As Berry and I Were Saying

by Dornford Yates

  “The fiancé took his advice, which I think was very good. After a little, she came back and stood her trial. I forget what she got, but, when she came out of jail, her fiancé married her. There I may be wrong, for he may have married her, while they were still abroad.”

  “What a hell of a case,” said Berry.

  “It was,” said I. “I’m only sorry I can’t remember more. But, of course, it was long before my day. Russell was afterwards Lord Chief Justice, but I can’t remember him. I’m almost sure it was Russell – I may be wrong.”

  “Now for the second one,” said Berry.

  “That was very different. The Great Pearl Case was ‘news’ in 1909, before I was called to the Bar. I saw it from first to last, and, in fact, I managed the case when it came to be tried.

  “There was a diamond-merchant, who lived in Cologne. He was, I think, a German: but he was a very big man. His name was Goldschmidt – of the spelling, I can’t be sure. Once or twice a year he visited Hatton Garden, bringing his wares. He did so in the spring of 1909. When he came to London, he always used to stay at De Keyser’s Hotel. That’s gone now, and Lever House stands where it did – at the end of The Embankment, just by Blackfriars Bridge. And he always had his own hansom, to take him about. You see, he wished to take no avoidable risks: for his stuff was always with him, and it was valuable stuff. On this occasion, it was pearls. Eighty thousand pounds’ worth of pearls – and that was their rock-bottom value – eighty thousand pounds in a small black leather bag about a foot long.”

  “Chained?”

  “No. Why he didn’t wear a chain, I never heard. But he was very particular about his appearance, and the absence of a chain may have been due to personal vanity. On the other hand, a chain would have attracted attention – might have attracted unwelcome attention to his bag. Now, though he didn’t know it, a gang was after those pearls – a gang of four. They knew what he’d got, and the gang was out to get it. Two of them travelled with him all the way from Cologne. But he was an old hand and he never gave them a chance. Day after day, one or more visited De Keyser’s Hotel – and sat about in the lounge, all ready to spring: day after day, he was followed to Hatton Garden: but all in vain. Time was running short, for very soon he was due to return to Cologne. So they brought in two more men. One was an ex-jockey, Grimshaw, a wiry little man. The other’s name, I forget. But he was tall. I’d better call him Payne, though that wasn’t his name. Both were known to the police, as men to be watched. Grimshaw, I think, had done time. ‘I’ll have them pearls,’ said Grimshaw…

  “On Goldschmidt’s last day but one, he drove to Hatton Garden at ten o’clock. He was followed there, but not by Grimshaw and Payne. They were to pick him up there, when he came out. He always came out about one, so they arranged to be there about half-past twelve. Grimshaw was there all right, but Payne was late. The reason why he was late is of peculiar interest. He had gone to a tavern in Holborn – we’ll call it The Rose. The Rose was well known to the police, as being a house of call for higher-class thieves. As such, it was frequently visited by plain-clothes men. There was one there that very day – a Sergeant West, of Vine Street, a most efficient man. Payne knew him to speak to and had a drink with him.

  “Now West was there on duty. It was part of his job to be on terms with thieves. Whether the practice is still followed, I’ve no idea. But in my time, the CID were on terms with hundreds of thieves. This contributed largely to the prevention of crime: largely, also, to its cure. If Sergeant West had stayed for another quarter of an hour, the robbery I am relating would not have been done that day.

  “So Payne had a drink with West about a quarter-past twelve. Well, that was all right. But Payne didn’t want to leave before West left. He wanted to be able to say that he’d never left the tavern before, say, a quarter to two. So he had to sit West out. And West never left The Rose until a quarter to one. The moment he’d gone, Payne made for Hatton Garden as hard as he could. He whipped into Grimshaw’s taxi just in time.

  “Goldschmidt appeared, entered his private hansom and drove to The Monico, where he proposed to lunch.”

  “Where’s The Monico?” said Jill.

  “In Piccadilly Circus – at least, it was. It had one entrance in the Circus and one in Shaftesbury Avenue. So the hansom moved off and the taxi fell in behind. Now, compared with the taxi, the hansom, of course, was slow: so the taxi had to crawl, if it was to keep behind. The hansom went by Holborn, and the taxi followed along. Where the hansom was bound for, Grimshaw and Payne didn’t know.

  “Now a young man was standing in Holborn. He was employed by a firm, whose offices were near by. It was his luncheon-hour: but he had finished early and was smoking a cigarette before he went back. He was standing on the pavement in Holborn, watching the traffic go by. He was an observant young man, and the taxi caught his eye. For the taxi was crawling by the kerb, as though in hope of a fare: but it had a fare already. The young man found this strange. For taxis with fares inside them don’t crawl by the kerb. Then the traffic was blocked for a moment, and the taxi came to rest. So the young man looked at the fares. He could only see one well, though he knew there were two. The one he saw was a small man: and he was standing up, crouching and peering through the window at something ahead. The young man was vastly piqued. He would have liked to follow, if only he had had time. This made him glance at his watch. Almost half-past one, and he must be getting back… The young man’s name was Sherlock.

  “The hansom reached The Monico at twenty minutes to two. Goldschmidt entered the restaurant, followed by Grimshaw and Payne. He reserved his table and went off to wash his hands. The lavatory was long-shaped, with a door at either end. Each door gave into a hall. One hall gave to Piccadilly, the other to Shaftesbury Avenue. Goldschmidt had entered from Shaftesbury Avenue. When he made to wash his hands, he laid his bag on the ledge between himself and the basin. When his hands were covered with soap, the hand of a man who was standing directly behind him stole round his ample waist and removed the bag. Goldschmidt turned about and threw his arms round the thief: but Grimshaw wriggled out of his grasp and streaked for the door to the hall on the Circus side. His victim ran after him, shouting ‘Stop thief’. So did another man, who had been washing his hands by the merchant’s side. The two collided in the doorway, and both fell down. They picked themselves up and rushed out into the hall. This was empty, and Goldschmidt ran to the doors.

  “‘What is it, sir?’ cried a porter.

  “‘I’ve been robbed,’ cried Goldschmidt. ‘The fellow ran out this way. This gentleman saw it happen.’

  “‘Which gentleman?’ cried the porter.

  “But Payne had disappeared.

  “That was how it was actually done.

  “Within two minutes, Goldschmidt was speaking to Vine Street, reporting his loss. The Inspector on duty promised to send a man down right away. And so he did. The man who was sent was Detective-Sergeant West. This was, of course, pure coincidence: but that is the way in which Fate will sometimes work.

  “When Sherlock read the case in the paper, he went to the police. He had seen Grimshaw well, but he had not seen Payne. Goldschmidt had never seen Grimshaw, but only his back. But he had seen Payne. The police got to work. They let the thieves go for the moment and went for the pearls. They knew that pearls of such value would only be received by one or two men. The receiver would lead them to the thieves. Cammy Goldschmidt, of whom I have told you, received the pearls. But the police were just too late. Cammy had been ready and waiting: and before the police could find him, the pearls had been valued and sent to Amsterdam. Eighty thousand pounds’ worth of pearls. But, working back from Cammy, the police got the thieves. What Grimshaw said, when he was charged, I do not know. But I know what Payne said. ‘This is a damned shame.’ He pointed to Sergeant West. ‘He knows that I couldn’t have done it. I was drinking with him at The Rose at a quarter to two that day: and the robbery was committed at a quarter to two.’

  �
�‘At a quarter to one,’ says West. ‘Not a quarter to two.’

  “‘At a quarter to two,’ says Payne.

  “‘One minute,’ says the Inspector. ‘How did you know that the robbery was committed at a quarter to two?’

  “‘Saw it in the papers, of course.’

  “‘I don’t think you did. We gave the time to the Press as two o’clock.’

  “This was a fact. And the papers, of course, were wrong, while Payne was right. His unfortunate statement had a great deal to do with sending him down.

  “For some reason, which I have forgotten, the case was not sent to the Old Bailey, but to Newington Sessions, instead. It was a depressing business, because the pearls were gone. I always felt that Wensley would have had them: but it wasn’t Wensley’s show. The two men went down all right, but, as though something were needed to enhance the depression we felt, the Chairman of the Sessions put on the lid. To Payne, he gave three years and to Grimshaw four. The two guffawed in the dock – the job had been worth their while. From a High Court Judge they’d have had ten years apiece: Grimshaw, probably more.

  “That Chairman has long been dead, but his leniency was a scandal, as everyone knew. Mercy – yes. That is as it should be. But Wallace was absurdly lenient. The leniency which he showed did incalculable harm. Over and over again, it made a crime worth while. And it discouraged the police. ‘What is the good,’ they cried, ‘of doing all this work and getting our man, only to see the fellow laugh in our face?’ And, by God, you couldn’t blame them. I’d worked damned hard on that case, and I’ll say I was sore.”

  “I’ll lay you were,” said Berry. “Eighty thousand pounds’ worth of pearls. Why, I’d do four years myself for a guerdon like that. How much would they get?”

  “I can only guess. I’d say fifteen thousand, between them. And that, of course, was paid them when they came out. Cammy, I should think, took twenty. I may be wrong. Still, fifteen or twenty thousand in 1909 was a very handsome sum.”

  “And the pearls went to Amsterdam?”

  “Yes. That was the market then. All the big stuff went there. God knows how it was carried, but carried it was. I never remember jewels being stopped en route. And it wasn’t for want of trying. But the carriers knew their job.”

  “You make a point of that in two of your books.”

  “I know. Formosa and The Bank of England. Neither stole, but both of them carried the stuff. All imagination, of course. But I sometimes wonder whether I was so very far out.”

  “The Wet Flag,” said Berry. “I have an affection for that sinister restaurant. And The Red Nose, of Montmartre. Your scenes in those two cafés are some of the best you’ve done. And Fluff was a cordial. ‘Sweaty knows them cuffs.’”

  Jill put in her oar.

  “You must have known someone like Fluff to make him ring so true. And Punter and Bunch and Sloper.”

  I shook my head.

  “I never had anyone in mind: but all my life, my darling, I’ve studied my fellow men. Like everyone else, I’ve rubbed shoulders with all and sundry. I must have travelled thousands of miles by the Underground, and the Tube gives you every chance of observing your company. I have received all sorts and kinds of impressions on which, I suppose, I have drawn. For the student of human nature, the Tube is a wonderful place. All manner of men take the Tube, and you’ve only to sit and watch them – or stand, if the coach is full.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Berry. “You must be damned receptive. You must have a brain of wax, if all your rogues have emerged from impressions made by wallahs you’ve seen in the Tube. Didn’t the Old Bailey help?”

  “Not very much in that way. The prisoner at the Old Bailey is hardly himself. And rogues don’t frequent the Old Bailey, unless they’re brought.”

  “I knew there was something,” said Daphne. “The Great Pearl Case – the first one. When Sir Charles Russell received the damning five-pound note. Hadn’t you that in mind when you wrote This Publican?”

  “I can’t be sure,” said I. “But I don’t think so. I don’t think it entered my head. My eyes were fast on what would in fact have happened in such a case. And now pray silence for Berry.”

  “I think,” said my brother-in-law, “that a few observations, fat, pungent and brief on the subject of fakes and experts will not be out of place in this authoritative work. The average man takes both at their face value: he can hardly do anything else. He may suspect a fake, but he can’t be sure: and if he calls in an expert – well, it’s no good calling him in, if he’s not going to trust what he says. But a few, more fortunate beings – though not less ignorant – of whom I happen to be one, have, by the merest chance, had the startling truth vouchsafed. And this revelation proved to me once for all that the one and only touchstone which will declare, first, whether an article of virtu is genuine and, secondly, what it is worth, is its sale by auction at Sotheby’s or at Christie’s Great Rooms.

  “I do not suggest that there do not exist experts who are qualified to distinguish between the true and the false, and to appraise. But who can tell which they are? But, if a piece goes to Christie’s, the opinion the owner gets is that of a number of experts who are backing that opinion with their own money; and, as more than one expert desires to acquire the piece, the highest market value is paid.

  “And now for the fakes…

  “I believe it to be a recognized fact that, if a list had been kept of all the period furniture which was made in England up to the end of the nineteenth century, and a similar list were made today of all the period pieces which had survived, the second list would be very much longer than the first. Now the explanation of this flouting of the most elementary principles of simple arithmetic is, of course, painfully clear. But I was never able to focus its detail, until a housemaid, called Bowen, entered the married state.”

  “Bowen,” said Daphne, “was such a very nice girl. I was awfully sorry to lose her. I’m afraid I can’t remember her married name.”

  “Neither,” said Berry, “can I. But the point is that the man she married was employed by, er—”

  “Very careful,” said I.

  “–by Messrs. Nottarf and Wotsit, of Stop Street, WC. Is that all right?”

  “Admirable,” said I.

  “And Nottarf and Wotsit, of Stop Street, were a very well known firm. They purveyed antique furniture. If you wanted a really fine set of Chippendale chairs, you couldn’t do better than go to Nottarf and Wotsit: if you wanted a refectory table, Nottarf and Wotsit were the people to whom to go: if you wanted a Queen Anne tallboy, Nottarf and Wotsit would have or would find you one.

  “Well, in due course Bowen had a baby, and the infant was brought to Cholmondeley Street, for Daphne to see and admire. And Bowen’s husband came, too. It was while he was talking to me that he told me about his job: and he interested me so much that I asked him to come and see me next Saturday afternoon. And so he did.

  “He was in ‘the faking department’. And he told me how it was done. Six copies, perhaps, would be made of a genuine, period piece. But each was slightly different. One was a little larger, and one not quite so large: one stood a little higher, and one not quite so high: but all were in perfect proportion. And when they had all been passed, they were broken down. Tables set out in the rain and thrashed with chains…wormholes inserted in chairs by special tools…and other tools reproduced the traces of rowels, belonging to Cavaliers’ spurs… You never heard such a report. That morning he had helped to ‘make up’ a room. A Tudor dining-room. An American millionaire was due at the show-rooms on Monday: he fancied Tudor stuff: and he had been recommended to go to Nottarf and Wotsit… Before he came, the head expert would scrutinize every piece, to be sure that no proof of age had been omitted or slurred.

  “‘How long have you been there?’ I asked him.

  “He told me, seven years.

  “‘Well, you must be an expert, yourself.’

  “He smiled.

  “‘Well, I
wouldn’t say that. But I know what to look for, sir.’

  “I took him into the dining-room. You remember our Hepplewhite chairs?”

  Daphne nodded.

  “Ten. And we had two made by Morris, to make up the set. They were beautifully done. After a week, you couldn’t tell which was which.”

  “He could,” said Berry. “I showed him the set, and I said nothing at all. He went over every one, and set two aside. ‘Those, sir,’ he said, ‘are copies. They’re nicely done.’ And he showed me how he could tell, but I can’t remember that.

  “The point is that he was an expert – a very reliable expert, for he’d had the finest training that any expert could have. ‘Set a thief to catch a thief.’ By that, I mean nothing against him. He was an honest man. But this was his employment. And he wasn’t an educated man. In fact, he was very simple. He never even asked me to keep the things he was saying under my hat. I did, naturally…

  “Only once did I use him, as an expert. That was when Madge and Crispin set up their London flat. Madge had fallen flat for some fine old Spanish chairs. Real Cordova leather, two hundred and fifty years old. She found them at —’s. Crispin had them round on approval, and asked me to come and see. Well, I couldn’t say: but they looked a hell of a set. So I offered to bring an expert, who’d tell them the truth. ‘But on these conditions,’ I said; ‘that you don’t ask him his name or what he is, and that you tell no one about him, for this must be kept very quiet.’ Crispin passed his word, of course. ‘But he must be a big man,’ he said. ‘How much is his fee?’ ‘He’ll ask you nothing. If you like to give him a sovereign, he’ll be as pleased as Punch.’

  “Well, I got hold of Collins – there you are.”

  “Collins,” cried Daphne. “Well done.”

  “It is wonderful, isn’t it? That after all these years, I should be able to recapture—”