
He paused.
In the moment of tense silence which followed, Lester Leith’s drawling voice carried a cryptic comment.
“I’m so glad the young lady has an alibi,” he said.
Sergeant Ackley’s face purpled.
“Shut up!” he bellowed. “I remember now, I left my pin and my watch on my dresser at home. Let’s go, boys. Get out of here. Leave the damned slicker and his canary!”
And Sergeant Ackley pushed his men out into the hall, showing a sudden haste to terminate the entire affair.
Edward H. Beaver, undercover operative of the police department, detailed to act as valet to Lester Leith, suspected hijacker of stolen jewels, held up a grayish feather between his thumb and forefinger, and stared reproachfully at Ackley.
“I told you, sergeant, that he never did anything without a reason. That canary, now …”
Sergeant Ackley banged his feet down from the desk. His face was distorted with rage.
“Beaver, you’re detailed on that suspect. You live with him, hear everything he says, know everything he does, and yet the guy keeps pulling things right under your nose. It’s an evidence of criminal incompetency on your part.”
“But,” interpolated the spy, “I suggested this about the canary before, sir. I suggested that the solution of the whole affair might be …”
Sergeant Ackley raised his voice.
“You’re all wet, Beaver. I even X-rayed the damned canary. He couldn’t have had a thing to do with it!”
“Yes, sergeant,” said the spy, meekly, a little too meekly, perhaps; “but I found this feather in the bottom of the cage.”
“Well, what of it?”
“It’s not the color of the canary, sir. It’s not a canary feather.”
Sergeant Ackley stared, his eyes slowly widening.
“Well, what sort of a feather is it?”
“I had it classified at the zoölogical gardens. It’s a feather from a pigeon, one of the sort known as a homing pigeon. It’s barely possible that covered cage contained half a dozen homing pigeons, beside the canary, trained to go to a certain particular spot immediately upon being released.
“And then Lester Leith could have picked out a dozen of the most valuable stones, slipped them into sacks that were already attached to the birds’ legs, tossed the birds out of the window, and then later on, gone to the place where they had flown and picked up the diamonds. After all, we have no assurance that the cage contained only a canary except what Leith said. The cage was always covered. It may have contained homing pigeons, and …”
Sergeant Ackley glowered, bellowed his comment.
“Well, that was your business! You’re a hell of a spy if you can’t tip us off to what’s going on!”
“I warned you, sergeant, that this canary was the key to the crime. But you overlooked the bird in the hand to go chasing off after …”
Sergeant Ackley’s chair scraped back along the floor as the big bulk of the sergeant got to its feet, as the sergeant’s face glowered down upon his subordinate.
“That’ll do, Beaver! Your suspicions are absurd, your statements incorrect, and your deductions too late. This department is interested in getting results, not in diagnosing failures. Get out!”
“Yes, sergeant,” said Edward H. Beaver.
“And keep your mouth shut, Beaver!” warned the sergeant as the spy’s hand was on the doorknob.
The retort was a grunt, inarticulate, undistinguishable, but hardly respectful.
Then the door banged.
Sergeant Ackley raised a hand to his necktie. His fingers caressed the smooth expanse of silk where his diamond stickpin had formerly glistened. That spot was now bare, unornamented.
Sergeant Ackley’s face was twisted into an expression which was neither prepossessing nor pleasant.
“Damn!” he said.
THE GULVERBURY DIAMONDS
WILLIAM EDWARD VICKERS (1889–1965) had a successful publishing career in England, which did not carry across the Atlantic until Ellery Queen discovered his work. Vickers produced books and stories under the pseudonyms David Durham, Sefton Kyle, John Spencer, and the best-known Roy Vickers. Among his most popular works are the “inverted” detective stories that appeared in several collections, most notably The Department of Dead Ends (1947; the expanded British edition of 1949 has mainly different contents). In this challenging type of detective story, the reader witnesses the crime, is present when the incriminating clue is finally discovered, and follows the police methods leading to arrest. Queen found one of these stories, “The Rubber Trumpet,” in an old English magazine, liked it, and reprinted it in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, leading to several of Vickers’s books being published in the United States.
The other enduring character created by Vickers, under the Durham pseudonym, was Fidelity Dove, an angelic-looking young woman who is one of the most inventive and successful of all fictional crooks. Her ethereal beauty has made slaves of most of the men who meet her, especially her “gang,” which consists of a lawyer, a scientist, a businessman, and others whose specialized knowledge assist in her nefarious undertakings. Her frustrated adversary is Detective Inspector Rason, who has greater success when he heads the Department of Dead Ends.
“The Gulverbury Diamonds” was first published in The Exploits of Fidelity Dove (London, Hodder, 1924); it is one of the rarest mystery books published in the twentieth century. The short-story collection was reissued in 1935 with the same title but under the Roy Vickers name.
DAVID DURHAM
THERE IS ONE MAN alive who once inflicted a terrible hurt upon Fidelity Dove. He never claims that distinction for reasons that you will guess—but it is ten to one that you will guess them wrongly.
Before his retirement, you used to read pretty r
egularly about the Marquis of Gulverbury as a shining light of the House of Lords, as a patron of the Turf and of the Ring. He was the only member of the aristocracy who was a typical aristocrat of the old school, with a grave, courtly manner and an altogether charming belief in the grandeur of his caste. Fidelity Dove cultivated his acquaintance just about the time of his retirement. You have heard of the Gulverbury diamonds, and so had Fidelity.
Almost, one could write that the Marquis of Gulverbury was too much for Fidelity. For instance, he was too upright a man to be ensnared by her beauty, so she used her brains. She studied heraldry, one of his hobbies, and in their long chats together Fidelity tasted the sweets of an artistic friendship. She came to respect and admire him quite a lot, and that wasn’t very good for business.
One day when he was strangely listless, she forced herself to mention the Gulverbury diamonds.
There broke from him a laugh that made Fidelity suddenly conscious of his age. That startled her. His next words startled her more.
“Did you happen to read in your paper this morning, Miss Dove, amongst the less important news of the day, that a young man named John Hilliard drove a motorcar over the cliffs at Rottingdean yesterday and was killed? It was assumed that he ran off the road in a mist. He did not. He ran off the road deliberately. And his name was not John Hilliard, though no one will ever know that but you. He was, to be precise, Lord Paynton. He was my son.”
“Oh!” gasped Fidelity. “How great of you to tell me like that! I will not hurt you with platitudes! I will go.” She was trembling—she knew she had paled. This emotion that was sweeping her—this aching pity—frightened her by its intensity. It was so long since she had been moved.… “I will go,” she repeated.
“You asked about the diamonds that belong to our family,” continued Lord Gulverbury as if he had not heard her. “They are in the possession of Miss Lola Marron of the chorus of the Olympic Theatre. She is the one other who knows the truth about my son. He stole the diamonds from me to give to her. He left a letter, a broken-hearted letter, confessing to me what he had done and what he intended to do. This morning my agents have offered double the intrinsic value of those diamonds and have been refused. The lady is under the impression that the possession of the Gulverbury diamonds will be the foundation of her career.”
The thin lips twisted bitterly; the white head was erect, but the eyes were those of a man whom ill-fortune has beaten at last.
“I have told you thus much, and I must, if you will allow me, tell you more—for I would not have you think ill of my son. He was wounded twice in a frontier war and received the Victoria Cross. One of his wounds was in the head and he was never the same man. He had fits of violent emotionalism. This woman maddened him with her coquetry. When she had obtained the diamonds she flaunted a rival. That, I think, must have unbalanced him.”
Fidelity no longer struggled with her longing to give comfort; she let herself be swept away. She told herself that just for once she could afford to do so. She was no longer the amazing Miss Dove; she was a girl in grey who grieved with her friend. She put out a hand and laid it on the clenched fist of the old man.
“To me there is an added grief in this lamentable history. If I may speak of such a subject to you, Miss Dove, the woman gave him nothing. It would have been easier to bear if he had had the pleasure of such kindness as she could give him. But he played the infatuated fool and for the destruction of his life and honour he once kissed her finger-tips.”
There was another silence. Fidelity was softly caressing the withered hand.
“That is my personal bereavement. There is a loss that goes through me, beyond myself. I am of those, Miss Dove, who are not ashamed to own to a pride of family. My family was ennobled by Richard Cœur de Lion. Since then we have stood for service. We have fought corruption, and as for our women—those diamonds have symbolized their crystal purity. Successive generations of women have been proud to wear them. And now their work is to enhance the reputation of a courtesan. I don’t grudge the woman their worth. But I would rather they were at the bottom of the sea than that they should serve such a purpose. And as for my poor boy—I will not bore you with the tale of his gallantry when he was himself——”
“Tell me about the V.C.,” whispered Fidelity.
“You would like to hear?” The father’s eyes brightened. “It was on the eve of the battle proper. His company …”
For an hour Fidelity listened. Then she stole from the room, leaving the old man sitting in his chair staring dreamily at the visions of the past.
Fidelity left the house in Portman Square for the green peace of Regent’s Park. She walked there for an hour or more, battling with her conflicting desires. Then she took a taxi and drove home.
In the vast hall of her house in Bayswater a letter was waiting for her. It had been delivered by express messenger and it bore Lord Gulverbury’s crest—Lord Gulverbury’s handwriting.
“Dear Miss Dove,” she read.
“A few minutes after you had left a gentleman called on me who I believe is known to you—Detective-Inspector Rason of New Scotland Yard. To your attempted injury, need you have added the cruel insult of allowing me to talk about my son? You have at least given me the satisfaction of knowing that I have amused you—Gulverbury.”
Fidelity stood very still. The grand old man had talked with Rason—and now classed her beside Lola Marron. Fidelity made her way upstairs very slowly.
She noted the sombre beauty of her house as though she were a stranger; the grim Holbeins on the wall, the carvings, the stained glass, the forbidding beauty of the long corridors. It was a house that would have utterly repelled many a young girl, but she—she had created it eagerly yet carefully, had chosen the gruesome prints and the massive tapestries.
“I do not look as though I had been hurt,” she thought, as she looked at herself in the triple mirrors of her dressing-room. “Perhaps that is because I never cry. But then I was not meant to cry. I was meant—to fight.”
The fierce fighting pride drove her hurt inwards. When she entered the drawing-room, exquisite in cloth of silver, none of them knew there was aught amiss with her. Appleby, who could never shake off his professorial habits, was giving his colleagues an informal lecture on meteorology, one of his special hobbies.
“He’s been telling us what the weather’s like ninety thousand feet up,” explained Varley, the jeweller.
Fidelity forced herself into the simulation of interest.
“Ninety thousand feet!” she echoed. She gave Appleby an angelic smile. “Much learning, my friend, has made you inconsistent. A little while ago you told me that mortal man had risen no more than twenty-five thousand feet above the terrestrial sphere and lived. I fear your weather reports of the upper air were written by a novelist.”
“You don’t, Princess,” said Appleby with mock severity. “You believe every word I tell you, always.”
“Self-flattery is born of self-deception,” said Fidelity. “Here comes our news-gatherer.”
“You’ve been wasting your time with the Marquis of Gulverbury, Fidelity,” said Gorse. Fidelity winced. “The diamonds have passed into the hands of the fair Lola Marron. I don’t know exactly how, but I can find out later.”
“Why should we concern ourselves with inessentials?” asked Fidelity reprovingly. “That is mere curiosity, and as such cannot be excused.”
Gorse was the only one of the gang who could not accept with equanimity Fidelity’s pose of puritanical aloofness; he made an effort to keep his temper, however, and succeeded.
“Lola Marron lives in a suite at the Parnassus on the third floor,” he continued. “It costs her fifty pounds a week. Her official salary at the Olympic is just enough to tip the servants. I’ve got the plans of the Parnassus, so my work’s done, unless you want me on the main stunt, if you’ve decided what it is. Personally, I think hotels are the devil.”
“The devil has been exorcised by science,” announced Fide
lity. She hesitated a moment, head bent. Then—“Friends, for my own reasons, I am disinclined to concern myself with this matter. If the—reward seems to you of sufficiently easy attainment, make the necessary plans and tell me my part in them.”
A week later Fidelity was told that the time was ripe. Appleby, she found, had been placed in charge.
“And what are your plans, dear friend?” she asked.
“My plan is to find out whether my self-flattery proceeds from self-deception,” said Appleby. “I have told myself that you will carry out my directions without question.”
He handed her an aluminum cylinder some eight inches in length by three in diameter.
“That will go in your bag, Fidelity.”
Fidelity nodded. She had regained her old serenity. Her eyes were lustrous, her lips slightly parted with the happy expectancy of a child who is given a magic wand.…
“We’ve got an electric bell under the hearth-rug in Miss Marron’s sitting-room, but, of course, every time anyone steps on it it rings. You’ll have to ring in code. When you make the signal the lights will go out. You will then place the diamonds in this cylinder——”
Fidelity smiled the smile of an angel.
“Having done so, you press the steel catch, and then, by means of this metal ring, slip it onto a hook which you will find just inside the chimney of the sitting-room at a point I’ll show you on this chart.”
Fidelity had opened her big grey velvet bag that might have contained a fleecy shawl, a piece of altar embroidery and, perhaps, a charitable dole or two. For the present, apparently, it was to contain an aluminum cylinder fitted with a steel catch and a metal ring.
There were men at Scotland Yard who dreamed of that grey bag.
Two days later, at a quarter to six, Fidelity called at the private office of Sir Frank Wrawton, her solicitor. She waited while he reached for his hat and then took him down to her car.
“It is very good of you to come with me, Sir Frank,” she said, as they sped in the direction of the Parnassus.