“If you can’t remember, it can’t be urgent, and I’m working too, love. We don’t seem to be getting anywhere, justmarking time. I just rang to hear your voice. Now I’ve heard it, I’d better go and see what Tom’s waving at me. ’Night, sweetheart.”
“’Night, darling. I hope Tom has found something useful.”
But Tom hadn’t. Sighing, Alec picked up the next report. He was glad that Daisy had her own work, and that she wanted to continue with it when they were married. It kept her from moping when he had to work late—and it reduced the amount of time she could spare to meddle in his work.
The next day, Friday, was equally busy and equally fruitless. Sir Sidney Harmer had returned to London, and he was not at all happy that the two crimes in his museum were still not solved. Nonetheless, Alec decided a rest would do them all as much good as poring over the same reports once more. He sent his men home at five.
On his own way home, he stopped at Queen’s Hall and bought two concert tickets for that evening. Mendelssohn’sHebridesoverture and Dvorak’sNew Worldsymphony—those were safe—with between them a piano concerto by a young Russian, Prokofiev—risky, but with luck interesting. Anyway, he could be sure Daisy would not walk out.
He drove on home to ’phone her. Before he picked her up at seven thirty, he’d have a couple of hours with Belinda.
She met him on the doorstep. “Daddy, there’s anurgentmessage from work. They said to ring backright away!”
“Oh h … the dickens! Thanks, pet.”
A young Hebrew had brought his grandfather to the Yard. The old man was a jeweller. He might have information about the museum jewel theft and he was willing to talk to the detective in charge, but he must be home in Whitechapel by sunset, when the Sabbath began. After that,he would not discuss anything to do with his work until after sunset on Saturday.
Alec suppressed a groan. However inconvenient, this was what he had been waiting for. A spark of excitement flared. “I’m on my way. Tell them I’ll drive them home.” Hanging up, he glanced at his wristwatch. “Bel, sweetheart, I must ring Aunt Daisy. Be an angel and find me an apple and a bit of cheese, or something I can eat with one hand while driving.”
“Right-oh, Daddy.” Another of Daisy’s phrases Belinda had picked up, Alec thought fondly.
“Either I’ll be making an arrest,” he told Daisy, “or I’ll pick you up for the concert even if we only make the second half.”
“Right-oh. Good luck, darling.”
Belinda was back with a tin pie-pan draped with a napkin. He kissed her and his mother, who came out of the sitting room, and dashed back out to the car. Setting the pie-pan on the passenger seat beside him, he drove off.
The two Jews were waiting in an interview room. Alec was pleased to see they had been brought cups of tea, though the old man had not touched his. With prejudice so prevalent in society, the battle to keep it from affecting the dealings, if not the opinions, of the supposedly impartial police force was never-ending.
“Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher,” Alec introduced himself. “I’m in charge of the museum case.”
The young man jumped to his feet. Short, wiry, wide-awake, he wore a beautifully fitted suit, light grey, in a cheap material and with something subtly foreign about the cut. His shirt was pale blue; in place of collar and tie, he had a blue silk foulard around his neck.
“Joe Goldman.” His slight accent was pure East End with no hint of foreignness. Alec shook his hand. “This is myZeyde,my grandfather, Solomon Abramowitz. He’s got something to tell you.”
The old man was dressed in the traditional gabardine and black hat. Apart from that, he could have been Dr. Bentworth’s twin, another bent gnome with thick-lensed, gold-rimmed spectacles through which he peered uncertainly at Alec.
“I appreciate your coming in, sir. I gather you have information about the gems stolen from the Natural History Museum?”
“I t’ink so.” Abramowitz’s gnarled hands fumbled with a grubby sheet of paper on the table before him. Alec recognized the police circular. “Zis list—I have seen zese stones.”
“You bought them?”
“No, no, I do not buy and sell. I make. For men who like to give nice present but not have much money. For peoples who need to pawn good stones and vant no one knows. For ladies nervous to wear real jewels to big public dance. All sorts reasons. Very good glass gems I make; very exact I copy.”
“Zeyde’s a real, old-fashioned craftsman,” said Goldman, proud and affectionate.
“So the stones on the list were brought to you to be copied,” said Alec.
“Yes, all them. I not know is stolen, is wrong,” the old man said anxiously.
“I quite understand that, sir. There is no question of charges, I promise you.”
Abramowitz looked bewildered. His grandson spoke briefly in Yiddish and he nodded. “I am honest man,” he reaffirmed. “I believe Mr. Brown when he say …”
“Brown?” Alec interrupted. “That was the name he gave?”
“Brown,” the old man confirmed, shrugging. “Is not his name?”
