Stone 588

by Gerald A. Browne

  "Sleeping," Townsend told her and pulled her out the door.

  In the office above, Strand waited until he heard the door being closed. The lock on the panel would have been easy to jimmy if he'd been prepared for that. Within the paneled compartment the time delay clock was ticking off the seconds that would cost him year after year.

  It didn't matter if he broke every bone in his hand.

  He rammed his fist through the paneling.

  Whatever noise that caused was lost to the commotion out on Fifth Avenue. Anyway, Townsend surely didn't hear it because it coincided with the racket he made shutting the exterior flexible-steel gate.

  Strand tore away the split wood to get to the backup alarm. It was enclosed in a large gray metal box. He opened the box and saw the controls. There had to be an on-off switch, but where the hell was it? Townsend had just turned the alarm on, so why shouldn't he be able to just turn the alarm off? There were two wires, a blue and a red, running together from something to something, and another pair of wire connections elsewhere, a white and a black. He had no idea what purpose they served. He just yanked and tore them all loose.

  He beat the timer by half a second.

  He went back up the stairs to the room above the vault, merely told the others what they wanted to hear: Everything was okay. They switched on the lamps, uncovered the hole, and got to it again.

  Springer tried to cut down on the time required to bring up the drawers. He was more efficient with the reacher now, but instead of taking the drawers as they came, level by level, he began choosing by hunch. A certain drawer would catch his eyes, as though saying to him, I'm the one you want, choose me, I'm the one that will give you back stone 588. They were deceitful, these drawers, Springer thought, as one after another they failed to produce that stone. Nevertheless, his hope continued to listen to them.

  One of the drawers contained an assortment of rough diamonds, evidently Townsend's ample allotment from the most recent sight in London. They were still in the box they came in, but the ribbon had been cut and The System's seal broken. Several of the stones in the box resembled stone 588, were about the same size, give or take a few carats. Audrey went through these carefully, looking for the telltale tip that was chipped off. One of the stones was almost identical to stone 588 except for the chip. Audrey had an intuitive feeling about that stone.

  "My souvenir," she said as she showed the stone to Strand. He shrugged and resumed the more important matter of snipping from their necklace settings twenty-four rectangular-cut diamonds of four to six carats each and forty-eight two-carat pear-shapes. They were. Strand noticed, nicely matched D-color stones and of such fine quality that he would probably have to search hours to find a flaw. The value of these diamonds alone was enough to cause most people to consider retirement.

  Naturally, Strand had given thought to what he would do with his share of the take. He couldn't go whenever he wanted or greatly change his life-style because he had two years of parole to do, including regular monthly visits to his parole officer. A requirement was that he get a job of some sort. To rehabilitate himself. As far as he was concerned, this Townsend thing was perfect rehabilitation. It settled a lopsided, long-chafing score and provided him with the wherewithal to do something straight and satisfying. When his parole time was over he would move to Europe, to Monaco or Nice. He would open a small, exclusive business, dealing only in the most finely made merchandise. He would enjoy attending auctions in Geneva and Paris and London, outbidding other dealers when it was a pleasure or profitable to do so. He would never in his life knowingly touch another piece of swag. And sometime, somewhere along the line, there would be a more patient Patricia.

  Scoot, too, had his plans. He wouldn't stick around New York. Oh, he'd return every once in a while for a visit, but where he'd live would be someplace like Bermuda or the Bahamas. Not too far from the action, not Tahiti or one of those dry and scrubby Greek islands, but just far enough away that he could come and go and stand less of a chance of running into one of his old cellmates. He would have to get a passport. He'd never had a passport. He would never in his life steal another thing. In fact, he'd probably be the one to get stolen from. Just thinking about such an eventuality pissed him off.

  The police helicopter hadn't gone over for an hour and a half.

  The shoe box was more than half full.

  The gutted platinum and gold mountings were a pile in the comer.

  It was five minutes to four.

  Strand had accumulated eight of Townsend's sleeping beauties, had them lined up on the face of the two bricks on the workbench. The largest of these special diamonds was a 112.43-carat cushion cut. It was most likely a famous stone. All eight were probably famous stones, for that matter. Even now under these subjugating circumstances, they seemed to flaunt their preeminence, draw strength, blaze from one another. Strand was not without respect for them. He gave them a full minute of deferential regard before returning to the fact that they belonged to Townsend, were, in a way, his professional heart.

  Strand took up the acetylene torch, ignited it, and adjusted its flame. Audrey observed, fascinated with what he was doing. She was not aware that diamond is one of the most thermal-conductive of all substances. Heat shot right through it. But at 3400 degrees Fahrenheit, not without causing change.

  Strand went from left to right with the acetylene torch, giving each of the eight large diamonds a mere lick with the blue hot tongue—no more than that was necessary to transform the diamonds into hunks of graphite, the same as found in ordinary lead pencils or used to eliminate the squeak from hinges. For Strand it was the coup de grace.

  He began picking up, putting things in the pockets and compartments of his vest, preparing to leave.

  Springer was still working the reacher. He hadn't gotten to thirty or so of the drawers. Most of those were high up along the rows. It was doubtful that Townsend would have put stone 588 in a drawer so inaccessible. In fact, the drawer Springer was bringing up now contained less valuable pieces and loose stones not nearly so desirable as those before.

  "We've got to quit," Strand said.

  "A couple more," Springer told him.

  And after one of those drawers contained only some low-grade Thai sapphires and the other a few mixed lots of very included Brazilian emeralds. Strand told Springer, "C'mon, it's four o'clock straight up."

  Springer didn't seem to hear. He went for another drawer. Audrey knelt beside him, peered down into the vault, saw the drawer that was being brought up by the reacher. This drawer looked promising, had some chamois pouches and fat briefkes in it. Audrey grabbed them up, opened them eagerly, and found aquamarines, citrines, tourmalines, amethysts. She poured them back down into the hole.

  "One more," Springer insisted desperately.

  The drawer that came up was empty.

  He was coming up empty.

  Strand and Scoot had to wrest the reacher from his grasp, pull him away from the hole. He struggled with them briefly and then gave up.

  They got the lanterns up from the vault, disassembled the reacher, and packed everything into their vests. Changed back to their leather work gloves. They double-checked to make sure nothing was being left behind that might incriminate them. Audrey even retrieved a pink Good and Plenty that she'd dropped an hour ago.

  They moved the upended table away from the hole in the wall. Scoot peeked out. They heard a helicopter approaching: from uptown this time. As it had before, it hovered a short while almost directly above the building and then continued on.

  One by one they climbed out through the hole. They wouldn't have left the fabric taped to the wall if it hadn't been for the helicopter, the chance that it might come patrolling again and notice the hole and heat up the entire area too soon.

  The rain was still coming down hard. It felt refreshing, cleansing in a way. They blinked as it washed their eyes. They crossed to where the climbing rope hung from the six-story roof. They would go the way they'd come. S
trand motioned to Springer to go first.

  Springer reached as high up the rope as he could, grabbed hold, and planted his feet flat against the wall of the building. The rope was soaked through, but its weave was designed for such inclemency. It wasn't at all slippery, and the knots that Scoot had made in it were now especially helpful. Springer went up, hand over hand, a knot at a time, putting resistance against the wall with his feet, sort of walking horizontally. His arms and hands were tired from having worked the reacher all those hours, but there was a mixture of anger and disappointment in him that potentiated his strength. When he reached the top he rolled up over the edge and onto the surface of the roof and just lay there, face up. He had the sensation that the rain was dissolving him, as it would so much clay. It occurred to him that because of the rain he could give in to crying and his tears would go undetected.

  Audrey came up over the edge.

  Then Strand and Scoot.

  The time was four thirty-two.

  Scoot hurriedly gathered up the climbing rope, untied it from the stand-pipe, and put it in his vest. They went to the rear corner of that roof to make the next climb, another three stories up to the ledge. They transferred their vests to around their necks and proceeded in the same order. From the handover-hand upward hauling of the weights of their bodies, the muscles of their arms and shoulders burned with fatigue, and it was a relief to reach the ledge and put the burden on their legs. Because of that and because they had already once safely experienced the danger of it, the narrow ledge seemed less perilous. They sidestepped along it, a few inches at a time, feeling the wall with their heels, mindful to keep their heads up. Their ally, the rain, had washed away the layers of bird droppings so the ledge was no longer slippery.

  When they'd reached the nine-story roof, Scoot took in and untied that longer length of climbing rope. They hurried across the roofs and over the fences, one, two, three.

  Dawn was coming.

  Darkness was giving way to gray.

  The rain, as though it knew it was no longer needed, was letting up.

  They climbed in through the tenth-floor window of the Star Parking Garage. They heard the industrial elevator of the garage coming up. They ran: Strand and Scoot down the stairs to the blue Bonneville and the gray Cutlass on nine. Springer and Audrey up the stairs to the white Chrysler on eleven.

  Springer opened the trunk of the Chrysler. They threw in their vests, quickly climbed in, and got into position on their sides, with Audrey's front pressed against Springer's back, spoon fashion. Springer didn't have time to close the trunk all the way. The parking attendant, who was now approaching the car, would have heard it.

  The attendant got into the Chrysler and started it. He drove it onto the elevator and took it down.

  Vince Fantuzzi, doing what he was told, was right on time.

  The attendant did not bother with exactly leveling off the elevator with the ground floor, so when he drove the Chrysler out to Vince there was a jarring, noisy enough bump.

  Click went the shutting of the Chrysler's trunk lid.

  Unnoticed.

  Chapter 34

  The black waiter in the white jacket came in carrying an ornate Georgian silver coffee server and tray that were worth his yearly salary.

  Wintersgill stopped mid-sentence and gazed out from the sixty-second floor. Central Park was a carpet, a wide runner that led to his presence. Yesterday's rain had greened it, plumped the wilt from the blades and leaves. More than ever the park had the quality of a respected London park, Wintersgill thought. By tomorrow or the next day, however, it would again be abused and exhausted.

  The waiter poured.

  Steam, like a capricious spirit, ascended from the brew that went into the cup.

  "Have another scone," Wintersgill suggested.

  The man seated opposite flipped aside the white linen napkin that covered the silver latticed basket. He chose the scone that to him seemed most dotted with currants. "You must be in league with my tailor," he said, which was what he usually said whenever he accepted a rich treat.

  Wintersgill had already taken stock of the man's suit: a three-piece ready-to-wear not even conscientiously altered. At least unlike so many of his kind he hadn't shown up in a gray hard finish gone shiny in the seat and elbows from too many hours of hard-chair Senate meetings.

  The waiter aimed the spout of the coffee server Wintersgill's way. Wintersgill declined by quickly covering his cup with his flattened hand, came within a fraction of tilt of getting scalded. He dismissed the waiter with his eyes.

  The "second breakfast" was what Wintersgill called it. He had it every morning he was in the office, shared it with whoever was his ten-thirty appointment. Thus his ten-thirty was reserved for anyone he might want something from or someone he was obliged to thank. Perhaps it was a peu de chose, the second breakfast; nevertheless, Wintersgill was sure that it had more than paid for its trouble over the years. It was in keeping with his belief that people came to the Hull Foundation knowing that its business was philanthropy and therefore would feel slighted if they left without having gotten at least a little something for themselves—even if it were only a couple of Callard and Bowser toffees from the dish in the reception area. Let the other foundations poor-mouth and tight-pocket. With plushness underfoot and wealth on the walls, Hull's generosity was all the more credible.

  This morning's ten-thirty was a senator who had recently become the senior from his state because of another senator's demise. He had also inherited the chairmanship of the committee that could either stir or calm the waters of taxation. At the moment he was picking up crumbs from the Hull table linen, accumulating the little doughy dots of scone from around his plate and putting them into his mouth. "As you were saying . . ." the senator prompted.

  "I was calling attention to the fact that last year the Hull Foundation gave six hundred and seventy million in grants."

  The senator was politely impressed. "How does that break down?"

  "I'll get the exact figures for you, but I know offhand about thirty percent of what we gave went to health and scientific projects. For the past few years we've really stepped out in the field of biomedical research. We've been responsible for some considerable advances in the understanding of immunological abnormalities." Wintersgill felt that ten minutes of this would put the senator to sleep.

  "The Rockefeller people have quite a few Nobel laureates in their fold," the senator said, as though he'd personally done a head count.

  "So do we."

  "I've always had the impression that Hull involved itself mainly with cultural matters."

  "That, of course, is only the tip of the iceberg, what is generally evident. Actually, we're comfortably diversified here at Hull. Last year, for instance, a number of sizable grants went toward studies in defense policy."

  "That's about as close as you get to politics, I suppose."

  Wintersgill's nod, they both knew, was a lie. In violation of the 1969 Tax Reform Act, which prohibited foundations from any sort of lobbying to influence legislation, Hull had discreet, hands-around-and-over-and-under-the-law ways of tangibly predisposing certain vital people in Washington. That stipulation of the 1969 reform only made everything seem a little more sensitive and justified the need for Hull to up the ante. Hull really didn't play politics, though. That is, it didn't favor either party or play one against the other. A politician's affiliation was not important to Hull, as long as he knew enough to close his hand when Hull put something in it.

  The 1969 tax reform caused a lot of independent foundations to run for other cover. For Hull, however, it only necessitated some mark-time and a slight bit of reshaping. No matter that the act limited the amount of private business enterprises a foundation could own, the Hull-controlled conglomerates merely went on funneling their profits into the Hull Foundation and no one even raised a brow. Never mind the requirement that a philanthropic foundation had to be truly philanthropic, give away a minimum of 5 percent of its ass
ets each year to worthwhile endeavors. As long as the amount granted by Hull appeared to be considerable, who questioned? No one was tabulating, no one came to seriously audit. Hull was never on any congressional hit list, and even if it had been, someone would have seen to it that it was an early scratch.

  Now, the senior senator who was Wintersgill's ten-thirty this day added so much heavy cream to his coffee it overflowed. He used his spoon to bail a quarter inch or so from the cup and make it manageable. He blotted the base of the cup on the tablecloth before taking it to his lips. He had a steady hand for a southern drinker. "I hope you haven't gotten the wrong idea," he said. "I'm not here to snoop."

  "It never occurred to me," Wintersgill told him.

  "I assure you it's meant to be just a visit, more to get acquainted than anything."

  Wintersgill's secretary entered with an air of urgency, a sheaf of papers in her hand. She begged pardon for the intrusion and explained that these were grants that required Wintersgill's signature immediately. People were anxious to receive their money, she said, handing Wintersgill a readied fountain pen and separating the sheets to facilitate his signing. "We don't operate like most other foundations," he said, along with the intermittent scratching of the nib of the pen. "By that I mean we never allow ourselves to become mired in bureaucratic nonsense. Our grants are made swiftly. We don't ask for evaluations, reports of progress, or any of that. We don't even look into how a recipient has spent the grant."

  "Really?"

  "A molecular biologist doesn't want to be encumbered with accounting for every penny. Nor does he function best with someone peering over his shoulder." Wintersgill signed the last of the grants. The secretary hurried out with them, as though a significant world event depended on them. It was a prearrangement, of course, a walk-on she performed for the benefit of every initiate ten-thirty.