11 Harrowhouse Page 9

  Wildenstein accepted that with a nod. He took the diamond and dropped it into a small, soft, woolen drawstring sack. He pulled the strings tight and knotted them once. He handed it over to Chesser. Official fulfillment of his obligation. He also gave Chesser a little brown envelope containing fragments left over from the cutting.

  Chesser was so enthused over the large stone he’d forgotten the fragments. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars worth.

  “Thanks,” said Chesser, genuinely grateful.

  They shook hands.

  Wildenstein almost smiled. “Don’t worry,” was again his only and final advice.

  Maren had the motor running. Chesser thought of suggesting they have a relaxing lunch some place there in Antwerp, but Maren couldn’t get out of that city fast enough. She didn’t stop until the third small town, where Chesser went into an ordinary bistro and got some Brie and sausage sandwiches and a bottle of chilled Chablis. To go.

  They chewed and gulped straight from the bottle and sang Bacharach songs all the way to Ghent. It was the same road they’d come north on and the shortest way was to keep going farther south on it. But Maren turned off and headed across Flanders toward the coast.

  Then they were on a road that offered more curves and Maren was relieved by that. Up to now she’d felt like no more than an engineer on an express train, but now she could use the gears some and feel integrated with the car and its course. Even when she took a curve a bit too fast and the car fish-tailed precariously, Chesser didn’t complain. He was so elated that danger seemed a suitable accompaniment. All he could think of was how he had it made.

  He had, right there in his pocket, one of the world’s great diamonds. He’d pulled off a deal worth seven hundred thousand dollars profit. He had The System in a position where now they’d have to respect him and come up with bigger packets. And he had Maren, with her long Viking hair in the wind and her dependable passion for him. Life was beautiful, big, capital letter B.

  He took out the soft woolen sack and removed the diamond. Held it up, and it converted the sunlight into vivid, energetic glints. He called Maren’s attention to it.

  “Pretty,” was all she said, inside a quick smile, and handed him her sunglasses with a request that he clean them for her.

  In a short while they reached the coast. They bypassed Ostend and headed down by the North Sea, back into France again, past Dunkirk and Calais. The day was going and the damp air was chilling, but neither wanted to have the car’s top up. They reached Montreuil-sur-Mer just before dark. They stayed in the best room of an expensive inn. For dinner they had platters of shellfish taken that day from the sea, and warm, fresh bread, and butter. Also some local cider that tasted much more innocent than it was.

  Afterward, they didn’t make love. They fell asleep thinking about it.

  The next morning they were early enough for the first air ferry from Le Touquet. But the ticket clerk at Aeroport Paris-Plage informed Chesser no space was available on that first plane. What about the next one? No, there was nothing until one thirty that afternoon. Nothing? Nothing.

  Chesser reported that to Maren.

  She asked, “Did you wave money at him?”

  “Of course,” Chesser lied.

  She thought a moment and then left him with the car. In less than ten minutes she returned with tickets for the first flight. She let Chesser believe she’d easily corrupted the French ticket clerk. Actually, she hadn’t even tried. Just by chance she’d found a pair of English hippies who were going home with their Mini Cooper only because they’d run out of money. They were delighted to exchange their places on the first flight for Maren’s five hundred francs.

  So the Ferrari was run up the nose ramp and into the belly of the transport. Maren and Chesser were in the passenger section, which seated only a dozen. The bulky plane lifted off and its frame seemed to twist under the strain of the turn it made to head toward England.

  Back in the airport, there was a telephone call being made from a public booth to The System. Person-to-person to Coglin.

  “He got on the first ferry, somehow.”

  “So why the hell aren’t you on it?” Coglin wanted to know.

  “There weren’t any more places. He got on at the last minute.”

  “You’re saying you’ve lost him?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Get a private plane and pick him up again on this side.”

  “Too late for that.”

  “Well, no doubt he’s headed for London anyway. We’ll get onto him here. Was there anyone with him?”

  “Just the girl.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “All right, come home.”

  “I take it you received the photos.”

  “They’re a bit overexposed,” said Coglin with a chuckle.

  In half an hour Maren and Chesser were through British customs and the Ferrari had been cleared. Maren reluctantly surrendered the driver’s seat to Chesser, who asked her to keep reminding him to drive on the left. Maren noticed that now they were traveling over the sort of roads she preferred; narrow, snaking, challenging. But she had promised Chesser he could drive some of the way. She thought maybe in a few miles she’d talk him out of it. She smoked and sulked and watched the countryside. She read aloud a sign that amused her because it announced the way to Fukham. She hummed parts of various songs. She got the I Ching from her satchel and, using the back of the book for a surface, tossed the three five-franc pieces she’d brought for that purpose. But two of the coins rolled off and fell between the seats. She wasn’t in the mood to retrieve them.

  “Let me drive now,” she said. “Please.”

  Chesser let up on the accelerator. He downshifted.

  There was a blinking amber light on a tripod in the middle of the road. A warning. With ordinary caution he steered around the next bend and a short straightaway presented itself.

  Apparently the road was being repaired. A line of blinking amber lights on tripods blocked the left lane. There were two men in fluorescent orange coveralls. One was signaling the Ferrari to stop. The amber lights were strung out all the way to the next bend.

  Chesser figured traffic was probably being allowed to flow alternately in the right lane. But he didn’t see any cars coming. He glanced over to Maren.

  She was hunched forward, the I Ching book in her lap. She was staring straight ahead, as though her eyes were fixed on something unusual.

  It never occurred to Chesser that anything was wrong. He merely looked to see whatever it was that had Maren’s total attention. It was then he felt the sharp pain on the back of his shoulder. Like a hornet sting. And, immediately, a strange warmth flushed up to his scalp and down to his toes.

  He tried to speak.

  That was the first thing he found he couldn’t do. His mind sent words to his throat but his throat wouldn’t open and his tongue wouldn’t work. He tried to bring his hand to his mouth but his hand disobeyed completely, remaining where it was. He couldn’t turn his head. He couldn’t move his legs. He couldn’t even blink. His entire body was immobilized.

  He wondered if perhaps he’d suffered some sort of sudden paralysis. A terrifying thought. But his head seemed too clear for that; no dizziness, not even a headache. He had a peripheral view of Maren, and she also seemed to be frozen in position. What the hell was happening? He could see, he could smell and hear. All his senses were normally sharp. But he couldn’t move.

  The two men in fluorescent coveralls were coming to the car. They’ll help, Chesser thought. They’ll notice something is wrong and help somehow. Maybe there is a hospital nearby, or at least a doctor.

  One of the men opened the car door on Chesser’s side. He switched off the ignition. Chesser tried to communicate with his eyes. The man looked right at him but didn’t seem to get the message. Then a third man appeared from somewhere behind. The third man had a rifle. It looked to be a twenty-two-caliber with some kind of d
evice attached to its breech. What the hell was a road worker doing with a rifle?

  The man with the rifle reached to Chesser’s shoulder and withdrew something. Chesser saw it was a tiny dart with feathers and a point no longer than a push pin. That explained the sting he’d felt. Another man took a similar dart from Maren. What was it?

  Chesser thought of something he’d seen recently on television: a a documentary film on the black rhinoceros, how scientists in Africa were able to tag the ears of those ferocious animals. They used rifles to shoot darts carrying some sort of drug that temporarily immobilized the rhinos. Chesser recalled a portion of the film that showed a drugged rhino’s eyes close up. Vicious anger exploding against the inability to express it. But what the hell, this was England and he wasn’t a rhino.

  One of the men searched Chesser’s jacket pocket. He found the drawstring sack and removed the diamond from it.

  No! Chesser silently protested. A burst of violence, full-force rage with no outlet.

  The diamond went back into the sack and the sack went into the pocket of the man’s coveralls. Then a truck with proper official markings wheeled into the open lane and stopped. Methodically, the men gathered up the blinking lights and tripods and put them aboard the truck. All the way down the road, until the way was completely clear and they disappeared around the bend.

  Chesser and Maren could do nothing but sit there. Two cars passed. One came on them so fast it had to swerve to miss the Ferrari. The driver swore but didn’t stop.

  It had been perfectly planned, precisely timed. Obviously by someone who knew he had the diamond. Who? Chesser considered the possibilities chronologically, starting with Massey. He eliminated Massey on the basis of lack of motive. It was Massey’s diamond. In another hour Massey would have had it. The System? He was tempted to put the blame there but logic told him that was ridiculous. The System had no reason to steal diamonds. They had diamonds. Next was Watts. Chesser felt sure Watts was incapable of such a thing. And the same applied to Wildenstein. However, along with Wildenstein came a possibility. Perhaps someone in Wildenstein’s shop, one of the assistants, was an informant. Had, for a percentage, told professionals about the diamond. Those men in the fluorescent coveralls knew what they were doing. Very professional. They’d probably tapped his phone conversations, knew exactly where he was going and when.

  As remote and complicated as it seemed, that was the most likely explanation. Someone in Wildenstein’s shop.

  So what?

  The realization that he really had nothing substantial to go on, that he’d never recover the diamond, hit Chesser hard.

  Then came the big question: What to tell Massey? Massey was expecting the diamond that afternoon. Chesser had already told Massey he’d seen it and it was fine. There was no reason not to deliver. And if he didn’t deliver he was ruined, thought Chesser. Massey would see to that. It would get to The System and there’d be no more packets. The name Chesser would be off the list forever. Everything was at stake.

  Chesser thought maybe he could stall Massey. Go to The System for another diamond. Go through the whole thing again. Another diamond? This one had cost eight hundred thousand, including the cut. What he’d have to put out for another would just about break him, but it might be worth it. Maybe he could do it. He’d need cooperation from The System, Wildenstein again, and more patience from Massey than Massey probably had.

  Chesser was desperately grasping for any solution.

  He realized that and started feeling sorry for himself.

  “I can move my toes,” said Maren. Evidently now she could also speak.

  Seconds later she had totally recovered.

  “You look like a statue,” she laughed.

  Chesser needed sympathy, not ridicule. He felt like clobbering her but still couldn’t move. Maren got out of the car and stretched, unperturbed, as though she’d just had a nice nap.

  The effect of the drug was also leaving Chesser.

  “They weren’t very competent highwaymen,” said Maren.

  “They weren’t highwaymen,” said Chesser, glad to hear his thoughts spoken again.

  “They didn’t steal my purse, my virtue, or anything.”

  “Shut up!” snapped Chesser. He hadn’t been that sharp with her since their one and only argument.

  Maren came around to him. She smoothed the hair at his temples. “Poor love,” she consoled.

  “They got the diamond,” he said, to hear it.

  Chesser decided they might as well go on to Massey’s. The best thing to tell him was the horrible, no doubt incredible truth.

  Maren was driving now. She took a bumpy corner too fast. All four wheels left the road for a moment, then came down, shuddered and grabbed and went around. Maren glanced at Chesser for reaction.

  Part of him didn’t care if they went off a cliff.

  CHAPTER 9

  MASSEY PRESIDED. Behind a specious Directoire desk, beneath a Settecento chandelier, in front of a wide trompe l’oeil panel. On the ample surface of the desk were only three small objects: a gold and malachite Fabergé egg, an old Georgian watch, and a monogrammed Tiffany fountain pen, gold, circa 1930.

  Lady Bolding was seated in a plush chair placed at an angle near a large window, allowing her attention to seem divided between indoors and out. She was holding by its stem a huge shocking pink peony, occasionally pressing the multipetaled bowl of the blossom to her nose but also including her mouth.

  Maren was nonchalantly exploring the room, which was designated as Massey’s second-floor study.

  While Chesser related details of the highway robbery, Massey’s eyes were steady on him. Not once did Massey look away, nor did he comment or indicate his reaction. So Chesser had nothing for measure along the way. He told it all exactly as it had happened, and when he’d gone over it once Massey still said nothing.

  Nervously, Chesser began repeating himself and finally Massey broke the spell.

  “I assume you carry insurance to cover theft,” he said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?” asked Massey, implying stupidity.

  Chesser had to admit that. His only excuse was he’d never handled anything big enough to warrant paying the big premiums. He hadn’t even considered insuring this diamond. The deal had come together so swiftly and had looked so easy.

  “What about The System?” asked Massey.

  “The System?”

  “Don’t they help in such cases?”

  Chesser was mildly surprised Massey knew about The System. Most people didn’t. He supposed, though, that big business knew big business. Chesser was resigned to The System eventually learning how badly he’d mishandled this deal. However, he reasoned there was no need to invite their attention. He told Massey, “It’s not their responsibility.”

  Massey seemed to accept that. “So what do you intend to do?” he asked.

  “I’ll keep my part of the deal.”

  Massey’s eyebrows went up.

  “But I’ll need more time,” Chesser added.

  “We had a verbal contract,” said Massey. “As valid as a written one.”

  “I know.”

  “You were advanced a million and a half in good faith. Now you can’t deliver.”

  “I’ll deliver.”

  “When?”

  “In three to four weeks.”

  Massey compressed his lips. His fingers had the fountain pen, unscrewing and tightening its cap. He shook his head slowly. “You were to deliver,” he said.

  “I will.”

  “The point is you haven’t. I’m unbending about commitments, Mr. Chesser. When we agreed on delivery in a month you could have disagreed. If you required more time you should have said so then. I’m not an unreasonable man.” He sighed an old sigh. “Now my better judgment tells me to get out of the deal. You can return the amount I advanced, and that will be that.”

  That will be impossible, thought Chesser.

  “Fair enoug
h?” asked Massey.

  “No.”

  “You think I’m being arbitrary?”

  “Yes,” replied Chesser, right at him.

  Massey smiled. It was the last thing Chesser expected.

  “We could notify the police,” suggested Lady Bolding.

  Massey quickly vetoed that with a glance. He asked Chesser, “What would you have me do?”

  “Give me more time to come up with another diamond.”

  “I envy your ability to squander time.” Massey picked up the old Georgian watch. He wound it and checked it against the one by Cartier on his wrist. Perhaps there was nothing more to be said. Finally he broke the silent tension. “Your theory is these men on the road were professionals and that someone in Antwerp provided them with information?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Perhaps. Who in Antwerp?”

  Chesser shrugged. “Someone at the cutters.”

  “Do you know how difficult it would be to prove that connection? It’s a flimsy conjecture at best. And even if it were true, even if we established evidence, would that get us the diamond back?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Really?”

  “I doubt it,” Chesser had to admit.

  “How would the thieves dispose of such a diamond? Quickly, of course, but how?”

  “Sell it privately. Have it recut so it couldn’t be identified.”

  “Why should they worry about identification? You’re the only one who’s seen it.”

  “And Wildenstein, the cutter.”

  “Hardly a multitude. Did you have the finished stone photographed?”

  “No.”

  “You certainly know how to protect yourself, Mr. Chesser.”

  Chesser just took it. He had it coming.

  “Describe the stone to me.”

  “It was an oval. Around a hundred and seven carats.”

  “On the phone you said it was fine. I believe that was the word you used. By that I assume you meant it was first quality.”

  “I’ve seen better,” lied Chesser.

  “Then it wasn’t perfect?”

  “Not quite.”