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Roy Glashan's Library
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"Cocktail Party and Other Stories,"
Bantam, London, England, 1948
IT was quite obvious to me from the first that something would eventually happen. From the moment I arrived at Glynda's party and wandered about, drinking my cocktail, talking to people, I felt that he was watching me. Not in any rude sort of manner but rather as if he was fascinated. I began to hope that he was. I thought he looked rather nice. And this in spite of the fact that I consider myself to be a sophisticated woman whose motto was "Once bit twice shy."
He reminded me of Hamlet. He had that sort of face, and looked very intelligent but rather as if he were carrying all the troubles of the world on his shoulders. I wondered who he was; what he did.
I thought to myself: Well, sometime or other he'll probably want to talk to you. When he does it is going to be rather amusing. Whilst I was talking to different people I found myself thinking about him.
When I was going, Glynda said: "Look, there's somebody you haven't met—Mr. Gervase Stott. I don't know him very well. He's a friend of a friend of mine, but he seems awfully nice. He wants to meet you, and I believe that he goes your way home and has a car. Why not be dropped, my dear? It's practically impossible to get a taxicab these days and I know you hate walking."
I said I'd like very much to meet him and she brought him over to me.
He was really rather charming. Everything about him was right. His voice was good. He spoke well. He was quite amusing. But all the time there was a peculiar undercurrent of sadness, if you know what I mean. In some inexplicable way I began to feel vaguely sorry for him. Quite stupid of course, but that's how I felt. I didn't know why.
Eventually he said: "I believe you're going, and I'm going too, and I think you live at the Knowles Apartments off Knightsbridge. I'm going that way and I'd like to drop you."
I said thank you very much, said good night to Glynda, and went into the hall.
Glynda's maid brought my fur coat from her room and he helped me on with it. As he put the coat over my shoulders I saw the wristwatch that he was wearing on the inside of his right wrist. I had a peculiar sense of shock. There was only one watch like that in the world. Of that I was certain. Everything about it was unique, the shape of the watch, the engraving on it. It was an odd, funny watch. I'd seen Paul Gavroche wearing it in Paris just a few months before the war. I wondered how Mr. Stott had got it. I was certain that was Paul's watch.
We went downstairs and he put me into the car—it was a nice car—and covered me over with a rug, got in the driving seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his thin—rather ascetic-looking—face reflected in the light from the dashboard.
Nobody spoke until we had been driving for about five or six minutes; then, with his eyes still fixed on the road ahead, he said: "I suppose a person as lovely and as attractive as you are is awfully used to being made love to, isn't she?"
I said: "Well, I don't quite know whether that's a statement or a question, or both. But it's very nice of you to tell me I'm lovely and attractive. I think it's very nice for a woman to be thought lovely and attractive."
He said: "Not only lovely and attractive but alluring too. You have allure."
I said: "Look, Mr. Stott, do tell me something. Why do you say all these charming things just as if you intend to burst into tears at any moment? Are you very unhappy about something?"
He smiled suddenly. The smile illuminated his face. He looked awfully attractive.
He said: "I believe you're trying to change the subject, but I'll answer your question. I'm not awfully happy because I don't, quite candidly, think I've a great deal to be happy about."
I said: "No? Surely you can find a little happiness somewhere in the world?"
He said "Yes, I suppose so. In fact, I've found quite a little happiness tonight. At Mrs. Milton's party I spent most of the time looking at you. I enjoyed myself quite a lot really. I don't think I have ever seen anyone move as gracefully as you do, or heard any woman talk so interestingly." He shrugged his shoulders. "You know," he went on, "it was quite fun for just a little while."
"And now?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders again. He said: "Well, now it's all over, isn't it? I shall drop you at your apartment. I probably shan't see you again. If I do it'll be by chance."
I said: "Mr. Stott, I think you're a most unique person. Do tell me—you wouldn't by any chance be making love to me, would you?"
He considered this for a few moments, then: "No," he said a little dubiously, "I'm not making love to you—at least I didn't intend to make love to you. Nothing was further from my mind. I'm perfectly certain a woman like you doesn't want to be made love to by me. You see, I'm the sort of man that women don't seem to have very much time for."
I said: "Nonsense, Mr. Stott. I wonder why you think all those odd things about yourself. I'm sure you're quite wrong. Tonight at the party when we were talking to Mrs. Milton you were most amusing. I think this idea you have about yourself being unattractive and people not liking you and being unhappy—do you think it might be just an idea? I don't want to seem cynical, but couldn't it be a pose?"
He said: "No. No, it's not a pose. I wish it were. I'm afraid it's much deeper than that. However, why should I bore you with my stupid troubles?"
I said: "You're not boring me a bit. I like listening to you."
He sighed. He said: "Well, that's something. Now I'll try and be interesting."
And I must say he was. He talked about all sorts of things. When we got to the apartment block where I live, he got out and opened the door, put the rug away and helped me out of the car.
He said: "Well, goodbye. It's been so lovely." His face was the picture of hopelessness.
I said: "Mr. Stott, I'm not going to ask you to come in for a drink because I'm tired, and I've got a little headache. But do come round one day and have some tea, or a cocktail. If you're coming to tea give me a few days' notice. If you're coming for a cocktail, come on Tuesday or Friday at half-past six. I always have some friends then."
He asked: "Will there be a lot of people if I come to tea?"
I said: "No. Why did you ask?"
He said: "Well, I think it would be so lovely if I could have tea with you—-just you and I—quite wonderful."
I said: "All right. Well now, if you're disengaged come to tea on Monday at four o'clock."
He said: "I think you're the most wonderful person I have ever met in my life. Because you're not only lovely, but you're kind—awfully kind. Good night."
He got into the car, drove off. I went up in the lift to my apartment. I wondered why I was feeling so maternal about Mr. Gervase Stott, or was I? I wasn't quite certain.
There was no doubt that he was definitely very attractive. It wasn't until some time afterwards that I remembered about the wristwatch. That was odd, I thought. I made a mental note. One of these fine days I must ask Mr. Stott about the wristwatch.
He came to tea on the following Monday, and it was then that I decided that I was not feeling quite so impartial about him. In fact I began to think that there was something extremely fetching about Gervase Stott. Beneath a superficial veneer of softness and diffidence there was something very manly—something quite tough. I suppose I was intrigued, that my woman's curiosity was aroused; yet at the same time the idea persisted that I was becoming too interested in this rather strange and apparently lonely young man.
We talked about all the usual, casual things. Then quite suddenly, he got up and said:
"I must go. I've an appointment." He looked at his wristwatch and I remembered.
I remembered the wristwatch. I wondered what I was going to do about that—how I could ask about it. For some unknown reason I began to feel a little uncomfortable, even although I'm not the type of woman who is superstitious or believes in omens or things like that. An odd idea persisted that this watch in some way or another was going to affect both my life and Mr. Stott's. Ridiculous if you like, but there it was, and I didn't like it.
I said: "Isn't this rather sudden? Just now you seemed relaxed and perfectly happy; then all at once you decided that you've an appointment; that you must go. I'm wondering if you really have an appointment or whether you're just scared of me. Are you?"
He looked at me and smiled. I don't know if I told you he was tall and slim; that he moved quickly and gave an impression of strength. His eyes, looking straight at me, were very intelligent. He hesitated for a moment; then:
"You're perfectly right, Mrs. Hayes. I am scared. You know, at home in my flat I've got one of those funny printed notices—the sort of humorous things you buy in little stationers' shops. This particular one appealed to me so I bought it and stuck it up on the wall. It is called 'My Daily Prayer' and it says underneath, 'Oh Lord, teach me to keep my big mouth shut until I know what I'm talking about'."
I said: "Dear, dear! So it's as serious as that, Mr. Stott. I should have thought that you would always have known what you were talking about."
He sighed. "Until I met you—yes," he said. "Now I think I've gone a little haywire. I want to go away and I want to go away quickly, because I have a very definite feeling that unless I do I'm going to make love to you."
Believe it or not my heart began to beat a little more quickly. Definitely I was affected by Mr. Stott.
I smiled at him. I said: "I think it's awfully mean to do a woman out of the opportunity of being made love to."
He smiled a little cynically. He said: "A woman as beautiful as you are must have had many such opportunities."
I shook my head. "Oh, no, Mr. Stott," I said. "I'm an extremely selective female, and whilst I have no doubt that there have been a lot of men who would have liked to make love to me, I have sometimes managed to evade the process, probably at the wrong times. Now, when I feel it might be rather interesting, you decide you have an appointment." I shrugged my shoulders. "Well... well..." I said, "life is like that."
He smiled. He said: "I think you're very lovely, very delightful. I like everything about you. But I've still got an appointment."
"Surely the appointment can wait for five minutes," I said: "Anyway, you've only just remembered it."
He answered: "I've only just remembered it because my mind has been entirely concerned with you."
He looked round my drawing-room. He said: "You have marvellous taste, haven't you? Everything here is just right."
I shrugged my shoulders. I said: "It's charming of you to say so. But having nice things isn't difficult if one has money. I like good things—good furniture, good clothes, good jewellery." For some reason a picture of Gavroche flashed into my mind. I asked: "Do you like jewellery?"
He said hesitantly: "Yes ... if it's really good and really artistic. I don't like ostentation."
I nodded. "The trouble is," I said, "that really expensive things, in the jewellery line I mean, often seem ostentatious. Shall I show you, before you go to keep your appointment, a marvellous piece of ostentation?"
He said: "Yes, I'm curious."
I got up and moved the picture from the wall beside the bookcase. Behind it was the wall safe. I set the lock at the combination, opened the safe, took out the black leather case, opened it and held it flat in my hand so that he could see the bracelet inside. He came over and looked at it.
He said: "What a lovely piece of work! That must be worth a fortune."
I nodded. "Today," I said, "it probably would be worth about fifty thousand pounds I should think."
He said: "Thank you for showing it to me."
I closed the case, put it back in the safe, shut the door. I waited until the tumblers on the lock had clicked back into their place; then I replaced the picture.
He said: "Now I really must go."
I said: "When am I going to see you again, or are you going to be very busy with lots of appointments?"
He said: "I could never be too busy to see you. May I telephone you soon?"
I said: "Yes. I'd like that. Please do."
He said he would; then he went away, a little brusquely, I thought.
When he'd gone I stood in the middle of my drawing-room looking at the door. I was thinking about that wristwatch. I was thinking about all sorts of things, but mainly I thought: "Well, my dear, you're asking for it, and you're probably going to get it. I think there's going to be a little trouble somewhere ahead." After which, being an intelligent woman, I took a warm bath, two aspirins, and lay down. I thought I'd rest, but I couldn't.
Gervase Stott's rather lean, clean-cut face persisted in floating about between my eyes and the ceiling, and somehow the process was not unpleasant.
WE had dinner at the Coq D'Or. I felt the evening was going to
be very amusing and I had dressed for the occasion. I had already
decided even before I met Gervase that I was quite serious about
him. I thought: My dear, this is the real thing. With all your
experience, all your travel, all your knowledge of men, you're up
against it. You're in love with this man, and how do you like
that? So I was prepared to spend a very happy hour or two with
him.
But it was not to be. Half-way through dinner, a page-boy came to the table with a note. Gervase opened it, read it, said:
"Adela, I'm most fearfully sorry, but a thing's happened. I've got to leave you."
I said: "Oh dear ... oh dear ... just as I was beginning to enjoy my dinner. Don't tell me I've got to finish it alone."
He said: "No, I don't think you'll have to do that." He looked at his watch again, and again that rather unpleasant memory of Gavroche flashed across my mind.
He went on: "If I go quickly I can be back with you, I think, in fifteen or sixteen minutes. Do you think you can bear to go on with dinner until I rejoin you?"
I said: "No, I've a better idea than that. Tell the waiter to stop serving dinner. While you are away he can bring me a Martini and I'll make it last till you come back; then we'll go on with our meal."
He said: "That would be quite marvellous. I'll get back as quickly as I can. Au revoir." He went quickly away.
When the waiter brought my Martini I sipped it slowly and indulged in some very serious thinking. At the back of my head was the rather nasty little idea which I hoped would prove to be wrong. I can't tell you how I hoped it would prove to be wrong, but I didn't think it would be. I was beginning to be a little scared of the situation. After all, somebody or other—somebody supposed to be very wise—said that history always repeated itself. I thought about the wristwatch and Gavroche and I hoped that history wasn't going to repeat itself in this case.
But what could I do? These ideas were only ideas. I might be wrong and I was experiencing for the first time in my life the knowledge that I was really and truly in love with somebody. Only, I thought bitterly, I wasn't going to be so very good if history did repeat itself. I shrugged my shoulders. Thinking on those lines really wasn't very much fun.
When he came back he was smiling. At least his mouth was smiling, but his eyes were serious and a little hard. The small but rather good band they have at the Coq D'Or began to play a very attractive tune.
He said: "I asked the head waiter to tell them to play that. I wanted you to hear it. It's being played especially for you."
I said: "How nice. What's it called?"
He said: "It's called, 'You Were Never Lovelier'."
I began to feel quite weak. I thought to myself:
My dear girl, you're really in a jam. Now you're beginning to be crazy about this man. Probably in two or three weeks you'll find he'll be able to do just what he likes with you. You'd better take it easy and watch your step. Having thought this, I made up my mind to enjoy the rest of the evening.
He talked, and he talked interestingly and well. His manners were perfect and our dinner was excellent. Afterwards he took me back to the flat, took me up in the lift, left me at my front door. He kissed my hand when he went and said:
"If you don't mind I'll have that on account. One day I'm going to ask for something more. Good night, my dear."
I said good night. He turned away, went back to the lift, disappeared. I stood leaning against the doorpost, feeling very weak. I thought to myself: Well, my girl, I think this time you're for it, and I hope it's going to be good.
I have been told that I am a very sophisticated woman. I suppose sophistication means the essence of experience. Well, whatever it means it wasn't of very much use to me. As day after day went by and I heard nothing from Gervase, I began to think that I, who had achieved a reputation for being rather a breaker of men's hearts, was being given a taste of my own medicine. I found myself irritable and moody; wondering what had happened to him; why he didn't telephone. I got to such a state of mind that I seriously considered leaving for America; going anywhere where I could forget about him.
Then suddenly, after an interval of ten days, he rang up one evening after dinner and asked if he might see me.
When he arrived I was struck by a change in his appearance. He looked very unhappy. His face was drawn and anxious. When he was shown in, he stood just inside the doorway, his hands hanging straight down by his sides, looking at me with his rather large, grey, penetrative eyes.
I said: "My dear, whatever has happened to you? Where have you been?"
He didn't answer for a moment; then he said: "Look, Adela, I think we'd better get this over. It's not going to be a very pleasant interview, so the sooner it's done with the better."
He put his hand into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and brought out a black leather case. He opened the case, held it towards me. Inside was the diamond and ruby bracelet I had shown him on the first visit to my apartment.
I said: "Well really! Now I understand."
He said: "Yes, I'm afraid it's true. I'm afraid that I'm a thief. I went out of my way to get to know you because I wanted this bracelet. I brought up that conversation about beautiful things when I first visited you here hoping that you would show it to me. I have very good eyesight. When you opened your wall safe I watched you carefully. I was able to identify the combination. Then I asked you to dinner; I arranged to be called away. I came back here, opened the door of this flat with a skeleton key, took the bracelet. I knew that your maid had the evening off."
I said: "Well, all this is very interesting. But if it's true why have you brought it back?"
He said: "The funny thing is that I've been hoist by my own petard. That business of making love to you was of course in the first place intended merely to gain your confidence. Unluckily for me it happens to be true. So I've brought the bracelet back."
He closed the case; put it on the table. He said: "This is rather like Act Three in an old-fashioned drama, isn't it? Also . . . whether I like to believe it or not, it's a great shame."
"It is rather," I said. I must say that my predominant feeling was one of sorrow for him. Quite wrong of me, no doubt, but that's how it was. "But why is it a shame—particularly?"
He said glumly: "Because I felt I had a chance with you. I felt that you weren't quite indifferent to me, and I think if all things had been equal, something rather nice might have happened. Now, of course, it's all over bar the shouting."
"There isn't going to be any shouting," I said. "And in the meantime would you mind sitting down quietly and relaxing. I want to do a little thinking."
He said: "Very well."
He sat down. I gave him a cigarette. While I was lighting it for him I took a long look at him. He was very attractive. Then I went back to my own chair and sat down. I thought very quickly. I'd got to do something about this. After all, none of us is perfect, and he had brought the bracelet back. Yet at the same time I realized that now he was in a most inferior position where I was concerned, and that isn't very good for a man. And Gervase, in spite of his good looks, was I felt a very male type of man—a type who couldn't bear feeling inferior to a woman whom he loved even if he was a crook.
I made up my mind. All right, I thought, here goes. It's about the only thing for you to do, my girl, so you'd better get on with it.
I said to him: "Listen, Gervase, since confessions seem to be in order, you'd better listen to one from me. Perhaps you'll feel a little better. You haven't examined that bracelet very carefully, have you?"
He shook his head. He said: "No, I took it and put the case in my pocket, and it's been in a drawer until today, when I took it out to bring it back to you."
I said: "Well, would you mind looking at it carefully?"
He got up, picked up the case, opened it. He said: "My God, this is a fake!"
"Exactly," I said. "Now if you'll go back to your chair I'd like to talk to you. You see, the trouble is, Gervase, that the bracelet—the real one of which that is an imitation—belonged to a woman called Mignon, Comtesse d'Épernay. She was, at the time I am speaking of, going about with a rather clever international crook called Paul Gavroche. She was an extremely rich and rather stupid woman. I didn't like her a bit. She didn't know Gavroche was a crook. She thought she was in love with him. She gave him that wristwatch you are wearing. I was there on the day she gave it to him. It was that one or one very like it. That's why I wasn't awfully surprised when you told me that you'd stolen the bracelet. Are you interested?"
He said: "Yes—very. Go on."
I said: "Gervase, things aren't always what they seem, and I'm afraid I'm not quite what I seem. To cut a long story short, Gavroche, who was an extremely attractive man, especially to anyone who didn't know his real background, went out of his way to gain the confidence of the Comtesse d'Épernay, and after a little while he succeeded in stealing her bracelet. He rather thought she wouldn't be too keen on putting the matter in the hands of the police because she thought she'd been in love with him."
He said: "I see. And then?"
"Then," I went on, rather miserably I'm afraid, "when we'd got the bracelet—because you see I was working with Gavroche in those days—I'm afraid I'm a crook too—we were rather scared about getting rid of it. Everyone knew what it was like. Then I had an idea and Gavroche liked it. We had the bracelet broken up and the stones re-set—just like that imitation bracelet there on the table. You see?"
He said grimly: "I see."
"Then I came over here to England," I went on, "leaving Gavroche in America. I brought the real re-set bracelet with me, insured it heavily and put the imitation in my safe. Gavroche was to arrange that he would put some small-time crook in to steal the imitation—believing it was the real one—after which I was going to claim on the Insurance Company. You understand?"
"I understand," he said. "Like that you'd have the insurance money and the real bracelet, and the small time crook—as you call him—would find himself well in the cart. A very nice little scheme."
"We thought so at the time," I said sadly. "Tell me, did Gavroche put you up to stealing this bracelet?"
He thought for a moment. He said: "Maybe he did. I see the idea. The idea would have been whoever stole the imitation bracelet would eventually have been given away to the police. An imitation of the real bracelet would have been found in their possession, which, of course, would have practically tied the robbery on to them. Otherwise why should they go to the trouble of making an imitation? Very clever."
I nodded. I said rather weakly: "So you see how it is. It rather looks as if I'm not very much better than you are, doesn't it, Gervase?"
He said: "I wish you'd tell me something. Why have you confessed all this to me?"
"Oh, that's easy," I told him. "I believe you're very much in love with me, and believe it or not I'm in love with you. I just couldn't bear the idea of your coming round here and making that confession and feeling so bad about it; feeling that everything must of necessity be over between us. I thought the least I could do would be to even things up by telling you about me."
He said: "I see." He took out his cigarette case, lit a fresh cigarette. He got up, began to walk up and down the room. He said: "You know, all this isn't a bit good. It's damned awful."
"Is it?" I asked. "Why is it damned awful?"
He said: "Because I've got to make another confession. I'm afraid everything I told you just now was a lie."
I raised my eyebrows. I said: "Oh dear. That's too bad, isn't it? So everything you told me was a lie, and as a result of what you told me, I've rather given myself away."
He said unhappily: "Yes, I intended you to, and I don't feel so pleased about it."
I said: "Gervase, I do think you might tell me what's going on? What is the real truth?"
He said: "I'll tell you. As you said our friend Gavroche stole the bracelet from the Comtesse d'Épernay, and you were right when you said she didn't want a great deal of publicity about it. But she did want her bracelet back. So her lawyers employed two private detectives to try and get it back by any means possible from Gavroche. One of them was a gentleman called Mr. Slim Callaghan of Callaghan Investigations; the other one myself."
I sat bolt upright. I said: "Oh dear . . . that has finished it. So you're a private detective?"
He nodded. "Yes... I'm a private detective." He smiled at me, cynically. "That surprises you, doesn't it? And it seems that I've pulled a fast one on Callaghan Investigations for once. I rather thought there was a woman in the case, and I made careful enquiries as to what woman Gavroche had been seen with during the three or four months previous to the bracelet disappearing. I got a description of you. Nobody else could ever look like you do," he went on. "Directly I saw you at Glynda Milton's party I knew you were the woman."
"I see," I said. "And then you made love to me and then you cleverly discovered the combination of my safe, and then you came round here and stole that imitation bracelet, and you discovered it was an imitation. Then you brought it back with this funny story about being a thief, hoping that I'd give myself away. Congratulations, Mr. Stott, you're a very clever detective."
He said: "Thank you. But it doesn't please me a bit. I should be delighted, of course. But I'm not a bit pleased. I bring this case to a successful conclusion to find that the thief or the accomplice of the thief is a woman and that I'm in love with her."
I asked contritely: "Is the fact going to be of any use to me? Are you going to give me a chance?"
He said: "It might." He stubbed out his cigarette, came and stood just in front of me. He stood looking down at me as I sat back in my armchair.
"Where's the bracelet—the real one?" he asked.
"In a safe deposit," I said. "It's quite safe. I'm quite prepared to hand it over."
He said: "Yes, you'll certainly hand it over."
"And then," I went on, "the next thing is I suppose I'm going to be charged with being an accessory with Gavroche. Or are you going to be merciful?"
He said: "I don't know. But I think so. I think I can save you from being charged."
"Thank you very much, Gervase. It is lucky for me that you're fond of me, isn't it?"
He said: "Yes—damned lucky!"
There was a little silence; then he said: "I shall come and see you at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. I shall bring with me the Comtesse d'Épernay's lawyer, who will verify that I'm the Gervase Stott, one of the Investigators who was employed to try and get the bracelet back. He is a very charming man—a solicitor by the name of Wainwright—and I think that if I tell him that you've given me all the assistance you can getting the bracelet back, he'll persuade the Comtesse to let it go at that and not bring any charges against you. But you understand that bracelet—the real one—must be here at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning."
I said rather weakly: "I understand, Gervase. I'll be good. It shall be here."
He said: "All right. Well, that's that. But I think its a damned shame." He began to walk towards the door.
I got up. I asked: "What's a damned shame?"
He said: "Well, I'll tell you. I've met a lot of women in my life, but I've never really fallen for a woman before. And when I do I have to fall for a woman who is as beautiful and attractive as you are, and then finds she's a damned crook. I don't like it a bit." He put his hand on the door handle.
I said: "Just a moment, Gervase," I think I must have looked very pathetic. "I think you're being fearfully decent about all this," I said. "And I'm awfully sorry that you have fallen in love with me if it makes you unhappy because I think you're rather a nice person and I wish you'd do something for me—just a little thing."
He asked brusquely: "What?"
I said: "Well, you're going and I shall only see you For a few moments tomorrow morning, and Mr. Wainwright will be here. I do think you might kiss me before you go."
He looked at me for a few seconds; then he said: "Very well." He spoke in a matter of fact tone, but when he came over to me and took me in his arms and kissed me, it wasn't a bit matter of fact, I assure you.
Afterwards he said: "Well, that's that. I shall be here at eleven o'clock tomorrow. Goodbye."
I didn't say anything. I let him get to the door. When he got there I said: "Just a moment, Gervase. You know I think you ought to listen to what I say before you go because it's rather important. It wasn't awfully kind of you to make a fool of me as you have done, to come here and tell me all that nonsense about having stolen the bracelet; and to make me confess under false pretences. Do you think that's sporting?"
He said: "All's fair in love and war, and I consider this to be war."
I laughed at him. I said primly: "Well, that being so you can only be amused at what I'm going to tell you. All that stuff I told you about being in love with Gavroche and assisting him in stealing the Comtesse's bracelet and having it insured and planning to have it stolen and claiming on the Insurance Company—all that was rubbish—sheer unmitigated rubbish. And I made most of it up on the spur of the moment."
His eyes widened. "What the devil do you mean?" he asked.
I said: "Well, some of it was true. I did know Gavroche at one time. I was very lonely and unhappy at the time and I thought he was a rather attractive man. Then I found out that he wasn't, that I didn't like him a bit, but it was too late. He'd stolen the bracelet.
"When you came here and told me that you were a crook, that you were going away because you were a crook, and I thought you'd done something rather decent in bringing that bracelet back, my heart rather went out to you. So I had to do something to make you feel that I wasn't any better than you were. So I made up that little story. It was rather good, wasn't it?" I concluded brightly.
He said: "It was damned good. But if you had nothing to do with the theft of the Comtesse's bracelet, how did you know enough to be able to tell me that story?"
I said: "My sweet, that's easily answered, and in case you don't believe it, you'll soon know it's the truth, because Mr. Wainwright, whom you know, is coming here to see me in twenty minutes' time and he'll tell you something which I think will intrigue you immensely.
"First of all he'll tell you that your rival Mr. Slim Callaghan was successful in getting back the bracelet from Gavroche. It was returned three weeks ago. Mr. Wainwright, who commissioned you two to try and find it, has it now. I had the imitation made because I made up my mind I wasn't going to take any chances of having it stolen again.
"Because, my sweet, you see I'm not Mrs. Adela Hayes at all. I'm just calling myself that because we were afraid there might be a little publicity about this business."
He stood in the middle of the floor staring at me. He said: "Tell me something please. Who are you?"
I smiled sweetly at him. I said: "My sweet, my name's Mignon. I am the Comtesse d'Épernay. Now before you telephone to Mr. Wainwright would you like to come and be kissed?"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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