Chesser went into number 11 as he’d never gone in before—with an assertive nonchalance and a genuine bright smile for Miller at the door.
“I’m early,” said Chesser.
“Yes, sir,” Miller agreed.
“They might want to take me now. Would you call up and see?”
Miller got on the interphone.
Chesser remained standing nearby. Almost unconsciously he began humming a fragment of a happy song. He caught himself, cut the humming abruptly. He thought about how strong he felt, especially his legs. Capable of a high jump.
“Your appointment is at ten, sir,” informed Miller.
“They want me to wait, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chesser didn’t mind. Probably they had Whiteman or someone of his importance up there, he thought. Probably they had scheduled sights early in the week for those who were to receive larger packets.
He sat on the Queen Anne loveseat and looked across at that same framed snowscape, which seemed to be whiter and more glistening than ever. He lighted a cigarette and watched the smoke violate the impeccable air of the foyer. He gave some thought to the Massey theft but didn’t let it bring him down. Chesser was hopeful that Massey’s private investigators would somehow resolve the case. Massey also seemed to think so. Although Massey hadn’t come right out and said he believed they would recover the diamond, he had intimated as much. They’ll get us the answers, were Massey’s words, and that was enough to lessen Chesser’s anxiety considerably, so that he could preoccupy himself with the consideration he expected from this sight.
He was truly looking forward to it. He was certain that his recent, very large transaction would affect his standing in The System. That was the way The System did things. Such a major deal warranted recognition: a larger packet, more stones, larger stones, better quality. Perhaps they’d double the amount of his usual packet. Maybe even do better than that, now that he’d proved he could handle big stuff.
Miller came over with an ashtray. He didn’t place it on the table. Rather, he stood there holding it. Chesser flipped his ash and Miller stood there with a fixed smile. Chesser decided to hell with it and stumped out the cigarette.
It came back to Chesser then. What Massey had said about The System’s inventory of stones. Twelve billion dollars worth. Where did The System keep them? Chesser glanced up because up was where he usually went to get his packet. Then he remembered Massey had said something about walking over them, obviously meaning the stones were kept somewhere below. Of course. They’d have to be underground in a vault. Chesser tried to imagine twelve billion dollars worth of uncut, gem-quality diamonds. The idea subdued him, made whatever quantity he was about to receive in his packet seem a pittance by comparison. He tried not to think about it, tried to get back the good high feeling he’d had. But he couldn’t lose the image. It was too much. Twenty million carats, according to Massey. Over four tons of stones, just sitting there, being held back by The System, being doled out like candy to good boys.
Greedy bastards, he thought.
“You can go up now, Mr. Chesser,” said Miller.
Chesser’s legs had turned heavy. As he walked across the foyer, he had the irrational sensation that he might sink right through the floor and end up waist-deep in diamonds. Going up the stairs he wished he were going down instead. He’d sure like to get a look at, get at, those twelve billion dollars worth, he thought.
He expected to find Meecham in the sight room. But the only one there was Watts. Meecham would be along in a moment, thought Chesser. Meanwhile, this was an opportunity to make the apology he felt he owed Watts. He hurried right to the subject, anticipating Meecham’s entrance.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see that diamond after it was cut.”
“It came out all right, sir?”
“Wildenstein did a beautiful make. Perfect. An oval, as you suggested.”
“I’m glad to hear that, sir.”
“I had to send it registered delivery from Antwerp,” lied Chesser. “You understand.”
“Of course, sir.”
“But I did want you to see it. I really did.”
“Things can’t always go the way one wants,” said Watts.
Chesser thought Watts looked discernibly more haggard than when he’d last seen him. It had only been a month since they’d last met, but Watts looked years older.
“Your packet is ready for you, sir,” said Watts.
It was on the black-velour-topped table. The usual small, plain manila envelope.
“We’re waiting for Meecham, aren’t we?”
“He instructed me to handle the transaction,” said Watts. “If you don’t object, sir.”
That was a disappointment. Meecham’s presence was part of the reward Chesser had anticipated. Meecham usually handled the more important sights. To know he was accepted, Chesser needed to read the confirmation on Meecham’s face. “I don’t mind,” he lied to Watts. “Not at all.”
Chesser glanced at his watch. “Actually, I’m running a bit late. I don’t suppose there’s any reason why I should take a look. I’ve an appointment with a client, a good prospect for another big one.” He smiled his best smile.
“Are you sure you don’t want a look, sir?”
“No need. Thanks, anyway.”
“As you wish, Mr. Chesser.”
“How much?”
At the moment Chesser was asking the price, Meecham, in his office one story above, was inserting a photographic color slide into a portable 35-mm. viewer. He had been at the window looking down to see Chesser arrive. He’d noticed Chesser’s crisp, confident movement, Chesser’s lean, fashionable appearance, the rich vitality of the Ferrari convertible, and especially the girl, Chesser’s beautiful, young girl, flaunting her desirability with bold indifference.
Meecham’s imagination had worked on the girl. For a minute or so, he had the actual pale flesh of her thighs for raw material. As well as her unusual long hair. He had to believe she was erotically audacious—a demanding girl. One who would thoroughly enjoy being served, obeyed. His imagination remained fixed on the reality of her, until she drove herself away. Then, not wanting her gone, he quickly unlocked a drawer of his desk, hurrying to retain the impact of his imaginary concoction. He got out the viewer, inserted a slide, pressed for illumination.
All the slides Coglin had sent over did not suit Meecham’s taste. He had culled them down to about twenty that were possibly relevant. Those that showed Chesser positioned above the girl disgusted Meecham. He disliked seeing the girl pinned down like that, and the idea that she was eagerly submitting was even more intolerable. Obviously, Chesser was an ingrate, thought Meecham, hadn’t progressed beyond the schoolboy level of passion, didn’t know how to express the proper humility toward such a lovely mistress. Chesser was an intruder. Chesser had to be eliminated. It was most frustrating. The more Meecham looked at the slides, the more difficult it was for him to replace the image of Chesser with himself. Not only that. Even those slides Meecham had selected were losing their effect because he’d been over them so many times.
Now he had in the viewer what his senses considered the most inspiring slide of the lot. Taken with an extra sharp long lens. Maren in a full-length strong stance, legs slightly parted and head raised, looking superior, imperious. Her lips open, as though issuing a command. Only a portion of Chesser could be seen, out of focus and not identifiable, in the lower foreground.
As he studied the slide, Meecham thought he’d go out early that day and take advantage of the anonymity London offered. He’d had two consecutive days in the country with wife and visiting married children, an oppressively bland weekend. He decided he wouldn’t call one he knew or even call for a referral. He’d go out and find a new one.
Preferably a redhead.
“How much?” was the question Chesser had just asked.
“Fifteen thousand,” answered Watts, head lowered.
Chesser was certain he h
adn’t heard correctly. “Fifty thousand?”
Watts didn’t want to say it again, but he had to, distinctly this time. “Fifteen thousand.”
Chesser just stood there, silent. The back of his neck felt on fire and he had the impression that his hands were solid, heavy objects, dangerous, meant to be slung and exploded from the ends of his arms.
“I pass,” he finally said, calmly.
“You what, sir?”
“I don’t want the packet. I refuse it.”
“Perhaps you should have a look at it, sir,” suggested Watts, trying to help.
“No. And I hope this room is bugged. I’m sure it is. Meecham can take those cheap lousy stones and shove them up his ass. That’s probably what the bastard would like. The hardest thing in the world right up his ass.”
Watts shook his head, not condemning but rather in sympathetic approval.
Then Chesser walked out of the sight room and down and, without a word, past Miller, who closed the main door to number 11 sharply behind Chesser, definitely and finally excluding him.
Chesser went to Holborn and got a taxi, told the driver to take him to the Ritz. He badly needed to see Maren then, needed her. He had just committed occupational suicide.
But it was only ten thirty and he knew Maren wouldn’t be at the Ritz yet. He unknotted his tie and pulled it off with an emphatic snap. He shoved it into his jacket pocket and then also removed his jacket. He undid his shirtcuffs and rolled them up three layers. He was trying to fight the tight feeling, to get loose.
Incredible, he thought, what The System had done. Meecham had expected him to accept a packet worth even less than the last. Anyway, now there wouldn’t be any more packets, not ever.
Maybe it was only a temporary side effect, he thought, but damn if he didn’t feel good. Really good, matter of fact! However, as the taxi went west with the thick traffic, and along the street he saw people hurrying about their business, Chesser’s mood descended. He hunched down and tried not to think at all, which was impossible, of course, so he tried to think only of the good things. Telling Meecham to shove it had been a pleasure. He wondered if he’d have said it to Meecham’s face. He convinced himself he would have. Anyway, he was sure Meecham had heard it.
From that, Chesser got a sharp image of his dead father. He decided that he’d just done something his father probably had wanted to do many times—would have done if he hadn’t been so inhibited by responsibilities. Chesser needed to believe that.
“I’ll get out here,” he told the driver. It was Shaftsbury Avenue, a block past Charing Cross Road. Nowhere significant for Chesser. He just wanted out of the taxi he now seemed to be sharing with his late father.
He gave the driver a pound tip because right then his inner voice was saying I don’t give a shit. He turned and walked along with his jacket hung by a fingertip over his shoulder, his business case in his other hand. He had the sensation that he was completely different from all the others on the street, who were too busy to notice.
He knew exactly where he was. He turned up Dean Street and decided he’d pretend he was just another American tourist. Wasn’t he, after all, only that—a perpetual transient? As though playing the part, he looked into every store window along the way. He read a small sign which said:
RUBBERWEAR MADE TO ORDER
One Flight Up
That made him feel, by contrast, considerably more normal.
He was in the heart of Soho now, and that district’s preoccupation with all shades and forms of sexuality was so prevalent that even the air there seemed pressured with it.
What the hell am I doing here? Chesser asked himself, and quickly gave the excuse that he was only wasting time. It didn’t occur to him that he’d purposely sought out the area, was inflicting himself with this lower level of commerce. Much more basic than dealing in precious stones: the selling of holes, the buying of holes.
He went into a penny-gambling arcade, where there were numerous electric games of chance. He wandered and watched for a while and thought it surprising that so many people were there at this time of day. He noticed their expressions, which remained the same, whether they won or not.
He went to the change booth and got a pound’s worth of pennies. Two hundred and forty English pennies. He moved about, from game to game, spending a few minutes and pennies at each. Finally, he stood at the edge of a large table that had a flat rectangle of shiny brass isolated in its center. The idea of the game was to land a penny on any electric dot. Simple enough. The payoff was five to one. Chesser threw a few and came very close once. He paused to watch a man who was throwing from the opposite side. A man with very dirty hands, wearing an extremely stale suit.
Evidently the man considered pitching pennies a serious pursuit. Indeed, perhaps that was his calling, for he was quite good at it. He had a unique way of tossing—a graceful arm motion that culminated with a snap of the wrist. At least one out of every three pennies he threw landed on a dot, rewarding him with a nice little profit. Maybe if he threw pennies all day he came out enough ahead for a room and a pint and a pie.
Chesser tried to imitate the man’s throwing technique, thinking perhaps that might be the trick of it. But he did it badly and it made no difference. His pennies seemed to avoid the dots magnetically, and he soon became discouraged. Impetuously, he threw the pennies he had left, a heaping fistful, all at once. Most rolled into the catching gutter. Others bunched up ineffectively. Only one or two landed on dots.
He left the place; wanted to be out of Soho. His watch told him it was almost eleven thirty, only another half hour until Maren. He’d go to the Ritz and wait.
He headed down Brewer Street, still in the Soho district. Now he was so eager to get to the Ritz that he disregarded everything. Unfortunately. Because at one point, if he’d happened to look across the way, he would have seen Meecham, might have recognized him, although Meecham was facing away, reading a public advertising board outside a pornography shop. Meecham’s interest was concentrated on the hand-printed, four-by-five cards that were tacked up there. His imagination was trying to decide which of two was more promising:
Beautiful strict governess wants pupils who desire advanced courses in discipline. Leather uniforms supplied. WEL-2894
or
Young girl, really masterful, with a commanding vocabulary, wants a temporary male domestic for housework. Binding contract required. CHE-9438
Chesser might have gone unnoticed in Soho, but he was the object of numerous disapproving stares at the Ritz. He took a seat in the lobby lounge, where he had an unobstructed view of the Piccadilly entrance, through which he expected Maren. However, no sooner had his Cerruti-trousered bottom come in contact with the damask-covered cushion of one of the Ritz’s chairs than a member of the hotel staff informed him that he was not properly attired. Gentlemen, Chesser was told with the emphasis on gentlemen, were required to wear tie and jacket.
Chesser smiled rather apologetically and began rolling down and buttoning his shirt cuffs. It was then suggested that he retire to the gentlemen’s room, where he could privately make the necssary repairs. Chesser just didn’t take the suggestion. He did his cuffs and tied his tie and put on his jacket right there, feeling many eyes on him. He turned to the full-mirrored wall behind him to make sure the knot of his tie was in correct position. There was no reason now why he should not be granted the privilege of purchasing a Scotch neat, with a side of Perrier. But it was not brought with the usual alacrity, no doubt as a sort of punishment.
He meant to sip the Scotch. Instead, he took a gulp that burned all the way down. Three swallows of the Perrier were quickly taken as an antidote. He looked at his watch, which said straight up noon. He looked to the entrance. No Maren. She’d be there momentarily, he thought. So he tried to keep his attention aimed in that direction, wanting to see her, needing to, that much.
For five minutes that seemed an hour he didn’t take his eyes from the entrance, even as he brought his glas
s to his mouth. He emptied the glass and ordered another with a mere signal. Then, for the first time, he allowed the voices of those at nearby tables to get through to him. He caught fragments of a conversation between two elderly ladies on his left who were shaped like two well-dressed, supersize chicken croquettes. Their topic was those of their set who had recently passed away. On his right three younger married women were chewing over morsels of extramarital gossip.
When he was one small gulp from the finish of his third Scotch, Chesser’s watch said twelve thirty-seven.…
“You’d better eat.”
“I’m not as hungry as I was.”
“You have to eat.”
“I have to drink,” said Chesser and tossed down the last in that glass. He flicked a finger at an attending statue-waiter.
“Why did you do it?”
“For the same reason …”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“Let me finish. I was going to say … for the same reason you never did. That’s why. To save face. You know, pride and all that shit.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Don’t don’t swear me.”
“You’re always saying you don’t give a shit. Which indicates you do.”
“Okay, I give a shit.”
“You shouldn’t have done it. You could have controlled yourself for five or ten minutes. That wasn’t much to ask. After all, I—”
“Yeah, I know. You were controlled for twenty years.”
“I convinced The System you’d be good. I recommended you.”
“Why?”
“That was the most I could leave you. Don’t you want to be something?”
“I’m something.”
“Look at the friends you went to school with. Look where they are now.”
“Serving life sentences.”
“You could have been a lawyer but you quit.”
“I would have made a stinking lawyer.”
“You had a real chance with The System, to build something for yourself.”
11 Harrowhouse Page 12
