Dorrington smiled the smile of a sphinx. "M. Bouvier," he said, "it is
my trade to know everything--everything." He put the pen down and gazed
whimsically at the other. "My agents are everywhere. You talk of the
secret agent of the Russian police--they are nothing. It is my trade
to know all things. For instance"--Dorrington unlocked a drawer and
produced a book (it was but an office diary), and, turning its pages,
went on. "Let me see--B. It is my trade, for instance, to know about
the Café des Bons Camarades, established by the late Madame Bouvier,
now unhappily deceased. It is my trade to know of Madame Bouvier at
Bonneuil, where the charcoal was burnt, and where Madame Bouvier was
unfortunately left a widow at the time of the siege of Paris, because
of some lamentable misunderstanding of her husband's with a file
of Prussian soldiers by an orchard wall. It is my trade, moreover,
to know something of the sad death of that husband's brother--in
a pit--and of the later death of his widow. Oh yes. More" (turning
a page attentively, as though following detailed notes), "it is my
trade to know of a little quarrel between those brothers--it might
even have been about a diamond, just such a diamond as you have come
about to-night--and of jewels missed from the Tuileries in the great
Revolution a hundred years ago." He shut the book with a bang and
returned it to its place. "And there are other things--too many to talk
about," he said, crossing his legs and smiling calmly at the Frenchman.
During this long pretence at reading, Bouvier had slid farther and
farther forward on his chair, till he sat on the edge, his eyes staring
wide, and his chin dropped. He had been pale when he arrived, but now
he was of a leaden gray. He said not a word.
Dorrington laughed lightly. "Come," he said, "I see you are astonished.
Very likely. Very few of the people and families whose _dossiers_ we
have here" (he waved his hand generally about the room) "are aware of
what we know. But we don't make a song of it, I assure you, unless
it is for the benefit of clients. A client's affairs are sacred, of
course, and our resources are at his disposal. Do I understand that
you become a client?"
Bouvier sat a little farther back on his chair and closed his mouth.
"A--a--yes," he answered at length, with an effort, moistening his lips
as he spoke. "That is why I come."
"Ah, now we shall understand each other," Dorrington replied genially,
opening an ink-pot and clearing his blotting-pad. "We're not connected
with the police here, or anything of that sort, and except so far as
we can help them we leave our client's affairs alone. You wish to be
a client, and you wish me to recover your lost diamond. Very well,
that is business. The first thing is the usual fee in advance--twenty
guineas. Will you write a cheque?"
Bouvier had recovered some of his self-possession, and he hesitated.
"It is a large fee," he said.
"Large? Nonsense! It is the sort of fee that might easily be swallowed
up in half a day's expenses. And besides--a rich diamond merchant like
yourself!"
Bouvier looked up quickly. "Diamond merchant?" he said. "I do not
understand. I have lost my diamond--there was but one."
"And yet you go to Hatton Garden every day."
"What!" cried Bouvier, letting his hand fall from the table, "you know
that too?"
"Of course," Dorrington laughed, easily; "it is my trade, I tell you.
But write the cheque."
Bouvier produced a crumpled and dirty cheque-book and complied, with
many pauses, looking up dazedly from time to time into Dorrington's
face.
"Now," said Dorrington, "tell me where you kept your diamond, and all
about it."
"It was in an old little wooden box--so." Bouvier, not yet quite master
of himself, sketched an oblong of something less than three inches
long by two broad. "The box was old and black--my grandfather may have
made it, or his father. The lid fitted very tight, and the inside was
packed with fine charcoal powder with the diamond resting in it. The
diamond--oh, it was great; like that--so." He made another sketch,
roughly square, an inch and a quarter across. "But it looked even much
greater still, so bright, so wonderful! It is easy to understand that
my grandfather did not sell it--beside the danger. It is so beautiful
a thing, and it is such great riches--all in one little box. Why
should not a poor charcoal-burner be rich in secret, and look at his
diamond, and get all the few things he wants by burning his charcoal?
And there was the danger. But that is long ago. I am a man of beesness,
and I desired to sell it and be rich. And that Jacques--he has stolen
it!"
"Let us keep to the point. The diamond was in a box. Well, where was
the box?"
"On the outside of the box there were notches--so, and so. Round the
box at each place there was a tight, strong, silk cord--that is two
cords. The cords were round my neck, under my shirt, so. And the box
was under my arm--just as a boy carries his satchel, but high up--in
the armpit, where I could feel it at all times. To-night, when I come
to myself, my collar was broken at the stud--see--the cords were
cut--and all was gone!"
"You say your cousin Jacques has done this. How do you know?"
"Ah! But who else? Who else could know? And he has always tried to
steal it. At first, I let him wait at the Café des Bons Camarades. What
does he do? He prys about my house, and opens drawers; and I catch him
at last looking in a box, and I turn him out. And he calls me a thief!
_Sacré!_ He goes--I have no more of him; and so--he does this!"
"Very well. Write down his name and address on this piece of paper, and
your own." Bouvier did so. "And now tell me what you have been doing at
Hatton Garden."
"Well, it was a very great diamond--I could not go to the first man and
show it to sell. I must make myself known."
"It never struck you to get the stone cut in two, did it?"
"Eh? What?--_Nom de chien!_ No!" He struck his knee with his hand.
"Fool! Why did I not think of that? But still"--he grew more
thoughtful--"I should have to show it to get it cut, and I did not know
where to go. And the value would have been less."
"Just so--but it's the regular thing to do, I may tell you, in cases
like this. But go on. About Hatton Garden, you know."
"I thought that I must make myself known among the merchants of
diamonds, and then, perhaps, I should learn the ways, and one day be
able to sell. As it was, I knew nothing--nothing at all. I waited, and
I saved money in the café. Then, when I could do it, I dressed well
and went and bought some diamonds of a dealer--very little diamonds,
a little trayful for twenty pounds, and I try to sell them again. But
I have paid too much--I can only sell for fifteen pounds. Then I buy
more, and sell them for what I give. Then I take an office in Hatton
Garden--that is, I share a room with a dealer, and there is a partition
between our desks. My wife attends the café, I go to Hatton Garden
to buy and sell. It loses me money, but I must lose till I can sell
the great diamond. I get to know the dealers more and more, and then
to-night, as I go home----" he finished with an expressive shrug and a
wave of the hand.
"Yes, yes, I think I see," Dorrington said. "As to the diamond again.
It doesn't happen to be a _blue_ diamond, does it?"
"No--pure white; perfect."
Dorrington had asked because two especially famous diamonds disappeared
from among the French Crown jewels at the time of the great Revolution.
One blue, the greatest coloured diamond ever known, and the other
the "Mirror of Portugal." Bouvier's reply made it plain that it was
certainly not the first which he had just lost.
"Come," Dorrington said, "I will call and inspect the scene of your
disaster. I haven't dined yet, and it must be well past nine o'clock
now."
They returned to Beck Street. There were gates at the dark entry by the
side of the Café des Bons Camarades, but they were never shut, Bouvier
explained. Dorrington had them shut now, however, and a lantern was
produced. The paving was of rough cobble stones, deep in mud.
"Do many people come down here in the course of an evening?" Dorrington
asked.
"Never anybody but myself."
"Very well. Stand away at your side door."
[Illustration: "DORRINGTON, WITH THE LANTERN, EXPLORED THE MUDDY COBBLE
STONES."]
Bouvier and his wife stood huddled and staring on the threshold of
the side door, while Dorrington, with the lantern, explored the muddy
cobble stones. The pieces of a broken bottle lay in a little heap,
and a cork lay a yard away from them. Dorrington smelt the cork, and
then collected together the broken glass (there were but four or five
pieces) from the little heap. Another piece of glass lay by itself a
little way off, and this also Dorrington took up, scrutinising it
narrowly. Then he traversed the whole passage carefully, stepping from
bare stone to bare stone, and skimming the ground with the lantern. The
mud lay confused and trackless in most places, though the place where
Bouvier had been lying was indicated by an appearance of sweeping,
caused, no doubt, by his wife dragging him to his feet. Only one other
thing beside the glass and cork did Dorrington carry away as evidence,
and that the Bouviers knew nothing of; for it was the remembrance of
the mark of a sharp, small boot-heel in more than one patch of mud
between the stones.
"Will you object, Madame Bouvier," he asked, as he handed back the
lantern, "to show me the shoes you wore when you found your husband
lying out here?"
Madame Bouvier had no objection at all. They were what she was then
wearing, and had worn all day. She lifted her foot and exhibited one.
There was no need for a second glance. It was a loose easy cashmere
boot, with spring sides and heels cut down flat for indoor comfort.
"And this was at what time?"
It was between seven and eight o'clock, both agreed, though they
differed a little as to the exact time. Bouvier had recovered when his
wife raised him, had entered the house with her, at once discovered
his loss, and immediately, on his wife's advice, set out to find
Dorrington, whose name the woman had heard spoken of frequently among
the visitors to the café in connection with the affair of the secret
society already alluded to. He had felt certain that Dorrington would
not be at his office, but trusted to be directed where to find him.
"Now," Dorrington asked of Bouvier (the woman had been called away),
"tell me some more about your cousin. Where does he live?"
"In Little Norham Street; the third house from this end on the right
and the back room at the top. That is unless he has moved just lately."
"Has he been ill recently?"
"Ill?" Bouvier considered. "Not that I can say--no. I have never heard
of Jacques being ill." It seemed to strike him as an incongruous and
new idea. "Nothing has made him ill all his life--he is too good in
constitution, I think."
"Does he wear spectacles?"
"Spectacles? _Mais non!_ Never! Why should he wear spectacles? His eyes
are good as mine."
"Very well. Now attend. To-morrow you must not go to Hatton Garden--I
will go for you. If you see your cousin Jacques you must say nothing,
take no notice; let everything proceed as though nothing had happened;
leave all to me. Give me your address at Hatton Garden."
"But what is it you must do there?"
"That is my business. I do my business in my own way. Still I will give
you a hint. Where is it that diamonds are sold? In Hatton Garden, as
you so well know--as I expect your cousin knows if he has been watching
you. Then where will your cousin go to sell it? Hatton Garden, of
course. Never mind what I shall do there to intercept it. I am to be
your new partner, you understand, bringing money into the business. You
must be ill and stay at home till you hear from me. Go now and write me
a letter of introduction to the man who shares the office with you. Or
I will write it if you like, and you shall sign it. What sort of a man
is he?"
"Very quiet--a tall man, perhaps English, but perhaps not."
"Ever buy or sell diamonds with him?"
"Once only. It was the first time. That is how I learned of the
half-office to let."
The letter was written, and Dorrington stuffed it carelessly into his
pocket. "Mr. Hamer is the name, is it?" he said. "I fancy I have met
him somewhere. He is short-sighted, isn't he?"
"Oh yes, he is short-sighted. With _pince-nez_."
"Not very well lately?"
"No--I think not. He takes medicine in the office. But you will be
careful, eh? He must not know."
"Do you think so? Perhaps I may tell him, though."
"Tell him? _Ciel_--no! You must not tell people! No!"
"Shall I throw the whole case over, and keep your deposit fee?"
"No--no, not that. But it is foolish to tell to people!"
"I am to judge what is foolish and what wise, M. Bouvier. Good evening!"
"Good evening, M. Dorrington; good evening." Bouvier followed him out
to the gate. "And will you tell me--do you think there is a way to get
the diamond? Have you any plan?"
"Oh yes, M. Bouvier, I have a plan. But, as I have said, that is my
business. It may be a successful plan, or it may not; that we shall
see."
"And--and the _dossier_. The notes that you so marvellously have,
written out in the book you read. When this business is over you will
destroy them, eh? You will not leave a clue?"
"The notes that I have in my books," answered Dorrington, without
relaxing a muscle of his face, "are my property, for my own purposes,
and were mine before you came to me. Those relating to you are a mere
item in thousands. So long as you behave well, M. Bouvier, they will
not harm you, and, as I said, the confidences of a client are sacred
to Dorrington & Hicks. But as to keeping them--certainly I shall. Once
more--good evening!"
Even the stony-faced Dorrington could not repress a smile and something
very like a chuckle as he turned the end of the street and struck out
across Golden Square towards his rooms in Conduit Street. The simple
Frenchman, only half a rogue--even less than half--was now bamboozled
and put aside as effectually as his cousin had been. Certainly there
was a diamond, and an immense one; if only the Bouvier tradition were
true, probably the famous "Mirror of Portugal"; and nothing stood
between Dorrington and absolute possession of that diamond but an
ordinary sort of case such as he dealt with every day. And he had made
Bouvier pay a fee for the privilege of putting him completely on the
track of it! Dorrington smiled again.
His dinner was spoilt by waiting, but he troubled little of that. He
spread before him, and examined again, the pieces of glass and the
cork. The bottle had been a druggist's ordinary flat bottle, graduated
with dose-marks, and altogether seven inches high, or thereabout. It
had, without a doubt, contained the chloroform wherewith Léon Bouvier
had been assaulted, as Dorrington had judged from the smell of the
cork. The fact of the bottle being corked showed that the chloroform
had not been bought all at once--since in that case it would have been
put up in a stoppered bottle. More probably it had been procured in
very small quantities (ostensibly for toothache, or something of that
kind) at different druggists, and put together in this larger bottle,
which had originally been used for something else. The bottle had
been distinguished by a label--the usual white label affixed by the
druggist, with directions as to taking the medicine--and this label
had been scraped off; all except a small piece at the bottom edge by
the right hand side, whereon might be just distinguished the greater
part of the letters N, E. The piece of glass that had lain a little way
apart from the bottle was not a part of it, as a casual observer might
have supposed. It was a fragment of a concave lens, with a channel
ground in the edge.