PEARLS
By Philip Wylie
CEDRIC BRADLEY, at fifty-five, was short and
bowlegged, apple-cheeked, with bland blue eyes and a Cockney Accent
occasionally audible in his staccato speech. He controlled Bradley, Ltd., the
largest and most magnificent jewelry house in London. He had two boasts: his own hand and
brain had built the business; and in all the romantic progress of the affair he
had never been swindled or robbed.
On a certain morning in May, when
Piccadilly poets were thinking of the lilies at Ken Kew and Bradley was
estimating the profits in carved lapis lazuli, the card of Lord Throckmorton
was ushered in- a tall, tan, rectilinear man with a monocle engraved in his
right eye. He was a total stranger to the firm.
Mr. Bradley and Lord Throckmorton
moved leisurely through the commonplaces to business.
“Bradley-I say-my daughter is about
to be married.”
“Your daughter. Of course.”
“Beautiful thing, Gwen is. Shameful
life I’ve led her. We’ve been twenty years in Australia. Just brought her to London a fortnight ago.
First time in her life. And now I’ve got to pop off to Africa
for three months. Must make amends, eh? I need your help. A necklace, I
thought. Pearls, what? Matched and perfect. Nothing unusual, just the best.”
Mr. Bradley’s bland eyes became more
lifeless and opaque. He said, “Quite”.
Throckmorton of Taine stared at the
ceiling. “I thought- with three months-you could-er-assemble something decent.
About-er-say eighty thousand pounds-what?”
Mr. Bradley’s fingers lifted and
fell. “Quite”, he repeated.
His Lordship extracted a checkbook
from his coat. “A deposit, what?” He did not seem to perceive the answering
nod. “Say-ten thousand?” Another nod. The check was written. The two men shook
hands. A liveried doorman presently ushered the angular Australian into his
town car.
Three months passed. Lord
Throckmorton entered the establishment of Bradley, Ltd., with a vacant air that
vanished only momentarily when the head of the firm exhibited the necklace.
“Good Lord, Bradley, they’re rather fine!”
“The best.”
“I say-my wife’s an invalid. Wanted
her to see them before Gwen. Perhaps you could send them over?”
Bradley
gazed at the finest string of matched pearls he had ever made. I’d be glad to
bring them over myself.”
Throckmorton smiled. “Splendid. Tea,
or something, I’ll ask her Ladyship.”
The little jeweler received a note
from Lady Throckmorton, and was received by Lord Throckmorton in the
drawing-room. Her Ladyship was wheeled in; a winsome vivacious cripple. She
wept when she saw the pearls. A nurse took her away presently and Bradley
pocketed the pearls. Lord Throckmorton asked to see then again and was
rhapsodizing when his daughter called, “oh, father!”
A minute alarm crossed his face. The
pearls were to be a surprise at the time of the wedding. Hastily his Lordship
dropped them into the drawer of a cabinet that had belonged to Louis XV. Both
he and his guest rose to meet the right honorable Gwendolyn. She was more than
an elegant girl; she was gorgeous. Bradley was exalted, an emotion that gave
him the look of placid contentment. The butler served tea and later
Throckmorton nodded, lifted his hands in
pantomime apology, and slipped out of the room. Gwen sang on.
It was a long rendition and Bradley
listened with his eyes half closed. Gwen finished, glanced at her single
auditor, and began another song. When she was half finished, she stopped.
“Where’s father?”
“He was called out.”
“How ridiculous! Excuse me- I’ll
bring him right back.” She left the chamber.
Five minutes passed and then ten. A
hollow quiet slowly permeated the house. Bradley paced the floor. By and by he
pulled the bell cord. No response. A thought struck him. He went to the Louis
XV cabinet and pulled the drawer open. The
pearls were gone!
It was not a drawer. In fact, but a
sort of chute lined with silk so that the pearls would not rattle as they slid
into the adjacent room. Mr. Bradley walked out to the hall end picked up his
hat and stick. Twilight was descending upon London as he opened the carved door that bore
the bogus arms of Throckmorton of Taine.
He hailed a cab. At his own
apartment the butler swung the door wide and Bradley went somewhat petulantly
to his bedroom. He pushed a picture aside, opened the safe behind it, took the
bona tide string matched pearls from his coat pocket, and locked them behind
the steel door. When the picture had been replaced he mopped his brow with a
silk handkerchief. Then he allowed himself the relaxation of a good, round oath
in which cockney predominated.
Miss. Romina
