by Molly Thynne
Miller stared at him as though he could hardly believe his ears, then, for the first time, Arkwright saw him smile, and was irresistibly reminded of one of those ivory figures of the more amiable Chinese deities. The smile broadened, as though Miller was slowly digesting his own private joke.
“But this is funny,” he said, at last. “It would give me pleasure to oblige you, Inspector, but I am afraid I cannot bring any charge against these men.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Arkwright mastered his annoyance with difficulty.
“Am I to understand that you refuse to charge these men?” he asked, his voice ominously quiet.
Miller beamed on him.
“But certainly, Inspector. I am sorry, very sorry, you should have been put to so much inconvenience, but you must admit that it would have been wiser if you had seen fit to consult me in the first instance. As it is, much as I should like to oblige you, I cannot ask you to arrest these men for a crime they have not committed. That would hardly be in accordance with your English ideas of justice, I think?”
Arkwright did not miss the covert sneer that underlay the last sentence. He had learned self-control in a hard school, but even he was hard put to it to keep a hold on his temper now. Hoover’s confession had effectually removed any doubt he had had that the case was one of blackmail, and, knowing from experience the reluctance the victims of this basest form of extortion almost invariably showed to take any risk of publicity, he had been prepared for trouble in persuading Miller to act. But that he should blandly deny having paid Parker for his silence was carrying things too far. A glance at Bloomfield did not serve to smooth his feelings. The secretary’s dark face was impassive, but the derisive triumph in his eyes was unmistakable.
Miller, having shot his bolt, sat waiting, with something perilously like a smirk on his wizened face. Arkwright eyed him coldly.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to explain yourself, Mr. Miller,” he said.
Miller threw out his hands, palm upwards.
“Of course. Though, frankly, it is an explanation I should have preferred to avoid. It is not surprising that you should have mistaken a purely business transaction for something much more irregular, but I think I can set your mind at rest. This man, Parker, came to me some time ago with a story about an Italian he had met here in London. At the time, he would not tell me the man’s name, but he declared that he was the head of an old and very impoverished Italian family and was being forced by circumstances to sell certain of his family effects. As you may know, there are very stringent laws in Italy against the removal of such things from the country and, according to Parker, he had already helped this man to dispose of a picture which he had managed to smuggle over to England. He was anxious now to find a market for a piece of jewellery. Now pictures do not interest me, but jewels do and, according to his description, this one was a collector’s piece. An Italian sixteenth century pendant, in enamelled gold, representing Apollo, and set with diamonds, emeralds, rubies and pearls. These transactions are more common than you might think and, though they might be called irregular, they are not illegal in this country. Parker undertook to arrange for the safe transport of the pendant, which was still in Italy, to London, provided I were prepared to pay the price the owner was asking. This would, of course, cover Parker’s commission. As it happened I had a customer who I knew would be interested, and Parker’s offer impressed me as being so genuine that I got in touch with a friend of mine, a jeweller, in Berne and asked him, next time his business took him to Italy, to call on the owner and inspect the pendant. He did so, verified Parker’s story and reported that the piece was well worth the sum asked for it. I therefore approached Parker again and told him that I would deal, provided he could deliver the goods. How he proposed to get the pendant out of Italy I naturally did not ask.”
Arkwright’s eyes narrowed.
“How did you get in touch with Parker?” he asked sharply.
There was the fraction of a pause before Miller answered, but his explanation was glib enough when it came.
“I had told him at our last meeting to ring me up in a fortnight’s time. He never gave me his address and I did not ask for it. I was naturally anxious not to be mixed up in the transaction before the actual sale took place and the less I knew about him the better.”
Bloomfield’s chair creaked gently as he recrossed his legs. Arkwright had a sensation of tension suddenly relaxed.
“What passed between you when you telephoned? Did he arrange to call on you?”
Miller shook his head.
“After the first interview I never saw him again. His letters to me were brought by hand and the messenger waited for an answer. If I was out he called again on the following day. I had no objection to the arrangement. From my point of view the less he came to the house the better.”
“You could identify this messenger, I suppose, if necessary?”
Miller threw out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
“I never saw him. Mr. Bloomfield had instructions to receive the letters he brought and hand him mine in return. I should like to make it clear that Mr. Bloomfield was acting quite blindly in this matter. The whole business was, as I say, irregular and I felt that the fewer people who were involved in it the better.”
Arkwright picked up the envelope.
“I take it that this contains the price of the pendant?”
“That is so.”
“The thing is already in your possession?”
“Parker left it at my office yesterday. I suppose he did not care to trust the messenger with it. I am going by my head clerk’s description of the man who brought it. I was not there myself at the time. As soon as I arrived I examined the pendant carefully, decided that it was up to the specification and handed the money to Mr. Bloomfield, telling him that it would be called for. So far as I was concerned the deal was over. I was absolutely astounded when you announced that Parker was in custody.”
“Is it customary to carry through transactions of this sort through comparative strangers? Weren’t you taking a good deal for granted in dealing with Parker?”
“It was not until after I had received my Swiss friend’s report that I consented to deal with him,” pointed out Miller. “Once I had satisfied myself that he could deliver the goods and that the article had been come by honestly I considered that I had taken all necessary precautions. In my profession one has to take certain risks. Owing to the circumstances, the deal was an exceptionally good one from my point of view and, if I had refused to negotiate, Parker would have taken his offer elsewhere.”
“It seems a risky business to entrust to a stranger. Parker had never carried through any such transaction for you before, had he?” suggested Arkwright, deftly leading him on to the admission that was to be his undoing.
But, even as he spoke, he knew he was too late. He saw Miller’s hand close with a convulsive grip on the arm of his chair and, following his eyes, caught them as they rested for a fraction of a second on the passport that lay beside Bloomfield’s envelope on the table. He knew he had only his own carelessness to thank for what followed.
Miller hesitated, then, with an admirable assumption of confusion, told the truth.
“I am afraid I may have misled you as to my acquaintance with Parker,” he admitted. “The man has been unfortunate and is trying his best to make a fresh start and I was afraid if I told you what I knew about him it would serve to prejudice you against him. But, as you have asked the question, I must answer it. Parker was not unknown to me, though I have never had any dealings with him in this country. He was, however, in my employ in Cape Town at one time and, until he was suddenly arrested for dealing in stolen property, I had every faith in him. The most painful part of the whole affair to me was the fact that he had used my business as a cloak to cover his transactions. He was convicted and has already paid in full for what he did. When he came to me I was glad to help him. Parker is not his real name, by the way.”
He had wriggled out of an awkward corner with amazing swiftness and dexterity. Not only had he been quick to realise the probable significance of the passport, but, handicapped by his ignorance of whether Arkwright had heard of the Cape Town episode, he had neutralised it by cleverly backing his horse both ways. If Arkwright knew nothing he would naturally look upon Parker as the sole culprit; on the other hand, should he be in possession of the real facts, he could hardly blame Miller for telling only a half truth. He had hampered Arkwright effectively, if only temporarily, by a story which, he was bound to admit, might be true, but which he viewed with the utmost scepticism.
“May I have the address of this Swiss gentleman?” he said. “And I’m afraid I must ask you to let me see the letters that passed between you and Parker.”
“My friend’s name is Herr Oppenheimer, and his address, 7. Alpenstrasse, Berne. As regards the letters, I am afraid I destroyed them on receipt of the pendant. My business takes me occasionally to Italy and, should any details of the affair leak out later, the less trace of my part in it the better. Parker gave me his word that he would do the same with my letters to him. I can show you the pendant, of course.”
“And the name of the original Italian owner?”
Miller drew himself up with a fine assumption of dignity.
“That, Inspector, I am within my rights in refusing to give you.” he exclaimed, with some show of indignation. “I have submitted meekly to questions which I might very well have declined to answer and have succeeded in proving to you that I have not acted in any way against the laws of this country. But this Italian gentleman is in a very different position. He is liable to prosecution if the truth leaks out in his own country.”
Arkwright nodded.
“I see,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I need trouble you further, Mr. Miller. You have no reason to believe that this man, Parker, or Greeve, bears any grudge against you, I suppose?”
Miller stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Considering that I have just put a fat commission in his pockets, certainly not. I should say he had every reason to be grateful.”
There was nothing for it, after he had gone, but to hand the envelope to Parker, with as good a grace as possible and then release the two men. Parker was cautioned that any attempt to molest Hoover would meet with swift retribution.
“I’ve done with him,” was his contemptuous rejoinder. “He’s safe enough as far as I’m concerned.”
Hoover plucked up sufficient courage to run after him as he left the building.
“What about me money?” he was heard to say as Parker shook him off.
Parker’s reply was lost in the roar of the traffic.
Arkwright sent a cable to the police at Berne, asking them to look up Oppenheimer and get him to confirm Miller’s story. Later in the afternoon Miller’s clerk called at the Yard with a parcel in which was a leather case containing a very beautiful enamel and jewelled pendant. He also brought a letter from the jeweller, emphasising the value of the piece and demanding a receipt for it. Arkwright regarded the pendant with a distaste it certainly did not deserve and that night, when he dined at the Club, he carried it with him. His own knowledge of such things was nil, but Constantine, if he were lucky enough to find him, would be able to tell him if Miller’s estimate of its worth were correct.
The old man came in just as Arkwright was beginning his soup and joined him. Arkwright handed him the case.
“What would you say that was?” he asked. “Date, value and that sort of thing. Is it what you would call a collector’s piece?”
Constantine examined it carefully.
“I’m not an expert,” he said at last, “but if this is genuine I should say it was a Renaissance jewel, probably sixteenth century Italian. If it is genuine, probably worth anything from five to eight hundred pounds.”
“Are these things rare? Of this date and quality, I mean?”
“I saw one at Christie’s, practically a replica of this, about six months ago. So far as I remember it fetched just under eight hundred.”
Arkwright’s eyes narrowed.
“You said practically a replica. Could it have been this one?”
Constantine bent over it once more.
“It might have been. As I said, I’m not a collector, so I didn’t examine it carefully. I do remember the price, as the bidding was very hot and a friend of mine, who goes in for this sort of thing, only dropped out quite at the end. I don’t know who bought it. The one I saw was an Apollo with Lute and it was jewelled in much the same way. More than that I dare not say.”
“One could find out, I suppose?”
Constantine looked dubious.
“You might meet with success,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s not so easy as you would think. Christie’s have no doubt got the specifications and may know the present owner, but it’s not unusual to find replicas of these pendants and there are some admirable forgeries in existence. This may very well be a copy. So far as the present owner is concerned, he may have bought it through an agent or it may have been sold again, not once but several times, since it came up at Christie’s. It would be worth trying, however.”
Arkwright repeated to him Miller’s story of the pendant.
“How does it strike you?” he asked, when he had finished.
“It’s clever,” answered Constantine, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “so clever that I can quite appreciate your feelings! And it may be true. Such things do happen. The worst of it is that it’s perfectly in keeping with what we already know of Miller. According to all accounts, he has kept carefully on the right side of the law since he came to England, no doubt as the result of the lesson he learned in Cape Town, but a deal of this kind is exactly what would appeal to him. He would safeguard himself in precisely the way he described. But there is one thing that, in my opinion, does not ring true.”
Arkwright raised his eyebrows.
“There’s a good deal, to my mind, but you know more of the tricks of the trade than I do. Where’s the hitch?”
“He’s the last man, I should imagine, to hold out a helping hand to Greeve, after what has happened. I should even doubt his employing him, however advantageous the deal might be to himself. His instinct would be to keep clear of the man at all costs.”
“Unless Greeve has some hold over him.”
“Exactly. But we must take into account that, if Miller is under the impression that no one in this country is aware of the Cape Town scandal, Greeve is in a position to make himself very troublesome. In view of Miller’s business connections here he may have found it worth while to buy his silence.”
“Meanwhile he’s got us cold,” assented Arkwright grimly. “Our only course is to get what information we can from this fellow, Oppenheimer, and he’s probably hand and glove with Miller. I’ll try my luck at Christie’s and then send this thing back to Miller. Anyway, he’s produced a pendant, which is more than I expected!”
Arkwright’s visit to the auctioneers turned out much as Constantine had predicted. While admitting that the pendant might have passed through their hands, they could give no definite opinion. Neither could they say, at a glance, whether it was genuine or not. It was certainly a fine piece of work, but these pendants had been extensively copied and, supposing it to be genuine, there were probably several in existence. It might be identical with the one they had handled six months before, which had been knocked down to an agent who acted for several prominent firms in London. On asking his address Arkwright learned that he had died about four months ago. He reflected bitterly that, if Miller’s story were a fabrication, the gods certainly seemed to be on his side.
He said as much to Constantine, who rang him up soon after eight thirty that evening.
“You sound exasperated,” was the old man’s unfeeling comment. “Would it be rubbing it in unduly if I rounded up a satisfactory day’s work by calling on you for a little information?”
“Not at all
,” Arkwright assured him. “Why so abominably cheerful?”
“Possibly because I am not dependent for my information on Mr. Miller,” chuckled Constantine maliciously. “Expect me in half an hour.”
When the door opened to admit him Arkwright, who had barely recovered from the exasperations of the afternoon, eyed him fretfully.
“You look as jolly as a sand boy,” he said disapprovingly. “I believe you really enjoy a good murder.”
The animation died out of Constantine’s eyes.
“A shrewd hit,” he said, “but an unkind one. I love a puzzle of any kind, and, for my own peace of mind, I find it pleasanter to disregard what the newspapers call ‘the human interest’ and approach the thing as I would a chess problem. For the last few hours I’ve been trying to keep those two poor women out of my mind.”
“For the last few hours?” queried Arkwright shrewdly.
There was no doubt about Constantine’s gravity now.
“It is just beginning to dawn on me,” he said, “that this is a more abominable business than either of us suspected.”
Arkwright stared at him.
“Miller?” he queried. “But he’s definitely out of it. His alibis are unassailable.”
Constantine’s lips curved, but his eyes did not lose their sternness.
“That’s where my problem becomes interesting,” he replied. “I went one step towards solving it this afternoon, but I must admit that I don’t see my way ahead yet. I came for another look at those notes you got from the garage proprietor.”
Arkwright produced them and watched the old man as he spread the soiled notes out in front of him and, with a piece of green billiard chalk, proceeded to copy the stain onto a clean pound note that he took from his case.
“Billiard chalk,” he exclaimed. “It’s an idea!”
“Say rather, a forlorn hope,” amended Constantine. “A good many things might have caused that stain, and billiard chalk is one of them. I’m banking on the habit many players have of keeping the chalk in their waistcoat pockets.”
