"No."
A deep, dreary sigh. "I wasn't kidding when I offered to buy it, you know. You could have named your price."
"A hundred million?" Springer asked casually.
"Yes. I might have hesitated and wanted more of a demonstration, but yes."
"Really, a hundred million?"
"That amount would leave a hole in any fortune," she said. "However, great wealth does have a way of swiftly replenishing itself. You might say it grows out of control."
Malignant osteoblastic cells came to Springer's mind. "Would you like to see your diamonds now?" he asked.
"Not yet," Libby replied quickly. "Once I've been shown the diamonds you'll have no other excuse for staying. Or will you?" she asked, bold-eyed.
Springer was reminded of Lady Irith, his initiatrix at the Savoy in London so many years ago. Where was she now? Flourishing, he hoped. Had his intimacies with her really been as delirious as he remembered? How much had he embellished? Clearly he recalled how Lady Irith with words and reactions had made him feel the exceptional lover, manful. He was grateful to her for that and, as well, grateful to his gullibility.
A Doucai bowl painted with lotus flowerheads and scrolling foliage that would have been a treasure to any collector of things oriental was on the table, filled with salted cashews. Springer put a couple of the nuts in his mouth, chomped on them.
"How much in love with Audrey are you?" Libby asked.
"How much is too much?"
"She's my pet, you know." And after a shrug: "Well, not actually mine. I suppose she told you?"
"She did."
"There isn't a chink anywhere in the adoption papers. I made sure of that. Should any of Gillian's forgotten relatives come pestering with a claim, hoping to be bought off."
A leather-bound volume of Stendahl's On Love lay on the floor near Libby's foot. Springer noticed a red wildbird's feather marked a place. How many other similar things?
"Gillian," Libby said, as though she were announcing the title of something she was about to recite, "was a marvelous person to be around—to have around. She and I both had the same low threshold of ennui. It was uncanny in a way. No matter where we were we never once disagreed about whether or not to stay or leave. She was, I must admit, a bit more of a daredevil than I, loved being in over her head, waiting until the last possible second to shoot the charging tiger. Metaphorically speaking, of course. There's never been anyone in my life like her."
That, Springer knew, was not entirely true.
"Gillian had her faults," Libby went on, "but none too messy to put up with. She was an incurable tester, if you know what I mean. Every once in a while she'd do something dreadful just to find out if you'd love her in spite of it. Put a lot of people off with that, and I suppose I was the object of it more than anyone, but I never fell for it. She used to get absolutely livid when I just allowed her to get away with things. We'd laugh about them later."
Libby drank what wine remained in her glass. Fane appeared to refill: Springer's glass as well.
"Anyway," Libby said, "Audrey has never wanted for anything."
"Then what is it I'm supplying her?" Springer asked, a bit insubordinately.
"Good question. Do you foresee marrying Audrey?"
"It's being mentioned."
"Why the wait?"
"I don't know."
"Perhaps you're trying to wear one another thin."
That could very well be it, Springer thought, and if it was he knew Audrey was failing at it. For him every experience with her was the adding on of another strengthening layer.
"You're aware, no doubt, that Audrey stands to get all the Hull money someday."
"I'll never dislike her for that," Springer promised straight-faced.
Libby smirked sardonically. "Broadminded of you."
Springer agreed.
"Be warned, however," Libby said with a glare too suddenly cool to be believed, gracefully pointing a beautiful finger at him, "I plan to live to be over a hundred. Well over."
Fighting words. Springer thought. She was indeed a tenacious time-fighter.
"Now"—she sat forward—"let's see those diamonds."
He placed the twelve little chamois pouches on the table. She looked at the diamonds one at a time. Held each up for a moment before returning it to its pouch. The diffused light was disadvantageous, most diamonds would have suffered tremendously in it, but these had blaze to spare.
Libby was merely pleased, not enthusiastic. "Nicely done," she said.
Springer reminded himself that neither the diamonds nor the appreciation of them mattered, only the money. "Do you want me to get these to Townsend?" he asked.
"No." She stood abruptly and instructed: "Bring them along."
Springer gathered up the diamonds and followed her out of the room, along the hall, and down a flight of stairs to a lower level that was not at all dank. There at the end of another passageway was the wide and tall blackened steel door of a vault. Off to one side was an electronic panel consisting of ten buttons numbered one through zero, much like the dialing face of a touch-tone telephone. Probably it worked on the same principle.
"Only I know the combination," Libby said, "and it's something I'd never divulge."
Springer politely faced away while she touched off the combination. "The day, month, and year of your birth," Springer guessed and knew he'd hit it right when he turned back and saw Libby's disconcerted expression.
The vault door clicked open, a thick heavy door but evidently well balanced, for Libby easily swung it open. It was a walk-in vault, actually a small, brightly lighted room. Nearly all the space of the wall directly ahead was taken up by a pair of handsome Louis Seize mahogany cartonniers, each with fourteen numbered drawers faced with tooled leather. As with all such cartonniers, it was impossible to pull any of the drawers open without first unlocking and folding back the narrow hinged panels that ran vertically along each side. That was no problem, of course, when the keys were in the escutcheons as they were now.
Libby pulled open a drawer.
Springer dropped the twelve chamois sacks into it, giving in to his 47th Street nature and counting them aloud so there would be no misunderstanding.
"You did so well with this," Libby told him, "I'm going to have you handle something else for me."
"Thank you. What?"
"I'll think of something." Even though they weren't cramped for space, she seemed very close. She lavished her softest smile on him. "I'm going to recommend you to Wincie Olcott," she said. "The poor thing was broken into a month or so ago. I know she especially misses a certain bracelet, a chunky all-diamond piece that was at least a hundred carats. You could have it duplicated using the insurance photographs, couldn't you?"
"No problem."
"The impression I get is you're much more ambitious than Townsend and, God knows, more attractive to deal with." She paused, reminded of another consideration. "Although I must say Townsend does come up with some lovely things." Her tone was ambiguously edged. "Let me show you. . . ."
Out they came. From drawer after drawer. So many, so swiftly, that Springer couldn't adequately take them all in. No sooner had she placed one in his hands than it was replaced by another equally dazzling.
A diamond necklace that had belonged to Empress Eugenie. Another that had belonged to Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, and another once owned by Princess Marie Louise. Tiaras, diadems, bracelets, brooches that had belonged to this or that grand duchess, this or that Hapsburg, one princess or another. There were pieces that had adorned the necks or wrists or hands or ears of Du Barry and de Pompadour, Consuelo Vanderbilt, the Duchess of Marlborough, Elizabeth Morgan, Sarah Whitney, Caroline Astor, Marian Davies, Mary Pickford, Paola Negri, Wallis Windsor: Libby chanted off the names of the famous former owners with nearly an auctioneer's rapidity. She knew each piece well. There was no doubt in her mind which had belonged to whom.
Springer was astounded by the precious jewels that shot
before his eyes, a veritable deluge. While being shown some Czarist bibelots that would have put La Vieille Russe to shame, he asked, "Doesn't keeping all these things here in the house make you a bit nervous?"
Libby scoffed. "They're perfectly safe here. And a hell of a lot more convenient. If I kept them somewhere in bank deposit boxes I know I wouldn't wear them nearly as much. Certainly I wouldn't get to play with them as often. No, I feel they're safe. I have an alarm system and enough people here to form a cordon around the place if it ever came to that. Quite capable people, and very loyal, I should add."
Springer wondered how she knew they were capable, as she put it, and why she was so confident that they were loyal.
Perhaps she sensed his doubt. "Wintersgill finds my people for me," she said, "recruits them and screens them intensively." She placed a necklace that she'd said had belonged to the Duchesse de Noailles back into its fitted leather box and its drawer and told Springer, "Naturally, I'm not one to flaunt. I don't allow just anyone down here."
Springer held back telling her he knew the psychology of jewelry — 90 or more percent of the joy of owning it was letting people know you did.
"Is it possible that I might induce you to stay for dinner?" Libby asked.
"I'm meeting Audrey."
"Sometimes impetuousness can be very rewarding," she said predictably.
Even if Springer had been more strongly tempted he wouldn't have stayed. Danny had phoned him yesterday late and arranged a meeting for tonight, had been very cryptic about it, wouldn't say why. Only rarely did Springer and Danny see one another on weekends.
Libby waved her hands before her face, dismissing disappointment as though she were shooing away gnats. For a further countermeasure she dug into one of the drawers and came out with a small cobalt-blue enameled gold box, edged with a crust of diamonds and diamond-monogrammed with an R. Unmistakably a Faberge creation for Czar Nicolas II.
"When and if you get your precious little stone back," she said, handing him the Faberge, "this should be nice to keep it in."
Chapter 26
On the return trip from Libby's, Groat was surprised when Springer told him he wanted to be left off at Arthur Avenue.
Springer was surprised when Groat, without consulting a street map or asking directions, took him right to it.
Arthur Avenue is the aorta of an Italian section in the mazed heart of the Bronx. A short unimportant-looking street, actually. About three blocks of it is commercial, store next to store, and it is here that the bosses and underbosses in the churchlike hierarchy of the Mafia come to replenish their larders. From their large, illicitly earned houses in Larchmont or New Rochelle or Orient Point they come (usually on Saturdays) to confidently leave the keys in their double-parked cars while they get the real romanos and provolones, veal and sausage as it should be, olives authenticated by the stenciled wooden banels they're ladled out of, and olive oil that makes those sold at Grand Union taste like something better used in an old engine. Too, here, only here, the bread of all breads can be bought, crackly crusted, sprinkled with sesame. And always a few evocative anise-spiced cookies to munch on the way home.
The larders of their egos also get replenished on Arthur Avenue. Elsewhere these family executives are mere successful businessmen. Here, however, the way is parted for them. The sidewalks are water to be walked upon. They exaggerate their heights, float their heads, and fix their mouths with a smile of proper friendly disdain. For Sicilianos gathered in front of the fish store, seated there on empty milk crates. And the Neapolitanos down the way in their place, close up to a store that sells produce. Each group maintaining the understood distance from the other, and each wondering if this will be one of those times when a capo's nod will be conferred.
"He tipped his hat"
"He wasn 't wearing a hat"
"With his eyes he tipped his hat"
"It was to me that he did it"
"Why only you?"
"I was not always a fucking shoemaker." Said with mystery and a hard mouth.
Thus, Arthur Avenue in its own way is consecrated. Borne out by the fact that it has the lowest incidence of crime of any neighborhood in the city.
Springer got out of the Daimler on Arthur Avenue and by only an inch missed stepping on a glob of rotting tomato. He leaped over a pool of milky, detergented water to gain the curb and went into the Vesuvio Restaurant.
It wasn't a cozy place. About forty white cloth-covered tables. On a ledge along each side were plaster quarter-scale copies of classical Italian statues. Almost nudes. The walls were hung with Italian townscapes oil-painted straight out of the tubes. The lighting was indecisive, neither dim nor bright enough. Hardly anyone was there at that early hour. Waiters outnumbered customers. The waiters stood in the back, anticipating the tips of Saturday night, fresh white napkins on their forearms.
Danny and Audrey were at a table for four midway along the wall on the right. They didn't notice Springer enter. Audrey was listening intently to whatever Danny was saying. Springer got a possessive welcoming peck of a kiss from her. He and Danny were beyond shaking hands.
Danny ordered a drink for Springer.
Audrey urged Danny to go on with what he'd been telling her. When Danny didn't, Springer guessed it had been a story he'd already heard that Danny was self-conscious about repeating. Must have been that because Danny went on to a different one.
He told about two swifts who hit a mansion over in Jersey, Short Hills or Far Hills or one of those Hills over there. A really big, luxurious house. The people, who weren't at home, were obviously rich but there was no flash lying around the way there should have been, on the dresser tops and places like that. Also, there was nothing worth stealing in any of the drawers or anywhere. It didn't figure. Then one of the swifts comes across a safe in the back of a closet in the master bedroom. Not a built-in safe but a regular heavy little bastard. About a five-hundred-pounder.
Anyway, the swifts hadn't come prepared for it, and the safe seems to know that, the way it stands there among the two-thousand-dollar dresses like it's enjoying the situation. The swifts figure since they found nothing anywhere else in this fat house, everything has to be in the safe. It has to be loaded with jewels and a lot of cash.
They can't pass it. They decide to take the safe—with them. They heave and shove it along inch by inch. It takes them an hour just to get it out to the second-floor landing. They let it go crashing down the stairs. Three hours it takes them to get it across the lawn and into their van. Their shins are bleeding, their toes and fingers are mashed, they've thrown their backs out— but it's in the van, and pretty soon it's in the garage at the house of one of the swifts.
It doesn't seem so smug anymore, the safe doesn't. For one thing, it's standing on its head. Like most safes of that kind it's got an easy bottom, just skin and concrete, and that's where the swifts cut and peel it and chip it open.
Inside the safe is — you guessed it—nothing. It doesn't even have dust in it. If either of the swifts was alone he'd cry. Not only because after breaking their balls they've come up empty—now they've got to get rid of the safe, and that means more sweating and struggling with it.
That night they're dumping the safe in a ditch somewhere up in Putnam County. A state trooper comes along and nails them. No way can they explain the safe. It gets identified. For breaking and entering they each pull down three to five in Trenton.
"The safe won," Audrey remarked.
"It was a lock," Danny punned in street talk, meaning it couldn't lose. A line he'd probably used before to cap the story he'd just told. Springer thought.
Danny was up and smoother, as he usually was when in Audrey's company. Part of it was his male Italian disposition responding to her, his need to erotically overstate and let her know how close he was to being helplessly aroused. He was mindful, of course, to keep his wooing oblique; nevertheless, there were instances when it seemed he was only a breath away from being direct.
T
he other part of it for Danny was his reaction to who Audrey was, the element she represented. It was in her hemisphere, so evidently removed from his own, that Danny believed the better things were simply the way of life. Just being in Audrey's presence elevated him. Anyway, it was closer to the upper league than his kind usually got.
Audrey found Danny fascinating for the same reasons in reverse.
Springer, because he knew them both so well, just sat back and let them play at it.
Danny ordered dinner. This was his territory, he knew what was best. He also knew quite a few of the people who came into the restaurant, especially the men in mohair suits who took off their jackets and with dandyish care hung them over the shoulders of their chairs, the ones who looked like they'd just come from their barbers. Most were made guys on the same level as Danny. He acknowledged them casually. A few others he greeted with an almost grim respect.
Once during dinner Danny excused himself and went over to speak with an older man, alone at a table, who was taking his food seriously, sort of growling at it before it went down into him. A man with a heavily creased face, wearing a short-sleeved summer-weight white shirt with his undershirt showing through.
Just John.
Springer almost didn't recognize him.
Crime sure ages, Springer thought.
It wasn't until after dinner over anisette and espresso that Danny got around to the other than social reason for this meeting. He moved his chair sideways to the table so he could cross one knee over the other and be closer to Springer without having to lean to him.
"I was wrong," he told Springer.
"Yeah?"
"Your goods."
"Someone brought them in to you."
"No, the whole package went to one party."
"A private?"
"Someone in the trade."
"You know who?"
Danny nodded.
"Then who?"
Danny hesitated. "I won't be doing myself a favor by telling you . and I don't think it'll be doing you any good either."
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