IN THE BODEGA
As Mr. Paxton walked away from the house in which the two ladies
resided, it was with the consciousness strong upon him that his
position had not been made any easier by what he had said to the lady
of his love, not to speak of that lady's friend. Before he had met
Miss Strong he had been, comparatively, free--free, that is, to return
the diamonds to their rightful owner. Now, it seemed to him, his hands
were tied--he himself had tied them. He had practically committed
himself to a course of action which could only point in one direction,
and that an ugly one.
"What a fool I've been!"
One is apt to tell oneself that sort of thing when the fact is already
well established, and also, not only without intending to undo one's
folly, but even when one actually proposes to make it more! As Mr.
Paxton did then. He told himself, frankly, and with cutting scorn,
what a fool he had been, and then proceeded to take what, under
similar circumstances, seems to be a commonly accepted view of the
situation--assuring, or endeavouring to assure himself, that to pile
folly on to folly, until the height of it reached the mountain-tops,
and then to undo it, would be easier than to take steps to undo it at
once, while it was still comparatively a little thing.
It was perhaps this line of reasoning which induced Mr. Paxton to
fancy himself in want of a drink. He turned into the Bodega. He
treated himself to a whisky and soda. While he was consuming the
fluid and abusing Fate, some one touched him on the shoulder. Looking
round he found himself confronted by Mr. Lawrence and his friend the
German-American. Not only was their appearance wholly unexpected, but
obviously the surprise was not a pleasant one. Mr. Paxton clutched at
the edge of the bar, glaring at the two men as if they had been
ghosts.
"Good evening, Mr. Paxton."
It was Mr. Lawrence who spoke, in those quiet, level tones with which
Miss Strong was familiar. To Mr. Paxton's lively imagination their
very quietude seemed to convey a threat. And Mr. Lawrence kept those
beautiful blue eyes of his fixed on Mr. Paxton's visage with a
sustained persistence which, for some cause or other, that gentleman
found himself incapable of bearing. He nodded, turned his face away,
and picked up his glass.
But to do Mr. Paxton justice, he was very far from being a coward;
nor, when it came to the sticking-point, was his nerve at all likely
to fail him. He realised instantly that he was in a very delicate
situation, and one on which, curiously enough, he had not reckoned.
But if Mr. Lawrence and his friend supposed that Mr. Paxton, even if
taken by surprise, was a man who could, in the long run, be taken at
an advantage, they were wrong. Mr. Paxton emptied his glass, and
replied to Mr. Lawrence--
"It's not a pleasant evening, is it? I think that up at the station
you asked me to have a drink with you. Now, perhaps, you'll have one
with me?"
As he spoke Mr. Paxton was conscious that the German-American was
regarding him, if possible, even more intently than his friend. This
was the man to whom he had taken an instinctive dislike. There was
about the fellow a suggestion of something animal--of something almost
eerie. He did not strike one as being a person with whom it would be
wise to quarrel, but rather as an individual who would stick at
nothing to gain his ends, and who would be moved by no appeals for
either sympathy or mercy.
"Would you mind stepping outside for a moment, Mr. Paxton?"
"Outside? Why?"
Mr. Paxton's air of innocence was admirably feigned. It might be that
he was a better actor with a man than with a woman.
"There is something which I rather wish to say to you."
"To me? What is it?"
"I would rather, if you don't mind, speak to you outside."
Mr. Paxton turned his back against the bar facing Mr. Lawrence with a
smile.
"Aren't we private enough in here? What is it you can have to say to
me?"
"You know very well what it is I have to say to you. If you take my
advice, you'll come outside."
Mr. Lawrence still spoke softly, but with a softness which, if one
might put it so, had in it the suggestion of a scratch. A gleam came
into his eyes which was scarcely a friendly gleam. The smile on Mr.
Paxton's countenance broadened.
"I know! You are mistaken. I do not know. You are the merest
acquaintance; I have never exchanged half a dozen words with you. What
communication of a private nature you may have to make to me, I have
not the faintest notion, but, whatever it is, I would rather you said
it here."
Mr. Paxton's tones were, perhaps purposely, as loud as Mr. Lawrence's
were soft. What he said must have been distinctly audible, not
only to those who were close to him but also to those who were at a
little distance. Especially did the high words seem audible to a
shabby-looking fellow who was seated at a little table just in front
of them, and wore his hat a good deal over his eyes, but who, in spite
of that fact, seemed to keep a very keen eye on Mr. Paxton.
Perceiving that his friend appeared to be slightly nonplussed by Mr.
Paxton's manner, the German-American came a little forward, as if to
his assistance. This was a really curious individual. As has been
already mentioned, he was tall and thin, and, in spite of his stoop,
his height was accentuated by the fashion of his attire. He wore a
long, straight black overcoat, so long that it reached almost to his
ankles. It was wide enough to have admitted two of him. He kept it
buttoned high up to his chin. His head was surmounted by a top hat,
which could scarcely have been of English manufacture, for not only
was it a size or two too large for him, but, relatively, it was almost
as long as his overcoat. Thus, since his hat came over his forehead,
and his overcoat came up to his chin, not much of his physiognomy was
visible, and what was visible was not of a kind to make one long for
more. His complexion was of a dirty red. His cheekbones were high, and
his cheeks were hollow. They were covered with tiny bristles, which
gleamed in the light as he moved his head. His eyes were small, and
black, and beady, and he had a trick of opening and shutting them, as
if they were constantly being focussed. His nose was long, and thin,
and aquiline--that aquiline which suggests a vulture. His voluminous
moustache was black; one wondered if it owed that shade to nature.
But, considerable though it was, it altogether failed to conceal his
mouth, which, as the Irishman said, "rolled right round his jaws."
Indeed, it was of such astonishing dimensions that the surprise which
one felt on first encountering it, caused one, momentarily, to neglect
to notice the practically entire absence of a chin.
This pleasing-looking person, coming to Mr. Paxton, raised a long,
lean forefinger, capped by what rather resembled a talon than a human
fingernail, and crooked it in Mr. Paxton's face. And he said, speaking
with that pronounced German-American accent--
"Permit me, my dear friend, to ask of Mr. Paxton just one
question--just one little question. Mr. Paxton, what was the colour of
your Gladstone bag, eh?"
Mr. Paxton felt, as he regarded the speaker, that he was looking at
what bore a stronger resemblance to some legendary evil creature than
to a being of our common humanity.
"I fail to understand you, sir."
"And yet my question is a very simple one--a very simple one indeed. I
ask you, what was the colour of your Gladstone bag, eh?"
"My Gladstone bag!--which Gladstone bag?"
"The Gladstone bag which you brought with you in the train from town,
eh?"
Mr. Paxton gazed at his questioner with, on his countenance, an entire
absence of any sort of comprehension. He turned to Mr. Lawrence--
"Is this a friend of yours?"
[Illustration: "What was the colour of your Gladstone bag, eh?" _The
Datchet Diamonds_. _Page_ 82.]
The pair looked at Mr. Paxton, then at each other, then back at Mr.
Paxton, then again at each other. The German-American waggled his lean
forefinger.
"He is very difficult, Mr. Paxton--very difficult indeed, eh? He
understand nothing. It is strange. But it is like that sometimes, eh?"
Mr. Lawrence interposed.
"Look here, I'll be plain enough, even for you, Mr. Paxton. Have you
got my Gladstone bag?"
Mr. Lawrence still spoke softly, but as he put his question Mr. Paxton
was conscious that his eyes were fixed on him with a singular
intentness, and his friend's eyes, and the eyes of the man who half
concealed them with his hat, and, unless he was mistaken, the eyes of
another shabby individual who was seated at a second table, between
himself and the door. Indeed, he had a dim perception that sharp eyes
were watching him from all over the spacious room, and that they
waited for his words. Still, he managed to retain very fair control
over his presence of mind.
"Your Gladstone bag! I! What the deuce do you mean?"
"What I say--have you got my Gladstone bag?"
Mr. Paxton drew himself up. Something of menace came on to his face
and into his eyes. His tone became hard and dry.
"Either I still altogether fail to understand you, Mr. Lawrence, or
else I understand too much. Your question is such a singular one that
I must ask you to explain what construction I am intended to place
upon it."
The two men regarded each other steadily, eye to eye. It is possible
that Mr. Paxton read more in Mr. Lawrence's glance than Mr. Lawrence
read in his, for Mr. Paxton perceived quite clearly that, in spite of
the man's seeming gentleness, on the little voyage on which he was
setting forth he would have to look out, at the very least, for
squalls. The German-American broke the silence.
"It is that Mr. Paxton has not yet opened the Gladstone bag, and seen
that a little exchange has taken place--is that so, eh?"
Mr. Paxton understood that the question was as a loophole through
which he might escape. He might still rid himself of what already he
dimly saw might turn out to be something worse than an Old Man of the
Sea upon his shoulders. But he deliberately declined to avail himself
of the proffered chance. On the contrary, by his reply he burnt his
boats, and so finally cut off his escape--at any rate in that
direction.
"Opened it? Of course I opened it! I opened it directly I got in. I've
no more idea of what you two men are talking about than the man in the
moon."
Once more the friends exchanged glances, and again Mr. Lawrence asked
a question.
"Mr. Paxton, I've a particular reason for asking, and I should
therefore feel obliged if you will tell me what your bag was like?"
Mr. Paxton never hesitated--he took his second fence in his stride.
"Mine? It's a black bag--rather old--with my initials on one
side--stuck pretty well all over with luggage labels. But why do you
ask?"
Again the two men's eyes met, Mr. Lawrence regarding the other with a
glance which seemed as if it would have penetrated to his inmost soul.
This time, however, Mr. Paxton's own eyes never wavered. He returned
the other's look with every appearance of _sang froid_. Mr. Lawrence's
voice continued to be soft and gentle.
"You are sure that yours was not a new brown bag?"
"Sure! Of course I'm sure! It was black; and, as for being new--well,
it was seven or eight years old at least."
"Would you mind my having a look at it?"
"What do you want to have a look at it for?"
"I should esteem it a favour if you would permit me."
"Why should I?"
Again the two men's glances met. The German-American spoke.
"Where are you stopping, Mr. Paxton, eh?"
Wheeling round, Mr. Paxton treated the inquirer to anything but an
enlightening answer.
"What has that to do with you? Although a perfect stranger to me--and
one to whom I would rather remain a stranger--you appear to take a
degree of interest in my affairs which I can only characterize
as--impertinent."
"It is not meant to be impertinent, oh, dear no; oh, no, Mr Paxton,
eh?"
Putting up his clawlike hand, the fellow began to rub it against his
apology for a chin. Mr. Paxton turned his attention to Mr. Lawrence;
it was a peculiarity of that gentleman's bearing that since his
appearance on the scene he had never for a single instant removed his
beautiful blue eyes from Mr. Paxton's countenance.
"You have asked me one or two curious questions, without giving me any
sort of explanation; now perhaps you won't mind answering one or two
for me. Have you lost a bag?"
"I can scarcely say that I have lost it. I am parted from it--for a
time."
Mr. Paxton stared, as if not comprehending.
"I trust that the parting may not be longer than you appear to
anticipate. Was there anything in it of value?"
"A few trifles, which I should not care to lose."
"Where, as you phrase it, did the parting take place?"
"In the refreshment-room at the Central Station--when you went out of
it."
Mr. Paxton flushed--it might have been a smart bit of acting, but it
was a genuine flush. He looked at the soft-toned but sufficiently
incisive speaker as if he would have liked to have knocked him down;
possibly, too, came very near to trying to do it. Then seemed to
remember himself, confining himself instead to language which was as
harsh and as haughty as he could conveniently make it.
"That is not the first time you have dropped a similar insinuation.
But it shall be the last. I do not wish to have a scene in a public
place, but if you address me again I will call the attention of the
attendants to you, and I will have you removed."
So saying, Mr. Paxton, wheeling round on his heels, favoured the
offender with a capital view of his back. To be frank, he hardly
expected that his Bombastes Furioso air would prove of much effect. He
had reason to think that Mr. Lawrence was not the sort of person to
allow himself to be cowed by such a very unsubstantial weapon as
tall-talk. His surprise was, therefore, the greater when, the words
being scarcely out of his mouth, the German-American, touching his
associate on the arm, made to him some sort of a sign, and without
another word the two marched off together. Somewhat oddly, as it
seemed, when they went out two or three other persons went out also;
but Mr. Paxton particularly noticed that the man with the hat over his
eyes who was seated at the little table remained behind, suddenly
appearing, however, to have all his faculties absorbed in a newspaper
which had been lying hitherto neglected just in front of him.
Mr. Paxton congratulated himself on the apparent effect which his
words had had.
"That's a good riddance, anyhow. I don't think that I'm of the sort
that's easily bluffed, but the odds were against me, and--well--the
stakes are high--very high!"
As Mr. Paxton took off his hat to wipe his forehead it almost seemed
that his temperature was high as well as the stakes. He called for
another whisky and soda, As he sipped it, he inquired of himself how
long it would be advisable for him to stop before taking his
departure; he had no desire to find the enterprising associates
waiting for him in the street. While he meditated some one addressed
him from behind, in precisely the same words which Mr. Lawrence had
originally used. Commonplace though they were, as they reached his
ears they seemed to give him a sort of thrill.
"Good evening, Mr. Paxton."
Mr. Paxton turned round so quickly that some of the liquor which was
in the glass that he was holding was thrown out upon the floor. The
speaker proved to be a rather short and thick-set man, with a stubbly
grey beard and whiskers, and a pair of shrewd, brown eyes. Mr. Paxton
beheld him with as few signs of satisfaction as he had evinced on
first beholding Mr. Lawrence. He tried to pass off his evident
discomposure with a laugh.
"You! You're a pretty sort of fellow to startle a man like that!"
"Did I startle you?"
"When a man's dreaming of angels, he's easily startled. What's your
liquid?"
"Scotch, cold. Who was that you were talking to just now?"
Mr. Paxton shot at the stranger a keen, inquisitorial glance.
"What do you mean?"
"Weren't you talking to somebody as I came in?--two men, weren't
there?"
"Oh yes! One of them I never met in my life before, and I never want
to meet again. The other, the younger, I was introduced to yesterday."
"The younger--what's his name?"
"Lawrence. Do you know him?"
The stranger appeared not to notice the second hurried, almost anxious
look which Mr. Paxton cast in his direction.
"I fancied I did. But I don't know any one of the name of Lawrence. I
must have been wrong."
Mr. Paxton applied himself to his glass. It appeared, he told himself,
that he was in bad luck's way. Only one person could have been more
unwelcome just at the moment than Mr. Lawrence had been, and that
person had actually followed hard on Mr. Lawrence's heels. As is the
way with men of his class, who frequent the highways and the byways of
great cities, Mr. Paxton had a very miscellaneous acquaintance. Among
them were not a few officers of police. He had rather prided himself
on this fact--as men of his sort are apt to do. But now he almost
wished that he had never been conscious that such a thing as a
policeman existed in the world; for there--at the moment when he was
least wanted--standing at his side, was one of the most famous of
London detectives; a man who was high in the confidence of the
dignitaries at the "Yard"; a man, too, with whom he had had one or two
familiar passages, and whom he could certainly not treat with the same
stand-off air with which he had treated Mr. Lawrence.
He understood now why the associates had stood not on the order of
their going; it was not fear of him, as in his conceit he had
supposed, which had sped their heels; it was fear of John Ireland.
Gentlemen of Mr. Lawrence's kidney were pretty sure to know a man of
Mr. Ireland's reputation, at any rate by sight. The "office" had been
given him that a "tec." was in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Lawrence had
taken himself away just in time, as he hoped, to escape recognition.
That that hope was vain was obvious from what John Ireland had said.
In spite of his disclaiming any knowledge of a man named Lawrence, Mr.
Paxton had little doubt that both men had been "spotted."
A wild impulse came to him. He seemed to be drifting, each second,
into deeper and deeper waters. Why not take advantage of what might,
after all, be another rope thrown out to him by chance? Why not make a
clean breast of everything to Ireland? Why not go right before it was,
indeed, too late--return her diamonds to the sorrowing Duchess, and
make an end of his wild dreams of fortune? No; that he would--he could
not do. At least not yet. He had committed himself to Daisy, to Miss
Wentworth. There was plenty of time. He could, if he chose, play the
part of harlequin, and with a touch of his magic wand at any time
change the scene. He even tried to flatter himself that he might
play the part of an amateur detective, and track the criminals on
original--and Fabian!--lines of his own; but self-flattery of that
sort was too gross even for his digestion.
"Nice affair that of the Duchess of Datchet's diamonds."
The glass almost dropped from Mr. Paxton's hand. The utterance of the
words at that identical instant was of course but a coincidence; but
it was a coincidence of a kind which made it extremely difficult for
him to retain even a vestige of self-control. Fortunately, perhaps,
Mr. Ireland appeared to be unconscious of his agitation. Putting his
glass down on the bar-counter, he twisted it round and round by the
stem. He tried to modulate his voice into a tone of complete
indifference.
"The Duchess of Datchet's diamonds? What do you mean?"
"Haven't you heard?"
Mr. Paxton hesitated. He felt that it might be just as well not to
feign too much innocence in dealing with John Ireland.
"Saw something about it as I came down in the train."
"I thought you had. Came down from town?"
"Yes--just for the run."
"Came in the same train with Mr. Lawrence?"
"I rather fancy I did."
"He was in the next compartment to yours, wasn't he?"
Mr. Ireland's manner was almost ostentatiously careless, and he seemed
to be entirely occupied in the contents of his glass, but for some
reason Mr. Paxton was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable.
"Was he? I wasn't aware of it. I noticed him on the platform when the
train got in."
"With his friend?"
"Yes--the other man was with him."
"Went into the refreshment-room with them, didn't you, and had a
drink?"
Mr. Paxton turned and looked at the speaker; Mr. Ireland seemed, as it
were, to studiously refrain from looking at him.
"Upon my word, Ireland, you seem to have kept a keen eye upon my
movements."
"I came down by that train too; you didn't appear to notice me."
Mr. Paxton wished--he scarcely knew why, but he did wish--that he had.
He admitted that the detective had gone unrecognised, and there was a
pause, broken by Mr. Ireland.
"I am inclined to think that I know where those diamonds are."
Odd how conscience--or is it the want of experience?--plays havoc with
the nervous system of the amateur in crime. Ordinarily, Mr. Paxton was
scarcely conscious that he had such things as nerves; he was about as
cool an individual as you would be likely to meet. But since lighting
on those sparkling pebbles in somebody else's Gladstone bag, he had
been one mass of nerves, and of exposed nerves, too. Like some
substance which is in the heart of a thunderstorm, and which is
peculiarly sensitive to the propinquity of electricity, he had been
receiving a continual succession of shocks. When Mr. Ireland said in
that unexpected and, as Mr. Paxton felt, uncalled-for fashion that he
thought that he knew where those diamonds were, Mr. Paxton was the
recipient of another shock upon the spot. Half a dozen times it had
been with an effort that he had just succeeded in not betraying
himself; he had to make another and a similar effort then.
"You think that you know where those diamonds are?"
"I do!"
There was silence; then the officer of the law went on. Mr. Paxton
wished within himself that he would not.
"You're a sporting man, Mr. Paxton. I wouldn't mind making a bet that
they're not far off! There's a chance for you!"
"Oh!" It was not at all a sort of bet which Mr. Paxton was disposed to
take, nor a kind of chance he relished. "Thanks; but it's a thing
about which you're likely to know more than I do; I'm not betting. Are
you on the job?"
"Half the Yard is on the job already."
Silence once more; then again Mr. Ireland. He stood holding his glass
in his hand, twiddling it between his finger and thumb, and all his
faculties seemed to be engaged in making an exhaustive examination of
the liquor it contained; but Mr. Paxton almost felt as if his voice
had been the voice of fate.
"The man who has those diamonds will find that they won't be of the
slightest use to him. He'll find that they'll be as difficult to get
rid of as the Koh-i-Nor. Like the chap who stole the Gainsborough,
he'll find himself in possession of a white elephant. Every dealer of
reputation, in every part of the world, who is likely to deal in such
things knows the Datchet diamonds as well as, if not better than, the
Duke himself. The chap who has them will have to sell them to a fence.
That fence will give him no more for them than if they were the
commonest trumpery. And for this very good reason--the fence will
either have to lock them up, and bequeath them to his great-grandson,
on the offchance of his having face enough to put them on the market;
or else he will have to break them up and offer them to the trade as
if they were the ordinary stones of commerce, just turned up by the
shovel. If I were on the cross, Mr. Paxton, I wouldn't have those
sparklers if they were offered me for nothing. I should be able to get
very little for them; the odds are they would quod me; and you may
take this from me, that for the man--I don't care who he is, first
offender or not--who is found with the Duchess of Datchet's diamonds
in his possession, it's a lifer!"
Mr. Paxton was silent for a moment or two after the detective had
ceased. He took another drink; it might have been that his lips stood
in need of being moistened.
"You think it would be a lifer, do you?"
"I'm certain. After all the jewel thieves who have got clean off, if a
judge does get this gentleman in front of him--which I think he
will!--he'll make it as hot for him as ever he can. I shouldn't like
to see you in such a position, Mr. Paxton, I assure you."
Again Mr. Paxton raised his glass to his lips.
"I hope that you won't, Mr. Ireland, with all my heart."
"I hope I sha'n't, Mr. Paxton. You know, perhaps as well as I do, it's
an awful position for a man to stand in. What did you say your
friend's name was--Lawrence? It's queer that I should have thought
that I knew his face, and yet I don't think that I ever knew any one
of that name. By the way, I fancy that you once told me that you
didn't mind having a try at anything in which there was money to be
made. Now, if you could give me a hint as to the whereabouts of the
Duchess's diamonds, you might find that there was money in that."
As he emptied his glass Mr. Paxton looked the detective in the face.
"I wish I could, John--I'd be on for the deal! Only, I'm sorry that I
can't."