Even before he saw the heart-shaped ruby brooch that was pinned to the satin lining of the lid, Tab knew what it was.
“Those are Ursula Ardfern’s jewels,” he said, and they looked at one another.
“The jewels that were stolen on Saturday morning?” asked the detective incredulously.
Tab nodded and the detective took out an emerald cross, turned it over, looked at its face, then put it back again.
“On Saturday morning,” he said slowly, “if I remember the facts aright, and I only read them in the newspaper this morning, Miss Ursula Ardfern went into a post office to buy some stamps. Whilst she was there she put her jewel-case by her side, and looking round, discovered it was gone. Thinking she had made some mistake, she went back to her hotel and searched her room. She reported it to the police on Sunday morning.”
“That is the case as I understand it,” said Tab, who was as dumbfounded as his companion.
“And three or four hours after Miss Ardfern lost her jewels, Trasmere was murdered in this room. The jewels were here at that time, because obviously nobody has been in or out of this room since Trasmere was murdered, except possibly the murderer; in other words, in the space of two hours, the jewels were stolen and conveyed to Jesse Trasmere and locked in his strongroom—why?” He stared at Tab.
Tab could only stare back. Carver scratched his head, massaged the back of his neck irritably, rubbed his chin, and then: “In other circumstances, one would say that Trasmere was a receiver. I have known some very unlikely people who were receivers of stolen property and grew rich on the proceeds, and I have known very unlikely folk to loan money, not only to actresses, but very substantial people, on the security of their jewels. Had we not Miss Ardfern’s report of their loss, the obvious explanation would have been that these had been pledged to Trasmere in security for a loan.”
“I am perfectly sure she doesn’t know Trasmere. I happen to be—an—an acquaintance of hers,” said Tab quickly.
Again the detective was giving contortional evidence of his perplexity. His long face was longer still, his down-turned face more melancholy.
“Anyway, there is no question of pledge. The only thing we have to decide is, whether he was the kind of man who would receive stolen property.” He glanced round at the black boxes which filled the shelves and shook his head. “The probability is all against that theory,” he said. “Trasmere was too rich a man to run the risk. Besides we should have found other property. It is not likely that he would act as receiver for one gang of thieves, and for only one of their crimes.”
He hoisted himself to the top of the table, pushed his hands in his trousers pockets and with his chin on his breast, considered.
“Now, that beats me,” he said at last. “I admit that I am thoroughly and absolutely beaten. You are perfectly sure that these are Miss Ardfern’s jewels?”
“I am absolutely certain that it is her jewel-case. Probably at headquarters they have a description of the jewels which are lost,” said Tab.
“Then we’ll settle that little mystery at once.”
He was telephoning for a quarter of an hour, taking notes all the time, and when he hung up the receiver, he turned to Tab.
“Without having carefully looked at the pieces in that box,” he said, “I think it is absolutely certain that those jewels are Miss Ardfern’s. She gave a fairly complete list to the police, but could not remember every item. We will go along and check our inventory.”
He had not been at work long before it was clear that the jewelry was Ursula Ardfern’s property.
“Go along and see her, Tab,” said Carver. “Take the empty box with you—we had better hold on to the jewelry a little longer—and ask her to identify the case.”
X
Ursula had only arrived a few minutes before Tab reached the Central Hotel, and the ban against reporters must have been lifted, because Ursula saw him immediately.
She took the case from his hand slowly and with a face from whence all expression had fled.
“Yes, this is mine,” she said. She lifted the lid. “Where are the jewels?” she asked quickly.
“The police have those.”
“The police?”
“It was found in the strongroom of Jesse Trasmere, the old man who was murdered on Saturday afternoon,” said Tab. “Have you any idea how they came into his possession?”
“None,” she said emphatically. “I did not know Mr. Trasmere.”
He told her about the murder, but apparently she had already read the details and seemed loath to discuss the matter until he told her the part that he himself was taking in the tracking of the murderer.
“Where did you find these?” she asked.
“In his strongroom. The curious thing is, we turned out all the boxes, ran over all the papers and found nothing of importance. It was only by accident that we discovered this case. It was in a little drawer pushed far under one of the shelves.”
“You went through all the papers,” she repeated mechanically. “What sort of papers—did he have—many?”
“Quite a number,” said Tab, surprised that after definitely and decidedly changing the subject, she had returned to it voluntarily. “Old bills and accounts, copies of letters and that sort of thing. Nothing of any very great importance. Why do you ask?”
“I had a friend once, a girl who was interested in Mr. Trasmere,” she answered. “She told me that he was keeping a number of documents connected with her family. No, I don’t remember her name. She was an actress I met on tour.”
“There was nothing in his papers except purely business records,” said Tab.
Tab was very sensitive to atmosphere. He could have sworn when he came into the room that she had keyed herself up to meet him. There was no reason why she should, except the reluctance to discuss the robbery, and she
