11 Harrowhouse

by Gerald A. Browne

  A few minutes later, the hotel’s only other guest got up, having finished her meal. She was dressed casually but tastefully. Her attractiveness was the sort most plain French women know how to attain. Dark eyes subtly exaggerated, dark hair cut in a contemporary style to appear slightly, intriguingly undisciplined. She was unmistakably French, however, characteristically so from the waist down, with hips and buttocks a degree too thick and legs lacking in length. As she turned and saw Maren, she hesitated, unsure. Then she recognized her, smiled around a cordial hello, and went upstairs to her room.

  That caused Chesser to choke. Some wine vinegar went down the wrong way, burning.

  “She’s from Paris,” informed Maren.

  Chesser gasped, wheezed, and managed to say, “She recognized you.”

  Maren nodded, blase. “From when I was modeling. Her name is Arlette or Colette, or something like that, I think.”

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “The same as we’re doing probably—trying to get away.”

  It really bothered Chesser that anyone there should know them. He was so disturbed he couldn’t eat. He just sat, trying to clear his throat every so often.

  Maren helped herself to some of his omelette, even had some tarte aux pommes for dessert and twice remarked to Chesser that he didn’t know what he was missing.

  After dinner, to assuage Chesser’s anxiety, Maren went alone to visit the young woman. After nearly an hour, Maren returned to their room with some comforting facts, which she related to Chesser.

  The young woman’s name was Catherine. She was the first assistant to one of the leading Paris fashion designers; had been with him for five years, in love with him for all five. A très intime relationship complicated by the ambivalences of the designer’s libido. He was, it seemed, more consistently inclined toward les hommes but required sporadic expiation of a sort and that was provided by Catherine. For her, it was a futile, humiliating alliance. Not always but more often than not. She had just recently made up her mind to sever herself completely from it. With more conviction, she claimed, than all the other previous times. However, when she’d informed the designer of her decision, he’d pleaded for reconsideration and fortified his new vows with an acute display of heterovirility. As a result of that, Catherine was now pregnant, and, in turn, the designer was suddenly, madly, concurrently in love with a young man he had happened to meet. It was all so complex, said Catherine. She was in her seventh week now and the reason she’d come to Ste. Marguerite was to decide alone upon an abortion or not. She had arrived there self-convinced that she should have the child, although, thank God, she wasn’t Catholic. She had been there two days and was now vacillating. In ten days she would meet the designer in St. Tropez and tell him her final decision. She supposed she would have the abortion and continue working for him. They were so close, so very close. She was already missing him, feeling cut off. If she had the child she would never see him again, because, as he’d put it, he would never see her. She thanked Maren for listening. She needed so much to hear another woman’s opinion, Catherine had said.

  Chesser was relieved. Apparently, Catherine had problems enough so that she wouldn’t be a problem. He asked Maren, “So what did you advise her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She asked for your opinion.”

  “No, she didn’t. She only said she needed it, but she didn’t actually ask for it.”

  “Okay. So, if she had, what would you have told her?”

  “You’re testing.”

  “I’m not testing.”

  “You just want to know if I am for the abortion or not.”

  “Or the baby.”

  “Let’s play backgammon,” suggested Maren.

  “You’re slippery, you are.”

  “How can you tell from way over there?” she grinned, unashamed.

  They were eye to eye for a long moment.

  “Let’s play,” she chose.

  Chesser got out the portable backgammon set, while she got out of her clothes. She didn’t take off everything until he was watching.

  “Your aura is showing,” he told her.

  “You can see it?”

  “Sure. It’s very turned on.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Red as hell.”

  “No it isn’t. It’s lavender,” she contended demurely.

  “Not tonight,” he said, reaching.

  “Backgammon,” she reminded and began arranging the white and red discs on the board he’d placed on the bed. “How much do I owe you now?” she asked.

  “Three million.”

  “I thought it was more.”

  “No, that was it. Three million.”

  “Let’s play one game, double or nothing.”

  He shook his head. “The limit’s a million.”

  “You don’t think I’m good for it?”

  “Did you pay Massey the thousand you lost at bridge?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “You’re a welcher.”

  “That’s better than a freak.”

  “Who’s a freak?”

  “Old man Massey.”

  Chesser believed it with a laugh. “What do you suppose his hang-up is?”

  “Money.”

  “I mean his sexual hang-up.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Money?”

  Instead of explaining, Maren tossed one of her dice for first. She got a one, the lowest. She quickly grabbed it up. “That was practice,” she said and tossed again. A six this time.

  Chesser let her get away with it. He was still thinking about Massey, picturing the old billionaire literally relying on money for sexual support, perhaps even having to go as far as using a tight, thick, hard roll of thousands as a fitting extension or substitute.

  By then Maren had taken two turns consecutively. Chesser allowed her that advantage. They played two games for five hundred thousand. He won one and let her win the other.

  Then she turned out all the lights.

  It was too dark.

  “I can’t see your aura,” he said. He switched on the bedside lamp. It was too glarey. He draped a towel over it to make it right.

  He found out immediately that she was in an aggressive mood. Her fingers and mouth declared that. And they were both well into it before they realized how loudly and discordantly the bed’s corroded springs were accompanying them.

  Chesser held her very still. He heard the laughter of the islanders downstairs at the bar, directly below. Maren didn’t care, tried to continue, but now, for Chesser, the screeching rhythm of the springs sounded greatly amplified and he was certain that it was the reason for the laughter of the islanders. He cursed the bed and tried again, differently, but the springs were relentless, and, to make matters worse, the two beds split apart. Chesser’s knees plunged between them, thumped hard on the floor.

  A burst of laughter from below, with exclamations in French that sounded pertinent.

  Chesser got up, angry, and went out onto the roof balcony. He leaned far over the rail, attempting to get a glimpse of the people in the bar below, but all he could see from there was their lower legs and feet. He stood out there a while, looked across to Cannes, saw the distant symmetrical streetlights of the Croisette and a bunch of brightness that was the Casino. The carrier Shangri-La had lights strung all over its superstructure, festive-looking. Chesser wondered why. A speck of red moved across the water a few hundred feet out. A small boat. He heard its engine, a nice sound, really. The most unpleasant thing was the jabbering of the islanders.

  His passion having subsided adequately, he went back into the room. The bed had been ripped apart. Maren had removed the mattresses and placed them on the floor, made them up neatly. She was kneeling there, waiting.

  It made a world of difference. They didn’t even need the lamp on, because the night’s natural light was enough, and kinder, and they could lie there and see the water and the individual glints
of Cannes three miles away, and the sky seemed nearer.

  Despite all previous intrusions, when they were connected it was exceptional.

  I am in you was the normal way it began for Chesser.

  I am around you was the normal way it began for Maren.

  But soon such definition became less distinct, less and less, while sensations increased. Until I am you is what they both felt. There was then no beginning nor end for them. All was entrance and entering for both of them. They were extended into one another, open to one another, and their separate roles were surrendered, lost in the loving. All the way to the ultimate testimony that they were equal and blessed with the ability to transcend aloneness.

  CHAPTER 23

  MEECHAM WAS in much better control now.

  The Hatton Garden incident was a minor example of the monstrous catastrophe that would occur if those twenty million carats were poured all at once onto the world market.

  It shocked the panic out of Meecham, snapped his mind clear, and sharply regenerated those politic skills with which he’d achieved the top echelon of the business.

  His most serious error, he now realized, had been not reporting the robbery to the board immediately. The board would resent having been kept uninformed of such a major crisis, and the time gone by was indelible testimony against Meecham. Each passing day incriminated him the more. Meecham blamed himself, and hated Coglin for that. Coglin, with his daily assurances of progress, had taken advantage of Meecham’s panic and hope.

  Meecham still had faith that Security Section would recover the stolen inventory. He had to believe that. It was now, for him, the only clean way out of it. Once the diamonds were back in the vault, he would make a full personal report to the board, understating the desperateness of the situation, casting indictments at those who rightfully deserved them, and magnifying the efficiency with which he, Meecham, had handled the emergency. The board’s reaction would more than likely, for self-serving reasons, be favorable, a collective need to feel an even greater sense of almightiness.

  All that, of course, was contingent on the stolen inventory being returned, an eventuality Meecham expected but something he would no longer depend upon as an immediate solution. Interim measures were necessary, he decided.

  First, most crucial, The System’s supply of stones had to be replenished so that operations could continue in a normal manner. Nearly all the reserve from Johannesburg had been used for the sights earlier that month. The next scheduled sights were less than three weeks off.

  Meecham estimated that shipments due into The System from its various regular sources might supply enough stones for those next sights. If all packets were cut to a minimum. However, at the same time, he noted that the summary of international market conditions indicated an upward demand. Normally under such circumstances The System would press its monopolistic advantage to the limit. To skimp now, Meecham reasoned, would be inexplicable, tactically wrong.

  He personally communicated with The System’s own mines and instructed the managers to increase production by all possible means. He ordered into immediate operation a new, rich claim in Damaraland that had been held in abeyance. He sent official word to The System’s dredges working the underwater fields off the mouth of the Orange River to extend their work day to all daylight hours, seven days a week, until further notice. Every facility was told emphatically not to wait until regular shipment dates. Gem-quality stones in their yields were to be forwarded to number 11 on a daily basis.

  Meecham also contacted all The System’s major affiliates. Except the Russians. He thought it better not to disturb the Russians. Via crackling long-distance lines to remote places, Meecham negotiated skillfully, careful not to reveal any urgency in his tone, apparently dealing from strength as usual, giving the impression it was The System that was being accommodating by offering to receive on consignment whatever gem-quality stones the affiliates presently had on hand.

  Two additional calls Meecham made were particularly irregular, but strategic. To The System’s undercover agents in Freetown, Sierra Leone, and Monrovia, Liberia. These agents, whose actual loyalties were known only to the highest echelon of The System, were deeply involved in the marketing of illicit stones—those diamonds smuggled out of the mines or taken from unauthorized diggings. It was estimated that traffic in illicit stones totaled about a hundred fifty million dollars a year, and the purpose of The System’s agents was not only to inform, but also to frequently purchase these black-market diamonds and channel them into the hands of The System. A matter of preserving control.

  Now Meecham sought to seriously tap this source, and the agents were quick to assure him that he could count on sizable shipments from them.

  “Gem-quality,” Meecham specified.

  “Only the best are stolen,” was the agents’ guarantee.

  Within forty-eight hours diamonds began arriving at number 11 from Luderitz, Capetown, Mwanza, Swakopmund, Accra, Luluburg, Pendembbu, Bahia, Berberati, and elsewhere. As soon as received, the stones were classified according to size, color, and quality. Meecham was greatly pleased with himself, when he went down to the vault and saw many of the shallow, velour-lined cabinet drawers again layered with diamonds. Over six hundred million dollars’ worth had already arrived and there were still more to come. Enough inventory for several future sights.

  Meecham reviewed the list of dealers who were scheduled in. He especially noted the amounts and quality of diamonds recommended for each man’s packet. With bold calculation, he increased the contents of all packets by twenty per cent and issued instructions that every stone in every packet should be first quality. This time the dealers would not have to take any bitter with the sweet. The dealers would be delighted, of course, and their enthusiasm would sift down through the entire industry. Meecham reasoned it was excellent insurance at this time against any qualms or speculations.

  Whiteman’s packet, in particular, would cause plenty of healthy talk. On Meecham’s order, it would contain forty thousand separate diamonds of various sizes and one three-hundred-ninety-six-and-a-half carat stone of exceptional quality. The price on the packet would be eight million, two hundred thousand dollars, and, at that, Whiteman would consider it preferential treatment.

  While all this was going on at number 11, across the way on Harrowhouse Security Section was coming up with nothing.

  The important lead anticipated by Coglin had not materialized, despite the fact that he was now directly piped in to the underworld elements of every major city in the world.

  Coglin silently concluded that these thieves were smarter, tighter-mouthed than average. He preoccupied himself with looking in another potential direction.

  The renovation of number 13.

  He’d always believed there was more to that than coincidence. It was possible, of course, the thieves had been waiting years for just such an opportunity to present itself, but more probably the tearing apart of that next-door building had been a premeditated part of their scheme.

  Coglin got a fast rundown on Mid-Continental Oil. It wasn’t very encouraging. All it led to was Clyde Massey and the fact that Massey himself had ordered the renovation. A seventy-year-old billionaire was hardly a prime suspect.

  He turned to Marylebone, Ltd.

  It was like flipping over a rock and looking in on a colony of desperate, scurrying insects.

  The owner of Marylebone, Ltd., was a young man of twenty, a contemporary, long-haired type caught in the ambivalence of being for or against his own establishment. His main interest seemed to be finding ways to keep the company in debt, an ability that was perhaps a genetic contribution from his late father, for Marylebone’s balance sheet had been predominantly red for the past fifty years. At the present time it was just a nudge away from falling into bankruptcy. All of Marylebone’s assets, including its fleet of six dump trucks and four panel trucks, were mortgaged to the limit. It was, altogether, a disorganized, horribly managed old firm attempting to maintain an a
ppearance of solidity by overemphasizing tradition.

  Seventeen persons were employed by Marylebone on a permanent basis: office personnel, interior designers and construction/destruction supervisors. However, at various times, depending on its commissions, Marylebone had as many as thirty to forty more on its payroll. Laborers as well as various specialists from the building trades such as plumbers, carpenters, masons, roofers, and electricians.

  The electricians in particular stimulated Coglin’s suspicion. He had in mind the manner in which the diamonds had been extracted from the vault via that two-hundred-forty-volt electrical conduit.

  Coglin ordered a full-scale, in-depth investigation of Marylebone and everyone who’d been connected with it during the past two months.

  It paid off quickly.

  One of Marylebone’s temporary employees was a man named Frank Rosilli. Rosilli had a criminal record for robbery. Twice during the past twelve years he had been Her Majesty’s guest in Dartmoor Prison. Rosilli’s other trade was electrician. Security Section found Rosilli in his room at 481 Shandy Street, Stepney, El. When they broke in he was seated at a kitchen table examining some rough diamonds. Twenty-two uncut stones, to be exact. Deaf to his wails of innocence, Security Section took him roughly into custody, and Coglin personally conducted the interrogation.

  Rosilli claimed he had found the diamonds in the street, a lie obviously inspired by the Hatton Garden melee. Coglin put the pressure on him. Rosilli glanced furtively at the fists being made by two of Coglin’s biggest men and quickly changed his story. He’d found the diamonds in one of the Marylebone dump trucks. With the strange affinity diamonds have for grease, they’d stuck where the tailgate mechanism was heavily lubricated. He’d noticed them while riding in the back of the truck. Marylebone supervisors used the company trucks for personal transportation to and from work and around town. Sometimes they gave the workers a lift home. Rosilli said he hadn’t recognized the stones as diamonds right off, not until he’d seen the photographic coverage of Hatton Garden in the London Illustrated News.