The Case of the Diamond Shadow

by Sophie Masson

  ‘Of course that’s all.’ Woodley-Foxe puffed on his pipe, his keen blue eyes narrowing. ‘Now, if you’ve quite finished, I’d like to get back to my investigation. I’m leaving this afternoon at four-thirty and there are still many notes I must make before setting out.’

  Eddy stared. ‘Lady Eleanor has put it in the hands of the police, now, sir. I’m afraid I must ask you to …’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man!’ The detective sprang to his feet. ‘This is not the only place The Shadow has robbed. I am on a long-term investigation, Constable, not some small detail.’ And with that, he turned superbly on his heel and stalked out, banging the door behind him.

  There was a silence, then Eddy shook his head. ‘Well, lad, that’s a private detective for you,’ he said. ‘Arrogant, opinionated, reckless, and incompetent to boot.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ burst out George. ‘I mean,’ he added, as Eddy glared at him, ‘Mr Woodley-Foxe isn’t really like that. I think his pride’s been hurt, a little, and he is furious that The Shadow got away. But you should read about all the cases he’s solved, Eddy; he has been right so many times, and has solved mysteries the police would never …’ He trailed off as he saw Eddy’s expression. ‘I mean, he’s solved really difficult cases, you see.’

  ‘Bah,’ said Eddy, ‘I don’t believe a word of it, I bet he’s made it all up.’

  ‘You sound just like Daisy,’ said George, exasperated. Eddy gave a sudden grin. ‘Sensible girl,’ he remarked. George shrugged, but said nothing more. There was no point, not at the moment, anyway. But he’d had an idea. An exciting, amazing idea!

  After lunch back at Betty and Eddy’s, George excused himself, saying he was going for a walk. Eddy and Betty, he knew, liked to listen to a Saturday afternoon radio serial, sitting side by side on their chintzy sofa, holding hands. They’d be quite happy he’d be out of the house.

  George hurried to the edge of the woods and followed the track that led to the back of The Hall. He was only just in time. A gleaming black Riley saloon car was parked outside the stable that now served as a garage. And beside it, drawing on his driving gloves, was a familiar tall figure in a rather dashing leather coat.

  ‘Mr Woodley-Foxe! Mr Woodley-Foxe!’ called George, stumbling across the uneven cobblestones of the yard. ‘Please, sir, before you go, there’s something I’d like to tell you!’

  The detective turned. An impatient expression crossed his face. ‘You,’ he said, coldly. ‘Didn’t I see you with the local constabulary?’

  ‘Yes sir, well, that’s my brother-in-law, Eddy, sir. I just … you see, sir, Eddy’s a good policeman, but he has always worked in quiet places, like Upper Charlton, and he just doesn’t really understand what …’ Woodley-Foxe was looking more and more impatient, so George gabbled, ‘I just wanted to say, sir, how very much I admire your work. I read about your cases every month, sir. It’s my dream to become a detective just like you …’

  The detective raised his eyebrows a notch, but his impatient expression had disappeared. ‘Not like your brother-in-law then?’

  George felt a little disloyal as he said, ‘Oh, no, sir. Like you.’ What Eddy didn’t hear couldn’t hurt him.

  ‘Well, I am glad that you think so, er …’

  ‘George, sir. George Dale.’

  ‘Well, then, George Dale …’ Philip Woodley-Foxe reached into the car, took out an attache case, clicked it open and took out a folder. Inside were a number of photographs of himself, in different sizes. He selected one, took a fountain pen from his inside pocket and signed the photo with a flourish: ‘To George Dale, best wishes from Philip Woodley-Foxe.’ He handed it to George with the air of a man handing over a great prize. ‘Here you are, lad.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said George. He shuffled his feet. ‘Er … I …’

  ‘I’m sorry, lad, but I haven’t got a copy of one of my books available to give you, just at present. There’s a new one coming out in September, though: Murder Will Out, it’s called, and it’s an account of some of the more sensational murder cases I’ve handled, and how even the cleverest and most depraved of these fiends was not a match for my scientific detection work and razor-sharp intuition. You need both, you see, in this line of work — a rigorous, scientifically-trained intellect, and a brilliant imagination, if you want to see the full picture. Give me your address, lad, and I’ll send you a signed copy through the post.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir,’ said George; then, desperately, ‘but what I really wanted to ask you is this: do you ever require the services of an assistant, sir?’

  The detective stared at him. ‘I’ve always been a lone wolf, son,’ he said, slowly. ‘There have been other detectives I’ve worked with, though, like Big Jim Cowley from the New York Police Department, and Inspector Marchand from the Paris Surete, and …’

  ‘Yes,’ said George, who knew all this like the back of his hand, ‘but what I mean, sir, is an assistant — a much humbler being than an actual detective, someone who will do the donkey work for you, sir, gather the er … piddling details, and free your keen thoughts to range more widely. Someone not only to make your appointments and check facts and run errands, but someone you can test your great wits against. Like Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes, sir, or Captain Hastings and Hercule Poirot.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Woodley-Foxe. ‘You may have something there. In America I employed a couple of people to do the donkey work. But I haven’t found anyone satisfactory here. I had almost given up, I have to say. But it’s true I do require an ordinary brain to assist me in certain routine tasks. My intellect is too rarefied to deal with the psychology of ordinary criminals.’ He looked more closely at George. ‘But I would have to trust such an assistant. I would have to trust him not only to follow directions, but also not to go off wild-goose chasing, or thinking he is cleverer than me. Are you suggesting someone, son?’

  ‘Er …’ George swallowed. ‘I’d like … well, sir, I’d like to suggest myself, actually.’

  ‘Ha! I was beginning to wonder as much.’ His eyes raked over George again. ‘And what makes you think you could do such a job?’

  ‘I’m quick, quiet, very ordinary, and I’d never try to er … to thrust myself forward,’ said George, who’d been actually about to say ‘upstage you’. He added, shrewdly, ‘And I’m such an admirer of yours, I’d not ask for much money, either.’

  ‘Good,’ said Woodley-Foxe, briskly. ‘I don’t believe in paying young people too much. Takes away their initiative. Keep ’em keen as mustard on the smell of an oily rag, I say!’

  ‘Oh, I quite agree, sir,’ George lied shamelessly.

  ‘You have excellent opinions, young man. I feel I’m going to like you. Very well, I’ll give you a try, then. When can you start?’

  ‘Monday, sir,’ said George, at once.

  ‘Good. Where do you live? In the village?’

  ‘No. Charlton Wells, sir.’

  ‘Very well. You can meet me in Greater Charlton, at the Red Rose Hotel, where I’ll be staying, at ten-thirty sharp on Monday morning. We will leave immediately for London, and thence to Paris.’

  ‘To make enquiries about the special cigars The Shadow smokes, sir?’ said George, eagerly.

  ‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Woodley-Foxe, looking slightly put out. ‘As you may be aware, I have made a special study not only of tobacco ash, but of brands, of tins, even of advertisements for tobacco. I have forgotten more about such things than most police inspectors have even begun to know. I suppose it is no wonder a mere constable should not understand the ramifications! Now, then, young man — get on with you, and be sure to be at the Red Rose at ten-thirty sharp.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said George, exulting inwardly, and resolutely not thinking about what Eddy would say. As to Miss Grantley’s job, well she could have it, and good riddance. He was paid a pittance there anyway for dull and tedious work. Who cared if Woodley-Foxe paid scarcely more, at least he’d be doing the work he’d always dreamt of. Im
agine what Daisy would say when she heard what had happened! She might well have her nose put quite out of joint — for being a famous detective’s assistant sure beat into a cocked hat being a typist for some bossy old widow.

  Seven

  Daisy had just finished dressing when Mrs Peabody’s loud voice at the door informed her it was time to go down for dinner. Flustered, Daisy clasped her pearl and garnet necklace around her neck and put on her wrap.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,’ she said, opening the door. Then she gave a little gasp.

  Mrs Peabody in a pleated gold robe and a stiff black wig looked like a buffoon version of King Tutankhamen. Daisy had discovered that Mrs Peabody loved wigs, and owned at least five or six of them. Irene must be kept busy looking after all those hairpieces! Mrs Peabody’s eyes were also made up in an Egyptian style, with black kohl lines that tilted up at the corners. To top off she was wearing yellow-tinted, gold-rimmed glasses. She was untidily smoking a cigarette in a long gold holder, ashing it all over the beautiful hall carpet.

  Mrs Peabody eyed Daisy’s pink silk rather critically. ‘Pretty, if a bit quiet,’ she said. ‘Well — had a good afternoon then?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I did. Thank you.’

  ‘Irene tells me the St-Remy boy sent a message asking if we would dine with him and his grandmother.’

  ‘Will that be all right, Mrs Peabody?’

  Mrs Peabody shrugged. ‘Sure, why not? They seem pleasant enough. Not that I much care for aristocrats generally. Noses up in the air, like there’s a bad smell around. Ha! You look surprised. Didn’t he tell you? That old woman’s a genuine French countess, he’s the sole heir to the title and estate and all.’ She looked shrewdly at Daisy. ‘Interesting, eh? Wondering if this is your golden opportunity?’ She cackled, coughing a little as she swallowed smoke. ‘Take a word of advice. Have fun — but set your cap at smaller game, my dear.’

  Daisy felt she hated Mrs Peabody then, hated her with all her heart. She had cast a cold, shameful shadow over what had been a wonderful afternoon. Daisy had loved being in Victor’s company; now she would not be able to even meet his eye across the table. Oh my God! Across the table! She just could not do it.

  ‘I feel a little ill,’ she faltered. ‘I don’t think I should go down to dinner …’

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’ said Mrs Peabody, robustly. ‘Never heard of anything so stupid. Now take my arm and let’s go downstairs.’

  The dining room was already crowded. Daisy, who had hoped otherwise, had to grit her teeth and follow in Mrs Peabody’s billowing golden wake as she waddled her way to the back of the room, where the Countess St-Remy and Victor sat waiting for them. Daisy knew practically everyone was staring; who could not, in truth? In the well-bred surroundings of the Brooks Hotel, Mrs Peabody stood out like an escapee from a music hall pantomine. But she appeared not to notice any stares or sniggers.

  As Daisy made her miserable way to the St-Remy table, she caught sight of Olivia Marlow sitting at a table, surrounded by a bevy of admiring men. She looked stunning in a halter-neck evening dress of silver satin, her platinum-blonde waves shining under the lights. Daisy saw she wore a magnificent necklace with an enormous ice-blue diamond in the centre.

  The actress gave Daisy a friendly smile then glanced at Mrs Peabody. Her eyebrows raised slightly and she gave Daisy a look of commiseration mingled with humour, then turned back to her friends. Daisy hurried after Mrs Peabody, who was almost at the St-Remys’ table.

  Victor looked extremely handsome in evening dress, with his thick dark-brown hair side-parted. He smiled at Daisy, but addressed her employer. ‘Mrs Peabody, may I present to you my grandmother, Madame St-Remy? We are very much honoured that you and Miss Miller have kindly agreed to join us.’

  ‘Honour’s all ours,’ grunted Mrs Peabody, semi-politely, to Daisy’s relief. ‘How do you do, Countess? Count?’

  Victor glanced quickly at Daisy. ‘Not Count,’ he said, lightly, a little pleadingly. ‘Just plain Victor St-Remy.’

  ‘You will be, when you come of age, though,’ said Mrs Peabody, squeezing her bulk into a chair.

  There was a little silence. Then the Countess smiled. ‘My grandson doesn’t like to be reminded of all that,’ she said, tapping on the table with her black lace fan. She was dressed in a very chic high-necked black lace dress.

  ‘Travelling incognito, eh?’ laughed Mrs Peabody. ‘I guess they do say that’s why people come to the Brooks Hotel. Can’t say I’ve ever fancied that notion, myself.’

  The other three exchanged wry smiles. No, no-one could accuse Mrs Peabody of trying to pass incognito!

  Mrs Peabody picked up the menu. ‘Now then, Countess — er, madame, you’re a Frenchwoman — what’s worth ordering here?’

  Madame St-Remy smiled. ‘Everything is very good at the Brooks,’ she said, ‘but I think I could recommend …’

  Under cover of the two women’s animated conversation about the menu, Victor leant over to Daisy and whispered, ‘You look wonderful, Daisy Miller. I am so glad you could join us.’

  To stop herself from blushing, Daisy gabbled, thoughtlessly, ‘Oh, Victor, did you see that jewel Olivia Marlow’s wearing? It’s the Blue Moon Diamond, I’m sure of it! Prince Ottokar of Luxenstein gave it to her — I read about it in a magazine. It was in his family, I think. Isn’t it the biggest diamond you ever saw? I hear it’s worth thousands and thousands and thousands of pounds!’

  Too late, she remembered his earlier reaction to the actress. But he did not seem annoyed. ‘It’s certainly big enough,’ he said, indifferently. ‘But I’m not interested in diamonds any more than I am in film stars. Let’s talk about you — tell me, Daisy, would you like to go to Paris?’

  Daisy gasped. ‘Would I like to go to Paris? Oh yes.’ Her heart beat faster — she liked him a lot, but she was a proud girl, and she didn’t want to give him the impression that she expected anything more from him than a mere holiday friendship. ‘I suppose I will, some day, with Mrs Peabody,’ she hurried on. ‘I expect we’ll have to go there, for research or something of the kind.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Victor. ‘My grandmother knows quite a few people in that world. I’m sure she’ll be glad to help. You’ll have to come to Biarritz, too. Grandmother has a villa there. And if Mrs Peabody wants to talk with film people, well, there are always silly film stars galore at Biarritz.’

  ‘Oh, that would be so wonderful!’ breathed Daisy.

  ‘Yes, and royalty, too,’ went on Victor, ‘including your own Prince of Wales, who loves it there. I’ve often seen him in the street — and once in the sea, in his bathing costume!’

  Daisy’s eyes widened. ‘Really? What is he like?’

  ‘He was just like any other dripping wet bather,’ said Victor. ‘In fact, he had a head full of sand, from being picked up by a big wave and unmercifully ground down along the bottom! Biarritz is famous for wild seas and big waves, you know. It’s the Atlantic — not like that Mediterranean bathtub at Nice!’ He glanced at Mrs Peabody. ‘More like the sea where she comes from,’ he added. ‘They say Biarritz is the closest thing in Europe to an Australian beach.’

  Daisy, who had been to none of these fabled coasts, happily agreed. She looked across at a chattering Mrs Peabody, feeling quite kindly towards her now. After all, if it hadn’t been for the Australian, she wouldn’t be here, in the midst of this glamorous, wonderful new world! Sometimes fairy godmothers came in the oddest varieties. But their magic was nonetheless powerful.

  Eight

  George told Eddy and Betty straightaway about his plan, and braced for the storm. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Eddy was dead set against it at first, of course, having taken an instant dislike to the detective. But Betty, who had quite an adventurous heart under her no-nonsense exterior, was quite taken with the idea, and finally persuaded her husband into a grudging acceptance. Eddy grumbled that it was George’s bed and he’d have to lie in it, and maybe it’d teach him a thing or two, and
he’d realise the error of his ways and join the police eventually. George nodded meekly to all these propositions, but privately he scoffed at them. They were all so very dull and stick-in-the-mud.

  He hardly slept that night. The next morning, back in his cramped room at Mrs Henty’s boarding house in Charlton Wells, he happily sorted through his few belongings. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to take his piles of magazines. He’d have to ask Mrs Henty to store them till Eddy or Betty could come and collect them. But he’d take a few with him, especially those which featured Woodley-Foxe cases. He already knew them fairly well, but it could be useful to re-read them.

  As he was sorting through them, he suddenly remembered he’d seen something about The Shadow somewhere in one of his magazines. He leafed through Real Detective Mysteries, trying to find an account of The Shadow’s bold career of diamond-snatching. But there was nothing. It was while he was scrambling through back copies of his other favourite magazine, Young Reporter, that he finally found what he was looking for. The reference to The Shadow was not, as he’d expected, in a news column. Instead, it was in a new kind of feature — a detective-adventure comic strip.

  George sat on his bed near his meagre pile of clothes and re-read the comic. It had been published a few weeks ago and was the first episode of what had obviously been planned as a long-running story called ‘Night and Shadow’, about an arch-criminal called The Shadow and his nemesis, Inspecteur Nocturne of the Paris police. When George finished reading the first episode, he looked around for the next, but couldn’t find it. He searched through several issues, and at last came across a tiny notice which read, ‘Night and Shadow’ episode two will be published in a month’s time, due to circumstances beyond our control. We apologise for the delay but keep watch for the next exciting episode.’

  A month’s time — George checked the dates. That would be this coming week. Young Reporter came out on Mondays. He’d buy it at the news-stand tomorrow.