Джордж Энгланд: Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931

“But how do we steal it back?” asked Jim Garth.

A far-away, whimsical look came into Martin Hewes’s eyes. “My dear Garth,” he said slowly. “I have been nosing around in the field of crime for a great many years and there aren’t many tricks of the trade I don’t know. But physically, my dear fellow, I am a very lazy man. With your energy, your ability to shoot and fight, and my brains, I should be willing to stack myself up against that gentleman with the green eyeglass and think I had better than an even chance.”

“Man with the green eyeglass!” cried Jim. His hands tightened spasmodically over the arms of his chair, “You don’t mean Basil Sheringham, the explorer?”

“Quite so,” said Hewes. “Mr. Sheringham, socially prominent explorer, big game hunter, and what have you, is in reality one of the slickest international crooks in the business. A man has to be good, Garth, to get four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in a down payment, win or lose.” Hewes lit another cigarette. “Your social position will be a help in dealing with Sheringham, too. What do you say, Garth? Will you take a share in my humble business? Before you know it you will be independent financially again. Twenty-five thousand on this deal for you would be a good start.”

There was an excited glint in Jim Garth’s eyes, and the knuckles of his hands showed white, so tightly was he gripping the arms of his chair. “There is just one person in the world, Mr. Hewes, with whom I have a score to settle. I suspect you know who that person is, but in case you don’t, I’ll tell you. If there is any way I can make Basil Sheringham suffer; if there is any way I can smash him — crush him down into the dirt. I’ll do it. Basil Sheringham is the man who sent me to jail, deprived me of my friends, my fortune, my happiness.”

Martin Hewes smiled faintly. “I knew that, Garth.”

“Then,” said Jim Garth, “you know that I’m with you... one hundred per cent!”

Mr. Basil Sheringham stood on the doorstep of the Carrington mansion, stick under arm, gloves in hand, hat at just the right angle, and that faint, sardonic smile on his lips which seemed always to hover there. A stolid-faced butler admitted him and relieved him of hat, stick and gloves.

“Miss Carrington, please,” said the man with the green eyeglass.

The butler disappeared and returned, walking with the noiseless step of a cat. “This way, sir.”

Peg Carrington was an extraordinarily popular young woman, and it was not due entirely to the fortune which was hers. She had real charm of personality and people liked her for herself. She came to the door of the livingroom to greet the explorer.

“This is grand, Basil,” she said. “You’re just in time for tea, spelled h-i-g-h-b-a-l-l. Dad’s back from an exhausting day at the office watching the money roll in.”

“He’s lucky,” said Sheringham. “It’s rolling out for most people. I had your invitation to the reception you’re giving Thursday, so I thought I’d drop in and accept in person.”

“Glad you can come,” said Peg. “It’ll be an awful bore. Hundreds of people you don’t want to see but have to, if you follow me. Dad, here’s Basil Sheringham.”

James Carrington did not look like the moving picture conception of a millionaire. He didn’t wear wing collars or spats or any of the other expected trappings. Instead he had on a baggy tweed suit, was smoking a foul-smelling pipe, and sipping a highball. He waved casually to Sheringham.

“Hello. Make yourself a drink. I’m too damned lazy. How’s the exploring business?”

“All right, only there’s nothing to explore now except the homes of millionaires.”

“Help yourself,” said Carrington.

“Dad’s in an awful stew over the reception,” explained Peg. “He’s trying to pretend he has a date to play ping-pong with somebody.”

Carrington made a wry face. “Why the... well why any one should open his house to a couple of hundred sightseeing friends is over my head. We don’t owe anybody anything, at least not to my way of thinking. Nice quiet dinner with fifteen or twenty guests is all right. But hundreds of dancing, gin-drinking nincompoops is almost too much to bear.”

“Most people would think fifteen dinner guests was quite a party,” said Sheringham, pouring a stiff measure of Irish whisky into his glass.

Carrington grinned sourly. “Must be at least fifteen people. I expect to be bored by each person in at least ten minutes. That allows me two hours and a half. After that I go to bed.”

Sheringham glanced at his wrist watch. “My time is almost up.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Carrington. “Sit down and be as dull as you like.” Sheringham sat down and took several tentative sips at his drink. “Excellent,” he pronounced it. “I suppose,” he said, “that you have to bring in a lot of extra servants for a function of this sort.” His tone was utterly casual.

“Sure. Detectives and servants and what have you.”

“Detectives?” Sheringham’s one eye was fixed on his amber-colored drink.

“Our dear friends,” said Carrington, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “are apt to be a little light-fingered unless we have an ostentatious watch set. Souvenirs, they call ’em. Just a little something to remember me by. But it’s damned annoying all the same.”

“Still, I don’t suppose you keep anything of great value in the house. I mean jewelry and that sort of thing.”

“Not much!” said Peg. “Why, can you believe that he has that diamond necklace of mother’s right here in a safe that could be opened with a sardine key!”

Not a muscle of Sheringham’s face moved. Carrington groaned.

“Will you tell me, Sheringham, what the good of owning jewelry is if you keep it down town in a safe deposit vault and wear paste imitations? As far as that necklace goes, it would be just as safe if I hung it on a chandelier. Nobody would take it.”

Sheringham watched the smoke curl up from his cigarette. “I’m afraid I’m a little stupid,” he said slowly. “Why not?”

Carrington’s eyes sparkled. The necklace was his pet toy. “Did you ever see it, Sheringham?”

“No-o.” Still watching the blue smoke curling upward.

Carrington rose. “Well, when you do, you’ll see how useless it would be for a thief to take it.” He crossed to the bookcase, pushed aside a piece of Florentine tapestry and disclosed an old-fashioned wall safe. Sheringham’s one eye was cold as steel as he watched. A couple of turns of the dial and Carrington opened the safe. He brought out a blue plush box and took it over to Sheringham.

“Cast your eyes on that piece of glass,” he said, with a delighted chuckle.

Sheringham’s hands were steady as rock when he opened the lid of the box and stared at its contents. The most remarkable gems his skilled eye had ever encountered twinkled up at him. He felt a slight acceleration of his heart-beats. No doubt the Maharajah coveted this exquisite string. Sheringham thought it the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

“Nice, eh? Pretty lovely, eh?” Carrington was like a child.

Sheringham looked up at him. “It’s the most marvelous thing I ever saw,” he said earnestly. “I should think you would have an armed platoon to guard it.”

Carrington laughed. “Worth half a million to me,” he said, “but not one cent to a crook. He couldn’t dispose of it, see? The color of those stones is so unique that even if they were recut they would be recognizable. No, Sheringham, it’s just as I said. I could hang it up on the chandelier and it would be perfectly safe.”

Sheringham closed the lid of the box. “There are collectors,” he said, casually, “who would covet that even though they couldn’t show it to the world at large. Personally I almost feel as though you should give me a receipt for its return right now.”