asked.
“We don’t know, sir. Whatever it was, he took it with him. Maybe a rope.” He shrugged. “We’ve had only a quick preliminary look around up there. We wanted to know what’s been stolen before we ... er ... See, we don’t want to waste our time for nothing.”
I nodded. Like Greville’s stolen shoes, I thought.
“This whole area round Hatton Garden is packed with the jewel trade. We get break-ins, or attempted break-ins, all the time.”
The other policeman said, “This place here is loaded with stones, of course, but the vault’s still shut and Mrs. Adams says nothing seems to be missing from the other stockrooms. Only Mr. Franklin has a key to the vault, which is where their more valuable faceted stones are kept.”
Mr. Franklin had no keys at all. Mr. Franklin’s keys were in my own pocket. There was no harm, I supposed, in producing them.
The sight of what must have been a familiar bunch brought tears to Annette Adams’s eyes. She put down the mug, searched around for a tissue and cried, “He really is dead, then,” as if she hadn’t thoroughly believed it before.
When she’d recovered a little I asked her to point out the vault key, which proved to be the longest and slenderest of the lot, and shortly afterward we were all walking through the propped-open door and down a central corridor with spacious offices opening to either side. Faces showing shock looked out at our passing. We stopped at an ordinary-looking door which might have been mistaken for a closet but certainly looked nothing like a vault.
“That’s it,” Annette Adams insisted, nodding; so I slid the narrow key into the small ordinary keyhole, and found that it turned unexpectedly counterclockwise. The thick and heavy door swung inward to the right under pressure and a light came on automatically, shining in what did indeed seem exactly like a large walk-in closet, with rows of white cardboard boxes on several plain white-painted shelves stretching away along the left-hand wall.
Everyone looked in silence. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
“Who knows what should be in the boxes?” I asked, and got the expected answer: my brother.
I took a step into the vault and took the lid off one of the nearest boxes, which bore a sticky label saying MgAl 2 O 4 , Burma. Inside the box there were about a dozen glossy white envelopes, each taking up the whole width. I lifted one out to open it.
“Be careful!” Annette Adams exclaimed, fearful of my clumsiness as I balanced on the crutches. “The packets unfold.”
I handed to her the one I held, and she unfolded it carefully on the palm of her hand. Inside, cushioned by white tissue, lay two large red translucent stones, cut and polished, oblong in shape, almost pulsing with intense color under the lights.
“Are they rubies?” I asked, impressed.
Annette Adams smiled indulgently. “No, they’re spinel. Very fine specimens. We rarely deal in rubies.”
“Are there any diamonds in here?” one of the policemen asked.
“No, we don’t deal in diamonds. Almost never.”
I asked her to look into some of the other boxes, which she did, first carefully folding the two red stones into their packet and restoring them to their right place. We watched her stretch and bend, tipping up random lids on several shelves to take out a white packet here and there for inspection, but there were clearly no dismaying surprises, and at the end she shook her head and said that nothing at all was missing, as far as she could see.
“The real value of these stones is in quantity,” she said. “Each individual stone isn’t worth a fortune. We sell stones in tens and hundreds ...” Her voice trailed off into a sort of forlornness. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, “about the orders.”
The policemen weren’t affected by the problem. If nothing was missing, they had other burglaries to look into, and they would put in a report, but goodbye for now, or words to that
“We don’t know, sir. Whatever it was, he took it with him. Maybe a rope.” He shrugged. “We’ve had only a quick preliminary look around up there. We wanted to know what’s been stolen before we ... er ... See, we don’t want to waste our time for nothing.”
I nodded. Like Greville’s stolen shoes, I thought.
“This whole area round Hatton Garden is packed with the jewel trade. We get break-ins, or attempted break-ins, all the time.”
The other policeman said, “This place here is loaded with stones, of course, but the vault’s still shut and Mrs. Adams says nothing seems to be missing from the other stockrooms. Only Mr. Franklin has a key to the vault, which is where their more valuable faceted stones are kept.”
Mr. Franklin had no keys at all. Mr. Franklin’s keys were in my own pocket. There was no harm, I supposed, in producing them.
The sight of what must have been a familiar bunch brought tears to Annette Adams’s eyes. She put down the mug, searched around for a tissue and cried, “He really is dead, then,” as if she hadn’t thoroughly believed it before.
When she’d recovered a little I asked her to point out the vault key, which proved to be the longest and slenderest of the lot, and shortly afterward we were all walking through the propped-open door and down a central corridor with spacious offices opening to either side. Faces showing shock looked out at our passing. We stopped at an ordinary-looking door which might have been mistaken for a closet but certainly looked nothing like a vault.
“That’s it,” Annette Adams insisted, nodding; so I slid the narrow key into the small ordinary keyhole, and found that it turned unexpectedly counterclockwise. The thick and heavy door swung inward to the right under pressure and a light came on automatically, shining in what did indeed seem exactly like a large walk-in closet, with rows of white cardboard boxes on several plain white-painted shelves stretching away along the left-hand wall.
Everyone looked in silence. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
“Who knows what should be in the boxes?” I asked, and got the expected answer: my brother.
I took a step into the vault and took the lid off one of the nearest boxes, which bore a sticky label saying MgAl 2 O 4 , Burma. Inside the box there were about a dozen glossy white envelopes, each taking up the whole width. I lifted one out to open it.
“Be careful!” Annette Adams exclaimed, fearful of my clumsiness as I balanced on the crutches. “The packets unfold.”
I handed to her the one I held, and she unfolded it carefully on the palm of her hand. Inside, cushioned by white tissue, lay two large red translucent stones, cut and polished, oblong in shape, almost pulsing with intense color under the lights.
“Are they rubies?” I asked, impressed.
Annette Adams smiled indulgently. “No, they’re spinel. Very fine specimens. We rarely deal in rubies.”
“Are there any diamonds in here?” one of the policemen asked.
“No, we don’t deal in diamonds. Almost never.”
I asked her to look into some of the other boxes, which she did, first carefully folding the two red stones into their packet and restoring them to their right place. We watched her stretch and bend, tipping up random lids on several shelves to take out a white packet here and there for inspection, but there were clearly no dismaying surprises, and at the end she shook her head and said that nothing at all was missing, as far as she could see.
“The real value of these stones is in quantity,” she said. “Each individual stone isn’t worth a fortune. We sell stones in tens and hundreds ...” Her voice trailed off into a sort of forlornness. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, “about the orders.”
The policemen weren’t affected by the problem. If nothing was missing, they had other burglaries to look into, and they would put in a report, but goodbye for now, or words to that
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