She was wearing a little jacket, collar high at the neck, which tipped her chin up slightly, and lounge trousers, the whole suit made of some silvery material. It was a perfect fit and looked as though it had been sprayed on to her. Her figure had matured a little over the last eight years but not to an extent that would prompt anyone to shout ‘objection’ to the stewards. She had red hair which made Wilkins’s look like rust chippings from some old tanker, and it was short and curly and full of bright lights and must have cost her a packet every few days at somewhere like Vidal Sassoon’s. She had blue eyes, cornflower blue; and it’s not my fault if that’s corny, because that’s exactly what they were. In addition they weren’t very friendly, but I wasn’t worrying about that. It was a just challenge, and I realized there and then that that was what had been missing from my life for quite a while . . . challenge. Somewhere the adrenalin tap was turned on a bit more. She was the most gorgeous—no, glorious—thing I’d seen for at least two months. I gave her a warm smile and I could see that she thought nothing of it.
‘Sit down, Mr Carver, and state your business quickly.’ She pointed with a long ebony stick that had rested across her knees, to a small gilt chair by the fireplace.
I sat down, knowing the chair would stick to me when I got up.
I said ‘I’ve been employed by the London Fraternal Insurance Society to try and recover the gold python arm bracelet which was stolen from you.’
‘I thought the police did that kind of thing?’ She had a nice voice, a faint little gaspiness in it as though she suffered from a weak chest, though you would not have thought so looking at it. Somewhere, too, there was the echo of an accent, though I couldn’t place it.
‘The police rate of recovery is so low it hardly comes on to the graph. As you know, because you’ve been through it, they’re very sympathetic, take down all the particulars and then—and you probably don’t know—they go back to the police canteen for a quick one and forget all about it. So, insurance companies prefer people like me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I get paid for the job and a commission on all recoveries. A sergeant-detective could recover the Cullinan diamond and still get only his pay packet and go on worrying about his hire-purchase payments.’
‘The Cullinan diamond doesn’t exist. It was cut up into one hundred and five separate stones.’
‘It was a figure of speech.’ But I was impressed, and followed it up. ‘You know about diamonds?’
‘A little.’ The pale, creamy pink lips moved to something like a smile.
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘something about the Tennant Diamond.’
‘It is a perfect yellow African stone measuring an inch by one and one-eighth inches. Sixty-six carats. But I’m not in the mood for quiz games. What do you want from me that I haven’t already told the police?’
‘With the greatest respect, the London Fraternal Insurance Society finds it hard to believe—though they would never say so, they leave that kind of thing to me—that while you and your maid were out someone entered this flat, using a key, walked off with a python bracelet from your dressing table and took nothing else.’
‘It might have been someone who specialized in Indian antiques. Just like these art robberies. They select what they want.’
‘True. But why did they leave old Buddha there?’ I nodded at the coffee table. ‘He’s antique enough. And Indian.’
‘He’s from the Tanjore district. Seventeenth century. But don’t ask me why he was left, or other things. I’m not interested in the psychology of the thief. My bracelet was insured. I’ve made a claim for the loss. Just tell the company to pay me. The thing is perfectly straightforward. You don’t think I’m lying to you, do you? Yes, or no?’
I’d had that kind of question before—mostly from women, too. Believe me, it’s harder to answer than ‘have you stopped beating your wife yet?’
Of course, there was no doubt in my mind that she was lying. The police weren’t happy with her story, and neither was Hawkins of the L.F.I.S. And having seen this place, I wasn’t happy with it. There was a gold cigarette box on the side-table close to me, and plenty of other stuff around the room that any villain with an eye for tomfoolery would never have passed up.
‘Well?’ she said.
I stood up. Of course, the damned chair came with me. I prised it off and gave her a look full of confidence.
‘I’m absolutely certain you’re not,’ I said.
‘That’s a very nice thing to say.’ She was smiling.
‘It took no effort.’
‘But you only did it out of politeness.’
‘Noblesse oblige.’
‘Crap.’ The underlying accent was stronger. I’m no Professor Henry Higgins, but I thought I could hear something North Country or Midlands in it. She raised her ebony stick and gave one of the cushions a whack. ‘I only like people who tell the truth.’
I said, taking a chance, ‘With looks like yours and a quarter of a million pounds, it can’t happen often. You’ll only hear what people think you want to hear.’
She gave me a long look, and said, ‘Let’s try again. Am I lying?’
‘If I can recover the bracelet it won’t matter either way.’
‘Don’t spare my feelings, Mr Carver.’ She picked up my card which lay on a cushion at her side. ‘Mr Rex Carver. Where the hell did you pick up a name like Rex?’
‘I was told there was a two-week argument between my father and mother. He won. I’ve never forgiven him. I go round thinking I should have been a golden labrador. How come Gloria?’
‘It’s Gloriana, really. My father. He had a thing for Spenser. Faerie Queene.’
‘Educated man.’
‘Self-educated. He was an iron-puddler in a steel works at Scunthorpe. I
