Won Li’s lips pulled back, as though he’d swallowed sour milk. “A lady should not entertain such gruesome thoughts.”
I chuckled. “Lest you forget, I was wringing chickens’ necks for Sunday dinner before you could say ‘Arkansas’ with all the consonants.”
His muttered response was in his native tongue, which I preferred to let him believe I didn’t savvy. Truth be told, my grasp was a tick past cuss words, but since he rarely said anything else in Chinese, I didn’t miss much.
“So,” I pressed, “why did a strong-armed killer use a pearl necklace for a weapon? An imitation pearl necklace, I might add. Mrs. Abercrombie owned two real ones but was murdered with the fake.”
With his nose stuck high enough in the air to catch flies, Won Li said, “A garrote is silent and efficient. Death comes more quickly than with a choke hold. There is little or no struggle. As life ebbs, the victim claws at the ligature, desperately attempting to loosen or remove it. Hence, he or she does not counterattack the killer.”
I shivered. When he put his mind to it, the old Chinaman could out-gruesome me any day of the week. I thought back to the bruised rings at Mrs. Abercrombie’s neck; the odd, premortem scratches welting the skin above and below. She must have inflicted them herself, in a panic-stricken effort to breathe, to scream, to survive. Detaching myself from the personal aspect to focus on the psychological, I wondered whether a murderer could rationalize a garrote’s swift efficiency as a humane means of death. More so than a knife, say, or fatal blow to the head, since a gunshot was forbidden by virtue of its report.
Methodology take the hindmost. The curiosity that hectored my mind was the means. “Although it’s reasonable to surmise that a professional thief could distinguish real pearls from imitations at a glance.”
I didn’t realize I’d been thinking aloud until Won Li said, “In a book entitled the Shu King, written in twenty-three B.C., the author disparages a lesser king for sending a tribute of pearls that were not quite round.”
“I thought genuine pearls were always perfectly round.”
“You assumed. You did not think.” Won Li turned the buggy into the lane, as though Izzy needed guidance to find his way home. “If you had devoted thought, you would know a quirk of nature would not produce perfection, except in the rarest of cases.”
I nodded, my eyes wide with comprehension. “Then a strand of perfectly round pearls would expose them as fake.”
“Perhaps.”
“What do you mean, ‘perhaps.’ You just said—”
“As always, what I say is not necessarily what you choose to hear. The gathering of perfect natural pearls in such a number as to string into a necklace is possible, but would be enormously expensive.”
“Oh.” I sniffed. “You’re only arguing for the sake of it. Hubert Abercrombie is quite wealthy.”
He slanted me a look. Not another word was said while he unharnessed Izzy, brushed and grained him, and hauled a bucket of water from the outdoor pump. Wed obtuse to obstinate and the result is a slight, sallow-complexioned man named Won Li.
For the one million two hundred and ninety-four thousandth time since first we met, my vow not to speak until spoken to went to hell in a handcart when I yelled, “So, how the holy heck do you tell the gosh-danged difference?”
He graced me with that mouth-rumple that sufficed as a smile. “As we have established that although rare, genuine pearls can be as round as artificial ones, other distinctions are evident. They are not noticeable at a glance, however, if the latter are well crafted.”
Patience is its own reward, I chanted to myself. Speed is not of the essence. A shut mouth gathers no feet.
“Both should be strung on silk for durability,” he said.
“A knot is tied between each to prevent their chafing together. The knots also strengthen the silk, but if it should ever break, at most only one pearl might fall off and be lost.”
It wasn’t surprising that silk won out over cotton thread, or even jeweler’s wire. Theories existed that silk fabric could deflect or halt a bullet. To my knowledge, it had yet to be proven, due to a dearth of willing volunteers.
Won Li’s lecture continued, “A high-quality artificial pearl is made by dipping a glass bead in a substance composed of fish scale and lacquer. When finished, the shine is primarily a surface reflection. The translucence of a natural pearl glows from within.”
Well, that sounded visible to a thief to me…
“When viewed in indoor light, the difference in luminosity is subtle. It is the surface that differs. When rubbed against the teeth, the natural pearl will feel gritty, whereas the imitation is smooth and slippery.”
Now that he’d mentioned it, I recalled reading about that common and exquisitely simple test. A second-story man of any experience would be aware of it, as well. But would he take the time, minimal though it was, to sort the bona fides from the fakes at the scene of the crime?
Twelve
J. H. Hense was a grandfatherly sort with impish eyes. Their light dimmed considerably when I inquired after an elongated-style ring set with turquoise and rose-cut diamonds.
When the item selected from Avery Whitelaw’s list failed to materialize, I described Mrs. McCoyne’s opal and faceted crystal rondelle bracelet and necklace as a piece my mythical Aunt Ada would also cherish as a birthday gift.
Mr. Hense said he was fresh out of those as well, but perhaps a cameo ringed with pink diamonds would strike her fancy.
“Aunt Ada has several of those,” I said. “A pearl necklace might be nice, though I’ve never noticed her wearing them.”
Hense brightened a moment, then was as appalled by what I proposed next, just as his peers—namely, a Mr. Courvoisier and Misters Joslin & Park, all owners of eponymous jewelry stores along Larimer Street—had been earlier.
I’d braved the tidal wave of Saturday shoppers loosed on the city to secure the loan of a strand of genuine pearls and two of the artificial persuasion. By the looks on all four jewelers’ faces, you’d have thought the request had been accompanied by a brace of pistols.
“I’m willing to sign a promissory note, a warranty of return—whatever you deem necessary,” I said. “Whether my aunt selects a string or not, I’ll have the pearls back in your hands within an hour at the latest.”
Mr. Hense guffawed, startling an elderly woman browsing a case of watch fobs. “Forgive me, Miss Sawyer. I meant no insult and sincerely hope none was taken, but even if I had a genuine pearl necklace in the store, I wouldn’t lend it to my dear, sweet mother for an instant, much less an hour.”
I sighed. “Then I suppose I’ll have to take three artificial strands on approval. Aunt Ada is so picky, I dare not buy one outright.”
His head was wagging before I finished the sentence. “This is a retail shop, not a library. I’ll give you a fair price on the necklaces, but that’s the best I can do.”
My eyebrow cocked. “How much?”
“What length do you prefer?”
Long enough to strangle someone with was the correct answer. I stifled it and hazarded, “Twelve inches.”
“Umm, well…” Elbow propped on a crossed arm, he hooked a finger on his chin. “Might I point out, as our merchandise is of exceptional quality, the clasps on all our pearls are fourteen-carat gold.”
“Lovely. How much?”
“I believe I could let you have them for fifteen dollars. If the two extras are returned quickly and undamaged, I will refund their purchase price.” He smiled. “That is, if your aunt can choose between them.”
I sawed my lower lip between my teeth. I could buy two, if I relieved the agency’s vault of its paltry holdings. In the manner of a last resort, I said, “No offense, but I don’t think five dollars each is much of a bargain.”
“Five dollars?” Hense staggered backward, grasping at his chest. “My dear woman, the price I quoted was per each, not the total of all three.”
Leaving great chunks of pride and the pearls b
ehind, I marched up Larimer toward Roath’s, one of the city’s five remaining jewelers. Pausing outside the door, I uttered an oath of which Papa was fond, then turned on my heel. Although it’s said that a winner never quits, there are more ways to skin a cat than sticking its head in a bootjack and jerking its tail.
The costume pearls I’d seen displayed at Cheesman’s Drug Store on Thursday instant were cheap imitations of imitations, but they were bought for two dollars and change—plenty enough to rig a shell game with an accused murderer.
I felt certain my luck was changing when the constable manning the jailhouse’s desk was not the one who’d witnessed the discussion between Jack and myself. This officer was twenty years younger and of lanky build. By the gleam in his eye, he was a staunch believer in a uniform’s legendary power of seduction.
Because I’m an equally staunch believer in males’ fascination with women oblivious to their posturing, I strode up to the counter and said, “How do you do. I’m Miss Alice Peabody, secretary to Stanley Hayden, of the Hayden, Denton and Paxton law firm.”
He grinned. Make that leered. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miz Peabody.”
Presently, I said, “Well, are you going to escort me to the prisoner, or shall I find him myself?”
“Huh? What pris—”
I pointed at the door to an anteroom. “I demand to see your supervisor. He was told to expect me and there’s no time to shilly-shally. Our client, Mr. Ciccone, goes on trial Thursday, for heaven’s sake.”
“Ciccone’s got a lawyer?”
“As a matter of fact, he has three. All working pro bono on his behalf.” I smirked. “That means at no charge.”
Scratching his head, the jailor looked over his shoulder, then back at me. “There’s no supervisor on duty, ma’am, but if it’s Ciccone you want to see, I’d be happy to take you to him.”
“Excellent.” I moved to the steel door. When he unlocked it, I said, “As usual, I needn’t be accompanied to the cell.” A dazzling smile appended a light brushing of his arm with my hand. “If you’d be so kind as to leave the door open? I won’t be but a moment.”
His return grin was a tad forced. “Best put the hurry to it, then. I’m breaking rules ninety to nothin’.”
If anything, the stench had worsened, but fewer arms and catcalls greeted my entrance. Ciccone rushed the bars as though I were the resurrection and the light. “Madre de Dio.” His grimy hands clapped together. “I knew you would help me, pretty lady.”
I held out a pencil and my notebook. “See what’s written at the top of the page? Copy it. Please.”
“Scuse?”
“I can’t help you if you refuse to help me.”
Obviously perplexed, his fingers crabbed around the pencil. He licked the lead, then sketched, rather than wrote, Vittorio Ciccone. General Delivery. Denver City, Colorado Territory.
Every e was backward, as were both the capital and lowercase d’s. The c’s and v’s were legible, but the end result resembled Egyptian hieroglyphics scripted while blindfolded.
Two millennia ago, Aristotle connected one’s style of handwriting to character traits. I wasn’t skilled or well practiced at the art, but would one feigning illiteracy be as consistent with errors as with more or less correct letter formation?
Collecting the writing instruments, I then thrust the strands of pearls between the bars. “Tell me, which of these are real and which are fakes.”
His eyes narrowed. “How would I to know?”
I yanked them back and turned from the cell.
“Wait! Lemme see, again.”
Ciccone looped the necklaces on his open palm. One by one, a finger stroked the beads lengthwise. They were pinched, rolled, prodded, his frown deepening with each action. Backpedaling nearer the miserly window high up on the wall, he rotated his wrist, head angling this way and that.
“The light, it is bad,” he said. “I canna be sure.”
I clenched my teeth, willing no emotion to show on my face.
Ciccone held out a strand to me. “This one, I think, she is too bright for real. The pearl, it is a soft white, eh?” The other two he ran slowly through his fingers. “Smooth. Ah yes. Very smooth.” His full lips bowed into a crafty smile. “These, they are, how you say…jan-you-wine.”
The necklaces coiled into my outstretched hand, then he curled my fingers into a fist and kissed the tips. “If anything Vittorio knows, it is how to please a woman, eh?”
Had my arm been long enough, I’d have bashed his nose bloody. Instead, I walked away, scrubbing my fingers on my skirt. This time, his bellows were in outrage, not professions of innocence.
The constable insisted on escorting me to the buggy and settling me in it. “I’m off duty tomorrow night. I know it’s Sunday and all, but I’d be honored to share a meal with you before evening services.” A shoulder hitched. “Or after, if you’d druther.”
“How sweet of you to ask, but I’m afraid my fiancé wouldn’t approve.”
His dejection was evident, but I wagered he wouldn’t dine alone on his night off. “Anyhow, it was nice meeting you, Miss Peabody.”
“And you, Constable.”
Eager to decamp from the calaboose before a particular Irishman happened by, I brought down the reins on Izzy’s rump a mite harder than intended. He bridled, then hiked his tail and emitted a raucous burst of organic methane gas.
The stink took away breath I hadn’t yet recovered from my foray at the jail. I daren’t say so aloud, but the apples Izzy had come to expect were embargoed till further notice.
As for Vittorio Ciccone, I was of two minds. The parcel he allegedly mailed could have been pre-addressed by someone else.
For all his fiddling and fondling, not once had he touched a pearl to his teeth. Yes, he’d identified two fake necklaces as genuine, but I’d sought conclusive evidence. Pass or fail, my silly tests were circumstantial and marginally so, at that.
I was missing something, and not just Jack O’ Shaughnessy and the two dollars and change I’d spent on jewelry I’d never wear. There was naught to do but begin at the beginning and pray the truth will out.
Back at the office, the agency’s city directory yielded home addresses for Garret McCoyne and Avery Whitelaw. On the plat map affixed to the wall, I traced a line from the former to the latter and on to the Abercrombies. If there was a pattern, other than the net worth of the victims, it was lost on me.
At my return to the buggy within minutes of departing it, Izzy jerked his muzzle from the water trough. Enthusiasm for yet another jaunt about town was relayed by a pair of dolorous, brown eyes.
I found the McCoyne home was surrounded by an imposing fence of wrought iron. Lancets picketing the top lent a medieval effect, whereas the three-story house was an agglomeration of gingerbread, furbelows, turrets, obelisks, and millworked foofaraws painted every color of the rainbow, and then some.
Either the man of the house was nearsighted and color-blind to boot, or Mrs. McCoyne’s charms were abundant beyond belief.
I never read, asked, or was told where the thief gained access, though Whitelaw had mentioned a second-story window. Hypothetically slipping my feet into a burglar’s soft-soled shoes, I surveyed the neighborhood, then the McCoyne home’s calamitous facade.
There were no handy balconies. I wouldn’t have trusted the fancy trimwork not to give way during a critical and perhaps injurious stage of my ascent. To shinny from ground to roof by means of a downspout, then lower myself with rope to a window, begged notice by anyone in the vicinity.
The alley side of the house was more pregnable from a covert standpoint, but a climb to the roof and descent to a window was still the safest, quietest means of entry.
The same held true at Avery Whitelaw’s home, although his brick abode was as unadorned and boxy as a warehouse. Again, the most surreptitious entrance was from the back of the home, by means of the mansard roof.
Both difficult but hardly impossible for a lithe,
well-muscled thief. By comparison, the intrusion through Belinda Abercrombie’s bedroom window was less of a challenge than burgling Judge Story’s office at the Van Buren courthouse.
Vittorio Ciccone likely possessed the required upper-body strength. His height—or lack thereof—also seemed advantageous, as he’d make a smaller target for observation.
The ease of detecting an object decreases in proportion to its size, which, as Won Li elucidated, is one reason knots are tied in the thread when genuine pearls are strung. If broken and unsecured, the precious gems could easily roll under a piece of furniture and virtually disappear from sight.
With a final look at the exterior scene of the second crime, I sighed and said, “Let’s go home, Izzy.”
If there was another young woman as exhausted and frustrated as I in all of Denver City, I’d have enjoyed commiserating with her in a peaceful salon, where corset stays loosened with abandon and sweet red wine flowed like water. And there’d be a bushel of chocolate drops, like the ones Papa brought home when he’d leave for a week and stay gone for three.
The vision hoved behind my eyes a moment, only to be supplanted by Ciccone’s swarthy face. He was a drifter. A street-tough. A congenital no-account destined for territorial prison or the gallows, but I was gut-certain he wasn’t a cat-footed burglar and he hadn’t murdered Belinda Abercrombie.
I knew as well as my own name who had and why. All I had to do was prove it. Somehow.
Aloysius Q. Dablemont and his rainmaking machine had already been run out of town: thus the Almighty received full credit from the congregation for Sunday morning’s thunderstorm. A daisy it was, too, roaring down off the mountains, hurling lightning bolts, hailstones, and ziggety-zag winds.
The gusts held no candle to the preacher’s hosannas, though. He outlasted them by three-quarters of an hour. When the choir shut their songbooks, the gullywasher was just a plain old soaker of a rain.
A Lady Never Trifles with Thieves Page 13
