Chapter 25

"THIMBLE, THIMBLE----"

It is needless to dwell upon the scene in Alfred Fluette's study; I shall take up merely such details as constitute an integral part of this memoir, and hurry along.

After Genevieve had led Belle away, Mr. Fluette quickly mastered himself. The bitter moment of the confession once passed, it seemed as if his mind had been relieved of a great burden, and he talked to me with comparative unreserve. But his appearance was in pitiable contrast with what it must have been before he wandered into devious ways. He was crushed, his mien one of hopeless submission to whatever the future might have in store for him.

"First of all," he began, with impressive earnestness, "I want to emphasize the fact that when I snuffed out that man's life I was in imminent peril of my own. When I snatched up the candlestick, if ever a man had murder in his heart Felix Page had at that moment.

"The rest was automatic; I could no more have stayed the deadly blow than I can now hope to escape its consequences. Revolt from almost a lifetime of pitiless, persistent persecution filled me with an irresistible impulse to destroy and rendered my arm invincible."

I went with him, step by step, over the ground that is already familiar. Felix Page had ever been the thorn in his flesh.

"It wasn't as if I had a tangible enemy," he declared; "he would n't come out into the open and fight. His aims were always petty, he perpetually annoyed and harassed me by mean and ignoble ways, which I was obliged to bear with an assumption of ignoring them, or else lower myself to his level to meet them. Any bold, decisive stroke would at least have won my respect; but no, the cunning hound knew that my disposition could not forever turn aside his sly thrusts; he knew that, by degrees but inevitably, he was warping my nature, slowly but surely destroying all that was best in me.

"Well," bitterly, "he has succeeded. He has ruined me not only financially, but body and soul as well.

"Time and time again he flaunted in my face some old letters which my wife wrote when she was a mere girl. They were such as any artless, inexperienced girl might write to a man who has for the moment captured her fancy; but how could that be made clear to a public ever greedy for scandal? How would those letters read in the light of my wife's years and the dignity of her present position? Yet the scoundrel has threatened me times without number that he would scatter them broadcast.

"Then--the ruby: that was a crowning stroke. He deliberately stepped in and wrested it from my grasp simply because he in some way found out that I had set my heart upon it for my collection. It was as if he perpetually had his fingers upon the pulse of my desires and intentions; he seemed to divine and anticipate my every move.

"But I was soon reconciled to the stone's loss, and I would have remained so had it not been for that creature, Burke. When he put the idea into my mind that perhaps Page had no legal title to it, I was tempted--and I fell. He presented to me too good an opportunity to retaliate for me to let it pass.

"It was a foolish thing for me to do, going to his house that fatal Tuesday night; but there was no other way. Burke was willing to procure the stone from its hiding-place, but flatly refused to assume the risk of conveying it through the streets. Page was to be away from town that night, so in an evil moment I decided to take the chance.

"You know what happened. I failed to get the gem that night; your unrelaxing vigilance prevented Burke from getting at where he supposed he had hidden it, and at last the Burmese determined to make the attempt Thursday night. Friday morning I was to have again met Tshen-byo-yen to close the deal for the stone, when one of his henchmen notified Burke and me that the attempt had been a failure, that they had succeeded in securing only the replica. We both charged Burke with double-dealing."

I started suddenly at his last words; a possibility had flashed into my mind, so huge and significant that I could comprehend it only by degrees. I spoke with quick eagerness.

"Mr. Fluette, do you think the Burmese would have devoted all these years to recovering the jewel, if they were willing to sell it to the first would-be purchaser that happened along? Doesn't that strike you as a bit peculiar?--as being inconsistent with their unflagging zeal, their tireless efforts to regain what they contend was once stolen from them? Those fellows are very far from home, please bear in mind."

"I never before regarded it in that light," he thoughtfully returned.

He was not interested, and did not press me for an explanation. But his suggestion of Burke's double-dealing had given me an idea which was clearing away one dark corner of the puzzle: the possibility was opening up more rapidly. I looked at him shrewdly.

"Just how did Maillot's story of his experience with Page impress you?" I asked.

He gave me a quick glance.

"It was amazing. I could not believe that Maillot was wilfully fabricating; yet, to accept his extraordinary story left me, as the only alternative, a conviction that Felix Page had either undergone a change of heart, or else had lost his mind."

"It did n't occur to you that Page might be trying a game of his own?"

"No."

"Did you ever see the replica?" I asked.

"Yes, many times. It is a remarkably excellent imitation--silicate of alumina; the weight, color, and hardness, the measurements--table, girdle, and _culasse_--all correspond exactly with the original. It lacks only in density, and perhaps a trifle in--but no; it would require an expert test to determine that it was not a true ruby."

"Then," I eagerly pursued, "even an expert might be imposed upon by the replica?"

"Well," he slowly admitted, "perhaps--yes. But not for long; men who deal in precious stones after a time develop a sort of sixth sense that protects them against imposition. It is too subtle to define; but any diamond merchant will tell you that the most perfect imitation will raise a doubt in his mind as to its genuineness; a true stone, never."

When I considered his special knowledge of the subject in general, and of the Paternoster ruby in particular, I was astounded at his obtuseness. Later, I was no less astounded at my own.

"Is it possible, Mr. Fluette," I went on, with an enthusiasm which he did not in the least share, "that it never occurred to you what Burke's game might be? With the connivance of these Burmese, he was deliberately attempting to swindle you; he meant to practise the old familiar game of 'switching' the false for the real stone. The Burmese want the stone, not the money without the stone; but for a generous share in the proceeds, they were willing to lend themselves to Burke's fraud. There 's the Oriental for you."

The man stared at me dully. I continued, warming with the subject.

"And Felix Page--he was craftier than even you give him credit for. Mr. Fluette, there 's nothing extraordinary in Maillot's story of his Tuesday night adventure--except our stupidity in comprehending its real significance.

"Remember Page's strict injunction to Maillot not to let the jewel-case out of his possession until he and Miss Belle were married; think of the alacrity with which he acceded to Maillot's request; think of his sly chuckles and furtive manner, of his attitude during the whole of that remarkable conference, and tell me what it means if he, too, didn't intend palming off the false stone on you? Maillot and Miss Belle once married, then the young man--in complete innocence, to be sure--would have handed you, not the ruby, but--the replica."

Slowly the dull look died out in Alfred Fluette's eyes, and in spite of his distress, his face flushed darkly with anger.

"The hound!" he muttered through his clenched teeth. "What a dupe I 've been. But," he added, with kindling interest, "where _is_ the ruby, then?"

"Ah, precisely. That's what I would like to know myself. I think, however, I have the key that will unlock its hiding-place, when I learn how to use it." And I showed him the cipher. He shook his head over it; it was utterly meaningless to him.

There was one phase of our conference concerning which I insisted that the wretched man be minutely circumstantial. Our talk touching upon this point was much too painful for me to reproduce here in its entirety; but after I had almost literally dragged from him every minute detail of the actual tragedy, I felt justified in offering a word of encouragement.

It is sufficient simply to record now the point brought out, to supplement it with certain details acquired from Burke, and to state that it had a vital bearing upon the outcome of the case. The Page affair was by no means closed yet.

When Mr. Fluette struck the blow with the candlestick he was standing at the angle of the balustrade nearest the rooms which Burke and Maillot were occupying. Mr. Page was facing in that direction--that is, toward the west--and consequently his left side was opposed to the balustrade. Such were the respective positions of the two men at the instant the candlestick was snatched from the floor.

Immediately after the blow was struck both Burke and Fluette were thrown into a panic. The latter at once ran wildly down the front stairs, stumbling over the body on the landing, and out at the front door and away. Burke followed hastily after him, his teeth chattering with fright, and promptly bolted the front door. The act was accomplished so soon after the flight that Fluette, overcome with horror at his deed, distinctly heard the bolt shoot while he was speeding down the walk.

Burke had already informed me that after he made fast the front door he ran back to the rear stairs--he was afraid to pass again the body on the landing--where he observed the rear door wide-open. This he also closed and locked, then hurried up to the second floor, being governed by only one idea--to secure, as quickly as he possibly could, Maillot's companionship.

Between the instant he started to follow Fluette down-stairs and the time he stood rapping at Maillot's door, he had consumed much less than a minute. Some time later he thought of the Burmese, but when he looked into his room it was empty. The open back door accounted for their absence.

When I departed from Alfred Fluette--and I did that very thing; walked deliberately away from him, leaving him hopeful in the midst of his household--my heart was exultant, although I had in contemplation a task that might have dismayed Hercules.

But sometimes, usually when we are least expecting it, or when we are getting our affairs into too much of a muddle. Providence intervenes, and with a decisive stroke straightens matters out for us. After all, it is ridiculous wasting so much time and energy in rough-hewing our ends, when the shaping lies with other hands than ours. On this day of days Providence appeared in the guise of Dr. Wentworth De Breen.

His buggy drew up at the curb beside me.

"Hullo!" was his gruff salutation.

I was pleased at the meeting.

"The very man I was wanting to see," said I. "How many hospitals are there in the city and the immediate vicinity?"

He eyed me in his customary serious, intent manner. I amplified:

"I have n't the least idea, you know. Perhaps I could name a dozen, perhaps a score; but there might be five hundred. Anyhow, I have to search them all--or, until I find what I want."

"The deuce you have!" he jerked out. "Anything to do with your ruby case?"

"Everything," said I.

"Well!" He stared at me a moment, then with a sudden movement whipped the fur lap-robe aside. "Get in here," he commanded, in his abrupt manner.

The next instant I was seated beside him, and his spirited mare was dashing along the street at a pace which I regarded as altogether too reckless. Dr. De Breen had a weakness for spirited horses, and he handled them with a careless ease that never failed to excite in me a secret envy; for--I here confess it--I always have been a bit afraid of horses, whether spirited or not; not much, but just enough to make me cautious. I never take any liberties with even a blind and spavined derelict.

"What d'ye want to find?" he bluntly asked, after we had ridden the better part of five minutes in silence.

"A disabled Burmese," was the reply. "I trust to find some part of his upper-works in a more or less damaged condition."

"Burmese!" he echoed in an exclamation. "Good. I win. Larrimer bet me a five he was a Javanese." The doctor sniffed scornfully, "Devilish lot Larrimer knows about ethnology." He then became lucid.

"Larrimer's head at the Drevel Hospital, y' know; deuced clever at the operating-table, but set in his ideas. Lord, dynamite would n't move him; stubborn's no name for it.

"Your Burmese is there: triple fracture of the left parietal, left clavicle and bladebone badly crushed; trephined him last night. Beggar 'll die."

"It certainly sounds serious enough," commented I. "Is the parietal a part of his upper-works?"

He jabbed with the tip of one gloved finger the side of my head nearest him, which happened to be the right.

"That's your right parietal," he explained; "the left one 's on the other side."

"Thank Heaven for sending you across my path this day!"--fervently. "That's my man."

The doctor was a good deal of a scoffer. "Heaven had nothing to do with it," said he, with unnecessary asperity. "I knew you 'd be wanting to see him; I was hunting for you. Beggar speaks English fairly well, and he let out a word or two that made me think he knew something you ought to know. . . . Whoa! Jump out!"

We entered the hospital, and soon were at the bedside of the dying man. The operation had relieved the brain from the pressure of the fractured skull, and the man's wanderings were interspersed with rational periods, during which his story was taken down in shorthand, with infinite difficulty, by the hospital's stenographer. I have taken the liberty of preparing a summary from the long rambling account, sufficient to show my justification for anticipating that the case was on the eve of taking an unexpected turn, and to satisfy the curious respecting certain aspects of the ruby's history.

The man, whose name was Chaya, was a priest of the temple at Tounghain, Upper Burma, "where the sublime Da-Fou-Jan sits in eternal meditation among the thousand caverns that lie beyond Mandalay." His companions were also priests, and Tshen-byo-yen was a wealthy noble of the district, whose family was accountable to the king for the safeguarding of the temple's sacred relic--the "Heart of Budda." Thus was the great ruby known, and the rich crimson jewel was averred by tradition to be nothing less holy than the actual blood of "the Perfectly Enlightened One," bestowed upon mankind in an imperishable form.

Naturally, the gem was greatly venerated and not to be profaned by impious hands. But in the time of Tshen's father, it was stolen from the temple by an English adventurer, who succeeded in escaping out of the country with it and making his way to London.

However, a curse went with the ruby. In the temple its influence was beneficent, its crimson glow benignant and abounding with blessings for all true believers; but when desecrated by the plundering vandal's touch it became a great power for evil.

Therefore it came to pass that by the time the reckless Englishman set foot upon his native soil he was only too glad to part with his ill-gotten treasure at almost any price. He was in rags, starving and broken in health.

Thus it was that the rough, uncut gem passed into the possession of Luca Paternostro.

The recovery of the Heart of Budda straightway became a sacred charge upon all the priests. Tshen's father devoted his entire fortune to the cause. With infinite patience, laboring tirelessly, the Burmese never lost sight of their precious relic; but in England they soon found that conditions were vastly different from those of their home country. It was impossible to approach the object which they coveted; and their opinion of legal redress was based upon their familiarity with what passed for justice in Burma. But they never grew disheartened; and at last their opportunity came.

It was Tshen's father who slew Paternostro. It was he who won undying honor by recovering the jewel. It was he who, hard-pressed by the police, was obliged to seek the nearest sanctuary, which happened to be France. The rest we know.

But the gem still carried its baleful spell, for we also know how the expert whom the Paternostros carried with them to Paris, was drowned just as the homeward-bound vessel was entering Dover harbor.

So much for the ruby's eventful history.

Chaya's declaration also confirmed my conclusions respecting Burke's designed imposition upon Alfred Fluette--which, by the way, he seemed to regard as perfectly legitimate. And then it concluded with the most important matter of all.

On the night of Felix Page's murder, while his companions were all in the second story, Chaya had remained on guard below. He had watched Page following Burke up-stairs, after the robbery, but could not warn the thief without alarming the pursuer.

After the struggle began in the hall, Chaya harkened to it a while, then dashed up the rear stairs to take a hand, in case the jewel was to be snatched from his companions at the very moment of victory. He passed through the bath room during the brief period Burke was in his own room informing Tshen of the state of affairs, entered the hall, where, by the dim light of the solitary candle, the two men were locked in combat. The struggle was so furious that his presence was not noticed. He proceeded to the _north-east_ angle of the balustrade, where he crouched around the corner and followed through the balusters the uncertain issues of the fight.

He watched the two chief actors so intently, in fact, that he failed to perceive Burke snatch up the supposed ruby from the floor; but he did see Page wrest the leather case from Fluette.

Now was the time for him to act. He was armed with a black-jack--a ball of lead wrapped in leather and with a short, flexible leather handle--and just as Fluette grabbed up the iron candle-stick he plunged forward.

At this instant the light was extinguished, and he received the full weight of a human body as it staggered backward. He supposed it to be Page's. He struck out blindly with his own cruel weapon, at the same time shoving the body away from him. He felt his bludgeon crush upon his victim's head; and then he was himself felled to the floor with a tremendous blow that blotted out everything else for him. The base of the candlestick had found a mark wholly unsuspected by any one.

He knew afterwards that his companions had carried him down the rear stairs and away; that they tried to doctor him until they grew alarmed at the seriousness of his injuries; whereupon they deserted him in his room, after notifying the landlord, who had in turn notified the hospital authorities. Chaya was well supplied with funds, so there had been no difficulty on that score.

And thus was my deduction proved to be correct. Felix Page's _left_ side had been toward the balustrade at the instant Fluette snatched up the candle-stick; on the balustrade was a deep indentation where the base of the improvised weapon had impinged, after glancing; and the fatal blow had struck upon the victim's _right_ temple. A single descending blow can not very well pass down one side of a man and end upon the other.

But while Chaya's story gratified me beyond measure, at the same time it was incomplete; it threw no light upon the ruby's resting-place, and for the simple reason that he knew no more about it than any of the rest of the individuals interested in discovering where it had been hidden. I was satisfied that the cipher, once I had interpreted it, would lead me to the gem. Therefore, it remained for me to find it.

Well, the cryptic writing was solved, pretty soon; but the solution came like a crash of thunder, revealing the one twist toward the end that I had least expected.

And, worst of all, I should have known!