“Amazing,” said Shayne. “Do all trained nurses like to play gin rummy and know the fine points of firearms?”
“Probably not. I was an army nurse.”
“You’re marvelous,” said Shayne fervently. “I don’t know why I bothered to ask for a police guard last night.”
Miss Naylor chuckled. “I won a few bucks from him,” she reminded Shayne, her eyes twinkling.
“I’ll leave you on guard this time. Don’t let anyone in except the doctor or me. No one,” he went on with emphasis. “Whoever attacked Miss Hamilton last night must realize she is alive and capable of identifying him. He may come back.”
Outside the hotel, he got in his car and drove across the Venetian Causeway to Miami Beach. Walter Voorland lived in a large apartment near the bay and a little south of the Causeway. He was a bachelor, and had maintained the apartment for years, and Shayne had visited him on occasion in the past.
Voorland’s colored man met him at the door when he rang the bell. If he was surprised to see the detective at this early hour his face didn’t show it. He said, “Come right in, Mistuh Shayne. Mistuh Voorland is taking a shower right now.”
He led the detective into a big square living-room where two good paintings were hung on the wall and a few carefully selected objets d’art were tastefully displayed. The furnishings were masculine and luxurious. Shayne went across to long French doors leading out onto an iron-railed balcony and stood there thoughtfully smoking a cigarette while the Negro went to inform the jeweler that he had an early visitor.
He smoked two cigarettes before Voorland showed up in a gray bathrobe and sandals, his ruddy face shining with good health and the effects of a cold shower.
“Shayne!” he exclaimed. “I suppose it’s something about the bracelet. Have you recovered it?”
“Not quite.” Shayne walked over to a table and crushed out the cigarette. “Sorry to bother you so early, but I need a little dope.”
“Not at all. Glad to help any way at all. What sort of information do you want?”
“Two or three things,” said Shayne. “First, do you remember the stones you sold to a couple of men named King and Kendrick? A few years ago.”
“Certainly. Here, have a seat.” He indicated two chairs companionably close together and sat down. Shayne sat down and stretched his long legs out. “Two of the finest star rubies that have ever passed through my hands,” Voorland resumed. “King purchased a ring and Kendrick a pendant. Truly remarkable stones.”
“Do you know that both of those were stolen shortly after you sold them-and never recovered?”
“I believe you’re right. Yes, I do recall that. You begin to interest me.”
“Is there the slightest possibility that either of those stones were fakes?”
“Not the slightest.” Voorland seemed neither surprised nor angry, merely certain of his judgment.
“I’d like to know how you can be so sure,” Shayne persisted. “I recall hearing you tell Mr. and Mrs. Dustin that synthetic stones will stand practically every chemical test.”
“Practically every test,” Voorland agreed. “But there are certain tests no synthetic stone can meet.”
“But suppose those tests weren’t applied,” Shayne argued. “Suppose, for instance, you bought a stone from a reputable dealer. You’d take his word for its being genuine. Suppose he, in turn, had taken another man’s word for the stone-and so on down the line-with no one bothering to make those tests.”
Voorland smiled whimsically. “As a matter of fact, exactly that thing has happened. It is a well-known yarn in the trade. An Amsterdam dealer bought a large ruby from an exiled Russian Grand Duchess whom he knew personally. It was consigned to a firm in Paris, who in turn passed it on to a London expert, and he sold it to an American retailer. All honest men. Yet, the ruby was synthetic. Each expert along the line had trusted the other to have applied the necessary tests.”
Shayne spread out his hands. “There you are. How can you be so sure-?”
“That a star ruby must be genuine? Because they cannot be manufactured, Mike. The synthetic process makes such a thing an impossibility.”
“Explain that to me. Just what is the process?”
Walter Voorland fished in the pocket of his robe for a stick of gum. He peeled the paper off and thrust the gum in his mouth, made a few smacking sounds, then placed both hands precisely on his knees.
“The present successful process is known as the Verneuil Process and was perfected by Professor Verneuil in nineteen hundred and two. He had been working on it with others for many years. Ebelman, Fremy and Feil, Eisner and Debray. The making of artificial rubies attracted more scientists than other gems because rubies have the peculiar property of losing color under great heat, only to regain it when they cool. Other gems do not regain their natural color after excessive heat.
“The first successful method was to take small, inferior Burma gems and grind them into a fine powder. By subjecting this powder to terrific heat and pressure, the powdered stones were fused into one large one. Actually, a real ruby. With every chemical property still intact. Nothing added and nothing taken away.” Voorland paused and chewed his gum while Shayne waited for him to continue.
“A ruby is actually nothing more than crystallized corundum. Alumina, basically, with a small amount of chromium oxide to give it the characteristic color. So Verneuil went back to nature and used powdered alumina itself, adding enough chromium oxide to produce the exact color desired. These are fused at intense heat in a complicated furnace apparatus and a mass is formed which is called a boule or birne.
“I could go on like this for hours,” the expert said with a slight show of impatience, “but I’m sure you get the important point. It is simply a physical impossibility to produce synthetically a stone which has the natural faults we call asterism. The star ruby. This may surprise you, but a star ruby is actually a faulty stone. Crystallization under natural conditions has not been perfect. The conditions producing asterism simply cannot be reproduced in the laboratory.”
Shayne drew his legs up and crossed one knobby knee over the other. “I’m convinced,” he said. “It was a nebulous theory at best. Just happened to fit one set of facts. What I’d like to know is this: How do you account for the fact that neither the King ring nor the Kendrick pendant were ever recovered by the insurance companies-and have never turned up in any of the gem markets of the world?”
“There’s only one logical answer. They somehow made their way into the hands of private collectors who knew they were stolen and glory in possession of them. The worship of precious gems is a curious thing, Mike, and sometimes an unhealthy one. Many of the best known stones in history have disappeared from human sight for hundreds of years, only to reappear again centuries later with no record having been kept of their peregrinations. Collecting gems becomes a mania with some men. Possessing them utterly. Destroying their moral senses and all responsibility toward society.”
“Men like the Rajah of Hindupoor?” Shayne suggested.
Walter Voorland’s big jaws suddenly ceased their regular masticatory process. A mask seemed to drop into position over his big features.
“What about the Rajah of Hindupoor?”
“I’d like to know what you and he talked about at midnight,” Shayne said quietly.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’ve no idea what you are talking about,” said Voorland coolly.
“Your visit to the Rajah’s suite at the Waldorf Hotel last night.”
“What makes you think I did that?”
“He telephoned you from the hotel and you went right out to see him, using the name of Smith. What did he want?”