“Arthur, please don’t close your mind,” said Claire. “Would you listen to Reverend McAdow. You brought him.”
“What listen? You were supposed to listen. He’s your minister.”
“It’s important to Claire that you understand she is not playing some reckless game,” said the Reverend McAdow.
“How do you know? What’s happened here? What’s going on? You don’t know what’s a game and what isn’t a game,” said Artie, looking at the minister, betrayed.
“Please don’t let emotion overcome your logic, Detective Modelstein,” said Reverend McAdow.
“Logic? We got three dead already, including her father, Saint Vern Andrews.”
“Arthur, that was uncalled for,” said Claire.
“You won’t mind much longer—you’re gonna be dead,” said Artie.
“Detective Modelstein, there are things people have to do to grow.”
“What is it with you people out there? Death is not a growth experience, Reverend. You people talk some language I don’t know.”
Artie fumed, stamping to go, listening to Reverend McAdow explain all sorts of things about personal growth, the challenge of the world, a person’s need to mean something, to do what was right.
And all the while Artie thought of how Claire wouldn’t be noticed dying in New York. He understood people got killed in Carney, Ohio, also, but she wouldn’t be alone there, and she would matter there if anything happened to her. A person should at least matter if she died. And he couldn’t explain that to these two, who were now babbling about her research. The man who was supposed to get her home alive was now her cheering section. And she was really so pretty. And Artie didn’t want to be the one to have to identify what was left of her.
They asked him what he thought now and he spoke to the minister.
“You just be the one to come out and identify the body, Reverend,” said Artie, and wished them both a very Merry Christmas, and went out, sad and furious and helpless, into a joyous season of the year.
New York City was Christmas lights and panhandlers and phony Santa Clauses in front of pots, and Artie did his Christmas shopping early. At a hardware store near Canal Street he got a dead-bolt lock and what was called a “police lock,” a large steel bar that fit against the door and set into the floor, so that it would take a tractor to push open an entrance.
Then off Houston Street he flagged down a squad car pair he knew he could trust.
“I need a tulip that works good,” he said.
A tulip was that weapon an officer could place in the hands of someone he had shot, claiming self-defense. They were not as common as they used to be, mainly because more questions were asked now even if the corpse had a weapon in his hand. A tulip could not be traced to the officer. They had to be found in special ways.
“A hundred bucks, Artie,” said the shotgun rider.
“Okay, now.”
“You got a stiff waiting for it?” laughed the shotgun.
“No. I just need it now. And nothing bigger than a thirty-eight.”
The shotgun blew air out of his mouth.
“You gotta have it now?” he asked.
“Now.”
“Get in the back,” said the shotgun. “What’s those bars and stuff? You breaking in some place?”
“Locks,” said Artie. They cruised around the perimeter of Chinatown.
“Okay, there,” said the shotgun, nodding to four teenagers in glossy jackets. “They’re packing. Pick it up for nothing. Our gift. Merry Christmas.”
“I don’t want to muscle for it,” said Artie.
“You want it now. They’re now. We’ll back you up,” said the shotgun and switched on the alarm. Artie was out of the door, wondering why he was doing this insane thing even as he did it.
“Police,” he yelled, closing in on the first large teenager and throwing him into a wall. The others raised their hands and froze.
“Lean and spread,” ordered Artie, propping the young men against the wall like bags of flour, forcing them to steady themselves with their hands in front, frisking them as he went along. He got a switchblade, an ice pick, and three pieces of hardware. He snapped the blades of the knives, dropping them in the street. He cradled the handguns against his belly.
“Hey, they’re just kids. Don’t charge ’em,” yelled the shotgun. It was part of the act.
“Get out of here,” said Artie.
“Hey, I want my piece, man,” said one of the teenagers, and his friend boxed him on the side of the head.
“You own it,” yelled the shotgun. “Hop in and file a claim.”
The teenagers scuffled away, turning to make obscene gestures as they went. Artie brought the guns back to the squad car, where the shotgun examined them. He took the shells out of a small revolver and test-fired it to see if the hammer functioned.
“This probably works best, Artie. Hey, you were pretty good out there. I never knew you could move that fast.”
“He was All-City linebacker,” said the driver. “Went to Texas. Had a scholarship and everything. Papers called him one of the best pro prospects ever to come out of Clinton. He just quit and came home.”
“They were crazy down there,” said Artie.
“You could have played pro ball?” asked the shotgun, passing Artie a little automatic with a nod that it was functional.
“Who knows. Those guys don’t walk right for the rest of their lives. They’re crazy, too,” said Artie. “I’m gonna retire with my whole body unharmed.”
“You coulda been somebody, Artie,” said the driver.
“I am somebody,” laughed Artie. “I’m me.”
He said the next time he needed a tulip he would wait.
“You’re never gonna need a tulip, Artie. You’re never gonna fire your gun,” said the driver.
Artie could have told the driver he was right, but then he would have to explain why he wanted the weapon.
They returned him to his car on Houston Street, and he got to Queens before 8:00 P.M. Reverend McAdow was gone.
“This is a police lock. It rams a bar against your door. Use it,” he said, dropping the bar loudly against the wall. “It installs. When you go out, leave something just inside the door that will be moved if anyone enters. If it is moved, do not enter your apartment. Do not, under any circumstances let anyone tie you up. You listening?”
Claire nodded. She was wearing an apron and a white and red checkered blouse and looked very much like a homebody. She had been doing the dishes.
“If they say they are going to kill you if you won’t let them tie you up, you’re gonna die anyhow if they do it. Just makes it easier for them.”
Claire nodded.
“Don’t rely on the security of this building. It’s so loose, just treat it as though you had no protection.”
Claire nodded.
“Now you can ruin my career and send me to jail if you let anyone know I am giving you this,” said Artie. He waited for her to nod.
“Nod,” he said.
She did with a little jerk of her head, her very blue eyes still locked on his, trusting. Good. She was listening.
He tugged her into the living room, and she followed. Standing in front of the Christmas tree, he took the pistol out of his pocket.
“This is illegal as hell. It’s not registered, I’m sure. If by any chance anyone should get in here, use this. Do you know how to fire a gun?”
She nodded. Artie took her hands and put the gun sideways into them. He closed her hands around the handle.
“I’ll get you a lawyer if you have to use it. If you tell anyone I gave this to you, I’m through.”
“I never would.”
“I’m just repeating so you’ll remember, not so you’ll keep your word. Keeping your word is not your problem, lady. You set?”
Artie saw moisture collect on her lower lids. When she nodded a tear came down her cheek.
“This is the most beautiful Christmas gift I’ve ever
had, Arthur. What can I do for you?”
“There is something I would like, but I don’t know if you would give it to me.”
“Try asking,” said Claire. The tears were coming heavy now.
“Go home.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then I don’t want to know from you forever, lady. Good-bye.”
“Arthur,” sobbed Claire, “may I kiss you?”
“No,” said Artie. And on the way out he said softly, just before he shut the door behind himself, “Watch your ass, all right?”
XVI
So I pass hostel, hall, and grange; by bridge and by ford, by park and pale, until I find the Holy Grail.
—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
The Holy Grail, 1869
It was not the sort of stone Jardines of Paris got every year, and the director general of the fashionable jewelry salon on Square Vendôme understood Jardines was not equipped to sell such a gem.
Yet there was a greatness about it, not only its size, one hundred forty-two karats, but its character, deep blue, almost purple, rare for sapphires, and its obvious antiquity because of the engraving of Poseidon enthroned.
The question was not whether Jardines could make a profit but whether it could avoid a loss. The entire management understood what a single-karat sapphire, dark blue, or a ten-karat sapphire would roughly sell for. One could price an emerald necklace and diamond necklace because one simply added up the cost of the stones, all under ten karats each, and then gloriously marked them up for the craftsmanship, the ambience of the store, and the prestige of having bought at one of the most elegant jewelers in the Parisian square of jewelers.
But a one hundred forty-two-karat dark blue sapphire was not worth one hundred forty-two times a single-karat stone. It was worth just about anything. And people who might pay three hundred thousand dollars for a necklace, or two million dollars for a home, or two million dollars for some business venture would not necessarily pay the one million for a single colored stone. Or two million. Or maybe not even five hundred thousand.
There were just so many people who understood their worth, and, of those who did, undoubtedly not all of them were buying that season. Assuming the director general of Jardines of Paris knew who they were in the first place.
Understanding all these reasons, why Jardines should not deal in a one hundred forty-two-karat engraved, velvet-blue sapphire, the director general made the takeaway offer at five hundred thousand dollars and asked for proof of ownership.
The seller held the magnificent gem in the palm of his hand and said, “It is mine.”
Then he took the hand of the director general and placed it over the stone. The hand closed on it.
“Now it is yours.”
“Of course,” said the director general, who naturally understood European laws of ownership and also understood that the magnificent engraved sapphire could well have been from some archeological dig, or that the seller represented a president or dictator who was selling off his traveling insurance. There were many things, and none of them mattered when he looked into the heart of the sapphire and knew it was his.
He had bought it for the same reason that plagued so many buyers of great stones. He had to have it. Even selling it again, the very process of passing it to another for a great sum, excited the senses like having a woman for the first time. The second time was pleasurable, too, in some ways more so, because one could understand better the woman herself, but the first time was the adventure. It exceeded itself.
Even on the days he did not go to the basement vault and take the Poseidon sapphire, as he now called it, to the top floor to view it under the skylight, he enjoyed it. Knowing it was there was the enjoyment. He would wake up at night to go to the bathroom, and the man relieving himself was the owner of the Poseidon sapphire, as was the man who went back to sleep and woke up knowing the Poseidon was his.
It added greatness to his life. One day Jardines would not be there. France might not even be there, but the Poseidon would go on and survive everything they knew, including even the language. And others would know what he knew now, the worth of a great gem.
Before he owned it, he could not have imagined how thrilling it would be.
Of course, it had been purchased to sell and that problem now loomed large. A half million dollars American had been tied up, and that calculated at a thousand dollars a week for every week they kept it without selling.
The markup would have to include that. But what was the markup on a hundred forty-two-karat sapphire? He could look around Square Vendôme and see how Bulgari and Cartier were pricing ten-karat gems, but nothing in a night-blue sapphire at a hundred forty-two karats. Museums bought those sorts of stones, and should the price be what a museum last paid for something this size?
The director general of Jardines knew enough that he knew that this was not going to be like selling a necklace, even one that might go for more money because of the number of jewels. He remembered a customer had once referred to “significant sapphires,” meaning neither Jardines nor any other store in Square Vendôme had one of them. At the time, having to hold up the prestige of Jardines, he did not press her to explain herself, but chose to ignore it.
She was the first one he called and she still doubted Jardines could have one. She was a British subject who was still wintering in Paris. In fact, if he remembered correctly, Lady Constance Jennings had not returned to England for many years because of some social slight she had suffered decades before and never forgiven.
With more than a little satisfaction, he told her it was a hundred and forty-two karats.
“It certainly has size. Who else has seen it?” she asked.
“You are the first, madam,” said the director general, wishing he could ask “which others?” She knew who else would buy it, but he could never let her know he didn’t.
As was customary, he had personally greeted Lady Jennings at the entrance to the store and had brought her to the upper office with the skylight and served her champagne and a light snack. As was not customary, he left her. Ordinarily, some other executive would bring whatever was to be shown. But for the Poseidon, the director general went himself.
On returning, he could see the contempt in her pinched British face for his daring to abandon her. What was it about British women that let them flower so beautifully when young and collapse beyond redemption when they became fifty-five, as though someone had thrown a switch and these poor women had to live with a Beirut of a face till death? Perhaps he was thinking these things because he was frightened. He had determined to ask for one point two million dollars and possibly not settle for less. He hoped he could bluff it out. But as soon as he opened its little white, satin-lined case and saw the Poseidon and knew he was about to lose it, all his doubts left.
Lady Jennings didn’t even bother to hide her feelings.
“Yes,” she said as she took the Poseidon out of the box with an ungloved hand. “Oh, yes,” she said, holding it to the light, and turning it, ever so slowly, continuing, “Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes.” It was like a soft groan.
“Oh, yes. Yes. Yes. Oh, yes,” she said, turning the Poseidon in her fingers and then letting it drop into her palm to feel its substance. “Yes.”
She let it sit before her a few moments on the white felt pad, laughing at it, smiling at the director general of Jardines, even taking a sip of champagne. Their eyes met, and he knew they were doing this together. They had found each other.
“I will give you three hundred thousand dollars,” she said.
The price would have been a strong loss, of course. He merely smiled tolerantly, and she understood for the first time that she was dealing with someone who should be selling it.
“Yes, well, I guess we know who we are,” she said. “The Poseidon certainly belongs here. What are you asking?”
“One and a half million dollars American.”
“My solicitor and jeweler will be here tomorrow.”
For this he shut the store late in the afternoon, calling all sales personnel and management into the main office of Jardines.
“At eleven-thirty A.M. Jardines sold a single sapphire of a hundred forty-two karats for one point two million dollars,” he announced. Everyone knew it was the Poseidon.
There was polite applause, a light wine was served, and everyone was asked to be discreet, while no one other than the director general’s partners were told to whom it had been sold. Word, of course, would get out. But Jardines would not only still be considered discreet, but also enjoy the prestige of having sold it. Even when it was gone, the director general felt a lingering excitement that made other business difficult to concentrate on. That night, when the director general’s kidneys called, the man who relieved himself knew he no longer owned the Poseidon. It was the first thing he knew when he got out of bed.
Lady Jennings had the sapphire set in silver and diamonds and hurriedly organized a party to show it off. She did not want to wear it to someone else’s party because she felt it should have its own. Didn’t her secretary think so? Her secretary, of course, did. Lady Jennings did not like noise, she did not like the bother, and the party was set for February even though almost no one was in Paris then.
“Get warm bodies, I don’t care. I want to wear it. I’m getting old. I want to wear it before I die,” she told her secretary.
As it turned out, she paid dearly for filling the guest list with virtually anyone who was in the city. A nosy British consular official, who came from the right family and should have known better, went beyond bounds in asking her about her new necklace. Where had she bought it? When had she bought it? Did she have the Poseidon engraved? And how many karats was it?
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