Free Kaleidoscope by Dorothy Gilman

boring woman I’ve spent a week with. It would be a pleasure to see you, but
not
,” he added dryly, “with that policeman friend of yours. I remain, still, allergic to the police.”
    She laughed. “No, I’m still saving you for a surprise. This concerns diamonds, and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
    Leaving a sign on her door, BACK AT 2 PM, she walked to the subway and was soon strolling down Cavendish Square with its stately homes and gardens. Number 46, however, housed elegant apartments where Amos occupied the first floor. It amused her very much that decades ago Amos Herzog had been the country’s most outrageously successful jewel thief, moving in the best of circles—as he still did—and had been famous for never carrying a gun during his robberies. Very sensibly he had retired after two stints in jail, and for years had been writing a series of books on—of all things—famous crimes in history. If there were some who wondered how his modest book sales supported a luxurious apartment on Cavendish Square, if they perhaps wondered if he had stashed away many of his ill-gotten gains in Switzerland, he was so charming, and so often of help to the FBI—he had even taught a class for them on picking locks— that no one cared enough to explore the source of his income . . . so long as he remained retired.
    That he had actually been a client of hers a few months after she’d hung out her sign still amused her. Not many Mercedeses were to be seen on Eighth Street, and his astonishment when she’d opened her door had been palpable. “Good God,” he’d said.
    Out of desperation, irritation, and condescension he’d either heard of her or seen her sign, and apparently had decided that she was his last but no doubt vain hope. He had lost or mislaid a coin in his apartment.
    â€œNot a valuable one,” he’d explained. “Worth no more than two hundred dollars, but it’s been my lucky charm. I count on it, depend on it, and I can’t tell you how unlucky I’ve been since it disappeared.”
    â€œStolen?” she’d suggested. “Surely stolen?”
    He had vigorously shaken his head. “Impossible. It has to be in my apartment, which I’ve ransacked, trying to find it. Too stupid of me—and certainly not a police matter. I simply wondered—”
    â€œTell me about it,” she’d said. “Or better still, draw me a sketch of it.”
    He’d drawn a picture of it for her: a
real
, one of the coins commonly known as “pieces of eight,” salvaged by divers from pirate ships. “Of value only to me,
always
I carried it on my person. Jacket or trouser pockets.”
    She nodded. “Then may I first hold something of yours, worn on your person for a number of years?”
    He had never heard of psychometry, and with a laugh he’d handed her his gold signet ring.
    She held it for quite a while, increasingly amused. “You have a strong sense of mischief,” she told him. “And have at one time been famous—or perhaps infamous?”
    â€œAll this you pick up from a mere ring?”
    â€œEmanations,” she’d explained. “Thoughts. Moods, feelings. So much is invisible. . . . We all possess a magnetic field, a current that runs through us and that can be detected . . . when you leave that chair, for instance, yours will remain behind you for some moments.” She added politely, “I have the impression that you’ve spent some time in . . . jail, dare I say?”
    â€œYou unman me,” he’d said. “Yes, there was a time when I divested a number of wealthy matrons of their jewelry. Without violence, I can assure you.”
    â€œAh—a jewel thief!”
    â€œA
distinguished
jewel thief,” he emphasized.
    â€œAbout your missing good-luck charm . . .” She picked up his sketch to concentrate on it. “How