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162 pages

English

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Description

On the outskirts of London, the body of a murdered pawn shop proprietor is discovered, and all the early clues point toward a struggling writer who lives nearby. But as the dead man's possessions and records are sorted through, it is found that several fantastically valuable items -- including a renowned diamond -- are missing as well.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776535934
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND
* * *
J. S. FLETCHER

*
The Orange-Yellow Diamond First published in 1921 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-593-4 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-594-1 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter One - The Pretty Pawnbroker Chapter Two - Mrs. Goldmark's Eating-House Chapter Three - The Dead Man Chapter Four - The Platinum Solitaire Chapter Five - The Two Letters Chapter Six - The Spanish Manuscript Chapter Seven - The Member of Parliament Chapter Eight - The Inquest Chapter Nine - Whose Were Those Rings? Chapter Ten - Melky Intervenes Chapter Eleven - The Back Door Chapter Twelve - The Friend from Peebles Chapter Thirteen - The Call for Help Chapter Fourteen - The Private Laboratory Chapter Fifteen - Conference Chapter Sixteen - The Detective Calls Chapter Seventeen - What the Lamps Shone On Chapter Eighteen - Mr. Stuyvesant Guyler Chapter Nineteen - Purdie Stands Firm Chapter Twenty - The Parslett Affair Chapter Twenty-One - What Manner of Death? Chapter Twenty-Two - Mr. Killick Goes Back Chapter Twenty-Three - Mr. Killick's Opinion Chapter Twenty-Four - The Orange-Yellow Diamond Chapter Twenty-Five - The Dead Man's Property Chapter Twenty-Six - The Rat Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Empty House Chapter Twenty-Eight - The £500 Bank Note Chapter Twenty-Nine - Mr. Mori Yada Chapter Thirty - The Mortuary Chapter Thirty-One - The Mirandolet Theory Chapter Thirty-Two - One O'Clock Midnight Chapter Thirty-Three - Secret Work Chapter Thirty-Four - Baffled Chapter Thirty-Five - Yada Takes Charge Chapter Thirty-Six - Pilmansey's Tea Rooms Chapter Thirty-Seven - Chang Li Chapter Thirty-Eight - The Jew and the Jap Chapter Thirty-Nine - The Diamond Necklace
Chapter One - The Pretty Pawnbroker
*
On the southern edge of the populous parish of Paddington, in aparallelogram bounded by Oxford and Cambridge Terrace on the south,Praed Street on the north, and by Edgware Road on the east and SpringStreet on the west, lies an assemblage of mean streets, the drabdulness of which forms a remarkable contrast to the pretentiousarchitectural grandeurs of Sussex Square and Lancaster Gate, close by.In these streets the observant will always find all those evidences ofdepressing semi-poverty which are more evident in London than in anyother English city. The houses look as if laughter was never heardwithin them. Where the window blinds are not torn, they are dirty; thefolk who come out of the doors wear anxious and depressed faces. Suchshops as are there are mainly kept for the sale of food of poorquality: the taverns at the corners are destitute of attraction orpretension. Whoever wanders into these streets finds their sordidshabbiness communicating itself: he escapes, cast down, wondering whothe folk are who live in those grey, lifeless cages; what they do, whatthey think; how life strikes them. Even the very sparrows which fightin the gutters for garbage are less lively than London sparrows usuallyare; as for the children who sit about the doorsteps, they look as ifthe grass, the trees, the flowers, and the sunlight of the adjacentKensington Gardens were as far away as the Desert of Gobi. Within thisslice of the town, indeed, life is lived, as it were, in a stagnantbackwash, which nothing and nobody can stir.
In an upper room of one of the more respectable houses in one of thesomewhat superior streets of this neighbourhood, a young man stoodlooking out of the window one November afternoon. It was then fiveo'clock, and the darkness was coming: all day a gentle, never-ceasingrain had been bringing the soot down from the dark skies upon thealready dingy roofs. It was a dismal and miserable prospect upon whichthe watcher looked out, but not so miserable nor so dismal as thesituation in which he just then found himself. The mean street beneathhim was not more empty of cheerfulness than his pockets were empty ofmoney and his stomach of food. He had spent his last penny on theprevious day: it, and two other coppers, had gone on a mere mouthful offood and drink: since their disappearance he had eaten nothing. And hewas now growing faint with hunger—and to add to his pains, some one,downstairs, was cooking herrings. The smell of the frying-pan nearlydrove him ravenous.
He turned from the window presently and looked round at the small roombehind him. It was a poor, ill-furnished place—cleanliness, though ofa dingy sort, its only recommendation. There was a bed, and awashstand, and a chest of drawers, and a couple of chairs—a fewshillings would have purchased the lot at any second-hand dealer's. Ina corner stood the occupant's trunk—all the property he had in theworld was in it, save a few books which were carefully ranged on thechimney-piece, and certain writing materials that lay on a small table.A sharp eye, glancing at the books and the writing materials, and at afew sheets of manuscript scattered on the blotting-pad, would have beenquick to see that here was the old tale, once more being lived out, ofthe literary aspirant who, at the very beginning of his career, wasfinding, by bitter experience, that, of all callings, that ofliterature is the most precarious.
A half-hesitating tap at the door prefaced the entrance of a woman—thesort of woman who is seen in those streets by the score—a tallish,thinnish woman, old before her time, perpetually harassed, alwaysanxious, always looking as if she expected misfortune. Her face wasfull of anxiety now as she glanced at her lodger—who, on his part,flushed all over his handsome young face with conscious embarrassment.He knew very well what the woman wanted—and he was powerless torespond to her appeal.
"Mr. Lauriston," she said in a half whisper, "when do you think you'llbe able to let me have a bit of money? It's going on for six weeks now,you know, and I'm that put to it, what with the rent, and the rates—"
Andrew Lauriston shook his head—not in denial, but in sheer perplexity.
"Mrs. Flitwick," he answered, "I'll give you your money the very minuteI get hold of it! I told you the other day I'd sold two stories—well,I've asked to be paid for them at once, and the cheque might be here byany post. And I'm expecting another cheque, too—I'm surprised theyaren't both here by this time. The minute they arrive, I'll settle withyou. I'm wanting money myself—as badly as you are!"
"I know that, Mr. Lauriston," assented Mrs. Flitwick, "and I wouldn'tbother you if I wasn't right pressed, myself. But there's the landlordat me—he wants money tonight. And—you'll excuse me for mentioningit—but, till you get your cheques, Mr. Lauriston, why don't you raisea bit of ready money?"
Lauriston looked round at his landlady with an air of surprised enquiry.
"And how would I do that?" he asked.
"You've a right good gold watch, Mr. Lauriston," she answered. "Anypawnbroker—and there's plenty of 'em, I'm sure!—'ud lend you a fewpounds on that. Perhaps you've never had occasion to go to a pawnbrokerbefore? No?—well, and I hadn't once upon a time, but I've had to,whether or no, since I came to letting lodgings, and if I'd as good awatch as yours is, I wouldn't go without money in my pocket! If you'vemoney coming in, you can always get your goods back—and I should bethankful for something, Mr. Lauriston, if it was but a couple o'pounds. My landlord's that hard—"
Lauriston turned and picked up his hat.
"All right, Mrs. Flitwick," he said quietly. "I'll see what I can do.I—I'd never even thought of it."
When the woman had gone away, closing the door behind her, he pulledthe watch out of his pocket and looked at it—an old-fashioned, good,gold watch, which had been his father's. No doubt a pawnbroker wouldlend money on it. But until then he had never had occasion to think ofpawnbrokers. He had come to London nearly two years before, intendingto make name, fame, and fortune by his pen. He had a little money to begoing on with—when he came. It had dwindled steadily, and it had beenharder to replace it than he had calculated for. And at last there hewas, in that cheap lodging, and at the end of his resources, and thecheque for his first two accepted stories had not arrived. Neither hada loan which, sorely against his will, he had been driven to requestfrom the only man he could think of—an old schoolmate, far away inScotland. He had listened for the postman's knock, hoping it wouldbring relief, for four long days—and not one letter had come, and hewas despairing and heartsick. But—there was the watch!
He went out presently, and on the stair, feebly lighted by a jet ofgas, he ran up against a fellow-lodger—a young Jew, whom he knew bythe name of Mr. Melchior Rubinstein, who occupied the rooms immediatelybeneath his own. He was a quiet, affable little person, with whomLauriston sometimes exchanged a word or two—and the fact that hesported rings on his fingers, a large pin in his tie, and a heavywatch-chain, which was either real gold or a very good imitation, madeLauriston think that he would give him some advice. He stoppedhim—with a shy look, and an awkward blush.
"I say!" he said. "I—the fact is, I'm a bit hard up—temporarily, youknow—and I want to borrow some money on my watch. Could you tell mewhere there's a respectable pawnbroker's?"
Melky—known to every one in the house by that familiar substitute forhis more pretentious name—turned up the gas-jet and then held out aslender, long-fingered hand. "Let's look at the watch," he said