The Blue Diamond Read online

  The Palgraves were present, as was Chabon, but they did not take note of each other. Googie tugged at his arm as he walked past her group. “You have not been out to see our chateau, Tatt. So sweet. With my binoculars I can see Napoleon’s wife and son. The woman is an utter dowd, and as platter-faced as may be. I can’t imagine what he ever saw in her. We are quite close to the Schonbrunn you must know.”

  “I’ve been meaning to go over and visit you, Lady Palgrave.”

  “Don’t make a surprise visit, for we are in town more than half the time. We’ll be in the city house tomorrow, if you care to drop by for luncheon.”

  “I’m afraid I’m busy tomorrow, but I shall attend your masquerade party at your chateau.”

  “Bring anyone you like. It is a small do; only a hundred or so invited because of its being Lent, you know. You would think they would cancel it this year, but then they are Papists here. They all dance in everyone’s else’s house, but won’t do it in their own. So odd. The Tsar and all the kings and princes officially declined, but have hinted they will be there incognito. I shan’t make anyone unmask at midnight, but let them leave their disguises on all night. How will you come?”

  “In a domino.”

  “You men are so unimaginative. About your costumes, I mean,” she added with a meaningful laugh. “Full of ideas on other subjects. I shan’t tell you what the Tsar suggested. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “No point in repeating it then, is there?”

  She turned away with a pout, to tell her story to a friendlier ear.

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  Moncrief was watching Mademoiselle’s apartment from across the street the next morning. He had Wragge with him, standing idly by to give him an excuse to linger. The two appeared to be talking, but both pairs of eyes kept a sharp watch on her door. He saw Chabon drive up and knock at the door. Cécile and her chaperone came out immediately. As the carriage rounded the corner, Mon­crief hastened his steps across the street. He walked to the door and entered without knocking, to see Kruger on his hands and knees, looking under the sofa in her little parlor. The man got up slowly, clumsily, with a grunt at the unwonted exertion. He wiped his hands, forming an excuse to account for his ungainly posture.

  “Mademoiselle is out. I did not hear you knock, Mon­crief. She has been complaining of mice. I came to . . .” He stopped as his caller’s face split into a grin. “Oh, you know about it. Who told you?”

  “No matter. I am here, and shall help you look for mice. How did you get in? Is there an entrance from your own house?”

  “Yes, a door at the end of the hallway, a doorway that is kept locked usually. I have the only key. You know, of course, what I am looking for.”

  “I do.”

  “Let us go to it then. The lady’s room might be a good place to start. They’re not under the sofa.”

  “I didn’t think they would be,” Moncrief replied.

  They went together to the bedroom, to lift the mattress and look under it, to go through closets, trunks, dresser, and all the dozens of possible places of concealment. Kruger was not out of his sight for an instant. Moncrief did not think the man had hidden the diamonds before his entry either. There had been very little time, and in any case Kruger had the excited, eager air of a man who was truly looking for something. He rifled through Miss Fey­deau’s lingerie, held up several lace-covered petticoats. “Elegant,” he said. “Not the trappings of an innocent young girl. You know, I expect, what sort of women do garnish themselves in this fashion?”

  “Papa, for shame!” a voice said from the doorway, where Maria stood, watching them.

  “Maria, what are you doing here?” her father demanded angrily.

  “I came to help you look for the diamonds. Did Moncrief not tell you? It was I who told him you would be here.”

  “How do you come to know so much about it, eh?”

  “I listen at keyholes, Papa. You should both be ashamed, inspecting a lady’s underwear. Let me look here, and you do the parlor and dining room. Oh, and don’t forget the kitchen.”

  If Kruger noticed that Moncrief dogged his steps, he did not mention it. They made a thorough search together, even turning the upholstered furniture up on its front to examine the underside for possible incision, with the jew­els sewed into the inside. They lifted the carpet to look for loose floorboards, jiggled the wainscoting, were down on hands and knees and later up on chairs to examine tops of high cabinets. Then it was a trip to the kitchen to root around in pots and pans, to dump flour out and pour it back into bins, to scrabble through bins of potatoes and even to look into the oven of a stove that was still hot, with no luck.

  “Nothing,” Kruger was forced to concede at last.

  “I knew she would not have them,” Maria said.

  “Chabon was sure we would find them,” Kruger men­tioned, shaking his head sadly.

  “I think, Herr Kruger, that if Chabon were sure, he would have made a point to be here himself” Moncrief said.

  “Let us go home, before she gets back,” Maria sug­gested.

  “He’s keeping her two hours,” her father answered. “We have only been here for one.”

  “Let us just take a look around and make sure we’ve covered our traces,” Moncrief said. He was a little unhappy that he had not personally had a better look around the bedroom. He went inside while Maria went to the kitchen, to ensure that no flour had spilled, or similar traces been left behind to betray them. Moncrief went alone to Cécile's room, to look about quickly. His eyes glanced from cut glass cosmetic pots on the dresser to a chased silver brush and comb set. In the clothes press hung fancier gowns than Mademoiselle was ever seen to wear. The top of the clothes press was well above his head. Maria, being much shorter, might have missed it. Reaching up, he ran a hand over the top and pulled down a leather, rectangular box.

  “It’s only her stationery box,” Maria said from the door­way. “No diamonds. I looked.”

  He opened the lid all the same, and flipped through her writing paper. “No letters either,” Maria pointed out. “No list of addresses, no receipt from Eynard, nothing useful.”

  “What’s this?” he asked, feeling some thicker piece of parchment at the bottom of the paper. He pulled out a certificate and read it with interest. “It’s a marriage cer­tificate,” he said. Maria rushed to his side to read of the marriage between Cécile Yvonne Feydeau and Georges Henri Castonguy.

  “She’s married! Five years ago too. But she said she was engaged to a lieutenant in Napoleon’s army. He was killed at Leipzig,” Maria exclaimed.

  “Interesting,” Moncrief said, staring at the parchment.

  “She could be a widow. Lots of Frenchmen have died during the past five years.”

  “Yes, she could be.”

  “You don’t think so. You think her husband maybe has the jewelry?”

  “It’s possible.”

  "I don’t think she has any diamonds at all.”

  “You believe Chabon is the villain in the piece.” It was a statement, not a question. She did not contradict it.

  “As you said yourself, if he had thought we would find the diamonds, he would have been here. And if he didn’t think so—why arrange this opportunity for us to search at all?”

  “It is known, I believe, as a red herring,” Moncrief said, in a somewhat angry voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—I don’t know exactly. It hasn’t jelled in my head, but I expect he had some reason for making sure we all wasted our morning here. I’d like to know what he has been up to meanwhile. I soon shall know. My man followed him.”

  When Wragge met with Moncrief at Minoritenplatz later, he reported that Chabon had himself taken the French lady to the palais, and remained there during the entire visit, afterwards returning her and the chaperone to their apartment.

  “So what was the point of it?” Moncrief asked himself. “All he has done is to convince us the diamonds are no
t at her apartment.”

  “I fancy he was trying to discover from her where she has got ‘em. He was talking to her twelve to the dozen the whole way there and back. I could see their heads together through the window.”

  “I’ll talk to the Krugers and see if he discovered any­thing,” Moncrief answered. “Or if he told them in any case. I don’t trust the man as far as I could throw him.”

  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 22

  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.”