Eye of the God

by Ariel Allison

  The bedroom door was closed, and Evalyn could hear rustling and hushed voices on the other side.

  “If you will wait here a moment, I will just check on his progress.” Dr. Pratt slipped behind the bedroom door for less than a minute, then stuck his head out and beckoned Evalyn to enter.

  Ned McLean wore his favorite gray satin pajamas and thick-soled house shoes. He lay on his back, eyes closed, strapped to the bed by three thick yellow belts, one across his chest, another across his waist, and the third across his shins. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, and a five o'clock shadow covered his thick jaw and double chin.

  Two doctors and three nurses populated the room, but they stepped back from the bed when Evalyn entered. They peered at her with curiosity, as though she were an oddity in a store window to be ogled. The gaze of all five settled on the large blue stone that rested against her collarbone. Even after all these years, the Hope Diamond still elicited strong reactions from those who saw it.

  Dr. Pratt approached the bed and whispered in Ned's ear. “Your wife is here to see you, Mr. McLean.” He motioned Evalyn to the side of the bed.

  Ned's eyes cracked open and rolled back and forth as he tried to focus on her.

  One of the physicians stepped forward and explained, “He may be a little groggy. For a man of his age he was putting up a considerable fight, and we had to give him a sedative to settle him down.”

  Evalyn took a step forward and leaned toward her husband. “Hello, Ned,” she said.

  He twitched, as though the very sound of her voice scalded him. Finally, his eyes locked onto hers, and he struggled against his restraints. Though he could not speak, low gurgling sounds escaped his mouth as he thrashed his head back and forth.

  “Oh, my,” Evalyn gasped, “he is just overcome at the very sight of me.”

  “He must miss you terribly, Mrs. McLean,” the doctor said.

  Evalyn threw a hand across her forehead and turned away. “I simply can't bear to see him like this.”

  “Of course. How insensitive of me. I can't imagine how disturbing this must be for you. Perhaps you should come back on a day when he is feeling better.”

  “I think that might be a good idea.”

  As Dr. Pratt escorted Evalyn from the room, she turned to her husband. He lifted his head and followed her with his eyes. She offered him a slight grin, without mercy and full of malice. It was a smile that Ned McLean knew well after all these years of marriage. He thrashed about so fiercely on his gurney that the wheels started to rise off the floor.

  One of the physicians stepped forward, needle in one hand. “You probably don't want to see this, Mrs. McLean. I fear you will find it quite disturbing.”

  As tempted as she was to stay and witness the procedure, she left the cottage, forever turning her back on Ned McLean.

  Dr. Pratt gently shut the door. “I apologize for you having seen that, Mrs. McLean, but I also fear it may have been necessary. Your husband is in a very poor condition.”

  “He has been quite ill for some time, Dr. Pratt. This is nothing new to me.”

  “I'm sorry for all that you have been through.”

  “So am I.”

  “I do feel, however, that your husband is in very good hands here.”

  “I concur, Dr. Pratt, and I trust your staff wholeheartedly.”

  He led the way through the hospital grounds, and they returned to his office. “Just so you are aware, Mrs. McLean, your husband is suffering from acute psychosis and alcohol saturation. You need to understand that this is not a temporary situation. Your husband will spend the remainder of his life in this sanatorium.”

  Evalyn nodded, averting her eyes as she struggled to suppress a smile. “I see,” she murmured.

  “It is difficult news, I know, but I must be honest in our prognosis.”

  “I understand, Dr. Pratt.”

  “Now, would you like to tour the rest of the grounds?”

  “If you don't mind, I have seen quite enough, thank you. I think I would like to go home.”

  “Of course. I will walk you to your car.”

  “Actually,” Evalyn said, placing a gloved hand on his arm, “I need a little time to myself. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to go alone.”

  “I see. Yes, that might be the best thing after all. I know you have had a difficult day.”

  Evalyn shook his hand. “Thank you for all that you and your staff are doing for my husband, Dr. Pratt. I am most grateful.”

  Enoch Pratt gave her a curt bow, and Evalyn walked away.

  As she navigated her way through the grounds, passing various patients and staff, it was debatable whether she garnered more curious looks for the Hope Diamond strung casually around her neck, or for the broad grin spread across her face.

  MCLEAN ESTATE, SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 1947

  A single lamp illuminated the ornate bedroom on the second floor of the Friendship estate. A small crowd gathered around the bed where the withered form of Evalyn Walsh McLean lay swallowed beneath a down comforter. Her unblinking and watery eyes, always large, now consumed her thin face. The Hope Diamond sat lightly in the palm of one hand. She did not have the strength to lift it.

  An hour earlier, Dr. Baxter administered a final dose of laudanum, and although it relaxed her to the point of immobility, it had yet to draw her into an unending sleep. The few people present grew restless.

  Beside her bed sat two men, heads bowed in hushed conversation.

  “Where's her family, that's what I want to know?” Frank Waldrup, managing editor of the Washington-Times Herald, whispered to Thurman Arnold, Evalyn's attorney.

  “That's her son-in-law over in the corner.”

  “I hardly count him as family. He's here to keep watch over the money in her daughter's stead, Thurman. I suppose he wants to make sure you don't administer any legal matters without family present.”

  “As if I would do something like that at a time like this. For a U.S. Senator, the man doesn't know much about the law, does he?”

  Evalyn drew a deep breath, and those keeping vigil leaned forward, anticipating it to be her last. She tightened her fist around the diamond and coughed, lungs desperately trying to eject the mucous that filled them. The pneumonia rendered her helpless, fighting for breath. Yet after several moments, the coughing stopped, and she drew another shallow breath. She licked her cracked lips with a dry and swollen tongue.

  “She's trying to speak,” said Thurman. He reached out from the chair at her bedside and laid a hand on her arm. “Evalyn, just lie still.”

  She swatted at him in irritation.

  “Let her be, Thurman. You know she'll do as she pleases.” Frank Waldrup had known Evalyn McLean for twenty years, and he knew better than to interfere if she wanted to speak.

  A calm washed over her face, and she almost smiled. Her voice rang out startlingly clear. “There are those who would believe that somehow a curse is housed deep in the blue of this diamond.” She wrapped her fingers around the stone, caressing it gently.

  A panicked hush fell over the room. None present wanted to be part of a discussion on the rumored curses that haunted Evalyn's life, yet none were willing to miss what she had to say.

  “I scoff at that in the privacy of my mind, for I do comprehend the source of what is evil in our lives,” she continued. Her dilated eyes stared across the room. “The natural consequences of unearned wealth in undisciplined hands.”

  Arnold waited for her to continue, but she had fallen silent. After a moment he reached out and patted her wrist, deciding that a noncommittal, “There, there,” would suffice as an answer.

  Her bony hand, with its paper-thin skin, was cold to the touch. Not wanting to alert the others yet to his suspicion, Thurman rested his hand lightly on her wrist, searching for a pulse. Her eyes were still open, large and staring, but her chest no longer rose and fell with shallow breaths. Evalyn had spoken her last words.

  Her son–in-law, Robert Reynolds, sat in
the corner with his arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed.

  Also present, but only from a sense of duty, was the vice president of Georgetown University, and Frank Murphy, associate justice of the Supreme Court. The five of them awaited her demise, all for different reasons.

  Thurman rose from his chair. “Frank, would you summon Dr. Baxter, please?”

  “Of course.” He jumped to his feet and slipped from the room.

  Evalyn's son-in-law leaned forward with great eagerness, no longer looking tired. “You mean she's dead then?”

  “I believe,” said Thurman, his words measured and angry, “that your mother-in-law has passed on to the next life.”

  Robert's face twisted in disbelief. “Why are her eyes still open if she's dead?”

  “Because,” said the voice of Dr. Baxter. “When the body dies, it remains in the exact position it was in during its last breath.” Carrying his black bag, he moved to Evalyn's bedside. It took only a moment to check her pulse, listen for breath, and declare her dead. He then ran his palm over her face and closed her eyelids.

  “Well then,” Robert Reynolds said, jumping to his feet. “I believe we have the matter of a will to attend to.”

  “Are you serious, man?” Thurman asked, aghast.

  “You are the executor of her will, Mr. Arnold.”

  “Yes, but this is hardly the time.”

  “I don't intend for you to read it now. I simply want to know when it will take place and who will be in attendance.”

  Thurman clenched his fists, “You and your wife will just have to wait, Mr. Reynolds.”

  The carefully placed barb had its intended effect, and Robert said nothing else about the will.

  Thurman turned to Frank with a knowing look. “Will you help me gather her effects?” His eyes darted to the diamond still clenched in Evalyn's hand.

  “Certainly.” Frank slipped into her closet.

  “Effects, what effects?” her son-in-law asked.

  “Her jewels, Mr. Reynolds. They must be secured.”

  “You can't possibly think that I am going to let you walk out of this house with her jewelry,” Robert said, eyes fastened on the Hope Diamond.

  “You don't have a choice, Mr. Reynolds.”

  “By heaven, I don't! I'm here to represent her family.” Thurman locked eyes with Richard. “And I am here to represent her. My instructions were to secure these jewels after her death. That is exactly what I am doing. Are you going to challenge my authority before a Supreme Court justice, Mr. Reynolds?”

  Reynolds took a step back, not ready to give up. “And just what do you intend to do with them, Mr. Arnold?”

  “Secure them in a safe deposit box as instructed, whichever bank is open, being that it is a Saturday night.”

  “You will be taking a witness with you, I presume?”

  “And why would you presume such a thing?”

  “To ensure that all things are done in a legal and upstanding manner, of course. We wouldn't want any of my mother-in-law's jewels to mysteriously disappear now, would we?”

  Thurman bristled. Before he could answer, Frank Waldrup returned from the closet, shoe box in hand. “I will accompany, Mr. Arnold.”

  “I want a full inventory before you leave,” Reynolds demanded.

  Although Thurman Arnold did not consider the demand worthy of an answer, Associate Justice Frank Murphy made a detailed list of each gem that was taken from Evalyn's dressing room and placed in the box. Seventy-three gems lay in the box, including The Star of the East, her first purchase from Pierre Cartier.

  Thurman Arnold and Frank Waldrup stood by her bed and tried to decide on the proper etiquette for removing the jewel from a dead woman's hands. Frank lifted her hand, and Thurman pried open her fingers, strong even in death.

  The weight of the jewel felt heavy and unnatural in Thurman's hand. He braved only a single glance at the deep blue stone before adding it to the shoebox with a shudder. He then kissed the back of Evalyn's hand and laid it across her chest.

  Frank put on his hat. “Shall we?”

  “Let's get it over with.”

  They said their good-byes to Evalyn, nodded to the other men gathered, except for her son-in-law, and left the room.

  “It's late,” Frank said. “We won't find a bank or jewelry store open.”

  “I know. I've been thinking about where to take these jewels, and I have an idea,” Thurman said, leading the way downstairs. He paused in the main hallway, next to the only telephone in the house. From deep inside his coat he drew a small black book and flipped through it in search of the name he had in mind.

  Thurman Arnold dialed the number, thick fingers maneuvering the rotary dial. He cast a skeptical glance at the clock, which read close to midnight. The phone rang eight times. Just as he was about to hang up, a gruff voice answered.

  “Hello, John; this is Thurman Arnold.” He paused and waited for the man on the other end to wake and gather his senses. “No, there's no emergency. I need a favor. Yes, I know it's very late.”

  A curious Frank Waldrup furrowed his eyebrows and waited.

  “I need to store something in your office for safekeeping … in your safe actually—”

  Thurman chuckled for a moment and scratched his head. “Well, actually I'm holding a shoebox that contains the jewels of Evalyn Walsh McLean, and frankly I need to keep them away from her family long enough for the will to be read… . Yes, sir, she passed on this evening, less than an hour ago… . You will? Thank goodness… . No, sir, you don't have to meet us there, just as long as you call ahead and make sure we can get in. Thank you so much… . Good night to you, too, sir.”

  Thurman placed the receiver on its cradle and turned to Frank with a triumphant look.

  “Do you mind telling me where we're going?” Frank asked. Thurman simply smiled in reply. “You take this safekeeping business seriously, I take it?”

  Thurman tipped his hat lightly and said, “Just doing my job, Frank, just doing my job.”

  As they left the McLean estate, servants were already turning out the lights and covering all the mirrors in the house with black cloth. For the first time since Evalyn Walsh McLean set foot within the walls of Friendship, calm reigned at the mansion.

  Thurman Arnold and Frank Waldrup slipped from the house and walked toward Thurman's black Plymouth coupe. Frank climbed into the passenger side and set the shoebox on his lap. The coupe started with a rumble, and they drove out of the grounds just as a light mist began to fall.

  The drive took less than thirty minutes. Thurman Arnold parked illegally at the corner of Pennsylvania and Constitution.

  Frank Waldrup gave him an uneasy glance as they climbed from the car. “This is the Department of Justice.”

  “I'm an attorney,” Thurman shrugged, leading the way up the steps.

  Upon entry they were met by a security guard. “Names please,” he ordered.

  “Thurman Arnold and Frank Waldrup.”

  The guard quickly checked a manifest at the security desk and waved them on.

  “Good. He called it in,” Thurman said with a relieved sigh.

  “Who called what in?” Frank asked.

  “John.”

  “Oh. John. Of course.” Frank rolled his eyes in defeat.

  Thurman led him to a bank of elevators and pushed the button for the fifth floor. It rose with a slight hum. The door opened with a ding, and they marched down the thickly carpeted hall, Frank trailing behind, looking somewhat mystified.

  Thurman stopped before a heavy wooden door and double-checked the nameplate on the wall to make sure they were in the right place.

  “My word!” Frank Waldrup exclaimed, stumbling backwards. “You can't be serious?”

  “About what?”

  “When you were on the phone, I didn't … you were talking to someone named John. I didn't realize it was John Edgar Hoover!”

  “Well, who else would it have been, you fool? This is important.” Thurman turne
d the knob and pushed the heavy door open.

  “J. Edgar Hoover. As in Director of the F.B.I. The Federal Bureau of Investigation!” he hissed. “You can't just walk straight into his office.”

  Irritated, Thurman scowled at Frank. “Were you with me in Evalyn's house when I made that call, Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you with me just now when the security guards checked the manifest and waved us through?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, both of those things are clear indicators that we have permission to be here. Now if you don't mind, I'm exhausted, and I want to go home and get some sleep.”

  Thurman Arnold placed the shoebox full of jewels into the safe of J. Edgar Hoover for safekeeping. “Such a pity, really,” he said. “She was an absurd woman at times, but she didn't deserve many of the cards that life dealt her.”

  36

  ABBY LED ALEX INTO THE COCKTAIL BAR ON TOP OF TABLE MOUNTAIN. No sooner had they passed through the door than she pushed him into a corner to avoid the stampede of people that raced through the room.

  Alex saw several things happen at once, and yet he could not process any of them. Sitting at a table on the other side of the bar with the Broker, was his brother, Isaac. The Hope Diamond dangled from his hand, light refracting a series of small rainbows off the blue facets. Even as his brother and the Broker stared at the diamond, a swarm of people ran toward them with guns drawn.

  Isaac jumped to his feet, clenched the necklace in one hand, and pulled a pistol from his coat pocket with the other. He scanned the room in an effort to find an escape route.

  It was only when Alex saw Dow move purposefully from behind the bar, Interpol badge hanging from his neck and a Glock nine-millimeter held firmly in his hands, that he understood what was happening. He turned to Abby, both impressed and bewildered.

  “You did this?”

  She offered him a pained smile. “It sucks to be used, doesn't it?”

  Though a small army of Interpol agents descended on Isaac, he saw only one face in the crowd, that of his brother—a man who ought to be dead.

  “You traitor,” Isaac hissed, his words shaky and full of rage.