The Blue Diamond

by Joan Smith

  “You really have not told me anything I don’t know yet, Herr Kruger,” Moncrief reminded him.

  “You English are always in a rush. Sit back and enjoy my story, milord. If you learn nothing else from this Con­gress, learn to enjoy life a little from your hosts. So, my tenant installed herself with every appearance of propri­ety. Wonderful Vienna offers so many other pretty dis­tractions at this time that one is in a mood to forgive these transgressions on one’s hospitality and good nature. Be­fore many days had passed, Mademoiselle had scraped an acquaintance with my daughter. As she was posing as such a vessel of rectitude, it was difficult to forbid it. They met first on the sidewalk, where Maria, being a properly reared young lady, inquired for Mademoiselle’s comfort. There were a few civil complaints—the windows dirty, some loose hinges and such inevitable details that annoy a landlord, and no doubt his tenant as well. My daughter had them attended to. Mademoiselle came in person to thank her, and a few calls took place. Then, of a sudden, Maria is foolishly acting as messenger and delivery girl for the strumpet. She went to borrow her coiffeur, and in gratitude for all Maria’s kindnesses, Mademoiselle im­poses on her goodness to borrow that ruby. It was the Frenchie’s hope, you see, that amongst our wealthy friends, there would be one who would recognize it for a true star ruby, and instigate inquiries, precisely as hap­pened. It was a well-contrived plot, the whole thing.”

  “It strikes me it was a plot that left a great deal to chance, including the possibility of loss or theft, when Maria was unaware of the value of the stone.”

  “True, Mademoiselle was willing to risk that much—five thousand pounds—because there was so much more at stake!” he said, leaning forward, with his eyes glowing.

  “Why would she not sell the jewels through a jeweler in the regular way?”

  “A reputable one might have recognized the gems, and refused to buy them, and a dishonest one would have gypped her. In any event, she preferred to deal directly with her clients, and used my daughter to gain access to them. For that I do not forgive her. Then the infamous affair of the diamond earrings followed. Of course the girl switched them behind Maria’s back. She left the apart­ment with the zircons in her bag certainly. Chabon has not a doubt of that.”

  “I have been waiting for the name of Chabon to crop up."

  “Crop up it has: Chabon it was who tipped me off. The girl is an infamous French adventuress, her father a colo­nel under Napoleon, and herself little better than a camp follower. The collection fell into Napoleon’s hands by some unknown means, and, for safekeeping when he went to battle, he left with them Feydeau’s father. This is fact, you understand. Chabon has access to such facts, and there was a Colonel Feydeau much trusted by Bonaparte. Well—Napoleon was exiled, her father killed, and she waltzed off with the collection.”

  “That explains her having them. Of more importance, what does she mean to do with them?”

  “Sell them, of course, but whether she intends the money for Napoleon’s return or her own enjoyment there is no telling. The French fear, of course, that it is the former.”

  “How do you mean to prevent her?”

  “I had thought it would be obvious. I—Chabon and I—mean to relieve her of them, and return them to King Louis XVIII, the rightful owner.”

  “Via Talleyrand?”

  Kruger raised his brows and looked very sapient. “Not likely! He’d take the credit for himself. We shall person­ally travel to Paris, heavily guarded, and return them to the King.”

  “A chivalrous gesture on your part. I see where Chabon might pick up a title for himself, a sinecure at court too perhaps, but what’s in it for you?”

  “One likes to do his duty,” he said primly, but could not quite suppress a gleeful little smile.

  “One also likes to be paid for it. How much?”

  “There is a reward of one-twentieth part of the booty. Here—Chabon has given me a copy of the decree of the French National Convention.” He handed Moncrief a pa­per.

  “‘All gold and silver, coined or otherwise, all diamonds, jewels, gold or silver lace, etc. that are found buried in the earth, or hidden in cellars, in walls, in garrets, under pavement, in hearths, in chimney flues, or in other places of concealment, be confiscated for the profit of the Repub­lic. To anyone procuring the discovery of such objects a twentieth part of their value to be paid.”’ Moncrief read it quickly, then raised a pertinent question.

  “You think Louis will honor this?”

  “Chabon says so. And why should he not? He will be aux anges to have the treasures back. Split evenly between myself and Chabon, it will amount to one hundred thou­sand pounds each,” he said, in a triumphant chuckle.

  Moncrief sat silent a moment digesting this, feeling inherently it was an unlikely story, yet it seemed to ex­plain all that happened. Certainly it explained Maria’s comments, and her father’s behavior. “And you think Mademoiselle has the stuff here in your house?”

  “Where else? Would you let it out of your sight, if you had it?”

  “No. I would have made efforts to lay my hands on it long since if I were in your position though.”

  “Ho, efforts! Efforts!” he exclaimed, rolling up his eyes. “You speak to Hercules in the matter of effort. I have bent heaven in an effort to discover the cache. Every ruse has been tried to get her out of the house, but when she leaves, her dragon remains behind. They sleep in shifts I swear. More than one time, under cover of darkness, I have at­tempted to gain entry, only to hear footfalls approach, to make me scuttle back home. I have given Mademoiselle a gift of wine—drugged wine, you understand, which she accepted most gratefully, and promptly poured out the window. I saw her do it with my own eyes. The very fact of her vigilance tells me the jewels are there. The best I can do is have her watched, to see she does not dispose of them.”

  “Your only interest in the matter is to claim the re­ward?” Moncrief asked.

  “You reduce the affair to its basest terms. I do need the money. I am a bit of a genius, if I do not puff myself up unbecomingly, one of the greatest geniuses of Vienna. I have invented out of virtually nothing the life-style of a rich man, but now I require some funds to continue my miracle. The house was left me by Haggia, my late wife. She was from a good but unfortunately degenerate old family. Degenerate in the sense of diminishing wealth I mean. Her morals were—” he stopped and hunched his shoulders judiciously. “Let us say she was no worse than the rest of us. Wretched in other words. She and her sister, Hermione, were great beauties. You would be hard pressed to realize it from what remains of Hermione’s charms, but you see an idea of it in my daughter. It was thought they would both marry fortunes. Hermione fulfilled the fam­ily’s wishes; Haggia married me. I was thought to have potential at the time. There were positions at court. I was sent to England, as you know. I did not distinguish myself, having always a greater interest in amusement and the arts then in business. Art was my true career. I was di­verted from it by the harsh necessities of making a living.”

  “You don’t seem to be suffering.”

  “I had a small pension, enough to exist. To procure the luxes of life, I sold off my treasures, one by one. Paintings, each first carefully reproduced and baked to a respectable appearance of age, after the manner of the gentleman in England who sold me the soi-disant Rembrandt. Haggia’s jewels were next, with first a good copy made for Maria by Eynard. Naturally I did not turn carpenter and build tables and chairs. I did a little dealing in gems as well. It was enough to live on. With no wife, it was not expected I should entertain lavishly. Much is forgiven a widower. I give petits soupers once a week, where everything, in­cluding the wine and company, is of the best. My one extravagance is Maria. I am not totally selfish, you see. I give her everything. A young girl does not require that much—fashionable gowns, good mounts and a carriage. Hermione gave her coming-out ball, and a few large par­ties. When a man lives in an old mansion full of things that look well, when he moves in the first circle
s and conducts himself like a Kavalier, when added to that his ancestry is more than respectable, no one looks beneath the surface.”

  “Why do you bother to tell me this?”

  “I expect you already guessed part. I have seen you look askance at my little Rembrandt copy. Maria does not care for Chabon. I had some thoughts that after King Louis had bestowed a title and his reward on him . . . He is an infinitely amusing chap, you know. But she has taken him in aversion. My fault. I pushed him forward. She is a very fine girl. She has no need for me to find a husband for her.”

  “She is pretty, talented . . ."

  “Several hundred ladies are pretty and talented. Maria has something more besides. In England you call it ‘coun­tenance,’ I believe. I have worked hard to instill it in her. She has had a good education and has—I take credit for myself—no priggish reluctance to face the realities of life. She knows that our sort of people often make a marriage of convenience. She will not harass her husband with scenes and vaporings. She will expect him to take a lover, and do the same herself when she has given him an heir.”

  Moncrief’s nose turned down in distaste. “She will make a fine wife for some continental gentleman,” he said coolly.

  Kruger observed he had misread his caller’s feelings in this regard, and turned his talk around to suit him. “Of course she is perfectly innocent of any real knowledge of the world, of sex. I tried to tell her once. Better to learn it from her Papa, as she lacked a mama, than from the servants. I took her aside when she turned fifteen and tried to explain the facts of life. Those innocent eyes de­feated me. ‘Maria,’ I said, ‘when a young girl reaches fif­teen or sixteen . . .’ But it would not do. I dehumanized it. ‘In the spring, the little animals feel the call of Mother Nature in the air . . .’ But even . . ."

  “Herr Kruger,” Moncrief interrupted impatiently, “I know you are busy: I am myself as well. What do you plan to do about securing the diamonds, or at least ascertaining positively that your tenant has them at all?”

  “It is very difficult to get her out of the house.”

  “It is not impossible. I’ll arrange it, and we’ll give the place a good search. I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

  “Don’t forget the dragon in your arrangements. It is no good getting Mademoiselle out if the dragon remains behind. Chabon and I will search, and let you know what we find.”

  Moncrief said nothing, but his raised brow gave some indication that he had no idea of being absent when the search was made. Kruger arose to his feet and saw his guest to the door.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  Moncrief was first relieved at the explanation he had from Kruger. It was not till he had reconsidered it for several minutes that a few discrepancies and omissions began to rear their heads. Eynard’s death, for instance; how was it explained? He assumed quite as a matter of course that Chabon had kept certain details from Kruger.

  Those magic earrings that began as diamonds and turned to zircon had been substituted in Maria’s bag by Chabon, to throw doubt on Mademoiselle’s jewels, in case she took to peddling them before Chabon could discover where they were hid­den. He did not know how Chabon could have had a du­plicate ready without Eynard’s connivance, but this could not be confirmed now, with Eynard dead.

  So who had killed the jeweler? Not Mademoiselle; she had no reason—knew nothing of the substitution till much later. Not Cha­bon—he was working for the legitimate French delega­tion, within the law. Not Kruger—he was not even in­volved at that time. The man’s death could be a mere coincidence, or—and he had a sinking sensation it was the “or” that was nearer the truth—he could be very much in the dark still as to the whole story.

  In any case, he had two specific things to be done. He must get Cécile out of her apartment and search it, and he must get hold of Eynard’s books and comb them very thoroughly to see if he had manufactured any duplicates other than the earrings for the mysterious Madame Clair­mont, or any of her alter egos. This would be difficult and time-consuming, but legitimate customers could be checked, and perhaps the descriptions of pieces copied would be a clue as to whether they were old, and French.

  Feydeau had told him she wished to go to England, along with her chaperone. On the hope that she meant it, he wrote her a note asking her to Minoritenplatz to discuss the matter, specifically requesting that Madame Blan­chard accompany her. Within the hour, a clerk was back with her reply. It was brief and to the point. She did not wish to gain entrance to England. Her suspicions were apparently aroused by the note. She mentioned that she would be unable to see him that afternoon, stating no reason.

  Wellington’s arrival in Vienna caused a large stir. There were briefings, rounds of calls to make and nu­merous visitors to receive. All those small callers who were dissatisfied with the work on their country’s behalf performed by Castlereagh came round to try for greater luck with his replacement. Metternich came urging peace, and Blücher hoping for a war from a soldier like Wel­lington. Moncrief was too busy to invent an alternative scheme to get Cécile Feydeau and chaperone out of their apartment, but had a scheme hatching that involved tak­ing them both to Googie’s chateau for a day, with himself darting back to town to search during their absence.

  The evening round of parties had become a dead bore. Five months was too long for a party to go on. To have no less than three do’s ticked off as essential, to have besides the names of those to whom one must speak, and with whom one must stand up, and even what items of con­versation that were to arise, was a wearying pleasure indeed.

  Number one on his list that evening was a state dinner at the Hofburg. Between dinner and the next party, he slipped away to put his invitation to Mademoiselle. He was just approaching her door, seated inside his plain, black carriage, when the door opened and Mademoiselle was framed there with the light behind her. She looked up and down the street then darted out, a lone, slight figure, while Madame Blanchard closed the door, making entry impossible.

  He was overcome with curiosity to see where she was going, for the haste of her walk indicated this was no mere stroll. He hopped from the carriage to follow her from a little distance. She was a small woman, but her feet flew over the sidewalk. He had to lengthen his stride to keep pace with her. The unhesitant certainty with which she sped around the corner, without a look to see where she was going, told him she had made this trip before. His curiosity mounted higher as he dodged along, being sure to keep a few pedestrians between them, in case she looked behind.

  They had not been walking long, but already they had entered a much less desirable section of town than the rows of mansions from which they had begun. Loitering men in rude clothing turned to stare after the girl. It must be an important matter that brings her here alone and unprotected, he thought. He had a good idea what the matter was, for it was in this quarter that the Bonapartists were living. She rounded another corner, and when he followed a few seconds later, she was gone. She had ducked into some alleyway in the dark street ahead.

  Shops and narrow dwellings ranged, with scarcely room between for a cat to slip through. The whole was poorly lit. It was impossible to know into which of the doorways she had passed, but he did not think she had had time to knock and be admitted in the few seconds by which she had preceded him. No doorway had stood open when he rounded the corner. He hastened on a few yards, passing one alley wider than the rest. Instinct told him this was her destination, or perhaps it was some subliminal echo of sound coming from beyond. He entered, staying close to the sides of the building. The alley was black, but ahead, at its end, some lightening of the darkness was visible. A shadow was seen to flit into this lighter darkness. He rushed on, to determine which way she turned. At the end of the passageway, he slowed his pace, for there was a voice coming from around the corner.

  It spoke in rapid, fluent French—a woman’s voice. Ma­demoiselle spoke in English to himself, but he was sure it was her voice. “Quick, I think I was followed,” she
said.

  An ungentlemanly curse rent the air, uttered by a man, also in French. “What the devil do you want? It’s danger­ous to meet like this.”

  “There is some trouble . . .”

  Moncrief edged closer to the corner of the building, hoping for a view of her companion. He saw a tall, dark shadow of a man walking quickly away with the girl. An open courtyard gave him no con­cealment to follow, and worse, they might enter one of the doorways, to be lost to him. They were speaking, their voices both angry, but no words were distinguishable. Sud­denly, the words became angrier, the voices hot with fury. The man raised his hand and struck her a blow across the cheek.

  In a flash, Moncrief darted forward, impelled by in­stinct. The two flew apart, the girl emitted a low scream, and then from behind, someone, a third party, struck him a blow on the side of the head that sent him to the ground. It was a few moments before he came to, to sit up on the cold cobblestones, to put a hand to his head. A thin trickle of blood ran down his temple. The pain eased from a sharp stab to a dull ache.

  His first thought was for the girl’s safety. The row of dark doorways told him clearly enough it would take a whole night to find her. Behind any of them a man might be waiting, with a gun or other weapon. Further hazy considering told him she had come voluntarily to meet the person, therefore there was no real concern for her life—a luxury he could not share. He staggered to his feet, listened in the cold darkness for a moment, examining the doorways for motion, then went back through the alley­way, checked the name of the street, memorized sufficient details that he could return in daylight. He hailed a pass­ing hackney and climbed in, gingerly placing a handker­chief to his bleeding temple.

  The route back to his own rooms took him past Ma­demoiselle’s apartment. Glancing up, he saw lights burn­ing. On an impulse, he went to her door and was told by a perfectly placid housekeeper that Mademoiselle was home, and would see him.