Of course, Coglin, not being a board member, was not at the meeting. But he heard Meecham’s every word and monitored Meecham’s every gesture via a concealed closed-circuit television tap he’d had his staff experts install in the board room two years previous.
Coglin didn’t appear noticeably upset by Meecham’s accusations. He took them calmly, sat there tireless, shirtsleeves rolled up, drinking Guinness stout from the bottle. He listened and watched for a while, then guzzled down what was left of the stout, put on his tie and jacket and went to his own highly confidential files. He removed seven very fat dossiers. He took them, along with other substantiating material, across the street and directly to the board room. Politely excusing his intrusion, he proceeded to make his presentation to the board. Including motion pictures with sound, color slides with facts, tape recordings with an easily identifiable voice. Meecham’s dossier.
Most of the evidence was pornographic, some of it perhaps subversive. Meecham, off balance, muttered a few outraged protests, squirmed some, and retreated hastily from the room. The other six board members saw no reason why Coglin should reveal any further information. Each eyed the remaining six dossiers and agreed that the board had already seen and heard enough. Quite. All were in favor of Meecham’s immediate resignation. Putting an end to this nasty business, the board hoped.
Coglin was expected to leave the room then. But he didn’t. He sat there self-confidently facing the directors. It was their move.
What, the board inquired uncomfortably, were Coglin’s recommendations regarding the inventory crisis? How should it be handled, in his opinion?
Coglin said he didn’t believe the situation was as critical as Meecham had suggested. There was no real danger of the stolen inventory being used to oversupply and ruin the world market. Because, he said, the very structure of the industry—those channels of distribution which The System still held under strict control—prevented such a catastrophe.
Coglin also predicted that the thieves would be apprehended as soon as they attempted to sell the diamonds in any significant amount. It would be impossible, he insisted, for anyone to make a large-scale transaction anywhere in the world without The System becoming immediately aware of it. It would be a relatively simple matter to trace the diamonds to their source and recover the lot.
The board was very impressed.
Coglin didn’t stop there. He demonstrated ingenuity by suggesting that the robbery might actually be to The System’s benefit. With its huge inventory gone, wouldn’t The System be justified in announcing an increase in the price of gem-quality stones? Hadn’t The System always determined value on the excuse of scarcity? Then why not take advantage of the lack of inventory? A genuine scarcity.
Indeed, why not?
Protests against the price increase, Coglin said, could be dramatically overcome by permitting a few important buyers to take a convincing peek into The System’s nearly depleted vault. Then the nature of the business would take over and spread the word around the world.
The board members pulled at their silk school ties, feeling relief.
Five minutes later Coglin emerged from the board room as Meecham’s official replacement. President of The System. Despite the fact that he wasn’t Eton or Queens or anything, the Board unanimously voted him lifetime cooperation. And, of course, he also maintained possession of all the dossiers.…
Now, via long distance, Coglin asked Chesser, “Shall we expect you on the ninth?”
No answer from Chesser. Too dazed.
“Or perhaps the tenth would be more convenient for you?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’ll be a pretty packet waiting for you, I’ll guarantee that.”
“How pretty?”
“Say a hundred thousand. And that’s just for starters. I have outstanding plans for you, Chesser.”
“Why?”
“I recognize your potential. Meecham underestimated you. But business instinct tells me you’re my sort of man.”
Coglin was recruiting. A predecessor’s enemy was usually a potential ally.
“You do want to be reinstated, don’t you?” asked Coglin.
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’d expected a bit more enthusiasm.”
“I’m not feeling well today,” Chesser told him.
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Just a touch of fever.”
“Well, get better and we’ll look forward to seeing you on the ninth. Or did you say you preferred the tenth?”
“The ninth,” Chesser said, to sound definite.
Good-byes.
Chesser put the phone back onto its cradle. The System wasn’t after them. Evidently The System hadn’t even connected them to the robbery. He should have been greatly relieved about that but, instead, felt bitterly disappointed.
He went upstairs to tell Maren.
She was in the bathroom, soaking in the clear plastic tub. The water was fragrant, a baby-blue color. Chesser could see the exquisite bare line of her, slightly distorted, magnified. Her lower hair resembled a patch of delicate, glistening, nutmeg-colored weeds.
She didn’t hear him enter. She had earphones on, connected by a long coiling cord stretched to the stereo outlet on the opposite wall.
“I called The System,” Chesser told her.
Maren didn’t hear.
“I just called The System,” he shouted.
She smiled. She was listening to some medieval love ballads, very loud, while self-indulgently lathering her stomach with a frothy bar from Lubin.
Friday morning before breakfast, Maren and Chesser were at the town hall. Mr. Saltzman married them without even pausing for their “I do” s and “I will”s, assuming they did and would. They didn’t realize the ceremony was over until Saltzman turned his back on them. The plain gold band Chesser slipped on Maren’s finger was the same one they’d been using for the past two years. Saltzman gave them a certificate he’d stamped and signed in advance, which they could sign later.
When they returned to the chalet they noticed the Aston Martin was not in front where it had been. Maren always left the car’s keys in the ignition, so as not ever to need to bother searching for them elsewhere—a convenience that had resulted in three of her cars being inconveniently stolen during the past two years. Now Chesser could only hope she hadn’t discarded the registration or bill of sale. He didn’t, and was sure she didn’t, remember the license plate number.
Maren wasn’t at all upset by the missing car. Chesser’s stomach decided that he’d call the police after breakfast.
They approached the front entrance of the chalet. It was locked. Had she locked it? No. Neither had he. They went to the nearest expanse of glass and looked in.
Looking back at them from inside were two men. One short, one tall.
Maren knew immediately who the two men were. It took a few seconds for Chesser to realize.
“Let us in,” requested Chesser.
Both men raised their chins and shook their heads.
“Open up, goddamn it!” demanded Chesser.
“You’re trespassing,” defied the short lawyer.
“This is private property,” informed the tall lawyer.
“They’re right,” Maren told Chesser, who was searching around for something to smash the glass. “They sure in hell didn’t waste any time, did they?” Chesser said bitterly.
“Actually, all things considered, I think they’ve been quite patient,” was Maren’s opinion.
Chesser controlled his anger enough to tell them: “At least let us get our clothes.”
“Nothing here belongs to you,” said the short lawyer smugly.
His associate concurred with a pompous snap of his head.
That intimidated Chesser so much he thought if he did get inside the first things he’d go for were the guns. “Fucking French vultures!” he yelled at them.
“Go away,” the short lawyer advised.
“Or we’ll c
all the authorities,” threatened the other.
“Let’s go,” Maren suggested, tugging Chesser’s arm.
“We can’t. They confiscated the car. Besides,” Chesser just remembered, “we need our passports.”
Maren smiled in at the two men. “We want only our passports,” she told them in French, punctuating her attitude with a “please.” A few minutes later a second-floor window opened and the passports were tossed down.
Chesser could just imagine the invisible Jean Marc floating around and gloating.
The only public transportation from Gstaad to Geneva is bus. Not a nice, comfortable, purring bus. Rather, a roaring, fumey vehicle, sick and tired from climbing mountains.
Maren and Chesser had to take it. And for the entire seventy-mile, three-hour ride, their empty stomachs were grinding and groaning right along with their conveyance. Their only funds were the eighty-seven francs Chesser just happened to have in his trousers pocket that morning. After paying for bus tickets, they were left with the equivalent of about three dollars.
Chesser believed everything would be better as soon as they got to Geneva. At least their immediate financial plight would be alleviated by the two hundred thousand fuck-you dollars he had stashed in the Geneva bank. Half of that would go for the packet Coglin had promised on the ninth. The other half would be enough of a cushion, if he could keep Maren, and himself, from living it up.
In his mind, Chesser had already accepted Coglin’s offer of reinstatement.
Maren was set against it. “I thought we’d settled that,” she said.
“Circumstances have changed,” he said.
“Not so much.”
“I have to make a living.”
“Most people spend most of their lives making a living so that some day they’ll be able to really live. That’s stupid. Besides, it might be dangerous. They might begin to suspect you, for some reason.”
“There’s nothing else I can do,” contended Chesser.
“You can just be with me.”
Same old argument, thought Chesser, except now it didn’t hold up.
There was no longer any bottomless Jean Marc fortune to support it. Maren was refusing to face reality, and it would doubtless take some time for her to adjust. All the more reason why he had to be practical. He had to go back with The System. Maybe he didn’t want to but there was no choice.
Actually, the prospect of going back to receive the important treatment was rather appealing. The System would be different and so would he. He’d be serious about business, make every deal count, squeeze the most from every carat, prove to them that Meecham had been wrong about him. And in no time, he imagined, he’d be picking up packets as fat and perfect as Barry Whiteman’s.
The most difficult thing was going to be looking them straight in the eye, taking their favors, without feeling a hypocrite. Still, there’d been the ten persecuting years he’d put in under Meecham. In a way, Chesser told himself, he and The System were restarting even. His whole life was restarting.
Not quite.
There was still Massey. He’d somehow have to square things with Massey before going back with The System. He knew it was naive to believe Massey would let them off easily. Even if they put it straight on the line with Massey, told him the whole truth and nothing but, the old son of a bitch was going to want retribution. The most they could realistically hope was that he wouldn’t come down on them again before they had a chance to tell their side of it, make their appeal. No matter, decided Chesser, they were absolutely finished with the running and hiding.
When they arrived in Geneva, they went directly to Chesser’s bank on Stempenparkstrasse, a wide thoroughfare bordering the lake. Maren preferred not to go in with him. “I’m hungry,” was her excuse.
“We’ll have an elegant lunch after,” he promised.
“I’m hungry now,” she said, drooping forlornly so her hair fell forward, left and right, and all he could see of her face was her nose and some of her lips.
Chesser felt the pinch of his new responsibilities. He gave her all the money he had and told her, “Get a little something to hold you over.”
She straightened, brightened, and hurried off down the street. He watched until she went into a bakery they’d passed along the way. Then he entered the bank.
It was typical of those Swiss banks which specialize in international accounts. That is, it didn’t look like a bank. There was no name displayed on the entrance, or anywhere. It could have been any kind of business. Its reception area was carpeted deep red and paneled in dark, waxed walnut. A matching desk was situated at an unavoidable intercepting point in front of a solid counter that ran across the width of the room. About ten feet beyond the counter more paneling nearly camouflaged a pair of doors.
Seated at the reception desk was a young man, who did not request Chesser’s name, discretion and anonymity being the rule.
Chesser asked to see someone concerning his account. The receptionist used the dark-brown phone, which was the only thing on the desk. Almost immediately an older, bald man emerged from one of the doors beyond the counter and offered his assistance.
“I want to make a withdrawal,” Chesser told him.
The man placed a note pad on the counter top and accommodatingly unscrewed the top from a sterling silver pen, which he handed to Chesser.
Chesser wrote his account number on the pad, along with the amount he wished to withdraw. The fewest possible spoken words was normal procedure.
The bald man took the pad with him to the back of the bank. There he methodically checked the number against his registry of confidential accounts. He saw the name Chesser and immediately made a long distance call to Cap Ferrat, France. A few moments later he returned to Chesser and said to him, “We have no account by that number.”
Chesser checked the number he’d written and saw it was correct. He’d memorized it, knew it as well as his name. “Look again. I’m sure you’ll find it.”
“Perhaps you’re in the wrong bank.”
“I’m in the right bank.” Chesser was positive, although he’d only been there once before, six years ago, when he’d made his initial deposit. But nothing had changed since then. Same desk, same counter, same paneling, everything.
“There are a great number of banks on this street.”
“Maybe one of your bookkeepers or someone made a mistake,” said Chesser, and knew immediately he shouldn’t have said it. There’s nothing the Swiss dislike more than having their efficiency questioned. “I want to see the manager,” demanded Chesser.
“I am the manager,” was the man’s curt reply. He ripped the sheet bearing Chesser’s account number from the note pad, crumpled it in his fist, and dropped it with finality into a wastebasket on his way to the paneled door, which softly clicked him out of sight.
Chesser confronted the receptionist. “Tell that bastard to come back out here.”
The receptionist sat as wooden as a carved music box figure.
“This bank’s got my money and I want it!” shouted Chesser.
The receptionist blinked twice.
“Please?” begged Chesser.
The receptionist remained stiff, silent.
Chesser gazed futilely at the doors beyond the counter. He had the impulse to jump over and break in and make them give him his money, the money he now so desperately needed. But something told him if he jumped he’d eventually land in a tight Swiss jail.
He went out and looked for Maren; saw her across the way seated on a bench facing the lake. He crossed over and sat beside her.
She smiled, but he couldn’t. She was just finishing off a croissant. She took another from one of the two paper bags she held on her lap. She bit off both crusty tips of the pastry and offered the rest to him. She always did that to croissants. Once in Chantilly she’d bought four dozen and indulgently nibbled only the tips from them.
When Chesser didn’t accept, she asked, “What’s wrong?” She knew he was hungry.
“Nothing,” he mumbled. He sat tensely on the front edge of the bench, his elbows dug into his knees, his hands cupping his lowered head. He allowed a little spit to drop from his lips, making a darker wet spot on the pavement between his feet. He concentrated on that and thought what a fucked-up day it had been. Sacrificial wedding, French lawyers, bus ride, and the swindling Swiss for a topper. All on an empty stomach.
Things couldn’t be worse, he thought. Now there was no way of financing that big packet on the ninth. No future, now. Not even enough money for a meal. And no place to stay. This wasn’t just down. This was all the way out. How could he tell Maren they were broke? He thought maybe he could borrow some money, call someone for a loan and make up a believable enough lie to save the old pride. Who? His desperation suggested Weaver. Weaver had a million. Jesus, thought Chesser, how fast the bottom dropped out.
Maren got up and stood before him. She offered him another croissant. When he didn’t take it, she kneeled down and put it to his mouth. She seemed to sense what had happened. Tenderly, she advised, “You’ll feel better if you eat something.”
He opened his mouth unwillingly. Took a bite. It did taste good.
She fed it all to him.
He swallowed and saw her loving smile. He managed a weak one.
She kissed a crumb from his upper lip and, still kneeling, offered the two bags up to him. He shoved his hand into one and brought out another croissant. He let her nibble off both tips before he devoured the rest.
“Have more,” she urged, holding the two bags open.
“No.” He decided it was time she knew.
“Do, darling. You deserve more.”
He reached. Into the other bag this time.
It didn’t contain croissants. Or anything similar. His fingers told him what they were feeling, but it was so incrediable he had to see to believe.
Diamonds!
A whole goddamn bagful of diamonds.
Not rough stones. Finished ones, various shapes and sizes.
Chesser was speechless.
“I went to the bank while you went to the bank,” explained Maren.
“I thought you didn’t care for diamonds.”
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