“This, without doubt,” he said and paused, “is the Sword of St. Louis.”
I think a faint cheer went up in the room from everyone but Doctor Christenberry and me. Norbert slapped his brother on the back. Eddie Apex embraced his wife. Robin Styles smiled and looked foolishly happy. Old Jack and old Tom did a couple of jig steps. I found myself thinking of Dickens at his stickiest, always toward the end, where good is rewarded and bad is punished, just as in real life.
“Let’s have that bubbly now, Jack,” Ned Nitry said, beaming, and old Jack went out and came back in wheeling a drinks tray. Ned Nitry moved over to me and put his arm around my shoulder. “I want to thank you, lad, for a damn fine job of work. When would you like your money?”
“You’ve already paid me twelve hundred and fifty pounds. That was the twelve and a half percent in advance that my attorney asked for.”
“That’s right. We paid that. And the way I’m feeling now, there just might be a bonus on top of the rest.”
“No bonus,” I said.
Ned Nitry took his arm from around my shoulder. “No bonus?” he said.
It was as good a time as any. I walked over to the table where the sword still lay. I picked it up by its hilt. It had a nice heft. They had all turned toward me — Eddie and his wife near the door where the drinks tray was; Robin Styles before the fireplace with Norbert Nitry; old Doctor Christenberry by the window, a big glass of sherry already in his hand, probably because it had more nutritive value than champagne; old Tom and Jack hovering around the drinks tray.
With the sword in my right hand, I looked at Ned Nitry who was still standing next to me. “How much do you think this thing will really bring?” I said. “I mean cut out all the crap. What do you think the top price is?”
“What is it, lad?” Ned Nitry said. “Is it a bit more money that you’re wanting?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want any more money. I just want to know what a realistic price for the thing is.”
“Well, why not?” Ned Nitry said. “We’re all friends here. We’ll all share, even you, lad, if that’s what’s bothering you. With the way the market is now and inflation and all, why, it’ll fetch close to — three million quid.”
Still holding the sword in my right hand, but letting the flat of its blade rest against my shoulder, I walked over to the fireplace where Robin Styles stood. “Did you hear that?” I said to him. “Three million pounds. Your cut will be two million. Tax free, or almost. It’ll take a long time to lose all that, even with your luck.”
“You’re going to tip ’em off, the authorities, aren’t you, St. Ives?” Ned Nitry said. “All right. If it’s only a little blackmail, we don’t mind paying, do we?” He looked around the room. He got a nod from his brother. Nobody else nodded. Nobody else said anything.
“I only get paid for what I do,” I said.
“Well, you’ll get paid for fetching us the sword back. Do you want it now? Is that it? Get him his money, Bert.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I didn’t earn it.”
I was standing by the slate hearth of the fireplace. Slate is an attractive stone, not too hard, easily workable, and makes a right nice roof. I knelt and banged the pommel of the sword down on the slate as hard as I could. The diamond as big as an egg shattered just like a glass doorknob would shatter.
Somebody gasped and then there was a silence. It lasted for five seconds or so while their brains worked, while they figured it all out, while they realized fully what had happened, and who should be blamed.
Then the Nitry brothers, acting in concert without previous consultation, sprang at old Doctor Christenberry and started beating hell out of him.
“You old son of a bitch!” Ned Nitry screamed. “You said it was real! You said it was the goods!” The old man sank to the floor and Norbert Nitry was aiming a kick at his stomach when I pushed him away.
“Leave him alone,” I said. “He was bought the way you’d buy a watch. What did you expect? You were talking in millions and he was getting what, a few hundred pounds?”
“It’s a fake,”Norbert Nitry said, turning from the old man. “It’s a goddamned fake.” He looked at me. “You could have switched it,” he said. “He could’ve switched it, couldn’t he, Eddie?” He turned to look for Eddie Apex, but Eddie wasn’t there.
“Where’s Eddie?” Ned Nitry demanded. “Where’d Eddie go?”
“He slipped out, sir,” old Tom said. “Just before Mr. St. Ives broke the sword. Miss Ceil went after him.”
“Get me a drink, Tom,” Ned Nitry said. “Whisky. A large one.”
“Make it two, Tom, if you don’t mind,” I said.
With the drink in his hand, Ned Nitry stood in the middle of the room, glaring around, as if trying to decide whom he was going to beat up on next. Finally, he went over to the fireplace and picked up a bit of the smashed glass that had been posing as a diamond.
He looked at it for a moment and then tossed it into the fireplace. I was still holding the sword and wordlessly he stretched out his hand for it. I handed it to him, hilt first. He knelt down and hammered a pea-sized ruby that was stuck into the end of the crosspiece onto the slate. The ruby broke; shattered, really, just like the diamond that had turned out to be glass.
He looked at the sword and shook his head. Then he looked at me. “All faked?” he said.
“All.”
Ned Nitry shook his head again, looked around for someplace to put the sword, and then put it in the stand that held the fire tongs and the poker. He put it there idly, as if he never expected to see it again. He walked over to the window where old Doctor Christenberry still knelt on the rug, his head bowed. The old man was making an odd sound and I decided that he was crying again, or trying to, and couldn’t quite remember how.
“Who put you up to it, dad?” Ned Nitry said. “Who bought you?”
The old man raised his head. A couple of tears had made tracks down his face where he had forgotten to wash. “I don’t know,” he said.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“It was just a voice. A voice over the telephone.”
“A man’s voice?”
“Yes, a man’s voice.”
“What kind of accent, English, American, or what?”
“There was no accent.”
“He had to have one or the other.”
“I couldn’t tell. I tried to, but I couldn’t.”
“I couldn’t either,” I said. “It was probably the same guy who called me. I couldn’t tell what he was and I tried.”
“How much did he pay you, dad?” Ned Nitry said. “How much did he pay you to lie to us?”
“A thousand pounds. He sent it round by taxi in an envelope.”
Ned Nitry turned to old Tom. “Get him out of here, Tom.”
While Tom was ushering the old man out, Ned Nitry turned to me. “How did you know, goddamnit? How did you know it was faked?”
“I didn’t know for sure,” I said. “I only suspected because I knew somebody who could have done it. In fact, he probably did.”
Ned Nitry got interested. “Who? Who did the fake?”
“A man called Curnutt, but it doesn’t matter now. He’s dead. He was murdered.”
“I read about him,” Bert Nitry said. “He was a locksmith, wasn’t he?”
“Among other things.”
“If you knew it was faked, why didn’t you tell us?” Bert said. “Why’d you pay out all that good money, if you knew it was a fake?”
“I didn’t know. I only suspected. I didn’t really know until I banged it down on the slate. If it had been a real diamond, I’d have looked like a fool, but that’s all. The slate wouldn’t have hurt the diamond. And as I said, I’d’ve looked a little like a fool, but not as much like a fool as you would, if you tried to sell it. I figured that there was a fifty-fifty chance that it would be the real thing. The thieves wouldn’t deal with an expert — and besides, the only one you had could be bought. So I spent your money. I don’t think I made a mistake. I think I gambled and I lost.”