A veiled woman in deep mourning got out of the car and knocked on the
glass panel of the inner door.
“Come in,” called a voice from within.
She entered.
“Who’s that,” went on the voice in the back room, which was separated
from the office by a curtain. She recognized the tones.
“Baronne Assermann,” she replied.
“Excuse me, madame. Please take a seat. I won’t keep you a moment.”
While she waited, Valérie looked round the office. It was comparatively
empty; the furniture consisted of a table and two old armchairs. The
walls were quite bare and the place was innocent of files or papers. A
telephone was the only indication of activity. An ash-tray, however,
held the stubs of several expensive cigarettes, and a subtle fragrance
hung in the air.
The curtain swung back and Jim Barnett appeared suddenly, alert and
smiling. He wore the same shabby frock-coat, the same impossible,
made-up tie, the same monocle at the end of a black ribbon.
He seized and kissed his visitor’s gloved hand.
“How do you do, madame. This is indeed a pleasure. But what’s the
matter? I see you are in mourning—nothing serious, I hope—oh, but how
absent-minded I am—of course—Baron Assermann, was it not? So sad! A
charming man, and such a devoted husband. I should so much have liked
to meet him. Well, well. Let’s see—how did matters stand?”
As he spoke, he took from his pocket a slender note-book which he
fingered pensively.
“Baronne Assermann—here we are—I remember. Imitation pearls—husband the
thief—pretty woman.... A very pretty woman.... She is to telephone
me.... Well, dear lady,” he concluded, with increasing familiarity, “I
am still awaiting that telephone call.”
Once more, Valérie felt disconcerted by this man. Without wishing to
pretend overwhelming sorrow at the death of her husband, she yet felt
sad, and mingled with her sadness was a haunting dread of future
poverty. She had had a bad time during the last days—and her wan face
showed the ravages of terror and futile remorse resulting from her
nightmare visions of ruin and distress.... And here was this
impertinent upstart detective, not seeming to grasp the position at
all....
With great dignity she recounted all that had happened, and although
she avoided idle recriminations, she repeated what her husband’s lawyer
had said.
“Ah, yes; quite so,” interposed the detective, smiling approval. “Good
... that all fits in admirably. It’s quite a pleasure to see how
logically this enthralling and well constructed drama is working itself
out.”
“A pleasure?” asked Valérie tonelessly.
“Certainly—a pleasure which my friend Inspector Béchoux must have
enjoyed—for I suppose he’s explained to you....”
“What?”
“What? Why, the key to the mystery, of course. Isn’t it priceless? Old
Béchoux must have rocked with mirth!”
Jim Barnett, at any rate, was laughing heartily.
“That washbasin trick now—there’s a novelty! It’s certainly farcical
rather than dramatic—but so adroitly worked in—of course I spotted the
dodge at once when you told me about the plumber, and saw the
connection between the repairing of the washbasin and the baron’s
little plans. That was the crux of the whole thing. When he planned the
substitution of the false necklace, your husband arranged a good
hiding-place for the real pearls; it was essential for his purpose.
Merely to deprive you of them and throw them or cause them to be thrown
into the Seine like worthless rubbish, would only have been half a
revenge. For it to be complete and on the grand scale he had to keep
them close at hand, hidden in a spot at once near and inaccessible. And
that’s what he did.”
Jim Barnett was thoroughly enjoying himself and went on jocularly:
“Can’t you imagine your husband explaining it all to the plumber? ‘See
here, my man, just examine that waste-pipe under my washbasin. It goes
down to the wainscoting and leaves the bathroom at an almost
imperceptible gradient, doesn’t it? Well, reduce that gradient still
more—take up the pipe in this dark corner, so as to form a sort of
pocket—a blind alley, where something could be lodged if necessary.
When the tap is turned on the water will fill the pocket and carry away
the object lodged there. You understand? Then drill a hole about half
an inch in diameter in the wall side of the pipe, where it won’t be
noticed. Yes—there! Done it? Now plug it up with this rubber stopper.
Does it fit? That’s all right then. Now, you understand, don’t you—not
a word to anyone! Keep your mouth shut. Take this and catch the
Brussels express to-night. These three checks you can cash there—one
every month. In three months’ time you may come back to Paris.
Good-bye. That’s all, thanks.’... And that very night you heard a noise
in your boudoir, the imitation pearls were substituted for the real
ones, and the latter secreted in the hiding-place prepared for them in
the pocket of the pipe. Now do you see? Believing that the end has
come, the baron calls out to you: ‘A glass of water—not from the
carafe—from the tap there.’ You obey. And the terrible punishment is
brought about by your own hand as it turns on the tap—the water runs,
carries away the pearls, and the baron stammers out: ‘Do you hear?
They’re trickling away—away!’”
The baronne listened in distracted silence. What impressed her most in
Burnett’s terrible story was not the full revelation of her husband’s
rancor and hatred, but the one fact which it hammered home.
“Then you knew the truth?” she murmured at last.
“Of course,” he replied, “it’s my job. The Barnett Agency, you see....”
“And you said nothing of this to me?” Her tone was an accusation.
“But, my dear baronne, it was you yourself who stopped me from telling
you what I knew, or was just about to discover. You dismissed
me—somewhat peremptorily, I fear—and not wishing to be thought
officious, I did not press the matter. Besides, I had still to verify
my deductions.”
“And have you done so?” she faltered.
“Yes. Just out of curiosity, that’s all.”
“When?”
“The same night.”
“What! You got into the house that night—into our rooms? I heard
nothing....”
“Oh, I’ve a little way of working on the quiet.... Even Baron Assermann
didn’t hear me. And yet....”
“What?...”
“Well, just to make sure, I enlarged that hole, you see ... the one
through which he had pushed the pearls into the pipe.”
She started.
“Then you saw them?...”
“I did.”
“My pearls were actually there?”
He nodded.
Valérie choked, as she repeated under her breath: “My pearls were there
in the pipe and you could have taken them?...”
“Yes,” he admitted nonchalantly, “and I really believe that but for me,
Jim Barnett, at your service, they would have dropped away as the baron
intended they should on the day of his death, which he knew was not far
off. What were his words: ‘They’re vanishing ... can’t you hear them?
... drops that trickle away...!’ And his plan of revenge would have
come off—too bad—such a beautiful necklace—quite a collector’s piece!”
Valérie was not given to violent explosions of wrath, likely to upset
her complexion. But at this point she was worked up to such a pitch
that she rushed up to Barnett and convulsively seized the collar of his
coat.
“It’s theft! You’re a common adventurer! I suspected it all along—a
crook!”
At the word “crook” the young man hooted with joy.
“I—a crook? How frightfully amusing!”
She took no notice. Shaking with passion, she rushed up and down the
room shrieking: “I won’t have it, I tell you. Give me back my pearls at
once or I’ll call the police!”
“Oh—how ugly that sounds,” he exclaimed, “and how tactless for a pretty
woman like yourself to behave like this to a man who has shown himself
assiduous in serving you and only wants to coöperate peaceably with you
for your good!”
She shrugged her shoulders and demanded again: “Will you give me my
necklace?”
“Of course! it’s absolutely at your disposal. Good heavens, do you
suppose that Jim Barnett robs the people who pay him the compliment of
seeking his help! What do you think would become of the Barnett Agency,
which owes its popularity to its reputation for absolute integrity and
disinterested service? I don’t ask my clients for a single penny. If I
kept your pearls I should be a thief—a crook, as you would say—whereas
I am an honest man. Here, dear lady, is your necklace.”
He produced a small cloth bag containing the rescued pearls and laid it
on the table.
Thunderstruck, Valérie seized the precious necklace with shaking hands.
She could hardly believe her eyes; it seemed incredible that this man
should restore her property in this way, and with a sudden fear lest he
was merely acting on a momentary impulse, she made abruptly for the
door without a word of thanks.
“You’re in rather a hurry all at once,” laughed Jim Barnett. “Aren’t
you going to count them? Three hundred and forty-five. They’re all
there ... and they’re the real ones, this time.”
“Yes,” said Valérie, “I know that....”
“You’re quite sure? Those really are the pearls your jeweller valued at
five hundred thousand francs?”
“Yes; they are the ones.”
“You’d swear to that?”
“Certainly,” she said positively.
“In that case, I’ll buy them from you.”
“You’ll buy them! What do you mean?”
“Well, being penniless, you’ve got to sell them. Why not to me, then,
since I can offer you more than anyone else will—I’ll give you twenty
times their value. Instead of five hundred thousand francs, I’ll give
ten million. Does that startle you? Ten million’s a pretty figure.”
“Ten million!”
“Exactly the reputed gross amount of the baron’s estate.”
Valérie lingered at the door, her fingers twisting the handle.
“My husband’s estate,” she repeated. “I don’t see any connection.
Please explain.”
With gentle emphasis Jim Barnett continued: “It’s very simple. You have
your choice—the pearl necklace or the estate!”
“The pearl necklace ... the estate?” she repeated, puzzled.
“Certainly. As you yourself told me, the inheritance turns on two
wills: the earlier one in your favor and the second in favor of those
two old cousins, who are as rich as Crœsus and apparently
correspondingly mean. But suppose Will Number Two can’t be found, Will
Number One is valid.”
“But to-morrow,” she said in faltering accents, “they intend to break
the seals and open the desk—and the second will is there.”
“The will may be there—or it may not,” suggested Barnett, rather
contemptuously. “I’ll go so far as to say that in my humble opinion it
is not.”
“Is that possible?” she asked, staring at him in amazement.
“Quite possible—even probable—in fact, I seem to remember now that when
I came to investigate the waste-pipe the evening after our talk, I took
the opportunity of looking round your husband’s rooms as he was
sleeping so soundly.”
“And you took that will,” she asked haltingly.
“This rather looks like it, doesn’t it?”
He unfolded a sheet of stamped paper and she recognized her husband’s
writing as she caught sight of the words: “I, the undersigned, Léon
Joseph Assermann, banker, in view of certain facts well known to her,
do hereby declare that my wife Valérie Assermann shall not have the
slightest claim upon my fortune and that....”
She read no further. Her voice caught in her throat and falling limply
into an armchair she gasped:
“You stole that paper—and expect me to be your accomplice.... I won’t.
My poor husband’s wishes must be obeyed....”
Jim Barnett threw up his hands enthusiastically.
“How splendid of you, dear lady. Duty points to self-sacrifice, and I
commend you the more when your lot is so especially hard—when for two
old cousins who are quite undeserving of pity, you are prepared to
sacrifice yourself with your own hands to gratify Baron Assermann’s
petty spite. You bow to this injustice to expiate those youthful
peccadilloes. The beautiful Valérie is to forego the luxury to which
she is entitled and be reduced to abject poverty. But, before you
finally make this choice, madame, I beg you to weigh your decision
carefully and realize all it means. Let me be quite plain: if that
necklace leaves this room, the lawyer receives Will Number Two
to-morrow morning and you are disinherited.”
“And if it stays?”
“Well, there’s no will in that desk and you inherit the whole
estate—ten million francs in your pocket, thanks to Jim Barnett.”
His sarcasm was obvious, and Valérie felt like a helpless animal
trapped in his ruthless grasp. There was no way out. If she refused him
the necklace, the will would be read out next day. He was relentless,
and would turn a deaf ear to any entreaties.
He stepped into the back room for a moment and then returned from
behind the curtain, calmly wiping off his face the grease paint with
which he had covered it, like an actor removing his make-up. His
appearance was now completely changed—his face was fresh and
young-looking, with a smooth, healthy skin. A fashionable tie had
replaced the made-up atrocity. He had changed the old frock-coat and
baggy trousers for a well-cut lounge suit. And his attitude of smiling
confidence made it clear he did not fear denunciation or betrayal. In
return, Valérie knew he would never say a word to anyone, even to
Inspector Béchoux—the secret would be kept inviolate.
He leaned towards her and, laughing, said: “Well—I believe you’re
looking at it more reasonably now. That’s good! Besides, who’ll know
that the wealthy Baronne Assermann is wearing imitation pearls? Not one
of your friends will ever suspect it. You’ll keep your fortune and
possess a necklace which everyone will think is genuine. Isn’t that
lovely? Can’t you just see yourself leading a full and happy life, with
plenty of opportunity for fun and flirtation? Aha!” He waggled a jovial
forefinger in her angry face.
At that moment Valérie had not the slightest desire for fun or
flirtation. She glared at Jim Barnett with suppressed fury, and,
drawing herself up, made her exit like a society queen withdrawing from
a hostile drawing-room.
The little bag of pearls remained on the table.
“And they call that an honest woman!” said Jim Barnett to himself, his
arms folded in virtuous indignation. “Her husband disinherits her to
punish her for her naughty ways, and she disregards his wishes! There’s
a fresh will—and she filches it! She deceives his lawyer and despoils
his old cousins. Tut, tut! And how noble is the part of the lover of
justice who chastises the culprit and sets everything to rights again!”
He slipped the necklace deftly back into its place in the depths of his
pocket, finished dressing, and then, his monocle carefully adjusted,
and a fat cigar between his teeth, he left the office, and went forth
in search of fresh amusement.