It was a frustrating conversation. A bank holiday, this particular Friday. “I know you’re closed to the public but I’ve got to talk with an officer. It’s important.”
“I’m sorry, sir. This is the answering service. There’s no one in the bank except security personnel.”
Cushman hung up the phone and made a face and wasn’t quite sure what to do. He paced the office for a moment, alternately pleased to have made the sale but disturbed by suspicion. Finally he picked up the telephone again.
The lobby bustled: people checking in, checking out — business people and tourists in flamboyant island colors. In this class of hotel in this high season you could estimate the fifty people in the lobby were worth approximately $20 million on the hoof. Mr. Fowler watched with satisfaction until the intercom interrupted. “Yes?”
“It’s Mr. Henry Cushman, sir.”
“Put him on.”
“Jim?”
“How’re you, Henry?”
“Puzzled. I’ve got a little problem.”
Jim Fowler laughed. “I told you not to bet on the Lakers. Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“It’s serious, Jim. Listen. I’ve just sold a very expensive diamond ring to…a Mr. F. Breckenridge Baldwin. I understand he’s staying at your hotel.”
“Baldwin? Yes, sure he’s staying here.” And by the sheerest of meaningless coincidences Fowler at that moment saw the extraordinarily tall F. Breckenridge Baldwin enter through the main entrance and stride across the vast marble foyer. In turn Baldwin recognized Fowler and waved to him and Fowler waved back as Baldwin entered an elevator.
“What’s that, Henry? Hell, sure, he’s reputable. He and his wife have been here three weeks now. Royal Suite. They’ve entertained two bishops and a Rockefeller.”
“How long are they staying?”
“They’ll be with us at least another week. She likes the beach. I gather he has business deals in progress.”
“What do you know about him? Any trouble?”
“Trouble? Absolutely not. In fact he’s compulsive about keeping his account paid up.”
“He gave me a damn big check on the Sugar Merchants Bank.”
“If you’re worried about it why don’t you call Bill Yeager? He’s on the board of the bank.”
“Good idea. I’ll do that. Thanks, Jim.”
“That’s all right. You’re certainly welcome.”
It took Henry Cushman twenty minutes and as many phone calls to find Bill Yeager. In the end he tracked him down at the Nineteenth Hole Clubhouse. There was quite a bit of background racket: a ball game of some kind on the projection TV, men’s voices shouting encouragement from the bar. Yeager’s voice blatted out of the phone: “You’ll have to talk louder, Henry.”
“Baldwin,” he shouted, “F. Breckenridge Baldwin.”
“Is that the big tall character, looks like Gary Cooper?”
“That’s him.”
“Met him the other night at a luau they threw for the senator. Nice fellow, I thought. What about him?”
“What does he do?”
“Investments, I think. Real estate mostly.”
“Does he have an account with Sugar Merchants?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“You’re on the board of directors, aren’t you?”
“Henry, for Pete’s sake, I’m not some kind of bank teller.”
“It’s important, Bill. I’m sorry to bother you but I really need to find out. Can you give me a home number — somebody from the bank? Somebody who might know?”
“Let me think a minute…”
“That’s right, Mr. Cushman. He’s got an account with us. Opened it several weeks ago.”
“What’s the balance?”
“I can’t give out that kind of information on the telephone, sir.”
“Let me put it this way, then. He’s given me a check for four hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars. I need to know if it’s good.”
“I see. Then you certainly have a legitimate interest…If Mr. Yeager gave you my name…Well, all right. Based on my knowledge of that account from a few days ago, I’d say the check should be perfectly good, sir. It’s an interest-bearing account, money-market rate. He’s been carrying a rather large balance — it would be more than adequate to cover a four hundred and thirty-five thousand dollar check.”
“Thank you very much indeed.” Hanging up the phone, Henry Cushman was perspiring a bit but exhaustedly relieved. It looked as if he’d made a good sale after all.
Breck’s hand placed the immaculate ring onto the woman’s slender finger. Vicky admired it, turning it this way and that to catch the light, enraptured.
“It’s the loveliest present of all. My darling Breck — I worship you.”
He gave her a sharp look — she was laying it on a bit thick — but she moved quickly into his embrace and kissed him, at length. There was nothing he could do but go along with it. Over her shoulder he glimpsed Henry Cushman, beaming rather like a clergyman at a wedding.
Politely, Cushman averted his glance and pretended interest in the decor of the Royal Suite. If you looked down from the twelfth-story window you could see guests splashing around the enormous pool, seals performing in the man-made pond beside it, lovers walking slowly along the beach, gentle white-caps catching the Hawaiian moonlight.
Finally she drew away and Breck turned to the room-service table; he reached for the iced champagne bottle and gestured toward Henry Cushman. “Like a drink before you go?”
“Oh no. I’ll leave you alone to enjoy your evening together. It’s been a pleasure, sir. I hope we meet again.”
As if at court the jeweler backed toward the door, then turned and left. Breck and Vicky stood smiling until he closed it. Then the smile disappeared from Breck’s face and he walked away from her. He jerked his tie loose and flung off the evening jacket.
She said, “You might at least make an effort to be nice to me.”
“Fire that alimony lawyer and let me have my money back and I’ll be as nice as —”
“Your money? Breck, you’re the most unrealistic stubborn stupid…”
He lifted the bottle out of the ice bucket and poured. “We’re almost home with this thing. I’ll keep the truce if you will. Time out? King’s X?”
She lifted her champagne in a toast: “King’s X. To Daddy.”
He drank to that. “Your turn tomorrow, ducks:”
“And then what?”
“Just think about doing your job right now.”
AVAKIAN JEWELRY — BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.
It was upstairs in an old building in Waikiki village. Patina of luxury; the carpet was thick and discreet. Past the desk and through the window you could see straight down the narrow street to a segment of beach and the Pacific beyond.
There were no display cases; it wasn’t that sort of place. Just an office. Somewhere in another room there would be a massive safe.
The man’s name was Clayton; he’d introduced himself on the telephone when she’d made the appointment. His voice on the phone was thin and asthmatically reedy; it had led her to expect a hollow-chested cadaverous man but Clayton in person was ruddy-cheeked and thirty pounds overweight and perspiring in a three-piece seersucker suit under the slowly turning overhead fan. He was the manager. She gathered from something he said that the owner had several shops in major cities around the world and rarely set foot in any of them.
Clayton was examining the ring. “Normally I don’t come in on Saturdays.” He’d already told her that on the phone; she’d dropped her voice half an octave and given him the pitch about how there was quite a bit of money involved.
He turned the ring in his hand, inspecting it under the high-intensity lamp. “I suppose it’s a bit cool for the beach today anyhow.” His talk was the sort that suggested he was afraid of silences: he had to keep filling them with unnecessary sounds. “Raining like the devil over on the windward side of the island today, did you kno
w that?” It made her recall how one of the things she’d always admired about Breck was his comfort with silences. Sometimes his presence was a warmth in itself; sometimes when she caught his eye the glance was as good as a kiss.
But that was long ago, as he kept reminding her.
Presently Clayton took down the loupe and glanced furtively in her direction. “It’s a beautiful stone..shame you have to part with it…How much did you have in mind?”
“I want a quick sale. And I need cash. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
He gave her a sharp look. He knew damn well it was worth more than that. He picked up the satin-lined little box. “Why don’t you take it back to Henry Cushman? They’d probably give you more.”
“That’s my business, isn’t it?”
“I may not have that much cash on the premises.”
She reached for the box. “If you don’t want the ring, never mind —”
He said, “No, no,” accepting the rebuff. “Of course it’s your business. I’m sorry.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see what I’ve got in the safe. If you’ll excuse me a moment?”
She gave him her sweetest smile and settled into a leather armchair while the man slipped out of the office. He left the ring and the box on the desk as if to show how trustworthy he was.
She knew where he was going: a telephone somewhere. She could imagine the conversation. She wished she could see Henry Cushman’s face. “That’s my ring all right. What’s the woman look like?”
And the manager Clayton describing her: this tall elegant auburn-haired woman who looked like Morristown gentry from the horsey fox-hunting set. In her fantasy she could hear Cushman’s pretentious lockjaw drawl: “That’s the woman. I saw him put the ring on her finger. That’s her. Wait — let me think this out…”
She waited on. Patient, ever patient, and Joy shall be thy share.
Henry Cushman would be working it out in his mind — suspicion first, then certainty: by now he’d be realizing he’d been had. “They set it up. They’ve stuck me with a bum check.”
She pictured his alarm — a deep red flush suffusing his bald head. “They must have emptied out his bank account Thursday evening just before the bank closed. They knew I’d inquire about the account. But the check’s no good, don’t you see? I’ve given them one of the best stones in the islands and they’ve got to get rid of it before the bank opens. If you let her get away… by Monday morning they’ll be in Hong Kong or Caracas, setting up the same scam all over again. For God’s sake stall her. Just hold her right there.”
She smiled when Clayton returned.
He said in an avuncular wheeze, “I’m afraid this is going to take a few minutes, madame.”
“Take your time. I don’t mind.”
Breck sat in the back seat of a parked taxi, watching the building. He saw the police car draw up.
Two uniformed officers got out of the car. They went to the glass door of the building and pressed a button. After a moment the door was unlocked to permit them to enter.
After that it took not more than five or six minutes before Breck saw Vicky emerge from the shop, escorted by a cop on either side of her. She was shouting at them, struggling, forcing them to manhandle her. With effort the cops hustled her into the police car. It drove off.
In the taxi, Breck settled back. “We can go now.”
Henry Cushman looked up at him. Cushman’s eyes were a little wild. The smooth surface of his head glistened with sweat.
“A terrible blunder, Mr. Baldwin, and I can only offer my most humble apologies. I’m so awfully embarrassed…”
On the desk were the diamond ring and Breck’s check.
Breck impaled him on his icy stare. With virulent sarcasm he mimicked Cushman’s phony accent:
“Your awful embarrassment, Mr. Cushman, hardly compensates for the insult and injury you’ve done to my wife and myself.”
The quiet calm of his voice seemed nearly to shatter Cushman; the man seemed barely able to reply. Finally he managed to whisper:
“Quite right, sir.”
Breck stood in front of the desk, leaning forward, the heels of both hands against its edge; from his great height he loomed over the jeweler.
“Now let’s get this straight. You called the bank this morning…”
“Yes sir.”
“And you found out my check’s good.” He pointed to it. “Isn’t it? The money’s in the bank to cover it.”
Henry Cushman all but cringed. “Yes sir.”
“But because of your impulsive stupidity, my wife was arrested…Do you have any idea what it’s like for a woman of Mrs. Baldwin’s breeding to spend a whole night locked up in whatever you call your local louse-infested women’s house of detention?”
Cushman, squirming, was speechless.
Breck was very calm and serious. “I guess we haven’t got anything more to say to each other, Mr. Cushman.” He wheeled slowly and with dignity toward the door. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”
“Please — please, Mr. Baldwin.”
He stopped with his back to the jeweler, waiting.
“Mr. Baldwin, let’s not be hasty. I feel sure we can find a solution to this without the expense of public litigation…”
With visible reluctance Breck turned to face him. Very cold now: “What do you suggest?”
“No, sir. What do you suggest?”
Breck gave it a great deal of visible thought. He regarded the check, then the ring. Finally he picked up the ring and squinted at it.
“For openers — this belongs to me.”
He saw the Adam’s apple go up and down inside Cushman’s shirt collar. Cushman said, “Yes sir.”
“And I can see you haven’t deposited my check yet. So here’s my suggestion. You listening?”
“Yes sir.”
“I keep the ring — and you tear up that check.”
Cushman stared at him. Breck loomed. “It’s little enough for the insults we’ve had to suffer.”
In acute and obvious discomfort, Cushman struggled but finally accepted defeat. Slowly, with a sickly smile, he tore up the check.
It earned the approval of Breck’s cool smile. “You’ve made a sensible decision. Saved yourself a lot of trouble. Consider yourself lucky.”
And he went.
She said, “Don’t you think we make a good team?” She said it wistfully, with moonlight in her eyes and Remy Martin on her breath. “Don’t you remember the time we sold the same Rembrandt three times for a million and a half each? I remember the Texan and the Iranian in Switzerland, but who was the third one?”
“Watanabe in Kyoto.”
“Oh, yes. How could I have forgotten. The one with all the airplanes around the pagoda in his yard.”
A breeze rattled the palm fronds overhead. He looked down into her upturned face. “I’ve got a race next week in Palm Springs, which means I’ve only got a few days to get the car in shape. Besides, you still need to learn a man doesn’t like paying alimony. It feels like buying gas for a junked car.”
“Don’t talk to me about that. Talk to my lawyer,” she said. “Are you going to kiss me or something?”
“I don’t know. I seem to remember I tried that once. As I recall it didn’t work out too well. Turned out kind of costly.” He began to walk away.
“Hey. Breck.”
Her voice pulled him around.
She said, “King’s X?”
He threw up both arms: his eyes rolled upward as if seeking inspiration from the sky. And shaking his head like a man who ought to know better, he began to laugh.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
“Introduction” and all story introductions copyright © 1993 by Brian Garfield.
“The Gun Law” copyright © 1977 by Brian Garfield. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, June 1977.
“Hunting Accident” copyright © 1977 by Brian Garfield. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 1977.
“Two-Way Street” copyright © 1978 by John Ives (pen name of Brian Garfield). First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, August 1978.
“Ends and Means” copyright © 1977 by Brian Garfield. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, February 1977
“Scrimshaw” copyright © 1979 by Brian Garfield. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 17, 1979.
“The Chalk Outline” copyright © 1981 by Brian Garfield. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May 20, 1981.
“The Shopping List” copyright © 1981 by Brian Garfield. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 20, 1981.
“King’s X” copyright © 1987 by Brian Garfield. First appeared in MURDER CALIFORNIA STYLE, edited by Jon L. Breen and John Ball, St. Martin’s, 1987.
cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
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