“But console yourself, _mon ami_,” said Poirot, calming down. “All
cannot be as Hercule Poirot! I know it well.”
“You really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I ever
knew!” I cried, divided between amusement and annoyance.
“What will you? When one is unique, one knows it! And others share
that opinion—even, if I mistake not, Miss Mary Marvell.”
“What?”
“Without doubt. She is coming here.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Very simply. This street, it is not aristocratic, _mon ami_! In
it there is no fashionable doctor, no fashionable dentist—still
less is there a fashionable milliner! But there _is_ a fashionable
detective. _Oui_, my friend, it is true—I am become the mode, the
_dernier cri_! One says to another: ‘_Comment?_ You have lost your
gold pencil-case? You must go to the little Belgian. He is too
marvellous! Every one goes! _Courez!’_ And they arrive! In flocks,
_mon ami_! With problems of the most foolish!” A bell rang below.
“What did I tell you? That is Miss Marvell.”
As usual, Poirot was right. After a short interval, the American
film star was ushered in, and we rose to our feet.
Mary Marvell was undoubtedly one of the most popular actresses on
the screen. She had only lately arrived in England in company with
her husband, Gregory B. Rolf, also a film actor. Their marriage
had taken place about a year ago in the States and this was their
first visit to England. They had been given a great reception.
Every one was prepared to go mad over Mary Marvell, her wonderful
clothes, her furs, her jewels, above all one jewel, the great
diamond which had been nicknamed, to match its owner, “the Western
Star.” Much, true and untrue, had been written about this famous
stone which was reported to be insured for the enormous sum of
fifty thousand pounds.
All these details passed rapidly through my mind as I joined with
Poirot in greeting our fair client.
Miss Marvell was small and slender, very fair and girlish-looking,
with the wide innocent blue eyes of a child.
Poirot drew forward a chair for her, and she commenced talking at
once.
“You will probably think me very foolish, Monsieur Poirot, but Lord
Cronshaw was telling me last night how wonderfully you cleared up
the mystery of his nephew’s death, and I felt that I just must have
your advice. I dare say it’s only a silly hoax—Gregory says so—but
it’s just worrying me to death.”
She paused for breath. Poirot beamed encouragement.
“Proceed, Madame. You comprehend, I am still in the dark.”
“It’s these letters.” Miss Marvell unclasped her handbag, and drew
out three envelopes which she handed to Poirot.
The latter scrutinized them closely.
“Cheap paper—the name and address carefully printed. Let us see
the inside.” He drew out the enclosure.
I had joined him, and was leaning over his shoulder. The writing
consisted of a single sentence, carefully printed like the envelope.
It ran as follows:
“The great diamond which is the left eye of the god must return
whence it came.”
The second letter was couched in precisely the same terms, but the
third was more explicit:
“You have been warned. You have not obeyed. Now the diamond will
be taken from you. At the full of the moon, the two diamonds which
are the left and right eye of the god shall return. So it is
written.”
“The first letter I treated as a joke,” explained Miss Marvell.
“When I got the second, I began to wonder. The third one came
yesterday, and it seemed to me that, after all, the matter might
be more serious than I had imagined.”
“I see they did not come by post, these letters.”
“No; they were left by hand—by a _Chinaman._ That is what frightens
me.”
“Why?”
“Because it was from a Chink in San Francisco that Gregory bought
the stone three years ago.”
“I see, madame, that you believe the diamond referred to to be——”
“‘The Western Star,’” finished Miss Marvell. “That’s so. At the
time, Gregory remembers that there was some story attached to the
stone, but the Chink wasn’t handing out any information. Gregory
says he seemed just scared to death, and in a mortal hurry to get
rid of the thing. He only asked about a tenth of its value. It was
Greg’s wedding present to me.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“The story seems of an almost unbelievable romanticism. And yet—who
knows? I pray of you, Hastings, hand me my little almanac.”