It was long past noon when I was awakened by St. Hilary.
“Well,” I asked sleepily, “have you had any luck?”
“None whatever. The duke’s belongings were packed. His rooms were
dismantled. If you remember, he has been living at Bellagio the past few
days. He has a villa there.”
“So you have no trace of the missing papers?”
“No trace,” he replied gloomily. “But tell me of your own adventures
with the duke.”
“It appears,” he said ruefully, when I had finished, “that the duke has
had the advantage of us after all. But at least we have the clock.”
“Yes,” I echoed sarcastically, “we have the clock. But it seems to me
that the childish contrivances one sees sold on the boulevards of Paris
for ten sous are as ingenious. I have heard it strike four of the hours,
and each hour’s results were more disappointing than the last.”
“Did you expect to find its secret on the surface, like the pebbles on
the sea-shore? There are pebbles on the shore, yes. But, my friend, a
poet has said we must dive for the pearls.”
“The automata are all more or less broken,” I grumbled. “We gained
precious little by our trips to Holland and Russia, I think.”
“I don’t call my trip a failure.”
“But your Dutch clock-maker didn’t repair the automata,” I insisted.
“Very true. But he was able to assure me what I had already guessed and
hoped might be true–that the antics of the automata, even when the clock
was in perfect order, could never have amounted to much. Their various
movements, however droll and amusing, were too simple to have much
significance.”
“The automata have no significance!” I repeated testily. “Why, I thought
the fact that the clock as an automaton clock was precisely the
significant point. If the automata amount to no more than a row of pins,
how the devil is the clock to tell its secret?”
“My dear Hume,” returned St. Hilary quietly, “they may amount in the end
to a row of diamonds. I did not say that the automata have no
significance whatever. On the contrary, they are perhaps the principal
actors of each scene. But the chorus of each scene is to be found in the
bas-reliefs that appear on the bronze plates forming the backgrounds. If
we grant that, the office of the automaton figures is chiefly to
identify the twelve scenes in the bas-relief.”
“But if that is true, shall we be able to identify the scenes in the
backgrounds when the automatic figures are missing?”
“It will be difficult to do so, certainly. But I believe these automata
have a purpose more subtle than that. If my theory is correct, the mad
goldsmith would not tell his secret by the uncertain means of a lot of
dancing and gesticulating figures. The mechanism would be too intricate
and delicate to stand the test of wear and time. It is most probable
that the automatic figures, while serving the subsidiary purpose of
identifying the various scenes in the backgrounds, are really a bluff.
They are a blind to rob the backgrounds of their significance. They are
designed to catch the attention of the unwary. The unthinking man, held
by the movements of the figures themselves, would look no farther.”
“That is a really ingenious theory, St. Hilary,” I said admiringly.
“Be sure of this,” replied the dealer complacently, “the riddle that man
has been ingenious enough to devise, man is ingenious enough to solve.”
“Granting always that it is a consistent riddle.”
“And I have enough faith in my goldsmith to believe that,” said St.
Hilary obstinately. “But it is three minutes to one. The clock is about
to strike.”
We watched the first of the doors open, the circular platform pushed
out. A headless figure stood motionless, its right hand resting on a
lion’s head. At the stroke of the hour, the beast lifted its paw and
dropped it again. The headless figure wiggled its left hand. Then the
platform solemnly retreated, and the door was noiselessly shut.
“Doesn’t that simply cap the climax for exquisite inanity?” I cried.
“It is silly enough to bear out my theory. The raising of that lion’s
paw, the ludicrous wiggling of the solemn figure’s hand, can not
possibly have any meaning.”
“Why are you so sure of that?”
“Because the gestures were made but once. But you observed the
background?”
“It was simply the Ducal Palace,” I said indifferently, “which of itself
may mean much or nothing.”
“Precisely. It is the figure and the lion that give the scene its vital
touch. Any schoolboy could have recognized them. They stand, of course,
for San Marco, the patron saint of Venice, and his lion. And now, let us
get to work. Our first step must be to make ourselves familiar with
every detail of each scene of the hours.”
“Since the automata are useless, and, in most of the hours, are missing
entirely, why should we not take flashlight snap-shots of the twelve
backgrounds? We could then study them at our leisure.”
“Excellent. But the camera?”
“I have a very good one with an admirable lens. I can take the pictures
myself. These photos we can always carry about with us on our person.
There will be no danger of the duke’s stealing those. But the clock, we
can’t keep guard over it all the time. The duke will surely insist on
its being given up to him sooner or later. If necessary, he will call in
the police.”
“Hume, you are an inspiration. What’s your idea for getting rid of it?”
“If I shipped it to America for Mrs. Gordon, ought she not to be
grateful to me for saving her that bother!”
“But the duke could readily prevail on her to cable to America to have
it sent back to her. The ruse would give us a month’s start, it is true;
but what if we shouldn’t find the casket in a month?”
“I have thought of that. If it were sent to a wrong address, by mistake,
or to your shop, for example? And if you sent instructions that the box
was to be put carefully away until your return?”
“My dear fellow, you are a jewel of thoughtfulness. Take your
flash-lights immediately; and when you have made twelve perfect
pictures, we will pack the clock, and see ourselves that it is safely
started on its long journey to America. Until then, one or the other of
us must guard it day and night.”
I took the twelve flash-lights. They were a perfect success. Two days
later the clock was boxed, labeled “Glass, with care,” and on its way to
Genoa, whence it was to be shipped to New York.
On the same steamer was a letter from the dealer to his partner,
advising him that a box containing an article of value had been shipped
that day, and instructing him to have it stored away carefully until
further orders. All information concerning it was to be absolutely
withheld.
We acted not a day too soon. Our duke appeared again; this time armed
with legal authority. I expressed the profoundest regret, but how could
I dare to keep so valuable an antique longer in my possession, since I
had reason to know that thieves had already forced their way into my
rooms to steal it? The duke stormed and threatened. I smiled at him
blandly. When he asked me where I had sent it, I informed him that I had
despatched it to New York, in the care of St. Hilary’s partner. As to
the instructions St. Hilary had given his partner, the dealer in
antiques would doubtless tell him what they were, since he had written
them. St. Hilary lied, cheerfully and absolutely, asserting that he had
sent orders to his partner promptly to surrender the clock to any person
bearing a signed note from Mrs. Gordon.