Читать книгу The Massingham Butterfly and Other Stories - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 3

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It was the Saturday morning of the Epsom summer meeting week of 1908—the year in which a rank outsider, Signorinetta, won both Derby and Oaks, to the surprise of everybody and the discomfiture of many. Having little to occupy me just then, I had made the journey to the Downs on all four days, and on that Saturday morning I was still feeling holidayish, and I only looked in at my office in Jermyn Street to glance at whatever letters might be there. There was nothing of importance, and I was just thinking of going to Brighton for the week-end, when my clerk, Killingley, came in with a note.

“From Mr. Penkfether,” he said. “Bearer waits.”

The fact that the note was from Penkfether made me scent business at once—Penkfether was not the sort of man to send for me at nearly noon on a Saturday morning unless he particularly wanted me. He, as the head of one of the most famous pawnbroking businesses in the West End of London, had as good a notion of the fittingness of things as anybody, and I knew he would not trouble me on the slackest morning of the week without good cause. And almost before I had read the few words, hastily scribbled across a half sheet of notepaper, which asked me to step round to Penkfether’s at once, I had left my office and was following the messenger.

That branch—the head one—of Penkfether’s businesses is in a certain side street in the immediate neighbourhood of Piccadilly Circus. In appearance the shop is dingy and inconspicuous. Its barred and wired windows reveal little beyond some precious stones and some old silver—I often used to chaff Penkfether about these things, asking him if they were real, or merely property fixed like the coloured bottles in chemists’ windows. But inside that shop a lot of big business was done—quietly and unobtrusively. Folks who would never dream of going to moneylenders went to Penkfether’s, and Penkfether’s safes at one time or another have harboured plate and jewels belonging to some of the best families in England. Heavily veiled ladies occasionally entered the outer shop, and were seen by Penkfether himself in a quiet little room behind a sound-proof room which formed an invisible sanctuary when Penkfether and a client were once within it. And it was in this room that Penkfether was now awaiting me—a little, bald-headed, quick-eyed, middle-aged man, whose suave and gentle manner was much appreciated by those who dealt with him—especially the ladies. But urbane and considerate as he was, Penkfether was as sharp a man at his trade as any man in London.

He greeted me with a queer, suggestive smile as he closed the airtight door upon us, and pointed me to a chair at his desk.

“Campenhaye,” he said, plunging straight into business as he took his own seat beside me, “I sent round for you because I’m up against a very queer thing. You know the Marquis of Massingham?”

“I know about as much as the world knows,” I replied. “Not over well off; lost a lot of money on the turf at one time; bit of a man about town; married Queenie Primrose, of the Hilarity; owns several thousand acres in Ireland—which I believe, aren’t worth much.”

“True,” said Penkfether. “Also he owns the Massingham Butterfly—which is worth a lot. Ever hear of it?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” I answered, “but without knowing much about it. Isn’t it an heirloom? Diamond ornament, eh?”

“It’s an ornament which can be used as a pendant or in a lady’s hair,” replied Penkfether. “I thought perhaps you might have seen the marchioness wearing it.”

“Never seen the marchioness since the old Hilarity days,” said I. “She used to do a skippingrope turn that——”

“Yes, yes!” broke in Penkfether. “That’s as long ago as the flood. She turns all her attention to dogs and horses now. But this Massingham Butterfly—it is, as you say, a diamond affair; butterfly made principally of very fine diamonds. It has a history; it was given to the fourth Marquis of Massingham by Catherine the Great of Russia—he, you may know, was Ambassador to Russia. And he made it an heirloom. Got that?”

“I have,” I answered.

“Get this, too, then,” continued Penkfether. “The butterfly’s worth every penny of twelve thousand pounds. And now I’ll tell you why I sent for you. The Massingham Butterfly has been stolen!”

“Carelessness on the part of its present holder, I suppose?” said I.

Penkfether gave me a queer look.

“I didn’t say it had been stolen from the marquis,” he remarked. “I merely said it has been stolen.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “A subtle difference. Now, supposing you begin your story, Penkfether?”

“Just so,” he responded cheerily. “We’ve come to it. Very well. Here you are. This morning, a little before 11 o’clock, the Marquis of Massingham sent in his card. I knew him because I’ve done business with him before, though not for two or three years. I had him brought in at once, and he came in looking a bit worried. ‘Mr. Penkfether,’ he said as soon as he sat down, ‘I want to do some business with you. I’ve had an awfully bad time at Epsom,’ he went on. ‘The extraordinary results of the Derby and the Oaks have upset all my calculations. I must have a couple of thousand pounds in cash for Monday morning, and I want you to lend me that sum. And for security,’ he said, pulling a small parcel out of his pocket, ‘I’ll leave the famous Massingham Butterfly with you. I believe,’ he went on, with a laugh, ‘that it’s worth a good deal more than the amount I want. How will it do, Mr. Penkfether?’ ”

Penkfether paused there, and gave me another of his queer glances. Then he slapped his desk.

“Campenhaye,” he exclaimed, “I’ve schooled myself all my life to attain perfection in the art of maintaining a stolid and impassive countenance, and I flatter myself that I’ve done very well, but I tell you that I never had such a task to keep unmoved as when the marquis made this proposition. It was a wonder he saw nothing. As it was, I had to jump up and affect to look at something in that corner—I was so surprised, so clean bowled out!”

“But why?” I asked.

“Why?” answered Penkfether, almost excitedly. “Why? Why, man, because I had the Massingham Butterfly in that safe at that moment! That’s why.”

I pulled Penkfether’s open box of delicate Russian cigarettes towards me, and lighted one.

“That, I suppose, is the prefatory note to story the second,” I said. “Proceed, Penkfether. I assume that the famous butterfly had already been pawned with you.”

Penkfether unlocked and turned over the leaves of a private diary which lay, fitted with a patent lock, on his desk. He ran his finger down a page.

“It is three weeks yesterday,” he said, closing and relocking the book, “since the Marchioness of Massingham called on me. Now, I know her ladyship much better than I know her husband. I knew her in the old Hilarity days, and I’ve done business with her since, and I’ve always found her a perfectly straight and dependable woman. And that’s perhaps why, in the transaction that followed, I wasn’t quite as careful as I usually am. However, the marchioness wanted to borrow money. She wanted exactly what the marquis wanted this morning—a couple of thousand. And she offered the famous butterfly in pledge. Of course, I immediately asked if the marquis was cognizant of the matter? She answered readily enough that he was, and as I happen to know that she and her husband are on very good terms with each other—it really was a love match, that—I believed her. And we finished the transaction there and then.”

“Without your particularly examining the pledge, I venture to suppose?” said I.

“True for you!” answered Penkfether, a little ruefully. “You see, I was very well acquainted with the butterfly. It had certainly never come under my hands before, but I had often seen the marchioness wearing it, at the theatre, and the opera, and so on; and when she produced it, I merely glanced at it, put it back in its case, and locked it up. I got bank notes for the money, handed them over, and the marchioness went away. So now you will understand why I felt intensely surprised when the marquis turned up this morning and wanted to pledge what his wife had already pawned!”

“Just so,” I responded. “But you are a good man at thinking quickly, Penkfether.”

“I had to think at double-quick time, I can tell you,” he said. “I immediately saw all sorts of things. I didn’t want to give the woman away; I didn’t want to say anything about her coming to me. And, luckily, I managed to say the right thing—it flashed into my mind. ‘Won’t the marchioness miss the butterfly—right in the middle of the season?’ I said half jocularly. ‘I have often seen her wearing it.’

“ ‘Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Penkfether,’ says he. ‘We have a replica of it, don’t you know—a paste affair which my father had made in Paris years ago. To tell you the truth,’ he added, laughing, ‘the counterfeit is so real that I don’t believe that my wife could tell which is the real butterfly when real and counterfeit are placed side by side. She has worn the paste thing when she thought she was wearing the real thing,’ he went on laughing again, ‘and I dare say she’s as happy with one as the other.’ So he said, and I immediately began to see how matters stood. The marchioness had brought me the counterfeit, the replica, thinking that it was the genuine article, eh, Campenhaye?”

“Perhaps,” said I. “Perhaps, Penkfether. The marquis may have made the same mistake, you know.”

“Ah, well, I thought of that,” he answered. “But as I know that one or other of the two was the genuine article, I lent him the two thousand that he wanted, and he went off. After all, the real Massingham Butterfly is worth a good twelve thousand, and I’d only lent four, and I felt sure that I’d got the real thing. It was either in my safe then—left by the marchioness—or it was on my desk, left by the marquis. See?”

“Proceed, Penkfether,” I answered. “I am seeing many things.”

“Well, as soon as his lordship had gone,” continued Penkfether, “I thought I might as well examine the two articles, to see which was the genuine butterfly. Naturally, I looked at the one last brought first. And I at once found that, whatever the marquis might believe, it was the duplicate, or, rather, counterfeit. Beautifully made—the finest workmanship—but paste. Here it is.”

Penkfether pulled open a drawer and revealed two packages of similar size, but done up in differently coloured papers. Opening one, he showed me what appeared to be a beautiful diamond ornament, fashioned like a butterfly of the largest size, the wings spread, the antennae projecting. The body was fashioned of large diamonds, the rest of the creature of smaller ones. The frame was set in delicate gold work. The whole made a very exquisite thing, and it was difficult to believe that it was not what it seemed to be.

“That’s the counterfeit,” said Penkfether, “or, rather, I should say, that’s one of the counterfeits. For—prepare yourself for a shock, Campenhaye! the other, the one brought by the marchioness, is counterfeit, too! Look!”

He rapidly unrolled the other parcel, revealing a second butterfly, so exactly like the first that when they were placed side by side I could not tell one from the other.

“Both paste!” said Penkfether. “Paste! Now, then, Campenhaye, this is where I think you will have to come in. For the next question is—where is the genuine article?”

I made a closer examination of the two ornaments. For the life of me I could see no difference between them. And I asked Penkfether if he could.

“Yes,” he answered, “but it’s a difference which only an expert could detect. This,” he went on, indicating the butterfly left by the marquis, “is the elder of the two—the other, I believe, from certain small evidences which are too technical to explain, to have been made recently.”

“How recently?” I asked.

“I should say within the last year or two,” he answered.

“And, of course, somebody made it,” I said reflectively. “It would narrow things down considerably, Penkfether, if you could tell me who the people are that do this sort of work.”

“There are certain specialists in Paris who do it,” he replied. “I know of some—I even know of private marks which some put on their work. But there is not the faintest trace of a mark on this work. It has been done secretly.”

“Would it be expensive?” I inquired.

“Very expensive—comparatively,” he answered. “It would cost two or three hundred pounds to make either of these replicas.”

I took another cigarette and thought matters over.

“You have full confidence in both these people?” I asked, after a pause.

“The marquis and marchioness? Yes, I have,” answered Penkfether readily. “I believe they’re both absolutely honest. I should be very much surprised if they knew anything about this. Nevertheless, I’m in a devil of a queer position, Campenhaye! You see, I’ve taken from both what is described on the special contract tickets as the diamond ornament known as the Massingham Butterfly. Now, I’ve no doubt whatever that the pledges will be redeemed. Supposing, later, that these things are found by their owners to be counterfeit, wouldn’t there be a strong presumption that one counterfeit, at any rate, had been substituted for the genuine article while that was in my possession? Oh yes,” he added, seeing my look of deprecating remonstrance at this suggestion, “I know the reputation of our firm for probity and so on, but that’s all as it might be. There would be the fact that I took the Massingham Butterfly and handed back—a paste imitation!”

I spent a few minutes in hard pondering over this question.

“Penkfether,” I said at last, “do you think it possible to trace the maker of this—the latest counterfeit?”

Penkfether shook his head.

“Might be—might be,” he replied. “Inquiry in certain quarters in Paris might lead to something. I say might.”

“You could put me on the edge of what might be a difficult path, but still a path?” I asked.

“Yes, I could do that,” he said. “I could give you two or three introductions to certain people.”

“Very good,” said I. “Now hear my advice. Say nothing at present to Lord Massingham or to his wife. They’re not very likely to redeem these things just yet, I suppose?”

“Not for two or three months, certainly,” he answered.

“Very good. Then,” I continued, “give me the imitation butterfly which you believe to have been the last made, let me have the introductions you speak of, and I will go over to Paris at once—to-morrow morning—to see what I can do. For this, Penkfether, is certain—somebody commissioned the making of that pretty bit of work. And that somebody in all probability holds, or has held, the real Massingham Butterfly.”

Penkfether considered this proposition for a moment. Then his face cleared.

“Good!” he said. “We’ll try it. You shall have the letters of introduction this afternoon. There’s no need to give you any hints or instructions, Campenhaye; the only one word that I will say to you is—‘secrecy.’ ”