The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries

by The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries (retail) (epub)

  Mr. Dyer drew a long breath. In his heart was unmitigated admiration for his colleague’s skill, which seemed to him to fall little short of inspiration. By-and-by, no doubt, he would sing her praises to the first person who came along with a hearty good will; he had not, however, the slightest intention of so singing them in her own ears—excessive praise was apt to have a bad effect on the rising practitioner.

  So he contented himself with saying:

  “Yes, very satisfactory. Now tell me how you hunted the fellow down to his diggings?”

  “Oh, that was mere ABC work,” answered Loveday. “Mrs. Williams told me he had left his place at Colonel James’s about six months previously, and had told her he was going to look after his dear old grandmother, who kept a sweet stuff-shop; but where she could not remember. Having heard that Emmett’s father was a cab-driver, my thoughts at once flew to the cabman’s vernacular—you know something of it, no doubt—in which their provident association is designated by the phase, ‘the dear old grandmother,’ and the office where they make and receive their payments is styled ‘the sweet stuff-shop.’ ”

  “Ha, ha, ha! And good Mrs. Williams took it all literally, no doubt?”

  “She did; and thought what a dear, kind-hearted fellow the young man was. Naturally I supposed there would be a branch of the association in the nearest market town, and a local trades’ directory confirmed my supposition that there was one at Wreford. Bearing in mind where the black bag was found, it was not difficult to believe that young Emmett, possibly through his father’s influence and his own prepossessing manners and appearance, had attained to some position of trust in the Wreford branch. I must confess I scarcely expected to find him as I did, on reaching the place, installed as receiver of the weekly moneys. Of course, I immediately put myself in communication with the police there, and the rest I think you know.”

  Mr. Dyer’s enthusiasm refused to be longer restrained.

  “It’s capital, from first to last,” he cried; “you’ve surpassed yourself this time!”

  “The only thing that saddens me,” said Loveday, “is the thought of the possible fate of that poor little Stephanie.”

  Loveday’s anxieties on Stephanie’s behalf were, however, to be put to flight before another twenty-four hours had passed. The first post on the following morning brought a letter from Mrs. Williams telling how the girl had been found before the night was over, half dead with cold and fright, on the verge of the stream running through Craigen Wood—“found too”—wrote the housekeeper, “by the very person who ought to have found her, young Holt, who was, and is so desperately in love with her. Thank goodness! at the last moment her courage failed her, and instead of throwing herself into the stream, she sank down, half-fainting, beside it. Holt took her straight home to his mother, and there, at the farm, she is now, being taken care of and petted generally by everyone.”

  The Opal of Carmalovitch

  MAX PEMBERTON

  After receiving his education at Cambridge, Max Pemberton (1863–1950) became a successful journalist, editor, and author almost immediately. He edited the boys’ magazine Chums for two years, then took over as editor of the very successful Cassell’s Magazine in 1894, a position he held for more than a decade.

  He founded the London School of Journalism and directed the Northcliffe newspaper chain, a major factor in his being knighted in 1928. With his acquaintance with Arthur Conan Doyle and other notable literary figures of the day, Pemberton was a member of an organization devoted to the study of criminology known as “Our Society.”

  Pemberton began writing while still young and had success with a long list of plays and a prolific output of novels and short stories, mainly historical adventure tales and mystery and crime fiction. In A Gentleman’s Gentleman: Being Certain Pages from the Life and Strange Adventures of Sir Nicholas Steele, Bart. as Related by His Valet, Hildebrand Bigg (1896), a valet who is a rogue is employed by an equally larcenous gentleman. Theirs is one of the first teams of crooks in literature, anticipating The Amateur Cracksman (1899) with A. J. Raffles and Bunny by three years.

  The stories in Jewel Mysteries I Have Known: From a Dealer’s Note Book (1894) each tell the adventures surrounding various valuable and unique gems. It is an unusual collection in the mystery genre in that it features a jewel dealer, Bernard Sutton, who does not work as a detective, and some of the cases do not even involve a crime.

  “The Opal of Carmalovitch” was originally published in the December 1893 issue of The English Illustrated Magazine; it was first collected in Jewel Mysteries I Have Known: From a Dealer’s Note Book (London, Ward, Lock & Bowden, 1894); the American edition was titled Jewel Mysteries from a Dealer’s Notebook (New York, R. F. Fenno, 1904).

  THE OPAL OF CARMALOVITCH

  Max Pemberton

  Dark was falling from a dull and humid sky, and the lamps were beginning to struggle for brightness in Piccadilly, when the opal of Carmalovitch was first put into my hand. The day had been a sorry one for business: no light, no sun, no stay of the downpour of penetrating mist which had been swept through the city by the driving south wind from the late dawn to the mock of sunset. I had sat in my private office for six long hours, and had not seen a customer. The umbrella-bearing throng which trod the street before my window hurried quickly through the mud and the slush, as people who had no leisure even to gaze upon precious stones they could not buy. I was going home, in fact, as the one sensible proceeding on such an afternoon, and had my hand upon the great safe to shut it, when the mirror above my desk showed me the reflection of a curious-looking man who had entered the outer shop, and stood already at the counter.

  At the first glance I judged that this man was no ordinary customer. His dress was altogether singular. He had a black coat covering him from his neck to his heels—a coat half-smothered in astrachan, and one which could have been made by no English tailor. But his hands were ungloved, and he wore a low hat, which might have been the hat of an office boy. I could see from the little window of my private room, which gives my eye command of the shop, that he had come on foot, and for lack of any umbrella was pitiably wet. Yet there was fine bearing about him, and he was clearly a man given to command, for my assistant mounted to my room with his name at the first bidding.

  “Does he say what he wants?” I asked, reading the large card upon which were the words—

  “STENILOFF CARMALOVITCH”;

  but the man replied—

  “Only that he must see you immediately. I don’t like the look of him at all.”

  “Is Abel in the shop?”

  “He’s at the door.”

  “Very well; let him come to the foot of my stairs, and if I ring as usual, both of you come up.”

  In this profession of jewel-selling—for every calling is a profession nowadays—we are so constantly cheek by jowl with swindlers that the coming of one more or less is of little moment in a day’s work. At my own place of business the material and personal precautions are so organized that the cleverest scoundrel living would be troubled to get free of the shop with sixpenny-worth of booty on him. I have two armed men ready at the ring of my bell—Abel is one of them—and a private wire to the nearest police-station. From an alcove well hidden on the right hand of the lower room, a man watches by day the large cases where the smaller gems are shown, and by night a couple of special guards have charge of the safe and the premises. I touch a bell twice in my room, and my own detective follows any visitor who gives birth in my mind to the slightest doubt. I ring three times, and any obvious impostor is held prisoner until the police come. These things are done by most jewelers in the West End; there is nothing in them either unusual or fearful. There are so many professed swindlers—so many would-be snappers up of unconsidered and considerable trifles—that precautions such as I have named are the least that common sense and common prudence will allow one to take. And they have
saved me from loss, as they have saved others again and again.

  I had scarce given my instructions to Michel, my assistant—a rare reader of intention, and a fine judge of faces—when the shabby-genteel man entered. Michel placed a chair for him on the opposite side of my desk, and then left the room. There was no more greeting between the newcomer and myself than a mutual nodding of heads; and he on his part fell at once upon his business. He took a large paper parcel from the inside pocket of his coat and began to unpack it; but there was so much paper, both brown and tissue, that I had some moments of leisure in which to examine him more closely before we got to talk. I set him down in my mind as a man hovering on the boundary line of the middle age, a man with infinite distinction marked in a somewhat worn face, and with some of the oldest clothes under the shielding long coat that I have ever looked upon. These I saw when he unbuttoned the enveloping cape to get at his parcel in the inner pocket; and while he undid it, I could observe that his fingers were thin as the talons of a bird, and that he trembled all over with the mere effort of unloosing the string.

  The operation lasted some minutes. He spoke no word during that time, but when he had reduced the coil of brown paper to a tiny square of wash-leather, I asked him—

  “Have you something to show me?”

  He looked up at me with a pair of intensely, ridiculously blue eyes, and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Should I undo all these papers if I had not?” he responded; and I saw at once that he was a man who, from a verbal point of view, stood objectionably upon the defensive.

  “What sort of a stone is it?” I went on in a somewhat uninterested tone of voice; “not a ruby, I hope. I have just bought a parcel of rubies.”

  By way of answer he opened the little wash-leather bag, and taking up my jewel-tongs, which lay at his hand, he held up an opal of such prodigious size and quality that I restrained myself with difficulty from crying out at the sight of it. It was a Cerwenitza stone, I saw at a glance, almost a perfect circle in shape, and at least four inches in diameter. There was a touch of the oxide in its color which gave it the faintest suspicion of black in the shade of its lights; but for wealth of hue and dazzling richness in its general quality, it surpassed any stone I have ever known, even that in the imperial cabinet at Vienna. So brilliant was it, so fascinating in the ever-changing play of its amazing variegations, so perfect in every characteristic of the finest Hungarian gem, that for some moments I let the man hold it out to me, and said no word. There was running through my mind the question which must have arisen under such circumstances: Where had he got it from? He had stolen it, I concluded at the first thought; and again, at the second, How else could a man who wore rags under an astrachan coat have come to the possession of a gem upon which the most commercial instinct would have hesitated to set a price?

  I had fully determined that I was face to face with a swindler, when his exclamation reminded me that he expected me to speak.

  “Well,” he said, “are you frightened to look at it?”

  He had been holding out the tongs, in which he gripped the stone lightly, for some seconds, and I had not yet ventured to touch them, sitting, I do not doubt, with surprise written all over my face. But when he spoke, I took the opal from him, and turned my strong glass upon it.

  “You seem to have brought me a fine thing,” I said as carelessly as I could. “Is it a stone with a history?”

  “It has no history—at least, none that I should care to write.”

  “And yet,” I continued, “there cannot be three larger opals in Europe; do you know the stone at Vienna?”

  “Perfectly; but it has not the black of this, and is coarser. This is an older stone, so far as the birth of its discovery goes, by a hundred years.”

  I thought that he was glib with his tale for a man who had such a poor one; and certainly he looked me in the face with amazing readiness. He had not the eyes of a rogue, and his manner was not that of one criminally restless.

  “If you will allow me,” I said, when I had looked at the stone for a few moments, “I will examine this under the brighter light there; perhaps you would like to amuse yourself with this parcel of rubies.”

  This was a favorite little trick of mine. I had two or three parcels of stones to show to any man who came to me laboring under a sorry and palpably poor story; and one of these I then took from my desk and spread upon the table under the eyes of the Russian. The stones were all imitation, and worth no more than sixpence apiece. If he were a judge, he would discover the cheat at the first sight of them; if he were a swindler, he would endeavor to steal them. In either case the test was useful. And I took care to turn my back upon him while I examined the opal, to give him every opportunity of filling his pockets should he choose.

  When I had the jewel under the powerful light of an unshaded incandescent lamp I could see that it merited all the appreciation I had bestowed upon it at first sight. It was flawless, wanting the demerit of a single mark which could be pointed to in depreciation of its price. For play of color and radiating generosity of hues, I have already said that no man has seen its equal. I put it in the scales, called Michel to establish my own opinions, tried it by every test that can be applied to a gem so fragile and so readily harmed, and came to the only conclusion possible—that it was a stone which would make a sensation in any market, and call bids from all the courts in Europe. It remained for me to learn the history of it, and with that I went back to my desk and resumed the conversation, first glancing at the sham parcel of rubies, to find that the man had not even looked at them.

  “It is a remarkable opal,” I said; “the finest ever put before me. You have come here to sell it, I presume?”

  “Exactly. I want five thousand pounds for it.”

  “And if I make you a bid you are prepared to furnish me with the history both of it and of yourself?”

  He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “If you think that I have stolen it we had better close the discussion at once. I am not prepared to tell my history to every tradesman I deal with.”

  “In that case,” said I, “you have wasted your time. I buy no jewels that I do not know all about.”

  His superciliousness was almost impertinent. It would have been quite so if it had not been dominated by an absurd and almost grotesque pride, which accounted for his temper. I was sure then that he was either an honest man or the best actor I had ever seen.

  “Think the matter over,” I added in a less indifferent tone; “I am certain that you will then acquit me of unreasonableness. Call here again in a day or two, and we will have a chat about it.”

  This softer speech availed me as little as the other. He made no sort of answer to it, but packing his opal carefully again, he rose abruptly and left the shop. As he went I touched my bell twice, and Abel followed him quietly down Piccadilly, while I sent a line to Scotland Yard informing the Commissioners of the presence of such a man as the Russian in London, and of the Gargantuan jewel which he carried. Then I went home through the fog and the humid night; but my way was lighted by a memory of the magnificent gem I had seen, and the hunger for the opal was already upon me.

  The inquiry at Scotland Yard proved quite futile. The police telegraphed to Paris, to Berlin, to St. Petersburg, to New York, but got no tidings either of a robbery or of the man whom mere circumstances pointed at as a pretender. This seemed to me the more amazing since I could not conceive that a stone such as this was should not have made a sensation in some place. Jewels above all material things do not hide their light under bushels. Let there be a great find at Kimberley or in the Burmese mines; let a fine emerald or a perfect turquoise be brought to Europe, and every dealer in the country knows its weight, its color, and its value before three days have passed. If this man, who hugged this small fortune to him, and without it was a beggar, had been a worker at Cerwenitza, he would have told me the fact plainly. B
ut he spoke of the opal being older even than the famous and commonly cited specimen at Vienna. How came it that he alone had the history of such an ancient gem? There was only one answer to such a question—the history of his possession of it, at any rate, would not bear inquiry.