As Berry and I Were Saying (22 page)

“I came to know him – not well, but more than casually. He was a Frenchman, well-bred, good-looking, with excellent manners and a distinguished air. His family was old, and his title was genuine. Few French titles are. I once knew a Frenchman, whom I will call
Monsieur Soeur
. He had a private income and dwelled in a country house. After a while, he decided to take the ‘de’. From that time on, he was known as
Monsieur de Soeur
. So for some fifteen years. Then he decided that the time for ennoblement had come. So he made himself
Baron de Soeur
. Very soon he was generally known as
Monsieur le Baron de Soeur
. His promotion was tacitly accepted. All accorded him the honour which he had conferred on himself. He was a self-made man. By now, he is probably a
Vicomte
. Of such is France.

“And now to return to my adventurer. His mother and sister lived at their ancient home, somewhere in France. He kept them going somehow, because they hadn’t a bean. He visited them sometimes, but they never came to him. He was, of course, a gambler – in every sense of the word. I’m sure he always played straight and he paid his debts: but no stakes were ever too high. He was, of course, very lucky – gambler’s luck. And he had nerves of steel. One week he’d be worth fifty thousand – pounds, not francs: the next, he’d have next to nothing, and a discarded mistress would come to his help. I’ve actually known that happen. He had no scruples at all. When I knew him, he had three cars, two chauffeurs and a valet. One car was the latest Packard, a beautiful job. I’ll say he knew how to live. And he went everywhere. To see him at a
baccarat
table was a revelation. His apparent carelessness was most engaging. He would have to be reminded to take up his cards. In reality, he missed nothing. Often enough he’d play, because he desired to study some other player – see if he was worth playing with, or not. He never touched wine or spirits. I said to him one day, ‘I see you don’t care for champagne.’ He smiled. ‘I love it,’ he said: ‘but I can’t afford to drink it.’ (His English was very nearly as good as mine.) ‘Sometimes,’ he went on, ‘as a treat, I ask for a very little to be put in my glass of water. So I just get the taste. But you know that I live by my wits. And the wits of a man who drinks alcohol are never quite so quick. Their edge is just dulled.’ He was, of course, utterly ruthless – hard as nails. I suppose that he had to be. But many an unhappy woman saw that side. From our point of view, he was a man to beware of. But he was a remarkable production. The finished article. The profession which he had chosen has no name: and those who follow it are certainly wicked men. But he did distinguish his calling – I’ll give him that.”

“What about a spot of crime?” said Berry. “The wicked brought to book. And wondering whether it was worth it – after all. You know, one of the best things you ever said was in
The Stolen March
. Have we got a copy here?” Jill rose and went to a shelf. Then she returned with the book and put it into his hand. “Thank you, my love. What a perfect hand-maiden you are. Let’s see. It was at
The Peck of Pepper
… Here we are.

“‘Tell me,’ said Simon to Pride, ‘is outlawry a common punishment within The Pail?’

“‘It’s practically the only one,’ said Pride. ‘It saves the expense of a gaol and it’s a great deterrent. To offend the community or to undo a neighbour may be amusing or convenient, but if, as a result, the community (including the neighbour and his friends and any enemy you may happen to have) is to have a day, or a week, in which to offend you, the convenience is apt to wither and the amusement to lose its charm.’

“Now that is sheer common sense. So sheer that it’s above comment. A is tried and convicted of robbing B. His punishment is to be outlawed for seven days. Which means that for seven days A can be robbed or beaten with impunity. Put such an Act into force, and after six weeks you wouldn’t have any crime. And now lead on.”

“Something that you have said reminds me of The Great Pearl Case. To our fathers, The Great Pearl Case meant another trial: a much more dramatic matter: but though I know something of that, I don’t know enough to relate it and I should get my facts wrong.”

“You’ve done it now,” said Daphne. “Just tell what you know.”

“I shall have to keep saying ‘I think’, and I may be wrong.”

“Never mind.”

“I think it was at a house-party that a precious pearl necklace disappeared. One of the members of the party was a very attractive girl. She was engaged to be married to a most charming man. Both were well-known in London Society. The lady who lost the pearls suspected the girl of the theft. She certainly had no money, although her
fiancé
was rich. Everyone condemned such suspicion: but the loser stuck to her guns. Presently she began to say so openly. So the girl brought an action for slander…

“This was heard in the High Court. Feeling ran very high. Everyone hoped and believed that the girl would get exemplary damages. It was an ordeal for her, for the case lasted two or three days. Her
fiancé
never left her side. The two won everyone’s hearts.

“Though they hadn’t found the thief, the police had found the pearls. They had been sold to a pawnbroker, who had paid for them in five-pound notes. A woman had sold them to him, but she had been heavily veiled. He said that it might or might not have been the girl. He had taken the numbers of the notes, but none had come in. Needless to say, the girl swore that she’d never been near his shop.

“At the end of the second day, so far as the plaintiff was concerned, the case was in the bag. I think it was nearly over. Still, one more consultation was thought advisable, and when the Court rose, she and her
fiancé
accompanied her solicitor to the chambers of, I think, Sir Charles Russell, who was leading for her. Charles Matthews, I’m sure, was the junior. The consultation was in progress, when there was a knock on the door, and Russell’s clerk entered the room with a letter for the solicitor. He opened and read it at once.

“The letter was from the solicitors for the defence. It enclosed a five-pound note – one of the five-pound notes which the pawnbroker had paid. It had been cashed at Maples – I’m nearly sure it was Maples – the furniture shop. It was then the practice of a shop, if the customer wasn’t known, to ask them to sign their name on the back of the note. In this case, that had been done. The signature on the back of this note was that of the girl.”

“My God,” said Daphne. And then, “It makes me feel weak.”

“Go on,” said Berry. “What happened? Or can’t you speak to that?”

I laughed.

“As a matter of fact, I can. I’m one of the very few people – at least, I believe I am – who know exactly what happened after that. For, as an articled clerk, Muskett had accompanied the solicitor: and it was he that told me what then took place.

“The solicitor rose and laid both letter and note before Russell. Matthews rose and looked over his leader’s shoulder. Then Russell addressed the
fiancé
. ‘One of the notes has come in. It was cashed at Maples on —. It was signed, before it was cashed. Here it is. Does the plaintiff deny her signature?’ But the girl was already in tears. Her
fiancé
looked at Russell. ‘What,’ he said, ‘do I do?’ Russell looked at his watch. Then he turned to Matthews, ‘How much have you on you?’ he said. Between the two of them, they had about forty pounds. Russell gave the
fiancé
the money. ‘My clerk will fetch you a hansom. A boat-train leaves Charing Cross in half an hour. Take her to France. That’ll give you a breathing-space. If you don’t do as I say, she’ll be under arrest.’

“The
fiancé
took his advice, which I think was very good. After a little, she came back and stood her trial. I forget what she got, but, when she came out of jail, her
fiancé
married her. There I may be wrong, for he may have married her, while they were still abroad.”

“What a hell of a case,” said Berry.

“It was,” said I. “I’m only sorry I can’t remember more. But, of course, it was long before my day. Russell was afterwards Lord Chief Justice, but I can’t remember him. I’m almost sure it was Russell – I may be wrong.”

“Now for the second one,” said Berry.

“That was very different. The Great Pearl Case was ‘news’ in 1909, before I was called to the Bar. I saw it from first to last, and, in fact, I managed the case when it came to be tried.

“There was a diamond-merchant, who lived in Cologne. He was, I think, a German: but he was a very big man. His name was Goldschmidt – of the spelling, I can’t be sure. Once or twice a year he visited Hatton Garden, bringing his wares. He did so in the spring of 1909. When he came to London, he always used to stay at De Keyser’s Hotel. That’s gone now, and Lever House stands where it did – at the end of The Embankment, just by Blackfriars Bridge. And he always had his own hansom, to take him about. You see, he wished to take no avoidable risks: for his stuff was always with him, and it was valuable stuff. On this occasion, it was pearls. Eighty thousand pounds’ worth of pearls – and that was their rock-bottom value – eighty thousand pounds in a small black leather bag about a foot long.”

“Chained?”

“No. Why he didn’t wear a chain, I never heard. But he was very particular about his appearance, and the absence of a chain may have been due to personal vanity. On the other hand, a chain would have attracted attention – might have attracted unwelcome attention to his bag. Now, though he didn’t know it, a gang was after those pearls – a gang of four. They knew what he’d got, and the gang was out to get it. Two of them travelled with him all the way from Cologne. But he was an old hand and he never gave them a chance. Day after day, one or more visited De Keyser’s Hotel – and sat about in the lounge, all ready to spring: day after day, he was followed to Hatton Garden: but all in vain. Time was running short, for very soon he was due to return to Cologne. So they brought in two more men. One was an ex-jockey, Grimshaw, a wiry little man. The other’s name, I forget. But he was tall. I’d better call him Payne, though that wasn’t his name. Both were known to the police, as men to be watched. Grimshaw, I think, had done time. ‘I’ll have them pearls,’ said Grimshaw…

“On Goldschmidt’s last day but one, he drove to Hatton Garden at ten o’clock. He was followed there, but not by Grimshaw and Payne. They were to pick him up there, when he came out. He always came out about one, so they arranged to be there about half-past twelve. Grimshaw was there all right, but Payne was late. The reason why he was late is of peculiar interest. He had gone to a tavern in Holborn – we’ll call it
The Rose
.
The Rose
was well known to the police, as being a house of call for higher-class thieves. As such, it was frequently visited by plain-clothes men. There was one there that very day – a Sergeant West, of Vine Street, a most efficient man. Payne knew him to speak to and had a drink with him.

“Now West was there on duty. It was part of his job to be on terms with thieves. Whether the practice is still followed, I’ve no idea. But in my time, the CID were on terms with hundreds of thieves. This contributed largely to the prevention of crime: largely, also, to its cure. If Sergeant West had stayed for another quarter of an hour, the robbery I am relating would not have been done that day.

“So Payne had a drink with West about a quarter-past twelve. Well, that was all right. But Payne didn’t want to leave before West left. He wanted to be able to say that he’d never left the tavern before, say, a quarter to two. So he had to sit West out. And West never left
The Rose
until a quarter to one. The moment he’d gone, Payne made for Hatton Garden as hard as he could. He whipped into Grimshaw’s taxi just in time.

“Goldschmidt appeared, entered his private hansom and drove to
The Monico
, where he proposed to lunch.”

“Where’s
The Monico
?” said Jill.

“In Piccadilly Circus – at least, it was. It had one entrance in the Circus and one in Shaftesbury Avenue. So the hansom moved off and the taxi fell in behind. Now, compared with the taxi, the hansom, of course, was slow: so the taxi had to crawl, if it was to keep behind. The hansom went by Holborn, and the taxi followed along. Where the hansom was bound for, Grimshaw and Payne didn’t know.

“Now a young man was standing in Holborn. He was employed by a firm, whose offices were near by. It was his luncheon-hour: but he had finished early and was smoking a cigarette before he went back. He was standing on the pavement in Holborn, watching the traffic go by. He was an observant young man, and the taxi caught his eye. For the taxi was crawling by the kerb, as though in hope of a fare: but it had a fare already. The young man found this strange. For taxis with fares inside them don’t crawl by the kerb. Then the traffic was blocked for a moment, and the taxi came to rest. So the young man looked at the fares. He could only see one well, though he knew there were two. The one he saw was a small man: and he was standing up, crouching and peering through the window at something ahead. The young man was vastly piqued. He would have liked to follow, if only he had had time. This made him glance at his watch. Almost half-past one, and he must be getting back… The young man’s name was Sherlock.

“The hansom reached
The Monico
at twenty minutes to two. Goldschmidt entered the restaurant, followed by Grimshaw and Payne. He reserved his table and went off to wash his hands. The lavatory was long-shaped, with a door at either end. Each door gave into a hall. One hall gave to Piccadilly, the other to Shaftesbury Avenue. Goldschmidt had entered from Shaftesbury Avenue. When he made to wash his hands, he laid his bag on the ledge between himself and the basin. When his hands were covered with soap, the hand of a man who was standing directly behind him stole round his ample waist and removed the bag. Goldschmidt turned about and threw his arms round the thief: but Grimshaw wriggled out of his grasp and streaked for the door to the hall on the Circus side. His victim ran after him, shouting ‘Stop thief’. So did another man, who had been washing his hands by the merchant’s side. The two collided in the doorway, and both fell down. They picked themselves up and rushed out into the hall. This was empty, and Goldschmidt ran to the doors.

“‘What is it, sir?’ cried a porter.

“‘I’ve been robbed,’ cried Goldschmidt. ‘The fellow ran out this way. This gentleman saw it happen.’

“‘Which gentleman?’ cried the porter.

“But Payne had disappeared.

“That was how it was actually done.

“Within two minutes, Goldschmidt was speaking to Vine Street, reporting his loss. The Inspector on duty promised to send a man down right away. And so he did. The man who was sent was Detective-Sergeant West. This was, of course, pure coincidence: but that is the way in which Fate will sometimes work.

“When Sherlock read the case in the paper, he went to the police. He had seen Grimshaw well, but he had not seen Payne. Goldschmidt had never seen Grimshaw, but only his back. But he had seen Payne. The police got to work. They let the thieves go for the moment and went for the pearls. They knew that pearls of such value would only be received by one or two men. The receiver would lead them to the thieves. Cammy Goldschmidt, of whom I have told you, received the pearls. But the police were just too late. Cammy had been ready and waiting: and before the police could find him, the pearls had been valued and sent to Amsterdam. Eighty thousand pounds’ worth of pearls. But, working back from Cammy, the police got the thieves. What Grimshaw said, when he was charged, I do not know. But I know what Payne said. ‘This is a damned shame.’ He pointed to Sergeant West. ‘He knows that I couldn’t have done it. I was drinking with him at
The Rose
at a quarter to two that day: and the robbery was committed at a quarter to two.’

“‘At a quarter to one,’ says West. ‘Not a quarter to two.’

“‘At a quarter to two,’ says Payne.

“‘One minute,’ says the Inspector. ‘How did you know that the robbery was committed at a quarter to two?’

“‘Saw it in the papers, of course.’

“‘I don’t think you did. We gave the time to the Press as two o’clock.’

“This was a fact. And the papers, of course, were wrong, while Payne was right. His unfortunate statement had a great deal to do with sending him down.

“For some reason, which I have forgotten, the case was not sent to the Old Bailey, but to Newington Sessions, instead. It was a depressing business, because the pearls were gone. I always felt that Wensley would have had them: but it wasn’t Wensley’s show. The two men went down all right, but, as though something were needed to enhance the depression we felt, the Chairman of the Sessions put on the lid. To Payne, he gave three years and to Grimshaw four. The two guffawed in the dock – the job had been worth their while. From a High Court Judge they’d have had ten years apiece: Grimshaw, probably more.