She made it sound very matter of fact.

Kelsey stared at her.

‘But what has all this got to do with you—or with Miss Springer?’

‘But I already tell you! They think, perhaps, I know where the jewels are. So they will take me prisoner and force me to speak.’

‘Do you know where the jewels are?’

‘No, of course I do not know. They disappeared in the Revolution. Perhaps the wicked Communists take them. But again, perhaps not.’

‘Who do they belong to?’

‘Now my cousin is dead, they belong to me. No men in his family any more. His aunt, my mother, is dead. He would want them to belong to me. If he were not dead, I marry him.’

‘That was the arrangement?’

‘I have to marry him. He is my cousin, you see.’

‘And you would have got the jewels when you married him?’

‘No, I would have had new jewels. From Cartier in Paris. These others would still be kept for emergencies.’

Inspector Kelsey blinked, letting this Oriental insurance scheme for emergencies sink into his consciousness.

Shaista was racing on with great animation.

‘I think that is what happens. Somebody gets the jewels out of Ramat. Perhaps good person, perhaps bad. Good person would bring them to me, would say: “These are yours,” and I should reward him.’

She nodded her head regally, playing the part.

Quite a little actress, thought the Inspector.

‘But if it was a bad person, he would keep the jewels and sell them. Or he would come to me and say: “What will you give me as a reward if I bring them to you?” And if it worth while, he brings—but if not, then not!’

‘But in actual fact, nobody has said anything at all to you?’

‘No,’ admitted Shaista.

Inspector Kelsey made up his mind.

‘I think, you know,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that you’re really talking a lot of nonsense.’

Shaista flashed a furious glance at him.

‘I tell you what I know, that is all,’ she said sulkily.

‘Yes—well, it’s very kind of you, and I’ll bear it in mind.’

He got up and opened the door for her to go out.

‘The Arabian Nights aren’t in it,’ he said, as he returned to the table. ‘Kidnapping and fabulous jewels! What next?’

Chapter 11

Conference

When Inspector Kelsey returned to the station, the sergeant on duty said:

‘We’ve got Adam Goodman here, waiting, sir.’

‘Adam Goodman? Oh yes. The gardener.’

A young man had risen respectfully to his feet. He was tall, dark and good-looking. He wore stained corduroy trousers loosely held up by an aged belt, and an open-necked shirt of very bright blue.

‘You wanted to see me, I hear.’

His voice was rough, and as that of so many young men of today, slightly truculent.

Kelsey said merely:

‘Yes, come into my room.’

‘I don’t know anything about the murder,’ said Adam Goodman sulkily. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I was at home and in bed last night.’