Pearls

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