Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 32, No. 2, January 1973

The Theft of a Crystal Crown by Edward D. Hoch

It was a simple enough job. All I had to do was outwit twelve guards, steal a royal crown — and get myself killed in the process!

Nick Velvet was a thief, but the mere fact of his profession did little to explain him. He was a man first of all who liked the quiet life, the beer on the front porch with Gloria at his side and a sort of eternal summer evening in the air. Perhaps he’d been born a generation too late, unfit for the bustle of the Sixties. Perhaps that was why he took a special interest in the crystal crown affair.

“We understand you will steal anything,” the man with the monocle said. His name was Vonderberg, and he too was of another generation.

“Anything but money,” Nick Velvet replied. “My price is twenty thousand dollars, plus expenses. Thirty thousand for especially dangerous jobs.”

“This is not dangerous, but my people are prepared to pay you thirty thousand.”

“Nice of you,” Nick Velvet agreed.

“Are you familiar with the country of New Ionia? We are a very old and very small island in the Mediterranean, between the southern tips of Italy and Greece. We are a constitutional monarchy, with a ruling family that is centuries old and very, very tired.”

Velvet decided that very was Vonderberg’s favorite word.

“What is it you want stolen?” Velvet asked. His clients didn’t get billed for conference time, and he liked to keep it short.

“There is a crown, a very old relic of the days when the kingdom of New Ionia had little use for written constitutions. It is made of glass — a crystal crown that is displayed to the people once a year at the grand masked ball.”

“Valuable?”

The monocled man shrugged. “Inferior workmanship, like much of New Ionia. It might bring a few hundred dollars somewhere. But its Value as a symbol is utterly incalculable. We are a very old people, as I have said. We believe in the nature of symbols. A pretender to the throne, armed with the crystal crown, would have half the country behind him. They believe it is destined always to go with the true ruler, somewhat like King Arthur’s sword in that stone.”

Nick Velvet grunted. “I never thought much of fairy tales. So you want the crown stolen. What’s so tough about that?”

“The king’s personal guard is on hand during the masked ball. If a thief could somehow get into the ballroom, he certainly could never get out alive, especially not while carrying a fragile glass crown.”

Nick Velvet smiled. “There’s always a way. When is the blasted ball?”

“Next Monday evening, six days from now.”

“It’s a nice time of year for a Mediterranean vacation,” Nick Velvet decided.

New Ionia was a tiny spot of land fifty miles long and half as wide, stretched beneath the Roman sun as if awaiting a long-delayed visit from some far-off gods. It was May on New Ionia, and it might have been a season unique in the world. When Nick Velvet first stepped off the little ferry from Corfu, he looked up at the smooth blue of the sky and decided that surely it could never be dotted by clouds. New Ionia was a place unique, and perhaps the gods would never come because they were already here.

The city of New Ionia stretched along the southern coast of the island. It was a fair-sized place by any standards, with thirty thousand residents and one building five stories high. But while strolling through streets too narrow and shops too old, Nick Velvet wondered why anyone would really want to be king of it. New Ionia was a great place to visit, but he’d hate to rule it.

The monocled Vonderberg had instructed him to contact a Miss Vera Smith-Blue, since his first and most important task was gaining admittance to the annual ball.

Nick Velvet found Miss Smith-Blue in a little gabled office of what must have corresponded to an American Chamber of Commerce.

She was younger than he’d expected, and might even have been pretty without the glasses and severe hair style.

“My name is Velvet,” he admitted quite openly. “I’m something of a writer, and I’m most interested in your annual ball.”

“Oh?” She gave him a smile she must have reserved for visiting foreign writers. “Is this your first journey to New Ionia?”

“The first of many, I hope. It’s a beautiful island. But you must be British. Aren’t you?”

“By birth, but this is my home now. I firmly believe this to be the tourist haven of tomorrow. Each summer attracts more and more visitors. Soon we will be as popular and exclusive as Corfu. We only need a king or a cinema star to summer here.”

She’d taken off her glasses, and Nick Velvet ran appreciative eyes over the smooth lines of her face and figure. She wore a sort of tunic dress, pulled just a bit too tightly over firm breasts.

“About the ball, Miss Smith-Blue. What could you tell me?”

“Well, it’s the social event of the year on New Ionia. Upwards of a thousand people attend. It’s held in the grand ballroom of the summer palace, which is the only palace any more. Everyone’s in costume, of course, and the crown is displayed.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about this crown.” Nick Velvet settled back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “What can you tell me about it?” he asked.

“Here’s a pamphlet that tells the entire history. But if you want it briefly, it dates back to a Greek-Italian family who lived on the island in the seventeenth century. They had a Venetian glassblower form the crown, and presented it to the royal family. Of course it couldn’t be worn, but it was displayed once a year at the ball. It’s symbolic, I suppose. The people almost worship it. During the war, the Nazi invaders confiscated it as a sign of their authority, and as long as they held it, the people obeyed them. It was a most amazing thing.”

“Would it be possible for me to see the ballroom?”

“Sure. Why not?” She gathered a bunch of keys from one of her desk drawers.

The summer palace stood behind a high stone wall just on the outskirts of the city. At a quick glance it might have seemed something left over from a Hollywood movie of the Thirties, but as they left Miss Smith-Blue’s car and approached the gate, he could see the little touches of modern living. The iron gates swung open electrically at a touch from the uniformed guard, and Velvet was quickly aware of the waiting spotlights on the turreted roof.

“Who lives here?” he asked the girl.

“We are ruled by Prince Baudlay. He is abroad much of the time, but this is his home when he is here.”

“Will he be at the ball?”

“Of course.”

She led him through a maze of passages and into a final great room that reminded him of a mammoth high school gymnasium. There were even rows of seats along one side, for resting between dances. The place was oddly plain, but already workmen were appearing with ladders and hammers.

“So this is it.”

She smiled at the flatness of his tone. “You won’t even recognize it by next Monday.”

Nick Velvet took out a cigarette. “I heard someone speak of a king, but you only mentioned Prince Baudlay.”

She brushed a hand, through the texture of her hair, loosening it a bit. “King Felix is the prince’s father. He is an old man, and very ill. No one ever sees him any more. He is confined to a hospital in Athens.”

“I see.” Velvet had walked up to the little stage that overlooked the empty dance floor, and now he stood upon it, visualizing the room as it would look with a thousand costumed a revelers crowded into it. “And I suppose the crown is up here.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“Do they guard it well?”

“Who’d want to steal it?” She seemed truly puzzled by the idea.

“I hear the Germans did once, during the war.” Velvet smiled down at her. “That’s what you told me, anyway.”

“That was different. So many things were different, during the war.”

“You could hardly be old enough to remember.”

“I was a child in London,” she said, breaking the contact with his eyes. “During the blitz.”

Nick Velvet jumped down from the platform. “Could you get me an invitation to the ball?”

“You really want to come?”

“I’d like to see it; for my article on New Ionia.”

“Just where is this article going to appear?”

“One of the big American travel magazines. It’ll be great publicity.”

She smiled then. “You may escort me if you’d like, I have two tickets.”

“It would be an honor,” Nick Velvet said, returning her smile.

On Sunday evening, Nick Velvet met with Vonderberg at a little waterfront cafe near the place where the Corfu ferry docked twice a day. For some reason, the monocled man seemed much more at home here than he had during their first meeting in New York. It shouldn’t have been strange, but it was Perhaps until now, Nick Velvet had not really believed him to be a part of the tourist business and the aging monarch and the rest of this strange little island.

“Are you ready?” Vonderberg asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Where shall I meet you?”

He considered the question carefully. “The last ferry leaves at ten for Corfu. That wouldn’t give you enough time, would it?”

Nick Velvet shook his head. “It’ll be almost ten when we arrive at the ball.”

“All right, then. I can’t risk being on the island when the robbery takes place. I’ll come over on the Tuesday noon boat from Corfu, and I’ll remain on the ferry. They can’t touch me there. You bring the crown on board for me.”

Nick Velvet smiled. “You mean I have to keep it till Tuesday noon?”

“That’s what you’re being paid for.”

“Just who is paying me?”

Vonderberg grunted. “That doesn’t matter. Let’s just say the next king of New Ionia. I’ll be waiting for you Tuesday noon with the money.”

“All right.”

Nick Velvet left him and walked back to the hotel. The island kingdom was still the vacation paradise he’d first seen, but now, after a few days, some of the gloss was wearing off. He noticed a beggar in a doorway, and perhaps a prostitute beneath a run-down bar’s neon glow. New Ionia was only the world, and he wondered why anyone would want to be its king.

Nick Velvet spent the early hours of the following evening preparing his costume, and when he called for Vera Smith-Blue in a rented car he was wearing the bright baggy overalls of a circus clown. It covered him from wrists and neck to ankles, and he’d taken some time carefully painting his face into a grotesquely grinning contour of clownish delight.

Vera Smith-Blue gasped as she opened the door, then relaxed into a smile. “That’s very realistic, Mr. Velvet. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“Thanks. I figured I should go all out.”

Vera herself was wearing a somewhat standard ballet costume, which allowed her to show off the firmness of her well-shaped legs while remaining reasonably decent. On her face she wore a tiny domino mask that did nothing to conceal her identity.

“I’m almost ready,” she told him. “Come in.”

“You have dancer’s legs,” he commented admiringly.

“I went in for ballet a bit at school. But that was a long time ago.” She fluffed out her brief skirt as she spoke. Then she ran a comb through her hair and sprinkled a bit of sparkling stuff in it. “There! Shall we be going now? They always expect me to be among the first arrivals. I have certain duties.”

When they reached the summer palace it was a blaze of lights, a different world from the empty shell he remembered from his first visit. The walls and the gate were patrolled by uniformed royal guards, and colored footmen opened doors as each car rolled up to discharge its passengers.

The hilarity of the evening was already beginning as each arriving group added to the melange of knights and angels, warriors and wantons. Nick Velvet saw a near-naked nymph in the grip of a bearded pirate, but for the most part the females were modestly costumed, perhaps in deference to the presence of Prince Baudlay.

The prince himself made his appearance shortly before ten, interrupting the dancing and drinking with a heralding blast of trumpets. He wore a princely sort of jerkin, which for all Nick Velvet knew might have been his daily costume in the kingdom of New Ionia. He took his place on a sort of raised throne, and almost — immediately four attendants appeared carrying the glass domed case which housed the crystal crown.

There was a murmur soft as a whisper as the crown appeared, and then near silence. Nick Velvet and Vera Smith-Blue were near the platform, so he had a good view of it — a coronet of glassy spikes resting on a velvet pillow. It looked as if it would break at the slightest touch.

“Do they have an unmasking at midnight?” Nick Velvet asked, spinning Vera off into the intricacies of a Mediterranean folk dance. “Like in the fairy tales?”

“Of course!”

“I think the whole thing is a publicity gimmick,” he said. “New Ionia can’t be for real.”

“Does it matter?” she whispered, so close that he felt her smudge his makeup.

Just after eleven, when they were seated with a group of Vera’s friends, Nick Velvet excused himself and went off to the men’s room. He knew he had to be fast. He was allowing himself only five minutes for the entire operation.

Before the door had fully closed behind him, he was unzipping the clown’s costume and stepping out of it. Beneath it, he wore a tight-fitting devil’s suit in vivid red, complete with a tail that had fitted down the pants-leg of the clown outfit. From a pouch secured under his left arm he withdrew a rubber devil’s mask that fitted over his entire head, red gloves and a small pistol.

He slipped the mask over his head, careful to smudge the clown makeup no more than necessary. Then he slid a silencer onto the gun barrel. He didn’t really need it, but it made the small weapon seem bulkier. He opened the window and stuffed the clown suit into the waste basket next to it. The whole operation had taken just under two minutes.

Then he was out of the room and up the stairs. He came out near the raised platform and was onto it before anyone even noticed. Prince Baudlay turned in his seat to smile, and Nick Velvet brought the gun up from his thigh.

“Stay right there,” he said.

A woman nearby screamed, but no one else seemed to notice. He swung the pistol against the protective glass bell and felt it crack. Another blow and it shattered perfectly around the crystal crown.

Prince Baudlay was out of his chair now, hurling himself at Nick Velvet. He grabbed onto a red-clad leg and the tail, but Velvet brushed him away with a glancing blow from the barrel of the gun. The others had seen it now, and a growing wave of panic swept backward through the throng of dancers. Somebody pushed a button, and the wail of a siren added to the screams.

But Nick Velvet had the crown in his hand. He dove for a window, hoping it was the right one. Someone grabbed again at his costume, and he felt the tail rip away. But he was free and through the window. He hit the ground on the run, still clutching the glass crown in his left hand.

There was just one guard, too near to outrun. Nick Velvet shot him in the fleshy part of the leg.

Then he was around the corner and back through the basement window of the men’s room. This was the dangerous part, and if there had been someone else in there, He would have had to use the gun again. But he’d guessed correctly that the screams from the upper floor had brought everyone running. In an instant he had the clown suit out of the basket and was zipping it up.

The mask and gun and gloves went into the tank of one of the toilets, with the crystal crown placed gently within the protective rubber devil’s face. He closed the window, touched up his makeup, and headed upstairs. His body could now pass a hand frisking, and he doubted if the police would have reason to go about unzipping costumes. He glanced at his watch — six minutes and twenty seconds. A bit longer than he’d planned, but he was satisfied.

In the ballroom all was bedlam, and no one had noticed his absence. He told Vera he’d been almost back to her when the thief appeared, and she had no reason to doubt him. Women were still fainting from the near-panic of the crush, and from outside came the chatter of occasional gunfire. Nick Velvet smiled and hugged Vera protectively.

Almost immediately, the island kingdom had become a fortress. American-made jeeps crisscrossed the highways, with grim-faced men seated at the ready behind fifty-caliber machine guns. Nick Velvet dropped Vera Smith-Blue at her place, and then drove to his own room to change into his street clothes. There was still the problem of transporting the Crown from the summer palace to the Corfu ferry, and he was beginning to think it would not be an easy job.

He waited till daybreak to drive back to the palace, wanting the crown in his possession no longer than necessary. The police and government guards still seemed at a complete loss to explain the vanished thief, but their search had not yet turned inward toward the palace itself.

The man in the devil suit had been seen to leave, had actually wounded a guard, so there was no reason to suspect that he had returned. Two innocent guests in devil costumes had been questioned through the night, but finally released. Both had been in plain sight of witnesses during the holdup.

Continuing his pose as a reporter and writer, Nick Velvet talked to several of the guards and inspected the ballroom once more. One guard accompanied him at all times, but it was not difficult to stop in the men’s room on the way out. He left the mask and gun and gloves where they were, but the crystal crown went out on his head, resting lightly beneath the soft felt of his hat.

At five minutes to noon, Nick Velvet stood on the dock watching the ferry from Corfu drift slowly but accurately into its slip. He still felt the weight of the crown beneath his hat, but now the tension was gone. In a few more minutes the thing would be delivered and he would be out of New Ionia for good. He’d decided that princes and masked balls and fairy tales were not for him.

“Stop him!” somebody shouted. He turned and saw two army trucks pulling up at the end of the dock. Soldiers, and police — and Vera Smith-Blue was with them!

Nick Velvet watched the ferry drawing closer. Ten feet, nine, eight. He could wait only a second longer. Gripping the crown and his hat, he ran a few paces and launched himself at the narrowing gap. He made the ramp of the ferry boat with a foot to spare, and kept going. People stared and someone shouted, but he didn’t look back.

“Velvet!” It Was Vonderberg, waiting in the shadow of a stairway.

“All right,” Nick told him. “Here it is.”

“And you’ve brought the entire New Ionian army with you!”

“You said we’d be safe on the boat,” Nick Velvet said.

The girl and the police had paused at the ramp, and there was much conversation taking place. Finally the ferry’s captain waved his arms in despair, and the pursuers came aboard.

“That one,” Vera said, pointing. “His name is Nick Velvet. And the one with the monocle is Vonderberg.”

“You are on Greek territory,” Vonderberg said, holding the crown Nick had given him.

“We have Greek officials with us,” Vera Smith-Blue said firmly. “This is no longer a New Ionian matter. Our king was assassinated in an Athens hospital this morning. Two Communist agents have been arrested.”

It was then that Vonderberg moved, when he realized that the ferry was no haven for him after all. He put down the crown and stepped back, revealing a gun as if by magic.

“Stay there, all of you!” he shouted.

“You can’t kill us all,” a uniformed guard said, moving closer.

“No, but Miss Smith-Blue will get my first-bullet.”

There were a number of things Nick Velvet could have done. He considered three of them in the instant before he acted.

Then he scooped up the crystal crown and hurled it at Vonderberg’s face.

The monocled man fired as the crown shattered against him, but his shot was wild. Two officers brought their guns up before he could aim again, and Vonderberg toppled backward as the bullets staggered him like unseen fists.

“That one too!” an officer shouted, pointing his gun at Nick Velvet.

Velvet smiled and put up his hands. “Miss Smith-Blue, I just saved your life. Won’t you return the favor?”

She walked up to him, waving away the guns. Someone had gone to tend to Vonderberg, but his blood was spreading too fast over the ferry’s deck.

“Yes,” she answered, “I’ll save your life — so you can rot in a New Ionian jail for the next twenty years.”

“I don’t think so.” He dropped his voice so only she could hear. “You’re going to get me out of this, lady, or I’ll tell them all it was you who paid to have the crown stolen. And you must know very well I can prove it, too.”

Vera Smith-Blue’s face had gone white with his words, and that was all the assurance he needed that his guess was correct. He led her a bit away from the watching men, and offered her a cigarette.

“Did Vonderberg tell you?” she asked.

“I could say that he did, but it was really mostly a guess. You knew where to find me this morning, and you knew I was the thief. You also knew Vonderberg’s name. That got me to thinking just now. I remembered thinking the whole, thing was a publicity stunt, and I was right. You thought it would be a great idea, didn’t you? The theft of a crystal crown during a masked ball at the New Ionian summer palace. It would have made every paper in the world, and would have brought tourists flocking, just to see what this place was all about.”

“It still will bring them flocking,” she said.

“I suppose it will. I thought you were awfully cooperative about showing me the palace, and getting me an invitation. Of course that’s why Vonderberg told me to contact you, so you could help ease the way for me. Was the prince in on it, too?”

“Of course not! It was all my idea. I own property here. The island means something to me.”

“But you made the mistake of hiring a Communist named Vonderberg to arrange matters. He had other ideas. New Ionia would make a nice Red base off Greece, and if King Felix were assassinated when the crown was stolen, a real pretender to the throne could appear after all.”

“I never thought he’d do a thing like that. I had no idea he was in with the Reds! But when I heard of the assassination this morning, I realized what a fool I’d been, playing into their hands.”

She met his eyes. “I thought you were one, too.”

“No,” he answered. “Only a simple thief.”

“What do you want, to keep silent?”

“My freedom. And the money Vonderberg promised me. I imagine it’s in his pocket.”

“And if I say no? Would anyone believe you now that Vonderberg’s dead?”

“I think so. You showed no emotion just now when the crown was smashed. You say that Prince Baudlay knew nothing of the plot, but I’ll bet if someone examined that glass they’d find it of recent make. You wouldn’t take a chance on the real crown being damaged in the robbery. You’d have arranged for the substitution of a false one. So somebody in the palace knew about it.”

“You guess very well, Nick Velvet.”

“It helps me stay alive. I’m no detective, only a good guesser when I have to be.”

She turned away, sighed, and then turned back.

“Take this ferry back to Corfu,” she told him finally. “I’ll see that you aren’t bothered.”

“And the money?”

“You devil.”

“Exactly,” he said, and waited while she got the envelope from the dead man’s pocket.

“Come back some time. As a tourist.”

Nick Velvet smiled at her and turned away, looking off across the sea toward Corfu. “I don’t think I could afford the rates.”