Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

I suppose I have to say that dinner was an interesting enough occasion, though we were not a large party. The other guests were an elderly widow, one Lady Whitechurch, with her niece and companion, Cynthia. There was the editor of a large and conservative newspaper and his wife and a local magistrate and his wife. Cynthia was an attractive girl; I judged that she had the potential to be lively in the right company, but she was very much overshadowed by her aunt. Lady Whitechurch and the rest of the guests, by contrast, were anything but lively. Indeed, I have never encountered a duller crowd of people; I could half believe that Morgan might have wanted Raffles and myself to add a little sparkle to the proceedings. I determined to earn my corn, then, and attempted to engage my neighbours in conversation, only to be rebuffed at every overture. Lady Whitechurch was particularly offhand with me.

In a somewhat sulky silence, I ate my dinner, which was excellent, and covertly observed the company with a more professional eye. Our host wore a large and ostentatious diamond pin, and another large diamond glittered on his finger. The other men had no jewellery, and I turned to the ladies. Cynthia wore a string of pearls, not very valuable but they suited her complexion; the wives of the newspaper man and the JP both had diamonds, nice enough but nothing special; and Lady Whitechurch had some old emeralds not unworthy of the attention of the lawless individual. But it was Mrs. Morgan’s necklace which caught my attention and held it all through the meal. I do not know the correct technical term — the word scapular comes to mind, but I cannot remember if it means a style of jewellery or a bone in the human body — in any event, it was a cross between a necklace and a breastplate, some six inches at its deepest, the whole thing being a sort of crescent shape, white gold with the largest and finest diamonds I ever saw, and so many of them, too! I saw Raffles give it a casual glance, then avoid looking again, but he caught my eye and nodded, just slightly.

There was some desultory conversation after dinner, and I managed to get Raffles on one side. “You saw it?” I asked without preamble.

“One could hardly miss it!” he said, laughing.

“Well?”

“Tempting, I allow. But tell me, what d’you say to our fellow guests?”

“The drabbest crowd of bores I ever met. Cynthia excepted, of course.”

“Dull, but worthy?”

“I suppose so.” I regarded him suspiciously. “And — oh! Excellent witnesses, you mean?”

“You surpass yourself, Bunny. Certainly they were not asked for their brilliant conversation. But witnesses to what, I wonder?”

We soon found out. The rest of them very soon excused themselves and went to bed, exactly as one might have predicted. As Raffles and I were about to do the same, Morgan, the only one left in the room apart from ourselves, said, “Mr. Raffles, I should be grateful for a word with you, and—” with a contemptuous look at me “—your friend.”

“Ah. I was rather expecting that,” said Raffles.

Morgan raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing as he led us to his private study and closed the door. “You noticed my wife’s diamonds?” he asked, without even offering us a drink or a cigarette.

“I thought them rather fine,” agreed Raffles.

“I want you to steal them. Tomorrow will do.”

I think I must have leapt out of my chair, but Raffles never turned a hair. He lit a Sullivan, and said, “I do not think I heard you correctly, sir.”

“Oh, you heard me all right!” Morgan opened a drawer of his desk, and produced a sheet of paper. “I’ve watched your career with some interest, Mr. Raffles, and I don’t mean your cricket. It is rather odd that many of the house parties you have attended have been blighted with burglaries, is it not?”

Raffles shrugged a shoulder. “Scotland Yard have thought the same, as I understand it. But they have not thus far insulted me with a direct accusation.”

“Oh, I don’t deny that you’ve been clever,” Morgan conceded. “I might well have done the same as Scotland Yard and dismissed it as some monstrous coincidence. But, you see, I have something which Scotland Yard does not have.” And he waved the sheet of paper at us.

“Indeed?”

“Indeed, Mr. Raffles. Tell me, does the name — mean anything to you?”

I started again, for the name he mentioned was that of a fence, a receiver of stolen goods, with whom Raffles had had dealings in the past.

Morgan nodded at me. “Your friend could do with some of your self-control, Mr. Raffles,” he said offensively. “I think we can drop the pretence.”

“Well, and suppose the name does mean anything? What does this mysterious person say?”

“Everything, Mr. Raffles, everything. Descriptions of the goods you sold him, dates and times, and prices.”

“Let me see if I interpret you correctly,” said Raffles calmly. “You propose to keep this information to yourself, provided I steal your wife’s diamonds?”