“Young man, do I ask you what your finances are?” she finally had to say, and that ruined the evening. Lady Jennings did not like having to be impolite. She did not like noise. She did not like rude people, even if she had made the mistake of inviting him. But that wasn’t the end of the bother. Some more people, people she didn’t even know, were pressing her to allow Jardines to reveal from whom it had purchased the sapphire.
This her solicitor had told her, mentioning that it might somehow be of concern to her nation because it was the British Embassy that was asking. Jardines would not reveal the source of the sapphire unless she gave permission to do so.
“What national interest could it be?” she asked. She didn’t want to hear anything more about it. She didn’t want her solicitor to mention it again to her, and she wanted peace. If she wanted turmoil and insult she would have remained in London.
It was up to the solicitor to explain to the gentleman from the embassy that Lady Jennings had left London thirty years before and refused to return because of a slight from the Crown. The caller asked if the Crown might do something to make things right.
“Not now, not with Lady Jennings. Dreadfully sorry,” said the solicitor, who didn’t even know what the slight was because no one dared bring it up in Lady Jennings’s presence. It was a safe assumption it had to do with some party she was not invited to, or invited to but offended at in some way, or some other social insignificance her wealth gave her the leisure and opportunity to stoke into a lifelong offense.
Harry Rawson got all the information in classified bits and classified pieces and told everyone to stand down. They had spotted the sapphire in Paris. He knew the stones could move internationally, and just because the sapphire turned up in Paris didn’t mean the thief was still there. He wondered if a bribe might work on Jardines of Paris, but the bribe itself would attract attention if it didn’t work, and it probably wouldn’t. Already too many people had been asking too many questions.
He would let it lie quiet and move himself, probably against Lady Jennings who was a bit doughty and might do anything, even give her permission for Jardines to let him get to whoever sold the sapphire. For this he could use someone out front, someone reasonably legitimately interested in the stone, preferably not British. Already the sapphire had too much of Britain after it.
CLASSIFICATION: Maximum Security, for H. R. Rawson only.
SOURCE: Classified
AUTHORIZATION: Classified
SUBJECT: Arthur C. Modelstein, 34, USA Citizen.
Modelstein, 34, son of Ira and Miriam Modelstein, of the Grand Concourse, Bronx, both deceased. Modelstein, a twelve-year veteran of the New York City Police Department, known as a competent officer. Scored upper 10 percent on entrance examination, but has never shown any leadership qualities or desire for promotion. This lack of drive evident throughout his life, according to multiple sources, including family, two older sisters who refer to their brother’s life as a waste. He has no known scandals connected with his career. Considered honest, intelligent, and prone more to comfort than to duty. Do not offer a bribe. An active heterosexual. No drinking or gambling problems. Might prove difficult to deal with. Not known as a team player, nor especially desirable in violent situations.
There couldn’t have been a clearer choice. The New York Giants were playing on Monday night football, and going after reports of the sapphire would put Artie right back into the grief of that saltcellar. He had not listened for homicides of blondes on his police radio for a week now. He liked it like that. He even liked Trudy better.
Captain Rawson was shocked.
“You don’t want to go to Paris? How can you say that if you’ve never been to Paris?”
“Easy,” said Artie.
“Have you ever dined in Paris, really dined? There are restaurants in Paris in which you begin at eight in the evening and don’t stop until after midnight, with different wines and sauces and centuries of perfection just to entertain your palate. Beef that cuts with a fork in pastry that can virtually sing, Detective.”
“And how do the symphonies taste?” asked Artie.
“If I were a poet I could describe the food. And the hotels. Paris lures people who spend lifetimes fathoming how to satisfy your needs.”
“Not my needs.”
“It’s a city of thousand-dollar-a-night courtesans,” said Rawson.
What impressed Artie so much was that this man in tweeds and oxford shirt of impeccable grooming could make a hooker sound like a poem, a meal like an adventure, and sleeping in a room like a form of heaven on earth. If Artie had described the same things, they would have sounded like some violation of a city ordinance. And he was smiling.
“What do you say? My firm will be happy to pick up the tab. We have taxes, too, in Britain, and if I don’t spend it they will get it. Or the shareholders will get it. Or someone else will get it.”
“You can’t go over yourself and make the claim on that sapphire?”
“Of course I could. But if there is a policeman out in front, they will be at least more cooperative. Have you ever dealt with the French?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Then come and see.”
“I dunno.”
A detective passing by Artie’s desk had been listening with half an ear and now offered advice: “Take it, asshole.”
“Paperwork,” said Artie.
“I’ll do it for you, asshole. Paris,” said the detective.
“They may not approve,” said Artie.
“And then again, they may,” said the other detective.
They did. And Artie had to phone Claire Andrews to tell her the Poseidon sapphire had turned up in Paris. She was, as he had expected, still in New York, and even more cheery than ever. She had sent him a Chanukah card with a thank-you again for the best Christmas gift she got from anyone, ending it with a smiling-face drawing instead of a period. He had thrown it right into the trash.
“I can’t believe it’s you, Arthur. It’s so good to hear from you.” She was bubbling.
“The Poseidon sapphire has turned up in Paris. It was sold through a jewelry store.” Artie doodled on an NYPD memo he should have filed. His desk at Frauds was littered with them.
“Well, that’s nice. That’s very nice. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I told you I would phone if there was any information,” said Artie. Why did he feel sucked into this thing again? It was just an official phone call made from an official office to an official complainant. It was all so surprisingly awkward.
“Yes, thank you. How are you?” she asked.
“Good. I appreciate your not phoning the squad room every day.”
“You said you’d phone if there was any information.”
“I did.”
“Yes, I hear.”
“Well, that’s it, then.”
“Yes. I guess. Oh, how did it turn up? Who tried to sell it? And what’s its disposition?”
“I’m going to Paris to find out. I’ll let you know when I get there.”
“Please do. And see the Louvre. You must see the Louvre. I went there with my father two years ago. You must see the Louvre. It really shouldn’t be all business, you know.”
“I’ll phone when I have information.” And that was Claire Andrews still in New York, making him feel not too good about what he wasn’t even sure now. There were benefits. Norman Feldman had been proven wrong.
To Feldman, Artie said good-bye in person at his midtown office.
“You are wrong, Norman my friend. We found the sapphire. A hundred and forty-two karats worth. A major gem, no?”
“You found it?” asked Feldman. His feet rose to the desk as he leaned far back in his hard oak chair. The shoes obviously had been resoled several times. The tops were cracked.
“It turned up in Paris.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that, sold through a jewelry store, which you said couldn’t happen.”
“Yes. It was reported to me.”
“Does it interest you who reported it to you and how he reported it to you and why he reported it to you?”
“You’ve been proven wrong. Get off my back.”
“You came here. I didn’t go to you, Artie.”
“Well, you were wrong. We’re getting back the sapphire.”
For the third time he saw Feldman laugh.
“What are you laughing about?”
“Never ceases to amaze me. You still don’t know what you’re doing.”
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re going to get it back, huh?”
“Damned right. It’s stolen property.”
“If I bet, and I never do, I would bet a building against you. You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know anything outside of New York, and so far you have only managed not to get yourself killed. I think it will stay that way, because you’re lucky and stupid.”
“I’m bringing back that sapphire and putting it in your face.”
“No, you’re not. Get out of here. I’m busy.”
They didn’t just fly to Paris, they took a Concorde, supersonic luxury on which champagne was served. The seats were a bit tight, but the flight was short and Harry Rawson was a boon traveling companion. As they saw the curve of the earth from the great heights of the Concorde, Rawson described man as being a traveling creature and said that what traveling did was replace myths with information sometimes even more extraordinary. Traveling was the end of fairy tales, he pointed out. Dragons and maidens died with the steamship.
Artie, matching Rawson champagne for champagne, disagreed. He had once arrested someone who happened to believe the world was flat. This in the age of space travel and photographs of a round blue globe. Not only that, the man subscribed to a magazine put out by some flat-earth society. The point being here that no fact could ever overcome what someone wanted to believe.
“I mean there is a subscription list out there of people who believe all the space photographs are lies,” said Artie.
“And what if we were to take that fellow up here with us, Artie, and he could see the curve down there?”
“He’d wonder if we drugged him. I do believe, Harry, the last thing a person will give up in his life is a lie.”
They were on their fourth glass and it was “Artie” and “Harry,” and by the time the Concorde landed they were flying and had a brilliant reason for not coordinating with the French police right away.
“Because they are French,” said Rawson loudly and with conviction at the baggage bays of Orly airport.
“And always will be,” said Modelstein.
In the morning Harry had things organized, while Artie tried to shield his eyes from the harsh French sun as the silverware had to be set on a damned little marble table where, every time someone put down a fork, it rang.
They had an elegant suite sharing a sitting room in the Hotel Crillon on Place de la Concorde, but Rawson had insisted out of some maniacal compulsion that they eat breakfast out, lest they lounge away the morning. Artie realized that even though they had dined extensively the night before, and wined even more extensively, they really hadn’t missed anything by not coordinating with the French police immediately. Rawson had done it at crack of dawn and then had chosen to eat in this place with sun and marble tables and people talking and shutting doors and slapping newspapers on leather seats.
“You see, the problem, Artie, is that we are dealing with powers. Jardines is a French institution. They are proud of it. Our saying that Jardines deals in stolen gems is an insult to France. They’re very nationalistic here, especially the police. It is not like America, where the law is the law is the law.”
“Shh,” said Artie.
“You’re a bit up against it, aren’t you?”
Artie nodded gently.
“Good upchuck, coffee, and a brandy get you right.”
Rawson had said the magic word, and he found out in French where the water closet was and directed Artie in English toward its door. When Artie came back, he had improved immensely, to where he was only feeling awful.
Rawson had thick, black, sweet coffee for him and a glass of brandy. This improved Artie to feeling under the weather.
“Don’t you get bothered by this?” asked Artie.
“Certainly. I feel wretched.”
“You don’t look wretched.”
“Doesn’t do any good.”
“Does lots of good.”
“How?”
“Tells the world to leave you alone or else.”
“Sounds like it would encourage bother,” said Rawson.
“Let’s hit the French police first,” said Artie.
“Don’t think it will help.”
“Let’s see,” said Artie, and when he got up from the table he found he could move and pretty much breathe in his painful fog.
The French police were cooperative and pleasant and totally unhelpful. In modern offices with desks like draftsmen’s boards and maps with lights in them, they asked more questions than they answered.
Yes, they were aware of the report from Scotland Yard; Captain Rawson had given it to them. But that theft was in 1945. What proof was there that Jardines had knowingly bought stolen property? And what proof was there that it was stolen?
Artie repeated all the felony details, including the killings. The French inspector and his aides were sympathetic.
“But you see our problem is one of ownership. You have not proven that Jardines purchased stolen property.”
“But it’s here,” said Artie. “It was stolen in New York in autumn, stolen before that in London. A hundred and forty-two–karat blue sapphire, Poseidon enthroned. I mean, how many hundred forty-two–karat velvet-blue sapphires with Poseidon on them are there? I’ll tell you how many: one is how many. I doubt there is a second hundred and forty-two–karat velvet-blue in the world. So it is either this gentleman’s property, or the lady’s property, but it is definitely not Jardines’s property.” Artie was yelling. He didn’t care if it made his eyeballs ache.
“I understand, but you see many people can claim ownership to things. Who owns a province taken by one French lord from another French lord in the year 900 A. D.? The descendants of the originally robbed? Whom did he rob it from? And what rights does one have to a famous painting stolen and restolen, sold and resold and stolen again. There has to be some reason to this, do you understand?”
“How about murder?” said Artie.
“Do you believe Jardines is an accomplice to murder, monsieur?”
“They are an accessory after the fact.”
“Then we would have to prove they planned the theft and the murder.”
“It’s stolen. The sapphire is stolen,” yelled Artie pounding the table.
“I hear you, monsieur, and I agree. It is stolen. I would say the gem has been stolen several times you are not aware of. The question is, who owns it now?”
“Not Jardines and not Lady … Lady …”
“Jennings,” offered Rawson. He watched Artie grow red in the face and use his bulk to dominate the room. He could see that when aroused this gentle bear of a man might not be so gentle.
The French inspector, a man of somewhat worn clothes and worn enthusiasm for life, and perhaps worn sympathies from so many years in the Paris district, nevertheless backed away from the force of the New York detective.
Rawson thought Modelstein might actually punch someone.
But the truth was, and no one could get away from it: Jardines legally bought and sold the stone because they were not aware it was stolen. This was not only French law, it was European law. Artie looked to Rawson, who nodded confirmation.
“That sucks,” said Artie. “I could steal that sapphire, sell it to someone who is unsuspecting, and witho
ut changing it that person could even wear it out in the street free and clear?”
“It happens. As you can imagine, Detective Modelstein, we have very good safes and our jewels are rarely out of them.”
Artie exhaled and collapsed like a bag in the seat.
“We have nothing then? No claim?” he asked weakly.
“I’m sorry, no. Not unless Jardines wishes to cooperate. We have asked them to do so, on your behalf.”
“Thank you,” said Artie.
Rawson only smiled. Outside, he had one word for what went on.
“The French.”
It really didn’t explain much to Artie, who had always assumed there were situations like this around the world because they appeared in New York, too. The point of life was to avoid them. If Harry hadn’t paid for the trip and the rooms, Artie might have had one more drink and returned to New York City. But he liked this Englishman, even though he could look so fresh after a blizzard of wine. He could even feel sorry for him, not having anything else to do with his life but chase down a family treasure. He had made it sound sad the night before when Artie asked what he did for a living.
“I was in Her Majesty’s Royal Argyle Sutherlanders, which gives me the right to this tie and a right to call myself captain, and mostly now I look for things to do, like this, tracking down our family cellar. It was a blessing, I tell you. It isn’t going to mean a damned thing, Modelstein, whether I get it or not. Not a damn thing.”
“Then why are you bothering?”
“For the same reason people play polo to win. The score doesn’t mean anything really, but there are those who will kill themselves to win. And in the end what has anyone won?”
Even in the morning without champagne, it was as sad as it was the night before.
Jardines had them wait in a small, airless room on the second floor of the building for over an hour.
“The French are so obvious in their rudeness,” said Harry. “We, on the other hand, are at least civilized enough to let the recipient of our rudeness believe, if he wishes, that he has not been insulted. That is the difference between us and them. Shades of meanness. You Americans, on the other hand, don’t have meanness as a national character.”
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