“My reasons for wanting this done do not involve insurance,” said Tabarin. “I’ll give you five hundred francs now. There’ll be another two thousand for you inside the wall safe.”
Babar dipped a sugar cube in the grog and sucked on it thoughtfully. “One thousand now,” he said.
“Agreed,” said Tabarin. Then he hurried off to the photographer’s studio where he met Magda Schmettering who was still grumpy from being wakened before noon. She had brought the bikinis he had requested. Tabarin made his choice carefully. Then, while she was changing, he explained to the photographer exactly what he wanted. Magda posed for the picture with all the radiance of a woman who believes the necklace she is wearing is worth a million francs.
And that was that. Now all Tabarin had to do was tell his secretary that he was taking the Gobineau necklace home with him that night.
By afternoon of the next day the theft of the diamond necklace from the Tabarin residence was front-page news all over Europe. What editor could resist running that picture of the necklace worn by a bikinied Magda which Tabarin had supplied to the wire services? Even the police inspector, after clucking over the pierced wall safe, had commandeered a second copy of the photo for his personal file. And Ortalon, the investigator for Gibraltar Insurance, when he was finished scolding Tabarin for keeping a necklace worth a million francs in a “glorified breadbox,” had requested an extra copy of the photo and Magda’s phone number. “In these cases,” he told Tabarin, “we always question the last person to wear the stolen item.”
Tabarin sat back and waited. If the Count fell for his little trick, if he believed that the fake necklace had been stolen before Tabarin discovered the switch, then he would be hurrying back to San Sebastiano. “I’ve come to repay that little loan and redeem my necklace, Mr. Tabarin,” he would say with an innocent smile. “A theft? Why, no, I hadn’t heard of any theft. I am overcome. Even though I know you will make good the loss, how can a mere million francs replace a family heirloom?”
Then Tabarin would produce the fake necklace and offer the Count a simple choice: either he would go to jail for fraud — and how many more of his victims would step forward when the story hit the papers? — or he would sell the real necklace to Tabarin at the jeweler’s price. A carefully calculated price, not so low that the Count would prefer a few years in jail or so high that it wouldn’t hurt. Tabarin wanted the swindler to know he was being swindled.
Tabarin was anticipating the pleasure of that encounter as he reached his door that evening. Suddenly there was a loud sneeze and Babar the Elegant emerged from the shadows. Babar had read the newspapers. “You trying to muzzle the ox that grinds the grain, Mr. Tabarin?” he demanded. “I told you if it was a caper to take the insurance boys that I get half.”
“Patience, Babar,” said Tabarin. “In a day or two you’ll see it wasn’t that at all.”
But the Count didn’t appear the next day or the day after that. Obviously he suspected a trick of some kind. Yet sooner or later he would have to come. Tabarin imagined him like a wild animal slowly approaching a trap, wary and nervous but drawn by the overpowering lure of the bait.
By the morning of the third day Tabarin was tense and expectant. To his annoyance his first visitor was Ortalon. The insurance investigator announced grandly that Gibraltar, famous on two continents for promptly satisfying customers, was once more to justify that reputation. Tabarin cursed to himself. He wanted the necklace, not Gibraltar’s million francs which he obviously couldn’t accept. So now he would have to admit to a fool like Ortalon that he, Louis Tabarin, had been taken in, outwitted, by a con man.
Tabarin started to speak. But Ortalon raised a hand for silence and lay a garland of light on Tabarin’s desk. The Gobineau necklace! Trembling, Tabarin examined it stone by stone under his loupe. The diamonds were real. This was the original necklace. “But how—?” asked Tabarin.
“Last night we were contacted by the thief who offered to sell the necklace back to us for half a million francs,” said Ortalon. “And now, if you’ll just sign this receipt—”
Tabarin signed the paper quickly. In his bewilderment only one thing was clear: the genuine Gobineau necklace was in his hands again. Suddenly his office had filled up with shouting reporters and pushing photographers. “I took the liberty of breaking the story to the press. Good publicity for you — and for Gibraltar,” said Ortalon.
When the insurance investigator and the last of the reporters had left, Tabarin tried to shake off the blind spots from the flashbulbs and struggled to order his thoughts. But events were moving too fast. The phone rang. Babar the Elegant had heard the news over the radio. Was Tabarin trying to cheat him out of his share of the half million? If so, Babar threatened to make a deal with the police and put Tabarin behind bars for a long time. The jeweler was quick to promise Babar his quarter million. After all, the necklace was cheap at the price.
Tabarin had just put down the phone when his secretary announced the Count de Gobineau. The Count took a seat and then he looked at the surprised jeweler and smiled. In one swift moment Tabarin knew what the little man was going to say. Nevertheless he waited for the words. That gave him a few more moments to hold the necklace in his hands.
The Count lit a Turkish cigarette and nodded at the diamonds. “I see you’ve been expecting me, Mr. Tabarin,” he said. “Yes, I’ve come to redeem my necklace. You see, last night I came into a considerable sum of money.”
The Clue of the Runaway Blonde
by Erle Stanley Gardner[2]
There were forces in Rockville — the political bigwig and one of the newspaper publishers and other leading citizens — who wanted to oust 70-year-old Sheriff Bill Eldon. Despite Eldon’s popularity, they considered the sheriff an old fogy in his crime-fighting methods — an old fossil who didn’t know “modern scientific stuff.” But Sheriff Eldon, with his slow drawl and whimsical sense of humor, with his warmth and kindness, and especially with his understanding of the townspeople in particular and of people in general, had his own detective method — a method that has never grown old or old-fashioned, that is always as new as the latest electronic gadget He knew that the solutions to the deepest mysteries of life lay not in physical clues (notwithstanding the title of this story!) but in the hearts and minds of people, in human nature and human character...
BONUS: Something you don’t usually expect in an Erie Stanley Gardner detective story — an “impossible crime.” The victim was found stabbed to death in a freshly plowed field with no footprints going in either direction — not even the victim’s! How can a person walk over moist, loamy soil and not leave any footprints?
A fast-moving, shrewdly plotted, suspenseful short novel complete in this special All-Star 30th Anniversary Issue...
Cold afternoon sunlight made a carpet of long shadows back of the eucalyptus trees along the road as Sam Beckett opened the gate of the old Higbee place and drove his tractor into the eighty-acre field.
Things had been moving swiftly. Only the night before, the Higbee heirs had finally quit squabbling long enough to agree on a selling price. John Farnham, the realtor, had made a hurried trip to see Beckett the next morning. Within a few hours Beckett had gone over the property again, and the heirs had signed on the dotted line, the money went into title escrow, and Sam turned his horses into the Higbee place to pasture. Now he was starting plowing. He’d work until midnight, or longer if he didn’t get too sleepy.
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