One Dangerous Lady

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  I was met at the door by Cyril, my English butler, a gray-haired older man with a military bearing and a thick English accent. He had worked for enough royalty and rich people in his time to understand the value of silence both inside and outside his place of employment. Cyril had excellent references and had even offered to sign one of those ludicrously self-important “non-disclosure” agreements before coming to work for me (I told him that would not be necessary).

  I thought of my apartment as a little oasis in the hurly-burly of modern life. It was on a lower floor than my old apartment just down the street. I had sold that one because among a host of glorious memories, there was one glaringly unpleasant one of which I didn’t care to be reminded. But that’s another story. The new apartment was larger, but much less fussy than the old one. Some said it was more stylish in its way. In addition, I wasn’t so wedded to eighteenth-century France in my choice of décor as I’d once been. Grand furniture requires a lot of upkeep, and I got rid of a lot of stuff simply because I couldn’t be bothered with the maintenance. I was at the point in life where I didn’t want the things I owned to own me. I wanted to be freer. The ups and downs of life had changed me, and I wanted my surroundings to be more relaxed.

  I branched out and even acquired some interesting contemporary paintings—like the Francis Bacon portrait of a screaming cleric, for example. Gil Waterman had sold it to me to go above the fireplace in the library. However, people found it so disturbing that I moved it to an out-of-the-way corridor where only I could see it from time to time, to remind myself that the universe is not the well-ordered old master triangle I once envisioned, but an insane, godless place that will drive us mad if we are unlucky, or if we fail to take care.

  A pile of mail and a long list of messages were waiting for me. I scanned the names quickly to see if Lord Vermilion had called. He hadn’t. I was frankly a bit disappointed, but I decided there was no point in dwelling on it. Qué sera, sera, I thought to myself.

  I saw that Larry Locket had called and I immediately called him back. He picked up the phone on the first ring, sounding distracted.

  “Larry? Jo . . . I’m back.”

  “And I’m going,” he said. “I’m just on the phone with the airline. Hold on. . . . No, wait, listen . . . Jo, can I come over for a drink? I have to talk to you about Barbados. And besides, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “Sure. I’m right here. Come when you want.”

  About an hour later, Cyril showed Larry Locket into the library.

  “Jo,” he said, beaming at me through his trademark tortoise-shell glasses. “Don’t you look great!”

  “You look pretty swell yourself there, my friend!”

  The image of Larry seated at his desk, holding a pipe, his thick silver hair swept back from a kind, comfortable face, staring at the camera with an aloof little smile, was familiar to readers throughout the world. In person, he was much more intense. His bushy eyebrows hung over his brown eyes like little black canopies. He had the impish charm of a leprechaun. I loved his company, his humor, and the interest that he took in everything. His fierce intelligence was amplified by intuition. In the twenty-odd years since his first book had appeared, Larry Locket had become more than a celebrity, he was a force to be reckoned with, loved and respected by his friends, feared by his enemies.

  There was a time when I had been afraid Larry might level his sharp, investigative gaze at me, and the prospect made me very worried, I can tell you. But that time passed and since then we had enjoyed many a jolly meal together, discussing the vicissitudes of New York—how it had changed over the years, the threat of terrorism, social and otherwise, how so many people had come and gone, reigned for a time, then gone broke or been indicted, and the fact that the new ante to play the game of social life in Manhattan had steadily increased to national deficit proportions.

  I fixed Larry his usual drink, a Diet Coke, and poured myself a white wine. We sat down and chitchatted about the wedding for a few moments. Of course, Larry already knew all about it from a variety of sources.

  “I hear it was rather moist,” he said.

  “It was a monsoon. Poor Betty, I felt so sorry for her. She didn’t want to have it in Barbados in the first place. She wanted to have it in New York. But Missy insisted.”

  “Well, I want to hear about the bridal dinner on the Cole yacht and the morning Russell went missing. I’m going down there tomorrow for a couple of weeks. Tell me everything. Tell me who I should see. I’ve already lined up the head of the Coast Guard and the governor general.”

  I gave Larry a brief recap. He was particularly fascinated by the green monkey story. I debated whether or not to tell him what Carla had told me, namely, that Russell had disappeared before. Carla had sworn me to secrecy, but Larry was an old and dear friend, and we often told each other things we’d been sworn not to tell. Then he said, “Carla’s agreed to talk to me.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Not well, no. But we’ve met a few times over the years. I’ve seen her in a few of her various incarnations. She’s made quite a transformation from the first time I ever laid eyes on her.”

  “Oh, tell me, Larry,” I said.

  Larry leaned back in the burgundy velvet chair and lit his pipe. The aroma of sweet tobacco filled the room.

  “Let’s see,” he said, puffing away. “I first ran across Carla years ago when my wife and I were living in London. Carla was called Carla Corelli or Corallo—or something like that. Some Italian name. She was one of those jolly good-time, girls-about-town on the London party circuit. She was living with another woman, actually.”

  “Living with, as in having an affair with?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Maybe. Who knows? They were roommates. I remember she had long, blonde hair then and quite a voluptuous figure. She laughed a lot.”

  “Long, blonde hair? I can’t picture it.”

  “Bright blonde hair,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Nearly to her waist. Very sexy. My wife called her a ‘three-bottle blonde.’ She made no bones about wanting to marry money. Everyone knew she was looking for a good catch. Then, of course, she struck gold. She married Antonio Hernandez, as you know, and they went to live in Mexico. Now she’s thin and chic and very—propah,” he said with a wry smile. “Last time I saw her, I hardly recognized her.”

  “Did you know Hernandez?”

  “I met him once at an an amazing party they gave in Acapulco. Hernandez had this huge villa down there and I was staying with a friend who had the villa next door and she took me. ‘This is not to be missed,’ she said. And, honey, she wasn’t kidding.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Oh, my dear. Well, for starters, as you came in you had to pass by this huge tower with turrets at the top and there were about a dozen men with machine guns peering down at you, ready to open fire if you so much as sneezed the wrong way. Then you walked through this kind of mazey tropical garden and suddenly, there was Yankee Stadium—the biggest, most vulgar house you’ve ever seen in your life! It had two Olympic-size swimming pools on two different levels, and a terrace the size of a football field, studded with life-size plaster camels.”

  “No!”

  “And that was the tasteful part. That’s where we had cocktails. The place had its own disco with a big, blue dolphin in the center, spouting rainbow-colored water. Worst-looking thing you’ve ever seen. No expense had been spared except, I gather, in the guest rooms, which everybody complained were cramped and dark. Hernandez spent the money where it showed and not for the comfort of others.”

  “So what was Hernandez like?” I was fascinated.

  “A shy, exceedingly uncomfortable man. Hardly spoke to anyone. Just lurked in a corner, looking furtive and miserable the whole entire time.”

  “Maybe he hated parties.”

  Larry shook his head. “No, I think it was m
uch more than that. He was a very strange man. A famous depressive. I made an effort to talk to him because I felt sort of sorry for him and also because I was curious about Mexico’s ‘pharmaceutical king,’ as he was always referred to. Most stilted conversation I’ve ever had, Jo. Filled with aborted takeoffs. He’d start to talk, then stop dead right in the middle of a sentence. He couldn’t focus on anything but Carla. He was obsessed with her. Watched her like a hawk. I remember how those beady little eyes of his darted around after her wherever she went. Of course, she was much younger than he was, and very flirtatious. It was kind of touching in a way.”

  “So is it true that he committed suicide by shooting himself twice in the chest? Miranda told us that.”

  Larry laughed. “No, I think he just shot himself once. As I said, he had a history of depression. That was well known.”

  “Then why do people say he was murdered?”

  “People love scandal.” He took another puff of his pipe and smiled at me through strings of blue smoke.

  “Okay, so is it true that the reason Russell gave Lulu such a big settlement is because Lulu found out that Carla used to be a call girl and they were afraid she would broadcast it to the world?”

  Larry shook his head in amusement. “Well, first of all, the world thought Carla was a call girl. So if Russell gave Lulu a big settlement to keep her mouth shut about that, I’d say he wasted his money, wouldn’t you? And besides, who cares anymore? That’s one scenario we’re all quite used to by now among the ranks of rich men’s wives . . . I won’t name names, of course,” he quickly added. “But just think of old Madame Celeste.”

  Madame Celeste ran a famous French bordello whose international call girls were renowned for their looks, their charm, and their fabled ability to marry or otherwise insinuate themselves into the precincts of power all over the world. Over the years, a few international socialites and wives of powerful men were reputed to be former Madame Celeste girls. But it was one of those associations that is tough to prove—secrecy being as closely guarded a commodity in the courtesan trade as certain exotic sexual techniques.

  “Do you think Carla was a Madame Celeste girl?” I asked Larry.

  “Not literally. Madame Celeste must be long gone by now. But do I think Carla was once a ‘lady of the night’? Yes. Do I care? No. Would I like to find out the exact reason Russell paid Lulu all that dough? You bet. But I know it wasn’t simply because Lulu found out his new wife was a pro or a semi-pro.”

  “I wonder why, then?”

  Turning to me with a mock grin, Larry said sarcastically, “Maybe Russell’s just a really nice guy.”

  “So you’re definitely going to see Carla when you’re down there?”

  “It’s the main reason I’m going. Though I do want to check out the whole scene.”

  I was aching to tell him what I knew, but since I’d been sworn to secrecy and he was going to see Carla anyway, I restrained myself. I knew Larry would get it out of her himself. He had that strange power that made people want to tell him things. We talked for a few more minutes, then Larry got up to leave.

  “Early plane to catch,” he said. “Call you when I get back.”

  “Keep me posted, will you? Tell me everything Carla says.”

  I walked him to the door and just before the elevator came, I casually asked, “By the way, Larry, what do you know about Max Vermilion?”

  “The Lord of the Rings?” he said with a little laugh. “Just that he likes the low life but only marries the high born. Except for once when he supposedly married the so-called Shady Lady Vermilion. But that’s just a rumor no one can prove. Why?”

  “What do you mean, he likes the low life?”

  “Oh, there have always been rumors about Max and his dark side. But I understand from people who know him—I don’t, personally—that he’s very conscious of who’s who and what’s what. And that he’s extremely fond of money and ladies who have a lot of it—well born or not. Why are you so interested in Lord Vermilion?”

  There was no point in beating around the bush with Larry, who found out everything anyway.

  “I sat next to him in Barbados. Betty’s trying to fix me up.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Nothing. He was very charming. But I think he’s going out with Lulu Cole.”

  Larry gave a dismissive little wave of his hand. “From what I hear, he goes out with a lot of people. He’s considered a great catch.”

  “I don’t want to catch him, Larry. I just thought he was interesting, that’s all. Betty and June are always trying to fix me up. They don’t think a woman can be happy without a man.”

  “People always want to fix me up, too. They never believe you if you tell them you prefer being alone.”

  There was a kind of sad resignation in his voice. In all the years we’d known each other, I was never aware of Larry being involved with anyone, although he had many women friends whom he escorted here and there. His own story was tragic. A wealthy psychopath had killed his wife years ago. Then, due to fancy legal maneuvering and a team of high-priced lawyers, the man got off with a ridiculously light sentence. Having lost the love of his life, Larry went into a deep depression. He once told me that through that experience he not only saw the dark side of human nature, but of himself. Though he managed to pull himself away from the brink of the abyss just in time, he apparently was left with a psychological wound that would not heal.

  The gruesome death of Helena Locket then became the defining factor of Larry’s life—one of those unforeseen obstacles in midstream that can change the course of a person’s destiny for better or ill. In Larry’s case, the wrenching loss of his beloved partner turned his journalistic bent into a brilliant writing career and a crusade for justice. His targets were primarily rich miscreants, who, like his wife’s killer, managed to evade just punishment because they had plenty of money and a team of smart lawyers.

  The elevator arrived. I gave Larry a hug and kiss good-bye and wished him a safe journey.

  “Wish me luck,” he said.

  “Say hi to Carla for me,” I told him. “Tell her I’m thinking of her.”

  And I was, with genuine curiosity.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, Caspar drove me downtown. It was another cold, gray January day, and I would have preferred to stay at home and catch up on my mail, but I had to get some important business out of the way.

  Every four months, like clockwork, I visited David Millstein, a diamond dealer who operated out of one of the nondescript buildings on Fifth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street, right around the corner from the Diamond District. Security was tight. A uniformed guard sat behind a desk at the entrance, asking people where they were going and directing them to sign in. I added my name to a lengthy list and rode up with two Hassidic Jews dressed in their black suits and hats, and a delivery boy from a local deli carrying an order that reeked of garlic. I got off at the seventh floor, walked down the long, gray corridor to suite 720, and pressed the button to the side of the door. As I waited, I glanced up at the security camera poised overhead. After a few seconds, I was buzzed in and greeted by Mr. Millstein himself, a stocky, middle-aged man with a jowly face that reminded me of a beagle. Loosely pinned to the back of his curly salt-and-pepper hair was a yarmulke. He was wearing baggy black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just below the elbow—no tie or jacket. His left hand was burrowed deep into his pants pocket, his right hand suspended in midair ready to greet me.

  “Mrs. Slater,” he said in his usual forthright and friendly manner, shaking my hand. “Good to see you.”

  The plain-looking, young blonde secretary sitting behind a desk in the front room gave me a brief nod as Millstein led me back into his office, a small space with white walls, fluorescent overhead lights, a desk, and a large safe crouched like a big, black bear in the far corner of the room. Two
grimy paned windows faced north with a view of Rockefeller Center. Millstein walked over to the safe, the heavy door of which was ajar. He pulled out two small, thin, white paper packets from a stack of identical packets secured with a rubber band. Replacing the stack in the safe, he brought the two packets over to his desk, sat down, and motioned me to do likewise.

  Carefully unfolding the first packet, he revealed a sparkly little diamond, which he secured with a pair of tweezers and placed on the digital diamond scale in front of him to weigh it.

  “Four-point-eight-six carats,” he said, picking up the diamond again with the tweezers. He stopped for an instant, holding it up to the light for a critical look. “Nice goods,” he said before dropping it back into its little paper envelope.

  He wrote the weight of the stone with a ballpoint pen on one corner of the wrapper.

  “Your diamond and your GIA certificate,” he said, handing me the first packet across the desk along with a laminated card from the Gemological Institute documenting the diamond’s particular specifications, including weight, color, cut, clarity, inclusions, etc.

  He repeated the entire process with the same precision on another stone with similar characteristics.

  “Thank you, Mr. Millstein,” I said, slipping both packets into my purse.

  Old mine diamonds in original antique settings were more my thing, of course, but I wasn’t there to indulge my passion for beautiful jewelry. I was there to get this meeting over with as fast as possible.

  “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Slater.”

  My dealings with Mr. Millstein were routine by now. Every four months I trekked down to his office to buy two diamonds worth about fifty thousand dollars each, having prearranged a wire transfer from my bank into his account. These transactions were brief and businesslike. I’d come to Millstein originally explaining that I wanted to buy D-flawless diamonds for “investment purposes.” He understood perfectly, telling me he had several clients who were doing precisely the same thing. “A little hedge against inflation,” he said.