The Color of Death by Bruce Alexander Page A

Field Lane. A theft of such enormity could hardly be handled by any one of the fences there — nor even perhaps all of them together. They are at best rather small enterprises. Disposing of Lady Lilley’s jewels, for instance, would be quite beyond them. Jewels are rather special.”
    With that he paused a goodly pause, leaned his head back on the pillow, and gave prolonged thought to the matter. Only thereafter did he resume.
    “This may surprise you, Jeremy, but regarding the jewels, you might best talk with Mr. Moses Martinez.”
    “The accountant?”
    “Ah well, he is that among other things — sometimes an investor and sometimes a banker, and sometimes a financial adviser. But with all else, he is a Jew, and the Jews do largely control the market for precious stones in Amsterdam. I mean in no wise to implicate Mr. Martinez in the theft, nor in the fencing of what was stolen, but he has contacts there in the diamond district and if he were to make some discreet inquiries …”
    “I see. Indeed I shall do that, sir.”
    “And as for the rest of the goods taken the other night, why not go to Lloyd’s Coffee House and ask Mr. Humber about them?”
    “Mr. Alfred Humber? Truly? What would he know about such matters as this?”
    “Mr. Humber knows a good deal about many things,” said Sir John somewhat mysteriously. “Just try him and see if he has anything to offer. That should keep you busy, eh, lad?”
    I agreed that it would and rose from my chair to depart.
    “Just one more matter,” said he, holding me there at his bedside. “Are you absolutely certain that the man who shot at me there in St. James Street was black?”
    “Well,” said I, somewhat at a loss, “as sure as I can be about most things. That is to say, we were beneath the streetlamp, and he was not. And when he appeared I was greatly distracted, trying to push you out of the way while also attempting to get a shot off at him. Nevertheless, in spite of all that, I retain a picture of him, and that picture is of a black man — an African.”
    “All right,” said he, “I accept what you say — I must. Yet I cannot think for the life of me what black man I might so have offended that he would wish to kill me.” He sighed; the matter did truly trouble him. “But on your way now. Report to me when you have something to report. And not before.”
    Thus the day passed rather quickly. In no more than a few minutes, I had been given much to do: at least a day’s work, and more likely two or three. I liked it well that he had left the execution of the tasks to me. As soon as Annie returned at mid-morning, I set off at quick march to the office of Moses Martinez in Leadenhall Street in the City of London. The only difficulty I experienced there was that which I had foreseen, and Sir John had more or less foretold. I well recall the incredulous and hurt expression Mr. Martinez wore upon his face as I told him that Sir John hoped he might be of some aid in tracing jewels of Lady Lilley ‘s, stolen from the Lilley residence the night before last.
    “Surely he does not believe that I had something — anything at all — to do with that monstrous robbery!”
    “Indeed he does not,” said I, in what I meant to be a most reassuring tone. “He values your friendship highly, and I myself have heard him commend you to others as the most honest of men.”
    At that, Mr. Martinez seemed appropriately relieved. “Very well then,” said he. “What might I do for you?”
    “Sir John thought only that perhaps through your contacts with those in the gem trade in Amsterdam, you might be of some help in this matter.”
    “Ah, indeed, perhaps I might. What is the value of these jewels?”
    “Upwards to ten thousand pounds.”
    “Indeed? Well, in that case, they would almost have to be sold off in Amsterdam. Give me a few days, young man — enough time to make some inquiries — and perhaps I shall have some information for you and good Sir John.” With