THE VANISHING DIAMONDS

Not least among the attributes and other possibly less commendable qualities that go to make up that forceful, unpredictable and somewhat elusive character of quixotic charm known as Jimmy Strange is a capacity for self-criticism.

In fact, Jimmy would go so far as to explain that he personally rates his happy possession of this ability habitually to check up on himself—sure antidote to the poison of self-deception—second only to his indisputable capacity for absorbing Scotch. Of which latter occupation he was not entirely without experience.

As he puts it with typical succinctness:

In the strata of high society where I dig, the chap who kids himself along might just as well go buy himself a wreath.

Which was why for some time past he had been viewing the situation between himself and Sandra with certain misgivings.

Guilty misgivings at that.

He hadn’t been giving her a straight deal. He knew it and calculated she wasn’t entirely without her suspicions either. One thing you didn’t have to tell Jimmy Strange about: if there’s anything concerning a woman of which you can be categorical, it’s the certainty that her intuition will find you out—almost from the very flicker of an eyelid—when you look twice at someone else.

Women being, as has been observed before, funny that way.

Not that there was anyone else with Jimmy. No one in particular, anyway. But that he’d looked twice and then some more at this pretty face or that was something else again. It wasn’t that he’d changed about Sandra either. She attracted him as much as ever. He felt the same way about her as he’d done right from that moment he’d first met her at the ‘Rainbow’. He knew there was no one who could really take her place.

Probably, he reflected, that was where he’d gone wrong about her. Maybe he should have changed about her. He ought to have settled down by now into a nice steady warm affection for her, growing ever fonder. Instead of which she thrilled him more than any woman he’d ever known, and he didn’t know what the world would be like without her. Except it would be hellishly grim.

None of this stopped him eyeing the next pretty piece he met in his speculative way and thinking along the lines of least resistance. Sometimes, regrettable as it is to record, he put his thoughts into action. Like that sultry brunette he’d met over the Brummel Snuffbox business. There’d been others. He wasn’t any hypocrite so he knew he hoped they wouldn’t be the last either.

Thus Jimmy Strange mused as he turned into Hatton Garden one bright sunny morning, and in a few moments found himself outside the firm of George Raphael. He had the notion some expensively attractive offering, while it wouldn’t ease his own conscience, would give Sandra considerable pleasure and do something to persuade her she was the one he truly cared for. It would also postpone the inevitable showdown she was sooner or later bound to demand, and he’d like it to be later.

Old George Raphael was a personal friend of his and would certainly have something in the diamond line that should rate the sort of look he liked to see in Sandra’s lovely eyes.

He went in and was received effusively. While the tubby, rosy-cheeked little man was bending his pince-nez over a tray of gems on the counter before them, the door opened and a tall individual wearing a dark Homburg came in. Raphael glanced up and greeted the newcomer deferentially.

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Carter.”

“Morning.” The other’s manner was brisk and business-like. “Those diamonds arrived from Westbourne?”

“Yes, sir, just come in by post. I haven’t opened the package yet.”

“Like to see ’em.”

“Certainly.” He turned to Jimmy. “I won’t be a moment, if you’ll excuse me.”

Jimmy nodded and continued his inspection of the tray while Raphael hurried into his office just behind him. The sound of a package being unwrapped could be heard—and then a sudden silence. The next moment came an exclamation, then a gasping cry and the old man stumbled out, his face stricken. He was carrying a small cardboard box and part of the wrapping in an agitated hand.

“What’s the matter?” snapped the man in the Homburg.

“The—the diamonds—!” choked Raphael, sagging against the counter and clutching it for support. “They—they’re not here—”

“Not there?”

“They’ve gone!”

“Gone?”

The diamond merchant dropped the box on the counter with a gesture of hopelessness and despair. “Look!” he gasped. “The diamonds—gone!”

The other grabbed the cardboard container and frowned at it. He shot a penetrating look at Jimmy, who’d moved nearer, then stared again at the box. “Good lord!” he exclaimed, pulling at the wrappings. “What’s this?”

“Bits of sugar,” gulped Raphael. “Nothing but bits of sugar.”

Jimmy observed that was all in fact the box contained: several pieces of sugar, somewhat oddly shaped.

* * * *

Sometime later Jimmy Strange was in company with other thirsty individuals helping to maintain the bar of ‘Joe’s Place’ in Greek Street in its appropriate upright position by leaning against it. Deciding it would be more propitious to look in some other time about his prospective purchase, he had quitted Raphael’s, leaving the distracted old chap telephoning Scotland Yard. The man called Carter had briskly taken charge of the situation, handing out advice in his business-like manner, and Jimmy had made an unobtrusive departure. Not without, however, having assimilated some not unimportant aspects of the mystery of the vanished diamonds.

Sandra, whom he was meeting for lunch, was with her hairdresser, which gave him an hour or so’s profitable drinking in hand before he collected her. He was turning over in his mind various points about the odd business at Raphael’s, when a voice muttered in his ear:

“Hello, Mr. Strange.”

He turned from contemplation of his Scotch to regard the face of Frankie Willis. He murmured a reply, and correctly interpreting, without any effort at all, the other’s expectant look, asked him to name his poison. Willis named it.

“Here’s to crime!” he grinned, raising his drink. Followed a long pause, then smacking his lips Willis put down his glass.

“To say I needed that,” he said, “would be what you might call an understatement.”

“Purely as a matter of academic interest,” Jimmy murmured, “which of the two would you rather be without—that,” he indicated the other’s drink, or good music?”

Willis, who was a cardsharper by profession with an incongruous fondness for classical concerts, considered the question for a moment. He shook his head.

“Difficult to answer. When I’m a-leaning back listening to music I reckon that counts most, when I’m a-leaning against a bar listening to this gurgling down then I reckon this takes the prize.”

Jimmy nodded sympathetically. “I know how you feel,” he said. “Myself, though, it wouldn’t be a question of drink and music.”

Frankie Willis, who’d met Sandra, grinned slyly.

“Unless it was the music of a cutie’s laughter,” he offered. “The symphony of a curvaceous figure!”

“The things you think of,” Jimmy remarked. “Change the record and jingle me up a Scotch.”

The barman brought the drinks. Over the rim of his glass the other said slowly:

“You been to Westbourne, I suppose?”

Without batting an eyelash Jimmy said casually: “Sure.”

“Quite a nice dump. Fun and games. Very select and hoity-toity, but I like it that way.”

“So glad.”

Willis was regarding his fingernails with sudden elaborate interest. Without raising his eyes he observed:

“There’s a smart jewellers down there.”

Jimmy glanced at his watch and said:

“I should be moving.”

He made no effort to move, but gave Frankie Willis a sidelong glance. The man said, still without looking at him and in the same tone of complete disinterest:

“Branch of Raphael’s of Hatton Garden. The Westbourne shop’s run by a chap called Kirot. Got a son, Paul Kirot.” He took a drink absently.

Jimmy produced his cigarette case, lit the cigarette the other took with a nod of thanks, then lit his own. He calculated Willis should unload what was on his mind any minute now.

Frankie Willis laughed through a puff of tobacco smoke. He said admiringly: “You’re a poker face, Anyone’d think I’m talking clean over your head.”

Jimmy said; “So…what are you talking about?”

“The diamonds that did one of those vanishing tricks.”

“Tell me about it.”

“As if you didn’t know.”

“As if I didn’t know,” said Jimmy. Adding: “Think I’ve got time for just a very small double.” And he gave the barman the same-again sign. As he took his, Willis said, keeping his voice only just loud enough:

“A little bird chirped me an earful just now. Didn’t catch hold of the details. Not my line, precious stones. Always say they lead to breaking stones on the Moor.” He chuckled. Jimmy smiled at him pleasantly.

“You will have your little joke.”

Willis grinned, gulped from his glass and went on:

“Seems these diamonds got—er—lost in the post between Kirot’s place and Hatton Garden. Anyway, when the package arrives at Raphael’s this morning the sparklers are goners. The bloke who’d borrowed ’em had slipped some bits of sugar in their place. Perhaps he thought they might sweeten old Raphael’s temper when he finds the stones aren’t there.”

Jimmy discreetly refrained from asking the other where he’d picked up such factual information, within a relatively short time, of the event’s occurrence. From experience he knew the underworld was, in some mysterious manner, almost invariably aware of its members’ contemplated operations long before they were put into execution. And the grapevine, that breathed the furtive whispers of what dark and secret machinations were in the air, reached out far and wide. Jimmy was satisfied to ask no questions and retain the confidence of his circle of acquaintances, which included useful informants—such as Frankie Willis among a number of other characters—who were usually calculated to be in the know. He said:

“All makes a jolly tale for tiny tots, but what makes you think I should be interested?”

“Well… I don’t suppose your girlfriend would look sideways at a chip of ice”—he used the slang term—“if you were to drop one into her pretty little palm.”

Jimmy said:

“Some ice can be very hot. I’d hate to burn her fingers.”

Willis shook his head emphatically.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting you should cut in on the missing stuff. But suppose it was to find its way, safe and sound back to its rightful owner?”

“Go on supposing.”

“And you were responsible for their safe return, wouldn’t old Raphael slip you a chip all for your ownsome out of gratitude? Get the idea?”

Jimmy, who’d already had the idea and been working on it the past hour or more, smiled at him affably. He said:

“Frankie, you have a lovely mind. I will duly ponder over your kind suggestion and maybe even act upon it.”

“Good,” Willis said heartily.

“Now I really must—”

“Just before you go,” the other interrupted him. “Listen. Bend your ear closer.”

Jimmy regarded him with a quizzically raised eyebrow, then humoured him.

Willis put his mouth near and muttered:

“Charlie Mitchell is catching the two-thirty non-stop to Westbourne this afternoon. Staying at the ‘Majestic’.”

Jimmy pulled thoughtfully at his cigarette and eyed him narrowly through a cloud of smoke. This was not uninteresting. Decidedly not uninteresting. Charles Mitchell was a ‘fence’ who dealt exclusively in precious stones. He chuckled admiringly at Frankie Willis. He certainly knew what went on. Glancing round the crowded bar, he nodded towards an attractive blonde who was with a couple of loud-suited men nearby.

“You’ll be telling me next that little party has a mole eight inches below her left shoulder,” he grinned.

Willis glanced at the blonde, who caught his look and flashed him a bright smile of recognition. He turned and said promptly:

“She hasn’t.”

Then he joined in Jimmy’s laughter.

* * * *

As the two-thirty Westbournc Flyer drew out of London on its non-stop run to the coast, Jimmy Strange, from his comfortable seat in the refreshment-car, stared out of the window with a far-away gaze. He looked up out of his reverie only when the waiter came along to take his order for a large Scotch. Then sank back into his contemplation of the swiftly passing scenery until the drink arrived.

Sandra had remarked his preoccupation during lunch.

“What type of skullduggery is the Master Mind contemplating this time?” she asked sweetly. Too sweetly.

His explanation that he proposed making a trip down to Westbourne that afternoon didn’t exactly draw coos of delight from her. She gave him a level look of speculation from beneath her raised eyebrows.

“Alone, of course?”

He nodded. “Little job I want to take care of down there.”

“Blonde or brunette job?”

He grinned at her. He said:

“If I said, you wouldn’t believe me.”

She said:

“Not a damned word. Still…it helps make conversation.”

“We could talk about the weather,” he said. “Or even you.”

She said:

“Or even us.”

The maître d’hôtel had interrupted them to inquire anxiously about the chicken soufflé, which had, he volubly declared, been specially prepared for them under his own watchful eye. On being reassured by Sandra that the dish was delicious he drifted away, leaving Jimmy adroitly to steer the conversation away from the theme that her last observation had dangerously directed it.

Now, as he took a drink, he told himself he had no greater incentive, anyway, for pulling off the Westbourne business successfully. For he felt it would take nothing less than a nice slice of ice to ease his relationship with Sandra along the way he wanted it to go. With no strings to it and no breakup either. A little smile quirked the corners of his mouth as he recalled the simple philosophizing of Frankie Willis on the subject.

He drew an early edition of the evening paper from his pocket. They’d given the Vanishing Diamond story front-page headlines and plenty of space. Not that it told him anything he didn’t know. Or couldn’t have added a few details to.

In fact the report was given over mostly to descriptions of the Hatton Garden premises, the firm of George Raphael’s long-established association with the diamond business, plus a photograph of the old boy, which Jimmy reckoned must have been taken by the first camera ever invented. There was a lot of stuff about the package arriving apparently un-tampered with and the discovery of the pieces of sugar in place of the precious stones. There was a statement from Kirot of the Westbourne branch he personally had packed the diamonds for dispatch, and the police seemed satisfied the theft must have occurred sometime in transit. The gems, seven in number, were extremely valuable.

Jimmy raised his eyebrows at the figure quoted in the paper. Not a bad haul, he mused, and turned to the Stop Press. It carried a brief paragraph, which gave precisely no further news about the mystery and ended with the traditional bromide about the police being actively engaged upon investigations and expected to issue an important statement shortly.

One vital fact about the case had passed unnoticed, Jimmy observed, not without satisfaction. Smiling broadly to himself, he pushed the newssheet aside. He lit a cigarette, leaned back, allowed his thoughts to drift now on the business ahead of him, now on the lovely slenderness of Sandra’s legs, and the train rushed on towards Westbourne.

* * * *

Jimmy surveyed himself critically in the mirror, gave his black tie a touch so that it butterflied with infinite exactness above his impeccable evening shirt. With a silver-backed brush he carefully smoothed a recalcitrant wedge of hair into place and slipped into his double-breasted dinner jacket. He glanced at his wristwatch. Time enough for a couple of drinks before dinner. In a few moments he stepped out of the lift and crossed the thronged foyer, automatically receiving and returning with equal interest the glances of two attractive brunettes and one ravishing blonde who stared at him as he went by.

He went into the cocktail bar and then paused momentarily as he caught sight of a little red-headed figure perched alone in a corner. Almost simultaneously she saw him, and with an excited squeak of surprised delight darted across and had twined her arms around his neck.

“Jimmee! Jimmee—”

“Gaby—!”

Which was about all he could manage to say before being smothered by her fond embrace and torrent of endearments, uttered in fantastic broken English mixed up with a flow of non-stop French.

“Ah, cher Jimmeel Quelle surprise! C’est merveilleuse! Mon amoureux! Ah, mon beau Jimmee—je suis trés exciter…!”

And so on.

At length he finally contrived to extricate himself.

“Well, well!” he gasped, chuckling a trifle breathlessly. “You certainly don’t pull your punches!”

“Oh, am I so glad to see you once more!”

“That’s rather the idea I get.”

She laughed throatily and was about to fling herself upon him again, but he quickly took her arm and manoeuvred her towards the bar.

“I need something to brace me up after that attack,” he grinned at her.

He ordered drinks while the barman looked at him gravely, trying to conceal his amusement. Gaby was clinging to him, chattering full speed ahead. Her conversation, though sparkling with a vocabulary that was most fascinating to the ear, was somewhat difficult to follow owing to her habit of mingling atrocious English with breathtakingly rapid French. Whether she was herself conscious of the effect this amazing mixture produced on her listeners and deliberately cultivated her fantastic rigmarole was debatable. Jimmy, habitually sceptical of everything and everybody as a matter of principle, was privately of the opinion that Gaby was shrewd enough to know what was an asset and made use of it accordingly.

Her throaty chuckle and vivid accent wasn’t her only asset either. Not by any means. And Jimmy, as he listened to her excited quick-fire chatter, was, if not all ears, certainly all eyes. She was a delicious piece of Parisian femininity plus.

He’d first met her some little time ago when he’d been backstage, for no good reason at all, at the ‘Mayfair Casino’, that song-supper-and-show place where the food’s always cold, the wine warm but the girls, though by the amount of clothing they wear ought to be cold, are, as it happens, hot.

Jimmy at that time had been losing interest in a little number who was chronically cuddlesome and, at the same time, as calculating as a cash register. He’d been standing in the wings watching Gaby going through her routine while pondering ways and means of sliding out of the aforementioned baby’s life for ever and longer than that, when in the dimness that followed Gaby’s act she’d bumped into him as she was hurrying off the stage. From then on they’d got along like a row of houses on fire with a timber yard thrown in.

The barman was placing their drinks before them and as he took the money he gave a discreet cough.

“Er—pardon me, sir,” he said to Jimmy hesitatingly, “but—er—that is—”

Jimmy glanced at him.

“What’s on your mind?”

“It’s what’s on your face, sir—if I may say so,” said the bartender gravely. “The lady’s lipstick.”

“Ah, mon pauvre chérie!” Gaby cried, leaping up and squeaking with laughter. “Eet ees all over you.” She snatched his handkerchief and began briskly to rub his face. “Your ear, your chin, your nose— I must poleesh heem off.”

“Thanks,” muttered Jimmy.

“Voilà,” she laughed, pushing his handkerchief back into his pocket and pausing to survey him. “Now you are all washed up!”

“I know what you mean,” he grinned. He indicated a more secluded corner. “Let’s park over there and I’ll let you tell me more about myself.”

“Oui, chérie.”

Over his shoulder he called:

“Bring a couple more in a minute.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Gaby sat very close to him and held his hand.

None of your inhibitions about her. As she’d once explained to him, in her own delightfully unique way, she’d lost all that sort of worrisome nonsense on the occasion of her debut at the Folies Bergère, at the same time that the solitary article of clothing she was wearing—she happened to be rather overdressed in a small rose—fell off just as she began her dignified descent in the grand staircase scene.

She thought Jimmy was extremely attractive and made no attempt to disguise the fact. Which was all very straightforward and refreshing and he enjoyed it. Always when he met her he asked himself why he didn’t see her more often. Her allure was decidedly original, with her throaty accent, her comic English and her irrepressible vivacity.

He supposed the reason he didn’t tag along more closely was because he’d caught that look in her eyes now and again that warned him she could go for him in a serious way and would, being Gaby, want him to reciprocate accordingly and more so. Which was something he didn’t wish to get mixed up in at all. He liked her the way she was, but to get seriously involved would spoil the fun.

He returned the warm pressure of her hand and said:

“This is all very cosy. But what the devil are you doing down here? Aren’t you in the Casino show?”

“Ah, you are not very au fait with my movements.”

He ignored the rebuke in her tone by deliberately misunderstanding her.

“I’ve seen you dance,” he said.

She squeaked with amusement. “Non, non. Eet ees what I am doing, I mean. Not any more at the Casino, I am rehearsaling the new cabaret at the ‘Regis’. I am in this place to give a show for the grande Charity Ball tonight is being holding.”

“I must look in on it. You’ll be giving the customers that veil dance, no doubt?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Why else they would ask me to appearance?”

“Why else, indeed. I mustn’t miss a word of that.”

“Eet ees très artistique.”

He smiled at her.

“I think you’ve got something there,” he said. And went on: “What time d’you do your stuff?”

“Not until minuit.”

“So what are we doing till then?” he asked. “Hungry? We could go in and eat to start with.”

“I am so sorry, chérie,” she pouted. “But I cannot. I am already fix-up.”

“Too bad.”

She was glancing round the bar, “He should be here dans un moment.”

“Would he be someone I know?”

She shrugged. “Paul Kirot.”

He didn’t make the slightest sign of a pause with the glass he was raising. Just drank a trifle thoughtfully, perhaps.

He said:

“Would he be the son of Kirot the jeweller by any possible chance?”

She nodded, eyeing him quizzically.

He said slowly:

“Is that so?”

“Pourquoi?”

“Pourquoi what?”

“You say ‘ees zat so’ in funny peculiar ways.”

He said:

“Pretty little ears you have and they don’t miss a thing either.”

“They are missing your answer to my question,” she came back promptly. “And there ees little look in your eyes which says to me the answer would be some intriguing.”

He chuckled.

“It goes like this…” he began then broke off as the barman put a couple more drinks before them. When he’d gone he said: “Where were we?”

“Still here,” she said. “And you were going to tell me a leetle story.”

“Not such a funny one at that. A London diamond firm has a branch here run by Kirot. Some time back they send a fortune in sparklers to Kirot, on account of he thought he could do a deal with ’em down here. As the deal doesn’t jell, however, they’re returned. But when the packet’s opened at the London end what do they find?”

“Je ne suis pas.”

“Less than that,” he grinned at her. “No diamonds. Just some bits of sugar.”

“Dieu!”

“Kirot is emphatic the stones were packed all right, did the job himself. Cops, flatties, police, gendarmerie—do I make myself clear?”

“Clear as needle in mudpack!”

“They’re certain the theft didn’t happen in the post. Diamonds don’t arrive. So what have you got?”

“No sparklingers,” Gaby said.

“No sparklingers. Correct. And why? Because, my delicious piece of nonsense, they were never posted at all.”

“Tell me that over again, please.”

“They were never—” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Non, non! The delicious piece of nonsensicals part. I like the way you tell heem.”

“Gaby, this is no place to look at me like that. Concentrate on diamonds.”

“I do sometimes,” she smiled. Then nodded thoughtfully. “What you say ees quite interesting. I must ask Paul about eet.”

“You friendly with him?”

She didn’t answer at once.

He said:

“You can tell me. I’m not too young to know.”

“We are meeting either in London or I am down here sometime.”

“He must be using up quite a slice of pocket money.”

“He ees very generous,” she agreed. And added; “Pourquoi pas?”

“As you say, why not.”

A momentary frown crossed her face. She said:

“Lately eet ees the chemin-de-fer also he spend on. Gambling party nearly every night at a villa by the beach.”

He raised an eyebrow, then said: “Me, I’d rather hold your hand than a hand of cards any time.”

She flashed him a tender smile. With a little shrug she said: “He ees going there tonight I think—” She broke off and glanced over his shoulder. “Ah! Here Paul ees now.”

He turned as two men came into the bar. “The dark character?”

She nodded. “I do not know who ees the other.”

He could have told her. It was Charlie Mitchell. They hadn’t spotted Gaby, and he said quickly; “Listen, Gaby—find out when your boyfriend’s buddy goes back to London. Tonight. Tomorrow, when.” He stood up and grinned at her. “Phone me soon’s you know. I’ll stick around till you do.”

“You are very mysterious.”

“Don’t let it bother you. So long.”

“Au revoir, Jimmee. I telephone you.”

He gave her a mock conspiratorial wink and was gone.

A couple of hours later found him in a secluded corner of the hotel vestibule, listening idly to the dance orchestra dispensing from the restaurant a pleasurably sentimental accompaniment to some quiet drinking he was putting in. He was in a mellow frame of mind, though back of it a little dagger of uneasiness stabbed at him now and again. That was when his thoughts went around Sandra. He’d phoned her, but no reply. He wondered who she was with. He couldn’t blame her for being with someone; all the same he’d have felt that much happier if he’d found her waiting for him to ring. He’d have liked to have heard her voice.

He’d told Reception he was expecting a call and where they’d find him. Now he looked up as a page hurried over and said:

“You’re wanted on the phone, sir.”

“Who would be doing the wanting?”

His answer was the one he’d expected. “Miss Fontan, sir.” The kid gave him a cheeky grin. He flipped him a coin and, wishing he didn’t wish it was Sandra calling, went to the telephone-box.

“Where you talking from, Gaby?”

“From the ‘Lighthouse Tavern’, chérie.” It was an old smuggling inn, modernized and with a clientele of the smart crowd. She was saying: “Paul and his friend are in the bar, they not know I am telephone.”

“Smart girl.”

She giggled throatily. “I feel like a crime novel! The other man’s name eet ees Mitchell. And I can tell you thees, Jimmee, he go back to London tonight on the train who ees a quarter to one of the clock thees morning.”

The 12:45 that night, Jimmy translated, a sudden glint in his eyes. “Thanks for the tip.”

She said: “I not know why you so interested in heem. I not like thees quiet men who are looking hard always. He has got some business deal on with Paul, but who I not know.”

Jimmy smiled grimly to himself.

“Tell you all about it sometime.”

“I think you can think of other thing to talk of more amusing for me, non?” And went on cajolingly: “You will be at my show tonight? Eef your petite Gaby not beeg enough attracting you, thees man ees there also with Paul before he go to train.”

“He hopes,” murmured Jimmy.

“Pardon?”

“Just a thought I had.” He went on easily, his concentration already fastening round the scheme he was evolving: “Shall have eyes only for you.”

“And afterwards?” she insinuated.

“Depends on Paul.”

“Oh, he ees bring me back, then off gambling. He say he has much to win back tonight. Beeg fool I say, but eet ees wasting my breathing to speak So I am all on my loneliness in that great large hotel.”

“I’ll be around, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“You will come up to my suite for a night-hat?”

“Which is an idea, too.”

He rang off and made his way back to his corner, his expression somewhat preoccupied. The waiter brought him another drink; he relaxed and lit a cigarette. Yes…he thought, the pieces of the jigsaw were falling cosily into place. The way he saw it the completed picture looked something like this:

First, Paul Kirot had pinched the sparklers.

No doubt his father had packed ’em all right. But the son had got hold of the package before it was mailed and it would have been a simple job for him to substitute the sugar lumps in place of the original contents.

Motive for the theft: that good old-timer, young man tries to play the playboy without having enough cash to carry the role. Paul Kirot was playing around with toys like Gaby Fontan. Dolls in that class were an expensive hobby. Like a fool, the chap had tried to get hold of more cash by gambling. He’d plunged deep and now was floundering in as sticky a morass as maybe.

The diamonds due for return to Hatton Garden had given him a bright idea, and he’d grabbed at ’em like a drowning man at a rescue line.

Young Kirot wanted a market where he could dispose of the stuff, and in fact had undoubtedly made his contact before he actually swiped the stones.

Which brought that dear character Charlie Mitchell into the picture.

Plain enough the ‘fence’ was down at Westbourne on business. And from what Gaby had just tipped him it was evident the deal was being fixed that night. Which added up to something else: One, that Mitchell, who’d be present with Paul Kirot at Gaby’s performance before catching his train, would be carrying the diamonds on him. Two, young Kirot, who’d ideas of recouping his losses by playing the gaming-table after the show, would have on him the cash he’d received from Mitchell.

Which, Jimmy concluded, was a situation offering possibilities that, to say the least, were interesting. He drew thoughtfully at his cigarette and turned those possibilities over in his mind.

Westbourne was definitely a smart town. Nothing of the popular seaside resort, with a summer influx of visitors followed by a dreary winter of inactivity and deserted boredom, about it. For its increasing prosperity the town relied on its popularity with Londoners of the well-to-do, sophisticated type who rented weekend villas all the year round and took their vacations there.

Westbourne prided itself on its ‘Continental’ atmosphere, which it assiduously cultivated. Its shops and cafés, cinemas and theatres wore gay and attractive exteriors, designed to cheer the eye. Pride of the town’s architectural achievements was undoubtedly the Ambassador Rooms, a large building that could be used as a concert hall for the regularly visiting orchestras and artists and so on, while also making a magnificent ballroom.

Tonight the Ambassador was certainly jam-packed all night. No doubt the charity in aid of which the ball was being held was a most deserving one. All the same, it is a matter of speculation as to whether the crowds had that in mind very much, or whether Gaby Fontan was the magnet. Jimmy Strange, as he pushed his way through the throngs that were crowding in on the dance floor eagerly uttering her name on every side, smiled to himself. There was no doubt that the Fontan figure pulled ’em in.

It was close on midnight. Gaby was due to make her appearance on the miniature stage in a few minutes. Jimmy’s gaze travelled to the couple of individuals he sought and his eyes narrowed as he drew nearer to them. They were standing right by the stage. The lights were dimming and the orchestra started to play the introductory music. The audience quieted expectantly and the curtain rose. Two spotlights threw dazzling pools of light centre stage, and in a moment Gaby stepped into their radiance, smiling at the rapturous applause that greeted her.

She began her celebrated dance.

From his position, which was now directly behind Messrs. Kirot and Mitchell, Jimmy watched her appreciatively. He’d seen her show several times, but it was the sort of thing only the most blasé wouldn’t enjoy plenty times more. When it came to looking on while a seductive little redhead neatly began losing one after another of the half-dozen veils that were her only apparel to music, Jimmy wasn’t all that blasé. Besides, he liked the music.

As the climax of the act approached he drew closer to watch. He knew precisely what would happen as that last veil flew off. The moment arrived. Gaby made a dexterous movement and—the spotlights went out. Stage and audience were completely blacked-out. Then the lights came on again, and as the applause crashed, drowning the music, Gaby was in the centre of the stage, a magnificent gown thrown around her, all smiles and bows.

To Kirot—she’d caught sight of him next to his companion—she flashed a special smile, covering up the pout of disappointment at her failure to see another figure who’d promised to be there.

But Jimmy had taken the opportunity before the lights came up again to slip away.

Back in his room at the Hotel Majestic he put a call through to Sandra. He rang for a long time, but either she was sleeping remarkably soundly or she was still out. Somewhat morosely, he figured she hadn’t come in, and replaced the receiver. He lit a cigarette and drew a small wash-leather sack from his inside pocket and placed beside it a wad of notes. Cursorily he flipped through them. Mitchell had struck a characteristically mean bargain. He estimated the price he’d paid was only a fifth of what the stuff was worth. He tipped the bag and the diamonds sparkled and shone in his hand like live things. He eyed them disinterestedly through a cloud of cigarette-smoke, then replaced them and locked the wash-leather sack and the wad of notes away.

That little lot would make old Crow’s eyes bulge when he popped them on his desk at Scotland Yard tomorrow. And he gave a little grin at the thought. The grin faded as his thoughts swung back to Sandra. Had he gone to all this trouble to earn a nice slice of ice especially for her, just for empty air? Not even her voice over the phone? He shoved the question aside. Let it wait, he’d get around to the solution to that in the morning.

Then the telephone jangled and, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth, he answered it. What the hell had he been worrying about!

“Hello, darling,” he said.

And the voice in his ear said:

“What about that night-hat, my naughty leetle Jimmee?”

He managed to cover up, make it sound as if he had meant the ‘darling’ for her. He replaced the receiver, stared at it for a moment, then with a shrug went out.

* * * *

Gaby was laughing deliciously:

“Oh, I would give a meellion to look at the face of that foolish Paul when he finds hees money is disappearanced—and that ugly Mitchell creature, too, when he finds for hees diamonds!”

Jimmy, who’d merely given her a very sketchy account of what had happened, nodded across the rim of his glass.

Gaby went on:

“But what made you suspecting Paul in the start?”

“Remember the sugar? That gave me the idea from the kick-off the stuff had been pinched this end and by someone who visited this hotel. Then I bump into you, which is nice for two reasons, the second one being that you spill it about Kirot. I knew he hadn’t been exactly avoiding this hotel because you stayed here, so it was easy.”

“I not comprehending what the sugar has to do with eet?”

“You take it in your tea and coffee?”

“Mais oui.”

“Then you’ve noticed it’s not in cubes, but in flat oblong pieces.”

Vigorous nod of that lovely red head.

“But, of course. A la continental.”

“You’ve hit it. And the only place I know in this country where they serve sugar that way is—”

“The Hotel Magnificent, Westingbournes?” she queried.

“The Hotel Magnificent, Westing-whatever-you-say-it-is.”

She was regarding him with eyes wide and sparkling with admiration.

“But such a very clevaire Jimmee! Merveilleuse! Mer­veilleuse!”

“Glad you’re impressed,” he grinned.

There was only the width of his glass between them as she said:

“Now one other leetle question you are telling me.”

“Being which?”

“Being which is how did you get back the sparklingers from Mitchell and also the cash from Paul?”

He smiled at her gently over his drink.

“That’s part of my story over which I’d prefer to draw one of your veils,” he said.

And should anyone wish to know more of what happened afterwards—with regard, that is, to Jimmy’s reward as anticipated from a gratefully generous George Raphael; and if Sandra received her present of a ‘nice slice of ice’; and if she did what transpired as a result of the handsome gift, well, that’s another adventure of Jimmy Strange.