“_Voyons!_” said Poirot, turning the leaves.
“When is the date of the full moon? Ah, Friday next. That is in
three days’ time. _Eh bien_, madame, you seek my advice—I give it
to you. This _belle histoire_ may be a hoax—but it may not!
Therefore I counsel you to place the diamond in my keeping until
after Friday next. Then we can take what steps we please.”
A slight cloud passed over the actress’s face, and she replied
constrainedly:
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“You have it with you—_hein_?” Poirot was watching her narrowly.
The girl hesitated a moment, then slipped her hand into the bosom
of her gown, drawing out a long thin chain. She leaned forward,
unclosing her hand. In the palm, a stone of white fire, exquisitely
set in platinum, lay and winked at us solemnly.
Poirot drew in his breath with a long hiss.
“_Épatant!_” he murmured. “You permit, madame?” He took the jewel
in his own hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her
with a little bow. “A magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, _cent
tonnerres!_ and you carry it about with you, _comme ça_!”
“No, no, I’m very careful really, Monsieur Poirot. As a rule it’s
locked up in my jewel-case, and left in the hotel safe deposit.
We’re staying at the _Magnificent_, you know. I just brought it
along to-day for you to see.”
“And you will leave it with me, _n’est-ce pas_? You will be advised
by Papa Poirot?”
“Well, you see, it’s this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we’re
going down to Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady
Yardly.”
Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some
gossip—what was it now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had
paid a visit to the States, rumour had it that his lordship had
rather gone the pace out there with the assistance of some lady
friends—but surely there was something more, some gossip which
coupled Lady Yardly’s name with that of a “movie” star in
California—why! it came to me in a flash—of course it was none
other than Gregory B. Rolf.
“I’ll let you into a little secret, Monsieur Poirot,” Miss Marvell
was continuing. “We’ve got a deal on with Lord Yardly. There’s some
chance of our arranging to film a play down there in his ancestral
pile.”
“At Yardly Chase?” I cried, interested. “Why, it’s one of the show
places of England.”
Miss Marvell nodded.
“I guess it’s the real old feudal stuff all right. But he wants a
pretty stiff price, and of course I don’t know yet whether the deal
will go through, but Greg and I always like to combine business
with pleasure.”
“But—I demand pardon if I am dense, madame—surely it is possible
to visit Yardly Chase without taking the diamond with you?”
A shrewd, hard look came into Miss Marvell’s eyes which belied
their childlike appearance. She looked suddenly a good deal older.
“I want to wear it down there.”
“Surely” I said suddenly, “there are some very famous jewels in
the Yardly collection, a large diamond amongst them?”
“That’s so,” said Miss Marvell briefly.
I heard Poirot murmur beneath his breath: “Ah, _c’est comme ça_!”
Then he said aloud, with his usual uncanny luck in hitting the
bull’s-eye (he dignifies it by the name of psychology): “Then you
are without doubt already acquainted with Lady Yardly, or perhaps
your husband is?”
“Gregory knew her when she was out West three years ago,” said Miss
Marvell. She hesitated a moment, and then added abruptly: “Do
either of you ever see _Society Gossip_?”
We both pleaded guilty rather shamefacedly.
“I ask because in this week’s number there is an article on famous
jewels, and it’s really very curious——” She broke off.
I rose, went to the table at the other side of the room and returned
with the paper in question in my hand. She took it from me, found
the article, and began to read aloud:
“. . . Amongst other famous stones may be included the Star of the
East, a diamond in the possession of the Yardly family. An ancestor
of the present Lord Yardly brought it back with him from China,
and a romantic story is said to attach to it. According to this,
the stone was once the right eye of a temple god. Another diamond,
exactly similar in form and size, formed the left eye, and the
story goes that this jewel, too, would in course of time be stolen.
‘One eye shall go West, the other East, till they shall meet once
more. Then, in triumph shall they return to the god.’ It is a
curious coincidence that there is at the present time a stone
corresponding closely in description with this one, and known as
‘the Star of the West,’ or ‘the Western Star.’ It is the property
of the celebrated film actress, Miss Mary Marvell. A comparison of
the two stones would be interesting.”
She stopped.
“_Épatant!_” murmured Poirot. “Without doubt a romance of the first
water.” He turned to Mary Marvell. “And you are not afraid, madame?
You have no superstitious terrors? You do not fear to introduce
these two Siamese twins to each other lest a Chinaman should appear
and, hey presto! whisk them both back to China?”
His tone was mocking, but I fancied that an undercurrent of
seriousness lay beneath it.
“I don’t believe that Lady Yardly’s diamond is anything like as
good a stone as mine,” said Miss Marvell. “Anyway, I’m going to
see.”
What more Poirot would have said I do not know, for at that moment
the door flew open, and a splendid-looking man strode into the
room. From his crisply curling black head, to the tips of his
patent-leather boots, he was a hero fit for romance.
“I said I’d call round for you, Mary,” said Gregory Rolf, “and here
I am. Well, what does Monsieur Poirot say to our little problem?
Just one big hoax, same as I do?”
Poirot smiled up at the big actor. They made a ridiculous contrast.
“Hoax or no hoax, Mr. Rolf,” he said dryly, “I have advised Madame
your wife not to take the jewel with her to Yardly Chase on Friday.”
“I’m with you there, sir. I’ve already said so to Mary. But there!
She’s a woman through and through, and I guess she can’t bear to
think of another woman outshining her in the jewel line.”
“What nonsense, Gregory!” said Mary Marvell sharply. But she
flushed angrily.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Madame, I have advised. I can do no more. _C’est fini_.”
He bowed them both to the door.
“Ah! _la la_,” he observed, returning. “_Histoire de femmes!_ The
good husband, he hit the nail on the head—_tout de même_, he was
not tactful! Assuredly not.”