The Case of the Diamond Shadow

by Sophie Masson

  ‘None of these film stars do,’ said a rather grim-faced elderly lady. ‘Half-starved, quite likely.’

  Daisy left them and went slowly back to Mrs Peabody who was still sitting at her table, calmly finishing her coffee, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Well? Did you get a look at the letter that made her take on so?’

  Daisy started. She flushed.

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t look,’ said Mrs Peabody, coolly. ‘I wouldn’t believe it. Was it from the prince, telling her it’s all off between them?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t a letter,’ said Daisy, reluctantly. ‘It was a card — an invitation.’

  Mrs Peabody raised her eyebrows.

  ‘To a theatrical performance,’ said Daisy. ‘Some company, I suppose it was — or no, it must have been an actor — was inviting her to a play with a silly name — something like — ‘Once in a Blue Moon’… Oh!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ said Mrs Peabody, sharply.

  ‘I’ve just thought — it’s rather odd. It’s called ‘Once in a Blue Moon’, like the name of the diamond the prince gave her …’

  Mrs Peabody’s eyes flashed behind her rose-tinted glasses. ‘What was the name of this actor?’

  ‘Just The Shadow,’ said Daisy, frowning. ‘What sort of a name is that?’

  ‘A darn silly one,’ said Mrs Peabody, getting up. ‘Sounds more like a conjurer’s name, eh? The Shadow’s Magic Show. But enough gossip for today, Daisy Miller. Time to do some work. Tap at my door in half an hour. I’ll give you the first lot of notes and we’ll go through them. That’s all the work you need to do today — it is Sunday, after all. Tomorrow morning, you can start work after breakfast. You’ll be working till lunchtime. The rest of the day will be yours.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Daisy, happily, forgetting she was annoyed with Mrs Peabody. How lucky she was to have so much free time! Images of all the things she could do flashed into her head; images that always seemed to include the dashing figure of Victor St-Remy.

  Ten

  Cor! Imagine if Daisy could see him now! George looked around with great satisfaction. The station was crowded with colourful, jabbering foreigners — and no wonder, they were in Paris after all!

  The visit to the seed company the day before had not been a success. Its office was just a dingy little shed off a great big greenhouse, and from the moment they arrived, George knew they were wasting their time. Worse still, the manager, a dithery woman named Miss Jennings, became rather agitated when Lady Eleanor’s name was mentioned, assuming that the lady had not received the seeds she’d ordered. Miss Jennings had, she assured them, personally taken the parcel to the post office, and would make inquiries immediately if they had failed to arrive. It took quite a while to calm her down, and to stop her from sending for the village bobby to look into the matter. By the time they were at last free to go, Woodley-Foxe was sweating with frustration. As they drove away, he said George should think more carefully in future before attracting his attention to what had obviously been a most unpromising lead. George was much too surprised to say anything in his own defence, but only mumbled that he was sorry.

  After that, the detective had decided they would bypass London for the moment and instead go straight to Dover, where they’d stay overnight. The journey took the rest of the day. The next morning, leaving the Riley in the hotel manager’s care, they took the Channel boat. George didn’t enjoy the crossing much. Though the sea was fairly flat, it did odd things to his stomach, and he had been very glad when Calais appeared on the horizon. Thankfully the train ride from Calais to Paris had been far more enjoyable.

  Now here at the station George couldn’t help but stare at the crowds of exotic people milling about. There were a few English travellers about as well, Paris guidebooks open on their laps. Ha, George thought. Imagine if they knew that we’re not mere tourists, like them, but engaged on a secret mission to track down a daring diamond dodger!

  He came back to the present with a start, as someone jabbed him sharply in the legs with an umbrella. A cross old Frenchwoman in a black bonnet and long, old-fashioned dress was shouting something at him. George didn’t understand the words, but her tone was pretty clear. She was telling him to move out of the way. He raised his hat and muttered, ‘Sorry, ma’am.’ It was then that George realised Woodley-Foxe had disappeared. George had been so busy goggling at everything that he’d not been watching what he should be doing. The detective would scarcely be impressed if George got himself lost!

  He looked wildly around him. Where could Woodley-Foxe be? They had taken very little luggage, as the detective expected they’d only stay a couple of days at most in Paris, so he wouldn’t be waiting for a porter. Carrying his soft bag, George hurried over to the tea-room and peered in through the windows. But he could not see Woodley-Foxe’s distinctive figure anywhere. He looked around again. Nowhere to be seen. He set off towards the toilets which were empty apart from an unsavoury-looking fellow who had hunched shoulders and was wearing a rather dirty jacket and trousers. He had a grimy cap pulled down low over a face distinguished by a big black moustache and a scar at the corner of one squinting blue eye. A cigarette was clamped in one corner of his mouth.

  ‘What’s ze matter, milord?’ the man growled, in English heavily accented with French.

  George took a step back. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, firmly. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘You are certain, milord?’ he smiled a cruel smile. ‘Paris is a big and dangerous city for young English milords.’ Suddenly, horrifyingly, in his hand there was a knife!

  George reacted quite by instinct. Shouting ‘No!’ he struck out at the man, catching him by surprise. He stumbled; the knife flew out of his hand, and clattered to the floor. Quick as lightning, George jumped on it. He put up his fists. ‘See if you’re so brave without the knife, my friend!’

  The man lurched towards him. Then he opened his mouth, and a familiar voice said, ‘Well done, lad. That was a test.’

  George stared at the man. He suddenly looked much taller and straighter, and those eyes no longer squinted but glared keenly back at him. ‘Mr Woodley-Foxe,’ George said, weakly, ‘I’d never have known it was you, sir.’ Oh Lord, he thought, if he hadn’t spoken when he did, I could well have laid him out! George was handy with his fists. He’d won a couple of village boxing matches.

  Woodley-Foxe didn’t seem at all disturbed, however. ‘Amazing what a bit of stage paint and a false accent will do,’ he said, happily. ‘You need to be a master of disguise, in this game, and I think I am not being unduly immodest when I say I am one of the best in the business.’

  ‘You are indeed, Mr Woodley-Foxe,’ said George, fervently, ‘I never thought it was you for a second, sir!’

  They went back onto the main station concourse. ‘You are handy with your reflexes, boy,’ said Woodley-Foxe, ignoring the wary glances passers-by gave him. ‘That will be most useful in our work. But will you be able to blend into the underworld as I do?’

  ‘Sir, I thought the cigar shop wasn’t …’

  ‘Yes, yes, but don’t you see, they will probably give us a lead which will take us into the Paris underworld. You cannot go into a den of iniquity looking like a photograph from Illustrated London News.’

  George’s heart beat fast. Life was different now, and no mistake!

  Disguises could have unexpected complications, however. It wasn’t easy finding a taxi driver willing to take such a shady-looking character into his cab. Finally after the third rebuff Woodley-Foxe ‘explained’, in flawless French, that he was a plain-clothes policeman on the hunt for a criminal. The taxi driver appeared to think this a great lark, and kept pointing at them and roaring with laughter. George didn’t need a translator to know the driver thought he was disguised, too, though quite as what he didn’t want to know.

  The cigar shop was tiny and rather shabby from the outside. But inside, it was cosy and warm, and fragrant, with elegant boxes of cigars r
anged in rows on shelves. An old man in spectacles, smoking-cap and old dinner jacket, sat behind the counter, carefully entering figures in a big old leather ledger. Before he could panic at the sight of them Woodley-Foxe said something which made him break into a smile and nod.

  ‘You are an English policeman, then, sir?’ he said, in careful, but quite good, English.

  Woodley-Foxe smiled. ‘I’m not a policeman, but a private detective. You may have heard of me — my name is Philip Woodley-Foxe.’

  Monsieur Durand’s eyes flickered. ‘Of course!’ he said a little too heartily. George was willing to bet he was fibbing.

  ‘How may I help such an illustrious detective?’ the old man went on, smoothly.

  ‘It is about your special blend, Monsieur Durand. Your Havana Moon.’

  ‘Possibly the best I have,’ said the old man, smiling, ‘for the discerning customer only. And you, sir, are just such a one. It will be a great honour to …’

  ‘No, no, Monsieur Durand. I am not here to buy, you understand. I am here to gather information. I have made a most comprehensive study of tobaccos, and I know that Havana Moon is a very special cigar blend that can only be purchased from your store. This is also a clue in a very important case of mine.’

  Monsieur Durand’s expression was shrewd. ‘I see. You wish to know who purchases Havana Moon?’

  ‘You are correct, Monsieur. I wish to know this, but also to know who has bought it in the last month or so.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ said the old man, drawing himself up, ‘is this case of yours dealing with er — private matters? I do not wish to be involved in a … private matter.’

  ‘If you mean a divorce case, then be assured I never touch them. I deal only with criminal matters. Now monsieur, your information may be vital in the unmasking of a most desperate criminal who does not hesitate to prey remorselessly on his victims.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Monsieur Durand, ‘I see no problem.’ He took down a ledger from a shelf behind him. ‘Let me just …’ He ran his finger down a column. ‘I have nine regular customers who order that particular brand.’ He looked up at Woodley-Foxe. ‘But I am sure none of them can be criminals! I have known them for years and they are all most respectable.’

  ‘Their names, please, monsieur,’ said Woodley-Foxe. He waved at George. ‘Notebook, lad,’ he said. ‘Take down those names.’

  George did as he was told, though it was hard to read the old man’s crabbed writing. He wrote: ‘Monsieur Jean Calvin, Monsieur Henri Ferry, Monsieur Theophile Balzac, Baron Alexandre Rossakoff, Mynheer Cornelius Meyer, Mr Cary Gable, Countess Juliette St-Remy, Herr Karl Fischer, Signor Luigi Felici.’

  ‘Where do they all live, Monsieur Durand?’ asked the detective.

  ‘Monsieurs Calvin, Ferry and Balzac are all French, and live in the provinces. Mynheer Meyer is Dutch, from Amsterdam; the Baron is Russian and lives in Paris; Mr Gable is an American from New York; Herr Fischer is from Hamburg, and Signor Felici is from Florence.’

  ‘And the Countess St-Remy? She is the only woman on your list.’

  ‘Quite right, monsieur. And what a woman! Much of the year she lives in Paris, but she also has estates in the South, near Toulouse, and a villa in Biarritz. At this time of the year, I believe she favours London. She was born there, you see. Her mother was English.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Woodley-Foxe. ‘Has anyone else bought these cigars, recently? People you don’t know?’

  ‘Oh no, monsieur. It is not the kind of thing you just come off the street to buy, you understand. You must know about it.’

  ‘I see. Which of your regulars bought them most recently, then?’

  Monsieur Durand ran his finger down another column of the ledger. ‘Let me see. I believe it was Mynheer Meyer, Signor Felici, and the Countess St-Remy. Indeed …’ He peered down at the ledger — ‘The Countess St-Remy ordered a dozen cigars just ten days ago. They were to be wrapped and sent to her English address. I believe she intended them as presents. She has many friends.’

  ‘Really?’ said Woodley-Foxe, sharply. ‘What is her English address?’

  ‘She stays at the Brooks Hotel, in Mayfair, monsieur.’

  George gave an exclamation. ‘The Brooks Hotel! That’s where Daisy is!’ Seeing their puzzled expressions, he gave a rapid, mumbled explanation, including his own suspicions of Mrs Peabody.

  The detective raised an eyebrow. ‘Monsieur Durand, what does the Countess look like?’

  ‘Tall, slim, very elegant, beautifully coiffed, lovely hazel eyes, soft white hands,’ said the old man, so promptly that it was obvious he had closely studied the Countess.

  Woodley-Foxe turned questioningly to George.

  ‘No,’ said the latter, rather dashed. ‘Mrs Peabody’s nothing like that at all. She’s short and fat and badly dressed. And she’s Australian,’ he added.

  ‘Ah. Monsieur Durand, were the cigars sent to Madame St-Remy at the Brooks Hotel?’

  ‘They were, monsieur.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, listen, Monsieur Durand, tell us honestly — does this so-called Countess have links with the criminal underground?’

  The old man’s eyes flashed. ‘What an idea, monsieur!’ he said. ‘And what do you mean by so-called! Why, the Countess is from one of the oldest and most respected families in France! Not as wealthy as they used to be, of course — who is, these days — but still, very well-off.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ said the detective, nimbly changing tack. ‘Very well, we will go back to London tomorrow morning. Good day to you, Monsieur Durand, and thank you.’

  ‘You see,’ said Woodley-Foxe to George, as they left the shop, ‘let that be a lesson to you, George — don’t jump to conclusions!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said George, meekly. Well! He had signed up to be a foil for the detective, after all. Anyway, the thought of going to the Brooks and showing Daisy he now had a glamorous career of his own more than made up for any unmerited rebukes he’d received.

  Eleven

  Dear George,

  I hope you are well, and not too bored. Perhaps you can come up to London one day soon? I’m starting to know the city a little now so I could show you some sights!

  There’s so much to tell you. The job is going very well — it is really very light duties — just some typing up of Mr Peabody’s notes on the history of films. They’re not difficult to follow, and I’m making real headway with them. Mrs Peabody seems pleased with what I’m doing. She doesn’t interfere with my work, as she has a great deal of business to transact in London and is generally out most of the day. I breakfast with her, but, as I have afternoons to myself, I have had a couple of lunches out, once at Fuller’s in Regent Street, and once — you’ll never guess where! — once, on Sunday, actually, I lunched at the Ritz! It was with some new friends of mine, the St-Remys — they’re from France — and it was just as wonderful as you might imagine!

  I have walked miles, it seems, all over London. I’ve been to the Houses of Parliament, and Whitehall, and the Tower of London, and Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park, and the Victoria and Albert Museum and Charing Cross, oh and ever so much more! I’ve been to some wonderful shops, too: Harrod’s and Selfridge’s, and the Army and Navy Stores. Yesterday, Victor St-Remy and I walked up and down Bond Street, looking in the windows of all the most exquisite jewellery shops…

  Daisy sat for a moment, staring into space, remembering the beautiful diamond ear clips she saw in the window of one such shop. Victor had said, softly, ‘Why, they are shaped like daisies. They might have been made just for you …’

  She hadn’t answered; what kind of answer should a girl give to a thing like that? But the warmth of his words, and the look in his eyes, gave her butterflies in the stomach.

  She turned back to her letter. No, really she should not tell George about the visit to Bond Street. It was not the kind of thing he would be interested in. She scrubbed out the offending line, and went on.

  You’ll never guess who is sta
ying at the Brooks, George! Olivia Marlow, the film star! Mr Meyer — he’s another guest here — says she is ‘lying low’ at the Brooks because her love affair with the Prince of Luxenstein is in trouble. Miss Marlow really is nice, and doesn’t give herself airs at all, even though she’s every bit as glamorous and beautiful as her photographs.

  She sucked at the end of her pen. Despite what Mrs Peabody had revealed, and what Victor had said, she really did like Olivia Marlow. She was so nice and natural — she had even seemed to take an interest in Daisy’s job, as if she and Daisy were equals. And if he ever was, Victor was certainly not smitten with the actress now; in fact, rather the opposite. He certainly did his best to avoid her. That wasn’t all that difficult, for she was rarely at the hotel during the day. And in the evenings, she was usually out dancing, or at the theatre. Daisy had looked for the show ‘Once in a Blue Moon’ in a directory of plays currently on in London theatres, but had drawn a blank. She still had no idea why the actress had reacted to the notice of it with such emotion. Ah well! It was none of her business, really.

  London is so beautiful at night, too, with all the lights, and the well-dressed crowds. Mrs Peabody says she’ll take me to a show at the Adelphi Theatre soon. And on Monday evening I went with the St-Remys to the Tivoli Cinema in the Strand, and …

  There was a sharp knock at the door. It was Irene Taylor.

  ‘Mrs Peabody wishes you to go on an errand,’ she said, in her usual dry manner. ‘You are to go to the Poste Restante counter at the General Post Office in King Edward Street. You can get there by Tube or bus, as you wish.’ She handed Daisy some money. ‘You are to ask if there are any letters for Mrs H. Peabody, Poste Restante, London. She says you do not need to hurry back, but to go alone. Mr St-Remy should not go with you.’

  Daisy coloured. ‘He is not here this afternoon in any case,’ she snapped. ‘He has gone with his grandmother to tea at a friend’s house.’