The courtyard bell, on the ground floor of the Baronne Assermann’s imposing residence in the Faubourg St. Germain, rang loudly, and a moment later the maid brought in an envelope.
“The gentleman says he has an appointment with madame for four o’clock.”
Madame Assermann slit the envelope. Taking out a card, she held it gingerly between her finger-tips, and read:
The Barnett Agency
Information Free
“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 [14]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 [15]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 [16]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 [17]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.” [18]
“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.… [19]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 [20]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 [21]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. [22]
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 [23]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 [24]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. [25]
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. [26]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 [27]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:
The Barnett Agency
OPEN FROM TWO TO THREE
Information Free
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. [28]
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, [29]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 [30]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 [31]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. [32]
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?” [33]
“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 [34]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 [35]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, [36]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 [37]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. [38]