Page 86 of An Artful Dodge
I put the map of this building in my head and walked around it to the alley, which connected to Ely Place—
A church bell rang behind me, followed by another immediately to my right.
The map pivoted in my head. “This is the wrong wall,” I said.
“But the door’s supposed to be to the right, innit?” Art asked.
“I know.” I pointed. “But that way’s north. Those bells were St. Etheldreda’s, which is behind us, and St. Peter’s, in Saffron Hill to the east.”
He drew back dubiously. “I’m sure James knows his directions—”
“And I know Hatton Garden, and I’m telling you, he must’ve got turned around,” I retorted. I carried the lantern over to the other wall. Like the one opposite, it was rough plaster. I ran my right hand along at eye level, searching for a crack. Nothing.
I dropped my hand lower and ran it back.
My fingertips dropped into a divot. “Here.”
He stepped forward.
“Hold the lamp,” I said. Art took it from me, and I brushed away dust. There was no door handle, but a small square not much larger than one revealed itself to my fingertips. It was a hinged door, smaller than a Judas window, and I took out my knife, slid it into one side, and pulled it open, revealing a door handle, locked. And now I could see the outline of a small, squat door, half the size of a normal one, the plasterwork done so perfectly it was barely visible. With no hinges on this side, the door would open inward.
Art went to work with his picks, and the knob turned. Cautiously, he pushed the door open and peered in. I laid a hand on his arm, so he’d let me go first, and I swung the lantern over the threshold. As I’d guessed, we were underneath the staircase that led to the upper floors. The stairs were supported by vertical wooden beams set approximately every two feet apart, easy enough for us to slip through.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a glint of something shiny. I lowered the lantern toward it and found two small bells suspended from a thread, ready to be set off. I gave Art a warning look, and he nodded. I stepped inside first, and he followed into the area beneath the stairs.
I bent to slip off my boots and my wet socks, and Art did the same. We ran the bare soles of our feet along the dry part of our trousers above the knees, to be sure we wouldn’t leave prints if the floor was dusty. We eased between the vertical beams to the door. Slowly, Art rotated the knob, and we slipped into the main room. The air was still; it smelled of the musty wool carpet and the linseed oil used to polish the cabinets. I pointed Art toward the door of the office, and he bent to examine the lock, withdrew his picks, and let us in with the faintest snick.
By the light of the lamp, we saw the safe, a shiny imposing black block with a silver circle on the front.
We could leave no trace of our work, so once more I put out a hand to halt Art, giving me a moment to study the room—the position of the chair, the carpet, and the drawer of the desk, left half an inch out.
When I dropped my arm, Art removed his coat. I took it from him, placing it against the bottom of the door, where the light from the lantern might sliver through, alerting a passing constable who might peer through the front window.
Art stepped toward the safe and paused to appraise it, his hands running over the front, top, and sides. From his sack, he withdrew my leather wrap of tools and handed it to me. Next, he set a small, peculiarly shaped box on top of the safe, crouched beside the dial, put his right ear to the metal, and closed his eyes.
There are minutes that last hours, and these were some of them.
I knew better than to urge him to hurry; I’d only delay him by saying a word. But as I watched, I thought of how so much that was precious to me depended upon this stranger’s hands.
His eyes opened and met mine, the handle of the safe pivoted, and the door swung out.
Art stepped aside, and we examined the contents of the six shelves without touching a thing. Art pointed to what looked like the necklace lying on a black velvet tray and raised a questioning eyebrow. Did I want to see it, just in case? I shook my head; only the copy would be left loose on a tray. I pointed, and Art removed the largest rectangular box. None of the others would hold a necklace of this size laid flat. Like the box for my repaired bracelet, this one had been closed with a ribbon and a crimson wax seal stamped with the jeweler’sS.
I carried the box to the jeweler’s desk and put down the lamp at the corner.
From my pouch of tools, I chose a knife that could remove the seal without breaking it. My loupe. Two sets of pliers. The small sack of paste stones. The tiny bottle of adhesive.
I picked up the knife and said over my shoulder to Art, “Move away, please. I can’t concentrate with someone watching.”
Silently, he stepped toward the door, and I turned my back to him.
I began the delicate work of removing the wax seal from the ribbon. It peeled off with little difficulty, allowing me to breathe again.
I set aside the box’s lid. One look through my loupe told me this was the marquess’s heirloom.
I studied the way the necklace was attached to the velvet backing: two straight pins at the top, piercing the links beside the stones four away from the clasp, the clasp flat, the tiny emerald above. At the bottom, one pin through the hoop connecting the ruby pendant to the chain. I undid the pins and lifted the necklace away from the velvet. It was heavier than I expected, and I set it on the table.
Given the stakes, I should have been shaking. My breath was shallow, my stomach twisting. But my hands didn’t fail me. They were steady.
