Bertie Claude listened, dazed, while his host catalogued his treasures with an ease and a shrewd sense of appraisement. When Mr Staffen left his friend’s room, his head was in a whirl, though he experienced a bewildered sense of familiarity with a situation which had often figured in his dreams.
As he strode through the hall, he saw a middle-aged man with a high bowler hat, but beyond noticing that he looked rather like a bailiff’s officer, Bertie Claude would have passed him, had not the old-fashioned gentleman stood in his way.
‘Excuse me, sir. You’re Mr Staffen, are you not?’
‘Yes,’ said Bertie shortly.
‘I wonder if I could have a few moments’ conversation with you on – er – a matter of some moment?’
Bertie waved an impatient hand.
‘I’ve no time to see anybody,’ he said brusquely. ‘If you want an appointment you’d better write for it.’
And he walked out, leaving the sad-looking man to gaze pensively after him.
Mr Lomer’s little house was an isolated stone bungalow between Marlow and the Quarry Wood, and if he had sought diligently, Mr Lomer could not have found a property more suitable for his purpose. Bertie Claude, who associated the river with sunshine and flannelled ease, shivered as he came out of the railway station and looked anxiously up at the grey sky. It was raining steadily, and the taxi which was waiting for them at the station dripped from every surface.
‘Pretty beastly month to take a bungalow on the river,’ he grumbled.
Mr Lomer, who was not quite certain in his mind what was the ideal month for riverside bungalows, agreed.
‘It suits me,’ he said. ‘This house of mine has got the right kind of lonesomeness. I just hate having people looking over me.’
The road from the station to the house followed parallel with the line of the river. Staring out of the streaming windows, Mr Staffen saw only the steel-grey of water and the damp grasses of the meadows through which the road ran. A quarter of an hour’s drive, however, brought them to a pretty little cottage which stood in a generous garden. A bright fire burnt in the hall fireplace, and there was a general air of comfort about the place that revived Bertie’s flagging spirits. A few seconds later they were sitting in a half-timbered dining-room, where tea had been laid.
Atmosphere has an insensible appeal to most people, and Bertie found himself impressed alike by the comfort of the place and the unexpected service, for there was a pretty maid, a sedate, middle-aged butler, and a sober-faced young man who had helped him off with his wet raincoat.
‘No, the house isn’t mine: it is one I always hire when I’m in England,’ said Mr Lomer, who never told a small and unnecessary lie; because small and unnecessary lies are so easily detected. ‘Jenkins, the butler, is my man, so is the valet; the maid comes from London.’
After tea he showed Bertie up to his bedroom and, opening a drawer of his bureau, took out a small steel box, fastened with two locks. These he unfastened and lifted out a shallow metal tray covered with a layer of cotton wool.
‘You can have any of these that take your eye,’ he said. ‘Make me an offer and I’ll tell you what they’re worth.’
He rolled back the cotton wool and revealed six magnificent stones.
‘That one?’ said Mr Lomer, taking the largest between his finger and thumb. ‘Why, that’s worth six thousand dollars – about two thousand pounds. And if you offered me that sum for it, I’d think you were a fool, because the only safe way of getting emeralds is to buy ’em fifty per cent under value. I reckon that cost me about’ – he made a mental calculation – ‘ninety pounds.’
Bertie’s eyes shone. On emeralds he was something of an expert, and that these stones were genuine, he knew.
‘You wouldn’t like to sell it for ninety pounds?’ he asked carelessly.
Art Lomer shook his head.
‘No, sir. I’ve gotta make some profit even from my friends! I’ll let you have it for a hundred.’
Bertie’s hand sought his inside pocket.
‘No, I don’t want paying now. What do you know about emeralds anyway? They might be a clever fake. Take it up to town, show it to an expert–’
‘I’ll give you the cheque now.’
‘Any time will do.’
Art wrapped up the stone carefully, put it in a small box and handed it to his companion.
‘That’s the only one I’m going to sell,’ he explained as he led the way back to the dining-room.
Bertie went immediately to the small secretaire, wrote the cheque, tore it out and handed it to Mr Lomer. Art looked at the paper and frowned.
‘Why, what do I do with this?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got no bank account here. All my money’s in the Associated Express Company.’
‘I’ll make it “pay bearer”,’ said Bertie obligingly.
Still Mr Lomer was dubious.
‘Just write a note telling the President, or whoever he is, to cash that little bit of paper. I hate banks anyway.’
The obliging Bertie Claude scribbled the necessary note. When this was done, Bertie came to business, for he was a business man.
‘Can I come in on this jewel deal?’
Art Lomer shook his head reluctantly.
‘Sorry, Mr Staffen, but that’s almost impossible. I’ll be quite frank with you, because I believe in straightforward dealing. When you ask to come in on that transaction, you’re just asking me for money!’
Bertie made a faint noise of protest.
‘Well, that’s a mean way of putting it, but it comes to the same thing. I’ve taken all the risk, I’ve organized the operation – and it’s cost money – I just hate to refuse you, because I like you, Mr Staffen. Maybe if there’s any little piece to which you might take a fancy, I’ll let you have it at a reasonable price.’
Bertie thought for a moment, his busy mind at work.
‘What has the deal cost you up to now?’ he asked.
Again Mr Lomer shook his head.
‘It doesn’t matter what it’s cost me – if you offered me four times the amount of money I’ve spent – and that would be a considerable sum – I couldn’t let you in on this deal. I might go so far as giving you a small interest, but I wouldn’t take money for that.’
‘We’ll talk about it later,’ said Bertie, who never lost hope.
The rain had ceased, and the setting sun flooded the river with pale gold, and Bertie was walking in the garden with his host, when from somewhere above them came the faint hum of a small plane. Presently he saw the machine circling and disappearing behind the black crown of Quarry Wood. He heard an exclamation from the man at his side and, turning, saw Art’s face puckered in a grimace of annoyance and doubt.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘I’m wondering,’ said Art slowly. ‘They told me next week…why, no, I’m foolish.’
It was dark. The butler had turned on the lights and drawn the blinds when they went indoors again, and it was not difficult for Bertie to realize that something had happened which was very disturbing to his host. He was taciturn, and for the next half hour scarcely spoke, sitting in front of the fire gazing into the leaping flames and starting at every sound.
Dinner, a simple meal, was served early; and whilst the servants were clearing away, the two men strolled into the tiny drawing-room.
‘What’s the trouble, Lomer?’
‘Nothing,’ said the other with a start, ‘only–’
At that moment they heard the tinkle of a bell, and Art listened tensely. He heard the sound of voices in the hall, and then the butler came in.
‘There’s two men and a lady to see you, sir,’ he said.
Bertie saw the other bite his lip.
‘Show them in,’ said Art curtly, and a second later a tall man wa
lked into the room swinging in his hand a pilot’s head set.
‘Marsham! What in hell – !’
The girl who followed instantly claimed Bertie Claude’s attention. She was slim and dark, and her face was beautiful, despite the pallor of her cheeks and the tired look in her eyes. The second of the men visitors was hardly as prepossessing: a squat, foreign-looking individual with a short-clipped beard, he was wrapped to his neck in an old overcoat, and his wild-looking head was bare.
Art closed the door.
‘What’s the great idea?’ he asked.
‘There’s been trouble,’ said the tall man sulkily. ‘The Prince has had another offer. He has sent some of the stuff, but he won’t part with the pearls or the diamonds until you pay him half of the money you promised. This is Princess Pauline, the Prince’s daughter,’ he explained.
Art shot an angry look at the girl.
‘Say, see here, young lady,’ he said, ‘I suppose you speak English?’
She nodded.
‘This isn’t the way we do business in our country. Your father promised–’
‘My father has been very precipitate,’ she said, with the slightest of foreign accent, which was delightful to Bertie’s ear. ‘He has taken much risk. Indeed, I am not sure that he has been very honest in the matter. It is very simple for you to pay. If he has your money tonight–’
‘Tonight?’ boomed Art. ‘How can I get the money for him tonight?’
‘He is in Holland,’ said the girl. ‘We have the aeroplane waiting.’
‘But how can I get the money tonight?’ repeated the Canadian angrily. ‘Do you think I carry a hundred thousand pounds in my pistol pocket?’
Again she shrugged and, turning to the unkempt little man, said something to him in a language which was unintelligible to Mr Staffen. He replied in his hoarse voice, and she nodded.
‘Pieter says my father will take your cheque. He only wishes to be sure that there is no–’ She paused, at a loss for an English word.
‘Did I ever double-cross your father?’ asked Art savagely. ‘I can’t give you either the money or the cheque. You can call off the deal – I’m through!’
By this time the pilot had unrolled the package he carried under his other arm, placed it on the table, and Bertie Claude grew breathless at the sight of the glittering display that met his eyes. There were diamonds, set and unset; quaint and ancient pieces of jewellery that must have formed the heirlooms of old families; but their historical value did not for the moment occur to him. He beckoned Art aside.
‘If you can keep these people here tonight,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I’ll undertake to raise all the money you want on that collection alone.’
Art shook his head.
‘It’s no use, Mr Staffen. I know this guy. Unless I can send him the money tonight, we’ll not smell the rest of the stuff.’
Suddenly he clapped his hands.
‘Gee!’ he breathed. ‘That’s an idea! You’ve got your chequebook.’
Cold suspicion showed in the eyes of Bertie Claude. ‘I’ve got my chequebook, certainly,’ he said, ‘but–’
‘Come into the dining-room.’
Art almost ran ahead of him, and when they reached the room he closed the door.
‘A cheque can’t be presented for two or three days. It certainly couldn’t be presented tomorrow,’ he said, speaking rapidly. ‘By that time we could get this stuff up to town to your bankers, and you could keep it until I redeem it. What’s more, you can stop payment of the cheque tomorrow morning if the stones aren’t worth the money.’
Bertie looked at the matter from ten different angles in as many seconds.
‘Suppose I gave them a post-dated cheque to make sure?’ he said.
‘Post-dated?’ Mr Lomer was puzzled. ‘What does that mean?’ And when Bertie explained, his face brightened. ‘Why, sure!’ he said. ‘That’s a double protection. Make it payable the day after tomorrow.’
Bertie hesitated no more. Sitting down at the table he took out his chequebook and a fountain pen, and verified the date.
‘Make it “bearer”,’ suggested Art, when the writer paused, ‘same as you did the other cheque.’
Bertie nodded and added his signature, with its characteristic underlining.
‘Wait a second.’
Art went out of the room and came back within a minute.
‘They’ve taken it!’ he said exultantly. ‘Boy,’ he said, as he slapped the gratified young man on the shoulder, ‘you’ve gotta come in on this now and I didn’t want you to. It’s fifty-fifty – I’m no hog. Come along, and I’ll show you something else that I never intended showing a soul.’
He went out into the passage, opened a little door that led down a flight of stone steps to the cellar, switching on the light as he went down the stairs. Unlocking a heavy door, he threw it open.
‘See here,’ he said, ‘did you ever see anything like this?’
Bertie Claude peered into the dark interior.
‘I don’t see–’ he began, when he was so violently pushed into the darkness that he stumbled.
In another second the door closed on him; he heard the snap of a lock and shrieked:
‘I say, what’s this!’
‘I say, you’ll find out in a day or two,’ came the mocking voice of Mr Lomer.
Art closed the second door, ran lightly up the stairs and joined the butler, the valet, the maid and the three visitors in the drawing-room.
‘He’s well inside. And he stays there till the cheque matures – there’s enough food and water in the cellar to last him a week.’
‘Did you get him?’ asked the bearded man.
‘Get him! He was easy,’ said the other scornfully. ‘Now, you boys and girls, skip, and skip quick! I’ve got a letter from this guy to his bank manager, telling him to’ – he consulted the letter and quoted – ‘“to cash the attached cheque for my friend Mr Arthur Lomer”.’
There was a murmur of approval from the troupe.
‘The plane’s gone back, I suppose?’
The tall man nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I only hired it for the afternoon.’
‘Well, you can get back too. Ray and Al, you go to Paris and take the CP boat from Havre, Slicky, you get those whiskers off and leave honest from Liverpool. Pauline and Aggie will make Genoa, and we’ll meet at Leoni’s on the fourteenth of next month and cut the stuff all ways!’
Two days later Mr Art Lomer walked into the noble offices of the Northern Commercial Bank and sought an interview with the manager. That gentleman read the letter, examined the cheque and touched a bell.
‘It’s a mighty big sum,’ said Mr Lomer, in an almost awe-stricken voice.
The manager smiled.
‘We cash fairly large cheques here,’ he said, and, to the clerk who came at his summons: ‘Mr Lomer would like as much of this as possible in American currency. How did you leave Mr Staffen?’
‘Why, Bertie and I have been in Paris over that new company of mine,’ said Lomer. ‘My! it’s difficult to finance Canadian industries in this country, Mr Soames, but we’ve made a mighty fine deal in Paris.’
He chatted on purely commercial topics until the clerk returned and laid a heap of bills and banknotes on the table. Mr Lomer produced a wallet, enclosed the money securely, shook hands with the manager and walked out into the general office. And then he stopped, for Mr J G Reeder stood squarely in his path.
‘Payday for the troupe, Mr Lomer – or do you call it “treasury”? My theatrical glossary is rather rusty.’
‘Why, Mr Reeder,’ stammered Art, ‘glad to see you, but I’m rather busy just now–’
‘What do you think has happened to our dear friend, Mr Bertie Claude Staffen?’ asked Reeder anxiously.
‘Why, he’s in Paris.’
‘So soon!’ murmured Reeder. ‘And the police only took him out of your suburban cellar an hour ago! How wonderful are our modern systems of transportation! Marlow one minute, Paris the next.’
Art hesitated no longer. He dashed past, thrusting the detective aside, and flew for the door. He was so annoyed that the two men who were waiting for him had the greatest difficulty in putting the handcuffs on his wrists.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Reeder to his chief. ‘Art always travels with his troupe. The invisibility of the troupe was to me a matter for grave suspicion, and of course I’ve had the house under observation ever since Mr Staffen disappeared. It is not my business, of course,’ he said apologetically, ‘and really I should not have interfered. Only, as I have often explained to you, the curious workings of my mind–’
The Stealer of Marble
Margaret Belman’s chief claim to Mr Reeder’s notice was that she lived in the Brockley Road, some few doors from his own establishment. He did not know her name, being wholly incurious about law abiding folk, but he was aware that she was pretty, that her complexion was that pink and white which is seldom seen away from a magazine cover. She dressed well, and if there was one thing that he noted about her more than any other, it was that she walked and carried herself with a certain grace that was especially pleasing to a man of aesthetic predilections.
He had, on occasions, walked behind her and before her, and had ridden on the same bus with her to Westminster Bridge. She invariably descended at the corner of the Embankment, and was as invariably met by a good-looking young man and walked away with him. The presence of that young man was a source of passive satisfaction to Mr Reeder, for no particular reason, unless it was that he had a tidy mind, and preferred a rose when it had a background of fern and grew uneasy at the sight of a saucerless cup.
It did not occur to him that he was an object of interest and curiosity to Miss Belman.
The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder Page 6
