But when George looked for the new issue of Young Reporter at the news-stand the next morning, it wasn’t there. The proprietor assured him it would arrive that afternoon. Too bad, thought George, I’ll have to get it some other time. It wasn’t that important, after all, the comic strip was just something of an intriguing coincidence.
He arrived punctually at the Red Rose Hotel, a sprawling, comfortable old hotel in the centre of town, and was told to go right up as Mr Woodley-Foxe was expecting him. George knocked on the door and got an impatient, ‘Come in.’
Dressed in a splendid black velvet dressing-gown over a pair of red flannel pyjamas, a red fez on his head, the detective was seated at a table, magnifying glass in hand, sorting through what looked like a pile of old envelopes. A cup of coffee, and a recently-snuffed candle, stood at his elbow. He waved a hand at George. ‘You can make a start right now.’
‘Sir?’
‘I found these at Charlton Hall, stuffed in a box. I want you to sort through them, see if you can find anything odd or suspicious.’
George stared at the envelopes. ‘Does Lady Eleanor know you have these, sir?’ he said, faintly.
‘Of course not! A good detective does not always ask permission. You have much to learn, boy. Lady Eleanor said she’d thrown The Shadow’s card into the fire, but she didn’t say anything about the envelope, so I went looking for it. Besides, it’s all right. Lady Eleanor will think the police have taken it; and the police won’t even have thought to look for it.’
George nodded, uncertainly. Eddy had lectured him about interfering with the case. He’d said the theft of Lady Eleanor’s diamonds was now in the hands of the police and Woodley-Foxe had better not meddle. But George could hardly say that to his new employer!
‘Look through these, see if anything strikes you. Use the magnifying glass. Don’t bother about checking for invisible ink. I’ve already done that, with the candle. You do know how that’s done, I presume?’
‘Oh, yes, sir!’ said George, eagerly. ‘You light a candle and hold the flame underneath the paper. If there’s anything written in invisible ink — lemon juice, or whatever — then the heat from the flame will make it appear. I read about it in one of your articles, sir. It was fascinating!’
‘Excellent.’ The detective drained his coffee and stood up. ‘I am pleased some young people take the trouble to inform themselves! Now, George, get started. I’m going to get ready. We’ll be leaving soon.’
He went off into the adjoining bathroom with a pile of clothes, and closed the door. There was the sound of water gushing forth from taps.
Left alone, George began his task. The envelopes were a rather ordinary and unpromising lot. Most of them were hand-written, in a variety of styles, using blue or black ink. The stamps had been steamed off — obviously someone in Lady Eleanor’s house was a collector. Some had return addresses on the back flap; George saw Mrs Paisley’s name and address on the back of several of them. Of course, Lady Eleanor had said she was one of her closest friends. A fair few were official kinds of envelopes, from solicitors’ firms, tradesmen, and one from Internal Revenue. These had been type-written. They all looked very boring. There was nothing odd or suspicious or even noteworthy about any of them.
He came to the final two. One was a large printed envelope from a mail-order seed catalogue, the other was personal, with Lady Eleanor’s name and address written in a flowing hand, in deep-purple ink. It was of much better quality than the others, being thick and cream-coloured with deckle edges. George looked at the back flap. There was no name there. He turned the envelope over. The stamp had been steamed off. There was a bit of the franking mark left, though. He peered at it through the magnifying glass. He could just make out the date, though not the location from where it had been sent. The date was about two months before.
He sniffed the envelope. Faint traces of perfume lingered there. Something about it made his nerves tingle. It stood out amongst all the ordinary envelopes. Using the magnifying glass, George studied the envelope from all angles — outside, inside, horizontally, vertically. He was still looking at it when Woodley-Foxe came out of the bathroom, freshly brushed and shaved, and dressed in smart plaid plus-fours. ‘Well?’
‘There’s just this, sir.’ George handed it to him. The detective looked closely at it. He turned it over. ‘Hmm. Why did you pick out this one?’
‘Well, I just thought it was different from the others. And it’s the kind of envelope a card might be sent in.’
‘Hmm,’ said the detective again. He put the envelope down and surveyed George. ‘Rule number one,’ he said, genially. ‘Never put two and two together too quickly. And use your powers of logic and deduction. Quite apart from anything else, the franking mark is two months ago — but The Shadow’s first communication to Lady Eleanor was only a month ago.’ Ignoring George’s crestfallen expression, he picked up the mail-order catalogue envelope. ‘Now this one, for instance, you didn’t linger over, did you?’
George was bemused. ‘No, Mr Woodley-Foxe.’
‘But this one is printed, just as Lady Eleanor said The Shadow’s envelope was. She distinctly said it was printed.’
‘I thought that was the card, sir …’
‘No. The envelope too. Now then. She didn’t say it wasn’t a mail-order catalogue envelope, did she?’
‘No, sir, but …’
‘But you didn’t even consider that, did you? You’ve wasted your time wondering about that other one, just because it’s scented and written in purple ink, when you should have been looking at printed envelopes, and asking to look up the names of the firms in the phonebook, in case they do not exist, but are merely fronts for The Shadow. Criminals in my experience often do things like that. It is only in novels that they send evidence in deckle-edged scented envelopes.’
‘Oh,’ said a disappointed George.
‘Don’t look so sad, boy,’ said Woodley-Foxe, kindly. ‘It takes time to learn the business. And not everyone can be naturally gifted, of course. Throw all those personal envelopes in the fire, and keep the printed ones. When you’ve finished that, go and ask for the phonebook and look up the firms. Make a note of their phone numbers. I’m just going down to morning tea.’ With that he was gone, closing the door briskly behind him.
Feeling dejected, George did as he was told. But just as he was about to throw the purple-ink envelope into the fire, a rebellious spirit caught hold of him. It was likely it meant nothing at all, but like the comic strip in the Young Reporter, something about the envelope intrigued him. He pushed it into his pocket. He’d hang on to it, just in case. He’d say nothing about it, or the comic strip, though. Not yet.
After that he went downstairs and painstakingly cross-checked each firm’s address and number in the phonebook. It was a dull job. But they all tallied — except for the mail-order seed company, which was not listed at all. That was not surprising. Not everyone had a phone, even in this modern age and it was a mail-order company, after all, not a phone-order one.
Woodley-Foxe, however, was delighted. He said they would motor straightaway to the address printed on the seed company’s envelope, a few miles south of Greater Charlton. They would soon see if it was a real company or not, he said. George had no idea why it shouldn’t be, or why such a firm should have anything to do with The Shadow. But then, Woodley-Foxe was a genius of detection, and his sharp intuition obviously made him see things ordinary minds would have gone right past. Actually, those were the words — or close to them, he was too modest to actually use the term ‘genius’ — that the detective himself used when happily lecturing George about how in an investigation you must not overlook any detail, unusual or otherwise.
Nine
When Daisy came down to breakfast, she found Mrs Peabody already there. Dressed in a dusty-pink jersey suit, with a blonde curly wig and rose-tinted glasses, her employer was sitting at a table with a rather handsome elderly gentleman who wore an old-fashioned waxed moustache. There were
guests at a couple of other tables, as far away from the range of Mrs Peabody’s loud voice as was possible. Otherwise, the breakfast room was empty. The St-Remys were either not up yet or had already breakfasted. And there was no sign of Olivia Marlow or her friends.
Mrs Peabody waved her fork impatiently at Daisy. ‘Come and meet my new friend, Mr Cornelius Meyer from Amsterdam. Just fancy, he’s in the same line of business as my dear Alfred. Indeed, he thinks he may have met him once.’
‘It is possible,’ said Mr Meyer, cautiously. He spoke very good English with only a slight Dutch accent on certain words. ‘Good day, Miss Miller. I haff heard a great deal about you from your employer. She says you are a treasure.’
‘Oh,’ said Daisy, rather uncomfortably.
‘Mr Meyer and I, we have also been talking diamonds,’ said Mrs Peabody, ignoring Daisy’s discomfort and gesturing to the waitress to bring more coffee. ‘Specifically expensive diamonds that really should be kept under lock and key.’
‘Oh, I don’t know that I said that, exactly, dear lady,’ said Mr Meyer, with a faint smile. ‘Only that care should be taken with certain stones.’
Daisy must have looked blank, because Mr Meyer added, ‘We are talking about a certain fine stone we all saw last night, adorning the neck of a certain beautiful young lady.’
‘He means the Blue Moon,’ said Mrs Peabody, with a laugh. ‘Diamond merchants like Mr Meyer here always speak in riddles and enigmas. It goes with the job of mystification — selling a dead piece of carbonised rock to people with more money than sense requires you to cloak things in all the glamour of fairyland.’
‘Dear lady!’ said Mr Meyer, turning pink and sounding profoundly shocked. Daisy was shocked, too. How could anyone describe the Blue Moon Diamond in such prosaic terms?
Mrs Peabody laughed uproariously. ‘Why, Mr Meyer, I believe I’ve shocked you! But you know what I say is true.’
‘I most certainly do not agree,’ said Mr Meyer, frostily. ‘A diamond like the Blue Moon is not a dead rock, or ordinary in any sense of the term. It does not need to be cloaked with the glamour of fairyland because it is the very essence of such glamour.’
So true, thought Daisy. Mrs Peabody, however, shook her head. ‘Oh, it’s fun for those as want such things to go around flashing them, and I’ll grant you it looked pretty decorative last night, but take a few drops of crystal from the chandelier, set them in a necklace, and I’ll bet you people will be just as attracted by the sparkle, especially if they’re told it’s diamonds they’re looking at.’
Mr Meyer was saved from answering by the entrance of Olivia Marlow herself. She didn’t look sophisticated and glamorous, as she had last night, but fragile and girlish, in a pale yellow frock, light cardigan, and open-toed sandals of the same pretty primrose colour as her frock. She was not wearing the Blue Moon Diamond, of course. In fact, she wore no jewellery at all.
Miss Marlow sat down at a table by herself. The waitress hurried over to her. In her clear voice Olivia Marlow asked for ‘Just a glass of orange juice and a sweet roll, please,’ making everyone else, with their plates piled with hot food, look like pigs at the trough.
‘She looks lonely, don’t you think, Miss Miller, Mrs Peabody?’ said Mr Meyer in a low voice. ‘Poor young thing.’ He saw Daisy’s surprised expression, and said, ‘I know a few people in Luxenstein, you see — I haff been there on business several times — and I haff heard that all is not roses in the garden of love.’
Mrs Peabody took a good forkful of her bacon and kidneys. ‘Mr Meyer means that the prince is dragging his feet about the engagement Miss Marlow would like him to announce,’ she said, through a mouthful of food.
The Dutchman winced. ‘It’s not him, but his mother, the formidable Dowager Princess Hildegarde, who has made things difficult. I don’t believe she thinks anyone is good enough for her son, especially not an actress of what she calls doubtful parentage.’
‘She was an adopted child, wasn’t she?’ said Daisy. ‘I remember reading about it once in a magazine.’
‘Yes, but her adoptive family is most respectable. Anyway, it’s not as if the Princess had anything to be so high and mighty about — her own mother was a chorus girl. I think the real reason is that she knows Miss Marlow is a woman of character whom she cannot boss around. She wants her son to marry one of her ladies in waiting, a plain, characterless sort of girl who she can dominate.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible! Poor Miss Marlow!’ breathed Daisy, fascinated.
‘Yes, indeed,’ sighed Mr Meyer. ‘Poor lonely child … I think she’s desperately hoping he might follow her here, show his mother once and for all in front of the world that he loves her and wants to marry her.’
Mrs Peabody laughed. ‘Stardust in your eyes! Lonely child indeed! Desperately hoping indeed! Girl doesn’t look in the least bit lonely or desperate to me. She’s got the prince just where she wants him — what’s the bet he’ll run over here as soon as he knows she’s here, being feted by all those silly young men? He’ll be announcing that engagement quick smart, you mark my words. What’s more, he’s given her a most expensive diamond bauble, a family jewel, no less! I’d say she’s playing her cards just right, dowager princess or no dowager princess! Miss Marlow’s sharp as a tack.’
Mr Meyer drew himself up with a sniff. ‘You are wrong! She plays, yes, she makes as if she has not a care in the world — but I think, me, that she is breaking her heart.’
‘Oh, I think that’s so true!’ said Daisy, looking over at the solitary primrose figure. ‘Though I think she’s taking it awfully well. It doesn’t do to mope.’
‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ said Mrs Peabody, robustly. ‘That soulful look you see on her face — that’s just her wondering which shop she’ll spend most money in today.’
‘I do believe you are a real cynic, madam,’ said Mr Meyer, smiling rather sourly.
‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Peabody. ‘Just realistic.’
Mr Meyer got up. ‘If you will excuse me, I have an appointment I must get to very soon. It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Miller. And Mrs Peabody. I trust you will have a pleasant day.’
‘See you at dinner, Mr Meyer,’ said Mrs Peabody.
‘Till then, dear lady,’ said Mr Meyer, bowing a little stiffly. They watched him walk out of the dining room. He paused at Olivia Marlow’s table, bowed, and said a few words softly to her. She smiled radiantly and held out her hand. Beaming, he kissed it. Then he bowed again and left the room.
‘Well, well,’ said Mrs Peabody, in a jolly tone of voice. ‘I think I might have really shocked him, Daisy! Interesting how people are. Especially men. Easily influenced by big eyes and a soft voice, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Mrs Peabody.’
She laughed. ‘You are talking to another woman, dearie. No need to be so coy.’
Daisy was rather dismayed by the thought of sharing womanhood with Mrs Peabody, but she could hardly say so.
Mrs Peabody leant over to her. ‘A word in your ear. The Countess told me your Victor was smitten with the Marlow girl last summer, apparently. She allowed him to be her errand boy — but he was only a decoy for her — she was really interested in Prince Ottokar, who was in France on holiday, you see.’
‘It’s not my business,’ said Daisy, in a strangled voice. But she remembered Victor’s words and understood now his attitude to the actress. He must have felt she had used him.
Mrs Peabody gurgled with laughter. ‘Course it’s not!’
Daisy felt like hitting her, but instead concentrated ferociously on her rapidly-cooling breakfast.
Just then, the concierge came into the dining room. He went to Olivia Marlow’s table and handed her a letter. She looked at it, turning it over. There was a slight frown on her face. She opened the envelope and took out what looked like a square, printed card. All the colour left her face. She gave a little gasp and her shoulders slumped as if she were about to faint.
Daisy didn’t stop to think. She went ov
er at once. ‘Miss Marlow, what is it? Are you ill?’
Other breakfasters started up, all but Mrs Peabody. They crowded around the actress, giving contradictory advice.
‘Give her some air!’
‘She needs warmth!’
‘Get her some water!’
‘No, brandy!’
‘Call the concierge!’
‘No, her maid!’
Olivia Marlow struggled up. She tried to smile. In a low voice she said, ‘Please. It’s all right. I’m all right. Sorry to be a nuisance.’
Someone hurried in with a glass of water, and another of brandy. The receptionist was in tow. She looked rather worried. ‘Miss Marlow, can we get you a doctor?’
Olivia Marlow drained the glass of water, then the brandy. She waved a hand. ‘No, please, don’t worry. A momentary dizziness, that’s all.’ She put a hand over the card on the table, but not before Daisy had caught a glimpse of it. After hearing what Mr Meyer had said, she’d thought it would be something to do with the Princess Hildegarde. But it looked like an invitation to a show of some sort. Someone called The Shadow was inviting Olivia Marlow to a play called ‘Once in a Blue Moon’. Daisy was puzzled. She couldn’t see why an invitation to a play would make Olivia Marlow nearly faint.
Olivia Marlow smiled a rather watery smile. ‘I will go up to my room and lie down for a moment or two. Ah — here’s Mary,’ she said, as a thin young woman in a maid’s uniform came hurrying into the room. ‘She’ll look after me. Don’t worry. And thank you. You’ve all been very kind.’ She gave Daisy an especially big smile, then got up, helped by Mary. She picked up the card and envelope and put them in her bag. Leaning on the maid’s arm, she went slowly out of the room. Everyone watched.
‘Poor child, she doesn’t look at all well,’ said a red-faced man.
‘Doesn’t eat enough,’ said a stout woman, with a sniff.
The Case of the Diamond Shadow Page 5
