The man who came in with an apron over his clothes, a skull cap and piercing gray eyes was a German, and he knew the gems. The boss slipped over the jewel case.
“Rush out an imitation of that and make the best job you can, and do it quick. We want case and all copied.”
The man knew the gem in a second. But he didn’t betray his knowledge by the quiver of a muscle. He took the case, nodded and vanished through the glass door.
“Come back this afternoon,” said my friend, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
“I’ll be back at noon,” I told him. “You can have it ready by that time.”
He fidgeted.
“It’d relieve my mind a lot if you’d tell me what’s the inside of all this, Ed. As it is, we’re virtually receivers for stolen property.”
I grinned.
“Well, you told me it was stolen property in the first place, and that it’s the second time you’ve handled it. Also, as I remember it, you said the person having possession of the gem could probably get title confirmed a little later for a nominal sum.”
With that I got up and left him.
At my apartment I got a message from Helen to call her on the telephone. When I got her she told me she was coming right down. I gathered that meant something important. I hadn’t been able to get much sleep, but then, that was the fortune of war.
Helen looked as chic and happy as though a big load had been lifted from her mind.
“I broke the news to mother,” she told me, “and I rang up Mrs. Kemper. You know the Kempers have always been sort of foster parents of mine, and right away Mrs. Kemper became wild to give you the once over. She insisted, simply insisted, on our coming out there for the weekend. I told her we would.”
Her eyes danced up into mine.
“You’re some little manipulator,” I told her, seeing that was the obvious comment.
“Of course, it’s a secret,” she went on, babbling like a brook. “I’ve made ’em promise they won’t tell a soul. The Kempers invited mother, too, but mother can’t come. She’s keeping pretty quiet yet.
I told her I accepted you last night, so you’ve got to run out to the house and explain to mother. I think she’ll give you her blessing…”
The kid’s voice trailed off into silence.
For a long time she looked down at the floor, then shrugged her shoulders. “I hate to think of putting one over on mumsy like this, but it’s all in a lifetime,” she said, and almost immediately went back to her happy, carefree attitude.
That call to receive “mumsy’s” blessing was one of the worst half-hours that have ever been my lot to spend. I’ve done lots of funny things in my life, and I’ve had some moments when there’s been mighty gloomy prospects ahead, but… Oh, well, it finally ended. All things of that sort have to end.
I broke away from Helen and went back to the jeweler’s. The original and copy were ready for me. The copy wasn’t so much, but it was pretty fair. It would fool a man in a half-light, and it might fool a casual observer, but it wouldn’t bother a collector very long. I halfway suspected my jeweler friend with some of his fine ethical sense had made me an inferior copy on purpose, but I didn’t have either the time or the inclination to argue. He watched me out of the door with a worried look on his face. I hoped his fine sense of ethics hadn’t prompted him to ring up Loring Kemper and ask any questions about the jewel. There was one danger right then, and that was that they might discover the loss. If they did I’d have to change my plans. However, it was a good even-money bet that no one would notice it.
Helen and I arrived at the house about two, and I got a real welcome. Mrs. Kemper was one of the sort that can understand human nature. Like all of that type, she realized that wings didn’t grow on mortals. She studied me for a long and rather uncomfortable minute. What she saw in my face she kept to herself.
Loring Kemper was a man of sincerity, hobbies, and individuality. He was about fifty and his face was tanned a deep brown from outdoor life. He was fond of golf, crazy about surf bathing, a collector of jewels, a lover of horses and dogs, and he cared nothing whatever for cards, social pastimes or chatter. He was a man of strange moods, deep silences and outspoken ideas.
He, too, looked me over, shook hands, and didn’t say much.
Half an hour after I was settled in my room I got the chance I wanted, tiptoed to the study, twirled the knobs on the safe and put back the original gem. The copy I retained.
As an engaged man, I was a good crook. I tried to mix in things, to keep away from the situations a young, engaged couple would ordinarily be expected to get into. That little vixen of a girl didn’t see things that way.
“We’ve got to act natural, the way engaged couples are supposed to act,” she whispered, as she slipped up close to me, took the back of my hand and rubbed it against her cheek. From the porch I saw the keen eyes of Mrs. Kemper watching us. While there were lots of servants and social secretaries, we were the only house guests, and the hostess had ample opportunity to observe us. Right at the start I saw she was going to take good care to exercise her opportunities.
Bobo made a hit.
On company behaviour, he sensed that he shouldn’t eat up everyone that came close to him, but he had a dignified way of showing that he wasn’t going to be pawed over, at that. When someone would come close to him with those cooing noises that women make over strange dogs and cats, Bobo would stand with legs braced, eyes straight ahead, and neck rigid. He didn’t growl, but no one laid a hand on him. No one, that is except Helen. He seemed to have adopted her. He’d come to her call and seemed to be happy when he was near her.
Kemper looked the dog over, made no effort to touch him as his wife and her social secretary had done, then commented drily: “He’s a queer mixture. He’s a cur and a gentleman, a mixed breed of a thoroughbred. There’s something that dog’s learned in the hard school of knocks that has stayed with him. He wants his freedom, that boy, and he’s not overly fond of humans. Am I right, Bobo?”
The dog looked up at the sound of his name and for a long minute his eyes looked into those of Loring Kemper’s, then his tail wagged, just a little, and just once or twice, then he lowered his eyes and remained as immovable as a statue.
Kemper chuckled.
“A thoroughbred has pride, sort of a family heritage, but it takes a cur to learn. That dog’s had a past, and he has some responsibilities with his new master that are on his mind all the time. You’ll pardon me, Jenkins, but he acts as though he was trying to protect you against the world for some reason or other.”
The man’s shrewd, twinkling eyes suddenly darted up under his bushy brows and bored into mine.
He may have seen something in my face. He was a wonder if he did. I returned his glance with a bored air of courtesy. “I like him, but I don’t know much about dogs,” I said idly. “He’s a good pal, but I don’t think he’s overly intelligent.”
Kemper’s shoulders heaved, and he chuckled broadly, then changed the subject. I’ll say one thing for Loring Kemper. He sure knew how to read a dog’s character.
On Sunday morning a message was left for me by a man who simply left the note and a package. The note was unsigned. The package contained a specially built camera. I read the note.
“The paper is a letter signed by George Smith, and will be in the safe. Insert it in the paper holder in the camera, screw the connection into a light socket, leave for fifteen seconds, then unscrew and return the letter to its place. The camera will be called for later.”
I chuckled at that. The situation was so obvious that it was absurd. Here was I, Ed Jenkins, nationally, yes, internationally known as a crook, staying as a guest at a house which contained one of the most valuable gems which had ever come to America. It was a gem that only collectors could aim at or afford, a gem the possession of which was taboo until certain governmental changes had become established. It was too important and incriminating to be even left in a safe deposit box. The only safety in its possession lay in the secrecy surrounding that possession.