The Blue Diamond (23 page)

When he returned to Krugers, Chabon was not there, but he had called earlier and gone out with Kruger. It was Maria who met him. The story Chabon told tallied with Moncrief’s own information—that he had remained at the palais during the whole visit. “He is out now with Papa trying to discover if Hager has an address for Monsieur Castonguy—her husband, you know.”

“There is no such animal in Vienna. I had Wragge check with Hager. If he’s here, he’s using an alias. You told Chabon about the marriage certificate?”

“Papa told him. He was not much interested, only mentioned he was surprised she had bothered to marry her lover. He has a very poor opinion of Mademoiselle. Or Madame, as the case may be. No worse than her opinion of him, however.”

“Yes, she’s frightened to death of him. Of course he is in a position to harm her.”

“She is not only frightened; she hates him. I once thought, from some comments she made to me, that she knows him better than she lets on. Knows him personally I mean—even as a lover perhaps. She told me not to trust him.”

“Now isn’t that an interesting thing,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “Suppose—just for the sake of argument—they once were lovers, or cohorts at least. Suppose, even, that they once shared the collection, then had some falling out. She diddled him out of it, and that would account for his certainty that she has it. It would account for her fear of him, and his hatred of her. It would even account for his having a copy of those earrings she sold to Poronovitch, and that is a point that continues to plague me.”

“Yes, if she got them away from him somehow—the diamond collection I mean—then he would be determined to prevent her selling them, and would have pulled that stunt on her for spite.”

“And possibly even have had to kill Eynard, to prevent his telling who had the copy made,” Moncrief continued, thinking aloud.

“What it does not explain is where the diamonds are, however. I wonder if this Castonguy may not have them.”

“Let us hope she lives to tell us. I did not tell you how I came to be in her saloon last night. I saw someone take a slug at her.” He briefly outlined the story, omitting certain details that related to the lady’s making love to him.

“Poor Moncrief,” she said, smiling. “After all that beating up, you had to wrestle with Mademoiselle as well. Who won? Hard to tell from your condition when I so ill-advisedly interrupted. Your hair certainly had the worst of it, but on the other hand, Mademoiselle’s dress, I think, showed more signs of disarray.”

“Your father gave me to understand you are not the sort of a girl to harass a gentleman over such details as ladybirds. Even her husband. To be so gauche with a gent who has not declared himself is not what I expected of you."

“Harass did you say? A single hint is surely different from an harassment. I am only trying to protect you. You may make love to anyone you like, with my blessing. I should think common sense would dictate a less dangerous female, however.”

“Romance is an adventure. If there is no danger in it, there is not much enjoyment.”

“An extraordinary point of view,” she said, but with no surprise, nor much interest either.

“You hold the continental point of view, I expect, that romance is some pale corollary to a marriage of convenience.”

“Oh no, you have misunderstood the matter. In our continental system, they are two separate entities.”

“Which entity caused your bout of tears at losing Rechberg?”

“What causes your interest in this matter that does not concern you, Moncrief?”

“Call me Tatt,” he suggested, noting how dexterously his question had been turned aside.

“What a foolish name!”

“Appropriate. It is a ladies’ hobby, tatting.”

“An older ladies’ hobby, if I am not mistaken, and inappropriate.”

“I have nine or ten others you could choose from, if you take exception to it.”

“What does she call you?”

“Cécile?
Ma mie
,
cheri
, things like that.” He smiled to see the angry sparks flare in her eyes. “The French are so affectionate. Actually I have no objection to
Liebchen
either.”

“The English are not at all subtle, are they?” she asked, with a condescending smile.

“I never really noticed. We become accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of our own race. It is the foreign ones that strike us as odd.”

The look she cast on him, half-questioning, half-offense, invited him to continue. “The outspokenness of young ladies, for example, I find more pronounced here than at home. One wonders if their behavior is also looser.”

“You have had plenty of time to find out.”

“Only in a general way. I do find them freer.”

“People can generally find what they are looking for.”

“Let us wade out of this sea of platitudes,
Liebchen
,” he suggested, reaching for her hand. “I am speaking of specifics.”

She sat, uncertain and hesitant to repulse him, while he slid an arm around her waist, for while his speech was suggestive, it was not at all impassioned. Receiving no discouragement, he went on to draw her into his arms and kiss her, rather angrily. She submitted to it for about thirty seconds, then pushed him away. And he still looked angry, with a smile that was not far from a sneer superimposed on it. She raised her open hand and delivered a sharp slap across his cheek.

“Does that answer your question, Sir?” she demanded, arising to her feet to glare at him.

He rubbed his cheek, while he looked up at her. A slow smile crept over his face. “Experiment successful,” he answered. “I should have remembered my studies of physics. For every action there is an equal but opposite reaction.”

“I don’t see what you have got to grin about! And you can find yourself another person to experiment on.”

“Specifics, remember? Please sit down,” he said, reaching to draw her back on to the sofa. “Consider it the investigation of a stranger in a strange land, trying to learn the customs. Not so different from home, in this respect.”

“That cheek has been tapped before, has it?” she asked with a knowing look.

“Occasionally, but never with such a German thoroughness. We shall continue the experiments at some more appropriate time. We really should be devising schemes to trap our enemies. After we have discovered who they are, of course.”

“Should we not keep an eye on Mademoiselle to see if she goes out, or if anyone calls? Her husband . . ."

“My dear idiot, she is the most watched lady in Vienna. I have a man watching her; Chabon has, and probably Hager to boot, now that he has had a few inquiries about her. She could not shake out a dust rag without a clutch of spies running to see what color the dust is. If it has any hue of a diamond, we are certain to hear of it. You and I are going to take a well-deserved afternoon off. Go for a stroll in the Prater, if you think you can stand the excitement. You will be free from molesting, there in public view, and I shall be out of danger of beatings.”

“I thought you liked danger,” she reminded him.

“Ah good, you have remembered I like my romance spiced with danger.” She opened her mouth to correct this interpretation, but he continued speaking. “How very obliging of you. Downright English, I call it. Now if you could only pick up a smattering of French affection . . ."

“I’ll get my bonnet,” she answered, and strode swiftly from the room, just peering over her shoulder at the door to look back at him. He was rubbing his cheek and looking after her, with a bemused smile on his lips.

Chapter Twenty-two

When Moncrief and Maria returned from the Prater, Herr Kruger was already at home, sitting forlorn in his saloon. This was not his customary place to rest—his study held all that was dear to him in life. He was brooding, no lamps lit in the room, though the shadows were beginning to lengthen. He had a bottle of wine at his elbow, and a goblet between his fingers.

“Ah, Moncrief,” he said, looking up. “I am glad you came in. Very glad to see you. There is a matter I wish to put to you, in a purely theoretical way, you understand.”

“When Papa begins talking theory, you must beware, Tatt. He means to embroil you in some very real and probably unpleasant activity.”

Kruger smiled slightly, but it was not the reading of his character that set him off. He noticed his daughter now called the Englishman by his name, and what a foolish name it was—Tatt. What kind of a name was that for a fully grown man? “No, it is but a reasonable man with whom to discuss something that I seek. I have only my daughter, you see, and we know women are only good for gossip and religion, so far as conversation goes. Perhaps a little lovemaking if she happens to be pretty besides.”

Moncrief took a seat and assumed his listening face. “What is it, Sir?” he asked.

“Intrigue. French intrigue, the most intriguing kind. They are better at it than anyone, the Frenchies. You know what I come to think?”

“Do you come to think Mademoiselle Feydeau does not have the diamonds in her possession?”

“Precisely. I do not believe she has them, and I don’t believe she has any notion in the world where they are. Why should a pretty young girl sit on her hands throughout the gayest party ever held anywhere, if she had a fortune in diamonds? Mademoiselle is no grieving widow. Those gowns belong to a lady who would love to trot to parties. If she had the jewels, she could have sold them long since and gone into society, to nab herself a respectable husband.”

“Mmmm, if she doesn’t have a husband already,” Maria reminded him, “and if she did not happen to be an avid Bonapartist follower.”

“Very true, Maria. You have come into collision with a thought. What a promising development,” her father approved mildly. “And yet—what actual evidence do we have of this love of Napoleon? Does she exert herself in the least to advance his cause, his rescue? Does she attempt to gain the ear of those in high places who might be expected to be sympathetic to his cause, and to pay some heed to a beautiful young lady? I refer, of course, to Tsar Alexander. And for that matter, we Austrians are not totally opposed to seeing him return, with certain restrictions. Our Marie Louise is his wife after all, and her son the heir. Neither does she appear to have any very close alliance with the underground Bonapartists. She does nothing. She is as inert as a lump of jade, and as beautiful I might add, but that is neither here nor there. No, I come to think Mademoiselle is a total irrelevancy in the matter of diamonds. Just what she does in the city I cannot explain. If it were not for her having had a ruby and those diamond earrings, she would never have been of interest to anyone.

“Except as a mistress,” Maria pointed out.

“Do not display your bad manners,” her father said blandly. “Now I have made a very strange discovery this afternoon, when I went out with Chabon to try to discover the whereabouts of Monsieur Castonguy. He has lost interest in Mademoiselle. He was mistaken about her, he says. She does not have the diamonds. ‘Who has them then?’ I ask him. He throws up his hands in despair, but in his eyes there is not despair. He cannot keep the avarice out of his eyes. That was not the discovery of which I speak, however.”

“Circuitously,” Maria informed the impatient Moncrief. “He comes to the point. Be patient.”

“The point is this. After being rid of Chabon, I arranged a meeting in private with Talleyrand at my club. He tells me the ruby Lady Palgrave bought was not a part of the French royal collection at all. Marie Antoinette’s ruby was a very rare sixteen-star ruby; Lady Palgrave’s has only six points. The earrings Countess Poronovitch had planned to purchase are in no way unique—just old. So it looks as though Feydeau has nothing to do with the collection. It is Chabon himself who has it.”

“Who is to say, in that case, that the collection is here at all?” Moncrief asked.

“Certainly it is here. I know by Chabon's greedy eyes he has got it. It was he who led us to believe Mademoiselle is implicated. Why do so? Because the gems were not come by honestly. They were stolen from the Revolutionary Government, and he means to say he seized them from her.”

“But that is exactly what Cécile has been saying all along!” Maria exclaimed.

“It is true all the same,” her father replied.

“Then why has Chabon changed his mind in mid-game?” Moncrief asked.

Kruger leaned forward, lowering his voice. “He has decided not to hand the jewels over to the French King after all, but to sell them. Two millions pound is better than a hundred thousand, eh?”

“Was it Chabon who murdered Eynard then?” Maria asked.

“Certainly it was. He had ample time—an hour from the time he left Poronovitch’s party till he showed up here. Once he was sure Eynard was dead, he was very agreeable that we dash off to talk to him."

“Back to the old question,” Moncrief pointed out. “Why kill Eynard? Even if he discovered somehow that Eynard had made the copies of the diamond earrings and got them from him to slip into your reticule, Maria, I don’t see why he murdered him. In fact, I don’t see why he bothered to make the substitution at all.”

“Ah but at that time he intended turning the collection over to Louis, and to pretend he got it from Feydeau. That was why he wanted her involved. It gave him an excuse to intrude himself into the case, you see, to set up as her persecutor, and eventually victor over her,” Kruger said, thinking as he went along.

“I wonder,” Moncrief said, then stopped to think. “It seems to me the most outstanding development from that evening was not that Mademoiselle fell under any more suspicion than formerly. What happened was that he was overnight catapulted into an expert in gems. It is an expertise I have not been able to get him to demonstrate again. Have you seen any instances of real knowledge on his part, Herr Kruger?”

“None in the least,” he answered quickly, happy to let some of his pique find an outlet. “The Princess Bagration, if you please, asked him to evaluate her pink diamond bracelet, while I stood in the same room, unasked. I took it for no more than politeness when Chabon consulted me, but I see now what he was about. He hadn’t a notion what it was worth, and needed me to tell him.”