11 Harrowhouse Read online

EVERY SATURDAY afternoon when the weather cooperates there is a promenade on King’s Road, Chelsea. From Sloane Square to Beaufort Street, a distance of twenty blocks, the sidewalks stream with those who come mainly to be seen. Wear what you want is the code, and couples seem to be literally adorning one another, clinging. It is not unusual to notice authentically titled, long-haired young lords looking voluntarily indigent, while less fortunate common fellows are garbed in self-conscious elegance. As for the girls in their hot pants and see-throughs, high-slit midis and minis, they leave little for a voyeur to imagine.

  Chesser and Maren were there among the walkers on that Saturday in early May. Maren had wanted to do other than the usual things, and Chesser was willing. She’d thought enough to bring him some casual clothes from Chantilly. A pair of straight-legged denim slacks and a wide belt with a pure-gold copy of a San Francisco fireman’s buckle. A cotton jersey Italian shirt cut narrow to his measure. He wore it unbuttoned three down, with a figured silk scarf tied loose and low. He might have been taken for a British nobleman with extreme contemporary tastes had his hair been much longer. Anyway, he appeared to be anything but a diamond dealer.

  Maren contributed to the off-beat impression: mid-calf-length skirt handmade in Pakistan, yellow, red, black, and white. A sheer Indian cotton blouse of palest pink and several woven Mexican sashes of various widths, in blazing colors, which she’d tied on the side so they dangled long. Dozens of tiny antique rings on her fingers. To further uninhibit this colorful mixture, her nutmeg hair flowed down freely. She was confident, as always; in a higher mood than usual.

  Others noticed them. They noticed others. They looked at the windows of many boutiques, bought two large sugar cookies in an old, good bakery and ate them as they went. They laughed a lot, and Chesser didn’t feel at all forty. Nor did he appear to be, for he was naturally thin, and, according to current values, fat was synonymous with old. By the time Chesser and Maren had gone a dozen blocks they’d become so conditioned that only the most bizarre costumes and hairdos caught their attention.

  They came to the Chelsea Antique Supermarket and went in. It was a deep building divided into many stalls where vendors offered all sorts of small, old things. It was there that Chesser saw the huge man in black for the first time. Chesser took casual special notice of the man, whose size was extraordinary. He was dressed entirely in black, suit, tie, and shirt. A thick-bodied man a full head taller than everyone. He could have been a retired professional wrestler. While Maren was buying an old leather-and-ivory backgammon set, Chesser happened to look down the aisle. The huge man’s eyes were on Chesser for a moment. Merely a glance in a crowd. Chesser thought nothing of it at the time.

  Later, when they were coming out of Arethusa, where they’d had a late lunch, Chesser again saw the man standing across the street. This time he and Chesser exchanged a long look. Chesser decided he was being watched. The System immediately came to mind. He steered Maren down the street and then glanced back. The huge man was walking in their direction on the opposite side, but now seemed to be taking no special notice of Chesser. Merely a coincidence, after all? But if The System did have him under surveillance, Chesser wondered what the report might be. That he was seen in unbecoming attire consorting with the counter-culture? How many demerits for that?

  “I’ve never been to Regent’s Park,” said Maren, “or the Tower of London.”

  “Which would you rather do? It’s getting late.”

  “Both,” she said, which was what he expected.

  Moments later they were on their way in the Daimler. Chesser looked back several times. He couldn’t see if he were being followed. Traffic was very heavy.

  It was a half hour before they reached the famous medieval castle on Tower Hill. They paid their way in at the Middle Gate and paused at Tower Green, where an official guide gave his memorized version of how Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, and numerous others had lost their heads on that very spot. The guide’s monotonous, bloody description intrigued Maren. Chesser had to pull her away.

  She told him: “I once knew a model for Givenchy who claimed she was reincarnate from the soul of Anne Boleyn. I believe she was. She had a particularly long neck and was always sucking on throat lozenges.”

  They went into the Wakefield Tower and found the room where the crown jewels were displayed. Maren was less fascinated by the precious glitter of the royal scepter and crowns. Chesser directed her attention to the Cullinan I, the largest diamond in the world, weighing five hundred thirty carats. And to the Cullinan II and III. Maren tried to appear interested when Chesser told her these huge diamonds had all been cut from a single rough stone about the size of a man’s fist. He talked on while she was preoccupied with retying her Mexican sashes, explaining that the gigantic diamond had been found by a mine superintendent who was making a routine check of the Premier Mine in South Africa. The superintendent had noticed sunlight reflecting on something imbedded in the wall of a shaft and he’d dug it out with his pocket knife.

  “And that made him a millionaire,” remarked Maren indifferently.

  “No. The company gave him a ten thousand dollar reward, for which he was very grateful.”

  Chesser thought she would react with some comment about corporate injustice, but she only combed her hair back with her fingers and said, “Let’s go to Regent’s Park.”

  At that moment Chesser looked past Maren. Standing near the entrance was the same huge man in black. The excuse of coincidence was now impossible. Chesser’s immediate thought was to leave, to get to the Daimler and back to the hotel and pack and get to the airport and out of London, out from under the eyes of The System. No matter how adamant Maren was about staying. He’d invent some story for her. He knew if he told her he was being watched she’d only consider it exciting.

  Maren read Chesser’s face. She asked him if he’d had too much paté for lunch. He looked as though he needed an Alka Seltzer.

  He left her standing there and headed for the entrance. Tell Meecham up his was what Chesser intended to say, but when he reached the huge man and looked up, his more realistic side took over.

  “You’re following me,” said Chesser, with what he hoped seemed convincing indignation. If the man appeared huge at a distance, he was near gigantic at this closer range. His neck was at least a size twenty-two. Waiting for a reply, Chesser took a half-step back.

  The man said nothing. Chesser noticed he had brown eyes, unexpectedly soft and expressive. The man seemed literally to be trying to speak with his eyes. The man’s hands went into his suit-jacket pocket and brought out an envelope, which he offered to Chesser. There was nothing for Chesser to do but take it. A regular letter-size envelope of expensive, heavy-quality vellum in a creamy shade. Chesser saw his own name on its face, scrawled in a quick flourish by a broad-nibbed pen.

  Then Maren was beside him wanting to know what was happening. Chesser told her he wasn’t sure. As she looked on curiously, he opened the envelope and found a note written in the same scrawl.

  I want to see you regarding a business matter. My man will call for you at ten A.M. tomorrow.

  Clyde Massey

  Chesser didn’t believe it. He looked up to demand some sort of verification. But the huge man was gone.

  “Do you know him?” asked Maren.

  “Never saw him before. Big son of a bitch, wasn’t he?”

  “Not him. Clyde Massey.”

  Chesser shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Probably a joke.”

  “Why?”

  Chesser’s question exactly. He didn’t know Clyde Massey, though, of course, he knew of him. The world’s most publicized billionaire. While others in that financial category usually preferred to remain as anonymous as possible, Clyde Massey flaunted his monied status. His name had become common reference, representing the richest, as had Rockefeller’s. Although Massey seldom made public appearances, he was on view and quoted nearly every month in one magazine or another. Recently, a major televis
ion network had devoted an entire hour to a report on the man, including a filmed tour of his spacious estate, with Massey himself doing the commentary. Massey was American, forced to be an expatriate by the divorce courts. He’d been married four times, the last three times to much younger women. Alimony had made him escape to England. A matter of principle rather than parsimony, claimed Massey. But now his ex-wives could only wave court orders at him from across the ocean, out of legal range.

  Maren took the note from Chesser. She fingered its blind embossed monogram. “Feels authentic,” she commented. “But tomorrow’s Sunday. We’re not open for business on Sunday.”

  Chesser agreed.

  On the way out, Maren crumpled the note and from a distance of ten feet tossed it accurately into a convenient City of London trash receptacle.

  They went to Regent’s Park and enjoyed wildflowers along the Broadwalk. Then they returned to the Connaught, planning to dress and go out to dinner. Instead, they undressed and loved and had a late supper at Trattoria Terrazza. Following supper they gambled at the Pair of Shoes. Maren lost nearly twenty thousand dollars. She claimed negative forces in the atmosphere were opposing her. They got back to the Connaught at four. They played one game of backgammon for fifty thousand dollars. Maren won, immediately turned away and fell asleep, content. Chesser had to get up to turn off the bathroom light and open the window a crack. He got back into bed, fitted himself against her, and sent a hand over and around, gently, to hold one of her breasts.

  In moments his fingers went limp with sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE MINIATURE travel clock said three minutes after ten. It was from Hermes, had a twenty-one-jewel Swiss movement and was encased in genuine baby alligator with platinum-and-tortoise trim. Nevertheless, it was running three minutes fast, for the time was precisely ten o’clock when the telephone’s ring pulled Chesser to consciousness.

  It was the desk. “Your car is here, sir.”

  “Don’t want a car,” said Chesser, sleepy thick.

  “It’s Mr. Massey’s car, sir, calling for you.”

  “Massey?”

  With that name Maren was suddenly awake. She leaped out of bed. “Tell him we’ll be right down.”

  Chesser asked her why.

  “We’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “We could sleep. Besides, we don’t know who the hell it is. Probably not Massey at all.”

  “All the more reason,” she told him.

  Chesser shut his eyes tight as possible, trying to get awake enough to cope. He was also gritting his teeth. Maren was already in the bathroom, beyond dissuasion. Chesser heard her humming the fragments of some song.

  He reluctantly told the desk, “We’ll be a few minutes.” He hung up and stumbled into the bathroom. She left the shower on for him, urging him to hurry.

  Out of the shower, he found she’d gone into the other room to get dressed. He felt as though he were an unwilling contestant in a race. He didn’t even take time to change the blade in his razor. He scraped his face raw and splashed on some aftershave that was like salt on his wounds.

  She was already dressed. He rushed to catch up. She stuffed her Vuitton satchel with things they’d need, such as her make-up and a hotel towel.

  “Where are your diamonds?” she asked.

  “Downstairs in the safe.”

  “We’ll get them on the way out.”

  “What the hell for?”

  He was buttoning his fly. At least, trying to. He had the third button in the fourth hole. She kneeled and helped him. “If it really isn’t Massey,” she said, “whoever it is might be after your diamonds. It occurred to me yesterday.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “My intuition tells me. Anyway, if we don’t have them with us we won’t be able to hand them over.”

  “So, we’ll leave them in the safe.”

  “I’d rather get robbed.”

  He had to laugh, because she was serious. “You’d rather get robbed?”

  “There are those who make news and those who only read it,” she recited.

  The driver of the car was the same huge man in black. The car was a white custom-built Rolls-Royce, a four-door convertible with white antelope suede interior. A glass partition separated Chesser and Maren from the large man. Chesser found the button that made the partition descend.

  “Who are you?” Chesser asked.

  No reply from the huge man. Not even a look back.

  “Tell him I want the top down,” said Maren.

  Chesser leaned forward to say it loudly.

  The huge man had Chesser’s face in the rear-view mirror. He pulled to the curb and stopped. He snapped loose a pair of chrome catches on the top of the windshield frame, twisted a small chrome knob on the dash. The top folded back electrically and concealed itself within a flush enclosure.

  When they were underway again with the top down, the wind felt cold. Chesser hunched to escape it and Maren snuggled against him.

  “I need some coffee,” Chesser said.

  “So do I. Tell him to stop some place.”

  “I can wait,” said Chesser rather than ask.

  Maren moved forward and pushed a button on the seat panel facing them. A shallow compartment swung open to reveal a pair of identical plastic vials containing red capsules and blue capsules, a carafe of Evian spring water, and a cut-crystal tumbler. The base of each was inset for balance.

  “No coffee,” said Maren, closing the compartment, “but it’s warmer when you lean forward like this.” She demonstrated and then slid off the seat onto the plush, carpeted floor. “It’s even warmer down here,” she claimed.

  Chesser joined Maren on the floor. They didn’t know where they were going and now they couldn’t even see where. They could only watch the sky and the tops of some London buildings, and every so often high branches of trees.

  “I don’t think they’re after the diamonds,” stated Maren, with a trace of disappointment.

  “Maybe we’re being kidnapped,” suggested Chesser for her benefit.

  “I thought of that.”

  “You’re worth a big ransom.”

  “So are you.”

  “Me? Who’d pay for me?”

  “Me,” she promised.

  They kissed, because that called for a kiss.

  The white Rolls took them about 45 miles down the A-2, remaining in the right lane and passing everything on the road, including signs that said: Hindhead, Liphook, Cowplain, and Horndean. Just before Petersfield the car left the A-2 for 18 miles of smaller road. Between the towns of Petworth and Fittleworth in West Sussex it turned off for another three curving miles. Then it stopped. At the main entrance of Clyde Massey’s mansion.

  The driver was quickly out of the car to open the rear door. Chesser and Maren achingly uncoupled and stretched. Chesser felt paralyzed and nearly went down as he stepped from the car.

  Maren was giving the house a fast appraisal. It was constructed of mellowed brick, three stories, authentic Georgian. Accordingly, the structure appeared to have sunk solidly into the land. Its first-floor windows were just above ground level. The slanted roof was slate and there were numerous wide chimneys, signifying many fireplaces. The house was beautifully preserved or, at least, conscientiously restored. Certainly it was well kept; its white trim fresh. Maren estimated thirty rooms, which was ten less than the correct number.

  The entrance door opened and a servant dressed entirely in black hurried out to relieve Maren of her satchel. She refused to surrender it. The servant led the way into the house, through an impressive center hall into a large reception room. Without a word he left them there.

  That room was extravagantly decorated. Tasteful pretension. The furnishings were mainly French Regency, but there was some Adams and Sheraton, and touches of Italian Provincial. A Savonnerie carpet covered a section of the floor. An Aubusson tapestry was hung on one wall.

  Maren sat on a velour-covered Louis Quatorze taboret. Fro
m her satchel she removed her make-up and placed it beside her. She also took out a large Mason Pearson brush and swiftly stroked her hair neat. Then she began doing her face, using the antique mirrored surface of a nearby low table for reflection. It was difficult because her face was inverted and she was rushing to complete herself. As she smoothed on a very light foundation, she asked: “What does he want to see you for?”

  “Who?”

  “Clyde Massey.”

  Chesser teased. “You think it’s really Massey?”

  “Of course. I knew it all the while.” She glanced at Chesser to verify his reaction.

  He used the brush on his wind-blown hair but it wouldn’t obey.

  “Try some water,” she suggested.

  Chesser found several cut-crystal decanters on a side table. One contained a clear liquid. He removed the stopper from that one and was about to pour some into the cup of his palm when he thought to confirm it. He sniffed. It was gin. He noticed a silver mesh covered siphon bottle. He pressed its release carefully but the charged water spurted out, causing some mess. He rubbed the fizzing water on his hair. He brushed as best he could and presented the result to Maren.

  “You look like Nick Charles,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “The old movie detective. I saw him on television when I was in America with Jean Marc. We used to stay up late and watch.” She went back to her make-up.

  Chesser mumbled that he didn’t care if he looked like a slick Spanish pimp.

  He went to get a close-up of the Aubusson while wondering why he was there, in Clyde Massey’s house. He thought probably Massey had him confused with someone else. He touched his hair and hoped it would dry quickly so as not to look plastered down.

  Maren just made it. She was putting her make-up back into her satchel when the door opened. It wasn’t Massey, just the servant in black, who gestured politely for them to follow him.

  They passed from that room through several others equally impressive. Along the way, glimpses of a Bonnard, a Monet, a Pissarro, a Degas, a Vermeer, a large Lautrec sketch. Finally they entered what was evidently a huge sun room, what the English call a winter garden. Sides and ceiling of small glass panes slightly vine-covered so that sunlight dappled the pink marble floor. The room opened out onto a wide terrace overlooking spacious grounds. The grass was as finished as a spread of fabric. One could see where it had been electrically clipped in alternate directions, creating a pattern of precise swaths.