Inspector Bull was distinctly uncomfortable. He was tired of hearing about the inefficiency of the police. He was even more tired of hearing their supposed inefficiency condoned on the grounds that their powers were limited by such and such an Act. At the same time he was forced to admit that, with many possibilities, he saw little positive enlightenment.
A description of the jewels by the Continental Bonding and Assurance Company, Ltd., with premises in Thread-needle-street, was on his desk when he returned to the Embankment after lunch. Also the information that the stones were insured by Mrs. Royce for £ 35,000. Further, that the company had put two of their private detectives on the job of recovering them.
Inspector Bull snorted, thought, got his hat and coat and called on the company’s manager by way of bus from Trafalgar-square. Mr. Smedley was glad to see him. Inspector Bull, he trusted, could easily understand their position in the matter.
Bull agreed without enthusiasm.
“Mrs. Royce tells me the jewels are fully covered by your company?”
“Fully indeed,” said Mr. Smedley. He had, for a second, forgot the elegance of the well-bred manager. Bull looked at him inquiringly.
“Very fully, Inspector. Very fully indeed. That’s the great trouble.”
Inspector Bull’s mild blue eyes remained on the manager.
“Last week, Inspector, I discussed this matter with one of our directors. I told him that Mrs. Royce’s diamonds were insured far beyond their present value. In spite of the decreased production—which is purely artificial—the price of diamonds has gone down twenty per cent, this year. I don’t know if you know all this. Now, in addition, the efforts to bolster up present prices brought a sharp reduction in the value of old stones. For example, the fashion in cutting has changed. You know, of course, how such changes are brought about. That is particularly applicable to Mrs. Royce’s stones. I should say that their present value is between £ 10,000 and £ 15,000.
“I explained that to our directors. I said I thought we were laying ourselves open to just this sort of thing.”
“What action did you take?” Inspector Bull asked.
The man hesitated and rubbed his thin dry hands together.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, a little reluctantly, “our Board of Directors meets Monday week. It was planned to take the matter up at that time. I would then have been directed to advise Mrs. Royce of their intentions.”
Bull looked his question.
“And have the stones revalued for a reduction of the covering.”
Bull nodded. This was a complication.
“And, as a matter of fact,” Mr. Smedley continued, “I had asked her to have the stones reappraised herself, by a competent person, and to have him report to the directors at that meeting.”
“When was it that you told her?” Bull asked.
Mr. Smedley thought.
“Four days ago.”
“Is it customary to change the assessed value of property you insure?”
“This is a very unusual case, Inspector. Values have shifted since the war. We’ve had severe drains on our resources. We paid £ 150,000 to Lord Rosen after that terrible fête at Lewes Manor. Then there was the Manborough affair.”
Mr. Smedley winced painfully at the memory, and lowered his voice.
“In short . . . financial situation over the country . . . we have felt it best to make . . . what shall I say?—readjustments.”
“One of which,” Inspector Bull summed up, “was Mrs. Royce’s diamonds.”
Mr. Smedley nodded.
“You see, they were insured with us before her husband’s death. That was in 1910. They are a fine collection of stones, but they have no extrinsic value, and their intrinsic value has decreased sharply. I mean, there’s no single great stone, or historic interest, or anything of that sort. I explained all that to Mrs. Royce. I may say that she was singularly amenable.”
“She didn’t object?” Inspector Bull’s surprise was evident.
“Oh, no! Oh, no! I don’t mean that at all. But in view of the . . . vigour of most of her opinions and objections, she took this proposal in extraordinary good part. Oh, she said we were outrageous robbers, and she would put her property with another concern. But she says that so often that we . . . we understand each other.”
“Well,” said Bull patiently, “and did she have the stones appraised?”
“That’s what Mr. Colton was bringing them to town for last night. We agreed on Albert Steiner in Hatton-garden.”
“I see. Did you know Colton was bringing them in last night?”
“Oh, yes. We knew it.”
Mr. Smedley’s answer came without hesitation. Bull wondered if he saw the point of the question. Then he wondered if, with so frequent an affirmative answer to it, the question had any point. So far he had found no one who didn’t know that the jewels were being brought that night from Windsor to London. But then the idea came back to him: All very well, but why the Colnbrook Road?
“I think, Mr. Smedley,” he said, “it’s obvious that this was an inside job, so to speak. It wasn’t an accidental robbery. Somebody knew the jewels were coming. Now who else besides yourself, in this office, knew about them?”
Mr. Smedley allowed himself a tiny smile as he rubbed his hands nervously together.
“My secretary,” he said. “You can depend on her honesty.”
“I’ll see her, please.”
Bull got his coat and hat as the manager pressed a button. A be-spectacled woman came in from an outer office. Bull looked at her and said, “Never mind.”
He felt that he could, as Mr. Smedley said, depend on her honesty; she was fifty and remarkably unattractive. She was not in league with Peskett, nor with Michael Royce.
“Thank you,” he said. “I understand that unless the jewels are recovered, you’ll pay Mrs. Royce £ 35,000.”
Mr. Smedley’s smile was wintry.
“I’m afraid we shall,” he said.
It occurred to Inspector Bull as he went out that the Thames River would be an excellent place to search for the Royce diamonds.