Corvina

Published in Hungary in 2026 by

Corvina Books Ltd.

Dankó utca 4–8.

1086 Budapest

www.corvinakiado.hu

Translated from A szõke ciklon

by István Farkas

Translation revised by

Elisabeth West

English translation © Heirs of István Farkas

Cover design by Fruzsina Kun

Fifth edition

ISBN 978 963 13 7204 5

CONTENTS

PREFACE. Contritely but briefly, the author confesses that his story has some antecedents.

CHAPTER ONE. A millionaire lays down the glue-pot for good. He makes his will, disposing of his property, which is not far to seek: it must be somewhere on this earth. Even walls have ears—in the head of Eddy Rancing. His plan is to rob the girl, so that he can then make her rich. Exit Eddy Rancing. The Governor describes a prisoner 6ft. 3in. in height, with a disfiguring scar on his nose, who just possibly was not sleeping. Too bad!

CHAPTER TWO. Evelyn and her mother go to see Uncle Marius. Fortunately, Mr. North had always taken proper care of his internal organs and so the filing-clerk can now look forward to retirement and spending gay week-ends in the company of pretty women on the Continent. He devises a plan for marketing old sales ledgers, but shortly afterwards is attacked by an ex-convict. In Mr. Bradford’s view Fate is like a boozy tailor. At this point, everybody leaves London; and Evelyn steps out of a pool of mud before going on board.

CHAPTER THREE . The state-room lies in ruins. Lord Bannister is at a loss and Evelyn goes to sleep. Dawn shows them in an unfavourable light. The ex-prisoner, in spite of his excellent references, is compelled to go and look elsewhere for a job. Beefy commits an act of justifiable self-defence against a taxi driver, thus giving proof of his respectability. Gordon calls on Buddha at his home. Evelyn cancels Mr. Wilmington’s supper, then lays the table.

CHAPTER FOUR. Eddy Rancing makes inquiries but only receives information about cadaveric lividity and outward signs of injury. His interest is not aroused. He makes the acquaintance of Frau Victoria, the Head Gardener’s wife, and meets Mustard, a loose-living ruminant. A Karlsbad souvenir finds no takers. Whimsical Gürti is chastised. Eddy is trapped by a gnome; some time later he swims to the next village. All’s bad, but ends well.

CHAPTER FIVE . Evelyn is compelled to commit an indiscretion. There is draught, followed by gun-fight; in the end, a lot of people are run in in a police round-up. Everyone is being pursued as well as pursuing everyone else. The gangsters form a syndicate, then repair to The King of Beans. A banquet is spoilt by a tropical storm, and the person fêted leaves on a long motor tour, in full evening-dress.

CHAPTER SIX. Reminiscences about a lighthouse and the Morse code. A fresh scheme founders four storeys up. The author of Wilhelm Tell takes possession of a gold-watch and has it valued at Högraben’s. The fire-brigade is called out. Eddy Rancing quotes Shakespeare and Lübli the pipeman interprets. Eddy sends a telegram.

CHAPTER SEVEN. Lord Bannister creates a sensation in a freshly laundered dressing-gown. He survives the loss of his dress suit. Evelyn gives a brilliant performance at the wheel of an Alfa-Romeo. They meet three cows. His lordship relaxes somewhat but his agitation returns when he discovers the loss of his toilet case. Reappearance of the three cows. Lord Bannister and Evelyn don folk costumes in Lyons, take leave of each other, then continue their journey together. Newspaper headlines have a disastrous effect on Lord Bannister.

CHAPTER EIGHT. Lord Bannister believes that now he sees all. He does nothing of the sort. Lack of drains holds up a wedding. Arthur Rancing refunds even the fees of the assistant engineer. The national colours are hung out over the restaurant, but the community singers are very nearly not required. Eddy realises that his gamble has not come off, and waives his claim in his uncle’s favour. Holler remains irrepressible. He takes the formidable fortress of Guéliz by storm; he goes shopping for Evelyn, and survives some hard bargaining; he knows of a link between an American symphony orchestra and the Sahara.

CHAPTER NINE. Lord Bannister suffers from hallucinations. He is then mistaken for Catherine de Medici. He prepares for his impending years in prison, then discovers that dinner jackets aren’t the most comfortable wear in the Sahara. Robbers make their appearance. Eddy Rancing rides his camel full tilt, and learns to appreciate the theory of relativity.

CHAPTER TEN. The beard of Achilles. The robbers have no defence against a foul trick. Eddy Rancing discovers that the desert isn’t all beer and skittles. He is laughed at by a quite diminutive pilgrim. Lessons from Harrington’s daughter stand him in good stead. We learn the lamentable fact that there is scarcely any difference between a razor blade and a self-loading pistol. The toilet case has the last laugh. The fight is over, all are friends and they plan to return a dressing-gown to its rightful owner. Evelyn forgives all. Mr. Bradford, weighing his words carefully, tells us what life is really like.

PREFACE. Contritely but briefly, the author confesses that his story has some antecedents.

Acknowledgements are something which readers as well as authors like to get over quickly. That sort of thing is really very tedious. Very trite too, especially nowadays, when certain types of novel are simply manufactured from a formula just like new dishes devised from old recipes by a painstaking housewife. For instance: “Take two youthful loving hearts. Proceed to break them. Bring passions to the boil. Sprinkle with some sweet church blessing. Cook thoroughly or half-bake. Suitable for all occasions.”

Perhaps I’d better stop beating about the bush and tell prospective readers straight away that, before they can settle down to enjoy the story that follows, there is this disagreeable question of acknowledgements to be dealt with.

So let’s get it over—the sooner the better. Here, then, are the ingredients from which our novel must be produced:

Take a bright young girl who tries to make a living by translating ballads—and when we say this it must be understood that she isn’t living in clover: statistics relating to the social background of the financial oligarchy of the world demonstrate that the number of plutocrats who have made their pile by translating ballads is incredibly small. Next, take an aged convict. Proceed to cleanse his heart of all sin until the precious stone of genuine charity shines forth from its most hidden recesses. This precious stone is worth, at a conservative estimate, one million pounds sterling. This aged convict—Jim Hogan by name— and the said young girl’s late father, Mr. Weston, were at school together. Mr. Weston used to make occasional visits to his convict friend and would from time to time send in food parcels for him: in a word, he did his best to alleviate Jim Hogan’s unfortunate lot. After Mr. Weston’s death, his family continued the charitable work and the aged prisoner thus continued to receive his food parcels while the occasional visits were now paid him by the late Mr. Weston’s daughter, Evelyn.

We also need a light-pursed, moony young man who goes by the name of Eddie Rancing. He tenants the garret room next door to the Westons’. As for his occupation, he is working on an invention—a device to be fitted on motorcycles—which, when completed, should bring in millions.

His work has by now reached an advanced stage in which all the details are on his designing desk, though there is still a certain vagueness as to the main purpose of the device. Young Rancing, thanks to an allowance from his guardian and uncle, Mr. Arthur Rancing, read law for the space of about two terms, but has lately taken to gambling and has fallen into the habit of getting through his allowance during the first four days of the months. His leisure-hours young Rancing devotes to being in love with Evelyn Weston—a sentiment which, at the beginning of our story, is still unrequited.

I also have to introduce to you Mr. Charles Gordon, an enterprising gentleman preparing to leave very shortly the penitentiary institution where he had been sent for a term of six years. Five years and three hundred and sixty-two days Mr. Gordon has taken in his stride, so to speak, but now, for some reason, this whole prison business is beginning to get on his nerves. We all have these moods at times. I know a rambler and mountain-climber, a fellow mostly to be seen with rucksack and alpenstock, sporting an edelweiss or gentian in his hat, one who looks upon the summit of Mont Blanc as a sort of second home. Last week, this man, no doubt in one of these uncontrollable fits of passion, gave the porter a sock on the jaw when he discovered that, for the second time in a month, the lift was out of order and he would have to shin it up to the fifth floor.

Similarly, with only three days to go before his release, Charles Gordon complained of racking headaches and an abnormally rapid heart-action, whereupon a sympathetic prison doctor sent him to hospital.

CHAPTER ONE. A millionaire lays down the glue-pot for good. He makes his will, disposing of his property, which is not far to seek: it must be somewhere on this earth. Even walls have ears—in the head of Eddy Rancing. His plan is to rob the girl, so that he can then make her rich. Exit Eddy Rancing. The Governor describes a prisoner 6ft. 3in. in height, with a disfiguring scar on his nose, who just possibly was not sleeping. Too bad!

• 1 •

The millionaire, pail in hand, halted for a second.

The next instant he deeply regretted his momentary pause for a vigorous shove from behind reminded him that he must get a move on because the men in the workshop were waiting for him. The millionaire’s arrival with the glue-pail was indeed being awaited by his fellow inmates. They were endeavouring to while away their time by making paper-bags and for this pastime were dependent on a steady supply of glue, which they obtained from our manhandled millionaire.

This affluent gentleman noted the fact that he had been given a push with an indifference ill-becoming a man of his social class. For the millionaire, fantastic as this may sound, was an inmate of the British prison of Dartmoor. This had been his abode for the last eight years, yet the fact that he was a millionaire was not known to anyone. Most people knew little about him beyond the fact that he was a rather stand-offish, tongue-tied old bird, somewhat on the heavy-handed side, who, at a venerable age, after a service record of full thirty years in the field of crime, had been sent into well-deserved retirement, with board and lodging for life, at Dartmoor.

Here he lived the unexciting, peaceful life of the retired criminal, dividing his day between cleaning his cell, taking a walk in the prison yard, and gluing paperbags; and there were the occasional food parcels and visitors. Old Jimmy Hogan had only one visitor: Miss Evelyn Weston. After his former school-mate had departed this life, the daughter of the deceased continued to visit him once every two months. On these occasions, conversation between caller and host was not as a rule very spirited: the young lady would venture a few remarks to which he would respond with a mutter and a scowl.

Miss Weston was a student of literature and philosophy—a circumstance which bespeaks little practical common sense in a young lady. That may seem odd but it’s a fact. It is just those who acquire their wisdom from the greatest philosophers who are most incapable of turning their ideas to good advantage. Evelyn Weston, for instance, was trying to earn a livelihood by translating old French ballads into English. If you consider that at the time of our story England was being rocked to the foundations by a dramatic slump in the demand for translations of old French ballads, you will not be surprised to learn that Mr. Weston’s death hardly enabled them to make ends meet. Fortunately Mrs. Weston’s brother contributed sums of varying amounts to meet their household expenses. This brother—Mr. Bradford, bespoke tailor for gentlemen—though not a wealthy man, was tolerably well provided with the necessary, owing to the fact that, besides plying his trade, he engaged in business speculations which were invariably successful.

I have thought it necessary to give you these facts so that you may the better appreciate the measure of Evelyn Weston’s unselfishness in not letting old sinner Hogan down, for all her modest means.

• 2 •

When Jim Hogan had done fifteen years in jail, his case was brought before the Highest Court of all; and at this ultimate resort, nothing but acquittals are ever pronounced. Old Hogan waited in the prison hospital for release from human bondage; and as he was to stand before an Authority in whose judgment the most monstrous crime is dwarfed by the smallest good deed, he could be confident that in a matter of hours he would obtain his discharge from Dartmoor. At eight o’clock in the evening, an unusual thing happened. Old Hogan declared that he wanted to make his will. At first, the doctor put it down to the patient’s high temperature. What could an old lifer possibly possess that he should need a will to dispose of it? His body would be committed to earth, his soul to hell, and his clothes consigned to the prison stores. However, as the prisoner persisted in his strange wish, and as even prison governors seldom refuse to grant a dying man’s last request, the old gentleman’s final disposition was put on record—in the presence of the chaplain and the governor, in compliance with his wish.

Next morning, old Jim Hogan was sitting on the ring of Saturn, dangling his feet cheerfully. He looked back at our dyspeptic planet from a distance of several thousand lightyears, and rubbed his hands contentedly.

He had left to Miss Evelyn Weston the sum of approximately one million pounds.

• 3 •

I think it is unfair to judge people by their foibles. Nor do I consider curiosity a sin. It may have killed the cat or it mayn’t (we know for certain that it has killed very few people, if any), but it isn’t a sin. However, curiosity has a rather ugly twin sister or wild offshoot—eavesdropping. Eavesdroppers I despise. Every time I’ve caught myself eavesdropping I’ve had a guilty conscience which haunted me for minutes on end. There is something about this action which resembles assassination: It’s as if you, with your organ of hearing, were stabbing other people’s secrets in the back. One cannot therefore condone the sneaky behaviour of Eddie Rancing, even though the poor chap happened to be head over ears in love—a condition in which we all know that even the most adamant of male hearts is liable to be eroded. (Besides, mind you, young Eddie’s heart, even at its stoutest, needed little eroding to be turned into the washiest mash ever prepared for greedy infant lips.)

And so we now find Eddie Rancing eavesdropping.

Garret rooms are partitioned by walls so thin that for this operation he had only to press his ear to the wall-paper to be able to hear every word that passed between Evelyn Weston and her mother next door. Later on, he glued himself more and more adhesively on to the wall and would fain have pressed his other ear to it as well, had not a killjoy Nature rendered such a feat totally impossible.

Luckily for him, he could hear everything distinctly enough even with one ear.

Evelyn was reading a letter to her mother. It was old Jim Hogan’s last will and it had arrived by the afternoon post.

“…The undersigned, (Evelyn read), at the request of James Hogan, convict, readily certify herewith that in our opinion as well as that of the prison doctor, the aforenamed convict was compos mentis and, despite his illness, in full possession of his faculties when he dictated the testamentary disposition below, the authenticity whereof he has confirmed by his signature hereunto affixed.

“The Rev. G. H. Gladstone. M. Crickley. The Governor

“I hereby bequeath my property to the value of one million pounds to Miss Evelyn Weston, daughter of the late Samuel Weston, of King’s Road, London. This property, worth one million pounds sterling, is a walnut-sized diamond which was presented to me as a gift. This may sound rather improbable and extraordinary, but then it was at a time of improbable and extraordinary happenings when it came into my possession. At the end of the war, in 1919, together with certain other British servicemen, I joined General Kolchak’s counter-revolutionary army. When the campaign in Siberia had ended, I managed to make my way back to the European part of Russia after incredible hardships and suffering. Armed with the papers of a dead Austrian prisoner-of-war, I managed to get into a POW train and in this manner reached Moscow. Here, I ganged up with a number of people of my ilk and floated a company whose main line of business concerned the robbing of panic-stricken propertied types who were trying to flee the country. Our custom was to nose out a few such people and offer to smuggle them across the border into Poland for which purpose we had thoughtfully provided ourselves with an army lorry. Then, at some out-of-the-way place, we would simply swipe all their possessions and leave them in the road. In this way an old gentleman, short, white-haired and bearded, a soft-spoken old fellow and our very last passenger, was caught in our trap. He promised us a fabulous sum of money if we would smuggle him into Poland: he said he would give us a round sum of fifty thousand dollars! That day, we carried no other passengers but him: we put the old man into the lorry together with all his bags and boxes, and drove him a distance of some 200 versts, to a place where the highway ran through snow-bound woods. There we robbed him. That is to say, we would have robbed him, but we couldn’t. Our passenger’s luggage consisted of clothing, books and other worthless stuff. There was nothing to be gained by slashing the lining of his coat, or smashing up his chest: the man had no money on him at all. My three mates rounded on him: where was he going to get the fifty thousand dollars with which to pay us? ‘I will pay you more than that,’ said the passenger, ‘if you will take me across the border. My property isn’t in Russia any more.’ One of my mates whipped out his knife and would have stabbed the old man there and then if I had not pushed him aside. I have no reason now to try and whitewash myself; I was a crook and a cad and, if there was any danger of my being caught doing a job, I would not have hesitated to use a knife. But one thing I insist on; namely, that never, at no time, did I ever become entirely incapable of humane feeling. I would not allow that old man to be massacred before my very eyes. There ensued an altercation which led to blows, and in the end my partners thrust me as well as the old man out of the lorry, and they all rumbled off. I shall not go into a deadline account of how we got to the Polish border making our way past small towns and lonely farmsteads. The only fact that has any relevance to my present story is that we finally reached the crucial stage of our journey where we found ourselves in what was called the ‘neutral zone’—a strip of land several kilometres wide that separated the two countries during the peace talks. It was a severe winter; and here was I roaming about in the snow, illequipped, with one arm wounded, and saddled with a weary old man. ‘You will see, sir,’ he kept repeating, apparently under the illusion that he was boosting my moral, ‘that once we’re out of this alive, I will make you rich.’ It was touch and go I didn’t beat him up. I did give him ticking off. ‘Ah, stop gassing,’ I said, ‘why, you haven’t got anything besides those blessed trousers you’re wearing!’ I can still see his face as he looked at me. ‘You’re wrong.’ he said. ‘I have jewels that are worth millions—in a safe place in Paris. You see, my son got away safely in good time. It’s the truth. Name your own price—and don’t be modest.’ I was getting hotter and hotter under the collar. ‘You know what?’ I shouted at him. ‘Let’s come to some arrangement here and now in this snow-storm. Let’s say that you will one day bring to me in London the most precious piece from your family jewels. It’ll be worth your while, I’m sure.’ He quietly nodded. ‘If you and I manage to survive, I’ll bring the most valuable item of my family jewels to you in London. I shall be sorry to part with that particular jewel though; for it was the finest diamond in the Tsar’s old crown.’ You can well imagine what I answered to that. Funnels of snow were being sucked past us on every side; we were nearly knocked off our feet by the force of the gale; and distant howls of wolves made the whole scene unforgettably fearsome. We lost our way and could only wander on as if in a nightmare. We staggered on and were at the end of our strength when we found a cart-track in the snow. On the last stretch, I had to support the old man with my wounded arm, while I was hardly able to drag my own body along. Still, I should not have had it in me to leave him lying in that frozen, white desert. I gnashed my teeth, and fumed, but I lugged him along. At last, we were intercepted by Polish frontier police. My travelling companion was taken to the nearest hospital in a serious condition. Our ordeal had taken a good deal out of me too, and I had to drain a whole bottle of vodka to get right again.

I packed myself among a load of refugees in a goods waggon heading for Danzig, where I went on board a British cruiser and so returned to England. And I never gave that old man another thought. Back in London, I soon got in touch with my old pals, and we got down to work without delay. After a few successful burglaries, we managed to get caught and sent to jail. And because I was an old lag I got two years, although they could not prove me guilty of more than one case of burglary. My solicitor warned me that when I was released I should think twice before getting myself involved in anything again because if I was brought to trial again, I would be sure to get the maximum sentence. But what can you do when you’re on the wrong side of forty and have never tried your hand at anything except robbing and stealing? Four days after I had been released from prison, I broke into Selwyn’s Department Store. If only I had waited one more day! If I had hesitated for another twenty-four hours I should now be ending my life as a wealthy gentleman enjoying my freedom instead of dying as I am, serving a life sentence down to the last minute. Just as I was looting the stuff, the night watchman arrived and caught me in the act. There was a bit of a struggle and in the end I stabbed him and fled. I thought I’d killed him. I decided that I’d have to pack up my traps and get out of England. I felt sure that when they discovered the murder in the morning it would be me that they’d suspect. It never occurred to me that the police would be on my trail that very night. Yet that was what happened. The night watchman was not dead: though seriously wounded, he dragged himself to the alarm bell. Within a few minutes, the police were there. Even the superficial description they obtained from the wounded man was enough for them to identify me. But I knew nothing of all this. I believed that I killed the watchman and that I had ample time to make a getaway before the store was opened, I had lodgings at 8, Lyndham Street, and the ground floor of the next house was a fancy-goods shop which specialised in ceramics and little figurines. The name of the firm is Longson & North. Please note the name carefully…”

Eddy, without removing his ear from the wall, whisked out a pencil and hurriedly scribbled the address on the wall-paper.

“It’s an amazing story,” said Evelyn.

“Go on,” Mrs. Weston whispered excitedly. Evelyn continued reading the letter, and Eddy his eavesdropping.

“…I hurried home. The first surprise was waiting for me in front of the house, where I found a flashy, great limousine parked at the kerb although it was by now the middle of the night! I entered my room—and found myself face to face with the elderly gentleman I had helped to escape into Poland. He was sitting at the table—but how he had changed! His eyes were shining and his face, which I remembered as sad and sallow, now wore a friendly expression and there was about him an air of quiet authority. He was very neatly dressed; his hat and cane lay on the table before him.. He rose and came towards me, beaming.

“‘We have a little account to settle if I remember aright,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce myself at last. I am Prince Radovsky. I should have shown up long ago, but I was seriously ill and bedridden for quite a long time. And afterwards, I found it extremely difficult to trace your place of residence.’

“I stammered something. He placed his hand on my shoulder, and with the cheery manner of someone about to make a good joke, continued: ‘I’ve come to pay my fare; though what you did for me is something that can’t be paid for in diamonds. As far as I can remember, you said you’d like to have the most precious of my family jewels?’

“He handed me a small black case containing a diamond. I had never seen such a large diamond of the first water and I don’t think there are many other like it in the world. I was quite fascinated by it and stood there gaping, all thought of the murder and my escape driven from my mind.

“‘I told you then that I was reluctant to part with this diamond because it came from the Tsar’s old crown. But that, of course, must be no reason for me to break my promise. The members of my noble family will at any time readily attest that this diamond is Jim Hogan’s rightful property which he acquired in an honest way.’

“ ‘Tha—thanks,’ I stammered stupidly.

“ ‘Don’t mention it,’ he replied. ‘This diamond is a meagre reward for your services. Good-bye.’

“He shook hands with me, and left. Out in the street, the engine of the car hummed. I gazed after it from the window—and none too soon a large car pulled up behind the prince’s and began discharge policemen and detectives. It was a tragicomical situation. Here I was, with a priceless diamond in my hand—a robber and a murderer with the police hot on my trail. I had only one second in which to think. I knew that the diamond would still be mine even if I was arrested. But I also knew just how many people whom I had robbed would come forward to claim damages as soon as they learned that Jim Hogan owned a diamond worth a mint of money! I had to hide it! But where?… The cops might be already swarming up the stairs. I looked around; at that moment, the bell rang. I jumped through the bathroom window into the light well. There was an open window in the farther wall and I climbed in. I found myself in a large room littered with packing cases, shavings and wrapping paper. I heard a shot fired behind me and I ran on. In the adjoining room, the light of dawn filtered in through a window giving onto the street, and so I was able to get my bearings. I was in the workshop attached to the fancy-goods store. In a corner of the room, there was a bulky oven which had been bricked in: I was cornered. Through the shop window I could see the patrol car still standing in the street, with half a dozen detectives hanging around waiting to catch sight of me popping up somewhere. I noticed some half-finished statuettes on a desk… one of them a small Buddha surmounting an enamelled box. I touched it accidentally and found that the material was still soft. Swiftly I began to knead the diamond into the soft clay of the Buddha statuette, and then I smoothed over the surface to remove all traces of what I’d done. I was compelled to part with the diamond and to have enough faith in my own ingenuity to believe that one day if I was ever released from prison I should be able to trace the enamelled box with the ceramic statuette. In the meantime, the statuette might get broken and some other person get hold of the diamond; but at least there was a chance that I would lay hands on it myself. Big firms like this no doubt kept records of their sales, and I would be able to find some clue that would lead me to the statuette. I would have to check about fifty people, not an impossible task, I reckoned, even after the passage of ten years. A few minutes later, I was rushed in the police car to Scotland Yard. The night watchman did not die, but they gave me a life sentence all the same. For years, I clung to the hope that I might manage to escape or be granted a pardon; then I could go in search of the little Buddha sitting on the enamelled case. Now my last earthly chance has gone and I do not want to take the secret with me to the grave. I leave the diamond to Miss Evelyn Weston, and I trust that she will be able to find the Buddha containing it; if necessary, Prince Radovsky’s family will testify that I acquired it in an absolutely honest way. The time has long since gone by when the victims of my early crimes could claim damages against the value of the diamond. Miss Weston should find the name of the person—or persons— to whom one or more cases of boxes decorated with figures of Buddha were sold from May 9th, 1922, onwards. The statuette represented Buddha in a most unusual posture: not the conventional sitting position with a straight back but with the trunk bent from the waist and the head bowed low. I know that the firm Longson & North is still in the business. That will make the first step easier for her. I am grateful to Miss Weston and her family for their charity and kindness to an undeserving man. God bless them, and may He have mercy on me.

James Hogan”

Eddy had heard enough. He clapped his hat on his head and dashed for the door. What luck! His uncle happened to be in London! He would touch him for a useful sum; the old bounder was sure to unbelt! Then he would seize the diamond from under Evelyn’s very nose and present it to her as a gift! To a fellow of Eddy Rancing’s wit and cheek, it would be mere child’s play to beat the girl from scratch. And once he was rich, she would certainly not persist in her obstinate refusal to marry him! Two diamonds with one stone!

He buzzed off.

But it would have been better for him had he continued eavesdropping a little longer; for with the convict’s last will, the governor of the prison had enclosed a private letter addressed to the executors, as follows:

“I feel it is my duty to inform you that while the present will was being recorded, a prisoner was lying in the adjoining ward (which we had supposed to be empty) who later claimed that he had been sleeping and heard nothing of James Hogan’s confession. However, we have strong reason to suppose that the said prisoner, Charles Gordon (who at the moment is serving a sentence of six years for forging cheques) was not sleeping, but was eavesdropping and in thus possibly aware of the content of the said will.

“I hasten to inform you of this circumstance because the aforenamed prisoner’s term expires tomorrow and, once released, he is likely to make a violent and unlawful attempt to gain possession of the estate of the deceased, the late James Hogan. Charles Gordon is 6ft. 3in. in height, totally bald, and inclined to obesity. He can be recognised by a disfiguring scar across his nose, the result of an injury sustained years ago.

“In apprising you of these facts…”

Mrs. Weston and her daughter looked at each other in bewilderment. They scarcely knew whether to be pleased or otherwise by this news of the legacy. The treasure had been immured in a piece of pottery made sixteen years ago! Who could say what had become of it by now? It might have been smashed to smithereens long ago. Or, if it was still in one piece, who knew in what lumber-room it might have been stowed away?

“Before we do anything,” Evelyn declared firmly, “I think we’d better go and see Uncle Marius.”

CHAPTER TWO. Evelyn and her mother go to see Uncle Marius. Fortunately, Mr. North had always taken proper care of his internal organs and so the filing-clerk can now look forward to retirement and spending gay week-ends in the company of pretty women on the Continent. He devises a plan for marketing old sales ledgers, but shortly afterwards is attacked by an ex-convict. In Mr. Bradford’s view Fate is like a boozy tailor. At this point, everybody leaves London; and Evelyn steps out of a pool of mud before going on board.

• 1 •

Mr. Marius Bradford had just closed the door of the fitting-room behind his last customer when Miss Weston arrived with her mother. Mr. Bradford was fond of his sister but he was even more attached to his niece. Since the death of his brother-in-law, he had done his best to act like a father to her. In point of fact, he was now the head of the family. For this reason, Evelyn and her mother, whenever they called on Mr. Bradford, would attach very great importance to anything he said. So now it was with a grave and ceremonious air that he placed old Hogan’s will before him and fished his spectacles from his breast-pocket. He read the document with concentrated attention.

“It seems to me,” he said after much silent deliberation, “that this Jim Hogan must have been inveterately workshy. I recently had in my employment an assistant who was a wonderful worker. He could face a topcoat, that fellow—something amazing. And yet I have been reluctantly compelled to fire him because the man is a boozer. That sort of thing is something I won’t have. Why, this very morning, Lord Otterburn—he’s one of my regular customers, you know—he said: ‘Look, Mr. Bradford, as things are at present…’”

Evelyn interrupted him impatiently.

“Uncle,” she said, “we’ve come here for your advice.

What are we to do? That crook’s going to be released tomorrow! We must do something immediately to forestall him…”

“Didn’t I tell you that old Mr. North, of Longson & North, is an old customer of mine? I used to make poor Mr. Longson’s clothes too. He died two years ago because of a neglected gallstone… All right, all right… I’ll ring him up.

He will be in at this hour, I except… Hallo! This is Mr. Bradford. Good afternoon, Mr. North. How do you like your new covert-coat?… I beg your pardon?… Oh no, I should say that’s impossible. I only recommend a first-class cloth like that to old customers… No, not about that, Mr. North. Er—I wonder if you can tell me the name of the person to whom you sold that statuette with the big diamond seventeen years ago… Please, Mr. North! No, I haven’t. Never in my life! I recently sacked my assistant for that very reason, sir… I’ll hand the receiver to my sister’s daughter; she’s very anxious to have a word with you…”

Evelyn managed to seize the receiver.

“This is Evelyn Weston. So sorry for this intrusion, Mr. North. I am seeking information about a statuette sold by your firm some years ago… I beg your pardon? Oh. Could you give me the man’s address please?”

She made a note on the margin of a fashion magazine lying beside her on the table, as she repeated the address:

“Austin Knickerbock… Number 4, Long Street… Thank you very much indeed, Mr. North. Good-bye.”

She hung up.

“There,” said Mr. Bradford. “You see, you needn’t jump at the drop of a hat, my dear. I will now continue to direct this business…”

“Mr. North says,” Evelyn interrupted, “that they have an old filing-clerk who writes circulars and calls on old customers soliciting orders. For this purpose he keeps the sales ledgers in his own home. There we can find all the old books belonging to the firm. The man’s name is Austin Knickerbock and he lives at 4, Long Street. Let’s go and look this fellow up straight away. We may even find him in now. That convict will soon be on the same track if he is really going to try to get hold of the diamond.”

“A very sensible plan,” Mr. Bradford agreed. “It’s the tailor who hesitates who makes a bad fit not the one who boldly shears away at his cloth.”

Mr. Bradford liked to illustrate his views with similes borrowed from the domain of sartorial art. He was just about to utter a maxim concerning the striking similarities to be observed between bad hats—figuratively speaking— and ready-to-wear morning coats, but Evelyn, assisted by Mrs. Weston, quickly extinguished the flow with his hat, which together they thrust onto his head prior to jerking him out into the street.

Electronic version:

EBook Hungary Ltd.

www.ekonyv.hu

Made by Ambrose Montanus & Péter Lágler

Fonts used

Noto Sans Symbols 2 – SIL Open Font License

Petrona – SIL Open Font License

Source Serif 4 – SIL Open Font License