Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 57, No. 3. Whole No. 328, March 1971

The Gobineau Necklace by James Powell[1]

Another of James Powell’s absolutely charming stories of San Sebastiano... and sharpen your wits: clever, crafty, cunning, this Louis Tabarin, diamond merchant extraordinaire; when Tabarin wanted a diamond necklace for his antique-jewelry collection — even if it was the last of a family’s heirlooms and with a potent legend to protect it — he left no stone (no pun intended) unturned...

In the Riviera Principality of San Sebastiano the name Tabarin et Cie means diamonds of the first water and pearls of great price. Louis Tabarin’s jewelry shop on the rue Mazeppa had brought him not only wealth but entry into the best society where he was admired for his impeccable sense of style and envied for his air of bored imperturbability. And yet here he was, stopped dead in his tracks and his mouth ajar, on the Opera’s broad marble and onyx staircase as the intermission crowd pushed by him on both sides. Below, just inside the refreshment salon, was the most exquisite diamond necklace the renowned jeweler had ever seen.

Tabarin moved closer. The salon was crowded and he was able to stand almost next to the diamonds and the weak-chinned little woman who wore them. The stones were all six-sided, an old-fashioned cut which the ancients believed brought good luck. The setting was superb: Sixteenth Century, definitely from Rotterdam and probably by van Gelder.

As Tabarin watched, the woman was presented with a glass of punch by a short man with sad bulging eyes and a thin black mustache. Together they were a study in gentility gone to seed: his cigarette holder was gold-inlaid ivory, but his brand, Grand Moguls, was the cheapest; her dress — a dusty mauve with mutton-chop sleeves — belonged to quite another age. And yet the necklace was worth at least three-quarters of a million francs — even more to Tabarin who was a passionate collector of antique jewelry.

Tabarin admired the necklace until the sound of a buzzer announced the final act. Reluctantly he returned to his box, resolved to have the necklace for his collection. Of course, as he knew from past experience, acquiring it might prove to be a delicate matter. More often than not, the direct approach, the blunt offer to buy, proved disastrous. Once Tabarin had coveted a Twelfth Century episcopal ring, the last valuable possession of a certain Lady Milgrain who lived in a damp bed-sitting room in a squalid house run by an immense ox of a woman with bad teeth. Several visits to Lady Milgrain had failed. “As the last of my line I intend to take the ring with me to the grave,” she told him over weak tea and broken cookies. “Perhaps a tradesman would find that hard to understand,” she had added with a little smile.

But that particular story had a satisfactory ending. A few months later Lady Milgrain passed away in her sleep. It was the landlady who found her body. So when the ring was not among the dead woman’s effects, Tabarin knew where to go. With a wink and a poke in the ribs the landlady had sold him the ring for a fraction of its value.

Outside the Opera, Tabarin located the couple again just as they were getting into a cab, she wearing a woolen shawl over her shoulders, he a plastic raincoat. Tabarin followed them across the Pont des Coeurs and into the once fashionable Faubourg St. Médor. Their destination was the Hotel Sébastopol, a narrow, decaying structure wedged in between a shuttered drug store and a pastry shop.

As Tabarin entered the lobby the couple’s feet were just disappearing up the wrought-iron cage of the elevator shaft. The concierge came out of a room behind the hotel desk. “May I help the gentleman?” he asked.

“I thought I recognized the man and woman who just arrived,” said Tabarin.

“You mean the Count and Countess de Gobineau,” said the concierge, throwing his shoulders back proudly as if to say, “Imagine them staying in a hotel like this,” and then shrugging as if to add, “It is a pity they’ve fallen so low.”

Tabarin started to go. But then he turned back and dropped a business card on the desk. “The Countess placed a necklace in the hotel safe, did she not?” he asked.

“I was sure I knew you from somewhere, Mr. Tabarin,” said the concierge, pulling a racing form from under the counter. “The Beaulieu racetrack. I too am a follower of the sport of kings. I—”

“I would like to examine that necklace,” said Tabarin, laying a banknote on the counter.

The concierge drew back. “Ah, no,” he said firmly. “Maybe we aren’t the Hotel Prince Adalbert, but still, our guests have rights!”

“I admire your discretion,” said Tabarin. “It should be rewarded.” He tapped the banknote. “This plus a sure thing at Beaulieu tomorrow.” The concierge bit his lip and looked nervously to the left and right. Then he motioned Tabarin behind the counter and into the back room. He watched from the doorway while Tabarin examined the necklace diamond by diamond with a pocket glass. The diamonds were magnificent — each stone without flaw, and all drawn together in a setting at once bold and delicate.

“Trottoir in the third,” said Tabarin, returning the necklace to its green leather box and the box to the concierge. “And you needn’t mention this to the Count and Countess.”

Among the inhabitants of the fringe of San Sebastiano high society was Madame Olga Knapp, a cynical, aggressive widow who supported herself on commissions earned for bringing customers to the more expensive shops. Tabarin’s question surprised her. Yes, as a matter of fact, she had met the Count and Countess de Gobineau at a lavish dinner party thrown by the Bile King — her contemptuous nickname for an American patent-medicine tycoon with a childlike reverence for titled nobility. But Madame Knapp dismissed the couple with a wave of her hand.

“The Countess didn’t say ‘boo’ all evening,” she said. “And the Count added nothing to the occasion but a hearty appetite. A pathetic couple. I find pathetic people a bore, don’t you?”

Tabarin left the question unanswered. “I’m having a few friends over for drinks this evening. Perhaps you would care to join us, Madame Knapp,” he said.

An invitation to Tabarin’s house was a rare and coveted honor. Madame Knapp was quick to accept. “Excellent,” said Tabarin coldly. “And perhaps your friends the Count and Countess de Gobineau would care to join us as well.” This, his tone made clear, was the price of her invitation.

The evening began tediously. Nothing Tabarin said could put the timid little Countess at her ease in the presence of the rich, the famous, and the witty. As for the Count, what few opinions Tabarin could get him to utter were painfully mundane.

Finally Tabarin decided to make his move. General Klostermann, retired Chief of Staff of the army of San Sebastiano had just launched off on his favorite topic: the nature of war following the nuclear holocaust when, Klostermann believed, the sabre charge would come into its own again. He liked to illustrate this point down on his hands and knees using lead uhlans and spahis which he carried with him everywhere in a large cardboard box.

Tabarin chose this moment to show de Gobineau his study, including his shelf of rare first editions (“I’m not much of a reader,” said the Count), his collection of erotic engravings (“What’ll they think of next,” said the Count), and his admirable still-life of oranges, apples, and cheese by Marbeuf (“Cheese gives me heartburn,” said the Count).

“But antique jewelry is my great weakness,” said Tabarin, revealing the wall safe behind the Marbeuf. “Usually I keep my collection at the shop. My insurance company prefers it that way.” Tabarin drew out a box containing a pendant, broach, and signet ring. “But now and then, much to their dismay, I bring a few pieces home to enjoy them at my leisure.”

Tabarin waited. What could be more natural than for the Count to mention his antique diamond necklace? When he did not, the jeweler had to snap his fingers. “Ah,” he exclaimed, “I knew I had seen you some place before. Last night at the Opera. As I recall, your wife was wearing a rather unusual antique necklace.”

“The necklace is beautiful, isn’t it?” de Gobineau said a bit sadly. “The last of our family heirlooms.”

“I suppose you’ve had it appraised?” asked Tabarin in an off-hand way.

The Count sighed. “Pointless,” he said. “Regretfully I can never sell it.”

“Because it’s encumbered in some way?” asked Tabarin, straining to keep the apprehension out of his voice.

The Count shook his head. “Because of the family legend,” he said. “The Gobineau necklace was lost at sea during the Eighth Crusade, stolen by marauding Yorkshiremen during the Hundred Years War, sold to pay off creditors under the Sun King, and so on and so on. But always it came back to us. Always. For example, the family fled to Russia during the French Revolution, but not before a local Jacobin leader had confiscated the necklace in the name of the Republic. This Jacobin later fled the Girondists across the Rhine and into the Duchy of Altdorf where he was promptly executed as a spy and the necklace was added to the Duke’s treasury. It was later returned to France as part of German reparations following the Battle of Jena. Seven years later in Odessa my great-great-grandfather won the necklace at cards from a Cossack officer who claimed to have found it in baggage abandoned by Napoleon in his retreat from Moscow. So you see, knowing that the necklace must come back to me, how could I in good conscience sell it?”

“Not even for a million francs?” said Tabarin flatly.

The Count smiled. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Tabarin didn’t press the point. Nor did he give up. He was reminded of the Baron Haegg who had an ancient emerald clasp he refused to sell. After all, it had been in his family for generations. And the Baron’s income was adequate for a sensible, temperate man. Which was what Haegg had been, until Tabarin introduced him to the voluptuous Magda Schmettering, sometime model, sometime movie starlet. Well, the bounteous Magda would be wasted on the Count. But there were other ways.

Later when the other guests were taking their leave, Tabarin drew the Count aside. Protesting that the evening was still young, he invited the Count and his wife to the Casino.

The Count raised an eyebrow. “We never never gamble,” he said.

“I’d hardly expect my guests to risk their own money,” laughed Tabarin. “I, of course, will provide the stakes. You might find it interesting.”

The Count weighed the invitation thoughtfully. “Perhaps I would,” he agreed.

Three days later Tabarin was offering the Count a chair in his office. “And how is your charming wife?” he asked.

The Count leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “I’m afraid she half suspects the reason for my visit,” he said. “She’s waiting for me in your showroom.”

“Then this isn’t a social call?” said Tabarin smoothly.

The Count was carrying his plastic raincoat over one arm. He drew a green leather box from the pocket and set it on Tabarin’s desk. The jeweler examined the necklace carefully with his loupe, pretending to see it for the first time, impressed once more by its dazzling beauty. “I assume you’ve reconsidered selling,” he said.

“No,” said the Count. “I’ve already explained why that is impossible.” He cleared his throat. “First, Mr. Tabarin, let me thank you for introducing me to the first great passion of my life. Some men are lucky at roulette; others are not. I’ve discovered that I am one of the lucky ones.”

“Then you’ve been winning at the Casino?” asked Tabarin uneasily.

The Count smiled broadly and nodded. “That is, until yesterday when I encountered a losing streak. Quite temporary, of course. But I’ve exhausted all my available funds.”

“I see,” said Tabarin, relieved.

“I knew you’d understand,” said the Count. “So I would like to borrow one hundred thousand francs from you, using the necklace as security. And with the stipulation that I will forfeit the necklace if I cannot repay the money by the end of the month.”

Tabarin couldn’t believe his ears.

The Count nodded emphatically. “Yes,” he said, “why shouldn’t I force my luck a bit? Since I can’t really lose the necklace — I explained our family legend, didn’t I? — then by gambling with money borrowed on it I’m bound to win.” He smiled at his own clever logic and tapped his temple.

For a brief moment Tabarin pitied the Count. But a fool had no right to such a magnificent necklace. He quickly drew up their agreement in the form of a receipt for the diamonds and was just about to write out the check when his secretary came to the door. She said the Countess wanted to speak to her husband. In fact, the Countess was right behind her, craning to look into the office.

Tabarin quickly snapped the green leather lid over the necklace. In the next moment the Count was on his feet and had dropped his raincoat over the box. “What is it, Florence?” he said sharply.

“Alfred,” said the Countess, “the salespeople have shown me so many expensive things. I’m sure they expect me to buy something.”

“In a moment, my dear,” said the Count.

Tabarin’s secretary closed the door, but not before she reminded him he was late for an appointment. He made out the check and handed it to the Count, who had picked up his raincoat. “If you hurry you can still make the bank before it closes,” the jeweler said. “In fact, it’s on my way. Let me drop you there.”

With a final admiring glance at the necklace Tabarin left it with his secretary, instructing her to place it in the vault.

That evening there was the opening of a new art gallery on the rue de Begat. Afterward Tabarin dined with a group of friends at a Tripolitanian restaurant of which San Sebastiano had several, all throwbacks to its Nineteenth Century fling at empire in North Africa. It was someone else at the table who suggested a visit to the Casino.

So they arrived, a handsome, laughing group. To Tabarin’s surprise the Count was not there. Surely he hadn’t lost the money that quickly. Gautier, the steward, shrugged. He hadn’t seen the Count all day. Tabarin frowned. Had the Count abandoned his crazy scheme?

There was no way out of it, Tabarin had to call the Hotel Sébastopol. The concierge informed him that the Count and Countess had checked out late that afternoon, leaving no forwarding address.

“Have you taken ill, sir?” asked Gautier, as Tabarin put down the receiver.

Each time the night watchman limped by the office doorway on his rounds he shook his head at the sight of Tabarin, jaw clenched, staring down at a necklace on his desk. The necklace was a fake. The Count had pulled a switch, probably when his wife had come to the door. The money wasn’t important. The fact that the little con man had taken him wasn’t important. But Tabarin was desperate to have the real necklace back. And by the first light of day a plan had taken shape in his mind.

Not far from the Marche St. Nicholas or Thieves Market was the Café Dureville, the dismal habitat of sleepy night people squinting against the early morning sun. Sitting in the comer was Babar the Elegant, a third-rate burglar and safecracker with a weakness for shot-silk suits, flowered shirts, and silver ties. Babar had a head cold. He hunched his broad shoulders over a glass of hot grog, inhaled the fumes deeply and said, “In deals to defraud the insurance boys the customary split is fifty-fifty.”

“My reasons for wanting this done do not involve insurance,” said Tabarin. “I’ll give you five hundred francs now. There’ll be another two thousand for you inside the wall safe.”

Babar dipped a sugar cube in the grog and sucked on it thoughtfully. “One thousand now,” he said.

“Agreed,” said Tabarin. Then he hurried off to the photographer’s studio where he met Magda Schmettering who was still grumpy from being wakened before noon. She had brought the bikinis he had requested. Tabarin made his choice carefully. Then, while she was changing, he explained to the photographer exactly what he wanted. Magda posed for the picture with all the radiance of a woman who believes the necklace she is wearing is worth a million francs.

And that was that. Now all Tabarin had to do was tell his secretary that he was taking the Gobineau necklace home with him that night.

By afternoon of the next day the theft of the diamond necklace from the Tabarin residence was front-page news all over Europe. What editor could resist running that picture of the necklace worn by a bikinied Magda which Tabarin had supplied to the wire services? Even the police inspector, after clucking over the pierced wall safe, had commandeered a second copy of the photo for his personal file. And Ortalon, the investigator for Gibraltar Insurance, when he was finished scolding Tabarin for keeping a necklace worth a million francs in a “glorified breadbox,” had requested an extra copy of the photo and Magda’s phone number. “In these cases,” he told Tabarin, “we always question the last person to wear the stolen item.”

Tabarin sat back and waited. If the Count fell for his little trick, if he believed that the fake necklace had been stolen before Tabarin discovered the switch, then he would be hurrying back to San Sebastiano. “I’ve come to repay that little loan and redeem my necklace, Mr. Tabarin,” he would say with an innocent smile. “A theft? Why, no, I hadn’t heard of any theft. I am overcome. Even though I know you will make good the loss, how can a mere million francs replace a family heirloom?”

Then Tabarin would produce the fake necklace and offer the Count a simple choice: either he would go to jail for fraud — and how many more of his victims would step forward when the story hit the papers? — or he would sell the real necklace to Tabarin at the jeweler’s price. A carefully calculated price, not so low that the Count would prefer a few years in jail or so high that it wouldn’t hurt. Tabarin wanted the swindler to know he was being swindled.

Tabarin was anticipating the pleasure of that encounter as he reached his door that evening. Suddenly there was a loud sneeze and Babar the Elegant emerged from the shadows. Babar had read the newspapers. “You trying to muzzle the ox that grinds the grain, Mr. Tabarin?” he demanded. “I told you if it was a caper to take the insurance boys that I get half.”

“Patience, Babar,” said Tabarin. “In a day or two you’ll see it wasn’t that at all.”

But the Count didn’t appear the next day or the day after that. Obviously he suspected a trick of some kind. Yet sooner or later he would have to come. Tabarin imagined him like a wild animal slowly approaching a trap, wary and nervous but drawn by the overpowering lure of the bait.

By the morning of the third day Tabarin was tense and expectant. To his annoyance his first visitor was Ortalon. The insurance investigator announced grandly that Gibraltar, famous on two continents for promptly satisfying customers, was once more to justify that reputation. Tabarin cursed to himself. He wanted the necklace, not Gibraltar’s million francs which he obviously couldn’t accept. So now he would have to admit to a fool like Ortalon that he, Louis Tabarin, had been taken in, outwitted, by a con man.

Tabarin started to speak. But Ortalon raised a hand for silence and lay a garland of light on Tabarin’s desk. The Gobineau necklace! Trembling, Tabarin examined it stone by stone under his loupe. The diamonds were real. This was the original necklace. “But how—?” asked Tabarin.

“Last night we were contacted by the thief who offered to sell the necklace back to us for half a million francs,” said Ortalon. “And now, if you’ll just sign this receipt—”

Tabarin signed the paper quickly. In his bewilderment only one thing was clear: the genuine Gobineau necklace was in his hands again. Suddenly his office had filled up with shouting reporters and pushing photographers. “I took the liberty of breaking the story to the press. Good publicity for you — and for Gibraltar,” said Ortalon.

When the insurance investigator and the last of the reporters had left, Tabarin tried to shake off the blind spots from the flashbulbs and struggled to order his thoughts. But events were moving too fast. The phone rang. Babar the Elegant had heard the news over the radio. Was Tabarin trying to cheat him out of his share of the half million? If so, Babar threatened to make a deal with the police and put Tabarin behind bars for a long time. The jeweler was quick to promise Babar his quarter million. After all, the necklace was cheap at the price.

Tabarin had just put down the phone when his secretary announced the Count de Gobineau. The Count took a seat and then he looked at the surprised jeweler and smiled. In one swift moment Tabarin knew what the little man was going to say. Nevertheless he waited for the words. That gave him a few more moments to hold the necklace in his hands.

The Count lit a Turkish cigarette and nodded at the diamonds. “I see you’ve been expecting me, Mr. Tabarin,” he said. “Yes, I’ve come to redeem my necklace. You see, last night I came into a considerable sum of money.”