“Do get a fellow some decent ink, Lil,” he said, pettishly. “I cannot write to an old don like Ophir with this stuff.”
She slipped from the room like a shadow and was back again almost in a moment. When she returned she found him on the couch nervously fingering the fragments of paper, twine, and sealing-wax.
“I cannot make it out at all,” he muttered. “They seem to have vanished into thin air. However, old Ophir will be able to help us if anyone can.”
He growled a bit at the dainty feminine pen and paper and then began:
“Dear Mr. Ophir,—A most extraordinary thing has happened. I took the case you gave me, as you gave it to me, straight to Miss Ray, Belgrave Street, and opened it without breaking the seals, by cutting the strings in her presence. The diamonds were gone. There must be some mistake somewhere. Perhaps you may be able to clear up the mystery. If you suspect dishonesty, engage a detective at once. The driver will wait for a reply.
“Yours in haste,
“Sydney Harcourt.”
He ran downstairs himself to hail a cab to take the note. A smart hansom with a smart driver on the box was crawling up the street. He dashed across with sudden alacrity, like a startled trout in a stream, when Harcourt raised his hand, almost taking the feet off a sturdy mendicant who was standing in front of the door.
“Here, my man. Take this to Mr. Ophir’s, in Bond Street. The address is on the envelope. Wait for an answer—double fare if you look sharp.”
The driver took the letter, touched his hat, and was off like a shot.
Harcourt threw the grumbling beggar a shilling and slammed the door. If he had waited just one second, he would have seen the beggar go off almost as quickly as the hansom, and disappear round the corner.
“Oh, Sydney, do cheer up a little,” pleaded Lily, transformed from tease to comforter. “They will come all right. If they don’t, I won’t mind in the least, and your father is too fond of you, and of me, I think, too, to be really angry. It wasn’t your fault, anyway.”
“Well, you see how it is, Lil; the infernal things were lost out of my hands. They were a mighty big prize for anyone to get hold of, and I have been going the pace a bit before I met you, my darling, and many people think I have outrun the bailiff. So there is sure to be malicious whispering and tattling, and people may say—no, I cannot tell you what they may say, and what is more, I don’t care a—dash. You can never say or think or look anything but what’s kind, and I would not have a pucker in that pretty brow or a tear in your blue eyes for all the diamonds that ever came out of Golconda. The diamonds may go hang. ‘Here’s metal more attractive.’ ”
Wonderful is Love’s Lethe. In five minutes the diamonds had vanished from their memory as completely as they had vanished from the case. The sound and sight of a cab whirling to the door brought them suddenly back to the work-a-day world.
A footman entered, bearing in the very centre of a silver salver a visiting card slightly soiled. Harcourt took it.
mr. paul beck,
private detective.
“What is he like, Tomlinson?”
“Stout party in gray, sir. Don’t seem particular bright.”
“Well, show him up.”
“Who can he be? What can he want?” muttered Harcourt to himself uneasily when the footman disappeared. “There was no time to get to Ophir and back, much less to find a detective. I cannot make it out.”
“Oh, he came to the door like a whirlwind, and you know we never know how time goes when we are talking of——”
“Mr. Paul Beck,” said the discreet footman, opening the door with a flourish.
Mr. Paul Beck did not require much showing up apparently. He slipped furtively into the room, keeping his back as much as possible to the light, as if secrecy had grown a habit with him. He was a stout, strongly built man in dark gray tweed, suggesting rather the notion of a respectable retired milkman than a detective. His face was ruddy, and fringed with reddish brown whiskers, and his light brown hair curled like a water dog’s. There was a chronic look of mild surprise in his wide-open blue eyes, and his smile was innocent as a child’s.
Just as he entered, Lilian thought she noticed one quick, keen glance at where the empty jewel-case lay on the table and the tangle of paper and twine under it. But before she could be sure, the expression vanished from his eyes like a transparency when the light goes out.
Harcourt knew the man by reputation as one of the cleverest detectives in London—a man who had puzzled out mysteries where even the famous Mr. Murdock Rose had failed—but looking at him now he could hardly believe the reputation was deserved.
“Mr. Beck,” he said, “will you take a chair? You come, I presume, about——”
“About those diamonds,” said Mr. Beck abruptly, without making any motion to sit down. “I was fortunately with Mr. Ophir when your note came. He asked me to take charge of the case. Your cabman lost no time, and here I am.”
“He told you the facts.”
“Very briefly.”
“And you think——”
“I don’t think. I am quite sure I know where and how to lay my hands on the diamonds.”
He spoke confidently. Lilian thought she saw the trace of a smile on the innocent-looking mouth, and a futile attempt to wink.
“I am delighted you think so,” said Harcourt; “I am exceedingly anxious about the matter. Did Mr. Ophir suggest——”
“Nothing,” broke in Mr. Beck again. “I didn’t want his suggestions. Time is of importance, not talk. We are running on a hot scent; we must not give it time to cool. Is that the jewel-case?”
“Yes,” said Harcourt, taking it up and opening it; “just as it came, empty.”
Mr. Beck abruptly closed it again and put it in his pocket.
“That’s the paper and twine that was around it, I suppose?”
Harcourt nodded. Mr. Beck picked it up carefully and put it in the other pocket.
“You will observe,” said Harcourt, “that the seal is not broken. The string was cut by Miss Ray. But when——”
“I must wish you good-day, Mr. Harcourt,” said the unceremonious detective. “Good-day, miss.”
“Have you finished your investigation already?” said Harcourt in surprise. “Surely you cannot have already found a clue?”
“I have found all I wanted and expected. I see my way pretty plainly to lay my hands on the thief. When I have more news to tell I’ll write. Good-day for the present.”
He was manifestly eager to be off on his mission. Almost before Harcourt could reply he was out of the room and down the stairs. He opened the door for himself, and the hansom which he had kept waiting whirled him away at headlong speed.
He had not disappeared five minutes down one side of the street when another hansom, driven at the same rapid pace, came tearing up the other. Lilian and Sydney had not got well over their surprise at his abrupt departure when a second knock came to the door, and Tomlinson entered again with a salver and a card—a clean one this time—
Mr. Paul Beck,
Private Detective.
Harcourt started.
“The same man, Tomlinson?”
“The same, sir; leastways he seems a very absent-minded gentleman. ‘Any one been here for the last ten minutes?’ he said, breathless-like, when I opened the door. ‘You was, sir,’ I said, ‘not five minutes ago.’ ‘Oh, was I?’ says he, with a queer kind of a laugh, ‘that’s quick and no mistake. Am I here now?’ ‘Of course you are, sir,’ I said, looking at him hard, but he seemed no way in liquor; ‘there you are and there you stand.’ ‘Oh, I mean did I go away at all?’ ‘Fast as a hansom could carry you, sir,’ I said, humoring him; for he was as serious as a judge, and seemed quite put out to hear he had gone away in a hansom. ‘That’s bad, that’s bad,’ he said; ‘ten minutes la
te. Well, young man, there is no help for it. Take this card to Mr. Harcourt.’ Shall I show him up, sir?”
“Of course.”
“What can it mean?” cried Lilian. “Surely he cannot have found them in five minutes?”
“Perhaps so,” said Harcourt. “He has probably found some clue, anyhow. His sober chaff of poor Tomlinson in the hall looks as if he were in good humor about something. Gad, I didn’t think the old chap had so much fun in him!”
“Mr. Paul Beck, sir.”
There was a slight, indescribable change in the manner of Mr. Beck as he now entered the room. He was less furtive and less abrupt in his movements, and he seemed no longer anxious to keep his back to the light.
“You are back again very soon, Mr. Beck,” said Harcourt. “Have you got a clue?”
“I wish I had come five minutes sooner,” said Mr. Beck, his voice quite changed. “I’m afraid I have lost a clue. I have lost the clue in fact, and I must set about to finding it. Where is the jewel-case?”
“Why, I gave it to you not ten minutes ago.”
“To me?” began Mr. Beck, and then stopped himself with a queer smile that was half a grimace. “Oh, yes, you gave it to me. Well, and what did I do with it?”
“I don’t understand you in the least.”
“Well, you need not understand me. But you can answer me.”
“Mr. Beck, you will excuse me, but this is no time for bad jokes.”
“Mr. Harcourt, you will learn later on that the joke in this business is not of my making, and I hope to make the joker pay for it. Meanwhile, I come from Mr. Ophir.”
“You said that before.”
“Did I? Well, I say it again. I come from Mr. Ophir commissioned to find those diamonds, and I ask you, as civilly as may be, what has been done with the case?”
“What you yourself have done with it?”
“Well, what I myself have done with it, if you like.”
Harcourt reddened with anger at this cool audacity, and Lilian suddenly interposed.
“You put it in your pocket, Mr. Beck, and carried it away.”
“Was I in a hurry, miss?”
“You were in a great hurry.”
“Was I dressed as I am now?”
“Exactly.”
“And looked the same?”
“Precisely.”
“Figure and face the same?”
“Well, yes. I thought you were more made up than you are now.”
“Made up! What do you mean, miss?”
“Well, Mr. Beck, I thought you had been beautifying yourself. There was a trace of rouge on your cheeks.”
“And I kept my back to the light, I warrant.”
“Your memory is wonderful.”
Mr. Beck chuckled, and Harcourt broke in angrily—
“Don’t you think we’ve had enough of this foolery, sir?”
“More than enough,” said Mr. Beck, calmly. “I have the honor to wish you a very good morning, Mr. Harcourt, and to you, miss.” There was a touch of admiration in his voice as he addressed Miss Lilian.
“Oh, Syd!” she cried, as the door closed behind him, “isn’t it just thrilling! There never was such a mixed-up mystery. I do wonder which is the right Mr. Beck.”
“Which! What in the world do you mean? I was dizzy enough without that. Of course they are both the right Mr. Beck, or the wrong Mr. Beck, whichever you please. They are both the same Mr. Beck anyhow.”
* * *
—
Meanwhile Mr. Beck is driving as fast as a hansom can carry him back to Mr. Ophir’s establishment, in Bond Street.
He found the eminent jeweler in his little glass citadel at the back of his glittering warehouse. A thrill of excitement disturbed his usual stately dignity.
“Well?” he said, when Mr. Beck stepped into the little glass room, closing the door carefully behind him.
“Well,” responded the detective, “I think I have got a clue. I can make a fair guess who has the diamonds.”
“Mr. Harcourt was rather a wild young man before this engagement,” said Mr. Ophir, smiling an embarrassed tentative smile.
“Who made the new case for you?” said Mr. Beck, changing the subject with unceremonious abruptness.
“Hem—ah—Mr. Smithson, one of the most competent and reliable men in the trade. He has done all our work for the last twenty years. It was a very finely finished case indeed.”
“Who brought it here?”
“One of Mr. Smithson’s workmen.”
“I think you told me this man saw you put the diamonds into the case, and seal them up for Mr. Harcourt?”
“Yes. He was standing only a few yards off at the time. There were two of my own men standing close by also, if you would care to examine them. Brown, will you kindly tell Mr. Carton and Mr. Cuison to step this way for a moment?”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Beck, with a sharp authority in his voice. “Thank you, Mr. Ophir, I don’t want to see them just yet. But I will trouble you for Mr. Smithson’s address, if you please. I have an idea his man would be useful, if we could lay our hands on him.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Beck; I don’t think so at all. He was quite a common person. My own men will be much more satisfactory witnesses. Besides, you may have some trouble in finding him. Though of that, of course, I know nothing whatever.”
The detective looked at him curiously for a moment. He had grown quite flushed and excited.
“Many thanks for your advice, Mr. Ophir,” he said quietly; “but I think I will take my own way.”
Twenty minutes afterwards the indefatigable Mr. Beck was at Mr. Smithson’s workshop cross-examining the proprietor; but nothing came of it. The man who brought the case to Mr. Ophir’s establishment was the man who made it. He was the best workman that Mr. Smithson ever had, though he only had him for ten days. His name was Mulligan. It sounded Irish, Mr. Smithson imagined, and he spoke like the man in Mr. Boucicault’s play The Shaughraun. But whether he was Irish or Dutch, he was a right good workman. Of that Mr. Smithson was quite certain. He seemed hard up, and offered himself for very moderate wages. But before he was half an hour in the place he showed what he could do. So when the order came in for a case for the Harcourt diamonds Mr. Smithson set him on the job. He worked all day, took the case home with him, and brought it back the next morning, finished.”
“I never saw a job done so well or so quick before,” concluded Mr. Smithson out of breath.
“But how did he manage at home. You surely did not let him take the diamonds home with him?”
“Bless you,” cried Mr. Smithson briskly, with a look of surprise at the great detective’s innocent, imperturbable face, “he never saw the diamonds, and never will.”
“Then how did he make the case to fit them?”
“We had a model—the old case.”
“Have you got it still?”
For the first time there was a gleam of interest on Mr. Beck’s face as he asked the question.
“Yes, I think it is somewhere about. Excuse me for a moment.”
He returned with a rubbed and faded jewel-case covered with what had once been dark green morocco. Inside, the white velvet had grown yellow with age.
“That was our model, Mr. Beck. You see in the raised centre a place for the great star. The necklet ran round this slope.”
“I see,” said Mr. Beck, and for a quiet man he managed to get a lot of meaning into those two simple words. Then, after a pause: “You can let me have this old case, I suppose?”
“Certainly. Mr. Ophir’s instructions are sufficient.”
“By the way, Mr. Smithson,” he said, carelessly, “did Mr. Mulligan—I think you said that was his name—say anything about Mr. Ophir?”
“Well, now, Mr. Beck, now that you mention it, he
did. When he came first he asked me did I not do work for Mr. Ophir, and seemed anxious about it, I thought. He was very strong in his praise of Mr. Ophir. He said he thought he could get a recommendation from him if I wanted it, but I didn’t. His work was recommendation enough for me. That’s my way of doing business.”
Mr. Beck put the case in his coattail pocket, and moved towards the door. He paused on the threshold.
“Good-day, Mr. Smithson,” said Mr. Beck. “Mr. Mulligan did not turn up in the afternoon, I suppose?”
“Now how did you guess that, Mr. Beck. He did not. I gave him something extra for the way the thing was done and I fear he may have been indulging. But how did you guess it?”
“From something Mr. Ophir said to me,” replied Mr. Beck.
“But he is coming back in the morning. I have promised him double wages. You see, I took him as it were on trial first. He will be here at eight o’clock tomorrow. I can give you his address if you want him meanwhile.”
“Thanks. I fear it would not be of much use to me. I fancy I will find him when I want him, perhaps before you do. Good-day again, Mr. Smithson. By the way, I would not advise you to count too securely on Mr. Mulligan’s return tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Beck had dismissed his hansom when he went into Mr. Smithson’s. He was only a few streets from the Strand, and he now walked very slowly in that direction, almost getting run over at the crossing between New Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, so absorbed was he in a brown study.
“He’s my man,” he said to himself. “He must help whether he likes it or not. It won’t be the first time he has given me a lift, though never before in such a big thing as this. By George, he is a clever one! The devil himself is a dunce in comparison. What a success he would be if he had joined our profession, though I suppose he thinks he is better off as he is. I doubt it though. He would be the first detective of the century. Well, no one can say I’m jealous. If he helps me to unravel this business I’ll take care he gets his share of the credit.”
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 34