George didn’t see much of Paris in the end. But he didn’t much mind. It was exciting enough being in the city at night, going to the restaurant with Mr Woodley-Foxe and an old pal of his, Inspector Marchand of the Surete. The food was quite delicious, though George had been wary of it at first, and the company was even better. Inspector Marchand was a small, thin man with twinkling brown eyes, a lively interest in people and an inexhaustible fund of stories. He was most intrigued by their case, especially as there had been a spate of unsolved diamond thefts in France the year before. Strangely enough, none of the pieces — none of which were very valuable — had been sold on the blackmarket. He said it was likely the work of an amateur ‘magpie thief’ who liked pretty, shiny baubles. Those could be the hardest to catch, he said, because they had no links with the underworld, and therefore no-one to inform on them.
Inspector Marchand didn’t know much about the St-Remys, except that they were part of what he called the ‘tout-Paris’; the smart set, and were fairly well-off, though they’d lost money in the crash, like most people. Apparently the Countess was known as a keen gambler and had won a great deal of money at smart card parties. She was a regular at the casinos in Biarritz and Monte Carlo. But then, so were many members of the ‘tout-Paris’.
This information greatly excited Woodley-Foxe.
‘Sudden influxes of money are easily explained by gambling wins,’ he observed. Inspector Marchand smiled. ‘I think in this case it’s genuine,’ he said. ‘The Countess has the luck of the devil. It’s easily checked, anyway, my friend —’ he scribbled a couple of numbers on a piece of paper — ‘call the casino managers tonight or tomorrow and they’ll tell you for sure.’
Back at the hotel — a rather noisy one, right near the railway station — Woodley-Foxe called the casinos and was a little dashed to discover that what Inspector Marchand had said was quite true. But he wouldn’t give up on the idea. ‘She might have laundered her ill-gotten gains at the casino,’ he told George, who nodded, eagerly. It was all too romantic and thrilling for words!
Bright and early the next morning, they caught the train to Calais, and then the boat. By midday they were back in Dover where they were met by Woodley-Foxe’s driver. When they stopped for gas, Woodley-Foxe sent George out to get the daily papers.
At the bookstall, George saw the new issue of Young Reporter so he bought it as well. Rapidly, he flipped through the pages of the magazine till he found the new episode of ‘Night and Shadow’.
He gave an exclamation. Here was Inspecteur Nocturne dressing up as a criminal to penetrate the haunts of The Shadow — just like Mr Woodley-Foxe had done. Though possibly with more success. It was most likely just a coincidence. But he felt, more than ever, that somehow the comic strip did have something to do with the case. Was it a kind of code or signal? Did the artist know something? Or was The Shadow in fact inspiring himself from it? I must find out who’s writing it, he thought, I will write to the editor of the magazine. It might take a bit of time to get an answer, though — the magazine was published in the United States. Perhaps, if George could persuade Woodley-Foxe of its relevance, they could send a telegram or even make a phone call.
When he got back to the car, Woodley-Foxe was looking impatient. ‘There you are at last! I was beginning to think you were trying to actually write the newspapers yourself!’ he said, rather sarcastically.
‘Sorry, sir. I was just …’
‘Oh, never mind. Give them to me.’ He caught sight of the Young Reporter under George’s arm and raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not a very good quality magazine you have there, George. Unlike Real Detective Mysteries, you can’t trust their stories. And they have a comic strip, I distinctly saw that a little while ago. Comic strips, I ask you! What level of childish vulgarity will they not descend to?’
George hastily put away the offending magazine in his pocket. He was very glad he had not mentioned his half-baked theory to the detective after all.
‘Here,’ said Woodley-Foxe, handing him a newspaper. ‘You read this one, I’ll take the other. Two pairs of eyes might find what one may miss.’
‘What are we looking for, sir? Reports of the robberies?’
‘That and other, more interesting, things: strange notices or advertisements that might have been written in code. Perhaps signals to The Shadow’s associates that another robbery may be about to take place.’
‘Cor,’ breathed George, tingling all over. He scanned each column carefully. There were lots of dull foreign news stories and advertisements for cigarettes, soap, pens, insurance and all kinds of other things in which, try as he might, he could not see a connection to The Shadow. The comic seemed to burn a hole in his pocket. Could it be a kind of code, a sort of signal? But he still didn’t dare bring it to Woodley-Foxe’s attention.
George turned a page. There was a little article about gardening, and another on fashion — he could just imagine Daisy in the dresses — and then a gossip column. He ran his eye down it swiftly, not really being interested in celebrities, unless they were detectives. But then his attention was caught by two phrases: ‘Brooks Hotel’ and ‘Blue Moon Diamond’.
‘Mr Woodley-Foxe! I think I’ve got it!’
‘Don’t shout, boy. What is it?’
‘It says here that Olivia Marlow, the film star, was spotted staying at the Brooks Hotel. Look — there’s a picture of her here. It says she’s been seen wearing the magnificent jewel given to her by Prince Ottokar of Luxenstein. The centrepiece of the necklace, the Blue Moon Diamond alone is worth thousands and thousands of pounds! Oh, Mr Woodley-Foxe! I’m sure this will be the next one taken! And if The Shadow’s really the Countess, and she’s already at the Brooks Hotel …’
‘Give it here,’ said Woodley-Foxe, and taking the paper, he scanned the column. ‘Hmm,’ he said, when he’d finished. ‘You’re probably right. Well-spotted, lad.’
George swelled with pride, all his past humiliations forgotten.
‘Sir,’ he said, eagerly, ‘wouldn’t it be good if we could catch The Shadow red-handed?’
‘It would,’ said the detective. ‘But if the Countess — The Shadow — gets wind of my coming to the Brooks, then it’s likely she will be very careful indeed. As a habitual criminal, she will know of my high reputation. She will be aware that I have never yet lost my man — or woman! She may well decide to give the Blue Moon Diamond a miss.’
A picture of the detective trussed up and helpless in Lady Eleanor’s back laundry popped into George’s mind. But he loyally brushed it aside. ‘She won’t know you suspect her, sir!’ he said. ‘After all, she’s not to know you recognised the smell of the cigar smoke her coat was impregnated with! She took great pains so you would not see her, or guess she was a woman. She thinks you don’t have any clues to go on.’
Woodley-Foxe twirled his moustache thoughtfully. ‘That is true. Criminals are so cocksure of their own cleverness that they often make grave mistakes. And then they get caught in the trap of their own over-confidence. Little do they know what science and imagination can do, together, when in the minds of truly exceptional detectives! We’ll catch this crook, George, and we’ll shout her identity to the world, Countess or no Countess — we will drag The Shadow into the light!’
‘Oh, yes, sir!’ said George, thrilled. Imagine what Daisy would say, when she saw him sweeping in, ready to unmask one of the boldest jewel thieves ever known! She wouldn’t think of him as just a stick-in-the-mud from Charlton Wells then, would she?