11 Harrowhouse Read online

  The four discussed various things Chesser now found more interesting, such as the Mare Moda, a water-fashions festival held each year on Capri.

  Finally, Lady Bolding announced that she was going in to freshen up. She invited Maren to do the same. The two women went into the house, leaving Massey and Chesser facing one another. It seemed the women were gone a long while. A servant cleared the table except for Perrier and glasses. Massey looked off down the hill, as though he were trying to identify something in the distance. He asked Chesser how long it had been since he was in the States. Chesser told him three or four years.

  When Maren and Lady Bolding returned and were settled once again at the table, Massey reached into the upper pocket of his jumpsuit. He brought out two gems. He rolled them, like dice, across to Chesser.

  “Which of these is genuine?” he asked.

  Chesser didn’t pick up the stones. For one thing, Massey had caught him a bit off balance, and obviously this was a challenge of some sort. They were finally getting down to business, he realized. He let the stones lie there on the yellow tablecloth. He estimated they were each about seven carats, round cut, identical.

  “Can you tell?” challenged Massey, insinuating that Chesser couldn’t.

  Chesser fingered the stones, respectfully but nonchalantly. They refracted equally brilliant flares in the sunlight. He picked one up and pretended to examine it. Then the other. He wished he’d brought his loupe. That would have added a professional touch.

  “Well?” said Massey impatiently.

  “Tell him, darling,” urged Maren.

  Lady Bolding remained silent, amused.

  Chesser took his time. “I’d like some crème de menthe,” he said. “Clear. And a tall glass.”

  Both were brought immediately. Chesser filled the glass with the liquor. Maren snickered. She thought he might drink it. Chesser placed the two gems in his palm and, with some minor ritual, dropped them simultaneously into the glass of crème de menthe.

  The gems descended slowly in the viscous, syrupy liquid. One reached bottom before the other.

  “That one,” announced Chesser.

  “Which?” asked Massey.

  Chesser poured most of the liquor from the glass and picked out the gem that had descended more slowly. Crème de menthe dripped from its facets and his fingers. He rinsed them in a glass of Perrier, dried with his napkin, and handed the gem to Massey.

  Massey had no way of knowing if this gem was the real one or not. He told Chesser that.

  “The other stone is man-made,” said Chesser, “probably strontium titanate, which has a specific gravity about one-third greater than a diamond. That’s why the diamond lost the race to the bottom.”

  “Impressive,” conceded Massey. But he was still dubious. Chesser could be inventing all this, putting on an act. “What if I told you they were both diamonds,” said Massey, intimating that might be the case.

  “They’re not,” said Chesser.

  “There’s a way of checking?”

  Chesser removed the other gem from the glass. He rinsed, dried, and offered it to Massey. “Just scratch this one with that one,” he instructed. “Of course, if they’re both diamonds, you’ll probably ruin one or the other, possibly both. It’s a chance you’ll have to take.” Chesser was very confident. Now he was challenging Massey. Chesser knew the real stone was worth close to forty thousand dollars. It had excellent color and appeared very well cut.

  Massey didn’t hesitate. He took the stone from Chesser and scratched it harshly with the one he’d had. He looked at both and saw Chesser was right. The man-made gem was badly marred. The diamond not at all damaged.

  “I congratulate you, Mr. Chesser.” He threw the man-made stone over his shouler. He tossed the diamond to the lap of Lady Bolding, who didn’t even acknowledge it.

  Massey sat back. It seemed a concluding movement. Chesser felt it was, but then Massey told him: “I want you to acquire a diamond for me.”

  Massey allowed time for Chesser’s questions to form.

  “No,” he replied to Chesser’s silence. “I don’t want an already-famous jewel taken from the eye of some jungle idol. What I want is a new stone.”

  “How large?”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “Depends on how much you want to spend.”

  “Million and a half.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Dollars.”

  Chesser felt the base of his spine glowing. Massey was serious.

  “I want a quality stone, mind you. Perfectly cut. Big enough to become known as the Massey.”

  It came to Chesser that he might not be able to handle the deal. Here it was, falling right into his pocket, and he couldn’t handle it. Because he’d have to lay out the money in advance for the rough stone and also pay for the cutting. He didn’t have enough capital for that. He probably wouldn’t collect anything until he delivered. Massey was overestimating his financial ability, thought Chesser. Evidently, Massey thought he was somebody like Whiteman.

  Again Massey seemed to be tapped into Chesser’s mind. “I’ll give you a certified check for the full amount,” he said, “today, before you leave. I’m sure in the million and a half there’ll be some profit for you.”

  Chesser was also sure of that.

  “Now,” sighed Massey, rising, “let’s all take a walk down through the orchard. The apple trees are still blooming.”

  Two hours later they were at the front of the house. The rear door of a Rolls was open. Hickey was standing by. It was a different car, a black custom saloon. Chesser and Maren were about to leave for London.

  Massey took Chesser aside. He gave him the check, which was folded once. Chesser knew better than to look at it then. He inserted it into his jacket pocket.

  “By the way, Chesser,” said Massey in a low, covered tone, “you should realize something.”

  Chesser sensed a change in Massey. The two men were eye to eye.

  Massey said, “All that running off at the mouth I did about women and flowers and food was nothing but bullshit. Understand?”

  Chesser knew the Massey he now faced was the true Massey—competent, powerful, cool, and direct, laying it right on the line.

  “I understand,” said Chesser.

  “I was concerned with your control,” said Massey. “That was the thing.”

  They shook hands and went to the car. Maren was already in the back seat. Chesser said his good-bye to Lady Bolding, who gave him an accepting smile as her parting grace.

  “See you in a month,” said Massey.

  Then they were on their way. Chesser took out the check and looked at a million and a half, certified, made out to his name. Incredible.

  He wanted to show it to Maren but money was the farthest thing from her mind.

  She asked: “You think she’s more attractive than I?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “That’s good. Because when we went in the house to freshen up, she kissed me.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “She did. Right on the mouth, tongue and all.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But she wanted to.”

  He had to laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “And intuitive,” said Maren.

  Massey remained in front of the house and watched the Rolls go out of sight. Well, he thought, that’s phase two. He was very pleased. Phase one had been choosing the prospect. Phase two had been to determine whether or not the prospect had what it would take.

  Massey was quite sure he had his man.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE FOLLOWING day was one of those bad-looking London days with a thick threat of rain hanging over everything.

  Maren got up at ten, glanced outside, and retreated to bed, covering her eyes with her hair.

  Chesser called The System. He was told Meecham wasn’t in. They wanted to put his call through to Berkely. Chesser didn’t want Berkely. He got the same treatment when h
e called again, and it wasn’t until his third try that the secretary said Mr. Meecham had just arrived. Chesser knew that was a lie.

  Meecham came on. “Yes, Chesser, what is it?”

  “I want to request a special sight.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I have a buyer for a large stone,” said Chesser.

  “Who?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “What do you consider large?” asked Meecham sarcastically.

  “Let’s start with two hundred carats.”

  Chesser enjoyed saying that, especially the way he said it, as though he dealt with stones that size every day. Chesser saw three benefits in this opportunity. He could make a large profit. He could gain some respect from The System. And he could indulge in some personal retaliation. Right now his special pleasure was twisting Meecham’s mind a bit.

  “Two hundred?”

  “For starters,” said Chesser.

  “You’re in no position to handle a stone that large.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “You’re talking about a sizable transaction, you know. It’ll have to be in cash, as always.”

  “I can handle it in cash.”

  “You have a buyer, you say?”

  Meecham was after the buyer’s identity again. Chesser didn’t go for it. He let his silence tell Meecham that.

  “Come in around two thirty,” said Meecham.

  “Around two thirty?” Chesser emphasized the first word, letting Meecham know that such an approximate appointment was preferential treatment he’d not been granted before.

  “Two thirty,” snapped Meecham.

  Chesser was tempted to tell him that four o’clock was more convenient, but he really couldn’t afford to be too impertinent. He needed The System. They had the stones.

  In the bedroom he saw that Maren was still drowsing. He said her name once, softly, and when she didn’t stir he let her be.

  He went out to the bank. The London affiliate of his bank in Geneva. Presentation of the certified Massey check got him swiftly to the private desk of one of the bank’s directors. Chesser told him what he wanted: to deposit the check to his Geneva account in dollars and be able to draw whatever he might need up to that total to cover a transaction here in London. The director said it would take only a day to arrange that.

  Out of the bank and on the street, Chesser decided he’d walk back to the Connaught. He dismissed the Daimler and went up Regent Street with a step that matched his sense of well-being. He looked at almost every store window and felt in a buying mood. It was noon and many girls were out from offices. Chesser was very receptive. He thought there were more pretty girls than ever and he got a few reciprocal glances. He turned off Regent and went down Maddox Street, where he stopped in at a small shop to purchase a Victorian locket intricately engraved and enameled, with the appropriate initials MC entwined. After another half block, the rain started. No warning sprinkles from the sky. It let go all at once. Chesser’s gray suit was spotted with dark drops. He took to the shelter of a doorway. He thought it might let up soon, but it was really coming down. He waited five minutes, which seemed like an hour, and then went out in it.

  He had five blocks to go. In half that his shoes were squishing and his trousers sticking to his thighs. When he approached the Connaught he looked as though he’d fallen overboard. The doorman rushed out to rescue him with a huge white umbrella. Silly bastard, thought Chesser, but gave him a big tip anyway.

  Chesser didn’t expect Maren to be gone. She’d eaten her breakfast and left him a note.

  Deserter!

  I’m going to get the works at Sassoon’s. Call me there if you can’t avoid trouble.

  He got out of his wet clothes and took a warm shower. By then it was one thirty. He thought about doing his I Ching but he didn’t have any coins, and the valet had sewn the buttons back onto his navy suit jacket—fortunately, because now he needed to wear it.

  He arrived at number 11 Harrowhouse Street a few minutes early. He remembered to let the door be opened for him by Miller, who, in his usual friendly manner, told Chesser he was expected to go directly to the sight room.

  Chesser went up, believing he’d find Meecham already there, but the room was empty. He took a seat at the velour-covered table. He anticipated Meecham’s entrance at any moment, and to create a blasé impression sat with his back to the door. He heard it open and close, heard footsteps coming to the table. He brought his eyes up. It was Watts.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” greeted Watts. He was carrying a black container proportioned like an ordinary shoebox, about half the size.

  “Hello, Watts.”

  Watts was opposite Chesser now. He placed the box on the table. “I’m to show you some stones, sir.”

  “Won’t Mr. Meecham be here?”

  “No, sir.”

  Chesser felt cheated. He might never get another chance at Meecham. At least, not like this. He wanted to walk out. He was angry enough, but this wasn’t the kind of business where you could take your business elsewhere. He thought of demanding that Meecham conduct the sight, but there was Watts and perhaps Watts would take that as an insult.

  Fuck it, thought Chesser and smiled at Watts. “What have you brought for me to see?”

  “Three stones altogether, sir,” said Watts rather proudly. He removed the lid from the box and transferred three large, rough diamonds to the velour surface in front of Chesser.

  Chesser put his loupe to his eye. He picked up the first stone.

  “That’s three hundred seventy-six carats, sir,” informed Watts.

  Chesser sighted into it. He knew what to look for but he thought he saw all sorts of things he shouldn’t. The trouble was he wasn’t accustomed to such large stones. Size created an entirely different dimension, it seemed. He couldn’t determine whether the stone was good quality or not. He thought it had a great many feathers and carbon spots. From one angle the spots appeared to be inconsequentially on the edges, from another angle they looked deep and spoiling. Chesser wished he knew more.

  He couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Not this time. He started to sweat. Now he was glad Meecham wasn’t there.

  Watts said nothing all the while Chesser examined the three stones. He sensed Chesser’s predicament.

  “The one in the center, sir,” said Watts.

  “What about it?”

  “Excellent color.”

  Watts was trying to help. He knew more about grading diamonds than anyone else in The System, or so Chesser had heard. But Chesser wasn’t sure he could trust the man. Conceivably Meecham was trying to unload that particular stone on him. Via Watts. Chesser decided he didn’t really believe that. He picked up the stone and examined it again. It was the smallest of the three, more rectangular, about three-quarters of an inch deep, a little more than an inch wide, and one and a half inches long.

  “Two hundred five point sixty carats,” said Watts. “I put a window on it.”

  Chesser located the small, polished area that allowed him to sight deep into the stone. He saw it was clear white, no devaluating yellow, and no apparent imperfections.

  “How do you think it will cut?” asked Chesser.

  “The grain is right for an oval. If you don’t mind my suggestion, sir.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You should finish with a perfect stone about half the weight. Perhaps a little more. Anyway, a real good one.”

  Chesser had to ask: “If it’s such a winner, why’s it still around?”

  “It just came in with the shipment from Botswana. Even Mr. Meecham hasn’t seen it yet.”

  Chesser believed him.

  “My only instructions from Mr. Meecham were to show you a few stones in this size range, and I thought you’d particularly like this one. Of course, it may not meet your requirements.”

  “What’s the price?”

  “Seven hundred thousand.”

  Chesser listened to his intuition. “I
’ll take it,” he said quickly. Watts’s smile told him he’d made the right decision. Chesser was grateful.

  “Shall we complete the transaction, sir?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll come by with a certified check.”

  “If you prefer, we can deliver the stone to you. I can bring it around myself.”

  That appealed to Chesser, not having to come to number 11 again tomorrow. He told Watts that would be fine. “I’ll have the check ready.”

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “How about in the afternoon, say around two?”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Chesser felt he owed something to Watts. He wanted to do something to show his appreciation. The only thing possible at that moment was to extend his hand for a shake. Watts was a little embarrassed by it. He hesitated and glanced toward the door uneasily. Then he took the hand that was offered.

  Of all the people Chesser had met in The System, Watts was lowest on the official ladder. But Chesser liked him most.

  At that instant, two flights above, Meecham was in a closed conference with Edward Coglin.

  Coglin was head of The System’s security section, a private police force whose routine responsibility was to guard number 11. It did so with such efficiency that there had been only one relatively inconsequential incident in the past twenty years, and none at all since Coglin took over. This admirable record allowed The System to conduct its precious business at number 11 with a high degree of confidence. Naturally, it was difficult to prevent past perfection from creating some complacency, a certain smugness.