The Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Good afternoon, Mr … .” Consuela hesitated, feeling unsure of herself for the first time that day.

  “Laurence Graff,” he said, offering his hand. “We met at Sotheby-Parke Bernet last year—a charity function in aid of the Red Cross, if I remember correctly.”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Rosenheim, unable to recall him, or the occasion.

  Mr. Graff bowed reverently toward the diamond-and-ruby necklace.

  “The Kanemarra heirloom,” he purred, then paused, before taking the manager’s place at the table. “Fashioned in 1936 by Silvio di Larchi,” he continued. “All the rubies were extracted from a single mine in Burma, over a period of twenty years. The diamonds were purchased from De Beers by an Egyptian merchant who, after the necklace had been made for him, offered the unique piece to King Farouk—for services rendered. When the monarch married Princess Farida, he presented it to her on their wedding day, and she in return bore him four heirs, none of whom, alas, was destined to succeed to the throne.” Graff looked up from one object of beauty and gazed on another.

  “Since then it has passed through several hands before arriving at the House of Graff,” continued the proprietor. “Its most recent owner was an actress, whose husband’s oil wells unfortunately dried up.”

  The flicker of a smile crossed the face of Consuela Rosenheim as she finally recalled where she had previously seen the necklace.

  “Quite magnificent,” she said, giving it one final look. “I will be back,” she added as she rose from her chair. Graff accompanied her to the door. Nine out of ten customers who make such a claim have no intention of returning, but he could always sense the tenth.

  “May I ask the price?” Consuela asked indifferently as he held the door open for her.

  “One million pounds, madam,” Graff replied, as casually as if she had inquired about the cost of a plastic keyring at a seaside gift shop.

  Once she had reached the sidewalk, Consuela dismissed her chauffeur. Her mind was now working at a speed that would have impressed her husband. She slipped across the street, calling first at the White House, then Yves Saint Laurent, and finally at Chanel, emerging some two hours later with all the weapons she required for the battle that lay ahead. She did not arrive back at her suite at the Ritz until a few minutes before six.

  Consuela was relieved to find that her husband had not yet returned from the bank. She used the time to take a long bath, and to contemplate how the trap should be set Once she was dry and powdered, she dabbed a suggestion of a new scent on her throat, then slipped into some of her newly acquired clothes.

  She was checking herself once again in the full-length mirror when Victor entered the room. He stopped on the spot, dropping his briefcase on the carpet. Consuela turned to face him.

  “You look stunning,” he declared, with the same look of desire she had lavished on the Kanemarra heirloom a few hours before.

  “Thank you, darling,” she replied. “And how did your day go?”

  “A triumph. The takeover has been agreed, and at half the price it would have cost me only a year ago.”

  Consuela smiled. An unexpected bonus.

  “Those of us who are still in possession of cash need have no fear of the recession,” Victor added with satisfaction.

  Over a quiet supper in the Ritz’s dining room, Victor described to his wife in great detail what had taken place at the bank that day. During the occasional break in this monologue Consuela indulged her husband by remarking, “How clever of you, Victor,” “How amazing,” “How you managed it I will never understand.” When he finally ordered a large brandy, lit a cigar, and leaned back in his chair, she began to run her elegantly stockinged right foot gently along the inside of his thigh. For the first time that evening, Victor stopped thinking about the takeover.

  As they left the dining room and strolled toward the elevator, Victor placed an arm around his wife’s slim waist. By the time the elevator had reached the sixth floor he had already taken off his jacket, and his hand had slipped a few inches further down. Consuela giggled. Long before they had reached the door of their suite, he had begun tugging off his tie.

  When they entered the room, Consuela placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside doorknob. For the next few minutes Victor was transfixed to the spot as he watched his slim wife slowly remove each garment she had purchased that afternoon. He quickly pulled off his own clothes, and wished once again that he had carried out his New Year’s resolution.

  Forty minutes later, Victor lay exhausted on the bed. After a few moments of sighing, he began to snore. Consuela pulled the sheet over their naked bodies, but her eyes remained wide open. She was already going over the next step in her plan.

  Victor awoke the following morning to discover his wife’s hand gently stroking the inside of his leg. He rolled over to face her, the memory of the previous night still vivid in his mind. They made love a second time, something they had not done for as long as he could recall.

  It was not until he stepped out of the shower that Victor remembered that it was his wife’s birthday, and that he had promised to spend the morning with her selecting a gift. He only hoped that her eye had already settled on something she wanted, as he needed to spend most of the day closeted in the City with his lawyers, going over the offer document line by line.

  “Happy birthday, darling,” he said as he padded back into the bedroom. “By the way, did you have any luck finding a present?” he added as he scanned the front page of the Financial Times, which was already speculating on the possible takeover, describing it as a coup. A smile of satisfaction appeared on Victor’s face for the second time that morning.

  “Yes, my darling,” Consuela replied. “I did come across one little bauble that I rather liked. I just hope it isn’t too expensive.”

  “And how much is this ‘little bauble’?” Victor asked. Consuela turned to face him. She was wearing only two garments, both of them black, and both of them remarkably skimpy.

  Victor started to wonder if he still had the time, but then he remembered the lawyers, who had been up all night and would be waiting patiently for him at the bank.

  “I didn’t ask the price,” Consuela replied. “You’re so much cleverer than I am at that sort of thing,” she added, as she slipped into a navy silk blouse.

  Victor glanced at his watch. “How far away is it?” he asked.

  “Just across the road, in Bond Street, my darling,” Consuela replied. “I shouldn’t have to delay you for too long.” She knew exactly what was going through her husband’s mind.

  “Good. Then let’s go and look at this little bauble without delay,” he said as he buttoned his shirt.

  While Victor finished dressing, Consuela, with the help of the Financial Times, skillfully guided the conversation back to his triumph of the previous day. She listened once more to the details of the takeover as they left the hotel and strolled up Bond Street together arm in arm.

  “Probably saved myself several million,” he told her yet again. Consuela smiled as she led him to the door of the House of Graff.

  “Several million?” she gasped. “How clever you are, Victor.”

  The security guard quickly opened the door, and this time Consuela found that Mr. Graff was already standing by the table waiting for her. He bowed low, then turned to Victor. “May I offer my congratulations on your brilliant coup, Mr. Rosenheim.” Victor smiled. “How may I help you?”

  “My husband would like to see the Kanemarra heirloom,” said Consuela, before Victor had a chance to reply.

  “Of course, madam,” said the proprietor. He stepped behind the table and spread out the black velvet cloth. Once again the assistant removed the magnificent necklace from its stand in the third window, and carefully laid it out on the center of the velvet cloth to show the jewels to their best advantage. Mr. Graff was about to embark on the piece’s history, when Victor simply said, “How much is it?”

  Mr. Graff raised his head. “This is no o
rdinary piece of jewelry. I feel …”

  “How much?” repeated Victor.

  “Its provenance alone warrants …”

  “How much?”

  “The sheer beauty, not to mention the craftsmanship involved …”

  “How much?” asked Victor, his voice now rising.

  “The word ‘unique’ would not be inappropriate.”

  “You may be right, but I still need to know how much it’s going to cost me,” said Victor, who was beginning to sound exasperated.

  “One million pounds, sir,” Graff said in an even tone, aware that he could not risk another superlative.

  “I’ll settle at half a million, no more,” came back the immediate reply.

  “I am sorry to say, sir,” said Graff, “that with this particular piece, there is no room for bargaining”

  “There’s always room for bargaining, whatever one is selling,” said Victor. “I repeat my offer. Half a million.”

  “I fear that in this case, sir …”

  “I feel confident that you’ll see things my way, given time,” said Victor. “But I don’t have that much time to spare this morning, so I’ll write out a check for half a million, and leave you to decide whether you wish to cash it or not.”

  “I fear you are wasting your time, sir,” said Graff. “I cannot let the Kanemarra heirloom go for less than one million.”

  Victor took a checkbook from his inside pocket, unscrewed the top of his fountain pen, and wrote out the words “Five hundred thousand pounds only” below the name of the bank that bore his name. His wife took a discreet pace backward.

  Graff was about to repeat his previous comment when he glanced up and observed Mrs. Rosenheim silently pleading with him to accept the check.

  A look of curiosity came over his face as Consuela continued her urgent mime.

  Victor tore out the check and left it on the table. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide,” he said. “We return to New York tomorrow morning—with or without the Kanemarra heirloom. It’s your decision.”

  Graff left the check on the table as he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheim to the front door and bowed them out onto Bond Street.

  “You were brilliant, my darling,” said Consuela as the chauffeur opened the car door for his master.

  “The bank,” Rosenheim instructed as he fell into the back seat. “You’ll have your little bauble, Consuela. He’ll cash the check before the twenty-four hours are up, of that I’m sure.” The chauffeur closed the back door, and the window purred down as Victor added with a smile, “Happy birthday, darling.”

  Consuela returned his smile, and blew him a kiss as the car pulled out into the traffic and edged its way toward Piccadilly. The morning had not turned out quite as she had planned, because she felt unable to agree with her husband’s judgment—but then, she still had twenty-four hours to play with.

  Consuela returned to the suite at the Ritz, undressed, took a shower, opened another bottle of perfume, and slowly began to change into the second outfit she had purchased the previous day. Before she left the room she turned to the commodities section of the Financial Times, and checked the price of green coffee.

  She emerged from the Arlington Street entrance of the Ritz wearing a double-breasted navy blue Yves Saint Laurent suit and a wide-brimmed red-and-white hat. Ignoring her chauffeur, she hailed a taxi, instructing the driver to take her to a small, discreet hotel in Knightsbridge. Fifteen minutes later she entered the foyer with her head bowed and, after giving the name of her host to the manager, was accompanied to a suite on the fourth floor. Her luncheon companion stood as she entered the room, walked forward, kissed her on both cheeks, and wished her a happy birthday.

  After an intimate lunch, and an even more intimate hour spent in the adjoining room, Consuela’s companion listened to her request and, having first checked his watch, agreed to accompany her to Mayfair. He didn’t mention to her that he would have to be back in his office by four o’clock to take an important call from South America. Since the downfall of the Brazilian president, coffee prices had gone through the roof.

  As the car traveled down Brompton Road, Consuela’s companion telephoned to check the latest spot price of green coffee in New York (only her skill in bed had managed to stop him from calling earlier). He was pleased to learn that it was up another two cents, but not as pleased as she was. Eleven minutes later, the car deposited them outside the House of Graff.

  When they entered the shop together arm in arm, Mr. Graff didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Carvalho,” he said. “I do hope that your estates yielded an abundant crop this year.”

  Mr. Carvalho smiled and replied, “I cannot complain.”

  “And how may I assist you?” inquired the proprietor.

  “We would like to see the diamond necklace in the third window,” said Consuela, without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Of course, madam,” said Graff, as if he were addressing a complete stranger.

  Once again the black velvet cloth was laid out on the table, and once again the assistant placed the Kanemarra heirloom in its centre.

  This time Mr. Graff was allowed to relate its history before Carvalho politely inquired after the price.

  “One million pounds,” said Graff.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Carvalho said, “I’m willing to pay half a million.”

  “This is no ordinary piece of jewelry,” replied the proprietor. “I feel …”

  “Possibly not, but half a million is my best offer,” said Carvalho.

  “The sheer beauty, not to mention the craftsmanship involved …”

  “Nevertheless, I am not willing to go above half a million.”

  “The word ‘unique’ would not be inappropriate.”

  “Half a million, and no more,” insisted Carvalho.

  “I am sorry to say, sir,” said Graff, “that with this particular piece there is no room for bargaining,”

  “There’s always room for bargaining, whatever one is selling,” the coffee grower insisted.

  “I fear that is not true in this case, sir. You see …”

  “I suspect you will come to your senses in time,” said Carvalho. “But, regrettably, I do not have any time to spare this afternoon. I will write out a check for half a million pounds, and leave you to decide whether you wish to cash it.”

  Carvalho took a checkbook from his inside pocket, unscrewed the top of his fountain pen, and wrote out the words “Five hundred thousand pounds only.” Consuela looked on silently.

  Carvalho tore out the check and left it on the counter.

  “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide. I leave for Chicago on the early evening flight tomorrow. If the check has not been presented by the time I reach my office …”

  Graff bowed his head slightly, and left the check on the table. He accompanied them to the door and bowed again when they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  “You were brilliant, my darling,” said Consuela as the chauffeur opened the car door for his employer.

  “The Exchange,” said Carvalho. Turning back to face his mistress, he added, “You’ll have your necklace before the day is out, of that I’m certain, my darling.”

  Consuela smiled and waved as the car disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly, and on this occasion she felt able to agree with her lover’s judgment. Once the car had turned the corner, she slipped back into the House of Graff.

  The proprietor smiled and handed over the smartly wrapped gift. He bowed low and simply said, “Happy birthday, Mrs. Rosenheim.”

  BROKEN ROUTINE

  Septimus Horatio Cornwallis did not live up to his name. With such a name he should have been a cabinet minister, an admiral, or at least a rural dean. In fact, Septimus Horatio Cornwallis was a claims adjuster at the head office of the Prudential Assurance Company Limited, 172 Holborn Bars, London EC1.

  Septimus’s names could be blamed on his father, who had a
small knowledge of Nelson; on his mother, who was superstitious; and on his great-great-great-grandfather, who was alleged to have been a second cousin of the illustrious governor-general of India. On leaving school Septimus, a thin, anemic, prematurely balding young man, joined the Prudential Assurance Company; his careers adviser having told him that it was an ideal opening for a young man with his qualifications. Some time later, when Septimus reflected on the advice, it worried him, because even he realized that he had no qualifications. Despite this setback, Septimus rose slowly over the years from office boy to claims adjuster (not so much climbing the ladder as resting on each rung for some considerable time), which afforded him the grandiose title of assistant deputy manager (claims department).

  Septimus spent his day in a glass cubicle on the sixth floor, adjusting claims and recommending payments of anything up to one million pounds. He felt that if he “kept his nose clean” (one of Septimus’s favorite expressions), he would, after another twenty years, become a manager (claims department) and have walls around him that you couldn’t see through and a carpet that wasn’t laid in small squares of slightly differing shades of green. He might even become one of those signatures on the million-pound checks.

  Septimus resided in Sevenoaks with his wife, Norma, and his two children, Winston and Elizabeth, who attended the local comprehensive school. They would have gone to the grammar school, he regularly informed his colleagues, but the Labour government had stopped all that.

  Septimus operated his daily life by means of a set of invariable subroutines, like a primitive microprocessor, while he supposed himself to be a great follower of tradition and discipline. For if he was nothing, he was at least a creature of habit. Had, for some inexplicable reason, the KGB wanted to assassinate Septimus, all they would have had to do was put him under surveillance for seven days and they would have known his every movement throughout the working year.

  Septimus rose every morning at 7:15 and donned one of his two pinhead-patterned dark suits. He left his home at 47 Palmerston Drive at 7:55, having consumed his invariable breakfast of one soft-boiled egg, two pieces of toast, and two cups of tea. On arriving at platform one at Sevenoaks station, he would purchase a copy of the Daily Express before boarding the 8:27 to Cannon Street. During the journey Septimus would read his newspaper and smoke two cigarettes, arriving at Cannon Street at 9:07. He would then walk to the office and be sitting at his desk in his glass cubicle on the sixth floor, confronting the first claim to be adjusted, by 9:30. He took his coffee break at 11:00, allowing himself the luxury of two more cigarettes, when once again he would regale his colleagues with the imagined achievements of his children. At 11:15 he returned to work.