The Christmas Egg

by Mary Kelly

  “Astounding! Was he so wonderful?”

  “I don’t know. He died when I was seven or so. He had a tremendous reputation. But the value of the record would lie in its rarity. Perhaps it was done privately. By the way, he wasn’t French but Polish.”

  “Ah, you are interested in music. I have no ear for it. But tell me, did the thieves possess greater discrimination or perhaps greater acumen? They took these records?”

  “If they were still in the room when the thieves called, yes. We haven’t found them.”

  “I wish I hadn’t told you, Mr. Nightingale. You’re disappointed, I see, to think how narrowly you’ve missed being able to hear that rarity.”

  Nightingale smiled. Denial was pointless. To the accompaniment of a great effusion of courtesies from Majendie, he made his way out.

  The street seemed colder than before. Nightingale shivered. Majendie was an old fox as well as a hamster. All that blinking bonhomie, that exaggerated, fragmented, dated, affectedly preserved manner of speaking—all of it a fence to baffle the casual observer from a glimpse of his cunning, even ruthless pursuit of business. It was like a false limb, in the use of which he had grown so proficient from long practice that it was literally second nature.

  It didn’t matter to him, Nightingale thought, unless Majendie was using the fence to hide something rather more than rapacity, and that he was still inclined to doubt. Would Majendie have admitted so much if he were involved with the robbery? Possibly. On realizing that the police had found a link between himself and Bright’s Row, he might have decided to play safe, admit to having been there, as it was inevitable the police would find out, and hope that the unknown clue would not compromise his explanation. Could that explanation be corroborated? No, except by Majendie’s partners, who would be at best tainted witnesses. If the partners were innocent, was there any reason to suppose that a list of the Princess’ belongings existed? Would Majendie now set to work to concoct one? And in the morning he would have to produce two letters from Princess Olga. That business of the stamps, or lack of them, suggested a fudged story; it was one of those touches by which someone in haste seeks to improve a fiction but oversteps the bounds of discretion. Had he thought to obviate the postmark difficulty, forgetting that no stamp did not imply no postmark, that in fact there would be an extra post office printing to enforce the double charge? In any case, how many offices filed envelopes?

  Meanwhile, he wondered, what was Beddoes doing about Ivan Karukhin? He made for a telephone booth, glad enough at the prospect of its shelter. If there were to be any prolonged watching of premises in this affair, he thought, whoever did it had better be gotten up as a night watchman complete with hut and brazier, otherwise they might tender their resignation.

  He dialed, and caught sight of his face reflected in the mirror. Why did mirrors in telephone booths throw back such a ghastly glare? In them every complexion was livid, every blemish magnified. He heard the office answer, pressed the button, and made himself known. Before he could say more, a spate of words poured into his ear—Beddoes, the canal, slugged, St. Thomas’. He dropped the phone and drew a couple of deep breaths. He pushed open the stiff door, then hesitated. He hadn’t thought to ask how badly Beddoes was hurt. But it didn’t make any difference. St. Thomas’, quickly, that was the main thing. He flung out of the booth and began to run up the road. Fool, ass, idiot! he apostrophized Beddoes, and urgently hailed a cruising taxi.

  Beddoes had taken quite a nasty knock, although no serious damage had been inflicted. He was looking very white and unfamiliar in the bleached and roughly ironed hospital pajamas, but he couldn’t be prevented from reciting his adventure in a rather shaken voice. Nightingale had given up trying to stem the flood of disgusted self-derision. Beddoes seemed to feel more mortified than physically uncomfortable.

  “Then the last straw,” he muttered, “wake up and find a damn great retriever yowling and sniffing all around you, as if you were some fat partridge—do they get partridges?”

  “Sounds a very intelligent dog,” said Nightingale. Beddoes closed his eyes. “Put it on the kids’ TV. Saved copper from bronchial pneumonia. Pity he wasn’t going for a walk a bit sooner, see what they did with Ivan the Terrible. Or pity he wasn’t a bloodhound. Rub his nose on the bank and follow the trail. What are we doing about Ivan?”

  “Don’t bother,” said Nightingale.

  Beddoes opened his eyes. “I’m all right.”

  “You don’t look it.” Nightingale felt that a little dashing of Beddoes’ spirits could do no harm.

  “You’ve never seen me without a tie, that’s all it is,” said Beddoes. “Young and vulnerable.”

  “All right. Apart from keeping our eyes open for him, we’ll drag the canal in case they tipped him back.”

  “Shan’t half be mad if they did. All my work.”

  “They mightn’t risk using it again after you’d indicated its potentialities. I expect they realized you’d come around, only they couldn’t wait to help you to your feet. I doubt if they meant to put you out for good. And even then, your dead body on the bank would have drawn unwelcome attention to the canal in the end.”

  “Surprising, really, they didn’t tip both of us in together. Simple solution.”

  “Not if they had nothing at hand to weigh you down,” Nightingale said more calmly than he felt. “That’s what’s puzzling about Ivan. They threw him in, having presumably knocked him out first, yet left him to rise in time. It looks as though they acted on the spur of the moment, and they must have been double quick about it. Yet I can’t believe they met him by accident and just seized the chance to even up some score. And if they were looking for him, how did they know which way he’d be coming? If they’d been following him, they’d have seen you and wouldn’t have taken the risk. And if he turns out not to be in the canal, we’ll have to assume they took him off in a car. They couldn’t get far otherwise with a wet, inert body. Then why not bring the car alongside in the first place? Much easier and safer to hook him in.”

  “Thought it was suicide at first.” Beddoes sounded weary. “Can’t have been, I suppose, in the light of the rest. Tell you how to find out if he’s in it—analyze a cup of canal water. If it’s five percent proof, start dragging—Christmas eggs!”

  Nightingale stood up. “I’m going now. What about your people?”

  “They’ve told them it’s all right. Know better than to fuss for nothing. I say, wait a minute. I must tell you—daftest idea I had when I was hit.” Beddoes paused and looked at the foot of the bed. “I thought it was a war starting, someone delivering a ballistic missile.”

  Nightingale regarded him in silence for a second or two. “Did you?” he murmured finally. “Poor old Bed!”

  He took his gloves off the locker, dislodging a small card that had been lying under them. He picked it up. It was obviously intended for the hospital files.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed, reading the only thing written on it. “Is your name Jonathan?”

  “I didn’t choose it.”

  “You know mine?”

  “Brett,” Beddoes said sourly, as if he wanted to know in what respect that was superior to his own.

  “That’s the second one.”

  “I remember—D.B.A.N., seen those initials enough times. What’s the D.? Oh, Lord—David!” Beddoes held his hands to his head.

  “Good-bye,” said Nightingale. “I’m a disturbing influence. I’m sorry. But I quite agree. It’s just a shade better to be referred to in combination as Night and Bed.”

  He saw, as he walked away, that the hands of the clock on the wall stood at five to midnight.

  Part Two

  December the Twenty-Third

  MR. MAJENDIE’S office was a small and not too tidy room, the dead end of a corridor at the back of the premises. Nightingale imagined that Majendie had occupied these rather cramped quarters when he was a junior partner and had adhered to them from habit or affection. No doubt he also intended thei
r pokiness and old-fashioned furniture to correct any sense of awe or caution which might have been instilled in visitors passing through the impressive shop. This room seemed to establish that the firm, although it dealt in exotic and sumptuous commerce, was at heart an intimate family business in which the highest standards of integrity, courtesy, and personal service prevailed; that here affairs were conducted in the spirit of a more generous age, even perhaps in a slight, homely muddle. By ensconcing himself in this little den, Majendie added another stroke to the delineation of his official character, the hamster scuffling in a nest of papers. Nightingale thought it would be amusing to introduce a real hamster into the room and let it get to work at tearing up and stuffing into its bulging pouches all Majendie’s correspondence.

  “Ah, Mr. Nightingale,” said Mr. Majendie, smiling cherubically. “Good morning.” He lifted a sheet of paper from under a small baboon carved in a smoky, semi-opaque stone. Nightingale’s eye passed from this engaging object to a book which lay near it. He felt a little surprise. Common Law for the Common Man was not a title he would have expected to commend itself to Majendie.

  “The list you wanted to see,” said Mr. Majendie. “Mrs. Millett, my secretary, typed a new one. My own contained a good deal of technical detail which I judged less useful than a more general description. I’ve omitted carat marks, weight, and so on, and you’ll see that in the case of some of the hard stones and other materials whose names must be unfamiliar to a layman, I’ve added the color. Rhodonite, for example . . .”

  “Pink or red?” hazarded Nightingale.

  “Ah, Mr. Nightingale, but permit me to doubt whether every constable in the Metropolitan area has the elements of Greek. And what of obsidian and bowenite, not to mention the mutations made possible by the capacity of chalcedony for staining?”

  That, thought Nightingale, would teach him not to show off. Constable. Elements of Greek.

  “And here,” continued Mr. Majendie, “is my original list, so that you may compare them,” he finished with an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes.

  Nightingale looked at the lists. They were beautifully neat, divided into sections, each classified. Parure of necklace, earrings, bracelets, in square cut and brilliant diamonds (Brazilian) and square-cut emeralds (Siberian), gold set. Was that the wedding anniversary gift of Prince Sevastyan? Riviere—what was that?—of large brilliant diamonds, with earrings en suite, silver. Head ornament of brilliant and rose diamonds. Ruby, pearl, and emerald brooch. Amethyst, topaz, turquoise, sapphire, tourmaline, opal, diamond, and again diamond; pendants, clips, rings, aigrettes, tiaras. Gold cigarette box, sun-ray rib, cabochon sapphire thumb-piece, 3½ in., mark H. W. Gold box, engine-turned, enameled translucent royal blue and white, rose diamond trellis, colored gold mounts, 6 in., mark M.P. Siberian jade cigarette case, yellow gold mounts, hinges set cabochon rubies and rose diamonds, 3¼ in., mark H.W.

  “What are all these marks?” he asked, somewhat subdued.

  “H.W. and M.P.? The workmaster’s initials. Henrik Wigstrom and Michael Perchin in those cases. There are others.”

  “Ah Wigstrom, the one you studied with.”

  Mr. Majendie said nothing, but he looked so pleased that Nightingale was touched. Perhaps he was unused to having a morsel of his babble retained. Nightingale returned to the fascinating paper. Of boxes and cigarette cases alone the Princess seemed to have kept enough in her scruffy room to stock a small shop, without counting seals, sealing-wax holders, scent flacons, fans, miniature frames, and other objects which his eye saw in a confused jumble.

  “What made her bring these small things? Sentimental attachment?”

  “Far from it, my dear sir! Apart from the jewelry, everything on that list is made from or with gold. That was what the Princess was concerned for—saving the most valuable. Could she have foreseen the present trend of values, she would have brought with her works by Fabergé in semiprecious materials, of which there were many in the Karukhin palace, some of those parasol handles, for example, which I mentioned last night.”

  “It isn’t all Fabergé, is it,” said Nightingale. “What’s this—Louis XV oval gold box, gem-set, enameled . . .”

  “Oh, yes, several most interesting antiques, and among the jewelry also, though to a lesser extent, as fashion decreed that most old jewels should be remodeled from time to time. A few family pieces seem to have survived, however. Yes, here you see. Late eighteenth century floral spray, pavé rose diamonds, silver set. And here, these earrings. Also the enameled watch, a very fine piece.”

  Nightingale nodded. “And a record of Jean de Reszke. May I see the letters sent to you by the Princess?”

  “Certainly. I have them ready, but I fear I should have forgotten. Please keep them, if they will be of use to you.”

  “Thank you,” said Nightingale, watching Majendie’s plump fingerpads impressing themselves on the letters in a dozen places. He wondered whether Majendie had observed that his visitor hadn’t removed his gloves. He glanced rapidly at the letters, little more than notes. “French!”

  “The Princess always addressed me in French—whether originally to spare her ears or my tongue I don’t know.”

  “So you told me. But it was a point she might be excused forgetting.”

  “Quite so, but she didn’t forget. Amazing, wasn’t it? And her command of French, as you will see, appears little impaired by years of disuse. A remarkable mind.”

  “Yes.” Nightingale slipped the papers into his wallet. As he folded the list of items he glanced again at Majendie’s valuation. It seemed to him a little on the conservative side for such a collection, but he remembered the rhodonite and made no comment. What would a Faberge fanatic be prepared to give for a sample of his work? He couldn’t believe that the Hampstead people made such elaborate plans simply to acquire gold which could be stripped of its enamel. They had a market somewhere for objets d’art, witness the removal of the shiny china so scorned by Beddoes. That meant there might be less need to despair of results from the careful observation he had wearily set in train last night. Objets d’art for a special market might still be stored somewhere in the country, even in London. The jewelry he couldn’t hope to save; it was probably already broken up and on its way out.

  Broken up—the words released in his mind, like the harmonics of a note, the simultaneous images of Christina’s cameo and Christina’s Christmas present. The juxtaposition at once seemed so inevitable that he couldn’t think how it had not struck him sooner.

  “Do you have cameos for sale?” he asked Majendie, hardly aware of what he was doing.

  “Shell?”

  “What?”

  “Did you mean shell cameos?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Nightingale humbly, as Majendie put his head to one side in an incredulous manner. “Just an ordinary cameo,” he explained lamely.

  “Ah, yes, a shell, no doubt,” said Mr. Majendie. He pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a box. “Now this,” he said, lifting the lid and removing a large ring, “is an example of a cameo agate. Cameo is the term for carving in relief on any gem or stone. Here, you see, the layers of color aid the relief.” He handed the ring to Nightingale.

  It was very handsome, the gold heavy and reddish, the carved head of a Roman-looking man extremely delicate in its tiny detail. “It isn’t really Roman, the stone?” he asked.

  “No, a Renaissance imitation of an ancient model, and the hoop early nineteenth century. Try it, Mr. Nightingale.”

  “Good heavens,” said Nightingale hastily, “I didn’t want to—I hope you don’t think I’m doing more than admire this in detachment.”

  “My dear sir, of course not! But do try it. After all, why not, while you have an opportunity?”

  Nightingale obeyed. It fitted him well and he liked it.

  “Very fine, Mr. Nightingale, very fine,” cried Mr. Majendie, as if applauding. “You have an excellent hand for a ring. Come, come, don’t take it off. To my mind a ring o
n a large, well-shaped hand, especially where the fingers are long in proportion to their breadth, as yours are, a suitable ring, I say, is a manly ornament which emphasizes the strength of the hand.”

  That was all very flattering, Nightingale thought. On imagining the stare with which Beddoes would greet the flaunting of a ring, he grew hot. What was that other colored stone on Majendie’s list? Purpurine. It was a material, he felt, with which to compare the present state of his complexion. He handed back the ring.

  “But you were saying,” said Majendie, “that you were interested in shell cameos.”

  Nightingale was silent. He had not said so, but, unguardedly, he had implied it, thereby putting himself in a delicate position. If Majendie were to be implicated in the affair he was investigating, then he should have nothing to do with him in any unofficial capacity, least of all in a money transaction. Majendie, in fact, was already implicated, even if innocently. But there remained less than two days in which to buy Christina’s present, and he was now determined that it should be a cameo brooch. He couldn’t be sure when or if he would be free to buy it. Nobody here knew who he was or why he had come, except Majendie; and he wasn’t likely to broadcast the news.

  “Yes,” he said. “I want to buy one that’s set as a brooch.”

  “We have a number, I believe. All at second hand, you realize? That doesn’t matter? Well then, if you would come into the shop—I myself have to go out in a few moments—but I’ll entrust you to the care of Mr. Emmanuel.”

  Mr. Majendie ushered him out of the door, along the corridor past increasingly imposing offices, and into the beautiful churchlike shop. He bounced gently toward a dark well-groomed man.

  “Ah, Mr. Emmanuel,” he murmured, “here is Mr. Nightingale wishing to see some shell cameo brooches.” He turned to Nightingale. “You will excuse me, my dear sir? At your service, you know.”

  Beaming all inclusively, Mr. Majendie moved off like an old puffer train, leaving Nightingale in the hands of Mr. Emmanuel.