Professor Augustus Van Dusen: 49 Detective Mysteries in One Edition. Jacques Futrelle

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СКАЧАТЬ cry out when the orang-outang picked it up. As a matter of fact no one heard it scream when taken away.”

      “Oh, I see,” said Hatch. “There was a picture of a monkey in the book. I told you.” He took out the book and looked at it. “Here,” and he extended it to the scientist who glanced at it casually, and nodded.

      “If you want to prove this just as I have told it,” said The Thinking Machine, “go to the Blake home tomorrow, put your finger on that picture and show it to Baby Blake. He will prove it.”

      It came to pass that Hatch did this very thing.

      “Pitty monkey,” said Baby Blake. “Doe, doe.”

      “He means he wants to go,” Miss Barton exclaimed to Hatch.

      Hatch was satisfied.

      Two days later the Boston American carried a dispatch from a village near Lynn stating that a semi-tame orang-outang had been killed by a policeman. It had belonged to a sailor, from whose vessel it had escaped more than two weeks before.

      The Problem of the Missing Necklace

      Table of Contents

      Mr. Bradlee Cunnyngham Leighton was clever. His most ardent enemies admitted that. Scotland Yard, for instance, not only admitted it but insisted on it. It wasn’t any half hearted insistence, either, for in the words of Herbert Conway, one of the Yard’s chief operators, he was smooth—“so smooth that he made ice feel like sandpaper.” Whether or not Mr. Leighton was aware of this delicate compliment does not appear. It was perfectly possible that he was, although he had never mentioned it. He was a well bred gentleman and was aware of many things that he never mentioned.

      In his person Mr. Leighton had the distinguished honour of closely resembling the immaculate villain of melodrama. In his mental attainments, however, Scotland Yard gave him credit for being a genius—far beyond the cigarette smoking mummer of crime who is always transparent and is inevitably caught. Mr. Leighton had never been caught. Perhaps that was why Scotland Yard insisted on his cleverness and was prepared to argue the point.

      Mr. Leighton went everywhere. At those functions where the highest in the social world met, there was Mr. Leighton. He was on every matron’s selected list of guests, a charming addition to any gathering. Scotland Yard knew this. Of course it may have been only the merest chance that he was always present at those functions where valuable jewels had been “lost” or “mislaid.” Yet Scotland Yard did not regard it as chance. That it did not was another compliment to Mr. Leighton.

      From deep down in its innermost conscience Scotland Yard looked up to Mr. Leighton as the master mind, if not the actual vital instrument, in a long series of baffling jewel robberies. There was a finesse and delicacy—not to mention regularity—about these robberies that annoyed Scotland Yard. Yet believing all this Scotland Yard had never been so indiscreet as to mention the matter to Mr. Leighton. As a matter of fact Scotland Yard had never seen its way clear to mentioning it to anyone.

      Conway had some ideas of his own about Mr. Leighton whom he exalted to a position that would have surprised if not flattered him. Conway perhaps, more nearly expressed the opinion of Scotland Yard in a few brief remarks than I could at greater length.

      “He’s a crook and the cleverest in the world,” he said of Mr. Leighton, almost enthusiastically. “He got the Hemingway jewels, the Cheltenham bracelet and the Quez shiners all right. I know he got them. But that doesn’t do any good—merely knowing it. I can’t put a finger on him because he’s too blooming smooth. I think I’ve got him and then—I haven’t.”

      This was before the Varron necklace affair. When that remarkable episode came to be known to Scotland Yard Conway’s admiration for Mr. Leighton increased immeasurably. He knew that Leighton was the responsible one—he knew it in his own head and heart—but that was all. He gnawed his scrubby moustache fiercely and set to work to prove it, feeling beforehand that it was a vain task.

      The absolute simplicity of the thing—and in this it was like the others—was its most puzzling feature. Lady Varron had tendered a reception to the United States Ambassador at her London house. She had gathered about her a most distinguished company. There were representatives of England, France and Russia; there were some of the most beautiful women of the continent; there were two American Duchesses; there were a chosen few of the American colony—and Mr. Leighton. It may be well to repeat that he went everywhere.

      Lady Varron on this occasion wore the famous Varron necklace. Its intrinsic value was said to be PS40,000; associations made it priceless. She was dancing with the American Ambassador when she slipped on the smooth floor and fell, dragging him down with her. It was an undignified, unromantic thing, but it happened. Mr. Leighton chanced to be one of those nearest and rushed to her assistance. In an instant Lady Varron and the Ambassador were the centre of a little group. It was Mr. Leighton who lifted Lady Varron to her feet.

      “It’s nothing,” she assured him, smiling uncertainly. “I was a little awkward, that’s all.”

      Mr. Leighton turned to assist the Ambassador but found him standing again and puffing inordinately, then turned back to Lady Varron.

      “You dropped your necklace,” he remarked blandly.

      “My necklace?”

      Lady Varron’s white hand flew to her bare throat, and she paled a little as Mr. Leighton and others of the group stood back to look for the jewel. It was not to be seen. Lady Varron controlled herself admirably.

      “It must have fallen somewhere,” she said finally.

      “Are you sure you had it on?” asked another guest solicitously.

      “Oh, yes,” she replied positively, “but I may have dropped it somewhere else.”

      “I noticed it just before you—we—fell,” said the Ambassador. “It must be here.”

      But it wasn’t. In that respect—that is visible non-existence—it resembled the Cheltenham bracelet. Mr. Leighton had, on that occasion, strolled out on the lawn at night with the Honourable Miss Cheltenham and she had dropped the bracelet. That was all. It was never found.

      In this Varron affair it would be useless to go into details of what immediately followed the loss of the necklace. It is sufficient to say that it was not found; that men and women stared at each other in bewildered embarrassment and mutual suspicion, and that finally Mr. Leighton, who still stood beside Lady Varron, intimated courteously, tactfully, that a personal search of her guests would not be amiss. He did not say it in so many words but the others understood.

      Mr. Leighton was seconded heartily by the American Ambassador, a Democratic individual with honest ideas which were foremost when a question of personal integrity was involved. But the search was not made and the reception proceeded. Lady Varron bore her loss marvellously well.

      “She’s a brick,” was the audible compliment of one of the American Duchesses whose father owned $20,000,000 worth of soap somewhere in vague America. “I’d have had a fit if I’d lost a necklace like that.”

      It was not until next day that Scotland Yard was notified of Lady Varron’s loss.

      “Leighton there?” was Conway’s question.

      “Yes.”

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