Florian's Gate

by T. Davis Bunn

  “It sure is,” he replied, rising to his feet. “And you’ll have to excuse me. His plane arrives first thing tomorrow morning, and I’ve got to go out to Heathrow to meet it.”

  “Where’d you say he was coming in from, lad?” Andrew asked.

  “I didn’t,” Jeffrey replied. “Good-night, everybody.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Jeffrey arrived at Heathrow Airport half an hour before the flight was scheduled to land. He sat in the Rolls’ front seat, somewhat embarrassed by the stares of passersby. The driver was new, but he came from their traditional car-hire firm, and had clearly been warned in advance of Alexander’s abhorrence for small talk.

  The chauffeur eased the massive car in front of the arrivals gate, then spoke for the first time since greeting Jeffrey at the shop, “I’ll be in the VIP lot at the terminal side, sir. I’ll have to ask you to come out to let me know if the plane’s been delayed. I can’t sit there but a few minutes.”

  “Right.” The door shut behind him with a satisfactory thunk. It was one of the Rolls’ trademarks; all the pieces fit together as though designed to last several generations.

  Jeffrey stood by the doors to baggage claim and found himself growing excited. He had not seen his boss in almost a month, had not spoken with him for over three weeks. The distances between Alexander Kantor’s visits to London were growing longer, the periods when he was lost and gone and out of contact easier to bear.

  Large metal doors pulled back and permitted a slightly dazed Alexander Kantor to walk through, followed by a porter carrying three Louis Vuitton cases. Jeffrey stepped forward and took the matching briefcase from Alexander’s limp hand. Flying always left his boss exhausted.

  “Ah, Jeffrey. You received my fax.”

  “Over this way,” he said, grasping Alexander’s elbow and pointing toward the far doors with his free hand. “I confirmed the fax the day it arrived.”

  “Did you? When was that?”

  “Last Friday. Are you sure you want to talk about this right now?”

  “Quite right.” He rubbed a weary brow. “Why on earth did they do away with shipping liners? Allow a body to arrive in proper style.”

  “You can’t get to London from Geneva by liner, Alexander. The Alps are in the way.” Kantor now had his only residence in Geneva. All the others—London, Monte Carlo, Sicily, Montreal, a flat on Copacabana in Rio—had been gradually sold off over the previous twelve months. The only explanation he had given Jeffrey was that the cost of keeping servants on three continents was becoming ridiculous.

  Kantor shot his assistant a peeved look. “You are positively enjoying yourself. I had no idea you had sadistic tendencies.”

  “It’s just that you are so seldom in less than top form.” Jeffrey allowed Kantor to pass through the exit before him. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There is no such thing as a good trip on an airplane.”

  “I’ve always thought flying was great,” Jeffrey replied, signaling to their driver.

  “Flying is never great. You can have a ten-course meal, watch the finest film since The Maltese Falcon, be served by a matched pair of angelic hostesses, and your flight would still not be great. Interesting, perhaps, but never great.”

  “You’re slurring.”

  “Of course I’m slurring. I always try to nap on a plane, which makes me more tired than I was before I started, and I always slur. Where is Roger?”

  Roger was Kantor’s driver of choice in London. As far as Jeffrey could tell, his entire vocabulary consisted of three words: very good, sir. “With a trio of golfers in Scotland. Gone all week.”

  Alexander replied to the driver’s murmured greeting with a nod and allowed himself to be guided into the Rolls’ leather backseat. Jeffrey supervised the loading of the cases, tipped the porter, and climbed in beside Kantor.

  “Claridge’s, driver,” Kantor said.

  “Sorry, Alexander,” Jeffrey said. “We don’t have time.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Count di Garibaldi is waiting for us at the shop. He is on his way overseas, and he insists on speaking to you personally about a certain item.”

  Kantor let out a groan. “I positively do not have the strength to deal with that man.”

  “You always say that when you arrive, and in fifteen minutes you’re always fine.”

  “Am I really?”

  “Always.” Jeffrey reached over to the front seat, retrieved his briefcase, extracted a thermos and a pair of embossed mugs, said, “Would you care for a cup?”

  “My dear boy, how thoughtful. I have no idea what they serve on those planes, but it is most certainly not coffee.”

  He handed over a steaming mug, sweetened as Kantor preferred. “You always say that, too.”

  “Am I becoming so predictable in my old age?” He took another sip and color began returning to his features. “Your coffee is improving.”

  “Betty accused me the other day of trying to dissolve the roof of her mouth.”

  “Americans declare anything stronger than old dishwater to be dangerous.” He took another sip. “Yes, I do believe I will survive after all.”

  They sped down the M4 until the morning traffic backed up and reduced their progress to a crawl. It took them over an hour to arrive in Mayfair, by which time the thermos was empty, most of the papers in Jeffrey’s briefcase had been covered, and Alexander’s traditionally alert good nature had been fully restored.

  He rewarded his assistant with an approving look. “You have done well, Jeffrey. Remarkably well.”

  “Thanks. It’s getting to be a lot of fun.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it. A business like ours requires that sort of attitude. Otherwise it is next to impossible to close a sale.” He studied Jeffrey a moment longer. “And you are weathering my absences well?”

  “Easier each time. I do have the odd moment, though, usually late at night after you’ve been out of touch for a couple of weeks. I wake up in a sweat, wondering what I’d do if you didn’t show up again.”

  Alexander Kantor turned toward the window streaked with misting rain. “There has been a method to the madness, I assure you.”

  “I figured there was.”

  “Yes?” He turned back around. “And what did you suppose was the purpose?”

  “To test me.”

  “Obviously. But in what way?”

  “To see if I could be trusted when there was no way you could be looking.” Jeffrey took a breath. “To leave me with no set rules, no real parachute, a lot of opportunities to sell at one price and record another, buy and sell on the sly, that sort of thing.”

  “Quite right. You’ve done very well, I might add.”

  “I thought you had some of the customers in there, you know, watching and reporting back to you.”

  “Of course I did.” He reached to the burl table which folded out from the driver’s seat-back and lifted the sheaf of ledger pages. “But the real evidence is right here, Jeffrey. Not only are you scrupulous in your record-keeping, you have done an exceptional job in researching our pieces, presenting them in the best possible light, placing them at auction houses when appropriate—basically, in coming to master the various facets of your new profession. I am indeed pleased.”

  Jeffrey felt his face flush with pleasure. “I’ve tried to be careful.”

  “You’ve been meticulous. I shall return to these compliments under more conducive circumstances. Now tell me—” He leafed through them to the section labeled Miscellaneous Expenses. “You have several items here for salary. I take it this is not for a raise you have given yourself.”

  “No.” Jeffrey tugged at his ear. He had thought this over several times, was still not sure how to handle it. “It was one of those judgment calls I had to make myself.”

  “Go on.”

  “I needed someone who could help in the shop when I was out at auctions or seeing out-of-town buyers or visiting
another business. Somebody pretty much available to work only when I needed them.”

  The smoky gray eyes gave away nothing. “And how long has this person been employed, may I ask?”

  “About four weeks.”

  “Since just after my trip began, then. And why did we not discuss this on the phone?”

  Yes. That was the clincher. Jeffrey swallowed. “It’s a little hard to explain.”

  The Rolls turned onto South Audley one block up from Mount Street. Alexander leaned forward, said, “Find some place to pull over and park, please, driver.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  “Go on, Jeffrey. I’m all ears.”

  He took a breath. “She is more than just a shop assistant.”

  “Ah.” Kantor was visibly relieved. “I understand. You did not wish to discuss your personal situation on the phone with me, and you did not want to discuss hiring her without telling me everything.”

  He nodded, immensely glad to have it out in the open. “If I knew what our personal situation really was, maybe I wouldn’t have such a tough time talking about it.”

  “We can leave that for later. Perhaps I shall be able to help you see the situation more clearly. For now we shall focus on the business aspect. And I must say, Jeffrey, your judgment call, as you describe it, was not the optimum one. You should have felt obliged to tell me about this young lady immediately. You have entrusted the shop and all its contents to an unknown. That simply will not do.”

  Jeffrey nodded miserably. “It started off as an emergency. I had to go out to Sussex to see the Countess Drake. You know what she’s like. She called up and said it was now or never, and it was that Florentine dresser you’ve been talking about with her for as long as I’ve been with the shop. I had a buyer from Spain who had telephoned for an appointment that same afternoon. And Mrs. Grayson had been called out of town the day before. Her daughter went into labor with Mrs. Grayson’s first grandchild.”

  Mrs. Grayson was a mild-mannered old dear who had been with Kantor’s shop for years. She did little more than mind the store when everyone else was away, but she did this with honest diligence. Her courtesy and genuine friendliness ensured that customers returned to learn more details or conclude a transaction with Alexander or Jeffrey.

  It had taken several months before Mrs. Grayson would give Jeffrey her approval, for she was fiercely loyal to her oft-absent director. Yet once it was granted, it was done with the wholehearted warmth of a proud mother. She made no bones over her dislike of the previous three assistants Alexander had brought in, none of whom had lasted a year. Jeffrey had known an inordinate amount of pride over his acceptance into Mrs. Grayson’s fold. During his boss’s long and silent absences, it was the only signal he had received of a job well done.

  “So I asked Katya to come over and cover for me,” Jeffrey finished, mightily worried.

  “Katya,” Alexander murmured. “A lovely name.”

  “Yes, sir.” He swiped at his brow. “Anyway, the next week I had this group over from New York, fourteen people in the shop at once, and Mrs. Grayson let me know that even if I threatened her with dismissal she was not coming back. It seems there’s been some kind of health problem with her daughter. Mrs. Grayson is staying in the Midlands until everything is okay. Anyway, with the tour and a lot of other things going on right then, Katya came over and worked three more afternoons. And then there was something the week after that—I don’t remember what. I had a terrible time just getting her to accept a salary; we had a real argument over that one.”

  “Did you really. How remarkable.”

  “By then it was already sort of a done deal. I started to try and call and tell you, if I could track you down. But like I said, I honestly didn’t know how to describe our own situation. So I left it. I’m sorry. I realize I messed up.”

  “Indeed you did. So. Consider yourself chastised, Jeffrey. And see that it does not happen again.”

  He realized that it was over. “Thanks, Mr. Kantor. It won’t.”

  “Alexander, please. Fine. Now that’s behind us. So tell me about this Katya. Is she as lovely as her name?”

  Jeffrey nodded. “It fits her perfectly.”

  “An attractive woman who works well with customers is quite an asset. You obviously trust her; I do hope it is not based solely upon your emotions.”

  “No, sir. She’s very religious, and her honesty is something that I’ve never had to concern myself about. She’s one of the most honorable people I’ve ever met. I don’t think it would even occur to her to steal.”

  “Is she English?”

  “American. Her father was from the States. But she’s lived here in England for over ten years.”

  “Her mother is not American?”

  Jeffrey’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Katya doesn’t like to talk about her past all that much. Her mother is from the western part of Poland—I’ve forgotten the name. She told me only once.”

  A new light entered Kantor’s eyes. “Silesia perhaps?”

  “That’s it. Silesia. Her mother came from there to the West some time after the war.”

  Kantor nodded slowly. “And what does the young lady do with the remainder of her time?”

  “She’s a third-year student at the University of London. She’s in East European studies, specializing in the German and Polish languages.”

  “How remarkable.” He straightened and spoke to the front seat. “Thank you, driver. You may proceed now.”

  Kantor remained silent and pensive as the Rolls cruised up the block, waited at the light, turned down Mount Street. Jeffrey let himself out as the driver held Alexander’s door, then followed his boss into the shop.

  “Ah, at last.” Count Garibaldi rose from the chair that he had pulled up close to Katya’s. “My good friend Alexander, you have saved me from disaster. If you had arrived just two minutes later, I would have been swept away by this lovely face and proposed. You know my heart. It leaps forward with little concern to this frail body. I would have lost our wager for sure.”

  “But what is the value of a wager in comparison to a new love?” Alexander extended his hand, said, “It is wonderful to see you again, Ricardo.”

  Count Ricardo Bastinado Grupello di Garibaldi prided himself on being a man of few illusions. He had grown from an unknown immigrant of doubtful heritage into one of London’s leading property developers, and his title and courtly manners were as false as his teeth. He did not care who knew it, did not care what was said about him behind his back. He considered the manners and the title and the polish all a part of the game of being rich. Count di Garibaldi had been both rich and poor, and anyone who believed it was better to be poor was a certifiable fruitcake in the count’s book.

  The count was a dried-up old prune who was so sure he would outlive his friend Alexander that he had insisted they wager on it. His nose was the only feature that had withstood the ravages of time. It was an aristocrat’s beak, a craggy mountain that could nest eagles in each nostril. It was a very useful nose. He could raise his chin about one millimeter and snub the world down its double-barreled length. It gave a deceptive sense of strength to an otherwise shriveled frame.

  All the count had to live for was his collection of antiques and his seventeen children. His five ex-wives no longer spoke to him. All seventeen children idolized him. They had to. The count demanded it. But he could not control his ex-wives because of what he considered to be the most pestilent of modern inventions—alimony. They had more than they would ever need, so they delighted in scorning him and calling him foul names. His children, however, were a different matter.

  In return for seventeen most generous monthly payments, he demanded peace with him and peace with each other. Anyone who let a spoiled nature run wild within the family was swiftly stripped to a bread and water diet. A couple of months without petrol money for the Ferrari, and the worst of them learned to stew in silence. The count did not demand love; he was too realistic to ins
ist on the impossible. He was quite happy to settle for peace.

  The count stretched his bloodless lips in a smile of genuine pleasure. “You are well, Alexander?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “No morning aches and pains?”

  “I would never permit myself such an indulgence.”

  The count’s smile broadened as he clapped his more virile friend on the shoulder. “You don’t stand a chance, Alexander. I’ll beat you by ten years.”

  “This is one wager I do not look forward to winning,” Kantor replied. “Which I shall.”

  The bet was for fifty thousand pounds. On the day the other died, the lawyers for their estates were instructed to issue a check—providing the survivor still had the strength to drink a glass of single-malt whiskey neat, then dance a jig on the other’s grave.

  “I must compliment you on your choice of assistants,” the count said.

  Kantor turned to where Katya stood toward the back of the shop. In the soft lighting reflected from the highly polished surfaces, her features glowed. “I confess this arrangement was not of my choosing,” Alexander replied. “But she certainly meets with my approval. How do you do, my dear. I am Alexander Kantor.”

  She walked forward and presented her hand with a poise Jeffrey found remarkable. She stood so erect as to appear regally aloof, a dark-haired vision with eyes the color of heavens seen through the smoke of a winter’s fire. “Katya Nichols. Jeffrey has told me so much about you, Mr. Kantor.”

  “Has he really.” Kantor did a stiff-backed bow over her hand, then said something in a tongue Jeffrey assumed was Polish. Katya responded with cool grace in the same language. Her remark caused Kantor’s eyes to broaden momentarily. They exchanged more words; then Alexander repeated his formal bow. He returned to English, saying, “This is indeed an unexpected pleasure, Miss Nichols.”

  Jeffrey thought his heart would burst with pride.

  “My dear Alexander, if you would kindly return your attention to the business at hand,” the count said sharply. “You may be interested to know that I was not referring to the young lady. I have already been informed as to how she came to grace your establishment. I was speaking of your young man here. I am not sure you realize what a find you have under your roof.”