“It would, I imagine, be impossible to find out to whom this cat was originally sold?”
“If it was sold over the counter for cash it would be difficult, but if it was entered in our books it might not be impossible to discover, if monsieur desired it.”
“I do desire it very much,” said Parker, producing his card. “I am an agent of the British police, and it is of great importance that I should know to whom this cat originally belonged.”
“In that case,” said the young man, “I shall do better to inform monsieur the proprietor.”
He carried away the card into the back premises, and presently emerged with a stout gentleman, whom he introduced as Monsieur Briquet.
In Monsieur Briquet’s private office the books of the establishment were brought out and laid on the desk.
“You will understand, monsieur,” said Monsieur Briquet, “that I can only inform you of the names and addresses of such purchasers of these cats as have had an account sent them. It is, however, unlikely that an object of such value was paid for in cash. Still, with rich Anglo-Saxons, such an incident may occur. We need not go back further than the beginning of the year, when these cats were made.” He ran a podgy finger down the pages of the ledger. “The first purchase was on January 19th.”
Mr. Parker noted various names and addresses, and at the end of half an hour Monsieur Briquet said in a final manner:
“That is all, monsieur. How many names have you there?”
“Thirteen,” said Parker.
“And there are still three cats in stock—the original number was twenty—so that four must have been sold for cash. If monsieur wishes to verify the matter we can consult the daybook.”
The search in the daybook was longer and more tiresome, but eventually four cats were duly found to have been sold; one on January 31st, another on February 6th, the third on May 17th, and the last on August 9th.
Mr. Parker had risen, and embarked upon a long string of compliments and thanks, when a sudden association of ideas and dates prompted him to hand Cathcart’s photograph to Monsieur Briquet and ask whether he recognized it.
Monsieur Briquet shook his head.
“I am sure he is not one of our regular customers,” he said, “and I have a very good memory for faces. I make a point of knowing anyone who has any considerable account with me. And this gentleman has not everybody’s face. But we will ask my assistants.”
The majority of the staff failed to recognize the photograph, and Parker was on the point of putting it back in his pocketbook when a young lady, who had just finished selling an engagement ring to an obese and elderly Jew, arrived, and said, without any hesitation:
“Mais oui, je l’ai vu, ce monsieur-là. It is the Englishman who bought a diamond cat for the jolie blonde.”
“Mademoiselle,” said Parker eagerly, “I beseech you to do me the favor to remember all about it.”
“Parfaitement,” said she. “It is not the face one would forget, especially when one is a woman. The gentleman bought a diamond cat and paid for it—no, I am wrong. It was the lady who bought it, and I remember now to have been surprised that she should pay like that at once in money, because ladies do not usually carry such large sums. The gentleman bought too. He bought a diamond and tortoiseshell comb for the lady to wear, and then she said she must give him something pour porter bonheur, and asked me for a mascot that was good for cards. I showed her some jewels more suitable for a gentleman, but she saw these cats and fell in love with them, and said he should have a cat and nothing else; she was sure it would bring him good hands. She asked me if it was not so, and I said, ‘Undoubtedly, and monsieur must be sure never to play without it,’ and he laughed very much, and promised always to have it upon him when he was playing.”
“And how was she, this lady?”
“Blonde, monsieur, and very pretty; rather tall and svelte, and very well dressed. A big hat and dark blue costume. Quoi encore? Voyons—yes, she was a foreigner.”
“English?”
“I do not know. She spoke French very, very well, almost like a French person, but she had just the little suspicion of accent.”
“What language did she speak with the gentleman?”
“French, monsieur. You see, we were speaking together, and they both appealed to me continually, and so all the talk was in French. The gentleman spoke French à merveille, it was only by his clothes and a je ne sais quoi in his appearance that I guessed he was English. The lady spoke equally fluently, but one remarked just the accent from time to time. Of course, I went away from them once or twice to get goods from the window, and they talked then; I do not know in what language.”
“Now, mademoiselle, can you tell me how long ago this was?”
“Ah, mon Dieu, ça c’est plus difficile. Monsieur sait que les jours se suivent et se ressemblent. Voyons.”
“We can see by the daybook,” put in Monsieur Briquet, “on what occasion a diamond comb was sold with a diamond cat.”
“Of course,” said Parker hastily. “Let us go back.”
They went back and turned to the January volume, where they found no help. But on February 6th they read:
| Peigne en écaille et diamants | … | f. 7,500 |
| Chat en diamants (Dessin C-5) | … | f. 5,000 |
“That settles it,” said Parker gloomily.
“Monsieur does not appear content,” suggested the jeweler.
“Monsieur,” said Parker, “I am more grateful than I can say for your very great kindness, but I will frankly confess that, of all the twelve months in the year, I had rather it had been any other.”
Parker found this whole episode so annoying to his feelings that he bought two comic papers
