The more closely I examined it, the more my amazement grew. I had to take Schmidt’s word for it that this wasn’t the real talisman, but it certainly looked good, even to my trained eye.
The goldwork was superb, each tiny filigree wire having been shaped and set with masterful skill. As for the jewels, even an expert gemologist would have had trouble deciding they were fakes without the use of the complex instruments of his trade. The original pendant had been made in the ninth century, long before modern techniques of faceting gem stones were developed. The rubies and emeralds and pearls on the golden frame were roughly polished and rounded – ‘cabochon’ is the technical term. The only precious stones that are cut in that antique style today are star rubies and star sapphires; the rounded shape brings out the buried star refraction. The cabochon-cut sapphire in the centre of this jewel shimmered softly, but did not glow with the buried fire of a faceted stone. I knew that it was not one sapphire, but two, placed back to back, and that the flaw in the centre was not a ‘star’ or a natural blemish, but a sliver of the ‘True Cross,’ which made the jewel into a very expensive reliquary, or talisman.
‘You could fool me,’ I said, putting the pendant down on my desk blotter. ‘Come on, Schmidt, elucidate. Who was this character in whose pocket the pendant was found?’
‘A boom,’ said Schmidt, with a wave of his hand.
‘A what?’
‘A boom, a vagabond, a drunkard,’ Schmidt repeated impatiently.
‘Oh. A bum.’
‘Did I not say so? He had no money, no passport, no papers of any kind. Only this, sewn with care into a secret pocket in his suit.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Not violently,’ Schmidt said, with obvious regret. ‘There was no wound. Of poison, perhaps, or drugs. Or cheap hooch, or – ’
‘Never mind,’ I said. When Schmidt starts speculating, especially in what he fondly believes to be American slang, he can go on and on and on. ‘Really, Schmidt, this is fantastic. I suppose the police notified you. How did they know this was a copy of one of our pieces?’
‘They thought it
‘You must have had a fit when you saw it,’ I said sympathetically. ‘With your weak heart and all.’
Schmidt rolled his eyes dramatically and clutched at his chest.
‘It was a terrible moment! I knew of course that our pendant could not have disappeared; but was this the fake, or the one in our treasure room? Until our experts could examine both, I died a mlllion deaths.’
‘It could still fool me,’ I admitted. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Do not say such things, even in jest! No, this is the imitation. But such an imitation! The gold is genuine. The stones are not glass, they are modern synthetics. You have no doubt heard of these imitation rubies, emeralds, sapphires? Some are such excellent copies that only the most sophisticated equipment can tell they are not real. And the workmanship of this . . .’
‘I don’t see why you’re so upset,’ I said; for he was mopping his bald head, and his baby-blue eyes were narrowed in distress.
‘So some eccentric collector wanted a copy of the Charlemagne pendant. A good copy, not like the moulds museums sell these days. The use of real gold is rather peculiar, perhaps, but the frame is hollow; I don’t suppose there is more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of precious metal involved here. What’s the problem?’
‘I thought you would understand!’ Schmidt’s eyes widened. ‘You are such a clever woman. But then jewellery is not your specialty. To go to such trouble, such expense, in order to imitate a piece like this . . . There are only a few goldsmiths in the world capable of such work. They do not have to earn a living making copies. It is . . . too cheap and yet too costly, this copy. Do you see?’
When he put it that way, I did see. I nodded thoughtfully and looked more closely at the lovely thing on the desk.
Most women have a weakness for jewels. The only reason why men don’t is because it is out of fashion. In earlier centuries men wore as many ornaments, with as much vanity, as women did. I could understand why someone might want a copy of the Charlemagne talisman for purely decorative reasons. I wouldn’t have minded wearing one myself. But anyone who wanted a copy, just for fun, wouldn’t go to the trouble of using such expensive materials, nor pay a jeweler of such skill the exorbitant sum necessary. There was another point that Schmidt had not mentioned. In order to copy the jewel with such fidelity, a designer would have to study the original in detail. Nobody had applied to the museum authorities for permission to do so, or Schmidt would have known about it. Therefore someone must have spent long hours studying photographs and descriptions, perhaps even visited the museum. Why do all this surreptitiously if his purpose was honest?
‘You think some gang of thieves is planning a robbery,’ I said. ‘That there is a plot to substitute imitations for the real jewels.’
‘It is a possibility we must consider,’ said Schmidt. ‘You see that we cannot ignore such an idea.’
‘Yes, of course. You are quite right. I’ve seen movies about things like this – ’
‘Not only in fiction,’ Schmidt said gloomily, passing his handkerchief over his forehead. ‘The problem of skillful fakes has been with us since the beginning of time. As soon as man began collecting beautiful objects, for himself or in museums, the swindler and faker began their dastardly work. Vicky, we must find out about this. We must know for sure. If there is a harmless purpose – then, good. But if not, every museum, every collector in the world is vulnerable to a craftsman of such skill. Supposing that the substitution could be made, it might take us years to discover that ours was not the genuine object. A copy so good as this would defy more than a casual glance.’
‘Right.’ I touched the central sapphire of the pendant with my finger. It felt cool as water and smooth as ice. It was hard for me to believe the darned thing wasn’t genuine. ‘So what are we going to do about it?’
‘Not we. You.’ Schmidt’s rosy face regained its normal good humour. ‘The police have investigated, naturally. But they have come to a – what is the English? – a dead stop.’
‘Dead end?’ I suggested.
‘Yes, yes. The man on whose body this was found had no identification. His description, his fingerprints, are not known to Interpol. Our police are magnificent, but there is a limit to what they can do. So I turn to the lady whose skill and imagination are like those of the great English Sherlock. I appeal to my Vicky! Find this man for me, this unknown creator of magnificent copies. You have done it before; you can do it now.’
His blue eyes glowed like the cabochon stone in Charlemagne’s talisman.
Modesty is not one of my virtues, but this naive appeal made me feel uncharacteristically modest. It was true that once before I had had moderate success as a sort of historical detective, but I succeeded in that case because the solution to the problem depended on a body of specialized knowledge, which I happened to possess. I am a historian, not a criminologist, and if this was a case of art forgery on a grand scale, I rather suspected that the skills of the latter specialist would be more useful than those of the former.
However . . . Again my eye was drawn to the soft blue gleam of the great sapphire. Fake? It looked awfully real to me. There was something hypnotic about that stone, and about the appeal Schmidt had made. My work was pleasant but rather dull; even my pornographic novel had bogged down. And it was May, that month of all months when emotion overcomes good sense.
‘Well,’ I said. I leaned back in my chair and put my fingertips together. (What fictional detective was it who did that? Sherlock Holmes? Schmidt made a wonderful Watson.) ‘Well, Wat – I mean, Schmidt, I just might be willing to take this case.’
The police official reminded me of Erich von Stroheim, whom I had seen on the
I hadn’t expected to have my hand kissed, but I had expected some interest. Bavarians like blondes. Bavaria, in case you didn’t know, is one of the southern provinces of Germany; its people are members of the Alpine sub- race, short and stocky and brunette, so they appreciate the Valkyrie type. I was wearing a tight sweater and skirt, and I let my hair hang down over my shoulders. I didn’t care what Herr Feder thought of my brains, I just wanted to
