“Well, Mr. Singh,” he said, “let’s hear your proposition,” his voice was suave, oily, but with a decidely unpleasant edge to it. He spoke in a normal, conversational tone with no attempt to keep any one from hearing. It wouldn’t have done much good if any one had heard him, for he spoke in Arabic.
Mr. Singh leaned forward, ignoring his canape, to the pained horror of the waiter. “Shall we come directly to the point, Mr. Sheringham?” he asked, also in Arabic.
“By all means,” said the man with the green eyeglass. “I don’t think we need beat around the bush. I know who you are, Mr. Singh, and you know who I am and what my business is.”
Mr. Singh rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “Precisely. It is gratifying to me to be able to place my cards face up on the table. I represent a prince of my land, Mr. Sheringham — a man whose wealth is so fabulous that even he himself does not know how much he has.”
“The Maharajahs are noted for their riches,” said Mr. Sheringham, an acquisitive gleam in his one eye.
“My master,” said Mr. Singh, “is a collector of precious gems. Whenever he hears of some jewel which would augment his collection he acquires it, regardless of expense or effort. There is a piece of jewelry here in your city which he wishes. I have been commissioned to get it and I must have it.”
“All things are possible,” said Mr. Sheringham. “Go on.”
“It is a necklace,” said Mr. Singh, “a necklace of matchless diamonds which was brought to New York by James Carrington, the millionaire, for his wife. Word spread from the diamond market in Amsterdam that this was the most beautifully matched string of diamonds in the world. My master will not be happy until it is in his possession. Carrington will not sell at any price, so it must be acquired in some other fashion.”
Mr. Sheringham regarded the prongs of his fork thoughtfully. “But if your master did get possession of this necklace he would never be able to show it, Mr. Singh. I know of the Carrington string, and if it were — er — shall we say removed, every one would be on the lookout for it and it would be promptly identified and your master prosecuted.”
The East Indian laughed softly. “You do not understand the collector’s lust for possession, Mr. Sheringham. He would not be fool enough to show the finest string of diamonds in the world. Now to put matters quite frankly, I am led to believe that you have the organization and the skill to steal this necklace. I am here to buy your services.”
Sheringham regarded his companion, the sardonic twist to his lips tightening. “How is it that you would trust me to turn the necklace over to you after I have stolen it?” he said.
Mr. Singh shrugged. “My dear Mr. Sheringham, what could you do with the necklace after you had it? You are not a collector. These diamonds are of such a distinctive tint that even though they were re-cut they would still be distinguishable. You couldn’t sell them, Mr. Sheringham. That is why I trust you.” And it was Mr. Singh’s turn to indulge in a grim smile.
“Sound enough,” agreed Sheringham. “At what figure do you value the necklace?”
“Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” said Mr. Singh, impressively.
“In that case,” said Sheringham, grimly, “it will cost you just that amount in cash if I am to get the string for you.” Mr. Singh gasped. “Furthermore,” Sheringham continued, “you will pay that to me in advance and I will retain it whether I succeed or fail.”
“My dear sir!” Mr. Singh was overcome.
“It’s a highly precarious venture,” said Sheringham, “and the risk of being detected is so great that I would not take it for anything less than the sum I mention. If I fail and some of my men are caught, I shall need funds to get them out of trouble. So you see, I must have the money, win or lose.”
Mr. Singh’s dark skin seemed to grow darker. “I’m not sure that I should object to the sum you mention if you succeed. But to pay it to you in case of failure seems — well, staggering!”
Mr. Sheringham’s lips tightened. “That’s my proposition — take it or leave it. There is no point in argument, Mr. Singh, because I am not a flexible person.” He looked steadily at Mr. Singh. “I might add, that I am not expecting failure, Mr. Singh. But I must be prepared for it. This is a business with me and I do not run it on a speculative basis.”
“What it means,” said Mr. Singh, “is that if you are close pressed you will not care about the necklace. You will be already paid.”
Mr. Sheringham smiled. “Failure means an end of my prestige, Mr. Singh. Believe me, we will stop at nothing to succeed. It is only because we have stopped at nothing in the past that my reputation is known to you.” Mr. Singh sighed. “I must risk it,” he said dolefully, “because I dare not return to my master without the diamonds. Come to my room at the Ritz to-morrow morning at eleven and I will have the money.”
Mr. Martin Hewes, the fat man at the next table, regarded a piece of cold quail on his plate with the light of tragedy in his eyes. His attention had been distracted from his lunch and it was spoiled. Mr. Hewes spoke and understood Arabic fluently, and the conversation at the next table had been too interesting for him to concentrate both on it and quail.
Chapter III
Martin Hewes Stumbles
Mr. Hewes walked from the restaurant toward his apartment, which faced on the park. Walking was something Mr. Hewes almost never did, and only when it was forced on him. On this occasion Mr. Hewes wanted to think, and he knew there would be no chance for thinking in a taxicab. What one needed was leisure and a cigarette in the comfortable arm chair he knew was waiting for him, but he couldn’t wait to do his thinking. So he walked and thought.
So deeply did Mr. Hewes think that he took no notice of his surroundings. Thus it was that he failed to see the shadowy figure of a ragged man slunk down on a park bench with his tattered shoes stretched out across the pavement, thus it was that Mr. Hewes tripped over those feet and nearly fell flat. It was only by the most heroic effort that he regained his equilibrium. He turned back angrily, his chain of thought broken. The ragged man was standing up.
“I say, old man, I’m most frightfully sorry,” he said. “It was damned careless of me to have my feet sprawled all over the sidewalk. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”
Mr. Hewes, who had been about to indulge in the luxury of some good old Anglo-Saxon expletives, checked himself and the anger died out of him. Mr. Hewes was perhaps the most curious person in the world, and already the problem of the man with the green eyeglass and his Indian friend was banished from his mind. This tramp — this ragged bum was a gentleman! His words and the intonation of his voice were a dead give-away.
“It’s quite all right,” said Martin Hewes, absently. He stared at the young man in rags. As he stared the young man swayed unsteadily on his feet and sat down rather abruptly on the park bench.
“Drunk?” asked Martin Hewes. There was no censure in his voice. Just curiosity. The man in rags laughed and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. Martin Hewes took a cigarette from his case, tapped it on the back of his hand and lit it. Then without a word he turned away from the young man and hailed a passing cab. When the driver had pulled up at the curb, Martin Hewes turned back. “Come on,” he said, shortly. The young man on the bench looked at him curiously, but he didn’t move. “Come on,” repeated Martin Hewes.