XXII
"It was high noon in the city of Antwerp. From slender steeplesfloated the mellow music of the Flemish bells, and in the spire of thegreat cathedral across the square the cracked chimes clashed discordsuntil my ears ached.
"When the fiend in the cathedral had jerked the last tuneless clangfrom the chimes, I removed my fingers from my ears and sat down at oneof the iron tables in the court. A waiter, with his face shaved blue,brought me a bottle of Rhine wine, a tumbler of cracked ice, and asiphon.
"'Does monsieur desire anything else?' he inquired.
"'Yes--the head of the cathedral bell-ringer; bring it with vinegarand potatoes,' I said, bitterly. Then I began to ponder on mygreat-aunt and the Crimson Diamond.
"The white walls of the Hotel St. Antoine rose in a rectangle aroundthe sunny court, casting long shadows across the basin of thefountain. The strip of blue overhead was cloudless. Sparrows twitteredunder the eaves the yellow awnings fluttered, the flowers swayed inthe summer breeze, and the jet of the fountain splashed among thewater-plants. On the sunny side of the piazza the tables were vacant;on the shady side I was lazily aware that the tables behind me wereoccupied, but I was indifferent as to their occupants, partly becauseI shunned all tourists, partly because I was thinking of mygreat-aunt.
"Most old ladies are eccentric, but there is a limit, and mygreat-aunt had overstepped it. I had believed her to be wealthy--shedied bankrupt. Still, I knew there was one thing she did possess, andthat was the famous Crimson Diamond. Now, of course, you know who mygreat-aunt was.
"Excepting the Koh-i-noor and the Regent, this enormous and uniquestone was, as everybody knows, the most valuable gem in existence. Anyordinary person would have placed that diamond in a safe-deposit. Mygreat-aunt did nothing of the kind. She kept it in a small velvet bag,which she carried about her neck. She never took it off, but wore itdangling openly on her heavy silk gown.
"In this same bag she also carried dried catnip-leaves, of which shewas inordinately fond. Nobody but myself, her only living relative,knew that the Crimson Diamond lay among the sprigs of catnip in thelittle velvet bag.
"'Harold,' she would say, 'do you think I'm a fool? If I place theCrimson Diamond in any safe-deposit vault in New York, somebody willsteal it, sooner or later.' Then she would nibble a sprig of catnipand peer cunningly at me. I loathed the odor of catnip and she knewit. I also loathed cats. This also she knew, and of course surroundedherself with a dozen. Poor old lady! One day she was found dead in herbed in her apartments at the Waldorf. The doctor said she died fromnatural causes. The only other occupant of her sleeping-room was acat. The cat fled when we broke open the door, and I heard that shewas received and cherished by some eccentric people in a neighboringapartment.
"Now, although my great-aunt's death was due to purely natural causes,there was one very startling and disagreeable feature of the case. Thevelvet bag containing the Crimson Diamond had disappeared. Every inchof the apartment was searched, the floors torn up, the wallsdismantled, but the Crimson Diamond had vanished. Chief of PoliceConlon detailed four of his best men on the case, and, as I hadnothing better to do, I enrolled myself as a volunteer. I also offered$25,000 reward for the recovery of the gem. All New York was agog.
"The case seemed hopeless enough, although there were five of us afterthe thief. McFarlane was in London, and had been for a month, butScotland Yard could give him no help, and the last I heard of him hewas roaming through Surrey after a man with a white spot in his hair.Harrison had gone to Paris. He kept writing me that clews were plentyand the scent hot, but as Dennet, in Berlin, and Clancy, in Vienna,wrote me the same thing, I began to doubt these gentlemen's ability.
"'You say,' I answered Harrison, 'that the fellow is a Frenchman, andthat he is now concealed in Paris; but Dennet writes me by the samemail that the thief is undoubtedly a German, and was seen yesterday inBerlin. To-day I received a letter from Clancy, assuring me thatVienna holds the culprit, and that he is an Austrian from Trieste.Now, for Heaven's sake,' I ended, 'let me alone and stop writing meletters until you have something to write about.'
"The night-clerk at the Waldorf had furnished us with our first clew.On the night of my aunt's death he had seen a tall, grave-faced manhurriedly leave the hotel. As the man passed the desk he removed hishat and mopped his forehead, and the night-clerk noticed that in themiddle of his head there was a patch of hair as white as snow.
"We worked this clew for all it was worth, and, a month later, Ireceived a cable despatch from Paris, saying that a man answering tothe description of the Waldorf suspect had offered an enormous crimsondiamond for sale to a jeweller in the Palais Royal. Unfortunately thefellow took fright and disappeared before the jeweller could send forthe police, and since that time McFarlane in London, Harrison inParis, Dennet in Berlin, and Clancy in Vienna had been chasing menwith white patches on their hair until no gray-headed patriarch inEurope was free from suspicion. I myself had sleuthed it throughEngland, France, Holland, and Belgium, and now I found myself inAntwerp at the Hotel St. Antoine, without a clew that promisedanything except another outrage on some respectable white-hairedcitizen. The case seemed hopeless enough, unless the thief tried againto sell the gem. Here was our only hope, for, unless he cut the stoneinto smaller ones, he had no more chance of selling it than he wouldhave had if he had stolen the Venus of Milo and peddled her about theRue de Seine. Even were he to cut up the stone, no respectable gemcollector or jeweller would buy a crimson diamond without firstnotifying me; for although a few red stones are known to collectors,the color of the Crimson Diamond was absolutely unique, and there waslittle probability of an honest mistake.
"Thinking of all these things, I sat sipping my Rhine wine in theshadow of the yellow awnings. A large white cat came sauntering by andstopped in front of me to perform her toilet, until I wished she wouldgo away. After a while she sat up, licked her whiskers, yawned once ortwice, and was about to stroll on, when, catching sight of me, shestopped short and looked me squarely in the face. I returned theattention with a scowl, because I wished to discourage any advancestowards social intercourse which she might contemplate; but after awhile her steady gaze disconcerted me, and I turned to my Rhine wine.A few minutes later I looked up again. The cat was still eying me.
"'Now what the devil is the matter with the animal,' I muttered; 'doesshe recognize in me a relative?'
"'Perhaps,' observed a man at the next table.
"'What do you mean by that?' I demanded.
"'What I say,' replied the man at the next table.
"I looked him full in the face. He was old and bald and appearedweak-minded. His age protected his impudence. I turned my back on him.Then my eyes fell on the cat again. She was still gazing earnestly atme.
"Disgusted that she should take such pointed public notice of me, Iwondered whether other people saw it; I wondered whether there wasanything peculiar in my own personal appearance. How hard the creaturestared! It was most embarrassing.
"'What has got into that cat?' I thought. 'It's sheer impudence. It'san intrusion, and I won't stand it!' The cat did not move. I tried tostare her out of countenance. It was useless. There was aggressiveinquiry in her yellow eyes. A sensation of uneasiness began to stealover me--a sensation of embarrassment not unmixed with awe. All catslooked alike to me, and yet there was something about this one thatbothered me--something that I could not explain to myself, but whichbegan to occupy me.
"She looked familiar--this Antwerp cat. An odd sense of having seenher before, of having been well acquainted with her in former years,slowly settled in my mind, and, although I could never remember thetime when I had not detested cats, I was almost convinced that myrelations with this Antwerp tabby had once been intimate if notcordial. I looked more closely at the animal. Then an idea struckme--an idea which persisted and took definite shape in spite of me. Istrove to escape from it, to evade it, to stifle and smother it; aninward struggle ensued which brought the perspiration in beads upon mycheeks--a strug
gle short, sharp, decisive. It was useless--useless totry to put it from me--this idea so wretchedly bizarre, so grotesqueand fantastic, so utterly inane--it was useless to deny that the catbore a distinct resemblance to my great-aunt!
"I gazed at her in horror. What enormous eyes the creature had!
"'Blood is thicker than water,' said the man at the next table.
"'What does he mean by that?' I muttered, angrily, swallowing atumbler of Rhine wine and seltzer. But I did not turn. What was theuse?
"'Chattering old imbecile,' I added to myself, and struck a match, formy cigar was out; but, as I raised the match to relight it, Iencountered the cat's eyes again. I could not enjoy my cigar with theanimal staring at me, but I was justly indignant, and I did not intendto be routed. 'The idea! Forced to leave for a cat!' I sneered. 'Wewill see who will be the one to go!' I tried to give her a jet ofseltzer from the siphon, but the bottle was too nearly empty to carryfar. Then I attempted to lure her nearer, calling her in French,German, and English, but she did not stir. I did not know the Flemishfor 'cat.'
"'She's got a name, and won't come,' I thought. 'Now, what under thesun can I call her?'
"'Aunty,' suggested the man at the next table.
"I sat perfectly still. Could that man have answered my thoughts?--forI had not spoken aloud. Of course not--it was a coincidence--but avery disgusting one.
"'Aunty,' I repeated, mechanically, 'aunty, aunty--good gracious, howhorribly human that cat looks!' Then, somehow or other, Shakespeare'swords crept into my head and I found myself repeating: 'The soul of mygrandam might haply inhabit a bird; the soul of--nonsense!' Igrowled--'it isn't printed correctly! One might possibly say, speakingin poetical metaphor, that the soul of a bird might haply inhabitone's grandam--' I stopped short, flushing painfully. 'What awfulrot!' I murmured, and lighted another cigar. The cat was stillstaring; the cigar went out. I grew more and more nervous. 'What rot!'I repeated. 'Pythagoras must have been an ass, but I do believe thereare plenty of asses alive to-day who swallow that sort of thing.'
"'Who knows?' sighed the man at the next table, and I sprang to myfeet and wheeled about. But I only caught a glimpse of a pair offrayed coat-tails and a bald head vanishing into the dining-room. Isat down again, thoroughly indignant. A moment later the cat got upand went away.