“Nine hours?” repeated the mystified Carlyle, scarcely daring to put into thought the scandalous inference that Carrados’s words conveyed.
“Nine full hours. A pearl necklace case that cannot at least be left straight after nine hours’ work will require a column to itself in our chart. Now, Louis, where does this Direct Insurance live?”
Carlyle had allowed his blind friend to persuade him into—as they had seemed at the beginning—many mad enterprises. But none had ever, in the light of his own experience, seemed so foredoomed to failure as when, at eleven-thirty, Carrados ordered his luggage to be on the platform of Charing Cross Station at eight-fifty and then turned light-heartedly to the task of elucidating the mystery of Mrs Straithwaite’s pearl necklace in the interval.
The head office of the Direct and Intermediate Insurance Company proved to be in Victoria Street. Thanks to Carrados’s speediest car, they entered the building as the clocks of Westminster were striking twelve, but for the next twenty minutes they were consigned to the general office while Mr Carlyle fumed and displayed his watch ostentatiously. At last a clerk slid off his stool by the speaking-tube and approached them.
“Mr Carlyle?” he said. “The General Manager will see you now, but as he has another appointment in ten minutes he will be glad if you will make your business as short as possible. This way, please.”
Mr Carlyle bit his lip at the pompous formality of the message but he was too experienced to waste any words about it and with a mere nod he followed, guiding his friend until they reached the Manager’s room. But, though subservient to circumstance, he was far from being negligible when he wished to create an impression.
“Mr Carrados has been good enough to give us a consultation over this small affair,” he said, with just the necessary touches of deference and condescension that it was impossible either to miss or to resent. “Unfortunately he can do little more as he has to leave almost at once to direct an important case in Paris.”
The General Manager conveyed little, either in his person or his manner, of the brisk precision that his message seemed to promise. The name of Carrados struck him as being somewhat familiar—something a little removed from the routine of his business and a matter therefore that he could unbend over. He continued to stand comfortably before his office fire, making up by a tolerant benignity of his hard and bulbous eye for the physical deprivation that his attitude entailed on his visitors.
“Paris, egad?” he grunted. “Something in your line that France can take from us since the days of—what’s-his-name—Vidocq, eh? Clever fellow, that, what? Wasn’t it about him and the Purloined Letter?”
Carrados smiled discreetly.