CHAPTER VIII
THE AFFAIR OF THE CONTESSA'S PEARLS
I think it was when talking about the stolen model that Quarles made the paradoxical statement that facts are not always the best evidence. I argued the point, and remained entirely of an opposite opinion until I had to investigate the case of a pair of pearl earrings, and then I was driven into thinking there was something in Quarles's statement. It was altogether a curious a if air, and showed the professor in a new light which caused Zena and myself some trouble.
The Contessa di Castalani occupied rooms at one of the big West End hotels, a self-contained suite, consisting of a sitting-room, two bedrooms, and vestibule. She had her child with her, a little girl of about three years old, and a French maid named Angélique.
Returning to the hotel one afternoon unexpectedly, she met, but took no particular notice of, two men in the corridor which led to her suite. Hotel servants she supposed them to be, and, as she entered the little vestibule Angélique came from the contessa's bedroom. There was no reason why she should not go in there; in fact, she carried a reason in her hand. She had been to get a clean frock for the child. The one she had worn on the previous day was too soiled to put on.
That evening the contessa wished to wear a special pair of pearl earrings, but when she went to get the little leather case which contained the pearls, it was missing.
Although her boxes and drawers were not much disarranged, it was quite evident to her that they had been searched, but nothing else had been taken apparently.
It did not occur to her to suspect the maid, partly, no doubt, because she remembered the men in the corridor, and she immediately sent for the manager.
The police were called in. The men in the corridor could not be accounted for, but a search resulted in the finding of the leather case under the bed. The earrings had gone.
Naturally police suspicion fell on the French maid, but the contessa absolutely refused such an explanation. Angélique, who was passionately fond of her and of the child, would not do such a thing.
The case looked simple enough, but it proved to be one in which facts did not constitute the best evidence. Indeed, they proved somewhat misleading.
Beautiful, romantic, eccentric, superstitious, and most unfortunate according to her own account, the Contessa di Castalani was the sensation of a whole London season.
As a dancer of a bizarre kind, she had set Paris nodding to the rhythm of her movements and raving about the beauty of her eyes and hair. Her reputation had preceded her to London, and when she appeared at the Regency it was universally admitted that she far surpassed everything that had been said about her.
The press had duly informed the public that Castalani was one of the oldest and most honored names in Italy. There had been a Castalani in the Medici time, a close friend of the magnificent Lorenzo, it was asserted. One paper declared that a Castalani had worn the triple tiara, which a learned don of Oxford took the trouble to write and deny. And it would appear that no one who had ever borne the name had been altogether unimportant.
How the family, resident in Pisa, liked this publicity, I do not know. They made no movement to repudiate this daughter of their house, and I have no reason whatever to doubt that the lady had a perfect right to her title. I never heard any scandalous tale about her which even seemed true, and if she and her husband were happier going each their own way, it was their affair.
So much mystery was woven round her during her appearances in the European capitals, that I do not guarantee the correctness of my statements when I say she was of humble origin, a Russian gipsy, I have heard, seen in a Hungarian village by young Castalani, who immediately fell in love with her and married her.
Although in the course of this investigation I saw her many times and she talked a great deal about herself, she was always vague when she was dealing with facts.
I am only concerned with her appearance in London. She attracted overflowing houses to the Regency. A real live countess performing bizarre and daring dances was undoubtedly the attraction to some, the woman's splendid beauty charmed others, while a third section could talk of nothing but her wonderful jewelry.
At least two foolish young peers were said to be in love with her, and there were tales of a well-known Cabinet Minister constantly occupying a stall at the Regency when he ought to have been in his seat in the House.
Had I not taken Christopher Quarles and Zena to the Regency one evening I should probably never have known anything further of the contessa, but it so happened that the professor was very much attracted by her.
He went to the Regency three times in one week to study the inward significance of her dances, he declared. He treated me to a learned discourse concerning them, and was furious when one journal, slightly puritanical in tone, perhaps, said that they were generally unedifying, and in one case, at any rate, immodest.
Zena and I began by laughing at the professor, but he did not like it. He was quite serious in his admiration, and declared that nothing would afford him greater pleasure than an introduction to the dancer.
To his delight he got what he wanted, and incidentally solved one of the most curious cases we have ever been engaged in together.
In the ordinary way the case would never have come into my hands. It was at Quarles's instigation that I asked to be employed upon it, and since small and insignificant affairs are sometimes ramifications of big mysteries, no surprise was caused by my request.
I have not the slightest hesitation in saying that it was the introduction to the woman which interested Quarles rather than her pearls. Indeed, he appeared to think of nothing else beyond making himself agreeable.
It seemed to me she was just as interested in him, talked about herself in a naive kind of way, and was delighted when her little girl, Nella, took a tremendous fancy to the professor, demanding to be taken on his knee and to have his undivided attention.
Christopher Quarles, in fact, presented quite an unfamiliar side of his character to me, and I do not think he would have bothered about the pearls at all but for the fact that the contessa was superstitious about them.
"They were given to me by a Hungarian count," she said in her pretty broken English; "just two pearls. I had them made into earrings. It was the best way I could wear them. They are perfect, and they have a history. They were a thank-offering to some idol in Burmah, but were afterwards sold or stolen—I do not know which. It does not matter; it was a very long time ago; but what does matter is that they bring good luck. I shall be nothing without them, do you see?"
"That I will not believe! You will always be—"
"Beautiful," she said before Quarles could complete the sentence. "Ah, yes, I know that. I have been told that when I cease to be beautiful I shall cease to live. A gipsy in Budapest told me so. But what is beauty if you have no luck?"
"When were they given to you?" Quarles asked.
"A year after I married. Listen, I will tell you a secret. It was the beginning of the little difference with my husband. He was jealous."
"It was natural."
"No, it was not," she answered. "My Hungarian friend, he loved me of course. That is the natural part. I was born like that. Some women are. It is not their fault. It just is so, and yet people think evil and say, shocking! It is in their own mind—the evil—and nowhere else, and I say 'basta,' and go my way, caring not at all. Why, every night in my dressing room at the Regency there is a pile of letters—like that, and flowers. The room is full of them—all from people who love me—and I do not know one of them. I like it, but it makes no difference to me. I told my husband that it was nothing, but no, he went on being jealous. He was very foolish, but I think some day he will grow sensible. Then I shall very likely say it is too late. The world has said it loves me, and that is better than one Castalani. You do not know the Castalanis?"
"No."
"Ah, they are what you call thoughtful for themselves, very high, and very few people are quite as good, so we had little quarrels, and then a big one, because he said he would throw my pearls into the Arno. I hid them, and he could not find them. If he had found them and thrown them away I would have killed him."
Quarles nodded, as if such a tragedy would have been the most natural thing possible.
"His mother made it worse," the contessa went on, "so we have one fierce quarrel and I speak my mind. I say a great deal when I speak my mind, and I am not nice then. I went away with my little girl. It was very unfortunate, but what could I do? I love dancing, so I go on the stage, and—and I have lost my pearls. See, there is the case, but it is empty."
Quarles looked at it, but I was sure he was not thinking of what he was doing, and he did not even ask the most obvious questions.
I did that, and received scant answers. She was not a bit interested in me.
"My pearls," she went on, "I want my pearls. There are some women pearls love. I am one. When I wear them a little while they are alive. The colors in them glow and palpitate. They are never dull then. I do not wear them always, only on certain days—on feasts, and when I am very happy."
"We must find them," said Quarles.
"Of course. That is why I come to know you, isn't it?"
The professor was full of her as we left the hotel.
"A most charming woman," he said.
"I doubt if you will find her so when you fail to restore her pearls."
"I shall restore them," he said, with that splendid confidence which sometimes characterized him, but, having no faith in his judgment on this occasion, I went my own way. I searched the maid's boxes and found that she had purloined many of the contessa's things—garments which had hardly been worn, silk scarves, laces—in fact, anything which took her fancy, and which her mistress would not be likely to miss. Of the two men in the corridor I could find no trace. The manager said there were no workmen about the hotel at that time, and the only description I could get from the contessa was so vague that it would have fitted anybody from the Prime Minister to the old bootlace-seller at the end of the street. One of the hotel servants was confident that he had seen the French maid speak to a man in the street outside the hotel on more than one occasion, but he was not inclined to swear to anything. However, the French maid was finally arrested on suspicion.
I knew that Quarles had been to see the contessa once or twice by himself, and when I went to the Brunswick Hotel on the day after Angélique's arrest, I found him there.
"Ah, you have taken an innocent woman," the contessa exclaimed.
"I think not."
"What you think does not matter at all, it is what I know. I asked her, and she said she had not taken the pearls. Voila! She would not tell me anything that was not true."
"But, contessa—"
"I say there is no evidence against her. You just find two or three of my stupid things in her room, but that is nothing. French maids always take things like that—one expects it. But I am not angry. You think what is quite—quite silly, but you do something which is quite right." And then, turning to the professor, she went on, "But you—you do nothing at all. You come to tea. You come and look at me, and think me very beautiful, which is quite nice and very well, but it does not give me back my pearls."
"It will," said Quarles.
"I have no opinion. I only know I have not the pearls. I gave you the empty case. I want it back with the earrings in it. I have heard that Monsieur Quarles is very clever—that he finds out everything, but—"
"It takes time, contessa," he said, rising. "There is one thing I want to see before I go."
"What is that?" she asked.
"The dress the maid was wearing that afternoon, and if she wore an apron
I want to see that too."
The contessa fetched them, and for some minutes Quarles examined them closely.
I did not think he had started a theory. I thought the contessa's words had merely stung him into doing something. He had probably come to the conclusion that he had been making rather a fool of himself.
However, he was theoretical enough that night in the empty room at
Chelsea.
"I think the arrest was a mistake, Wigan," he began.
"Surely you are not influenced by the contessa's opinion?"
"Well, she probably knows more about French maids than you do. I am inclined to trust a woman's intuition sometimes. The contessa is delightfully vague. It is part of her great charm, and it is in everything she does and says. She tells you something, but her real meaning you can only guess at. She dances, but the steps she ought to do and doesn't are the ones which really contain the meaning."
"Can she possibly be more vague, dear, than you are at the present moment?" laughed Zena.
"I think this is a case in which one must try to get into the contessa's atmosphere before any result is possible. You will agree, Wigan, that her point of view is peculiar."
"I should call it idiotic," I answered.
"Your opinion is all cut and dried, I presume?"
"Absolutely," I answered. "I believe the maid took the jewels and handed them to her confederates who were waiting in the corridor."
"It is possible," said Quarles, "but it seems curious that the contessa should return just in time to see, not only the men in the corridor, but also the maid leaving her room. Have you considered why only the earrings were stolen?"
"There was nothing else to steal," I answered.
"Why, everybody has talked of her jewels!" Zena exclaimed.
"All sham."
"Who told you so?" asked Quarles.
"The maid."
"She didn't suggest the pearls were sham?"
"No."
"That was thoughtless of her, since suspicion rests upon her. I am not much surprised to hear that the much-talked-of jewelry is sham. There is a vein of wisdom in the contessa, and we shall probably find she has put her jewelry into safe keeping, and wears paste because it has just as good an effect across the footlights. I should judge her wise enough not to take risks, and to have an eye for the future. It was only her superstition, and the fact that she wore the earrings fairly constantly, which prevented her depositing them in a safe place too. Zena asked me yesterday whether I should consider her a careless person. What do you think, Wigan?"
"It occurred to me that she might have put the case away when it was empty and carelessly put the pearls somewhere else," said Zena.
"Such, a vague kind of person is capable of anything," I returned. "But there is no doubt that a search in her room was made, and it is significant that things were not tossed about anyhow, as one would expect had a stranger made that search."
"True," said Quarles, "but if the maid took them there would have been no disarrangement at all. She would have known where to look. If she had wanted to suggest ordinary thieves she would have thrown things into disorder on purpose."
"Naturally she did not know exactly where to look," I said.
"Why not? The contessa evidently trusts her implicitly. In any case, I fancy we are drawn back to the supposition that the contessa is careless. When Zena asked the question, I was reminded of one or two inconsistencies in her surroundings. I should not call her orderly. Her carelessness must form part of my theory."
"I am surprised to hear you have formed one," I said.
"I have found the woman far more interesting than the pearls," he admitted, "but I am pledged to return the earrings, Wigan. You will find her smile of delight an excellent reward."
I shrugged my shoulders a little irritably.
"Now I will propose three propositions against yours. First, the jewels belonged to an idol, and were either sold or stolen—the contessa does not know which. Such things are not usually sold, so we may assume they were stolen. Their disappearance from the hotel may mean that they have merely been recovered. The idea is romantic, but such happenings do occur. Your French maid may have been pressed into the plot either through fear or by bribery."
"My facts would fit that theory," I said.
"Secondly, the husband may be concerned," Quarles went on. "There may be real love underlying his jealousy, he may think that if he can obtain possession of the pearls his wife will return to him. Again, your French maid may have been employed to this end."
"That theory would not refute my facts," I returned.
"Thirdly, the contessa herself. It is conceivable that for some reason she wished to have the pearls stolen, perhaps for the sake of advertisement—such things are done—or for the sake of insurance money, or for some other reason which is not apparent. This supposition would account for the contessa refusing to believe anything against the maid. It would also account for the men in the corridor, seen only by the contessa, remember, and therefore, perhaps, without any real existence."
"Of the three propositions, I most favor the last," I said.
"So do I," Quarles answered. "The first one is possible, but I fail to trace anything of the Oriental method in the robbery, the supreme subtlety which one would naturally expect. The second, which would almost of necessity require the help of the maid, would in all likelihood have been carried out before this, since the contessa has always had the pearls at hand. If she had only just got them out of the bank I should favor this second proposition. You remember the contessa suggested that her husband might at some time become more sensible. I should hazard a guess that she is still in communication with him. The death of the strife-stirring mother may bring them together again."
"That is rather an ingenious idea," I admitted.
"Now, the third proposition would appeal to me more were I not so interested in the woman," Quarles said. "Is she the sort of woman, for vain or selfish reasons, to enter into such a conspiracy with her maid? I grant the difficulty of plumbing a woman's mind—even Zena's there; but there are certain principles to be followed. A woman is usually thorough if she undertakes to do a thing, and had the contessa been concerned in such a conspiracy, we should have had far more detail given to us in order to lead us in another direction. This third proposition does not please me, therefore."
"It seems to me we come back to the French maid," said Zena.
"We do," said Quarles. "That is the leather case, Wigan. Does it tell you anything?"
I took it and examined it.
"You seem to have got some grease on it, Professor."
"It was like that. Greasy fingers had touched it—recently, I judge—although, of course, the case may be an old one, and not made especially for the earrings. It is only a smear, but it could not have got there while the case was lying in a drawer amongst the contessa's things. Now open it. You will find a grease mark on the plush inside, which means that very unwashed fingers have handled it. That does not look quite like a dainty French maid—for she is dainty, Wigan."
"That is why you examined her dress, I suppose."
"Exactly! There was no suspicion of grease upon it. Facts have prejudiced you against Angélique. I do not see a thief in her, but I do see a certain watchfulness in her eyes whenever we meet her. She knows something, Wigan, and to-morrow I am going to find out what it is. I think a few judicious questions will help us."
Quarles had never been more the benevolent old gentleman than when he saw the French maid next day.
He began by telling her that he was certain she was innocent, that he believed in her just as much as her mistress did.
"Now, when did you last see the pearls?" Quarles asked.
"The day before they were stolen."
"Your mistress was wearing them?"
"No, monsieur, but the case was on the dressing table. It was the case I saw, not the pearls."
"So for all you know to the contrary, the case may have been empty?"
"I do not see why you should think that," she answered, and it was quite evident to me that she was being careful not to fall into a trap.
"Just in the same way, perhaps, as you speak of the day before they were stolen. We do not know they are stolen. Were the pearls very valuable?"
"I do not know. The contessa valued them."
"She wears one or two good rings, I noticed," said Quarles, "but I understand the jewels she wears on the stage are paste."
"Yes, monsieur, all of it."
"Her real jewelry being at the bank!"
"That is so, monsieur."
"It is possible that the contessa has deceived us," Quarles went on, "and wants to make us believe the earrings are stolen."
"Oh, no, monsieur!"
"Why not?"
"I am sure."
"Come, now, why are you so sure? Tell me what you know, and we will soon have you back at the Brunswick Hotel. Had you told the men in the corridor that all the contessa's jewelry was sham?"
"I know nothing of—"
"Wait!" said Quarles. "Think before you speak. You do not realize how much we know about the men in the corridor. The contessa saw them, remember."
The girl began to sob.
Very gently Quarles drew the story from her. One of the men was her brother. She had been glad to come to England to see him, but she found he had got into bad hands. She had helped him a little with money. She had talked about the contessa, and when he had spoken about her wonderful jewels she had told him they were sham.
"Did he believe you?"
"No, monsieur, he laughed at me because I did not know the real thing from paste. I said I did, and, to prove it, mentioned the pearls."
"Was this before you knew he had fallen into bad hands?"
"Yes, monsieur. On the afternoon the pearls were stolen he came to see me at the hotel with a friend. How they got to our rooms I do not know. I opened the door, thinking it was the contessa. My brother laughed at my surprise, and said he and his friend wanted to see whether the contessa's pearls were real—they had a bet about them. He thought I was a fool, but I was quickly thinking what I must do. 'She is here,' I said. 'Come in five minutes, when she is gone.' This was unexpected for them, and they stepped back, and I shut the door. To get the door shut was all I could think of. I was afraid. I waited; then I went to the bell, but I did not ring. After all, he was my brother. Then Nella called out from my room; I was on my way to fetch a clean frock for her from the contessa's room when my brother came. Now I fetched it, and as I came out of the room the contessa came in. It was a great relief."
"Did she say anything about the men in the corridor?"
"Not then—not until afterwards, when she found the pearls had been stolen."
"And you said nothing?"
"No, it was wrong, but he was my brother. How he got the pearls I do not know."
"Where is he now?"
"I do not know."
"But you are sure he stole the pearls?"
"Who else?" and she began to sob again.
"Perhaps when he hears you have been arrested, he will tell the truth."
"No, no, he has become bad in this country. I do not love England."
"Anyhow, we will soon have you out of this," said Quarles, patting her shoulder in a fatherly manner. "I am afraid your brother is not much good, but perhaps the affair is not so bad as you imagine."
We left her sobbing.
"A woman of resource," said Quarles.
"Very much so," I answered. "You do not think the arrest was a mistake now, I presume?"
"Perhaps not; no, I am inclined to think it has helped us. It is not every woman who would have got rid of two such blackguards so dexterously."
"It is the very thinnest story I have ever heard," I laughed.
We walked on in silence for a few moments.
"My dear Wigan, I am afraid you are still laboring under the impression that she stole the pearls."
"I am, and that she handed them to the men in the corridor, one of whom may have been her brother or may not."
"She didn't steal them," said Quarles.
"Why, how else could the men have got in?" I said. "You are not likely to see that rewarding smile on the contessa's face which you talked about."
"I think I shall, but first I must face the music and explain my failure.
We will go this afternoon. Perhaps she will give us tea, Wigan."
I am afraid I murmured, "There's no fool like an old fool," but not loud enough for Quarles to hear.
When we entered the contessa's sitting-room that afternoon the child was playing on the floor with a small china vase, taken haphazard from the mantelpiece, I imagine.
Whether our entrance startled her, or whether she was in a destructive mood, I cannot say, but she dashed down the vase and broke it in pieces.
"Oh, Nella! Naughty, naughty Nella!" exclaimed her mother.
The child immediately went to Quarles.
"I want to sit on your knee," she said.
"If mother will give you such things to play with, Nella, why, of course, they get broken, don't they?" said Quarles.
"I thought you had brought my pearls," said the contessa.
"I have come to talk about them."
"That will not help—talk."
"It may."
"Will it bring Angélique back? I am lost without Angélique."
"She will soon be back."
I smiled at his optimism.
"We saw her to-day," Quarles went on; and he told the girl's story in detail, and in a manner which suggested that my mistake in having her arrested was almost criminal.
The contessa seemed to expect me to apologize, but when I remained silent she became practical.
"Still, I do not see my pearls, Monsieur Quarles."
"Contessa, your maid says you were looking at the earrings on the day before the robbery. She saw the case on your dressing-table."
"Yes, I remember."
"Do you remember putting the case back in your drawer?"
"Of course."
"I mean, is there any circumstance which makes you particularly remember doing so?"
"No."
"Was Nella crawling on the floor?"
"Why, yes. How did you guess that?"
"Didn't you meet the maid coming out of your room on the next afternoon?
She had gone to fetch a clean frock."
"Ah! yes, Nella got her frock dirty," said the contessa.
"Pretty frock," said the child.
"Was she playing with anything—anything off the mantelpiece?" asked Quarles.
"No."
"Are you sure? You give her queer things to play with," and he pointed to the fragments on the floor.
"It does not matter," said the contessa, a little angry at his criticism.
"I shall pay for it."
"Pretty frock," said the child again.
"Is it, Nella? I should like to see it."
The child slipped from his knee.
"Where are you going?" asked the contessa.
"To fetch my dirty, pretty frock."
"Don't be silly, Nella."
"I should like to see it," said Quarles.
"I wish you would take less interest in the child and more in my pearls."
"Humor the child and let her show me the frock, then we will talk about the pearls."
With a bad grace the contessa went with Nella into the maid's room.
Quarles looked at me and at the fragments of the vase on the floor.
"Do you find them suggestive?"
"I am waiting to see the contessa in a real temper," I answered.
The child came running in with the frock, delighted to have got her own way.
"Aye, but it is dirty," said Quarles, and he became absorbed in the garment, nodding to the prattling child as she showed him tucks and lace.
"And now about my pearls," said the contessa.
Quarles put down the frock and stood up.
"There is the case," he said, taking it from his pocket; "we have got to put the pearls into it, Contessa, may I look into your bedroom?"
The request astonished her, and it puzzled me.
"Why, yes, if you like."
She went to the door, and we all followed her.
"A dainty room," said the professor. "It is like you, contessa."
She laughed at the absurdity of the remark, and yet there was some truth in it. The room wasn't really untidy, but it was not the abode of an orderly person. A hat was on the bed, thrown there apparently, a pair of gloves on the floor.
"I can always tell what a woman is like by seeing where she lives," said Quarles. "There is no toy on the mantelpiece which Nella could break. A pretty dressing-table, contessa."
He crossed to it and began examining the things upon it—silver-mounted bottles and boxes.
He lifted lids and looked at the contents—powder in this pot, rouge in that—and for a few moments the contessa was too astonished to speak.
Then there came a flash into her eyes resenting the impertinence.
"Really, monsieur—"
"Ah!" exclaimed Quarles, turning from the table with a pot in his hand.
"I want it," said the child, stretching herself up for it.
"Evidently Nella has played with this before, contessa. A French preparation for softening the skin, I see. I should guess she was playing with it as she crawled about the floor that afternoon. You didn't notice her. I can quite understand a child being quiet for a long time with this to mess about with. There was grease on her frock, and look! the smoothed surface of this cream bears the marks of little fingers, if I am not mistaken. It is quite a moist cream, readily disarranged, easily smoothed flat again. Let us hope there is no ingredient in it which will hurt—pearls."
He had dug his fingers into the stuff and produced the earrings.
"You will find a grease mark on the case," he went on. "It is evident you could not have put the case away. Nella possessed herself of it when your back was turned, and, playing with this cream, amused herself by burying the pearls in it—just the sort of game to fascinate a child."
"I remember she was playing with that pot. I did not think she could get the lid off."
"She did, and somehow the case got kicked under the bed."
"Naughty Nella!" said the contessa.
"Oh, no," said Quarles. "Natural Nella. May I wash my hands?"
Well, we had tea with the contessa, and I saw the smile which rewarded
Christopher Quarles.
I suppose he had earned it.
"When did you first think of the child?" I asked him afterwards.
"From the first," he answered; "but I was too interested in the mother to work out the theory."
How exactly in accordance with the truth this answer was I will not venture to say. That he was interested in the woman was obvious, and continued to be obvious while she remained in London.
Zena and I were rather relieved when her professional engagements took her to Berlin.