by Stuart Woods
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I am not a forger.”
“Well, if the document isn’t a forgery, it means that Carrie’s grandfather ordered the copy made in 1946, and it eventually ended up as a bequest to Carrie?”
“Well, ah . . .”
“Oh, no, that story would make a liar of you, wouldn’t it? If the document wasn’t a forgery, you didn’t give the necklace to Carrie as a wedding present.”
“Now, listen . . .”
“No, Mr. Biggers, you listen. You have burned your bridges in every possible direction. Now stop bothering me, and give yourself up to the police.” Stone hung up.
“Him again?” Gala asked.
“The son of a bitch won’t leave me alone.”
38
On his first morning in Paris, Paul Eckstein was awakened by the doorbell in his beautiful suite at the Arrington. “Entrez!” he shouted, waking his wife. He pulled a sheet over her naked body as the room service waiter pushed his cart into the bedroom.
“Bonjour, M’sieur,” the man said.
“Just put the table on her side of the bed,” Eckstein said. “We’ll serve ourselves.”
The waiter did so, then departed.
“Breakfast is getting cold,” he whispered in his wife’s ear.
She rolled onto her back. “We’re in Paris, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“I wanted to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.” She plumped up her pillows, took the lid off a plate, and handed him his eggs Benedict. “You’re going to gain weight while we’re here,” she said.
“I plan to,” Paul replied, digging in.
She served herself, as well. “And what is your plan for today?”
“I’m going to see if I can arrange a lunch with Randol Cohn-Blume, and if so, I’m going to stop on the way at Charvet and buy a few things.”
“Then perhaps I’ll stop by Chanel and meet you for lunch.”
“I think you’d better make your own arrangements for lunch. Randol is more talkative when fewer people are present.”
“Oh, all right.”
The phone rang. “With any luck that will be Randol. I left him a message last night.” He picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Paul, is that you?”
“It is, Randol. How in the world are you?”
“I’m quite well, thank you. What brings you to Paris?”
“I came in search of knowledge, and I would like to discuss that with you over lunch.”
“I am available.”
“Brasserie Lipp at one?” He knew that was the man’s favorite restaurant.
“Lipp at one. I shall look forward to it.”
“As shall I.” Both men hung up.
“That sounded very cordial,” Lara said.
“It was, and will remain so, as long as Randol believes himself to be well compensated for his advice.”
—
Paul visited Charvet, selected some neckties and splurged on a cashmere dressing gown, all of which he had delivered to the Arrington. Lipp was abuzz, as usual, and Randol was already seated at his usual table. The two men shook hands, then embraced, then took their places.
“I took the liberty of ordering your wine,” Randol said as the waiter poured them glasses of a chilled Meursault.
“Thank you, Randol, your grasp of enology was always better than mine.” They clinked glasses and sipped.
“You’re having the choucroute, of course.”
“Of course.”
Randol caught a waiter’s eye and held up two fingers. “You’re looking very well, Paul, prosperous, even.”
“I can’t complain—well, I could complain, but it wouldn’t do any good.” The two men laughed at the little joke.
“And what knowledge do you seek in Paris?”
Paul decided to be oblique; it might save him money in the end. “Tell me,” he said, “was your father still working in 1946?”
“Indeed, yes. He worked until 1959, when the firm was acquired, and then for another five years under the new management.”
“Was he engaged in original work, still, or mostly in copying his old designs?”
“Both, I should imagine. Pickings had been lean during the war years, of course, except for pieces ordered by the Germans. What interests you about that period?”
“A client of mine, a prominent New York attorney, is the executor of a rather interesting estate, and he has engaged me to appraise the jewelry, among other things.”
“I see. Are there some pieces from Blume included?”
“Only one. It comes with a receipt from 1946, for a copy of a piece designed in 1899.”
“Ah, that would be near the beginning of my father’s long career. He would have been working under his uncle, François, at that time. What was the piece, and who ordered it?”
“It was a diamond-and-ruby choker, ordered by a Viennese, Ferdinand Bloch-Bauer, as a wedding gift for his wife.”
“Ah, of course, the piece in the Klimt painting. A great loss, that.”
“Loss? How so?”
“Well, it disappeared around the end of the war. Hermann Goering had appropriated it, and it never turned up after he was arrested by the Allies.”
“Yes, that is sad. The receipt mentions that the copy was made from the original designs. Do those still exist?”
“Well, as you know, Blume was acquired by Aubergonois et Fis, in 1964. Most of the value of their purchase, apart from some loose stones, was in the Blume designs.”
Paul’s heart leapt. “Are they still in business?”
“No, they went under in ’89.”
Paul’s heart sank. “Ah. Any idea what happened to the designs?”
“I could investigate that for you. They could have ended up in an incinerator.”
“Well, if you have the time, my client would be happy to see them.”
“Merely to view, or to purchase?”
“I imagine that copies would do, but I can inquire if he has any interest in the originals. He did ask about the possibility of a photograph of the original, so that he could compare his copy and have some judgment made about the quality of the workmanship in the estate piece.”
“And who would make that judgment, Paul?” Randol asked archly.
“I believe I would be asked to cast an eye over it.”
“I rather thought so.”
Their choucroute arrived, and their talk turned to other things. When they parted, Randol promised to phone in a day or two.
Back at the Arrington, Paul swept into the suite, to find his wife gazing at herself in the mirror, wearing a Chanel suit with a tag still on it.
“You look happy.”
“It was a productive lunch.”
“Did your friend have the information you want?”
“Oh, he wouldn’t tell me if he did, he wants to use the suspense to get his price up. But if anyone can find it, he can, believe me.” He checked out the Chanel. “Buy another, if you like.”
39
Stone was a little later than usual getting to his desk; Gala’s early-morning demands had detained him. He got off the elevator and walked into his office. Bob was entertaining a visitor, someone Stone knew he should know, but he could not, for the life of him, come up with a name.
“Good morning,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Will you excuse me for just a moment? Can I get you some coffee?”
“Of course, and of course,” the man said. He appeared to be in his early fifties, gray-haired, finely tailored.
“I’ll be right back.” Stone closed the door behind him and went into Joan’s office. “Who is that on my sofa?”
“Bob? You know how he loves that sofa.”
“The man, not the dog.”
“I’m sorry, I just got in. Fred must have let him in.”
“He wants coffee. Figure it out.”
Stone sat down at Joan’s desk and slapped his forehead. Who is that guy? he asked himself.
Joan returned. It’s Barnaby Cabot.”
“Any relation to Lance Cabot?”
“Probably. He’s the attorney general.”
“Of New York?”
“Of the United States.”
Stone slapped himself again. “Oh, shit!” He got up and ran for the door. “Sorry about that. How are you, sir?”
“Barney, please. I know we haven’t met, but I prefer informality.”
“As you wish.” Stone sat down. “You and Bob seem to be getting on well.”
“Oh, yes, Labs are my favorites. I grew up with them. I believe we’re neighbors in Dark Harbor.”
Stone had a house there, on the island of Islesboro, in Maine.
“I don’t think I knew that.”
“Oh, we live quietly when we’re there—a little sailing, a little golf, that’s about it.”
“Same for me.” Stone was waiting to be told why the attorney general of the United States was sitting in his office, unannounced.
“I was in the city, and I thought I’d drop by,” Cabot said.
“I’m delighted to see you,” Stone managed to say. He was missing something: Had the man called or written to him? If so, why couldn’t he remember that? Was this what dementia was like?
“Excellent coffee. What is it?”
“Medaglia d’Oro, an Italian espresso roast.”
“Where can I find it?”
“Joan will send you some.”
“Thanks, I’d like that. Justice Department coffee is dreadful stuff.”
“I’ll bet.”
Silence ensued. Finally, Stone couldn’t stand it anymore. “Barney, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Oh, that. Kate asked me to speak to you.”
“Oh, good.” Kate, the President? Kate Smith? Kate Blanchett? No, that one was with a C. “How is Kate?”
“Thriving. I’ve never seen anybody enjoy that office so much.”
“Ah, Kate the President of the United States. “What can I do for her—and you?”
“She has asked me to put together a small ad hoc committee—a very confidential committee—to meet three or four candidates for the Court and give her our assessments.”
“The Supreme Court?”
“That one, yes.”
“I didn’t get to the Times this morning—did someone die?”
“Not yet.”
That stopped Stone in his tracks. A little joke seemed a good idea: “Is someone finally going to shoot one of them?”
That turned out to be a better joke than Stone had intended. Cabot doubled over with laughter, and it took him a moment to get control of himself. He wiped away tears. “Not that I know of, but I’d volunteer!” He doubled over again at his own joke.
I know what it is, Stone thought. I’m still asleep, and this is a bizarre dream.
Cabot took a deep breath and got ahold of himself. “There’s a rumor, I take it, that someone is going to resign. I don’t know who, but Kate, apparently, takes it seriously, and she wants to get a jump on the process. I’ve put together a group of four, and I’m not supposed to tell any of you who else is involved. Kate wants us to meet three people, individually, and talk with her about each of them—nothing in writing. Two of them are women.”
“Oh?”
“And one is a gay man.”
“Am I allowed to know their names?”
“They are Congressman Terrence Maher, Senator Marisa Bond, and the United States attorney for the Southern District of New York, Tiffany Baldwin.”
Stone hoped he didn’t wince at the mention of Tiffany’s name. He had had a fling with the woman some years ago, and she periodically tried to relight the flame. He was terrified of her.
“Do you know any of them?”
“I know Maher and Bond from their television appearances, but I haven’t met them. I’m acquainted with Baldwin.”
“And?”
“And I avoid her, when possible.”
“You don’t get along, then?”
“I don’t see her often enough for that to come up.”
“Ah.”
Yes, Ah.
Cabot rummaged in his briefcase and came up with three files. “Here is background on each of them. It’s quite thorough and contains some materials from FBI files, so the files are, of course, quite confidential. Each of the candidates will call your office and make an appointment.”
Cabot hadn’t inquired if Stone would do it; he had, rightly, assumed that any friend of Kate Lee would help if he could.
“Well, my car is waiting,” Cabot said, getting to his feet and disturbing Bob, whose head was in his lap.
“Joan will brush you off,” Stone said. “She’s used to it.”
“Thank you for seeing me.” The two men shook hands.
“Kate will call you in a week or so to hear your impressions.”
“I’ll look forward to speaking with her.”
The man left, and Stone buzzed Joan. “Three people are going to call for appointments: Congressman Terrence Maher, Senator Marisa Bond, and fucking Tiffany Baldwin.”
Joan burst out laughing.
“I’ll see the first two here or wherever they like in the city. I’ll meet Tiffany somewhere cozy, like the middle of Grand Central Station. I do not, repeat not, wish to be alone in any room with her.”
“Got it, boss.”
“And send the attorney general a dozen cans of Medaglia d’Oro.”
“Right.”
40
Paul Eckstein woke on his fourth day in Paris and stared at the ceiling. He had not heard a word from Randol Cohn-Blume.
“How long has it been?” his wife asked. They were waiting for breakfast.
“Four days.”
“Is he usually this slow?”
“I think he’s dragging it out in the hope of more money.”
“How much did you offer him?”
“I didn’t make an offer. I’m waiting for him to tell me what he wants.”
The doorbell rang, and Paul shouted, “Entrez!”
The waiter came in, knowing by now where to put the table. He left them to it.
“Well,” she said, “I’m certainly enjoying our visit, but you’re not.”
“Of course I am.”
“You’re wound too tight to enjoy yourself.”
“Nonsense.” The phone rang, and he levitated about a foot.
“Perfectly relaxed, eh?”
Paul took a deep breath. “Hello?”
“Paul, it is Randol.”
“Good morning, Randol.”
“I hope I am not calling too early.”
“No, we’re just having breakfast.”
“Can we meet in an hour?”
“Can you make it two hours? We’re slow starters.” He didn’t want to seem too anxious.
“All right, an hour and a half, then.” He gave Paul an address in the Rue St.-Honoré. “It’s just a doorway—we’ll meet outside.”
“All right, an hour and a half.” Paul hung up.
“Feeling better now?” his wife asked.
“A little. I mean, if he didn’t have anything, he’d have told me so on the phone.”
“It’s Valentino for me, today, then Saint Laurent.”
—
Paul got out of a taxi and found Randol waiting beside a door in a blank wall.
“Ah, there you are.” Randol produced a key, unlocked the door, and they went inside, where Randol locked it behind him. He handed Paul a small, heavy flashlight. “We don’t want
to turn on any lights down here. It would set off the alarm system.”
“Are we breaking and entering?” Paul asked, trying his flashlight. It was extremely powerful, in spite of its small size.
“In a manner of speaking,” Randol replied. “Follow me.” He started down a winding staircase that went on longer than Paul had expected. At the bottom, Randol followed a hallway until he came to a door, which he unlocked with another key, then locked behind them. “There,” he said, playing his light along a wall before them. It was covered with steel shelving, cabinets, and file drawers.
“Where?” Paul asked.
“That is for us to find out. We will start at opposite ends and work toward the center. Your French is good enough to read this stuff, isn’t it?”
“As long as it’s typed. I have trouble reading the handwriting of Frenchmen.”
“If it is in longhand, you will find it very neat and correct. How do you say . . . boilerplate?”
“That’s not the word, but I know what you mean.” Paul went to his end and turned on his light. “What are we looking for?”
“The name Blume, and the years 1899 and 1946. If you find those, let me know.”
—
Nearly four hours later, Paul’s back hurt, he was painfully hungry, and he had covered only about a third of the distance to the middle of the wall. Then he read a tab saying: Blume, 1894. “Randol, I think I may have something here.”
Randol joined him and looked at the file. “Excellent,” he said. “Let’s both keep going here.” The two men pawed through the files, some of them thick, until they came to 1899. “Ah,” Randol said, “success.”
There were more than a dozen files labeled with that year, and one of them read Bloch-Bauer. It was a thick accordion file. Randol took it to a steel table in the center of the room and unwound the cord sealing it.
Paul’s heart was thudding against his rib cage. He watched as Randol examined each page, then came to a folded sheet of heavier paper. “Oh, yes,” he said, unfolding the sheet to its full size, about one foot by two and a half. On the sheet, finely rendered in India ink, were four drawings of the choker, each from a different angle, with each stone delineated, and the rubies colored in. On the lower right-hand corner of the sheet was the signature François Blume, mai 1899.
