Suffering from the effects of a rather too liberal dose of alcohol, the Honourable John Falkirk returned to his flat one night to find his lady love sleeping peacefully with one hand flung carelessly across the coverlet. On the second finger, the diamond sparkled.
Whether he was overcome by remorse at his extravagant generosity, greed for lucre, or whether he was too befuddled to know quite what he was about has never been ascertained, but the Honourable John started to make a clumsy effort to remove the ring.
‘Darling!’ murmured Miss Lemuir drowsily, mistaking this for a touch of amorous playfulness to which she had become accustomed.
Then she suddenly sat up in bed.
‘Johnnie, what are you doing?’
‘The ring,’ muttered the Honourable John, thickly. ‘Must have the ring …’
Betty was now frightened. There was something peculiar about her lover’s expression.
‘Get away … let me alone!’ she screamed.
Falkirk’s fingers left her hand and clutched at her throat.
Twenty-four hours later, Walter Winchell was telling anxious New Yorkers what really had happened to Miss Betty Lemuir.
The American police spread a wide net in search of the Honourable John, but he was never seen again. However, the Falkirk Diamond reappeared at Detroit in the hands of a receiver, who told the police that it had come to him via a certain Rod Nester, who generally managed to keep friendly with the police by methods best known to himself. So the Falkirk Diamond was allowed to return to legitimate circulation, and no further questions were asked.
It came to England in the possession of a certain film star whose Hollywood contract had expired, and who had told a score or two pressmen that she had decided to return to her first love, the legitimate theatre. Unfortunately for Miss Cranston, she considered it imperative that the play should be written by her cousin, presented by her nephew, and produced by a gentleman who Miss Cranston fondly described as ‘a very dear friend of the family’. Unfortunately the very dear friend had very little knowledge of the theatre, and after a run of barely three weeks the play was withdrawn.
Still, Miss Cranston was a determined young lady if nothing else, and since the very dear friend was sure that this time he had found the right play, she sold the Falkirk Diamond to finance the second production. This time it was to be a large-scale musical with Miss Cranston playing the part of a celebrated opera star. The fact that Miss Cranston had a southern accent and no singing voice was overlooked by everyone except the audience, who, rather to the surprise of everyone concerned, took exception to the fact. So, in a fit of desperation, the film star picked herself a City stockbroker and relapsed into comparative obscurity.
Meanwhile the Falkirk Diamond was in active circulation. In fact, it was a staple topic of conversation at Mayfair cocktail parties. (‘My dear, the way she’s going on she’ll qualify for the Falkirk Diamond!’) It did not change hands quite so swiftly as it had done in New York, for the Englishman is rather less inclined to make extravagant gestures to his lady love. Also, there happened to be a depression on at the time, and money was flowing less freely.
There was a minor sensation when young Tony Macguire presented the much photographed and publicised Miss Sybil Lamont with an engagement ring in which the Falkirk Diamond was mounted. All his friends declared that he was tempting the gods, but he was very sure of Sybil, and considered nothing too good for her.
But their engagement did not come to a normal conclusion in church, or even registry office. It ended with Sybil eloping with a very wealthy Italian Count, who had a passionate liking for England and a private income of forty thousand a year. Of course, being a lady – and since the Count insisted – Sybil returned the ring. Tony was forcibly restrained by his best friend from flinging it into the Thames, and when he had cooled down it was whispered around Mayfair that the Falkirk Diamond was up for sale again at a certain Bond Street jewellers.
The news reached Lord Cresset at a hunt breakfast near his Nottingham estate. With his cup of coffee half-way to his mouth, his eyes glistened. It was a confounded nuisance he couldn’t get up to town just now. He’d ring up Mains and Shearing after lunch and see if they could get it down to Nottingham on approval, as it were. Besides, old Spears had always been quite decent – he might as well get a commission on the deal, if it came off.
Lorrimer Street provides a not unpleasing contrast to the wide, sweeping thoroughfares in the centre of the dignified city of Nottingham, which invariably make a pleasant impression upon the casual visitor.
A survival of the lace-making quarter, Lorrimer Street is a perpetual source of worry to the authorities, as it leads from a corner of one of the large squares in which the traffic flows freely. However, large limousines have a habit of sweeping into the narrow Lorrimer Street and parking themselves outside the two or three exclusive establishments which have remained faithful to their ancient premises and refused to move elsewhere. This frequently results in a minor traffic block. Until the authorities, driven to desperation, have decreed that Lorrimer Street shall be one way. This, despite the protests of the aforesaid establishments, who naturally welcomed any amount of car traffic and did not wish their clients to be inconvenienced.
Mains and Shearing’s establishment – it was never vulgarly referred to as a shop – stands about half-way down Lorrimer Street, where the road has a slight tendency to form a bottleneck. This has the effect of bringing cars and other vehicles a shade nearer to the windows. The windows in question are arc-shaped and painted in rather a drab shade of brown, which certainly provides no distraction from the display of a quantity of shining silver-plate inside, and also a small but expensive display of jewellery in one corner of the window.
Mains and Shearing scorned the protective network which is effected by so many jewellers’ establishments nowadays. Never in the hundred years’ history of the firm had any marauder dared to lay a plundering hand upon any property of Mains and Shearing. Still, one had to admit that both Mains and Shearing had been old-fashioned (they were dead now) and neither had ever heard of such things as gangsters and G-men.
On a bright April evening, just before closing-time, a lorry clattered up Lorrimer Street, belching forth spasmodic jets of blue exhaust fumes and came to a coughing standstill outside Mains and Shearing’s. It was a large and very noisy vehicle, but sufficiently powerful to pass more than half the private cars it encountered on the road. The rear of the lorry was covered by a large green canvas hood mounted on a wooden framework. There was no indication of its owners either on the hood or the front of the vehicle.
No sooner had the lorry quivered for the last time, than a crew of some half-dozen workmen leapt actively out of the back, bringing with them pickaxes, electric drills, shovels, iron stakes and other impedimenta of the road-breaker. They laughed, joked and shouted to one another in the true tradition, and the few pedestrians in Lorrimer Street regarded them with a shrug and perhaps a muttered comment, ‘Road up again!’
The foreman, who might have been recognised beneath his grimy make-up as Jed Ware, gave some rapid instructions. In next to no time, a space in front of Mains and Shearing’s had been roped off, and the air was reverberating to the ear-splitting racket of pneumatic drills, punctuated from time to time with the clinking of pickaxes.
Strolling thoughtfully on his beat in the square, P.C. White naturally heard the racket and immediately made tracks in that direction. P.C. White liked to think that he was no ordinary policeman. Of course, he did not scorn an occasional motoring case; he had even been seen surreptitiously marking motor-tyres with chalk in order to check up on the time of parking. That, however, was merely a question of routine. Lorrimer Street was a very useful source of such cases, and P.C. White was never very far away when on duty. This, however, was very much by the way. Something had always told him that one day his Big Case would loom on the horizon, and he meant to be fully prepared.
Only the other day he had been reading an ar
ticle in a periodical on the subject of famous hoaxes. One of these, apparently, was the uprooting of a section of the roadway in Piccadilly, which some bright young sparks had accomplished without any interference from the police. Constable White fumed inwardly when he read this. He bitterly resented such escapades at the expense of the Force. At the same time he made up his mind that he would never be taken in like that.
He came upon the scene almost at a run and demanded brusquely of the foreman, ‘What the devil’s going on here?’
Ware surveyed him quickly, then replied indifferently, ‘We’ve had orders to take up the road.’ He continued to give his orders and completely ignored the policeman.
By this time the lorry had been backed carefully, so that its rear number-plate was just level with the shop door of the jewellers.
‘How long do you reckon it will take?’ the constable was asking when a police sergeant came up.
‘What’s going on here, White?’ he raged. ‘The traffic’s in a devil of a mess at the end of the street, and—’
‘They’re taking the road up, sir,’ shouted the constable, above the din of drills and pickaxes.
‘Damn it man, I can see that!’
The sergeant turned to Jed Ware. ‘Why didn’t we hear about this beforehand?’
‘Don’t ask me, I’m not the Corporation,’ was the casual reply. A smaller lorry had now arrived and dumped a load of gravel further down the street, and men were shovelling it noisily. Incidentally, it had been unloaded in such a position that it was now impossible for traffic to proceed down the street.
‘Look here, you can’t do this!’ shouted the bewildered sergeant. ‘Why, the end shops are roped off!’
‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ coolly replied the foreman. ‘You’ll have to get on to the Corporation if you want to do anything about it.’
‘And I certainly will!’ fumed the sergeant, as a workman sent a shovelful of earth over his boots. He turned to the constable.
‘White, get in touch with Inspector Hutchinson and report this. Then come back here. I’m going along to see Milford.’
Once more, he turned to Jed Ware. ‘These men must not go on rooting up that pavement till I get back. You understand?’
‘All right,’ replied Jed Ware, indifferently.
The sergeant and constable went their respective ways. As soon as they were out of sight, the workmen relaxed visibly, though they still made some pretence of carrying on their jobs. The foreman went up to the lorry and was soon deep in conversation with the two men who sat in the driver’s cabin.
Inside Mains and Shearing’s, the electric lights glinted on the highly polished silver. They were on most of the day, for it was rather a gloomy interior, hemmed in by showcases which excluded a large proportion of the daylight. The shop had a low ceiling supported by pillars here and there, and at the far end of the counter were a couple of rather unusual alcoves in which visitors waited to interview the proprietor.
Whilst all the commotion was raging outside, Mr. Ronald Spears was quite oblivious to anything in the nature of a disturbance. Approaching fifty, and quite distinguished-looking, Mr. Spears had bought the business from Mains and Shearing some seven or eight years ago, and had paid quite a stiff price for it. But he would cautiously admit that he was beginning to see a return for his money.
At the moment he was blissfully engaged in trying to interest a lady customer in one of the latest watches, skilfully set in an expensive ring. The wife of one of the city’s leading solicitors, she had caught something of her husband’s distrust of mankind. She was dubious that such a tiny watch could keep correct time. But Mr. Spears was not discouraged. He was at some pains to detail the niceties of the movement.
‘It really is a most attractive watch, madam,’ he pleaded. ‘I noticed Lady Friarholme wearing one at the Rotary Ball last week – they are particularly fashionable just now.’ There was some sign of weakening his customer’s sales resistance when the door opened swiftly. Mr. Spears looked up in some annoyance, then his expression changed.
Two masked figures stood in the doorway.
‘If anybody moves, they won’t live to tell the tale,’ came the tense voice of Jimmy Mills. ‘Get your hands up, everybody!’
The lady customer looked round, gave a loud shriek; her eyes seemed to bulge out of her head, and suddenly she sank heavily to the floor.
‘It’s all right; she’s only fainted,’ muttered Lucky Gibson, coming inside another couple of paces. Mills came up level with the counter.
‘Where’s the safe?’ he snapped, pointing his revolver menacingly at Spears.
‘I—I—assure you the most valuable stock is here,’ stammered Spears, weakly.
‘Keep back from that counter. If I catch you pressing any alarms, it’ll be the last thing you’ll ever press!’
Spears backed away nervously, still holding up his hands. This was an entirely new experience for him, and he had not the least idea how to cope with it. All sorts of wild schemes flashed through his brain … should he take a chance and reach for that heavy silver cup? But the aperture of the barrel of Jimmy Mills’ revolver loomed with ever-increasing menace.
‘We’re not interested in this junk,’ snarled Mills. ‘We want the Falkirk Diamond.’
There was dead silence for a moment. Then Spears spoke in a queer, choked voice.
‘I assure you that—’ The other cut him short.
‘Get it!’ ordered Mills furiously.
‘All right,’ agreed Spears, who had turned deathly white. He came round the counter. ‘It’s—it’s in the safe downstairs,’ he murmured. Mills nodded to Lucky Gibson to follow him. Their footsteps receded down the wooden stairs. His revolver still alert, Jimmy stood near the door, which was presently opened. Swan Williams thrust his head round the door.
‘You’ll have to get a move on. Jed’s had the boys get back in the lorry.’
‘What the hell’s the game?’ demanded Mills.
‘Things are getting warm. The cops’ll be back any time now – and Jed’s pretty sure they smell a rat,’ was Williams’ warning.
‘O.K.,’ snapped Mills, moving the inert form of the woman with his foot, as footsteps sounded on the cellar stairs once more, and Lucky’s head hastily reappeared.
‘Got it?’ demanded Mills.
‘Yes,’ replied Lucky, breathlessly.
‘Right. Come on.’ He paused to wedge a large showcase against the cellar door, which should effectively prevent Mr. Spears from making his escape, and they backed out of the shop with a final look round, then leapt quickly into the lorry which stood there with its engine spluttering.
‘Keep low at the back!’ advised Swan, speaking through a tiny partition. Jed Ware let in the clutch, and the lorry shot forward with a jerk, accelerating swiftly from the scene of the crime. None of its occupants saw a police-car approach from the square, discover that the street was impassable and back out again as quickly as possible.
Lucky Gibson removed his mask. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and Mills noticed that his hands were unsteady. He took a flask from his hip-pocket and handed it to Lucky, who drank deeply.
‘I say – I want to get rid of this rock – I shan’t get any rest till it’s safe,’ whispered Lucky hoarsely.
‘All right,’ growled Mills. ‘Lina and Brightman will be waiting just outside Ashby. Step on it!’ he called through the partition to Jed Ware, and the lorry swayed and skidded through the suburbs until the frame which carried the canvas creaked and groaned again.
They had travelled very nearly two miles before Jimmy Mills suddenly clutched Lucky as he gazed at the receding road.
‘Cops!’ he hissed, rattling the partition vigorously. ‘They’re after us!’ Jed Ware nodded grimly and pressed his foot firmly on the accelerator. Now they came to a loop-road which took them along narrower streets. Lucky peered behind them … the police-car was slowly gaining, despite the fact that the lorry must have been travelling at nearly sixty mi
les an hour, to the consternation of the other road-users. There were several sharp corners at which Jed had no alternative but to brake heavily, otherwise the lorry would have overturned.
At each of these the police car gained appreciably, until it was no more than fifty yards behind. Round the next corner a level-crossing became visible, and when they were some thirty yards away the gates began to close. A long goods train was puffing its laborious way towards the crossing – it was still a quarter of a mile away. Jed Ware gritted his teeth and stepped hard on the accelerator.
‘You’ll never do it! Stop!’ screamed Swan Williams.
‘Can’t stop now,’ replied Jed.
There was just about six feet of space between the gates as they came up to the crossing. They caught a glimpse of a very indignant signalman leaning out of his box at the side of the road and waving his arms wildly. Swan Williams flung his arms before his face. Jed Ware clung grimly to the wheel.
There was a bump which shook the vehicle, but Ware held it to its course and they clattered on. The men in the back could see that one of the gates had been hung off its hinges and was lying across the roadway. The police-car had managed to stop just in time.
Meanwhile the signalman, armed with a red flag, ran down the line to stop the goods train. By the time the road had been cleared of its obstruction and the police-car was able to proceed, the lorry was very nearly half-a-mile ahead. However, the police were not to be denied, and along level stretches their car came into sight once more.
‘They’re coming again,’ growled Mills, rattling the celluloid partition. The lorry swayed perilously on the wrong side of the road as they took another corner, twice they missed oncoming cars by what seemed the merest fraction. Fortunately for them the country was fairly flat, and there were no hills of any size to slow down the lorry to any appreciable extent. It was beginning to grow dusk now, though it would not be lighting-up time for some twenty minutes.
Paul Temple 3-Book Collection Page 33
