The Listerdale Mystery

"Is there anything on this beastly menu that isn't 'off '?" demanded James. The waitress looked pained and placed a pale-grey finger against haricot mutton. James resigned himself to the inevitable and ordered haricot mutton. His mind still seething with resentment against the ways of caf閟, he drew his hand out of his pocket, the stone still in it. Unclosing fingers, he looked absent-mindedly at the object in his palm. Then with a shock all lesser matters passed from his mind and he stared with all his eyes. The thing he held was not a pebble, it was - he could hardly doubt it - an emerald, an enormous green emerald. James stared at it horror-stricken. No, it couldn't be an emerald; it must be coloured glass. There couldn't be an emerald of that size, unless - printed words danced before James's eyes, "The Rajah of Maraputna - famous emerald the size of a pigeon's egg." Was it - could it be - that emerald at which he was looking now? The waitress returned with the haricot mutton, and James closed his fingers spasmodically. Hot and cold shivers chased themselves up and down his spine. He had the sense of being caught in a terrible dilemma. If this was the emerald - but was it? Could it be? He unclosed his fingers and peeped anxiously. James was no expert on precious stones, but the depth and the glow of the jewel convinced him this was the real thing. He put both elbows on the table and leaned forward staring with unseeing eyes at the haricot mutton slowly congealing on the dish in front of him. He had got to think this out. If this was the Rajah's emerald, what was he going to do about it? The world "police" flashed into his mind. If you found anything of value, you took it to the police station. Upon this axiom had James been brought up. Yes, but - how on earth had the emerald got into' his trouser pocket? That was doubtless the question the police would ask. It was an awkward question, and it was moreover a question to which he had at the moment no answer. How had the emerald got into his trouser pocket? He looked despairingly down at his legs, and as he did so, a misgiving shot through him. He looked more closely. One pair of old grey flannel trousers is very much like another pair of old grey flannel trousers, but all the same, James had an instinctive feeling that these were not his trousers after all. He sat back in his chair stunned with the force of the discovery. He saw now what had happened; in the hurry of getting out of the bathing hut, he had taken the wrong trousers. He had hung his own, he remembered, on an adjacent peg to the old pair hanging there. Yes, that explained matters so far; he had taken the wrong trousers. But all the same, what on earth was an emerald worth hundreds and thousands of pounds doing there? The more he thought about it, the more curious it seemed. He could, of course, explain to the police -

It was awkward, no doubt about it, it was decidedly awkward. One would have to mention the fact that one had deliberately entered someone else's bathing hut. It was not, of course, a serious offence, but it started him off wrong.

"Can I bring you anything else, sir?"