The Blue Diamond

by Joan Smith

  Herr Kruger stood looking after him, his head reeling with splendid thoughts. Then he turned around and began whistling the new waltz everyone was playing. He waltzed to the bottom of the steps, then performed a most unusual act. He peered about him to ensure privacy, then lifted his two hundred pound bulk into the air and clicked his heels together. “A hundred thousand pounds!” he laughed softly, rubbing his hands in glee. “I’m rich!”

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Maria waited on thorns for her father’s return. She fore­saw dreadful consequences of this night’s work—even an appearance in court was not impossible, to convict Eynard. She was unhappy with her own folly in acting as Made­moiselle’s messenger on such an errand, and knew her father would be furious with her. Imbroglios of this sort did a girl’s reputation no good.

  When her father entered, smiling broadly and calling her his “little imp,” her heart soared with relief. It was all a mistake then. Eynard had accidentally taken the wrong earrings back to the shop. Really it had been hard to think Eynard a thief. “What happened? What did he say?” she asked.

  “Say? Who?” her father asked, still smiling from ear to ear.

  “Eynard, of course. What did he say about the dia­monds?

  “Nothing. He was dead—murdered.” That took the smile from his face, but still there was no evidence of worry, or sorrow either.

  “Murdered! Papa, what can it mean? Who did it?” she asked, nonplussed.

  He hunched his shoulders. “A drunkard, Hager thinks. A senseless killing, with nothing stolen.”

  “Were the diamond earrings found?”

  “No, not a trace. He didn’t have them.”

  “What is our position then?” she asked, confusion in­creasing with every speech.

  Kruger rubbed his hands merrily and laughed, an ex­ultant warble of sheer good humor. “As to that, I don’t think there is any need to repay Mademoiselle. Chabon does not think it necessary.”

  “She gave me the diamonds, and got back zircons—we must repay her, Papa,” Maria replied, shocked at her father’s scandalous suggestion. “You said you would. She is not well off—she needs the money.”

  “Well, we shall see,” he parried, but from long famil­iarity, Maria knew he had no intention of doing what he ought. “I don’t want you to see the woman again, Maria. She is not at all the sort of person you should have any­thing to do with.”

  “What is it you aren’t telling me?” she demanded.

  “It has come to my attention that Mademoiselle Fey­deau is a renowned thief and rascal, well known as such in France."

  “Did Hager tell you so?”

  “Hager, how should he know? Chabon told me. I think we shall include Chabon in our petit souper this week, my dear. Send him a card. He can replace Moncrief. These Englishmen are demmed dull company when it comes down to it.”

  She was curious as to why this change was to be made. Moncrief was much more eligible—indeed till this very evening her father had always spoken against Chabon. Her queries only sent him into a pucker, without her learning a thing.

  It was not necessary to await the petit souper to see Chabon again. He came to call the next morning, asking for her father, but as he was out, she saw him herself, to see what she could learn from him. Papa was certainly hiding something. She knew he often concealed life’s un­pleasantness from her, or tried to. This was the first oc­casion on which he seemed to be hiding good news. Cha­bon, when she quizzed him, was equally secretive.

  “It is not for you to worry your head, Miss Kruger. You were used by the woman. That is all you need to know. Do not feel guilty, but rather be grateful the trick was discovered, or there might be some feeling your father should pay for the earrings.”

  “I do feel that restitution should be made to Mademoi­selle.”

  “You are overly solicitous on her behalf. It is not to be thought of.”

  “But what if she is innocent? To have lost such a sum—and it is not even her own money.”

  “Very true. The jewels were stolen to begin with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That she is very dangerous. You must avoid her in future.”

  “If she were dangerous, Papa would not let her stay on with us.”

  “That was my doing, and it will also be my concern to see she does not harm you. Now, enough of this unpleasant business. Where do we waltz this evening?”

  “I’m afraid I will not be seeing you this evening, Mon­sieur. Countess von Rossner is having us to dinner and a party.” It did not need to be stated that Chabon would not be amongst the Countess’s carefully selected guests.

  “You must give me an hour this afternoon then,” he pleaded, smiling a winsome, adoring smile.

  “Half an hour this morning is all I can spare,” she answered, wondering why she told this lie. She had her afternoon free, but a plan was forming that would dis­please Chabon, and more especially her father. She must speak to Mademoiselle. She did not for one moment believe these stories about the woman. She knew she had not substituted the false diamonds—had seen with her own eyes those Eynard authenticated being handed directly over to herself.

  Chabon was gallant and amusing, but his gallantries did not please, and his amusing speeches did not much amuse. The half hour seemed much longer, till finally he was gone.

  With an hour still to wait before luncheon, she put on her cape and whisked around the corner to Feydeau’s apartment. The woman, like herself, was very upset. “What are they saying? What does your father plan to do?” she asked, a shadow of worry in her dark eyes.

  “They don’t plan to do anything,” Maria confessed, ashamed to have to admit the money would not be repaid.

  “He will let me remain? You must ask it for me, Miss Kruger. I have nowhere to go, and no money now . . ."

  “Of course you shall stay!” Maria exclaimed, then fell to wondering why her father had not put the girl out, as he held such a low opinion of her.

  “I am surprised Chabon permits it,” was the answer, given in a cynical voice.

  “Monsieur does not give the orders in my father’s house,” Maria answered.

  “It won’t be long till he is doing so. It is his usual custom.”

  “Who is he? What do you know of him, Cécile?"

  “He is a tool of Talleyrand and the Bourbons. A thor­oughly self-seeking man. He has made a habit of harassing me the last while. He has convinced certain parties that I possess the crown jewels of France—such madness! Where should I have got them? I was not born at the time they were stolen. It would not surprise me greatly if he has them himself.”

  “But you said Napoleon had them, when we discussed it earlier."

  “Napoleon had only a few, I think. There were ten thou­sand diamonds stolen, Miss Kruger. A king’s ransom. Napoleon disbursed a dozen or so. That leaves a great many diamonds in someone’s pocket, including the fabu­lous Blue Tavernier diamond.”

  “Why do you think they are in Chabon’s pocket?”

  “His actions lead me to believe it. Where did he take the idea I have them? There is no sensible basis for it. No, he wished to explain their appearance because he person­ally means to produce them. I am convinced of it.”

  “How should he have got them, any more than yourself? He was no more than a child at the time. . . ."

  “I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought, as I sit here alone. Why, for instance, was an unknown man chosen for the honor of accompanying Prince Tal­leyrand de Périgord to this Congress? Dukes and barons were falling over themselves for the privilege, but a Mon­sieur Chabon from nowhere was selected. Chabon was still in dresses when the jewels were stolen, but his patron was not. Prince Talleyrand, who had at that time just been made Bishop of Autun and elected to the States General, decides to throw up his career—gets himself excommun­icated and is for a brief period a revolutionary. Just long enough, in fact, to have access to the jewels, as one of the high dignitari
es of the Revolution. Then, unaccountably, he is against the Revolution, and is put on the list of emigrés. Do you think he left the country empty-handed, Miss Kruger? I do not.”

  “Where does Chabon come into it?” Miss Kruger asked, struggling to keep pace with the story.

  “Talleyrand is too high in the government now to admit to any connection with the theft. He needs a tool to ‘find’ the jewels. He does not want his own name connected with it in any way. God only knows where he lit on Chabon, but his family background has long been connected with the gem trade in France. I believe the fellow has been used for dirty work by the Bourbons before. He would do anything for money. It is the fact of my having got the ruby and trying to sell the earrings for Madame Lalonde that decided them to choose me for the culprit in the case. Miss Kruger, what am I to do against such powerful ene­mies?” she asked, her voice breaking under the strain. “Your father, I know, suspects me . . .”

  “But if Napoleon had the ruby, and some of the pieces . . ."

  “Don’t overlook Talleyrand’s checkered career. He was also Foreign Minister for Napoleon. He serves every gov­ernment—the only man in France who has been by turn influential in the old aristocracy, the Revolution, the Di­rectorate, Consolate and Empire, and finally now again with the new restored monarchy. He can survive anything, cuts his opinions and views to suit the powers that prevail. He is a clever chameleon. No doubt he gave Napoleon a few pieces from his collection at some point when his ca­reer was in jeopardy. Now he sees a chance for real power under Louis, and chooses the restoration of the jewels to clinch it. But he needs a good story, to account for their suddenly showing up, so he says Napoleon put them with my father, for safekeeping, who in turn gave them to me. It is madness. Bonaparte, if he had them, would have given them to Fouché, or taken them to Elba with him. But they are still alive to protest, you see, so they choose a dead man, my Papa, as the recipient. They plan to make a dead woman of me. Make no mistake about that. I must leave—must get away. . . . But I need money. For the in­terval, I am safer here than on the streets. Chabon would not, I trust, be so foolhardy as to have me executed here, in your father’s house, to cast a shadow on Herr Kruger, when he plans to marry yourself.”

  “No, he does not speak of marriage!”

  “He will. A pretty, young girl of impeccable lineage—I daresay Talleyrand had something to say in that too. He would prefer, no doubt, that Chabon settle elsewhere than in France, where he might at any time decide to blackmail his patron. He is as wily as may be, Talleyrand.”

  “I’ll tell Papa. He will know what is best to do,” Maria decided.

  “No! No, you must not. Chabon has got his ear. He won’t believe a word of it.”

  “But where will you go?”

  “I have friends. I will return to France.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “If I had got the money from the earrings, it would have been more than enough. I lent the Lalondes most of my money. They were to repay it from the sale of the dia­monds. But I know you cannot get such a sum.”

  “Yes, I can. I’ll do it. I’ll bring you the money as soon as I can.”

  “There is no hurry. I am being watched closely. A week, ten days. Let them think I have no thought of leaving, then some dark night, I shall slip away. Please, Miss Kruger, you must believe me. You must help me,” she begged. There was an earnest, desperate tone in her voice.

  “I do believe you.”

  “And Miss Kruger—beware of Chabon. Don’t trust him an inch.”

  “I don’t trust him,” she answered, with fear clutching at her heart. And it was true. She did not trust the hand­some, adoring Frenchman an inch. “I had better go now. My father doesn’t know where I am.” At the doorway, she turned around, frowning.

  “Mademoiselle—if Talleyrand plans to restore the jew­els—why were copies made? I could discover very little from Chabon, but he did say he thought Eynard had been killed to prevent his telling he had made copies.”

  Mademoiselle hunched her shoulders. “What they say is not necessarily what they think,” she pointed out, with a cynical face. “They are only trying to blacken my char­acter. Perhaps Chabon or Talleyrand were foolish enough to have gone in person to Eynard, and realized too late this would connect him with the affair from the beginning. There could be a dozen explanations for it. Or Eynard’s murder could be only a coincidence.”

  "That is true. Papa did mention last night its being done by a drunkard. Well, I shall come back with the money as soon as I can.”

  “You are very kind. Merci bien,” the French woman said, with a sad, disconsolate attempt at a smile.

  Maria was back in her room, pulling her own diamond earrings out of their case to sell before it struck her. Funny—Mademoiselle Feydeau was not at all surprised to hear Eynard had been murdered. It had not been men­tioned till the last minute, yet she knew all about it, had given the matter considerable thought already. It was only a niggling detail, but persistent. She would ask her about it when she took the money to her. More weighty worries were soon obtruding into her mind. If Chabon were as devious as Feydeau intimated, she must give her father some hint of it, and see that the man was not allowed to run tame at their house.

  She made the attempt over luncheon. “Chabon was here this morning,” she mentioned. “I do not care for him. I wish he would not come so often.”

  “What—not care for Chabon? He is as handsome as may be. All the girls are running mad for him. You were yourself a week ago. Quite a coup for you to have attached him.”

  “I have not attached him, and do not wish to do so, Papa. We know nothing of him. At least I shan’t be seeing him this evening at Tante Hermione’s party.”

  “He goes with us. I asked him,” her father replied.

  “I wish you had not! Hermione does not care for him. She will be angry you asked him.”

  “Pooh! I become a little tired of always truckling to Hermione, if you want the truth,” he answered, in a care­less way.

  “You are being unduly influenced by this Chabon. Take care he is not up to something underhanded.”

  “Who have you been speaking to?” he asked sharply. “Has Feydeau been talking to you? I told you to stay away from her.”

  Herr Kruger seldom spoke harshly to his daughter. In the normal way, she could bring him round her finger without much trouble. Occasionally, however, he took into his head to play the stern father. This was clearly one of those occasions. She disliked to lie to him outright, but the truth might well have the effect of getting their tenant evicted. “Well?” he asked, in a peremptory manner.

  “It was my own idea,” she prevaricated. Fortunately the footman chose that moment to proffer Kruger some ragoût. He could usually be diverted by an appeal to his stomach. The moment passed, with a mild lament that there was too much fennel in the sauce.

  It was unusual for Kruger to be darting about so much as he was today. Out all morning, and no sooner had he gobbled up his luncheon than he was off again. He more normally stayed home and read in his study, or carved at his jade, or received a small circle of callers. No matter, it gave his daughter the desired privacy to dash to the jeweler to sell her earrings. The fact of Eynard’s death made this more difficult. The family had never used any other jeweler than he. There a fair price was certain, though the news would more than likely leak back to her father before many hours.

  She wrapped them up in silver paper and was driven to the next best man in town, Binder. She was shown into a private room to speak to him. After introducing herself, she said, “I wish to sell these diamond earrings,” handing them over to him. They were a present from her mother, very good white diamonds, perfectly matched, and should be a fair exchange for those that had mysteriously turned to zircon during the preceding evening. Binder picked them up and examined them with the aid of his loupe.

  “I’m afraid . . ." he said, shaking his head.

  “What is the matter?” she demanded,
with no premon­ition of disaster.

  “I cannot be sure. The setting makes it difficult . . ." he said, reluctantly.

  “Take them out. Examine them out of the setting,” she offered.

  This was soon done. Binder turned them on their side, peering through a lens first at one, then the other, all the while shaking his head sadly. At length, he put his glass down and looked at her. “The stones give a respectable amount of light,” he said. “The faceting too was expertly done, which fooled me. The fact is, Fräulein, your earrings are not diamonds. They are zircons. Out of their setting, it is quite obvious. The zircon is what we call a double refracting stone. Diamond is single. Looking at the edges of the back facets, there is a doubling of the edges seen under magnification, due to the double refracted image. A diamond appears as a single line. There is no doubt, none at all. What you have is a very pretty pair of zircons. Doubtlessly the work of Eynard. I can give you a few guilders for them.”

  “There must be some mistake,” she insisted, dazed.

  “There is no mistake. Take them to anyone else you choose. He will tell you the same. I’ll put the stones back in, shall I?” he offered. "Keep them and wear them. Who will know the difference?” he smiled genially. “On Fräulein Kruger, no one will expect to see zircons,” he assured her.

  When she returned to her carriage, her heart was pal­pitating. What did it mean? Had someone replaced her jewels with false stones, as they had done to Mademoiselle Feydeau? Or had her father had it done? She feared to tell him, so stern and disapproving a mood was he in today. On top of it all, how was she to repay Miss Feydeau? She went immediately to her room and took up another piece of jewelry, a bracelet her Aunt Hermione had given her only two years before. It she took to another reputable jeweler, only to be told the same thing. Her “diamonds” in this case were not even zircons, but strass glass. Worth­less.

  With worry and dread rising now to panic, she sat wait­ing for her father to return from his outing. She could not believe he knew of this. Papa was rich. He always had money for everything—gave her whatever she wanted. A new carriage this very year, for the Congress. Horses, holidays, gowns—she was never stinted on anything. Some clever scoundrel was as work here at the Congress, bilking everyone, and it was half a relief. Whoever had done this had also done the same to Feydeau’s earrings, and probably to the jewels of half the ladies at the Con­gress. Soon a wild scandal would be circulating, as half the population discovered they wore glass instead of dia­monds and rubies and emeralds. It must be a gigantic ring of jewel thieves, with sophisticated methods she could not even begin to conceive of.