Chapter Two

The Golden Eggs

“I’ll try to find a buyer,” Mannering said quietly, “but if it’s worth that money, it may take a little while.”

For the first time, he wondered if the old man were quite right in the head. The girl’s manner was beginning to disturb him, too; Sylvester was right, her pose wasn’t natural; it was too child-like. Yet he recalled the way in which she had taken the old man’s elbow and guided him into the shop; and, later, into the office. She had known what she was doing then.

“May I see what it is?” asked Mannering, mildly.

The old man placed his two hands on the top of the little brown case. The swollen joints made the hands and fingers look more bony and much thinner even than they were. He pressed against the case possessively, giving the impression that for a moment he was afraid.

“I’ll show you,” he promised. “I’ll show you, but you don’t believe what I say, do you?”

“About what?”

“That what I have here is worth a hundred thousand pounds.”

“Until I’ve seen it—”

“All the same,” said the old man, with a kind of bitter fierceness. “All dealers are the same, they deny the value, beat you down, cheat, and swindle, they’d cheat their own kith and kin!”

As nearly as they could, his buried eyes glared, as if he expected an angry response, Mannering on his dignity.

Mannering smiled amiably, and said, “Dreadful lot, aren’t we?”

“In my experience—” began Pendexter Smith, but broke off abruptly. “All right, all right, I’ll show you what I have. But mind you” – he raised one hand, to point a waggling finger – “I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t blame you!”

Throughout all this, the lovely girl sat erect and still, her hands clasped lightly in her lap. They were nice hands, and the long, thin fingers were tipped with filbert-shaped nails which had neither coloured nor natural varnish to make them glisten. She wore just a touch of lipstick and a little powder; no rouge at all. The serenity of her blue eyes had not changed. She looked now at the old man, now at Mannering, half questioning – as if she were interested in what was passing between them, but had no desire to speak.

Was she – dumb?

“If I leave them in your charge I’ll want every possible kind of assurance that they’ll be looked after,” Pendexter Smith went on. “Don’t think I’ll let you get away with anything.”

“I hope you won’t.” Mannering was amiably emphatic.

The old man looked as if he didn’t quite understand this attitude; he remained suspicious and wary, and it was a long time before he lifted the lid of the case. Then he did so slowly. His manner created a sharper interest in Mannering; it was as if he were going to reveal something which was breathlessly beautiful and really worth a fortune. The odds were all against that; much more likely he was a bit touched, and had a trifle which he had invested with a fabulous value. Yet his manner made Mannering lean forward with quickening interest, and even made his heart beat faster.

The girl leaned forward, too, her eyes glistening with sudden excitement.

The old man threw back the lid.

“There!” he cried.

Inside the case was a nest, a bird’s nest – made of spun gold. Inside the nest were five jewelled eggs, and if one could judge from the look of them, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires were set in eggs of solid gold. Each the size of small hen’s eggs, they lay in the golden nest as if a fabulous bird which could lay jewelled eggs had left them there, and flown away.

“You see?” Pendexter Smith’s voice became almost shrill. His eyes glittered, his hands hovered about the eggs as if he suspected that Mannering would snatch them, and he meant to protect them with his life. “Five jewelled eggs in a golden nest, worth a hundred thousand pounds at least. The only one like it in the world, Mr. Mannering! Why, the gold itself must be worth ten thousand pounds.”

He watched Mannering, as if expecting a denial.

“Yes,” said Mannering slowly, “I can well believe it.”

“You agree?”

“It’s so obviously true.”

In the pause that followed, the old man looked at the girl, who was staring at him, not Mannering. Mannering judged her expression to be one of expectancy, but couldn’t really be sure. She didn’t look so very different from what she had all the time.

“Miranda,” said Pendexter Smith, “it’s beginning to look as if we’ve found an honest dealer.” His eyes snapped at Mannering. “How much do you drink they are worth to a collector, Mr. Mannering?”

“I’m not going to guess.”

“You can estimate, surely.”

“A collector who wanted them badly enough would pay your price.”

“You see, you see?” cried Smith, exultingly, “I was right! A hundred thousand pounds for the jewelled eggs.” He lifted the case, dropped it heavily on the desk in front of Mannering, and rubbed his hands together briskly, obviously beside himself with delight. “I knew I wasn’t far wrong, Miranda.”

Mannering then saw the strangest sight. The old man jumped up and put an arm about the girl’s shoulders, hugged her, and kissed her. That should have seemed obscene, but it did not. She turned to look at him, and now all the calmness had gone, her eyes glowed, her hands were raised and clenched. Mannering thought, “I believe it’s given her hope,” and certainly hope seemed to blaze in her eyes, giving her a new, fierce radiance.

“We’ll have you right,” cried Pendexter Smith, “don’t worry about it, we’ll have you right!” He squeezed her again, then turned to face Mannering, quivering with excitement. Standing, he was only as tall as Mannering was when sitting. “How soon can you sell them? Tell me, please, quickly.”

“I can’t even begin—” began Mannering.

“But it’s vital, I must sell them quickly! How soon?”

Mannering found it hard to say, “A week, a month, or a year. I simply don’t know. We’ll have to find a collector if we want the full price, and collectors with fortunes aren’t growing on every tree. There’s no way of telling you how soon you could get your hundred thousand. I’d certainly advise waiting for a month or more in the hope of getting several offers. ‘I think I know of two or three men in London who might be interested, others in Paris and Rome, more farther afield. You must be patient.”

Pendexter Smith thumped the desk, made a silver inkstand jump and the pen rattle, but did not make the case move an inch.

“But I can’t wait! I just can’t wait.”

“If you sell at once, you’ll get the value of the gold and the jewels plus ten per cent or so,” Mannering told him. “No more. If you wait—”

“But I can’t wait!” The old man began to froth at the corners of the mouth. “Don’t you understand? Can’t you get it into your thick skull? I just can’t wait. How soon?”

Mannering said, “You don’t need all the money at once, do you?”

“No, but—”

“You can borrow on the value, and—”

“So there you go,” breathed Pendexter Smith, “usury upon usury. You’ll lend me twenty thousand pounds at a ruinous rate of interest. Any fool would if he had the money, but I’m not doing business that way. I want a buyer quickly, can’t you find one in a week?”

“No.” Mannering was brusque.

With anyone else, he would have been annoyed by now. Perhaps he was annoyed with Pendexter Smith, but the girl calmed him. She no longer looked excited, but there was something different in her manner; a serenity touched with a happiness which hadn’t been there before. The word “hope” was in Mannering’s mind when he looked at her.

As she stared at the old man, there was deep affection in her expression; what won the affection of this young and lovely creature for so grotesque a man?

It was not a thing Mannering could begin to try to understand.

The old man was leaning forward.

“Listen, Mr. Mannering, I’ll sell for seventy-five thousand pounds. A quick buyer and I’ll take seventy-five, five per cent commission for yourself. Isn’t that worth the effort? Eh?”

His hands were clenched, there was no doubt about his desperate eagerness.

The girl was so lovely, too.

“I’ll lend you ten thousand pounds, free of interest, for three months,” Mannering said abruptly, “with the eggs as security, of course. If we haven’t found a buyer at your price we’ll have them valued and I’ll buy at valuation, which won’t be less than fifty thousand. Will that do?”

The old man didn’t answer at first.

The girl now watched Mannering, as if she knew that he had become a vital factor.

The old man said abruptly, suspiciously, “Why should you make such an offer? Come on, tell me—why should you lend money without interest? You just want to get your hands on the nest of eggs, that’s all, it’s a trick to—”

The girl moved, her hand rested on his shoulder for a moment. It seemed to startle him. They looked into each other’s eyes, and it seemed to Mannering that she was trying to convey a message which she could not express in words. She was truly dumb, of course, he no longer doubted that. Allied to such beauty, it was hurtful beyond words. And dumbness wasn’t all; there was no sign language between them.

Mannering said, “If I find a buyer, Mr. Smith, I’ll get a big commission. That would be well worth my investment. But please yourself what you do.”

Pendexter Smith turned away from the girl.

“Ten thousand pounds,” he said, as if to himself. “Free of interest.”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“As soon as you’ve shown me your legal right to the nest of eggs,” Mannering said, “and if you can do that within half an hour, you can have the money today. It’s twenty minutes past two,” he added, “and the banks close at three.”

There was a long pause.

“Legal right,” echoed Pendexter Smith, in his attractive voice. All his tension was gone; it was as if he knew that what he wanted was within his grasp, and he could hot think beyond it. “What kind of proof do you want, Mr. Mannering?”

“Where did you get this from?”

“Oh, it isn’t mine,” said Pendexter Smith, “it’s Miranda’s. I’m simply helping her. Legal proof, now.” He was speaking almost in a whisper. “I can quite understand that you need some evidence of good faith. Yes, but—”

He broke off.

His eyes lit up, and he clapped his hands together.

“Oh, I can do it, I know the way. I can’t satisfy you in half an hour, but I can during this afternoon, if—” He hesitated, looked sharply at Miranda and then at the nest of eggs, and added more briskly, “If I may leave Miranda and this in your care while I go.”

“Is there anyone we can telephone? Or any way in which I can help?”

“No,” said Pendexter Smith, almost sharply. “No, I can manage quite well, thank you. I don’t want Miranda to come with me, though. If you’ll call a taxi for me, I’ll be back in an hour. Two, at most. Will she be in the way?”

“No, but—”

“A taxi, please, a taxi!”

Mannering pressed a bell by the side of the desk, and Sylvester promptly opened the door.

“Sylvester,” said Mannering, “ask young Trevor to go and get a taxi, will you?”

“At once, sir.”

“Thanks.”

“Is it for a long journey?” asked Sylvester.

“Eh?” said Pendexter Smith. “Oh, no, City, that’s all. Not far. Hurry, please.” He was moving from one foot to the other, like an agitated bird. The door closed on Sylvester. “Mr. Mannering, you’ll give me a provisional receipt, won’t you? Forgive me, but—”

“Yes, of course.” Mannering drew paper, pen, and ink forward, and under the old man’s intense scrutiny, wrote out a receipt that he felt sure the man would like.

“This acknowledges receipt for temporary custody one spun gold nest and five jewelled eggs, of an approximate gold weight of 50 ounces, all being the property of Miss Miranda Smith and left in my custody by Mr. Pendexter Smith.”

The old man read it slowly.

“Excellent,” he pronounced, “most comprehensive!” He watched Mannering sign the note, then folded it across and across and placed it carefully in a worn, black leather wallet. He stuffed this back into the inside pocket of his long-waisted coat, then turned to the girl. “I won’t be long, Miranda, you needn’t worry.”

He smiled at her.

She smiled back, mechanically; Mannering was sure that she hadn’t fully understood. There seemed to be a kind of telepathy between her and Pendexter Smith, who patted her slim hand, then turned and bowed to Mannering; his little eyes almost invisible.

“I shall soon be back,” he promised. “An hour, at most.”

He went out of Quinns walking with some difficulty, as if he were at a loss without the girl’s support. Sylvester actually helped him into the taxi.

“Go to the Bank of England, first,” he said, “the Bank, please.” He pulled the door to, and it slammed. The taxi, already facing Bond Street, moved off and turned left into a stream of traffic.

Mannering did not see any of that.

Mannering was alone with a very lovely girl, who looked at him with those limpid eyes, which were almost blank; the expression “dumb blonde” crossed his mind and brought with it a twisting spasm of pain.

There was a small room on the first floor, with pictures round the walls, all old and valuable, a few objets d’art, a Chippendale table, and several comfortable winged-back chairs; this served both as waitingroom and show-room.

The girl would be better off there, and he would not be so conscious of her presence.

“I’d like you to wait in another room,” he said.

She looked at him, questioningly. Then she looked at his lips, and he thought he understood what she meant. He spoke very clearly and slowly, believing that she would be able to lip-read. After the first attempt, she shook her head, but stared at his lips until he tried again.

The next time, she nodded and stood up.

He took her upstairs, showed her magazines, some books filled with colour plates of jewellery, offered her cigarettes, and, when she had refused, left her on her own. She was quite calm.

Sylvester or his assistant went up to the room every ten or fifteen minutes. Mannering received several reports. Miranda was glancing at the books – she was interested mostly in the pictures – and finally, she was sitting and staring straight ahead of her, without expression.

An hour passed.

Two hours passed.

By then, Mannering was feeling edgy and ill-at-ease. Sylvester had taken the girl tea, and come down to report that she hadn’t stirred.

Mannering hurried up the narrow, twisting staircase, ducking by force of habit to save banging his head. He reached the room, but didn’t go in.

The girl was sitting where he had last seen her. The tray of tea, with two tiny cream cakes and some wafer-thin sandwiches, was on a table by her side, untouched. She was looking at the wall; and where before there had been eagerness in those lovely eyes, now there was fear that no one could possibly mistake.

“Miranda,” began Mannering, and went in.

She didn’t hear him; of course she didn’t. He took a step nearer, and she must have seen him, for she jumped wildly and then cowered back, holding her hands up in front of her face, palms outwards.