Читать книгу The Paternoster Ruby - Charles Edmonds Walk - Страница 13

Table of Contents

Unless I wanted affairs to get away from me entirely, it was high time to assume complete control of them, and immediately to abandon all temporizing measures.

I turned Maillot about without ceremony.

"Go with this man to the library, Stodger," I peremptorily directed. "Burke, you come with me."

In the next ten seconds I had the big library table between the two, Burke impassive, while Maillot glared at him savagely. I wanted to give them time to cool—Maillot, at any rate; so I took advantage of the opportunity to scribble a note to the Captain, hinting at the complications promised by Felix Page's death, and requesting that I be permitted to retain Stodger as an assistant—for I liked the stout, cheerful man who was willing and quick to act upon no more than a hint, and at the same time not disposed to interfere at all with my own modes of procedure. This message I gave to him, requesting that he entrust it to either Callahan or O'Brien for delivery. "Tell 'em to clear out," I added; "I have no use for them here."

Then I thrust my hands into my coat pockets, and fell to pacing the floor while I reflected. That is to say, I reflected after I had secured a good, firm grasp upon the thoughts which skurried helter-skelter, like a flushed covey of quail, through my brain.

The Paternoster ruby!

Here was the very thing I had tried so futilely to recall when the Captain first mentioned Felix Page's death!

Like a flash, the phrase had opened up to me an illimitable vista of possibilities. I went over in mind all that I had ever heard of this famous gem, and wondered—indeed, to tell only the bare truth—I thrilled with the very idea: could it have had any part or place in the financier's death?

The Paternoster ruby!

Those three words were an illumination; memory was flooded; and I glowed with a satisfaction that, in accordance with my custom in such matters, I had collected and preserved every available scrap of information which had in any way to do with this same Paternoster ruby. And right here some of that data must be presented.

First of all, this magnificent gem's known history hinted at no religious association whatever, as its name might seem to imply. In more than one journal I have seen it seriously affirmed that at one time it was a property of that celebrated pope, Alexander VI, Rodrigo Borgia, father of Caesar and Lucrezia—thus investing it with an antiquity and romance which the facts did not warrant.

But, after all, am I not premature in making this last assertion? Perhaps it will appear before we are through.

The gem first became known to the world and acquired its name through one Luca Paternostro, an Italian dealer in precious stones having his place of business in London, who claimed to have purchased it in the rough from some adventurer whose name is unknown to history. This occurred in the early '80's.

Subsequently it was carefully cut in Amsterdam, a paste replica made for purposes of display in the course of trade, and then added to Paternostro's stock—perhaps not because he expected to dispose of it to the first chance customer, but rather by reason of the prestige which the ownership of so superb a jewel would give him; it was an excellent advertisement.

On the fourth night after he received the cut ruby from the Dutch lapidaries, Paternostro was murdered and the gem stolen from his apartments in Hatton Gardens.

Of course, a stone so celebrated was easy to identify; not alone by means of the paste replica and an accurate preserved description, but its extraordinary and distinguishing features—to say nothing of its value—were not likely to be forgotten by experts who had seen and handled it.

And so, when it appeared in Paris a few months later, Paternostro's heirs and successors in the gem-importing business were promptly on hand to claim their property; an enterprise in which they succeeded after the determination of some legal complications; and the Paternostros started with the ruby on the return to London.

Incidentally, the assassin and thief—an Oriental of undetermined nationality—was also apprehended and, the red-tape of extradition having been gravely untangled, conveyed to England and duly hanged.

Ill-luck, however, followed the ruby. On the boat over from Calais to Dover a confidential employee of the gem merchants, who had accompanied them to Paris, was lost overboard while the vessel was entering the home port. Although this man was known to be an expert swimmer—notwithstanding the attempts at rescue, the proximity of land and the numerous craft of all sorts in the vicinity—a strange fatality seems to have carried him straight to the bottom. After the man vanished beneath the waves, no sign of him was seen again.

In the following year no less than four attempts were made to steal the stone from the Paternostros; but as they had learned caution from their unfortunate predecessor's death—to the extent, at least, of keeping such treasure in bank—these attempts were abortive.

Later several tentative overtures on the part of one of Europe's richest monarchs toward the purchase of the Paternoster ruby came to naught; the price set upon it by the Paternostros was prohibitive; and gradually it came to be forgotten by the public, until the year '84, when interest concerning it was again revived, this time to fever heat.

And now we have Alfred Fluette and Felix Page arrayed against each other once more. Everybody, of course, still remembers the sudden rivalry between these two American citizens, which sprang up in June of that year, for the gem's possession. The complexity of causes which simultaneously inspired them with an inordinate desire for the Paternoster ruby—a desire which seemingly could be appeased only by possession, regardless of cost—was much of a mystery, and afforded the energetic correspondents a fruitful text for many a day. Both, as is well known, had unlimited means with which to indulge their sudden whim; where kings and princes resigned themselves to the melancholy fact that the gem was not for them, these two men battled for it with an unlicensed tendering of fortunes that amazed the world; and one may easily imagine the sleepless anxiety of the Paternostros, as first one and then the other of the millionaires ran up his bid with true American prodigality.

Only—and this the mystifying feature of the episode—Felix Page could never honestly be accused of prodigality in any circumstances. He secured the ruby—at a fabulous price; but in the operation he made at least one bitter, implacable enemy. Alfred Fluette returned to the United States, smarting with the stings of defeat, and pledged to a commercial warfare on the successful millionaire speculator. It waged merrily thenceforward.

Why did Felix Page want the Paternoster ruby? It was impossible even to surmise a tenable theory. His parsimony was notorious; he was a bachelor without known kith or kin, and had never before been known to evince the slightest interest in precious stones.

On the other hand, Mr. Fluette was not only a collector of gems, but his collection was and still is one of the most famous in the world. Perhaps Page was willing to sacrifice a fortune merely to thwart a rival's ambition; perhaps he was only satisfying some old grudge about which the world knew nothing—it was all speculation, and speculation of a most unsatisfying sort, too. He got the stone, at any rate; and here we have another instance of the man's peculiar disposition.

Whatever he did with the ruby nobody knew. There were many connoisseurs and jewelers on this side of the water who were naturally curious to see a gem of such renown; but with characteristic selfishness the new owner refused one and all, not only a glimpse of his costly prize, but would not even impart any information about it. His was a dog-in-the-manger attitude; with no appreciation whatever of his possession, he refused bluntly to allow anybody else to enjoy it. The ruby was kept hid away.

Such, briefly, were the data I had neatly pasted in my scrapbook and which memory had been all the morning trying to recall.

I paused in my promenade to survey Burke: what new adjustment must be made of the bare facts so far gathered; what now, in view of this new element injected into the case, was the attitude of this strange being toward it—my regard shifted to Maillot—and his?

Just at this juncture my cogitations were broken in upon by the door being unceremoniously thrown open. Stodger, much excited, darted in, closing the door after him. He handed me an envelope, accompanying it with a look of suppressed eagerness which suggested certain details pertinent to the missive which were being reserved—with difficulty—for my private hearing.

"Note for Maillot," announced he, his eyes fixed curiously upon the young man.

Maillot, apparently dumfounded, rose slowly to his feet.

"A note—for me!" he faltered. Then, quietly: "Give it to me, Swift."

Our glances met—and stayed. I had the envelope before me pinned to the table with the outspread fingers of my right hand. Maillot was unmistakably in great distress of mind, and his expression was that of a man desperate but determined. Only for a moment I hesitated; then without raising my hand, I slid the envelope across the table to him.

"It's a question of confidence, Mr. Maillot," said I, calmly, endeavoring to convey my earnestness in the look which had not for an instant swayed from his. "I reserve the right, should the occasion arise, to read it; understand?"

With a curt nod of acquiescence, he snatched it up from the table. A glimpse of the handwriting brought a flush to his face and a glad sparkle to his eyes; but the missive troubled him. It was short, and as he slowly returned it to its envelope his hand shook and his countenance grew more and more harassed and perplexed.

I glanced at Burke's pallid features and found them as impassive as any Indian's. It was impossible to determine whether he was watching me or Maillot.

Evidently assuming the incident to be closed, Stodger saw his opportunity to speak again.

"Chap's out here that brought it," said he; "coachman, he looks like; waiting for an answer." Then he turned to me, continuing:

"Four reporters out there, too; what shall I do with 'em?"

Maillot suddenly startled us by smiting the table violently with his fist. He was white, trembling, and apprehensive; but his determination was by no means broken.

"Swift," said he, in a hushed, strained voice, "step aside with me; let me have a word with you."

He seized my arm, and fairly dragged me off toward the curtained alcove.

"Swift," he whispered, not releasing his grip on my arm, "I 'm in a devil of a position. For God's sake, show some sign of humanity! That note was from a young lady—"

"I surmised as much."

"Damn it, man! Don't laugh! I'm more dead in earnest than I ever was before in my life. This means more to me—to her—than you can by any possibility conceive, astute officer of the law though you may be."

My expression must have contained something of surprise at his vehemence, for with an effort he abruptly checked himself and at once went on more calmly.

"Swift, it's the young lady I expect some day to marry; she 's heard a rumor of the tragedy, and is worried about me. The note was brought by her coachman, and she 's waiting on the corner a block from here for me to come to her."

I tried hard to consider what was best to do. Enter a woman into a case like this, and assured conduct becomes an impossibility. Maillot was searching my face eagerly; in a moment he laid more of the matter before me.

"She 's a sensitive, high-strung girl whom the slightest breath of scandal would fairly kill. I can't let her name be dragged into this mess; I can't answer her note, and send the reply away from under your very nose without a word to you. And the reporters! Gracious heavens! Swift, Stodger wanted to know what to do with 'em: for pity's sake, tell him to kill 'em!"

Again I interrupted. I trust that I may in all modesty record that I have more than a spark of the feelings to which the young fellow made such a passionate appeal.

"Look here, Maillot, has the young lady a companion?"

"Yes—usually; a young lady cousin who lives with her."

"Very well. If they happen to be together now, we can settle the matter quite easily. Answer her note; request the two of them to come here in a half-hour. Within that time we can get rid of the reporters, and you can—well, you can collect yourself. If your present expression is an index to what you are likely to say, this will be no place for a young lady—for the next thirty minutes, anyhow."

He caught and wrung my hand.

"Swift, you 're a damn good fellow!" he said impulsively, and hurried back to his seat.

However, I did not forget that I had not heard this young man's story; nor did I fail to consider that he was a lawyer, and hence possessed of advantages for appreciating and intelligently weighing all the chances for and against his sweetheart becoming involved.

As Maillot dropped into his chair, Stodger could no longer contain himself. Drawing me into the hall, though the door was left wide open, he said, in a whisper that was heavy with importance:

"You 'd never guess whose coachman it was."

I made no attempt to, and my stout friend impressively announced:

"Fluette's."

"What!" Surprise jerked the exclamation from me; but I kept my voice subdued.

"Fact,"—Stodger nodded his round head impressively—"Alfred Fluette."

Here indeed was the promise of a pretty state of affairs!