The Case of the Diamond Shadow

by Sophie Masson

  The maid shrugged. ‘Those are her instructions,’ she observed, and left.

  Daisy was annoyed both by Mrs Peabody’s interference and the pointless errand. Why on earth had Mrs Peabody had a letter sent Poste Restante, instead of directly, and much more conveniently, to the Brooks Hotel? Why couldn’t she have sent Irene, anyway? But Daisy already knew the answer to that one. Irene was very clear about what her duties were. She was a personal maid, not an errand-girl. That’s me, thought Daisy, crossly putting on her hat and coat. It was annoying to have to go all the way there when she had decided to make this an afternoon of letter writing. It wasn’t even a particularly nice day, but rather overcast and windy. Still, there was no help for it.

  She was becoming quite good at travelling on the Underground now, and soon worked out how to get to Post Office Station. From there it was only a short walk. The Poste Restante counter was in the Public Hall of the big old building. There was quite a queue, which included many foreigners, who had a great deal of trouble making themselves understood by the clerks. Finally, it was Daisy’s turn. She waited while the clerk looked in the pigeonhole marked ‘P’.

  ‘There’s only this, Miss,’ said the clerk, returning. It was a thin, square envelope, with a name and address stamped in one corner: Carter’s Diamond Company, Bond Street, London. There was also another stamp, marked, Confidential.

  Daisy stared at it. Carter’s was the store where she and Victor had seen the diamond daisy clips. How very odd of Mrs Peabody to have a letter from them sent here rather than the hotel! Was she buying a diamond? Was she afraid that someone at the hotel might find out? But why should she care? It made no sense. Perhaps this was what business people did. They were secretive. Maybe she was making some important deal and didn’t want anyone to know — especially anyone from the same trade, like Mr Meyer. But surely she hadn’t known Mr Meyer was going to be there? Thoughtfully, Daisy put the letter in her bag and left.

  Outside, she looked at her watch. It was only three-thirty. And she had been told not to hurry back. After a moment’s thought, she decided she’d catch a bus to the British Museum. There was supposed to be a really good Egyptology section there, with an especially big display of mummies. George had told her all about it. And it wasn’t something Victor would want to go to — he’d said he had no interest in the past at all. Daisy didn’t either, generally, but the Egyptians, with their magic and mummies, were somehow different.

  Quite a few people must have had the same idea on this windy afternoon, because the Museum’s Egyptian galleries were crowded. Daisy found herself carried along on the tide of people, stopping to exclaim at statues of gods, painted mummy cases and bits of stone with heiroglyphics printed on them. The mummy rooms were the most crowded of all, but they were just as fascinating and gruesome as Daisy had expected. How George would love it here!

  She was just looking at one of the weirdest mummies, a corpse that dated from 7000 BC and looked like it had been dipped in liquid glass, when all at once, through a break in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a couple deep in conversation. The man had his back to her so she couldn’t see his face. He was tall, bare-headed and very fair. The girl’s face was hidden under a large hat, but her bright hair was clearly visible. She had a rather familiar kittenish tilt to her head. It was Olivia Marlow.

  As Daisy watched, the man took his leave of the actress and departed. Daisy was about to go and speak to her when all at once she caught sight of someone else. Right at the back of the crowd, almost unrecognisably discreet, wrapped in a long black coat, hat pulled down over her eyes — Mrs Peabody!

  Olivia Marlow left the room. An instant later, so did Mrs Peabody. There was no mistaking her purpose. She was shadowing the actress!

  Daisy stood rooted to the spot. For some reason, she didn’t want Mrs Peabody to know she’d been spotted. What was her employer doing? Daisy remembered the things she’d said about Olivia Marlow at the breakfast table; how unsympathetic she’d been. Was she, perhaps, an agent? A spy, for Princess Hildegarde? Was the fair man Prince Ottokar? Had Olivia Marlow arranged a secret meeting with him? Or was he someone else — someone the actress didn’t want to be seen with, publicly? Someone whose existence was suspected by Princess Hildegarde, who’d go to any lengths to break off her son’s romance?

  ‘Excuse me, Miss, but you’ll have to move. You’re holding up the traffic.’ The attendant’s voice was rather sharp.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Daisy, and beat a hasty retreat. George would think I’m a fool for not going after Mrs Peabody to find out what she’s playing at, thought Daisy. But she really didn’t want Mrs Peabody to know she was there. There had been something almost … almost sinister about her stealthy movements, the way she moved softly as a cat, despite her bulk.

  On her way back to the hotel, Daisy thought and thought. Should she warn Miss Marlow that she’d been followed? But would the actress herself want to know she’d been spotted by Daisy as much as Mrs Peabody? Besides, thought Daisy, suddenly, she might think I’m in on it. She remembered the seemingly casual questions Olivia Marlow had put to her about Mrs Peabody. Did the actress already suspect there was a spy in the hotel?

  But surely Mrs Peabody would make a terrible spy. She was far too noticeable, for a start. If you wanted a secret agent, surely you’d make sure they could blend in with the crowd. Dash it, thought Daisy, I wish George was here. He’d know what to do …

  Back at the hotel, she went straight to Mrs Peabody’s quarters with the letter she’d picked up from the Post Office. She knocked. A voice called, ‘Wait,’ and the door opened. It wasn’t Irene who stood there, but a hotel maid in a crisp uniform, duster in hand. She looked inquiringly at Daisy, who said, ‘I’m Mrs Peabody’s secretary.’

  ‘Mrs Peabody’s out,’ said the maid.

  ‘I know. But Miss Taylor …’

  ‘She’s not here, neither.’

  Daisy’s heart beat fast. Here was an opportunity! ‘I’ll just put this inside, then.’

  ‘Suit yourself, Miss. I’ve finished here, anyway.’

  Left alone, Daisy looked around her. Mrs Peabody’s room was large and spacious, more so than hers, and everything looked normal, at least Mrs Peabody-style ‘normal’: outrageous clothes neatly hanging in the closet, wigs draped on stands, drawers full of large underwear, dressing table cluttered with perfumes, face creams and brushes. A little table was piled high with handwritten notes that she recognised as the book manuscript. Daisy shuffled through them but there was nothing whatsoever about Luxenstein, no secret papers, nothing. She opened the drawer of the bedside table. In it were several pairs of coloured glasses, a tube of antacid tablets, a leaking lipstick and a London guidebook bookmarked, with a business card, at a page on Bond Street. The card was rather grubby with ‘Fletcher’s Advice Bureau’ embossed on it. The office address was in Bloomsbury. Daisy smiled to herself. ‘Advice bureau’ was generally a euphemism for ‘matchmaking agency’. Was Mrs Peabody, then, on the hunt for a husband? But then Daisy’s attention was caught by the map in the guidebook. There was an inked circle around a familiar name: Carter’s Diamond Company, Bond Street. Again! How odd.

  Daisy looked at the letter she’d picked up from the Post Office. She longed to open it. But Mrs Peabody would know at once.

  She looked around her. At the far end of the room was the connecting door to Irene’s room. Daisy hesitated. She didn’t want to be caught prying. But her curiosity got the better of her — she’d just take a very quick peek.

  It was a small, pleasant, and very neat room. The closet contained only three outfits, all of them black or dark blue, and one pair of lace-up walking shoes. The chest of drawers contained some very plain underwear. On the bedside table was a framed photograph of an unsmiling couple in old-fashioned clothes, probably Irene’s parents. In the drawer, surprisingly, was a romantic novel with a bright jacket. There were no cosmetics except for a tube of cream.

  Daisy was about to go out when she caught a glimps
e of something under the bed. She bent down and pulled it out. It was only a suitcase, almost empty by the feel of it, and she was about to slide it back when she changed her mind. In for a penny, in for a pound! She clicked open the suitcase.

  There was only a slim book there, covered in plain paper. Daisy opened it, and stared. It was an Australian book, published five years ago in Sydney. The title was A Short History of the Silver Screen and it was written by a Mr. A. Peabody! Hardly able to believe her eyes, Daisy flipped quickly to the Introduction. She read the words printed there, and her heart raced. There could be no mistake. These were the very words she herself had typed up from the notes Mrs Peabody had given her! She read on. Yes, it was all exactly the same. She was being made to re-type a book that was not only already completely typewritten, but printed and published!

  Daisy’s mind raced. If only George were here … But he wasn’t. Besides, he’d likely only put two and two together and make twenty-two. There was Victor, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him such things. It made her look like a naive fool for taking on such a bogus job in the first place. In any case, she didn’t really want to admit she’d been snooping.

  She dropped the book back in the suitcase and pushed it under the bed again. The last thing she wanted was for Mrs Peabody or Irene to know she’d been in their rooms. She glanced around her. She didn’t think she’d disturbed anything. She put the letter in her pocket, locked the door of Mrs Peabody’s room from the inside and slipped quickly back to her own room.

  Not a moment too soon. She had just sat down at her desk and was looking down at the letter from Carter’s, wondering whether she dared open it, when a knock came at the door. ‘Daisy! Daisy! Are you there?’ called Mrs Peabody.

  Daisy opened the door. ‘Yes, Mrs Peabody,’ she stammered. ‘Just writing a letter. To … To my friend George Dale.’

  The Australian’s face was rather red and windblown and she was puffing a little, as if she’d been hurrying. Her hat was askew and her eyes glittered behind brown-tinted glasses. She looks a little mad, Daisy thought with a shiver, and a bit … dangerous.

  ‘Good. And did you get mine?’ Mrs Peabody said, impatiently.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Peabody.’ Daisy fetched the letter.

  Mrs Peabody glanced at it. Daisy faltered, ‘That was all there was, Mrs Peabody. The clerk said it was the only mail for you.’

  Mrs Peabody raised her eyebrows and gave a short laugh. ‘What’s up, Daisy? Nobody’s accusing you of withholding letters! Did you have a good afternoon, by the way?’

  ‘Oh, I just came straight back after the Post Office,’ lied Daisy, rather panic-stricken, ‘it was such a nasty windy day.’

  ‘Worried about it blowing your hairdo about, eh? Ah, you young girls!’ said Mrs Peabody in such a jolly, normal tone that Daisy felt like a complete idiot for suspecting her of anything weird or sinister at all. She smiled weakly and watched as Mrs Peabody stomped off back to her room. Daisy waited a moment, but she didn’t come back.

  Daisy breathed a sigh of relief. It was alright. Mrs Peabody didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary.

  Twelve

  George didn’t see much of Paris in the end. But he didn’t much mind. It was exciting enough being in the city at night, going to the restaurant with Mr Woodley-Foxe and an old pal of his, Inspector Marchand of the Surete. The food was quite delicious, though George had been wary of it at first, and the company was even better. Inspector Marchand was a small, thin man with twinkling brown eyes, a lively interest in people and an inexhaustible fund of stories. He was most intrigued by their case, especially as there had been a spate of unsolved diamond thefts in France the year before. Strangely enough, none of the pieces — none of which were very valuable — had been sold on the blackmarket. He said it was likely the work of an amateur ‘magpie thief’ who liked pretty, shiny baubles. Those could be the hardest to catch, he said, because they had no links with the underworld, and therefore no-one to inform on them.

  Inspector Marchand didn’t know much about the St-Remys, except that they were part of what he called the ‘tout-Paris’; the smart set, and were fairly well-off, though they’d lost money in the crash, like most people. Apparently the Countess was known as a keen gambler and had won a great deal of money at smart card parties. She was a regular at the casinos in Biarritz and Monte Carlo. But then, so were many members of the ‘tout-Paris’.

  This information greatly excited Woodley-Foxe.

  ‘Sudden influxes of money are easily explained by gambling wins,’ he observed. Inspector Marchand smiled. ‘I think in this case it’s genuine,’ he said. ‘The Countess has the luck of the devil. It’s easily checked, anyway, my friend —’ he scribbled a couple of numbers on a piece of paper — ‘call the casino managers tonight or tomorrow and they’ll tell you for sure.’

  Back at the hotel — a rather noisy one, right near the railway station — Woodley-Foxe called the casinos and was a little dashed to discover that what Inspector Marchand had said was quite true. But he wouldn’t give up on the idea. ‘She might have laundered her ill-gotten gains at the casino,’ he told George, who nodded, eagerly. It was all too romantic and thrilling for words!

  Bright and early the next morning, they caught the train to Calais, and then the boat. By midday they were back in Dover where they were met by Woodley-Foxe’s driver. When they stopped for gas, Woodley-Foxe sent George out to get the daily papers.

  At the bookstall, George saw the new issue of Young Reporter so he bought it as well. Rapidly, he flipped through the pages of the magazine till he found the new episode of ‘Night and Shadow’.

  He gave an exclamation. Here was Inspecteur Nocturne dressing up as a criminal to penetrate the haunts of The Shadow — just like Mr Woodley-Foxe had done. Though possibly with more success. It was most likely just a coincidence. But he felt, more than ever, that somehow the comic strip did have something to do with the case. Was it a kind of code or signal? Did the artist know something? Or was The Shadow in fact inspiring himself from it? I must find out who’s writing it, he thought, I will write to the editor of the magazine. It might take a bit of time to get an answer, though — the magazine was published in the United States. Perhaps, if George could persuade Woodley-Foxe of its relevance, they could send a telegram or even make a phone call.

  When he got back to the car, Woodley-Foxe was looking impatient. ‘There you are at last! I was beginning to think you were trying to actually write the newspapers yourself!’ he said, rather sarcastically.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I was just …’

  ‘Oh, never mind. Give them to me.’ He caught sight of the Young Reporter under George’s arm and raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not a very good quality magazine you have there, George. Unlike Real Detective Mysteries, you can’t trust their stories. And they have a comic strip, I distinctly saw that a little while ago. Comic strips, I ask you! What level of childish vulgarity will they not descend to?’

  George hastily put away the offending magazine in his pocket. He was very glad he had not mentioned his half-baked theory to the detective after all.

  ‘Here,’ said Woodley-Foxe, handing him a newspaper. ‘You read this one, I’ll take the other. Two pairs of eyes might find what one may miss.’

  ‘What are we looking for, sir? Reports of the robberies?’

  ‘That and other, more interesting, things: strange notices or advertisements that might have been written in code. Perhaps signals to The Shadow’s associates that another robbery may be about to take place.’

  ‘Cor,’ breathed George, tingling all over. He scanned each column carefully. There were lots of dull foreign news stories and advertisements for cigarettes, soap, pens, insurance and all kinds of other things in which, try as he might, he could not see a connection to The Shadow. The comic seemed to burn a hole in his pocket. Could it be a kind of code, a sort of signal? But he still didn’t dare bring it to Woodley-Foxe’s attention.

  George turned a page. There was a l
ittle article about gardening, and another on fashion — he could just imagine Daisy in the dresses — and then a gossip column. He ran his eye down it swiftly, not really being interested in celebrities, unless they were detectives. But then his attention was caught by two phrases: ‘Brooks Hotel’ and ‘Blue Moon Diamond’.

  ‘Mr Woodley-Foxe! I think I’ve got it!’

  ‘Don’t shout, boy. What is it?’

  ‘It says here that Olivia Marlow, the film star, was spotted staying at the Brooks Hotel. Look — there’s a picture of her here. It says she’s been seen wearing the magnificent jewel given to her by Prince Ottokar of Luxenstein. The centrepiece of the necklace, the Blue Moon Diamond alone is worth thousands and thousands of pounds! Oh, Mr Woodley-Foxe! I’m sure this will be the next one taken! And if The Shadow’s really the Countess, and she’s already at the Brooks Hotel …’

  ‘Give it here,’ said Woodley-Foxe, and taking the paper, he scanned the column. ‘Hmm,’ he said, when he’d finished. ‘You’re probably right. Well-spotted, lad.’

  George swelled with pride, all his past humiliations forgotten.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, eagerly, ‘wouldn’t it be good if we could catch The Shadow red-handed?’

  ‘It would,’ said the detective. ‘But if the Countess — The Shadow — gets wind of my coming to the Brooks, then it’s likely she will be very careful indeed. As a habitual criminal, she will know of my high reputation. She will be aware that I have never yet lost my man — or woman! She may well decide to give the Blue Moon Diamond a miss.’

  A picture of the detective trussed up and helpless in Lady Eleanor’s back laundry popped into George’s mind. But he loyally brushed it aside. ‘She won’t know you suspect her, sir!’ he said. ‘After all, she’s not to know you recognised the smell of the cigar smoke her coat was impregnated with! She took great pains so you would not see her, or guess she was a woman. She thinks you don’t have any clues to go on.’