Ernest Bramah

“ Just now—look here, Baxter, can’t you give me a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing who happens to live in town? You must know dozens of experts.”
“Why, bless my soul, Mr Carlyle, I don’t know a man of them away from his business,” said Mr Baxter, staring. “They may live in Park Lane or they may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there aren’t so many experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will very likely quarrel over it. You’ve had to do with ‘expert witnesses,’ I suppose?” ”

“ But do I call you ‘Mr Carlyle’ in consequence? Certainly not, Louis.”
“I did not falsify the account,” cried Carlyle hotly. He sat down, however, and added more quietly: “But why do I tell you all this? I have never spoken of it before.”
“Blindness invites confidence,” replied Carrados. “We are out of the running—human rivalry ceases to exist. Besides, why shouldn’t you? In my case the account was falsified.”
“Of course that’s all bunkum, Max,” commented Carlyle. “Still, I appreciate your motive.” ”

“ The aged mother succumbed; duty compelled Helene to remain at the side of her stricken patriarchal father, and doubtless The Turrets was written off the syndicate’s operations as a bad debt.”
“Very interesting,” admitted Mr Carlyle; “but at the risk of seeming obtuse”—his manner had become delicately chastened—“I must say that I fail to trace the inevitable connexion between Nina Brun and this particular forgery—assuming that it is a forgery.”
“Set your mind at rest about that, Louis,” replied Carrados. “It is a forgery, and it is a forgery that none but Pietro Stelli could have achieved. ”

“ Mr Carlyle, the private detective——”
“Inquiry agent,” corrected Mr Carlyle precisely.
“Well,” smiled Mr Baxter, “for that matter I am a coin dealer and not an antiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I can do for you?”
“Yes,” replied his visitor; “it is my turn to consult you.” He had taken a small wash-leather bag from the inner pocket and now turned something carefully out upon the counter. “What can you tell me about that?”
The dealer gave the coin a moment’s scrutiny.
“There is no question about this,” he replied. “It is a Sicilian tetradrachm of Dionysius.” ”

“ You seem so sure and self-reliant. Your eyes are full of expression—only a little quieter than they used to be. I believe you were typing when I came.... Aren’t you having me?”
“You miss the dog and the stick?” smiled Carrados. “No; it’s a fact.”
“What an awful infliction for you, Max. You were always such an impulsive, reckless sort of fellow—never quiet. You must miss such a fearful lot.”
“Has anyone else recognized you?” asked Carrados quietly.
“Ah, that was the voice, you said,” replied Carlyle. ”

“ Either Max was not the Wynn Carrados he had been seeking or else the dealer had been misinformed; for although his host was wonderfully expert in the face of his misfortune, it was inconceivable that he could decide the genuineness of a coin without seeing it. The opportunity seemed a good one of getting even with Carrados by taking him at his word.
“Yes,” he accordingly replied, with crisp deliberation, as he recrossed the room; “yes, I will, Max. Here is the clue to what seems to be a rather remarkable fraud.” He put the tetradrachm into his host’s hand. “What do you make of it?” ”

“ Mr Baxter’s meaning silence became cynical in its implication as he continued to look at his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed.
“Stay a bit; there is a man—an amateur—I remember hearing wonderful things about some time ago. They say he really does know.”
“There you are,” exclaimed Mr Carlyle, much relieved. “There always is someone. Who is he?”
“Funny name,” replied Baxter. “Something Wynn or Wynn something.” He craned his neck to catch sight of an important motor car that was drawing to the kerb before his window. “Wynn Carrados! You’ll excuse me now, Mr Carlyle, won’t you? ”

“ He had already placed before his visitor a box containing cigars of a brand which that gentleman keenly appreciated but generally regarded as unattainable, and the matter-of-fact ease and certainty with which the blind man had brought the box and put it before him had sent a questioning flicker through Carlyle’s mind.
“You used to be rather fond of art yourself, Louis,” he remarked presently. “Give me your opinion of my latest purchase—the bronze lion on the cabinet there.” Then, as Carlyle’s gaze went about the room, he added quickly: “No, not that cabinet—the one on your left.” ”

“ Mr Carlyle hastily scribbled the name down on his cuff.
“Wynn Carrados, right. Where does he live?”
“Haven’t the remotest idea,” replied Baxter, referring the arrangement of his tie to the judgment of the wall mirror. “I have never seen the man myself. Now, Mr Carlyle, I’m sorry I can’t do any more for you. You won’t mind, will you?” ”

“ That makes you smile?”
“Well, certainly, the idea——”
“Yes, the idea of a blind detective—the blind tracking the alert——”
“Of course, as you say, certain faculties are no doubt quickened,” Mr Carlyle hastened to add considerately, “but, seriously, with the exception of an artist, I don’t suppose there is any man who is more utterly dependent on his eyes.”
Whatever opinion Carrados might have held privately, his genial exterior did not betray a shadow of dissent. ”

“ As a collector and student of certain Greek colonials and a specialist in forgeries I have been familiar with Stelli’s workmanship for years. Latterly he seems to have come under the influence of an international crook called—at the moment—Dompierre, who soon saw a way of utilizing Stelli’s genius on a royal scale. Helene Brunesi, who in private life is—and really is, I believe—Madame Dompierre, readily lent her services to the enterprise.”
“Quite so,” nodded Mr Carlyle, as his host paused. ”

“ I asked you to notice.”
“I know you did, but your Parkinson is the sort of man who has very little about him to describe. He is the embodiment of the ordinary. His height is about average——”
“Five feet nine,” murmured Carrados. “Slightly above the mean.”
“Scarcely noticeably so. Clean-shaven. Medium brown hair. No particularly marked features. Dark eyes. Good teeth.”
“False,” interposed Carrados. “The teeth—not the statement.”
“Possibly,” admitted Mr Carlyle. “I am not a dental expert and I had no opportunity of examining Mr Parkinson’s mouth in detail. ”

“ I was riding along a bridle-path through a wood about a dozen years ago with a friend. He was in front. At one point a twig sprang back—you know how easily a thing like that happens. It just flicked my eye—nothing to think twice about. ”