I am trying my eyes against yours. If I can’t give you fifty out of a hundred I’ll renounce my private detectorial ambition for ever.”
“It isn’t quite the same,” objected Carlyle, but he rang the bell.
“Come in and close the door, Parkinson,” said Carrados when the man appeared. “Don’t look at Mr Carlyle again—in fact, you had better stand with your back towards him, he won’t mind. Now describe to me his appearance as you observed it.”
Parkinson tendered his respectful apologies to Mr Carlyle for the liberty he was compelled to take, by the deferential quality of his voice.
“Mr Carlyle, sir, wears patent leather boots of about size seven and very little used. There are five buttons, but on the left boot one button—the third up—is missing, leaving loose threads and not the more usual metal fastener. Mr Carlyle’s trousers, sir, are of a dark material, a dark grey line of about a quarter of an inch width on a darker ground. The bottoms are turned permanently up and are, just now, a little muddy, if I may say so.”
“Very muddy,” interposed Mr Carlyle generously. “It is a wet night, Parkinson.”
“Yes, sir; very unpleasant weather. If you will allow me, sir, I will brush you in the hall. The mud is dry now, I notice. Then, sir,” continued Parkinson, reverting to the business in hand, “there are dark green cashmere hose. A curb-pattern key-chain passes into the left-hand trouser pocket.”
From the visitor’s nether garments the photographic-eyed Parkinson proceeded to higher ground, and with increasing wonder Mr Carlyle listened to the faithful catalogue of his possessions. His fetter-and-link albert of gold and platinum was minutely described. His spotted blue ascot, with its gentlemanly pearl scarfpin, was set forth, and the fact that the buttonhole in the left lapel of his morning coat showed signs of use was duly noted. What Parkinson saw he recorded but he made no deductions. A handkerchief carried in the cuff of the right sleeve was simply that to him and not an indication that Mr Carlyle was, indeed, left-handed.
But a more delicate part of Parkinson’s undertaking remained. He approached it with a double cough.
“As regards Mr Carlyle’s personal appearance; sir——”
“No, enough!” cried the gentleman concerned hastily. “I am more than satisfied. You are a keen observer, Parkinson.”
“I have trained myself to suit my master’s requirements, sir,” replied the man. He looked towards Mr Carrados, received a nod and withdrew.
Mr Carlyle was the first to speak.
“That man of yours would be worth five pounds a week to me, Max,” he remarked thoughtfully. “But, of course——”
“I don’t think that he would take it,” replied Carrados, in a voice of equally detached speculation. “He suits me very well. But you have the chance of using his services—indirectly.”
“You still mean that—seriously?”
“I notice in you a chronic disinclination to take me seriously, Louis. It is really—to an Englishman—almost painful. Is there something inherently comic about me or the atmosphere of The Turrets?”
“No, my friend,” replied Mr Carlyle, “but there is something essentially prosperous. That is what points to the improbable. Now what is it?”
“It might be merely a whim, but it is more than that,” replied Carrados. “It is, well, partly vanity, partly ennui, partly”—certainly there was something more nearly tragic in his voice than comic now—“partly hope.”
Mr Carlyle was too tactful to pursue the subject.
“Those are three tolerable motives,” he acquiesced. “I’ll do anything you want, Max, on one condition.”
“Agreed. And it is?”
“That you tell me how you knew so much of this affair.” He tapped the silver coin which lay on the table near them. “I am not easily flabbergasted,” he added.
“You won’t believe that there is nothing to explain—that it was purely second-sight?”
“No,” replied Carlyle tersely; “I won’t.”
“You are quite right. And yet the thing is very simple.”
“They always are—when you know,” soliloquized the other. “That’s what makes them so confoundedly difficult when you don’t.”
“Here is this one then. In Padua, which seems to be regaining its old reputation as the birthplace of spurious antiques, by the way, there lives an ingenious craftsman named Pietro Stelli. This simple soul, who possesses a talent not inferior to that of Cavino at his best, has for many years turned his hand to the not unprofitable occupation of forging rare Greek and Roman coins. As a collector and student of certain Greek colonials and a specialist in forgeries I have been familiar with Stelli’s workmanship for years. Latterly he seems to have come under the influence of an international crook called—at the moment—Dompierre, who soon saw a way of utilizing Stelli’s genius on a royal scale. Helene Brunesi, who in private life is—and really is, I believe—Madame Dompierre, readily lent her services to the enterprise.”
“Quite so,” nodded Mr Carlyle, as his host paused.
“You see the whole sequence, of course?”
“Not exactly—not in detail,” confessed Mr Carlyle.
“Dompierre’s idea was to gain access to some of the most celebrated cabinets of Europe and substitute Stelli’s fabrications for the genuine coins. The princely collection of rarities that he would thus amass might be difficult to dispose of safely but I have no doubt that he had matured his plans. Helene, in the person of Nina Bran, an Anglicised French parlourmaid—a part which she fills to perfection—was to obtain wax impressions of the most valuable pieces and to make the exchange when the counterfeits reached her. In this way it was obviously hoped that the fraud would not come to light until long after the real coins had been sold, and I gather that she has already done her work successfully in several houses. Then, impressed by her excellent references and capable manner, my housekeeper engaged her, and for a few weeks she went about her duties here. It was fatal to this detail of the scheme, however, that I have the misfortune to be blind. I am told that Helene has so innocently angelic a face as to disarm suspicion, but I was incapable of being impressed and that good material was thrown away. But one morning my material fingers—which, of course, knew nothing of Helene’s angelic face—discovered an unfamiliar touch about the surface of my favourite Euclideas, and, although there was doubtless nothing to be seen, my critical sense of smell reported that wax had been recently pressed against it. I began to make discreet inquiries and in the meantime my cabinets went to the local bank for safety. Helene countered by receiving a telegram from Angiers, calling her to the death-bed of her aged mother. The aged mother succumbed; duty compelled Helene to remain at the side of her stricken patriarchal father, and doubtless The Turrets was written off the syndicate’s operations as a bad debt.”
“Very interesting,” admitted Mr Carlyle; “but at the risk of seeming obtuse”—his manner had become delicately chastened—“I must say that I fail to trace the inevitable connexion between Nina Brun and this particular forgery—assuming that it is a forgery.”
“Set
