Maddie Hatter and the Deadly Diamond Read Free

its steward what the fuss at the desk had been about. This fellow, often a recipient of minor baksheesh for explaining Egypt to her, had no hesitation in telling all he knew.
    “The jewels, young Sitt. Diamonds and other gems, bought by the English baron who was lost in his airship. He had them here to decide which to buy, and left before sending them back. The jewel merchant is not paid, and now he knows the baron is not coming back, he is angry. The hotel is not paid for the baron’s rooms, and is angry. The lady who was supposed to pay has said she will not pay. Not for the baron’s rooms, nor the baron’s parties, nor the jewels.” He scratched one ear where his fez had rubbed it. “She is angry too, I think.”
    “This lady who was to pay, was she staying at the hotel?” Could the tea gossips have had it so wrong, and the widow was supporting the baron instead of vice versa?
    “No, young Sitt. That lady is far away in England. She has only the man at the bank to speak for her. The baron had papers to let him take money from the bank.”
    Not the widow, but another woman, in England, ensnared by the dashing adventurer. Maddie elicited the name of the bank and handed over a few modest coins, already mentally composing her next headline. Large-living baron bilks lonely lady? If someone could be brought to reveal her name, CJ could surely find the woman for a quote.
    As she returned to her room along the quiet, second-class corridor, with its boring British box-shape and the message track with absolutely no ornamentation to disguise its brassy utility, Maddie once more pondered her new byline. It had to look good in 10-point type. Ah, well, she could remain “Our Cairo Correspondent” for one more article.
    No portrait, though, not ever. Under the new deal, her parents could withhold her allowance if she were recognized while doing something so outrageous as earning a living. The allowance had paid her way to Egypt and, until the coin began to trickle in from fashion columns, had provided her shelter, her food, and the endless supply of white gloves that gave her dubious profession an air of respectability. If it stopped, her savings would barely get her back to England at the end of the current assignment, and CJ would not offer another post if the project lost her father’s grudging favour. Nobody willingly offended a Steamlord, especially over a family matter.
    She stepped into her utilitarian bedchamber and told TD, “Tomorrow I will wear my best suit and the hat with the ribbons that hide you best. We will infiltrate the bank, and then the jeweler. You must record any conversation at the first, and collect images at the second. A pictorial record of pilfered jewels will catch CJ’s fancy no end.”
    Setting her notebook on the desk in preparation for an article on Indian-style parasols for Spring, she flipped up the lid on the inkwell and prepared to dip her pen. She paused, and thoughtfully rested her index finger on a faintly shiny bit of the carved walnut surround. One push and she would have her old visiting card back from the secret drawer. The Honourable Madeleine Main-Bearing, daughter of the Marquis of Main-Bearing, could command assistance from any official in the British Empire, and some beyond it. A mere bank manager would be as butter in the sun before that card. But there were only five, and if she carried them, she would be tempted to use them to smooth her path. Showing one would be tantamount to admitting she could not, in fact, make her way in the world alone. She would not admit that. Not yet. She pulled her finger away, picked up the pen, and began to write.
     
     

Chapter Two
     
     
     
     
     
    WITHIN A VERY few minutes of walking into the bank, Maddie found herself returned to the street outside. The sun warmed a face positively chilled by polite refusals. On pretext of adjusting her hat, she touched TD’s beak to stop him recording. The words spoken inside that edifice were not a