“Show the gentleman into my boudoir,” she drawled.
Valérie Assermann—the beautiful Valérie she had been called for some
thirty years—still retained a measure of good looks, although she was
now thick-set, past middle-age and elaborately made-up. Her haughty and
at times harsh expression had yet a certain candor which was not
without charm.
As the wife of Assermann, the banker, she took pride in her vast house
with its luxurious appointments, in her large circle of acquaintances
and in all the pomp and circumstance of her social position. Behind her
back society gossips whispered that Valérie had been guilty of various
rather more than trifling indiscretions. Even hardened Parisian
scandalmongers professed themselves shocked at her behavior. There were
those who suggested that the baron, an ailing old man, had contemplated
getting a divorce.
Baron Assermann had been confined to his bed for several weeks with
heart trouble, and Valérie rearranged the pillows under his thin
shoulders and asked him, rather absent-mindedly, how he was feeling,
before proceeding to her boudoir.
Awaiting her there she found a curious person—a sturdily built,
square-shouldered man, well set up, but shockingly dressed in a
funereal frock-coat, moth-eaten and shiny, which hung in depressed
creases over worn, baggy trousers. His face was young, but the rugged
energy of his features was spoiled by a coarse, blotchy skin, almost
brick-red in tone. Behind the monocle, which he used for either eye
indifferently, his cold and rather mocking glance sparkled with a
boyish gaiety.
“Mr. Barrett?” Valérie asked, on a rising inflection, making no effort
to keep the scorn out of her voice.
He bowed, and, before she could withdraw it, he had kissed her hand
with a flourish, following this gallantry by a not quite inaudible
click of the tongue—suggesting his appreciation of the perfumed flavor.
“Jim Barnett—at your service, madame la baronne. When I got your letter
I stopped just long enough to give my coat a brush ... that was
all....”
The baronne wondered for a moment whether she should show her visitor
the door, but he faced her with all the composure of a man of rank,
and, a little taken aback, she merely said:
“I’ve been told that you are quite clever at disentangling rather
delicate and complicated matters....”
He gave a self-satisfied smirk.
“Yes—I’ve rather a gift for seeing clearly; seeing through and into
things—and people.”
While his voice was soft, his tone was masterful and his whole demeanor
conveyed a suggestion of veiled irony. He seemed so sure of himself and
his powers that it was impossible not to share his confidence, and
Valérie felt herself coming under the influence of this unknown common
detective, this head of a private inquiry bureau. Resenting the
feeling, she interrupted him:
“Perhaps we had better—er—discuss terms....”
“Quite unnecessary,” replied Barnett.
“But surely”—it was she who was smiling now—“you do not work merely for
glory?”
“The services of the Barnett Agency, madame la baronne, are entirely
free.”
She looked disappointed, and insisted: “I should prefer to arrange some
remuneration—your out-of-pocket expenses, at least.”
“A tip?” he sneered.
She flushed angrily. Her satin-shod foot tapped the carpet.
“I cannot possibly ...” she began.
“Be under an obligation to me? Don’t worry, madame la baronne, I shall
see to it that we end up quits for whatever slight service I may be
able to render you.”
Was there a note of menace in the suave voice?
Valérie shuddered a trifle uneasily. What was the meaning of this
obscure remark? How did this man propose to recoup himself? Really,
this Jim Barnett aroused in her almost the same sort of dread, the same
queer kind of nightmare emotion that one might feel if suddenly
confronted with a burglar! He might even be ... yes, he was quite
possibly some undesirable, unknown admirer. She wondered what she had
better do. Ring for her maid? But he had so far dominated her that,
regardless of the consequences, she found herself submitting passively
to his questioning as to what had caused her to apply to his agency.
Her account was brief, as Barnett seemed to be in a hurry, and she
spoke frankly and to the point.
“It all happened the Sunday before last,” she began. “After a game of
bridge with some friends, I went to bed rather early and fell asleep as
usual. About four o’clock—at ten minutes past, to be exact—a noise woke
me and then I heard a bang which sounded to me like a door closing. It
came from my boudoir—this room we are in, which communicates with my
bedroom and also with a corridor leading to the servants’ staircase.
I’m not nervous, so after a moment’s hesitation I got up, came in here
and turned on the light. The room was empty, but this small
show-case”—she indicated it—“had fallen down, and several of the curios
and statuettes in it were broken. I then went to my husband’s room and
found him reading in bed; he said he had heard nothing. He was very
much upset and rang for the butler, who immediately made a thorough
search of the house. In the morning we called in the police.”
“And the result?” asked Barnett.
“They could find no trace of the arrival or departure of any intruder.
How he entered and got away is a mystery. But under a footstool among
the débris of the curios some one found half a candle, and an awl set
in a very dirty wooden handle. Now on the previous afternoon a plumber
had been to repair the taps of the washbasin in my husband’s
dressing-room. The man’s employer, when questioned, identified the tool
and, moreover, the other half of the candle was found in his shop.”
“On that point, then,” interrupted Jim Barnett, “you have definite
evidence.”
“Yes, but against that is the indisputable and disconcerting fact that
the investigation also proved that the workman in question took the six
o’clock express to Brussels, arriving there at midnight—four hours
before the disturbance which awakened me.”
“Really? Has the man returned?”
“No. They lost track of him at Antwerp, where he was spending money
lavishly.”
“Is that all you can tell me?”
“Absolutely all.”
“Who’s been in charge of this investigation?”
“Inspector Béchoux.”
“What! The worthy Béchoux! He’s a very good friend of mine. We’ve often
worked together.”
“It was he who mentioned your Agency.”
“Yes, because he’d come up against a blank wall, I suppose.”
Barnett crossed to the window and leaning his head against the pane
thought hard for a few minutes, frowning ponderously and whistling
under his breath. Then he returned to Madame Assermann and continued:
“You and Béchoux, madame, conclude that this was an attempted burglary.
Am I right?”
“Yes. An unsuccessful attempt, since nothing has been taken.”
“That’s so. But all the same there must have been a definite motive
behind this attempt. What was it?”
Valérie hesitated. “I really don’t know,” she said after a moment. But
again her foot tapped restlessly.
The detective shrugged his shoulders; then, pointing to one of the
silk-draped panels which lined the boudoir above the wainscoting he
asked:
“What’s under that panel?”
“I beg your pardon,” she said in some bewilderment; “what do you mean?”
“I mean that the most superficial observation reveals the fact that the
edges of that silk oblong are slightly frayed, and here and there they
are separated from the woodwork by a slit: there is every reason to
suppose that a safe is concealed there.”
Valérie gave a start. How on earth could the man have guessed from such
imperceptible indications.... Then with a jerk she slid the panel open,
disclosing a small steel door. As she feverishly worked the three knobs
of the safe an unreasoning fear came over her. Impossible as the
hypothesis seemed, she wondered whether this queer stranger might
somehow have robbed her during the few minutes he had been left alone
in the room!
At length, taking a key from her pocket, she opened the safe, and gave
a sigh of relief. There it was—the only object the safe contained—a
magnificent pearl necklace. Seizing it quickly, she twined its triple
strands round her wrist.
Barnett laughed.
“Easier in your mind now, madame la baronne? Yes, it’s quite a pretty
piece of jewelry, and I can understand its having been stolen from
you.”
“But it’s not been stolen,” she protested. “Even if the thief was after
this, he failed to steal it.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course. Here is the necklace in my hands. When anything’s stolen it
disappears. Well—here it is....”
“Here’s a necklace,” he corrected her quietly; “but are you sure that
it is your necklace and that it has any value?”
“What do you mean?” she asked in unconcealed annoyance. “Only a
fortnight ago my jeweller valued it at half a million francs.”
“A fortnight ago—that is to say, five days before that night.... And
now? Please remember I know nothing; I have not valued the necklace; it
is merely a supposition. But are you yourself entirely without
suspicion?”
Valérie stood quite still. What suspicion was he hinting at? In what
connection? A vague anxiety crept over her as his suggestion persisted.
As she weighed the mass of heaped-up pearls in her outstretched hand it
seemed to get lighter and lighter. As she looked she discovered
variations in coloring, unaccustomed reflections, a disturbing
unevenness, a changed graduation—each detail more disturbing than the
last, until in the back of her mind the terrible truth began to dawn,
distinct and threatening.
Jim Barnett gave vent to a short chuckle.
“Just so. You’re getting there, are you? On the right track at last—one
more mental effort and all is clear as day! It’s all quite logical.
Your enemy doesn’t just steal—he substitutes. Nothing disappears, and
except for the noise of the falling show-case everything would have
been carried out in perfect secrecy and have gone undiscovered. Until
some fresh development occurred, you would have been absolutely unaware
that the real necklace had vanished and that you were displaying on
your snowy shoulders a string of imitation pearls.”
Valérie was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she hardly noticed the
familiarity of the man’s words and manner.
Barnett leaned towards her.
“Well—that settles the first point. And now we know what he stole,
let’s look for the thief. That’s the procedure in all well-conducted
cases. And once we’ve found the thief we shan’t be far from recovering
the object of the theft.”
He gave Valérie’s hand a friendly pat of reassurance.
“Cheer up, madame. We’re on the right scent now. Let’s begin by a
little guesswork—it’s an excellent method. We’ll suppose that your
husband, in spite of his illness, had sufficient strength to drag
himself from his own room to this one, armed with the candle, and,
anyway, with the tool the plumber left behind; we’ll go on to suppose
that he opened the safe, clumsily overturned the show-case and then
fled in case you had heard the noise. Doesn’t that throw a little light
on it all? How naturally it accounts for the absence of any trace of
arrival or departure, and also for the safe being opened without being
forced, since Baron Assermann must many a time in all these years have
come in here with you in the evening, seen you work the lock, noted the
clicks and intervals and counted the number of notches displaced—and
so, gradually, have discovered the three letters of the cipher.”
This “little guesswork,” as Jim Barnett termed it, seemed to appall the
beautiful Valérie as he went on “supposing” step by step. It was as if
she saw it all happening before her eyes. At last she stammered out
distractedly:
“What you suggest is madness. You don’t suppose my husband.... If
someone came here that night, it couldn’t have been the baron. Don’t be
absurd!”
“Did you have a copy of your necklace?” he interjected.
She paused. When she spoke it was slowly, with forced calm.
“Yes ... my husband ordered one, for safety, when we bought it—four
years ago.”
“And where is the copy?”
“My husband kept it,” she replied, her voice a mere whisper.
“Well,” said Barnett cheerfully, “that’s the copy you’ve got in your
hands; he has substituted it for the real pearls which he has taken. As
for his motive—well, since his fortune places Baron Assermann above any
suspicion of theft, we must look for something more intimate ... more
subtle.... Revenge? A desire to torture—to injure—perhaps to punish?
What do you think yourself? After all, a young and pretty woman’s
rather reckless behavior may be very understandable, but her husband is
bound to judge it fairly severely.... Forgive me, madame. I have no
right to pry into the secrets of your private life. I am merely here to
locate, with your help, the present whereabouts of your necklace.”
“No,” cried Valérie, starting back. “No!”
Suddenly she felt she could no longer endure this ally who, in the
course of a brief, friendly, almost frivolous conversation, had
fathomed with diabolical ease all the secret circumstances of her life
by a method quite unlike the ordinary methods employed by the police.
And this man was now pointing out with an air of good-natured banter
the precipice to whose edge fate seemed to be forcing her.
The sound of his sarcastic voice became all at once intolerable. She
hated the mere thought of his searching for her necklace.
“No,” she repeatedly obstinately.
He bowed, insolently servile.
“As you wish, madame. I have not the slightest desire to seem
importunate. I am simply here to serve you in so far as you want my
help. Besides, as things are now, you can safely dispense with my aid,
since your husband is quite unfit to go out and will scarcely have been
so imprudent as to entrust the pearls to any one else. If you make a
careful search, you will probably discover them hidden somewhere in his
room. I need say no more—except that if you should need me, telephone
me at my office between nine and ten any night. And now I respectfully
withdraw, madame la baronne.”
Again he kissed her hand and she dared not resist him. Then he took his
leave jauntily, swinging along with an irritating air of utter
complacency. The courtyard gate clanged behind him. To Valérie it
brought a curious premonition of doom—as if a prison gate had now
closed upon her.
That evening, Valérie summoned Inspector Béchoux, whose continued
attendance seemed only natural, and the search began.
Béchoux, a conscientious detective and a pupil of the famous Canimard,
adhered to the approved methods of his profession—and proceeded to
examine the baron’s bathroom and private study in sections. After all,
a necklace with three strands of pearls is too large an object for it
to remain hidden from an expert searcher for very long. Nevertheless,
after a week’s persistent search, including several night visits when,
owing to the baron’s habit of taking sleeping draughts, he was able to
examine even the bed and the bedclothes, Béchoux admitted himself
discouraged. The necklace could not possibly be in the house.
In spite of her instinctive aversion, Valérie was tempted to get in
touch once more with the impossible man at the Barnett Agency. Despite
the repugnance with which he inspired her, she felt positive he would
know how to perform the miracle of finding the necklace.
Then matters were brought to a head by a crisis which came suddenly,
though not unexpectedly. One evening the servants summoned their
mistress hastily—the baron lay choking and prostrate on a divan near
the bathroom door. His distorted features and the anguish in his eyes
were indicative of the most acute suffering.
Almost paralyzed with fright, Valérie was about to telephone for the
doctor, but the baron stammered out the words, “Too late ... it’s ...
too ... late....”
Then, trying to rise, he gasped out: “A drink ...” and would have
staggered to the washstand.
Quickly Valérie thrust him back on to the divan.
“There’s water here in the carafe,” she urged.
“No.... I want it ... from the tap....” He fell back, exhausted.
She turned on the tap quickly, fetched a glass and filled it, but when
she took it to him, he would not drink.
There was a long silence except for the sound of the water running in
the basin. The dying man’s face became drawn and sunken. He motioned to
his wife and she leaned forward—but, doubtless to prevent the servants
hearing, he repeated the word “closer,” and again “closer.”
Valérie hesitated, as though afraid of what he might want to say, but
his imperious glance cowed her and she knelt down with her ear almost
touching his lips. Then he whispered, incoherently, and she could
scarcely so much as guess what the words meant.
“The pearls ... the necklace ... you shall know before I’m gone ... you
never loved me ... you married me ... for ... my money....”
She began to protest indignantly at his making such a cruel accusation
at this solemn moment, but he seized her wrist and repeated in a kind
of confused delirium: “... for my money, and your conduct has proved
it. You have never been a good wife to me—that’s why I wanted to punish
you—why I’m punishing you now—it’s an exquisite joy—the only pleasure
possible to me—and I can die happily now because the pearls are
vanishing away.... Can’t you hear them, falling, dropping away into the
swirling water. Ah, Valérie, my wife ... what a punishment! ... the
drops that trickle away!...”
His strength failed him again, and the servants lifted him onto his
bed. The doctor came very soon after, and two elderly spinster cousins
who had been summoned settled themselves in the room and refused to
budge. The final paroxysm was prolonged and painful. At dawn Baron
Assermann died, without uttering another word.
At the formal request of the cousins, a seal was placed on every drawer
and cupboard in the room. Then the long death vigil began....
Two days later, after the funeral, the dead man’s lawyer called and
asked to speak to Valérie in private. He looked grave and troubled and
said at once:
“Madame, I have a most painful duty to perform, and I prefer to get it
over as quickly as possible, while assuring you beforehand that the
injustice done to you was subject to my profound disapproval and
contrary to my advice and entreaty. But it was useless to oppose an
unshakable determination....”
“I beg you, monsieur,” stammered Valérie, “to make your meaning clear.”
“I am coming to it, madame la baronne—it is this. I hold a will drawn
up by Baron Assermann twenty years ago, appointing you his sole heiress
and residuary legatee. But I have to tell you that last month the baron
confided to me that he had made a fresh will ... by which he left his
entire fortune to his two cousins....”
“He made a new will?” cried Valérie.
“Yes.”
“And you have it?”
“After reading it to me he locked it in that desk. He did not wish it
to be read until a week after his death. It may not be unsealed before
that date.”
Now Valérie realized why, a few years before, after a series of violent
quarrels, her husband had advised her to sell all her own jewelry and
purchase a pearl necklace with the money. Disinherited, with no fortune
of her own, and with an imitation pearl necklace in place of the real
one, she was left penniless.
The day before the seals were to be broken, a car drew up in the rue
Laborde in front of rather dingy premises bearing the sign: