Good Night, Mr. Holmes (8 page)

“I suppose you know he’s coming here because he’s hesitating while looking for the address.”

“Ah, Watson, you do absorb my methods.”

“But how do you know that he’s an American?”

“I have an advantage over you, old fellow; I’ve been watching him for several minutes. He
walked
here, Watson.”

“Walked? How very extraordinary.”

“Yet he is a fine-feathered fellow for all that. Poverty cannot have inspired his choice of shank’s mare for transportation, ergo, walking must be the fashion where he hails from. There is no one like a rich American for walking to preserve the constitution when he may easily ride.”

“He looks like a judge,” I admitted, taking in the high silk hat and the stiff, gate’s-ajar collar visible beneath the velvet lapels of his chesterfield.

“A judge of the marketplace, I fancy, Watson; a commercial man and self-made. Note the dignity of his bearing; it is something he was not born to, for he’s not so tall as he makes himself look. The hat and collar raise him in the eyes of the world—and only in New York City does a hatter make a top hat that so resembles a crown, by the way. Yes, our gentleman caller is an aristocrat of free enterprise, Watson, as I am a mere pauper in that system. But he is adventuresome only in some respects; in others, he is as cautious as yourself, I daresay. See how short he wears his whiskers, as he doubtless did in his thirties’ youth, when our Victoria was a girl.”

In a moment the bell rang, once and firmly. In a few moments more Mrs. Hudson ushered the dignified gentleman into our parlor.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he inquired in unmistakably American tones, looking from Holmes to myself.

“At your service... Mr. Tiffany,” Holmes said with a bow and a smile.

“Pinkerton’s told you that I would be consulting you, then?” said the old gentleman, taken aback that his presence was apparently expected.

“Pinkerton’s tells me nothing. I have never had any dealings with that firm.”

“They recommended you.”

“Ah, Watson, do you hear?” Holmes turned to me with real pleasure. “Apparently word of my deductive efforts has crossed the Atlantic. But I must present my associate, Dr. Watson. This is Charles Lewis Tiffany, Watson, the gentleman who makes women the world over so ecstatic that even a Casanova would envy him.”

“Of course,” I murmured respectfully, for the name of Tiffany was a byword in London as well as New York.

Tiffany’s vivid blue eyes were hardening to lapis lazuli. His Roman nose spoke of stubbornness and his florid complexion looked more so against the snowy whiskers that crisped around his jaw, yet he seemed in the peak of health for a man in his seventies.

“If Pinkerton’s did not send word that I would be calling, how are you aware of my identity, Mr. Holmes?” he demanded.

Holmes pointed to my castaway
Telegraph.
“When that most... eminent... and successful American jeweler, Tiffany, visits London it is usually in search of old jewels for new clients. Such things are noted in the press, and it is
my
calling to observe them as well.”

“My portrait has not appeared recently in the London papers.”

“My dear sir, when your hat is made by only one possible hatter in New York and the maker’s mark is plain in every line, there is no need for identification as mundane as photographs. Also you have a diamond token in the shape of a cursive ‘T’ at your watch-fob.

“But do sit, Mr. Tiffany,” Holmes urged with that charm of his for cajoling a story from a client. “I am thirsting for the tale that has brought you to my obscure door.”

The old gentleman removed his hat, paused and extended it to Holmes, who peered inside the silk-lined rim and nodded with a satisfied smile.

“As I predicted,” Holmes noted. “Have you considered, Mr. Tiffany, that the article of a man’s dress most likely to be labeled is his hat? I made a small study of the subject once, which explains my familiarity with the premier hatters of Europe—and the United States and Canada, of course.”

“I see, Mr. Holmes, that you are as particular in your line of work as I am in mine,” Tiffany said, setting his hat aside. “I, too, must keep abreast of a world market.”

“Truth is like a diamond, Mr. Tiffany. It must have the proper clarity, color and weight to be worth anything— and must be searched for everywhere. I trade in truth.”

“Odd you should mention diamonds—or did you deduce that, too, in that disconcerting manner of yours?”

Holmes spread his hands modestly. “Mere chance, my dear sir.”

“Well, diamonds it is, Mr. Holmes, and a good many of them, that I seek,” Tiffany said, settling into the easy chair Holmes offered clients. “A queen’s ransom in diamonds.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow and tented his long fingers to indicate his attentiveness as the world-famous jeweler went on.

“Europe is a rich source of stones for my firm. The crown jewels of various royal houses may come up for bid at any moment—not that we are not finding superior diamonds fresh from the mine. I confess myself partial to the semiprecious colored gemstones so often overlooked— but there is a romance to a splendid diamond’s history that appeals to the adventurer in us all.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said, his eyes sparkling and fever spots of excitement blossoming on his lean cheeks.

“Have you ever heard of the Zone of Diamonds, sir?”

“Watson, my index!”

I produced the volume, Holmes’s personal encyclopedia, which was filled with odd bits of information useful only to a chronicler of humanity’s eternal dedication to crime.

Holmes paged through in silence. “No reference, but I seem to recall some connection with the unhappy Marie Antoinette.”

“You amaze me, Mr. Holmes. Even in ignorance you are surprisingly knowledgeable. Yes, the Zone belonged to her. It is what its name indicates, a girdle—or belt, if you will—of diamonds. No single stone is superior, but together they make a very pretty chain. She clasped it around the waists of court gowns; it is said to have reached to the floor.”

I whistled under my breath, for such a length of diamonds would be spectacular.

“My exact reaction, Dr. Watson, when I first learned of the piece,” Mr. Tiffany said.

“How long has it been missing?” Holmes asked abruptly. “Since the French Revolution?”

“No, that is what is so ... tempting, Mr. Holmes. The Zone of Diamonds survived the Revolution. Along with the remaining French crown jewels, it was kept in the Tuileries and not lost until the Paris mobs overran those gardens while overthrowing King Louis Philippe in 1848.”

“Thirty-three years ago,” Holmes mused.

“Not much longer than you yourself have been on this planet, I’d imagine,” Tiffany noted.

“It may take infinite time to make diamonds, Mr. Tiffany,” Holmes said crisply, “but the human deductive faculty matures much earlier, I assure you. At least in my case.”

“I believe you, Mr. Holmes,” Tiffany said with a solemn nod. “I am leaving no, er, stone unturned in my search for this object. My best information is that it came to England. I will put all my resources behind this enterprise. I have used private detectives before, notably Pinkerton’s, but they do not have the contacts abroad that this task requires.”

“Mr. Tiffany,” said Holmes, “I am not commonly in the game of finding lost articles. Frankly, it is the singular nature of the cases I take on that intrigues me. Your assignment is a trifling matter of tracing the path of stolen goods; surely, other agents could do as much for you.”

“I should be grateful, Mr. Holmes, if you would look into the matter. Pinkerton’s spoke highly of you, especially your flair for following the unexpected clue. And are you not the world’s only consulting detective?”

“At least the trail is cold and the cast of characters is unknown.” Holmes’s long, agile hands clapped his chair arms in concerted decision. “I am at an interval now, with little to occupy my mind. As Dr. Watson could no doubt tell you, Mr. Tiffany, I become annoyingly restless—even insufferable—at such times. And my family tree does extend a root or two into France, thus my interest in restoring a French queen’s diamonds to history.”

“As the Three Musketeers did once long ago,” Tiffany suggested with a laugh.

Holmes looked at the man as if he had gone mad.

“The Three Musketeers, exactly,” said I hastily, “and the famous incident of the Queen’s diamonds.” Few besides myself knew of Holmes’s abysmal ignorance in matters outside his immediate interest, of which literature was only a single example. “ ‘One for all and all for one,’ you know.”

“A noble motto, Watson,” Holmes said vaguely, rising. “Rest assured that I will bend my best efforts to locating your wandering cincture, Mr. Tiffany.”

“And rest assured that your efforts will be rewarded, Mr. Holmes. I offer my cheque for your preliminary inquiries.”

Holmes accepted it, bowed, handed back the gentleman’s hat and saw him out.

“Think of it, Holmes,” I speculated as he returned to the chamber, “a string of diamonds... why, it must be seven or eight feet long!”

“That’s assuming that Marie Antoinette tied her belt into two tails like an ordinary woman, Watson. There could have been a single strand from waist to floor.”

“Still, a spectacular find, Holmes.”

“Ah, I see,” said he, reaching for his black clay pipe and the Persian slipper fragrant with loose tobacco. “You grow impatient for a more dramatic subject for another of your accounts. My usual problems are too mundane for your literary ambitions—”

“Not at all, my dear fellow!” I protested. “I have learned from our association that no detail is too insignificant to be noticed and that no problem is small to the one it plagues. Aren’t you the slightest bit eager to set out on the trail of this fabulous artifact?”

“Eager, Watson? To trail the glittering slick of a loathsome slug across this green garden of England? Whatever the beauty or worth of this girdle of diamonds, for men it has been nothing but a snare, its sheen dulled by the countless greedy hands through which it has doubtless passed. There is sorrow in its wake, and betrayal and destruction, count upon it.”

“ ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’” I rashly quoted the poet. This literary reference was not lost on Holmes, unlike Dumas’s Three Musketeers.

“‘Rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together,’ “ Holmes responded, citing Petrarch. “I find it pathetic, Watson, that this ‘thing of beauty,’ this Zone of Diamonds that was once an accessory to a queen will remain as empty a symbol of worldly success to whomever possesses it. In our industrial age, merchant princes and celluloid czars buy such baubles for the vanity of themselves and the women upon whom they bestow their largess so publicly. Better that the Zone stay lost; then it will tempt fewer men to commit more ill deeds than the world needs.”

“Might it not be displayed in some museum?”

Holmes laughed. “Mr. Tiffany is not a curator, but a merchant. He will likely sell the Zone stone by stone and reap a greater value from this subdivision than if he had honored its original form.”

“Surely not, Holmes.”

“Still keen for the treasure hunt, eh, Watson? There is a joy in finding that seldom extends to the having of the found object, I admit. And there is something of the boy in every Englishman in our day, a not undesirable trait. I’ll have a go at it, Watson, but forgive me if I can’t muster enthusiasm for the hunt. I may uncover human misery as well as lost jewels if I look for it; I will certainly do so if I find it”

“When
you find it, Holmes.”

“When,” he amended calmly.

Chapter Five

R
EPAST AT
T
IFFANY’S

I have
never known anyone with so little regard for personal possessions as my friend, Irene Adler. It was not the case that she had no possessions; indeed, even when we first shared modest lodgings in Saffron Hill, the Italian district, her two rooms were crammed to the sconces with the excess of her accumulations.

Like a kitten too curious to be completely timid, I explored the crowded landscape of my new residence by relentless stages. My first discovery was Irene’s utterly cavalier attitude toward her possessions. What was hers, was mine. If my eye strayed too long on an exotically figured shawl, she immediately noticed.

“Catch your fancy, does it, Nell? You may have it.”

“No!” I would protest hastily. Those fevered shades of dye, that deep fringe of swaying silk were not to my taste or, more important, my station in life.

At that Irene would produce another shawl—say, an ivory slubbed silk with a modest eyelash of fringe—from the gaping trunk that spilled a dressmaker’s treasure trove upon her bedchamber rug.

“Perhaps this is more to your liking,” she would say with such amused certainty that I almost felt obliged to claim the gaudy one to prove her wrong.

Though I never did any such thing.

Once, frustrated by the profusion littering our two large rooms, I listed the contents. Of furniture there was little and that awash in a sea of accessories. Chief among it was the square piano, the only object kept free of effluvia, so that its lid might be raised. Two easy chairs, both moth-marked under their colorful throws, flanked the hearth. A sway-backed sofa held the opposite wall while a poster of Henry Irving’s
Hamlet,
with Ellen Terry as Ophelia, played the role of a painting above it.