“No. I was not moved by any sentiment,” Dennis Blackett explained. “To me, the necklace was the proof of a gigantic folly. And it existed—out there in the world. I was uncomfortable. I wanted it back. I wanted it sunk at the bottom of the Sound of Mull. It was like a compromising letter which a man has once written and knows to be in existence, and will pay to get back. The message I sent far and wide through the dealers was that I would pay for that necklace if it was brought to me complete—the hundred and twenty pearls and not one missing. One missing meant a sentence of my compromising letter torn off and kept. Well, three weeks ago the necklace was offered to an important jeweller in this town. It was offered at a price far below its value. For some reason, perhaps because it was offered at so low a price, the jeweller hesitated. But ten days ago it was offered to him again. He knew exactly what it was. He knew that he could make his profit on it. And this time he bought it. Two days later I learned that it was in his possession. I telegraphed to him to keep it until the end of the month, when I should be free to come out in person, assure myself that it was in very truth my compromising letter, and take it back with me. But this”—and for the fraction of a second the man of iron did flinch—“this brutal murder suggests to me that perhaps before the sale there was a theft. If so the jeweller might help you.”
“The name of that jeweller, monsieur?” Hanaud asked.
“Domenique Pouchette, Allées de Tourny.”
“I shall send for him and for the necklace at once,” said Hanaud.
Dennis Blackett got up from his chair.
“I have been travelling without intermission for nearly twenty-four hours,” he said. “I should like a bath and a meal and a change of clothes. It is now six o’clock. If the jeweller can come at seven, I shall be better prepared to meet him.”
Hanaud was clearly in a fret, and Dennis Blackett pressed his point with a smile.
“I am really at the end of my resources, Mr. Hanaud. The entr’acte of an hour is very necessary.”
Indeed, now that his story had been spoken, exhaustion had got the upper hand with him. He moved with a faltering step to the door. Hanaud sprang forward and rang the bell.
“Monsieur’s suitcase has been taken to his room?” he asked of the waiter. “Yes?” and he turned to Dennis Blackett. “In an hour’s time, then, and meanwhile I beg you to assure yourself of my gratitude and respect.”
“That’s all right,” said Blackett, and he reeled rather than walked out of the room.
XVII
How a Jeweller Pays His Taxes
Domenique Pouchette, a big, formal man with a square brown beard, dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat of broadcloth, bowed from the doorway, relieved Moreau of a small black brief bag, and placed it upon the table. Moreau, then, at a nod from Hanaud went out of the room and closed the door. Domenique Pouchette took a small key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked the bag and lifted out of it a jewel case. He looked in turn at Hanaud, at Ricardo, at Dennis Blackett, and then without any hesitation offered the case to the last of the three. The case was worn, the leather here and there broken, and for a moment or two Blackett turned it over in his hands, shrinking from opening it. He unfastened the catch with an abrupt and violent movement, and taking out the necklace let the smooth, softly-gleaming beads slip between his fingers. He was smiling now rather bitterly. They were the twenty-one years of his life. Each bead celebrated some shrewd stroke of business, brought to its culmination after much labour, and all for the sake of the idolised daughter.
“Yes, this is the string. Here is the diamond clasp with her initial E”; and he dropped it on the table and looked at it as though it were an iridescent adder with a forked tongue ready to strike.
“So!” said Hanaud. “We are sure of this first condition. The necklace belonged to Madame Devenish. Now for you, Monsieur Pouchette. You hesitated to buy it even at a price far below its value. Why?”
“It was offered to me,” the dealer returned carefully, “by someone about whom I was not quite satisfied.”
“A man or a woman?”
“A woman.”
“A young woman?”
“No.”
The answer, reluctantly given, was a surprise to all sitting around that table, but especially to Mr. Ricardo. He had been working out in his mind the dates which Blackett had given. The day on which he had seen Evelyn Devenish in the Cave of the Mummies fitted in with them very well. He had had no doubt up to this moment that it was Evelyn Devenish herself who had sold the string of pearls to Pouchette, and that she had travelled to Bordeaux upon that day precisely to sell them.
“An old woman then,” cried Hanaud with a touch of exasperation in his voice. “Let me hear about her, if you please. Who she is and why you distrusted her.”
“A little moment,” the jeweller objected, pressing neatly the fingertips of one hand against the fingertips of the other. “My business involves many confidential communications and could hardly prosper if secrecy were not observed. I am in a difficulty. Between myself and my customer there must be the same kind of relationship as between doctor and patient.”
“I am afraid that the law cannot recognise that relationship,” said Hanaud, whose patience was wearing thin. “You will be good enough to tell me all that you know about this woman.”
“Know?” Pouchette seemed to be picking up the word delicately. “I really know nothing.”
“All that you suspect then.”
Domenique Pouchette
