“Hullo, Margy! What have you done with your necklace?”
“I took it off, Dad, because I thought it might get broken in ‘Dumb Crambo.’ It’s over here on this table. No, it isn’t. Did you take it, mother?”
“No, I didn’t. If I’d seen it, I should have. You are a careless child.”
“I believe you’ve got it yourself, Dad. You’re teasing.”
Sir Septimus denied the accusation with some energy. Everybody got up and began to hunt about. There were not many places in that bare and polished room where a necklace could be hidden. After ten minutes’ fruitless investigation, Richard Dennison, who had been seated next to the table where the pearls had been placed, began to look rather uncomfortable.
“Awkward, you know,” he remarked to Wimsey.
At this moment, Oswald Truegood put his head through the folding doors and asked whether they hadn’t settled on something by now, because he was getting the fidgets.
This directed the attention of the searchers to the inner room. Margharita must have been mistaken. She had taken it in there, and it had got mixed up with the dressing-up clothes somehow. The room was ransacked. Everything was lifted up and shaken. The thing began to look serious. After half an hour of desperate energy it became apparent that the pearls were nowhere to be found.
“They must be somewhere in these two rooms, you know,” said Wimsey. “The back drawing room has no door, and nobody could have gone out of the front drawing room without being seen. Unless the windows-”
No. The windows were all guarded on the outside by heavy shutters which it needed two footmen to take down and replace. The pearls had not gone out that way. In fact, the mere suggestion that they had left the drawing room at all was disagreeable. Because-because-
It was William Norgate, efficient as ever, who coldly and boldly faced the issue.
“I think, Sir Septimus, it would be a relief to the minds of everybody present if we could all be searched.”
Sir Septimus was horrified, but the guests, having found a leader, backed up Norgate. The door was locked, and the search was conducted-the ladies in the inner room and the men in the outer.
Nothing resulted from it except some very interesting information about the belongings habitually carried about by the average man and woman. It was natural that Lord Peter Wimsey should possess a pair of forceps, a pocket lens, and a small folding foot rule-was he not a Sherlock Holmes in high life? But that Oswald Truegood should have two liver pills in a screw of paper and Henry Shale a pocket edition of The Odes of Horace was unexpected. Why did John Shale distend the pockets of his dress suit with a stump of red sealing wax, an ugly little mascot, and a five-shilling piece? George Comphrey had a pair of folding scissors and three wrapped lumps of sugar, of the sort served in restaurants and dining cars-evidence of a not uncommon form of kleptomania; but that the tidy and exact Norgate should burden himself with a reel of white cotton, three separate lengths of string, and twelve safety pins on a card seemed really remarkable till one remembered that he had superintended all the Christmas decorations. Richard Dennison, amid some confusion and laughter, was found to cherish a lady’s garter, a powder compact, and half a potato; the last-named, he said, was a prophylactic against rheumatism (to which he was subject), while the other objects belonged to his wife. On the ladies’ side, the more striking exhibits were a little book on palmistry, three invisible hairpins, and a baby’s photograph (Miss Tomkins); a Chinese trick cigarette-case with a secret compartment (Beryl Dennison); a very private letter and an outfit for mending stocking runs (Lavinia Prescott); and a pair of eyebrow tweezers and a small packet of white powder, said to be for headaches (Betty Shale). An agitating moment followed the production from Joyce Trivett’s handbag of a small string of pearls-but it was promptly remembered that these had come out of one of the crackers at dinner time, and they were, in fact, synthetic. In short, the search was unproductive of anything beyond a general shamefacedness and the discomfort always produced by undressing and redressing in a hurry at the wrong time of the day.
It was then that somebody, very grudgingly and haltingly, mentioned the horrid word “Police.” Sir Septimus, naturally, was appalled by the idea. It was disgusting. He would not allow it. The pearls must be somewhere. They must search the rooms again. Could not Lord Peter Wimsey, with his experience of-er-mysterious happenings, do something to assist them?
“Eh?” said his lordship. “Oh, by Jove, yes-by all means, certainly. That is to say, provided nobody supposes-eh, what? I mean to say, you don’t know that I’m not a suspicious character, do you, what?”
Lady Shale interposed with authority.
“We don’t think anybody ought to be suspected,” she said, “but, if we did, we’d know it couldn’t be you. You know far too much about crimes to want to commit one.”
“All right,” said Wimsey. “But after the way the place has been gone over…” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, I’m afraid you won’t be able to find any footprints,” said Margharita. “But we may have overlooked something.”
Wimsey nodded.
“I’ll try. Do you all mind sitting down on your chairs in the outer room and staying there? All except one of you-I’d better have a witness to anything I do or find. Sir Septimus-you’d be the best person, I think.”
He shepherded them to their places and began a slow circuit of the two rooms, exploring every surface, gazing up to the polished brazen ceiling and crawling on hands and knees in the approved fashion across the black and shining desert of the floors. Sir Septimus followed, staring when Wimsey stared, bending with his hands upon his knees when Wimsey crawled, and puffing at intervals with astonishment and chagrin. Their progress rather resembled that of a man taking out a very inquisitive puppy for a very leisurely constitutional. Fortunately, Lady Shale’s taste in furnishing made investigation easier; there were scarcely any nooks or corners where anything could be concealed.
They reached the inner drawing room, and here the dressing-lip clothes were again minutely examined, but without result. Finally, Wimsey lay down flat on his stomach to squint under a steel cabinet which was one of the very few pieces of furniture which possessed short legs. Something about it seemed to catch his attention. He rolled up his sleeve and plunged his arm into the cavity, kicked convulsively in the effort to reach farther than was humanly possible, pulled out from his pocket and extended his folding foot rule, fished with it under the cabinet, and eventually succeeded in extracting what he sought.
It was a very minute object-in fact, a pin. Not an ordinary pin, but one resembling those used by entomologists to impale extremely small moths on the setting board. It was about three-quarters of an inch in length, as fine as a very fine needle, with a sharp point and a particularly small head.
“Bless my soul!” said Sir Septimus. “What’s that?”
“Does anybody here happen to collect moths or beetles or anything?” asked Wimsey, squatting on his haunches and examining the pin.
“I’m pretty sure they don’t,” replied Sir Septimus. “I’ll ask them.”
“Don’t do that.” Wimsey bent his head and stared at the floor, from which his own face stared meditatively back at him.
“I see,” said Wimsey presently. “That’s how it was done. All right, Sir Septimus. I know where the pearls are, but I don’t know who took them. Perhaps it would be as well-for everybody’s satisfaction-just to find out. In the meantime they are perfectly safe. Don’t tell anyone that we’ve found this pin or that we’ve discovered anything. Send all these people to bed. Lock the drawing-room door and keep the key, and we’ll get our man-or woman-by breakfast-time.”