I resumed form and weight. Gravity’s always an odd shock, like climbing out of a swimming pool after a long float.
The door he’d been working on was open. I looked in. The flashlight was on the floor. Its beam took in Mabel, who was on her knees by a closet going through dozens of pairs of women’s shoes. They have only two feet, why is it dames need so many things to put them in?
Mabel stopped when she heard my psst. She hastily got up.
“We’re skunked,” I whispered. “Agnes has the rock with her. You want to try the next plan?”
She scowled. “You’ll never talk her out of it. No matter what, there’s going to be a fight.”
“Jack has a winning way with people,” Escott assured. “This won’t take long. We can wait in the car.”
“Oh, this I’ve got to see.”
“No.” I was decisive. “You two clear out.” But— “I promise not to break anything. Hand over the fake. I’ll trade them.”
“But if you touch the real one . . . the curse—I can’t.” She was absolutely serious.
“Please.” I put a little pressure on. Since she’d been under so recently, it didn’t take much. If the real diamond killed men, it was too late for me.
Reluctantly, Mabel slipped the pendant off its chain. “You’re sure?”
I jerked my head toward the scattered shoes. “Put those back so she won’t know.”
While she made repairs, I turned to Escott. “You hear of any gem collectors named Taylor?”
He shook his head. When it came to various criminals working in Chicago and points east and south, he was an encyclopedia. Honest citizens held little interest for him.
Mabel came out, easing the door shut; Escott locked it again. We took the back stairs down. The vulnerable spot on our exit was the dining room door, still wide open with a view through to the parlor. Anyone looking our way would see us passing.
I put an eye around the edge. The coast was clear. A quick gesture, and Escott and Mabel slipped by, heading for the mudroom. Thunder covered the sounds they made.
The coast was still clear, so I ducked into the dining room, staying solid and sneaking up on the parlor door.
Standing behind it, I could peer through the crack on the hinge side.
Agnes was in her chair with the magazine; Clive was back staring out the window.
If they’d split up, the job would be easy. I could hypnotize them one at a time into a nap. Both at once would necessarily be violent. I’d have to physically restrain one while working my evil eye whammy on the other. Not impossible, but it’s noisy, exasperating, and never goes smoothly.
My best bet was to draw one of them from the room long enough to get to the other. A of couple spoons from the uncleared dinner table would do. I’d toss them at the marble in the foyer. Clive was already up and more or less pointing in the right direction . . .
The doorbell rang.
“It’s him,” said Clive, excited.
Crap. I didn’t want to have to take out three of them.
“Didn’t you see him drive up?” Agnes asked.
“It’s like Niagara out there. You can’t see anything.”
She put the magazine to one side, stood, smoothed her dress, and sat down again, ankles crossed, hands in her lap they way they teach girls to do in finishing schools. She had a little black box in one hand, not hard to guess what was in it. “When this is done I want a real honeymoon,” she said with a spark in her eyes. She was as tall as Mabel, but finer-boned and more aristocratic in features.
“You got it, baby!” He hurried to the foyer.
I had my chance. He’d be busy with the guest, finding a place for his hat and umbrella. I’d have the moment I needed to steal in and put her out.
Only Agnes did something odd, and that made me hesitate. While looking toward the foyer with the box in her left hand, her right hand left her lap briefly, brushing against a pocket on her dress. It was swiftly and deftly done. She’d checked to make sure something was where it was supposed to be.
What’s in your pocket, Mrs. Latshaw?
Then my opportunity was gone. Clive led the buyer in and introduced William D. Taylor (the Fourth) to his wife. I guess they make eccentric collectors in all types and sizes, but this one looked as average as Clive. Taylor wore a nice suit, a stuffy expression behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and had a briefcase.
Pleasantries were exchanged about the terrible weather. Mr. Taylor apologized and was forgiven for arriving early. “You’ll pardon if I’m in a rush, Mrs. Latshaw, but I’ve a train to New York to catch. The sooner I make a decision on this stone, the sooner I may leave. This dismal rain . . . ”
“I understand.”
“Excellent. I came prepared.” He produced a jeweler’s loupe. “Mr. Latshaw, may I trouble you to move a lamp to this table?”
When the lamp was in place, Agnes stepped forward. “This is my family’s prize heirloom: Hecate’s Golden Eye,” she said with a well-calculated dose of hushed respect as she opened the box.
Taylor accepted the box, held it under the lamp’s light, peered at the contents, and set it down on the table. He pulled on a pair of white gloves, and only then picked up the pendant. I wondered if they’d be enough to protect him from the curse. He screwed the loupe in one eye and spent several minutes examining the gem. Clive and Agnes exchanged worried looks, but resumed their poker-playing faces when Taylor grunted. “The genuine thing. Superb clarity for its size. I can see that legendary flaw quite clearly. A perfect eye with pupil and even lashes. Extraordinary.”
“My dear grandmother often mentioned it. She loved the piece very much.”
“No doubt. I’m sure you would rather keep it in the family.”
Clive worked hard to hide his alarm. “You’re not interested?”
“I am, sir, but cannot offer you much for it. I collect with the intent of appreciation of value as well as for a gem’s unique beauty. Without provenance—you were clear this diamond has none beyond private family records which, forgive me, can be forged—I cannot easily resell it in the future for as much profit as I would like.”
“You could to another private collector.”
“Humph. That would be that so-and-so Abercrombie. I’d never give him the satisfaction. I’m glad he’s moved to Switzerland or he might have gotten wind of this first. I’m sorry, but I can offer you only so much and no more. You may take it or leave it as you choose.” Then he said a number that made my jaw drop.
The Latshaws failed to hide their gleeful satisfaction. Clive recovered first. “My wife and I assure you that we would be very pleased for Hecate’s Eye to become part of the Taylor collection.”
“Very good.”
They shook hands.
“A check will suffice, and once it clears you may take possession.”
“Mr. Latshaw, my train won’t wait for the banks to open, but I am prepared to conclude this transaction now.” He put the briefcase on the table and opened it to reveal a respectable load of wrapped banknotes. The Latshaws were appropriately impressed.
My jaw kept swinging. I’d seen bigger stacks of cash, but only in gangster-controlled gambling clubs. I drew breath for a silent whistle and could actually smell the ink.
“How can you carry all that?” Agnes asked. “What if you’re robbed?”
“I can take care of myself, ma’am.” Taylor opened his suit coat just enough to give her a glimpse of his shoulder rig and whatever gun it held. “If Mr. Latshaw would count the money and sign a receipt, I’ll be off to catch my train.”
Clive counted, and Agnes poured sherry into three stemmed glasses, making small talk with Taylor. Alone on the table was the open black box with the Eye still in it.