by David Dodge
She was talking about Mr. and Mrs. Sanford, of the Château Combe d’Or. Le Borgne and his men would waste the night at their watch. The Sanfords were wound up for an evening. They were both mildly drunk, very gay, and happy to see Francie. Mrs. Sanford had embraced her so heartily that the emeralds on her neck bruised them both. Francie’s own necklace had looked pale beside the emeralds.
He said, “Even an honest man would notice stones like those. Who are they?”
“Their name is Sanford. I don’t really know anything about them except that they’re very rich, they have a lovely home above Cannes, a showplace, and she gives big parties. Mother and I went to one last year, an enormous thing, all the famous people in France were there. You could have stolen a million dollars’ worth of jewels from the guests alone. If she gives another party this year, would you like to go? I can get you invited.”
“You’re not very loyal to your friends.”
“Because I suggest that you rob them? That’s silly. Jewels don’t mean any more to them than the money they gamble with. They’re all part of the show. What’s the difference—the real difference, in terms of good or bad—if they lose ten or twenty million francs at roulette or to a thief?”
“Like me?”
“Like you.”
“Some people could make a moral distinction.”
“Moral distinctions aren’t genuine. You say something is bad, I say it isn’t. Where are we?”
They discussed moral distinctions all during the drive back to Cannes. Francie, who had puzzled Bellini because he did not understand her reason for existence, used the exact phrase herself when she argued that a thief’s only function was to steal, as the Monte Carlo roulette wheels’ only reason for existence was to win money for the Prince of Monaco, so that in the event John were to lose money at roulette and regain it by robbing the prince, no one could fairly say “good” or “bad” of either one, although in practice the Monegasque police would jail John and he could not jail the prince. She made a good case for her point of view, and although it was a peculiar conversation, he found it entertaining to listen to her serious analysis of the criminal’s place in society. He had never concerned himself with the moral aspects of thievery before.
He realized, with great surprise, that he had forgotten the leash he wore and the danger Francie represented to him. He was genuinely enjoying her company.
It was bright morning when the car drew up in front of the Hotel Midi. The air was already warm, promising another hot day, and the sky was clear and cloudless. The Esterel hills in the west, beyond the pink bulk of the municipal casino and the slim, pointing masts of the boats in the yacht harbor stood out sharply against the sky. It was the beginning of a beautiful day, and it had been, for him, a much more enjoyable night than he had had reason to expect. He tried to tell Francie something of the way he felt when he left her at the door of her room.
She said, “I had a good time myself. I’m not such awfully bad company, am I?”
“Very good company, Francie.”
“We’ll do something again, soon.” She smiled wickedly. “If your business doesn’t interfere, of course.”
“I’ll try to arrange things so it won’t. Take good care of the necklace.”
“I will.” She touched it lightly, almost affectionately, with her fingertips. “This is the first time I’ve ever been able to wear it without hating it. I’m glad you’re a thief, John.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”
“Good night.”
He went to his own room, feeling tired and relaxed and contented at the same time. He could not remember ever having enjoyed a conversation so much, not even with Paul at the Villa des Bijoux.
It must be because she’s an American, he thought, taking off his clothes. I’d forgotten what Americans are like. I’ve been too long away. Maybe after this is over—if I get out of it—
The thought faded. He was too tired to think. He yawned again, and lay down on top of the bed, still with the odd feeling of contentment in his mind.
He was nearly asleep when he heard the thin, frightened screaming begin on the floor above. It was Mrs. Stevens’s voice, recognizable in spite of the high, hysterical note. Over and over and over again, endlessly, she screamed, “My jewels! My jewels! My jewels!”
4
He dressed quickly, putting on the clothes he had just taken off. He was tying the laces of his shoes when Mrs. Stevens stopped screaming, abruptly, as if she had been gagged.
Now he could hear other sounds on the floor above, voices, running feet, calls for the floor porter. He heard the elevator go up, then down, then quickly up again. A door banged. Outside in the street, the doorman began to blow his whistle, long, shrill blasts for the police.
He thought, I’ve blundered.
He did not stop to wonder how he had blundered, what had gone wrong. The police would be on hand soon. Questions would be asked. Mr. Burns had to be ready to put in an appearance. He took the immediate steps for his safety automatically, as a man swims when he finds himself in deep water.
He checked Mr. Burns quickly in the mirror—hair, eyebrows, shoes, body profile. A light bristle had grown on his temples since he shaved them last, but it was not noticeable to the eye, and he had no time to use a razor.
He thought again, I’ve blundered. I’ve got to do it right, now. Another blunder will finish me.
He left his room, checking Mr. Burns’s actions in his mind as he had checked Mr. Burns’s appearance. It would be unnatural for him not to respond at once to screams from the Stevens suite, since he had left Francie at her door only a few minutes earlier. He would not wait for the elevator. He would run up the stairs, not too quickly for a man of his age, not too excited. Mr. Burns was level-headed.
He went up the stairs, not too quickly.
A number of hotel guests had already gathered in the hallway, most of them half dressed. They crowded the door of Mrs. Stevens’s room, buzzing questions at each other and at the hotel directeur, who was trying to push the door closed against the pressure from outside. Although he managed to hold the doorway against intrusion, he could not force the door shut. He kept repeating ineffectually, “Please! Please! Ladies and gentlemen, messieurs et dames, s’il vous plaît!”
John said, “What is it?” to a man in a brightly colored bathrobe.
The man said, “Damned if I know. The cat burglar has been around again, I guess. Somebody was yelling about her jewels.”
Other voices began to repeat excitedly, “Le Chat! Le Chat!” No one knew anything more.
The elevator came up again. Two uniformed agents de police left the cage and pushed their way through the crowd. The directeur stepped aside to let them by, and John saw Mrs. Stevens lying on a crumpled bed, her hands pressing her eyes. Francie was bending over her. The crowd closed in again behind the policemen, vainly. The directeur had managed to close the door at last.
Mr. Paige arrived a moment later, twisting at his mustache points more vigorously than usual. With nothing but a closed door to look at, the tight knot of people near the doorway had broken up into smaller groups, still questioning each other for details no one could supply. Mr. Paige went to the door and knocked.
Francie opened it. Mr. Paige went in. Francie, seeing John there, hesitated for a moment, then beckoned to him with a quick, demanding gesture. He followed the insurance agent into the room.
One of the policemen had his notebook out and was attempting to question Mrs. Stevens, who still lay on the bed with her hands over her eyes. She made small, tragic, moaning noises. Her face, as much as John could see of it, was splotchy with grief. The robe she wore over her nightgown was disarranged, and Francie went to the bed to rearrange it. Mrs. Stevens paid no attention.
The agent with the notebook said patiently, “If you please, madame—”
“My jewels,” Mrs. Stevens whispered. “My jewels.”
The hotel directeur cleared his throat. “She does not speak
French, monsieur. I will have to translate. If you would return later, when she is more coherent, it would be easier.”
“One makes a report of the crime at the moment,” the agent said. “Perhaps mademoiselle could tell us what has happened.”
He held his pencil poised, looking expectantly at Francie.
The second agent had been looking at her for some time. He had a Frenchman’s unconcealed admiration for a pretty girl, and he liked Francie’s appearance in the strapless black gown. It could have been his frank stare that had heightened her color. Something had.
She said to the directeur, “Tell him that Mr. Burns—this gentleman—and I went to Monte Carlo for the evening. We returned fifteen or twenty minutes ago. He left me at my door, the next room, through there. I had been wearing one of Mother’s necklaces, a valuable piece of jewelry, and I wanted to put it back in the jewel case. She woke when I came in, and we talked for a few minutes. I asked her for the key to her jewel case. She said it was in her purse. I took it out, and when I went to open the case”—she pointed to it, standing open on a commode—“I saw that the strap of the lock had been cut through. I told Mother that she had been robbed. She jumped out of bed and began to scream when she saw that the jewel case was empty. I thought she was going to be hysterical, so I slapped her to keep her quiet and called the hotel desk. Then I called Mr. Paige, who represents the insurance company, since I thought he would want to hear about the theft immediately. That’s all I know.”
The directeur translated. The agent wrote in his notebook. Mrs. Stevens whispered, “My jewels.”
“Very good,” the agent said. “Names?”
The directeur supplied names and the room number. The agent said, “Value of the stolen jewels?”
The directeur asked Francie. She said, “Sixty-one thousand dollars, not counting the necklace I was wearing or”—her pause was hardly noticeable—“or a pair of sapphire earrings.”
The directeur made a mental calculation, and told the agent, “Twenty million francs, more or less.”
The second agent whistled soundlessly. The agent with the notebook made a final note, put a period after it with a stab of his pencil, and closed the book.
“Voilà,” he said amiably. “Another nice haul for Le Chat. Commissaire Divisionnaire Lepic will be notified immediately. You may expect him within the hour. Touch nothing in the meantime. Bonjour, messieurs et dames.”
The two agents saluted together and left the room. The directeur excused himself to follow them.
Mrs. Stevens, her hands still over her eyes, lay quietly on the bed, no longer moaning. Mr. Paige pulled his mustache, examined the jewel case without touching it, then went to look out the window. When his back was turned, Francie motioned to John in the same abrupt way she had called him in from the hall.
They went through the connecting bathroom into her room. She shut the door and put her back to it.
“Very neatly done, Mr. Burns,” she said coolly. “You really didn’t need my help after all, did you?”
“I had nothing to do with it, Francie.”
“Of course not. Your alibi is unbreakable. I’ll support it myself—after you return the diamond dog.”
“I haven’t got it.”
“I’ll give you until this evening to find it. That should be long enough for you to get in touch with your confederates.”
“Francie—”
She interrupted him. “You’re in no position to bargain.”
“I’m not bargaining. I’m trying to convince you that I had nothing to do with the theft.”
She said brightly, “And how could you, since you were engaged in a stimulating discussion of the theoretical aspects of robbery with the daughter of the victim, miles from the scene of the crime?” Her tone changed. “Don’t make me any more resentful than I am, Mr. Burns.”
“If you’ll stop to think for a minute, you’ll realize I couldn’t have planned it. We both heard your mother say she was going to be out all night. I don’t know why she changed her mind.”
“She lost all her money. The system didn’t work.”
“All right. She lost her money and came home before she intended, so the jewels were available to a thief. I didn’t know that. I couldn’t possibly have arranged it.”
“I don’t know what you arranged or who arranged what or who stole the jewels. I know you were behind it. I told you that you could have everything if you would wait until Mother had insured the dog. You couldn’t wait, or you didn’t want to wait, or your gang went ahead on their own when they saw a chance. I don’t know. I don’t care. I want the dog.”
He said, “Not so loud.” Someone was moving around in the bathroom behind the door to which she held her back.
“I can talk louder if it’s necessary. Make up your mind.”
There were other sounds from behind the door. Mr. Paige’s voice said, “Miss Stevens! I say, Miss Stevens!” He rapped. “May I see you for a minute? I’ve found something.”
“Better answer him,” John said.
Francie shook her head. Her color was still high.
“The dog, first. Yes or no.”
“What if I say no?”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t be a fool! I’m giving you a chance. If you don’t want to take it—”
Mr. Paige rapped again. “I say, Miss Stevens. Are you there?”
“Just a minute.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “Well?”
“You’ll get the dog.”
She opened the door.
Mr. Paige was too pleased with his discovery to be curious about them. He had the small window over the tub wide open, and dust from the window ledge was on his hands. He said excitedly, “The blighter came down the light well. There’s a hole in the skylight. I’m going to have a look around up on top. When Lepic gets here, tell him—”
He was gone before they heard the rest of it.
Mrs. Stevens’s weak, unhappy voice called from the next room. “Francie, honey. Bring me some aspirin. My head is splitting. Have all those people gone?”
“In a minute, Mother.” Francie pushed John back through the door into her room. “Go out this way. I’ll be down on the beach from after lunch until five or six. It will be safer for you to bring it to me there.”
“What are you going to tell Lepic?”
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll have no reason to question you if I don’t give him one. I won’t give him one before six o’clock.”
“I might not be able to get it for you that soon.”
She said angrily, “Don’t press me too far. It wasn’t clever of you to play your game with me last night. It will be less clever of you to be late this afternoon.”
She let him out into the hall. He heard the lock of the door click behind him.
In his room again, he changed to shorts and a shirt with half-sleeves, then shaved first his temples, while the razor was sharpest, next his cheeks and chin. He thought he might not have to worry about the temples again.
There was very little he could do about Francie. She was angry, not because of the theft but because she thought the evening she had found so enjoyable was only his way of keeping her occupied while his imaginary confederates robbed her mother. As long as her anger lasted, it was hopeless to try to point out that Monte Carlo had been her own idea, not his. It was as hopeless as his chance of producing a five-thousand-dollar diamond and emerald dog before six o’clock.
But his hand was steady and sure with the razor. He had nearly eleven hours in which to think of an alternative.
He heard Mr. Paige calling down the lightwell from the skylight in the roof. Another voice answered from below. He heard “Le Chat” and “corde” and “agilité.”
He heard “Le Chat” again when he passed through the hotel lobby, where a reporter was questioning the harassed directeur. Outside, the doorman was discussing the theft with two men, one of whom had a camera which he was aiming up at the front of the building and the big HOTEL
MIDI sign. The other man was Paul.
John did not break his stride. Paul was watching the cameraman. John went down the steps, averted his face, and was safely by and nearly to the promenade when the doorman called his name.
“Mr. Burns!”
He kept walking. The doorman called again, and he heard the man coming after him. He stopped.
The doorman was heavy, red-faced, a big man who held his job because he spoke the necessary languages and was impressive to look at in a blue and gold uniform. He was not a sprinter. He was breathing hard before he caught up with John.
“Excuse me, sir. There’s a gentleman here—he’s been asking for you—bad business about the theft, wasn’t it, sir?”
John looked back. Paul was already coming toward them. The doorman touched his cap, took the tip that Paul put in his white glove, and went back to his post and the cameraman.
Paul said politely, “Mr. Jack Burns?” He gave no sign of recognition.
“Yes.”
“My name is Paul du Pré. A friend asked me to call on you.”
He was a well-mannered stranger introducing himself. John said, “How do you do, Mr. du Pré?” and was conscious of his own calm. One more danger on top of the others hardly seemed to matter.
“Which way are you walking?”
“Down the promenade.”
“I’ll walk with you, if I may.”
“Certainly.”
They fell into step.
The promenade was almost deserted. It was still too early in the morning for strollers. A few cars went by on the boulevard, and a workman on a bicycle pedaled along carrying half a dozen loaves of bread balanced across his handlebars like sticks of wood. One of the loaves fell to the ground when he had to swerve suddenly to avoid a dusty Citroën that turned out of a side street without sounding its horn. The bicyclist stopped to recover the bread, mechanically cursing the Citroën.
