The Annam Jewel

by Patricia Wentworth

  When the taxi stopped and he had paid the man, Peter said:

  “Look here, I’ll come and see you tomorrow and tell you all about it.”

  Sylvia gave a little cry that was half a sob.

  “As if I should sleep a single wink!” she said. “We’ve got to have it out.”

  Peter went in with her. Sylvia’s room was full of yellow roses; they smelt very sweet. She switched on all the lights, and turned impatiently on Peter.

  “What have you done with the Jewel? I gave it you. I want it back.”

  Peter stood over her, very large. He felt a brute, but was angry enough not to mind.

  “It wasn’t exactly yours to give, was it?” he said.

  The real crimson rose to Sylvia’s cheeks.

  “How dare you?” she cried.

  Peter laughed.

  “If it comes to that, how did you dare?” he retorted.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m quite sure you know what I mean. You took the Jewel from your father, and you were going to give it to that brute Hendebakker.”

  Sylvia stared at him, flushed and curious.

  “How did you know, Peter? How did you know?”

  He said nothing. After a minute she put out her hand rather timidly and touched him.

  “Peter, you’re angry. Oh, don’t be angry with me. Please, please don’t—I’m so miserable.”

  She was crying again quietly. Peter began to mind being a brute.

  “Look here, Sylvia, what’s the use of all this?” he said.

  Sylvia made a sudden movement towards him.

  “Peter, give it back to me,” she whispered.

  “My dear girl, I haven’t got it—I told you I hadn’t.”

  “Then—where is it?”

  “I sent it back to your father, of course,” said Peter. “And look here, Sylvia, I may as well make my position clear. I’ve no idea how much you know about the Jewel, its history, and so forth; but my position is this, either the Jewel belongs to your father or it belongs to me, and I’m hanged if either of us will let Hendebakker have it. I think you’d better get that quite clear.”

  “I don’t know—I don’t know anything,” she sobbed. “Peter, I’m—I’m utterly wretched.”

  “Oh, for the Lord’s sake, Sylvia, don’t cry.” He patted her shoulder. “Look here, my dear girl, I mean—oh, I say, Sylvia, what is the use of crying? You’d much better make a clean breast of the whole thing and tell me why you did it.”

  Sylvia leaned against him, and felt that his arm was strong and comfortable.

  “He—he told me it was only a copy,” she sobbed.

  “Who did?”

  “Virgil Hendebakker.”

  “Good lord, you didn’t believe him?”

  “Of course I did—anyone would have. How was I to know which was the real one? I thought it was only a sort of joke—I did really. And now my father will never forgive me. Why, he wouldn’t even let me explain. And you—you hate me for it.” She trembled as she spoke, her head against his shoulder. She looked up at him for a moment, and then down again. Her eyes were very blue indeed.

  “I don’t hate you,” said Peter gruffly.

  “Don’t you?” said Sylvia, with a quiver in her voice. “Are you sure? I—I didn’t mean to cry or make a fuss, but I’m very unhappy and—and worried.”

  “What’s worrying you?”

  Sylvia turned from him. “What’s the good?” she said hopelessly.

  “Well, I might be able to help.”

  She half put out her hand, and drew it back again.

  “No, it’s no use. I must just go under. Nothing much to make a fuss about after all, is there?” She faced him with the tears running down her cheeks. “I shan’t be the first or the last, shall I?”

  Peter put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Don’t talk like that, Sylvia,” he said quickly. “There’s always a way out. I’ll stand by you; I swear I will.”

  “Will you? Can you? No, you don’t care enough. You did once, but you don’t now. You used to be fond of me long ago.”

  “I’m fond of you now; you know I am. Besides, I’d do my best to help any woman out of a hole.”

  Sylvia looked up at him with brimming eyes.

  “Peter, are you really fond of me—really?” she said.

  “Yes, I am,” said Peter. “I said so just now.”

  “And you’ll help me?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She came just a little nearer.

  “Peter, only one thing will help—and oh, I do want help so badly—you don’t know how badly. Peter, you said perhaps the Jewel was yours. What did you mean?”

  Peter frowned.

  “My father left it to me in his will,” he said.

  “Then it’s yours, it’s really yours?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “But—I don’t understand.” She stared at him in frank astonishment. “If it’s yours, why did you send it back to my father?”

  “I tell you I’m not sure; but, anyhow, your taking it—” his frown deepened—“it was a beastly thing to do. What made you do it?”

  “I’ve told you,” said Sylvia. “But if it’s yours, Peter, can’t you get it?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t let’s talk about it any more.”

  “But you’ll help me?”

  “Yes, I’ll help you.”

  Sylvia put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Sylvia was having breakfast in bed next morning when she was called to the telephone. She recognized her father’s voice before he announced himself.

  “That you, Sylvia? Oh, all right. I only want an address—young Waring’s address. Oh, and by the way, is he on the telephone? Good. Just give me his number—will you—and I’ll ring him up.”

  Sylvia gave him the address and the number.

  “What do you want with Peter?” she asked, with an attempt at lightness.

  She heard Coverdale laugh.

  “Oh, just a little matter of business,” he said, and rang off.

  She went back to her room, frowning. The Jewel had reached her father, and he wanted to thank Peter for sending it back. If that was all, would he not have written? Why was he so pleased at being able to telephone? Was he going to try and see Peter?

  The telephone bell rang again; Hendebakker this time, hard and cool.

  “That Lady Moreland? Well, have you got it?”

  “No,” said Sylvia. “No.”

  “Well, now, that’s a pity.” There was no change in the tone. “Suppose you come round and see Anita right away. She’s just wearying to hear all about it. Ask for her, and come right up to our private suite.”

  He rang off. Sylvia leant against the wall for a moment, her heart beating hard. She had her orders, and knew very well that she must obey them.

  In a little over half an hour she was being ushered into the drawing-room of the Hendebakkers’ private suite at The Luxe. Anita was not there; Virgil P. Hendebakker was. He waited until the door was shut, and then said sharply:

  “Well, what about it?”

  “I couldn’t get it,” said Sylvia.

  “Why?”

  “He hasn’t got it—he sent it back to my father.”

  Just for a second the large, smooth surface of Hendebakker’s face changed. It seemed to crumple up, as the smooth surface of water will change and become convulsed by some violent, unseen force. The bright eyes alone remained unaltered; their gaze never shifted from Sylvia’s face. It was all over in a moment, and Hendebakker said in his usual voice:

  “He did that? He had the Jewel, and he sent it back to Dale? If that don’t beat the band!”

  “He sent it back at once—early, before I could see him. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Oh, I’m not blaming you—not for that. As to your blame foolishness in giving it to him at all, you’ve got to make that good—you know that without my tel
ling you—you’ve got to make it good.”

  “I don’t see how I can,” said Sylvia, with a sort of gasp. And as she spoke, an inner door opened and Anita Hendebakker came in. She wore a thin wrap of exotic scarlet embroidered all over with blue and violet butterflies.

  “Sylvia! But what a surprise!” she said.

  Hendebakker waved her back with the smooth, well-kept hand which had the scar upon it.

  “Presently, Anita; just now I am busy.”

  She cast one glance from him to Sylvia, and went out again.

  “What will she think?” said Sylvia hotly.

  Hendebakker smiled.

  “Anita never thinks,” he said. “It would not be worth her while; I would have no use for a wife who let herself think about my affairs. Anita knows when she is well off. And now—you were saying that you did not know what to do next. You have seen this young Waring? You are quite sure he sent the Jewel back?”

  “Oh yes. And then this morning …” She told him about the telephone call from Sunnings.

  Hendebakker began to pace up and down the room.

  “I think he must want to see him, or he would have written,” she concluded.

  He nodded.

  “That’s right smart of you. Yes, it’s likely. I’ll see to it. Well, now, this is what you’ve got to do. Is this young man in love with you?”

  “Oh, well …” Sylvia shrugged her shoulders.

  “What’s that mean? That he is, or that he isn’t?”

  She shot a furious glance at him.

  “How do I know?”

  “You quit this foolishness and come to business. Is he or isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he knows himself. He’s fond of me.”

  “Has he told you so?” His tone was businesslike in the extreme.

  “Yes, he has.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “When you were sobbing on his shoulder, I guess.” Her discomfiture appeared to please him. “Well, you keep right on that way—plenty of sob-stuff—and ‘I’m a poor, weak woman with no one to protect me’—with a dash of ‘There’s no one in the world like you.’ That’s the goods. You keep right on until you’ve got him so that he goes down on his knees and begs you to take the Jewel for a keep-sake.”

  “He’s got to get it first,” said Sylvia a little scornfully.

  “If he don’t I shall.” Hendebakker’s laugh was quite genial. “And now, my dear, you sit right down and get that young man of yours on the ’phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I’d just as lief know whether he’s going to see Dale or not; guessing’s not good enough, and you can get it out of him all right. Fix it so he’ll have to say what he’s doing.”

  “He won’t be in,” said Sylvia, rather sulkily.

  “You sit right down and try. There’s nothing like trying.”

  He set a chair as he spoke, and pushed the table instrument nearer to her. Sylvia took off the receiver, gave the number, and frowned when she heard Peter’s voice saying, “Hullo.”

  “It’s Sylvia,” she said. In spite of the frown, her tone was sweetness itself.

  Hendebakker laid a piece of paper on the table before her. Across it he had scrawled in blue pencil, “Repeat his answers so I can follow.” She nodded and went on speaking.

  “It is you, Peter, isn’t it? Yes, it’s Sylvia. I was wondering—” she broke into just a hint of self-conscious laughter—“well, just wondering if we were going to meet today. I can’t remember if we fixed anything. Oh, you can’t! You’re going where? Oh, out of town—to the Gaisfords’? Did you really tell me that? How stupid of me! Do you know, I can’t remember it a bit. Was it last night? My dear boy, I was so tired I didn’t know what I was doing. But—but, as a matter of fact, my father rang me up this morning, and I got an idea that you were going to see him—a matter of business, he said—no, he didn’t tell me what it was, only that he hoped to see you at Sunnings—oh, you are going there? What about the Gaisfords, then—lunching with them on your way? My good Peter, how frightfully energetic!”

  She paused, and looked at Hendebakker. He nodded, and laid another scrawl before her; “Fix it for him to come and see you as soon as he gets back.” She glanced at it, and spoke again.

  “Peter, when am I going to see you? You will come soon, won’t you? You know, after last night I’m just relying on you—I can’t say how much. You don’t know what it is to feel that there’s someone you can trust and who’ll see you through.…” She paused for a moment, and then added, “Peter, don’t tell Father I asked about your going down to Sunnings—he mightn’t like it—he’s like that. Well, good-bye, dear boy, see you tomorrow perhaps.”

  She rang off and turned to Hendebakker for approval. He gave it unstintedly.

  “That was a right smart bit of work,” he said.

  He patted her shoulder approvingly and walked to the inner door.

  “Anita,” he called.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Peter lunched with the Gaisfords at Merton Clevery. He listened to Major Gaisford’s jovial and richly embroidered anecdotes, and duly admired the infant Jimmy.

  Mrs. Gaisford was very amiable. She had grown plump and placid, and she was disposed to smile upon Peter.

  “You must come and stay with us at Chark instead of now,” she said graciously. “I was sorry your visit had to be put off, but this whole place does want painting so dreadfully, and my cousin Monty Ferguson’s offer of his house at Chark was too good to be wasted; so we’re really off tomorrow for a month. Do you know Monty at all? He swears Chark will be the golf-course of the future, and I’m sure he’s only lending us the house because he thinks James will be converted and go about cracking it up. But there it is, you must come down and see it for yourself—any time, you know. There’s lots of room. Just send a wire and come.”

  After lunch Peter asked Rose Ellen to walk across the moor with him. He could catch a train at Hastney Mere, and they could talk. They climbed the sandy lane together and when Rose Ellen had said three things without receiving any answer she looked sideways at Peter, beheld him wrapped in frowning silence, and spoke no more. They walked on. Overhead the sky was hazy and flecked with innumerable little clouds. A light wind blew across the moor.

  Peter was thinking very hard. It was always easy to think things out when he was with Rose Ellen; she understood, she always understood even when you didn’t tell her anything. Most girls would be talking now, but Rose Ellen just walked on beside him in that understanding silence.

  Peter was thinking about Sylvia. He was not quite sure of where he stood with Sylvia. Last night now—of course she was nervous and overwrought, but she had certainly kissed him and clung to him. Peter frowned horribly. He tried to recall exactly what he himself had done. To the best of his recollection he had patted her shoulder—had, in fact, gone on patting it for some time. He had also kissed her somewhere on the point of the cheekbone, after which Sylvia had kissed him again and cried a good deal. To be sure, she had told him on the telephone this morning that her own recollection of what had happened was very hazy. That looked as if she did not attach very much importance to those kisses. On the other hand, she had said things about relying on him, and about his having promised to see her through. He had certainly said that he would help her; but just what helping Sylvia might involve.… He broke off his thought with a jerk. There was no doubt at all that Sylvia wanted someone to look after her pretty badly. There was no doubt at all that, in some sort, he had pledged himself to look after her. He walked beside Rose Ellen, thinking hard.

  It was when they left the moor that he began to talk about Sylvia. The path ran downhill, turned, and brought them into the beach-wood where they had slept as children. The drift of last year’s leaves was under their feet, and this year’s first exquisite green stretched between them and the sky.

  Rose Ellen stopped suddenly.

  “Did you come down here to talk to m
e about Sylvia?” she said.

  Peter nodded without looking at her.

  “Are you going to marry her, Peter?”

  Peter had stopped too. He pushed the beech leaves with his foot.

  “I—don’t—know,” he said at last.

  Rose Ellen met the blow with a great courage.

  “Are you thinking about it, Peter?” she said. There was a pause. “If he would only speak,” thought Rose Ellen; “if he would only tell me—if I really knew! Peter, Peter, speak!” Her hands came together, held one another tightly.

  “I have thought about it,” said Peter, speaking very slowly. Then, more quickly and in a low voice, “She’s in trouble—very unhappy, I’m afraid—she wants someone to look after her—I’ve been trying to think it out—if it’s my job, I mean—I don’t know, but I think perhaps it is.”

  Rose Ellen’s colour deepened. She never took her eyes from Peter’s face. They were clear and deep, like shadowed water.

  “I see,” she said. “I wonder if that’s a good reason for marrying anyone.”

  “I think it might be. Don’t you think so, Rose Ellen?”

  Rose Ellen’s hands held one another. She said:

  “No, Peter de—ah.”

  “You mean I’m not in love with her. That’s what I don’t quite know. I was once—frightfully. I told you. Do you remember? But you see I was just a fool of a boy. One takes things so damned hard at seventeen, and—and—well, I’m twenty-five now; and there’s been the war and all that; and one’s probably got past that intense sort of feeling. And perhaps it’s my job—I don’t know—I’m not sure.”