Maddie moved about the library in the same rather aimless manner. She ended up seated at the baby grand piano. She performed a glissando, slid two fingers along the entire length of the keyboard from left to right, low A to high C. And another upscale on all fifty-two of the white keys, this time ending with several playful plinks of the top-most key.
Mitch and Hurley thought she was playfully giving up, using the piano to convey that her notion regarding the whereabouts of the emeralds was no longer to be taken seriously. Surely that was the case when she insistently plinked that highest key and then worked into a sprightly, Erroll Garner-like version of “I Only Have Eyes for You.”
Mitch and Hurley were across the spacious room discussing where on the way home they might have dinner.
Maddie stopped playing and concentrated her attention on the key to the far right. She tried to wiggle it. No wiggle. She depressed it and applied downward pressure. No give. She told herself not to be so careful with it. She placed her knuckle under the small protrusion on the forward edge of the key and pried upward. It seemed to yield slightly but so slightly that it could have been her imagination.
She gave the key a sharp upward snap.
That did it.
The entire key seemed to come up and out. But then, it wasn’t the entire key, only the exterior ivory facing of it.
When Maddie had previously played this piano her sense of touch had noticed, upon striking that upper key, that it was slow in coming back up into position. It also felt a fraction heavier than the other keys. All in all it seemed in need of some sort of repair. Perhaps there was something wrong with its balance rail, jack spring or whatever.
She’d thought no more than that about it until today when she’d mobilized her senses and dwelled upon where the emeralds might be. Unstolen in the Kalali house, but precisely where?
Her black had chosen to present her with the possibility of the piano and then, like a camera moving in for a close-up to make a point, it had suggested that particular piano key.
The ordinary reasoning that followed provided support. That highest key was the one least likely to be worn or damaged. Because it was the one played the least. At its best it contributed an almost inaudible note. Rarely was it included in compositions for that reason. Shostakovich, for example, had done so only out of caprice.
Now, having removed the ivory covering from the key, Maddie explored what she had exposed. The wood body of the key, which should have been solid, was partially routed out to create a rectangular recess. Within the recess, snugly cushioned by cotton so it would not rattle and in that way be detected, was a small ivory case.
Maddie plucked the case from its hiding place. It measured about two inches by an inch, a half-inch deep. Delicate hinges. Its lid sprang open with slight pressure.
She ran a finger over its contents. A pair of gems nestled in silk velour. She felt their inscriptions.
No doubt about it.
Mitch was going to be in raptures, she thought. How should she break it to him—him over there with Hurley, the two of them running low on patience, their interest on empty? It was one of those very seldom, absolutely justifiable opportunities for comeuppance. It called for a double dose of the good, old superior female what-for.
Instead, for a show of class, she said nothing, walked over to Mitch with her hand extended, the little ivory case on the flat of her upturned palm.
“What’s this?” Mitch asked, hoping, of course, what it might be.
“It’s some little something, I suppose,” she understated. She wished she could see his happiness.
He opened the case.
Even in the waning light the pair of emeralds gave off a rich, green glow. Mitch switched on the overhead lights and held the open case directly beneath a downward beam.
It was as though the emeralds had been dozing and now, suddenly awakened, were demonstrating how bright and lively they were. In fact, it seemed to him that every stone he’d ever touched had been sullied at some time in one way or another. But this emerald …
He held it up to the light, brought it to his eye. Paradise, he thought. Had that blind Persian poet really been God-sent twenty-twenty?
At that moment Mitch tended to be a believer. Possibly the prospect of twenty-five extra large had some influence.
He returned the emerald to the case.
“May I?” Hurley asked, wanting to see. His interest seemed natural.
Mitch handed him the open case.
Hurley took a good long look at the emeralds, called upon his many years of experience on West 47th to determine whether or not they were genuine. No need to sacrifice a friend over a couple of fakes, he reasoned.
He closed the case.
He dropped it into his jacket pocket and in practically the same motion drew his pistol from his hip holster.
Everything that had been going Mitch’s way stopped. “You’re kidding,” he said.
Hurley’s eyes were cold now. They spoke for him, as did the pistol when he raised it to Mitch’s heart level.
Mitch didn’t think Hurley would go so far as to shoot him; however like anyone under gunpoint he couldn’t be entirely sure of that. “The Iranian got to you too,” Mitch said.
“Why not? He had half the street scuffling around for his big numbers.”
“What’s happening?” Maddie wanted to know.
“I suppose it never occurred to you that I was in the race,” Hurley said.
“Never,” Mitch said bitterly. “You were my helper. Remember?”
“Will someone for Christ’s sake tell me what’s going on,” Maddie demanded.
Mitch told her how Hurley had a gun on them and the emeralds in his pocket.
“That stinks, Hurley,” she said. “That really stinks.”
“What doesn’t?” was his attitude.
“Mitch, tell him to fuck off,” Maddie said, “tell him he can have the emeralds. We don’t need the money, right?”
Mitch was trying to decide which of the many voices in him he should heed. He managed to do some nonchalance. “You know, Hurley, this is a chance for you to come out way ahead.”
Hurley agreed.
“What I mean is this is a chance for you to do the decent thing.”
“Which would be?”
“We split the Iranian’s number and forget about now. You come to my place on the Vineyard when the weather’s right; I learn to ride down in Maryland.”
Rather than quickly reject that idea Hurley did a considering face. “I turned such an arrangement over a few times along the way,” he said. “As a matter of fact during the drive over here today I told myself if it came to it be decent, but now …” He patted his jacket pocket. “… I’m all out of decency.”
“You’re tiresome,” Maddie said. “I don’t know why I haven’t realized until now how dreadfully tiresome you are. I should have seen right through you. Go away.” She dismissed Hurley and the emeralds with a flaccid, backhanded gesture.
Mitch, at that moment, was looking beyond Hurley, taking care not to fix his attention there and give away …
… Billy.
Hurley was unaware that Billy was noiselessly approaching from behind, the .357 Magnum revolver in hand.
Reliable, loyal Billy, Mitch thought. Billy was going to save everything. He took back every criticism or disapproval of Billy he’d ever expressed or kept to himself. Billy was a gem, a devoted, single-hearted, first-class, stand-up guy. Billy was going to poke the muzzle of the .357 into Hurley’s back and order Hurley to drop his pistol and that would be that, Mitch thought. Billy was now close enough.
He brought the revolver down upon Hurley’s head. A vicious, cracking blow.
Hurley dropped, was that suddenly transformed into an unconscious heap.
Dead cop, Mitch thought. Nothing would explain a dead cop. Billy shouldn’t have hit him, certainly not so hard. Mitch stepped forward to see to Hurley.
Billy pointed the revolver at Mitch and
gave notice with a threatful thrust. “Back off,” he snarled.
Mitch obeyed. Was there anyone in this world the Iranian hadn’t propositioned? It was hard to imagine Billy with twenty-five million. What a waste.
“Now what’s going on?” Maddie asked.
“Just stay where you are Mrs. Laughton,” Billy told her.
“Why should I? What’s gotten into you, Billy?”
Mitch told her.
She did a loud, intolerant sigh. “Let’s just leave,” she told Mitch.
Billy leaned over the unconscious Hurley, who was sprawled front down. Hurley’s suit jacket was twisted beneath him, so it wasn’t a matter of Billy simply reaching down into Hurley’s pocket for the emeralds. He’d have to dig in under Hurley.
He transferred the revolver to his left hand and worked his right beneath Hurley’s deadweight. He felt for the pocket, squeezed into it and got the case containing the emeralds.
He was so intent on that he relaxed his grip and his point of the revolver, and much of his attention was diverted from Mitch.
Mitch noticed.
No time for thinking twice.
He charged at Billy, aimed a kick at Billy’s left hand, missed the hand but caught the wrist.
The revolver was jolted free.
Billy dodged Mitch’s grab, darted out of its range. Mitch stalked him. Billy evaded, skipped and paced semicircles. He had the case containing the emeralds clutched in his right hand. Had them. Now it was only a matter of getting away. Millions when he got away, Billy thought. However, Mitch stood between him and the way out. He might be able to outrun Mitch but first he had to get around him.
He feinted to the left, then bolted right.
Mitch lunged and just did get enough of Billy’s lower legs to stumble him in the direction of the bookcases.
Billy went down among the books. Hundreds upon hundreds of them strewn every which way in irregular layers as many as ten deep. Slippery dust jackets, jutting spines, the sharp hard corners of covers.
He got to his feet and it seemed he’d be able to easily scramble over and out of the books; however they slid and collapsed under his first step, causing him to fall backwards.
Mitch dove on him, intending to pin and subdue him and wrest the ivory case from his hand.
Billy squirmed and bucked. Mitch raised up in order to get off a punch. Billy rolled aside. Mitch held on and rolled with him and they ended up on the fringe of the book pile with the advantage Billy’s. Him on top, straddling Mitch and throwing lefts and rights.
Billy wasn’t much of a puncher. Mitch fended off most of the blows.
It must have been the counterforce of Mitch’s forearm blocking one of those blows that jarred the ivory case out of Billy’s fist.
Mitch saw it fly out. From his low-level point of view he saw it land and skitter across the slick, bare hardwood floor. In a fraction of a second it was all the way to the piano, missing the caster of the piano’s forward leg by only an inch or so.
It was like the case knew its destination and was hell-bent for it. It didn’t stop until it reached the far side of the piano, where it gently collided with the heel-to-heel angle formed by the shoes, the black and white wing-tipped oxfords.
Djam, the Iranian, had also come to the conclusion that perhaps the emeralds were never part of the Kalali swag. So, for the past several days he’d been spending time here at the house, searching through it. He was giving the master bedroom another going over when he heard the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Laughton and the others.
Now, calmly, as though experiencing an inevitability, he reached down and picked up the case. He verified its contents and then, by way of the nearby sliding glass door, he slipped out into the early darkness and away.
Getting the emeralds back hadn’t cost him a penny.
Chapter 38
Ten days went by.
Mid-morning of the eleventh Mitch was at David Baumfeld’s place of business on the sixth floor of one of the better-kept-up buildings of West 47th.
There to choose a diamond for Straw.
Straw had phoned from Monaco to say that he and Wally might be returning home in about a week. Might and about, told Mitch that Straw and Wally were still caught up in romantic vagabonding. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if they didn’t show up for another two or three weeks, maybe a month. Lucky them, Mitch thought with a smidge of envy.
Straw said they’d gone to an auction of important jewels in Geneva. He’d wanted to bid on several items for Wally but she wouldn’t have it. Each time he’d raised his hand to make a bid she’d yanked it down, maintaining that they were just looking.
Would Mitch do him the favor of locating a diamond? Straw asked. One suitable for an engagement ring. Surely Wally couldn’t, wouldn’t deny him that pleasure.
Mitch was happy to do it. He needed to know the particulars: what size, how much?
We can handle a little overstatement, Straw had said.
So now there was Mitch considering the four stones that lay in a shallow velour-lined tray on Baumfeld’s desk. Baumfeld’s assistant, a dark-haired young woman with an obvious nose job and an unfortunate overbite, had just brought them from the vault.
Baumfeld had his suit jacket on. A minor show of respect for Mitch. He was a third-generation dealer living up to the excellent reputation handed down by his father and grandfather. Shrewd but fair. Mitch had known him for going on twenty years.
The four diamonds Baumfeld had chosen to show to Mitch ranged in size from three to eight carats. He sort of tickled each in turn with his tweezers, causing them to perform glints.
“Some of the best of my inventory,” he said, merely stating. “From what you said I gathered you wouldn’t be interested in anything less.”
Two of the stones were round cuts. They appeared to be identical. Each exactly three carats.
Mitch thought the wish that he could afford those two for Maddie. Extravagant studs. He’d come close to being able to, so close.
He put that out of mind, tweezed up and louped the largest of the lot. An emerald-cut of eight carats, ten points. “Russian goods,” he thought aloud.
Baumfeld confirmed that.
Mitch had never seen a better diamond. Just as good but not better. He appreciated its make, the definite, sharp edges of its facets and girdle, its perfect proportions. Not a flaw to be found. The stone was colorless, clear as water. He sighted into it longer than he needed to. Its purity was beneficial. After what he’d been through recently, he could use a measure of purity.
He asked the price.
“Forty thousand,” Baumfeld told him.
Forty thousand a carat. Which made it three hundred twenty-four thousand.
Mitch waited for that number to settle. It didn’t. It stayed way up there. “Can you do better?” Mitch asked, knowing it was expected.
“Is it intended for family?”
“My wife’s uncle.”
“In that case …” Baumfeld’s pupils nearly disappeared up in under his eyelids, as though he was consulting the deity of profit. “… I could do thirty-seven without pain.”
Mitch allowed some silence for Baumfeld to possibly do thirty-five.
“Less would hurt,” Baumfeld told him.
A barely perceptible nod from Mitch to acknowledge rock bottom. He pictured the lovely Wally wearing the diamond, her left hand doing aerial acrobatics for emphasis during a dinner party conversation. Eyes following the glints of the stone as though it was a prompter. Sure, she could carry it off.
“Let me give it some thought,” he told Baumfeld in a tone that couldn’t be construed as a turndown.
“I’ll put it aside for you,” Baumfeld assured.
Mitch went down and out onto West 47th. It was one of those bright days that put a sharp edge on every shadow. The street was well into its usual commerce, tourists gawking, sellers of gold chains by weight hawking from the doorways of their shops. Mitch wasn’t in the mood to hurry. He went along the
street, taking it in, stopping at certain windows to contemplate the goods being offered.
He believed he recognized two or three old friends. Particularly an authentic art deco period necklace comprised of various-colored sapphires. He wondered where it had been lately, and what had brought it back to this sordid temple.
He wasn’t seeing the street through the same eyes. It was like something in him, his enthusiasm certainly, had been quenched. What had been colorful was now revealed as blighted. Most of the upper windows of the old buildings hadn’t been opened or washed for perhaps a decade or two. Pigeon droppings caked thick on the sills and eaves. The curbs fractured, the gutters grimed. How tacky, really, the legions of diamond rings in the store windows, the way they were stuck into slotted squares of cardboard. And so falsely spotlighted.
West 47th should live up to itself, Mitch thought. Its every window should sparkle immaculately. All its edges, curbs, sills, steps and fronts should be crisp and sharp as the most conscientiously executed facet. And clean, above all, clean rather than sleazy.
Hurley.
Mitch noticed Hurley headed west in his beat-up but souped-up official Plymouth. He’d suffered only a concussion as a result of Billy’s blow to the head and had spent two days in the hospital on restricted fluids and Tylenol. Now Mitch looked the other way. So did Hurley. They might not ever speak again. Might not.
As for Billy, he’d been let go, was begging for a reference.
Mitch came to Fifth Avenue, crossed over and went up to his office. Shirley was slitting the mail open. She’d been back from Paris for a week. New hairstyle, revised makeup, recharged with self-worth.
“I was beginning to wonder about you,” she said.
West 47th Page 38
