“I wish I knew!” Alec wondered if it was ffinch-Brown, or a simple alias, or if he was altogether on the wrong track.
“Smith, Jones, Brown.” Young Goldman laughed.
“Brown,” his grandfather insisted. “I write in my book, so.” He took a diary from a pocket and slowly turned the pages, holding it a couple of inches from his eyes. “Many people give not own name. He say he has bought gems for investment, but his wife vants to vear. She is careless woman, often loses t’ings, so he comes to me. Here, see, Mr. Policeman.”
He handed over the notebook. The writing was large and shaky and—to Alec—totally incomprehensible, in an unknown alphabet.
Seeing Alec’s blank face, Goldman took the notebook from him. “Brown, evening,” he translated, “and the date is Monday the second of July.”
“Thank you. It fits nicely.” The first day of Pettigrew’s holiday. “But I assume, sir, you can’t have made the copies on the spot?”
“No, no, Mr. Brown stay with me for all night, tell wife he is avay for business. I make many measurements, drawings, photographs, notes of colours. Vas much hurry, but no fancy settings to vorry. Early, very early in morning, he take stones and go.”
“He must have smuggled them back into the museum,” said Goldman admiringly, “and put ’em back so nobody knew they’d been gone, then pinched them again later on.”
“Vun veek and some days he give me to make.”
Goldman found the next entry. “Brown, midday. Friday the thirteenth.”
Not generally regarded as an auspicious date. It hadworked for “Brown.” Pettigrew had returned to the museum the following Monday and noticed nothing wrong.
“Brown” had gone on his lunch hour to pick up the fakes. He must have stayed at work late that evening, made the substitution … and done what with the real gems?
Abramowitz was getting restless, muttering something in Yiddish to his grandson.
“Sorry,” said Alec, “you wanted to be home by sunset.”
“The old people think it’s wrong to travel or work on the Sabbath,” Goldman said indulgently.
“I’ll get you there.” Thanks to Summer Time. Now for the all-important question: “What did Brown look like, sir?”
“Dark clo’es. Hat. Big man.”
Looking at the bespectacled gnome, Alec’s heart sank. “Big wide or big tall?”
Abramowitz gestured vaguely. “Big,” he repeated.
Goldman confirmed Alec’s fears. “Zeydethinks I’m big. He does close work with a jeweller’s glass, of course, but he’s practically blind without it.”
Alec swallowed an oath. Without much hope, he asked, “What about his voice. Did he have any kind of accent?”
“No, he speak good English.”
At best it was another indication that the Grand Duke was not responsible for the theft. Neither Ruddlestone’s Lancashire nor Witt’s public-school pronunciation would make any impression on an immigrant from Central Europe.
“I hope we haven’t wasted your time, sir,” said Goldman rather anxiously, as if he expected imminent arrest for obstructing the police in the course of their duties.
“Not at all,” Alec reassured him. “The dates and times give us something to work on. It’s always possible the name may prove useful, though it doesn’t seem likely. Most of all, we now don’t need to waste any further effort looking for themaker of the imitations. No, as I said before, we very much appreciate your coming forward, gentlemen. And now let me drive you home.”
Rescuing his dinner just as Abramowitz was about to sit on it, Alec transferred it to the Austin’s back seat, beside Goldman. He delivered them to Whitechapel just before the sun touched the horizon.
“I’ll have a constable drop in on Sunday, sir,” he said to the old man, “just in case you remember anything else. And we may have to take a formal statement at a later date.”
Leaving Goldman explaining this to his grandfather, Alec hurried back towards Chelsea, eating on the way. Dobson and Bel had done him proud, with cold chicken and cheese cut to bite size, a raw carrot, an apple sliced and cored, a bread-and-butter sandwich, and two of Bel’s rock buns. These last were much less rocklike than her first effort, made months ago in Daisy’s honour.
In Mulberry Place, Daisy was watching at the sitting-room window. She dashed out to the car before Alec had time to do more than get out and go around to open the passenger-side door for her.
“No arrest,” she commiserated, “but the concert sounds simply spiffing, darling. What happened?”
