Diamonds and Daggers

by Nancy Warren

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  “No. Perhaps Simon Dent can help unravel this tangle. Were you able to get a meeting with him?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.” And, speaking of tangles, I decided I’d take my knitting along for the ride. It would give me something to do in the car on the way to and from London in the Bentley.

  The Man Drake Films office could not have been more different from the Rune Films office. It barely felt like a proper office, it was so quiet, located in Grosvenor Hill in posh Mayfair, in a suite of rooms that looked comfortable, elegant, and impersonal. Edgar Smith met us at the elevator and explained the protocol. He said his boss had made an exception to agree to see us. We weren’t to touch him or get too close to him, and he would like to keep the visit as brief as possible.

  Since I believed this man was partly responsible for the loss of Sylvia’s jewels, I thought he could have been a little more accommodating, but at least he was seeing us, and so we agreed to his terms.

  Edgar led Theodore and me through a front office/reception room that contained a desk, with a computer and phone and some open files. Framed movie posters lined the walls. More memorabilia than current projects.

  He knocked on a closed door and ushered us into a room where a man was sitting behind a desk. His back was to the wall, and he faced us from behind a Plexiglas shield that ran the entire way across the room. He spoke to us by way of a microphone on his desk, which amplified his voice from two speakers.

  There was a comfortable seating area against the opposite wall, and here Edgar Smith motioned for us to sit.

  “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Sparkling water?”

  We both declined refreshment. “Very well. I’ll leave you then and get back to work.” And he left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Presumably so no germs could sneak in.

  Simon Dent could have been anywhere in age from about fifty-five to about seventy-five. He was overweight, with heavy jowls, wispy hair and a discontented expression on his face. His germophobe attributes were accentuated by the cloth gloves he wore. He eyed the pair of us with distaste, and even though there was a Plexiglas wall between us, he moved his chair slightly back, closer to the wall.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. His voice sounded weird coming from the speakers at the sides of the room.

  “Good afternoon,” Theodore and I echoed in unison.

  He was silent then, staring at us. Well, I’d asked for this meeting, so I decided to ask the questions. I knew that Theodore was more than ready to jump in if there was something I forgot or that he needed clarification on.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” I began.

  He inclined his head. Then, as though it were dragged out of him, he said, “I was sorry to hear about your loss.”

  Oh, understatement of the century.

  As he had done, I indicated I’d heard him with a slight nod of my head. Still, he’d broached the subject. “That’s really why we’re here. As you can imagine, those jewels were virtually priceless. I’m trying to gather information. For instance, I’m wondering what made you decide to fund this remake of The Professor’s Wife?”

  He seemed to think about it for a while, as though he just threw out vast sums of money and then thought about his reasons afterward. “I’ve always been a cinephile. Ever since I was a lad. And that movie, The Professor’s Wife, is one of the finest. And Sylvia Simms, incomparable.”

  “Incomparable indeed.” So was Sylvia Strand, who had been the one who’d starred in The Professor’s Wife. Who was Sylvia Simms? I had a fuzzy notion she was a British actress too, but she hadn’t appeared in The Professor’s Wife. Had he just made a slip of the tongue? I felt unease like a cold shiver surround me.

  Theodore glanced at me, and I knew he’d caught the slip too.

  Suddenly, the producer chuckled. A slow, awkward sound. “What am I saying? I meant Sylvia Strand, of course. I see too many movies. Got my Sylvias mixed up. I’m a great fan of your great-aunt. Very great fan.”

  I smiled and nodded as though it were an easy mistake to make. Perhaps it was. “But why this particular movie at this particular moment?” I had to ask.

  He shrugged massive shoulders. “Why does one make any movie at any particular point in time? As I said, I’ve loved that movie since I was a boy. And now I have the means to amuse myself and with luck, millions of other people who may never have had the chance to see what a great movie it was.”

  Once more, Theodore and I exchanged a glance. I said, “What did you most love about the original?”

  He stared at me and then suddenly looked as if he had better places to be and a lot more interesting people to talk to. “I’m not sure how this is relevant. How can I help you? As I said, I’m very sorry about your loss, but clearly it was an unfortunate coincidence.”

  I leaned forward in my seat. “You see, that’s the thing that puzzles me. How much of a coincidence was it, really?”

  “What are you suggesting, young lady? Do you think I had something to do with the loss of your great-aunt’s jewels?”

  I smiled sweetly. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  He spread his hands as though to show there was nothing in them. With those white gloves on, it made him look like a bad mime. “I would never allow jewels in my possession that had been owned by someone else. I could never get them clean enough. Besides, I’m unmarried. Who would wear them?”

  I had absolutely no idea. But I did know one thing. Something was strange about this man, and it wasn’t just his alleged phobia about germs.

  We asked the rest of our questions and then, feeling incredibly frustrated, I thanked the producer for his time, and Theodore and I got up, ready to leave.

  When we got out to the front office, Edgar Smith was busily working at a computer. He looked up. “Any luck?” he asked. “Did you get everything you needed?”

  I felt like hitting him over the head. No, I hadn’t got what I needed. If anything, I now felt more confused.

  We left, and I said to Theodore, “That was weird. Did it seem to you that something was just off?”

  Theodore turned to me. “You mean apart from the clown gloves and the producer speaking from within a glass box? Yes. A little.”

  We didn’t go far, and he said, “Lucy, where does Simon Dent live?”

  “How should I know?”

  Theodore seemed to be off on some thought tangent of his own. “I’m going to find out.”

  “Okay. How?”

  I wondered if he would get Hester to help him with some high-tech sleuthing, but instead his plan was incredibly simple. He was going to follow the man when he left work that evening.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss him?”

  “No. There are only two entrances and exits to this building, one at the front and one at the back. I’ll keep an eye on the front, and you’re to watch the other door.”

  I was impressed. “I’ll be like your partner.”

  He appeared shocked. “Of course not. But you’re undeniably involved in this case, and you could be helpful. I can’t watch two doors at once. Let me know if you happen to see him. That’s all.”

  I made my stealthy way to the back of the building, not that a single person in London seemed interested in what I was doing.

  I found the door with no problem. All I had to do was watch it.

  Five minutes passed, and I was still watching the world’s most uninteresting door. No one arrived. No one left. My surveillance wasn’t even enlivened by a package delivery.

  I wasn’t cut out for this kind of work and was bored within minutes. Plus, Theodore hadn’t even given me the good side of the building to watch. I was stuck on a very uninteresting and narrow London road with little traffic and nothing to look at.

  Knowing Simon Dent would recognize me, I moved to the other side of the street. I could see why most stakeouts happened in cars. At least a person could sit down and not feel like at any moment they’d b
e tackled by the cops for being a vagrant. It must look like I was casing places, looking to burgle them.

  There were a few well-spaced young trees, some cars parked, but no foot traffic.

  I decided to walk up and down a bit. At least I could get some exercise. I glanced at my watch. It was five o’clock, and it was starting to get dark.

  It was a bit chilly, plus, if I was unlucky enough that Mr. Dent came out the back way, he’d recognize me, so I went into my bag. I’d brought along the scarf I was knitting my dad to pass the time. However, I decided to test-drive the project as a scarf both for warmth and disguise purposes. I tucked the end that had the knitting needle attached into my coat and did up the buttons so it couldn’t escape. The finished end of the scarf went over my head. I probably looked like an old woman, but I didn’t care. My hair was hidden, and my ears were warm.

  Anyway, chances were Theodore would see him first.

  But chance was against me. Not for the first time. The door opened as I was completing my thirty-sixth trip pacing the block, and Simon Dent emerged.

  Chapter 22

  I stayed on the opposite side of the street, my head ducked, peering at the producer from behind my wool scarf.

  He walked down to the end of the road, never so much as glancing at me. I thought that was odd. If he was that much of a germophobe, wouldn’t he have a driver? And where were his fancy, white gloves?

  I texted Theodore and, not knowing what else to do, followed the man. We quickly emerged onto busier streets, and I followed the striding figure ahead of me.

  We got to Oxford Street. I knew exactly where we were because Selfridges, one of my all-time favorite department stores, was across the street. To my shock, he took the stairs down to Bond Street Station. One of the busiest tube stations in London. And that’s saying something.

  I glanced around for Theodore but didn’t see him. Muttering under my breath, I followed our quarry.

  What on earth had I gotten myself into? And how did I suddenly become the assistant private investigator? Yet another job I didn’t seem to be naturally suited for. Still, I did my best. I scrambled down the stairs.

  Even as I was running down the stairs, I was pulling my badly knit scarf more securely over my head. Luckily, London is full of odd fashion choices, so I probably didn’t even look as strange as I felt.

  My biggest issue was catching sight of Simon Dent in the mayhem of London rush hour on the tube.

  At first, I thought the whole thing was a waste of time and I had lost sight of the producer, but then I noticed his bulk just ahead. I had my credit card set up to let me tap my way through the turnstiles, and I followed him to the Central line. He stood among the crowd of commuters on the tube station platform, and he didn’t look particularly worried about the germs. There was something very odd about this guy.

  He also didn’t seem to take any interest in his fellow passengers, which was good for me. He got on the Tube, and I let about twenty people go on and then jumped on myself. We were at different ends of the carriage, but I kept him in my line of sight. He was reading something on his phone, completely oblivious. At Shepherds Bush, he got out, and so did I.

  As soon as I was out on the street, I texted Theodore and told him where we were. His reply: Stay close but don’t contact. I’m on my way.

  I followed on foot as the large man headed along the street. It wasn’t particularly busy, and it wasn’t particularly quiet, so I thought that unless he turned around and really stared at me, he’d never notice I was tailing him. He went into a chippy, what the British call a fish-and-chip shop. Again with the germs. He came out ten minutes later with a bag that most likely contained fish and chips.

  I was really curious now. I followed him a bit farther on, and he pulled out a set of keys and let himself into a dingy-looking house. Well, it was a house conversion where an old Victorian had been split into flats.

  I was torn. Did I sneak in, or did I wait for Theodore?

  This was my tail, and I felt quite strongly that I needed to confront “Mr. Dent.”

  I used the lock-opening spell I tried to use very sparingly.

  Once the door was open, I didn’t need any of my witchy powers to discover which flat was his. I just followed him in, and he was so oblivious that he didn’t even notice that he’d been followed. He pulled out a set of keys and let himself into his flat on the ground floor.

  I could have waited for Theodore. Maybe I should have waited for Theodore. But I was tired of standing around waiting. I knocked on his door. There was a peephole, and I ducked my head so that mostly he’d see the wool scarf and hopefully not recognize me. If he even answered. But while I was trying to decide whether I would magic the door open and pretend I’d found it that way if I had to, he solved my moral and ethical witch dilemma by opening the door himself.

  “Yes?” He sounded irritable, like a man who is hungry and has rapidly cooling fish and chips that he’d really like to get back to.

  I pulled the scarf from my head and said, “Who are you?”

  He looked quite taken aback. “Who are you?” And then he looked at me closer and said, “What on earth are you doing here?”

  It was such a bizarre response that I almost laughed. “I feel like I should be asking you that question. It’s a pretty funny place you live in for a big, fancy producer.”

  He tried to pull himself up to an imposing height and look down his snooty nose at me. “I’m an eccentric. Why on earth did you follow me here?”

  “Because you made a mistake. Because I don’t think you are Simon Dent.”

  “And do you have some proof?”

  It was such a lame answer, it was pathetic.

  “Well, the mailbox for this flat does say Myron Schellenberg.”

  He let out a breath and gave it up. “I suppose you might as well come in. You’ve ruined my dinner now.” And then he glared at me. “I’m going to keep eating. And no, you may not have a chip.”

  I shut the door behind me and walked into a cluttered and crowded living space. There was a tiny kitchen, a reasonably sized living room, what they called a lounge room here, and a door that stood wide open, showing a messy bedroom. The main room was furnished with a worn couch, TV, a small table and chairs.

  On a coffee table in front of what was obviously his favorite seat was the fish and chips in its newspaper wrapping, the grease already seeping through. There were books and papers everywhere. Biographies of famous actors, books on method acting, and plenty of paperback copies of plays, most of them looking very well-worn. Maybe I wasn’t a trained investigator like Theodore, but I wasn’t an idiot.

  “You’re an actor.”

  “Guilty as charged,” he said. The acrid smell of malt vinegar assailed my nostrils as he tore open the plastic packet and liberally drizzled the stuff all over his fish and chips.

  He walked over to the tiny kitchen to get himself a knife and fork and then, opening the fridge, said, “I’m having a beer. Lager? Do you want one?”

  I actually did. It was tiring work being on a stakeout. So I thanked him and said I would.

  There was no mention of a glass. He brought over two bottles and handed me one. I assumed since he was offering me a drink I could take a seat, and so I took a chair opposite where he was sitting.

  He popped a chip in his mouth and said, “It’s a tough living, but somehow I get by.”

  “And you were on an acting job today?”

  He heaved a great sigh. “I was. And I’d very much appreciate it if you kept that fact to yourself. It’s a lucrative side business, and I don’t want to lose it.”

  “You’ve done it before? Impersonated Simon Dent?”

  He nodded. “Probably half a dozen times.”

  “But why? Why would someone hire you to impersonate them?”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Why do rich producers do half the crazy things they do? I take my money, and I keep my mouth shut.”

  Right. Money. “How does he p
ay you?”

  “Cash in an envelope. Five hundred quid, if you must know.”

  I sipped the cold lager, thinking. “Somebody paid you five hundred pounds to sit in an office for, what, half an hour and pretend to be someone else?”

  “It’s a good gig,” he agreed, cutting into the crispy batter of the fish and chips.

  “Who hired you?”

  “The assistant fellow.”

  “Edgar Smith?”

  He nodded. Took a sip of his beer. “That’s him.”

  “Have you ever met Simon Dent?”

  He shook his head. “I’d have liked to. Or at least see footage of him or something. It’s difficult to put together a character with no clues. So I’ve sort of invented him.”

  “Wow. So you must get some kind of a script or guidance for what you’re supposed to say or not say.”

  He nodded again. He seemed to have no problem telling me about this acting job now that I’d taken the trouble to follow him home. Which I appreciated.

  “It’s more guidance, really. Edgar Smith told me you’d be coming and gave me an idea of what you’d want to know and said to let you know that I had nothing to do with that theft.”

  He looked up. “It was a terrible thing though. I read about it in the papers. It must have been lovely having your great-aunt’s expensive jewels.”

  I remembered his blunder in the interview. “You didn’t even know who she was.”

  He cringed, I thought with professional embarrassment. “I’m more of a theater man than a film one. I forgot her name. Bit of a blunder.”

  “But then you recovered.”

  He dabbed a chip in a puddle of vinegar. “I had an earpiece. I was given instructions. They could hear you talking and then told me what to say in my ear.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know. Voice is disguised.”

  “Do you think it was Simon Dent?”