Cat on a Cold Tin Roof

by Mike Resnick

  And I kept coming to the same conclusions. The Bolivians would have been fools to kill him unless they had their hands on the money or knew where it was . . . and it was clear from the fact that they were still hanging around that they didn’t know. And it was just as obvious Velma figured all the money was in those ten diamonds. But that didn’t make sense. She had access to the insurance policy and had me arrested because she thought I’d stolen the collar. If she knew the collar was worth 10 percent of what Palanto was hiding somewhere—and if she knew where it was, she’d be getting a new name and face in some other state or country.

  I continued to stare at the policy.

  “If you’d only been for ten million, this fucking case would make a hell of a lot more sense,” I muttered.

  Shut up when someone’s trying to sleep, growled Marlowe, stretching his feet as he lay on his side and digging his nails into my thigh.

  I picked up the remote and turned on the TV. There weren’t any basketball games on for a few more hours. The best ESPN could do was a rerun of the fourth Pacquiao-Marquez fight, and I’d already lost enough money betting on it the first time. I tried TCM, hoping for something with Bogart or maybe with the team of Greenstreet and Lorre, who I persisted in thinking of as the Mutt and Jeff of international crime, but instead they were having a John Garfield festival. I watched the second half of The Postman Always Rings Twice and the first ten minutes of Saturday’s Children, trying all the time not to think about the diamonds, and finally I couldn’t sit still any longer. I turned off the set, forced Marlowe to go for a walk while I tried to clear my head, let him make a beeline for the couch when we got back, stuffed the insurance form into my coat pocket, and went back out.

  I don’t know one jeweler from another (well, except for the fences, those who’ll talk to me and those who won’t), but I figured if I stayed within a mile or two of Palanto’s house I couldn’t go too far wrong. So I drove over to his place, then hunted up the nearest upscale shopping area, and stopped at Kaiser’s Jewelers.

  The window looked impressive. I’d seen enough bullet-proof glass to know I was looking at some, and the prices on the stuff that was displayed there justified the expenditure for the glass and doubtless for one hell of an alarm system as well.

  At the moment there was one middle-aged woman there, looking at watches or watchbands, I couldn’t tell which, and since I needed the jeweler’s attention I lit up a cigarette—only my second of the day (well, if you don’t count the two I snubbed out after only a couple of puffs), found myself staring into a lingerie shop and attracting giggles from a couple of teenaged girls who were passing by, and moved on to pretend to be studying “Authentic! Oriental!! Rugs!!!” in the next store. I was starting to get really cold just standing there, so I only smoked half the cigarette, stamped on its remains and shoved it into a gutter, and walked into the jewelry store just as the lady was leaving.

  “Good afternoon,” said the jeweler, a balding little man with thick glasses. “May I help you?”

  “I certainly hope so,” I replied. “I have to tell you up front that I’m not here to buy anything. You’re way out of my price range. I’m a detective, working on a case, and I need some information.”

  He gave me a little smile. “That woman who just left took up half an hour of my time for the third time this week. She’s not going to buy anything either, but she hasn’t even admitted it to herself, let alone to me. So why can’t I take a few minutes educating an officer of the law?”

  It’s been my experience that half the people think I’m an ugly version of Humphrey Bogart, and the other half think I work for the police—and since I was taking up this guy’s time for free I decided not to correct his wrong impression.

  “Fine,” I said. “My name is Eli Paxton.”

  He extended a hand, and I took it. “And I am Phineas Kaiser. Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Paxton—or is it Officer Paxton?”

  “Just Eli will do,” I said. I pulled the policy out of my pocket and handed it to him.

  “It looks like an insurance policy,” he said.

  “It is. It’s for ten diamonds, and they average one hundred thousand dollars apiece.”

  He nodded, looking the policy over. “Nice tidy sum. They must be quite beautiful, these diamonds.”

  “I’ve never seen them,” I said.

  Suddenly his face lit up. “Hah! They’ve been stolen!”

  “In all likelihood,” I replied.

  “In all likelihood?” he repeated. “You’re a detective, you’ve never seen them, you’re showing me the policy. Of course they’ve been stolen.”

  “Stolen or well-hidden by their owner.”

  “Why not ask him if he hid them? Or is this some insurance scam?”

  “It gets really complex,” I said. “Anyway, I need some information, and an expert opinion.”

  “You’ve come to the right place,” he said. “Well, one of them anyway. What exactly do you need to know?”

  “The policy describes each diamond,” I said. “How it was cut, how many carats, any flaws, just about everything there is to know about them.”

  He nodded, studying the policy. “That’s correct. Very thorough job.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s my first question: does that seem like a fair appraisal of their worth?”

  “The Bateman Company has been insuring jewels as far north as Cleveland and as far south as Nashville for half a century,” he replied. “Have you some reason to think they were mistaken?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  He smiled. “Of course you have an idea, or you wouldn’t have asked. How much do you think they’re worth?”

  “I don’t know anything about diamonds, so my opinion would be meaningless,” I said. “But someone thinks they might be worth a lot more than a million dollars.”

  “How much more?” asked Kaiser.

  “Maybe ten million?” I said, feeling like a fool.

  He laughed. “Based on this description, on their size and weight and color, not a chance. Maybe a million and a half in an up market, but surely no more than that.” He glanced down at the policy. “Three years old,” he noted. “Prices haven’t varied five percent since then.”

  “You’re sure?” I said.

  He drew himself up to his full, if minimal, height. “I know my trade, Mr. Paxton.”

  “Eli,” I corrected him.

  “Have you any other questions?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, one more,” I said. “I’ve been assuming that if these things turn up, it’ll be with a fence.”

  He smiled. “If you want the names and addresses of all the fences in the Tri-State area, I think your department is far better informed than I am.”

  “No, I don’t need their names,” I said. “But it occurs to me that they might not go through a fence. I mean, someone who can steal a million dollars’ worth of diamonds can probably find a way to prove they’re his if no one looks too closely.”

  “I don’t think I like what you’re suggesting,” said Kaiser.

  “I’m not suggesting that anyone could dupe you, especially now that we’ve had this conversation,” I said. “I’m just blue-skying here, wondering if someone with some kind of forged ownership credentials might try to unload them on a legitimate jeweler, or on a number of legit jewelers.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know, Mr. Paxton . . . Eli. He’d be taking quite a chance that someone could spot phony ownership papers. Fences won’t care, so why take the chance?”

  “You don’t deal with fences, I take it?”

  “Of course not,” he said severely.

  “If you thought you had a wealthy customer who was about to buy his girlfriend a truly splendid diamond engagement ring, and you thought one of these diamonds might be just what he was looking for, and you know you could charge him a million for the diamond, plus whatever the setting and your time are worth, what would you pay me for the diamond if I could prove t
o your, shall we say, eager satisfaction, that I was the legitimate owner?”

  “I’d have to consider the ring, the work required . . .” Kaiser began.

  “If you knew it was a sure sale for more than a hundred grand, would you pay ninety?” I asked. “Eighty-eight?”

  He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Probably. But I’d have to be sure at both ends—that my customer was willing and able to pay for it, and that you were the true owner.”

  “So you’d pay ninety percent of the diamond’s value for a legitimate sale?” I said.

  “If the other conditions were as stated,” replied Kaiser.

  I gave him a huge grin. “You know what a fence will pay for a hot diamond?”

  “I have no idea,” he answered.

  “Between five and ten percent, depending on how hot it is and how long he has to keep it off the market. Now do you know why I’m thinking that maybe the diamonds might show up at a respectable diamond merchant’s like this one?”

  “I see!” he said, wide-eyed with wonderment. Suddenly he laughed. “Clearly I should have been a fence!”

  “Stay legit,” I said. “You deal with a better class of clientele. Safer, anyway.”

  “Sound advice,” replied Kaiser. Then: “Have you any other questions?”

  “Just one. You got a Xerox machine?”

  “A photocopier? Yes.”

  “Then make a copy of the descriptions and keep it handy.”

  “You could just leave the policy here,” he suggested.

  I shook my head. “No, I’ve got to make a copy for every jeweler in the area. Hell, probably in the county.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “I see. Well, hand me the policy, I’ll copy the essential parts in the back room, and return it in less than a minute.” He took the policy to his office or work room or whatever it was, and was back almost instantly.

  “You know,” he said, returning the papers to me, “I could just call all the other dealers—the ones who can handle this kind of transaction—and have them contact you if and when someone tries to unload the hundred-thousand-dollar diamonds.”

  I shook my head. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “I don’t follow you,” he said, frowning.

  “There’ll be some jewelers who might not be as careful as they should with a one-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond,” I said, “but any jeweler who’s confronted by ten of them is going to make dead sure of the identity of the seller at the very least. If I were a betting man, and I am, I’d make it even money that if someone tries to unload them at all, they’ll be spread over half a dozen shops.”

  “I see,” he said. Then: “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Eli. You don’t even know for a fact that they’ll try to sell them here, or that they’re still in the city.”

  “Oh, they’re in the city,” I said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because every person who would kill for them is still in the city,” I answered.

  He stared at me for a long moment. “You make me very happy that I’m just a jeweler,” he said at last.

  16.

  I met Sorrentino for dinner. He hadn’t learned a damned thing, and neither had I. The cow that supplied the steak had been a muscle builder that would put Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame. Dessert wasn’t much better, and we agreed to meet at yet another Bob Evans for lunch the next day. Then I remembered that it was Sunday, and I had planned to stay home and watch the Bengals, so we agreed to skip lunch and meet at a German joint, of which Cincinnati has its share, for dinner.

  I was really looking forward to kicking off my shoes, fighting Marlowe for the couch cushion that was directly in front of the TV, and watching Cary Grant portray Cary Grant in a quartet of movies.

  But before I could unlock the door to my apartment, Mrs. Cominsky rushed up to me.

  “Three hundred and seventy-two more, just today,” she announced.

  “Find the guilty party yet?” I asked without much interest.

  “Guilty of what?” she responded. “We’ve got seven for-sure rapists, a dozen sodomists, nine pedophiles, twenty-two hookers . . . and the list goes on and on.”

  “The charm of living in the city,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “Makes me afraid to walk to the supermarket,” she said.

  “Well, turn ’em over to the cops and let them worry about it,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to get by her and put my key in the lock.

  “Not yet,” she said quickly. “There are some I need to study further.”

  “To see who returned the cat?”

  She looked blank for a moment, and then my question registered. “Oh, of course,” she said quickly. “Definitely. That’s what this is all about.”

  “Right,” I said. Marlowe, who had doubtless been listening, finally barked, now that the dirty parts were over. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d better take the dog for a walk before he does something dreadful to your rug.”

  “My carpet!” she snapped.

  She stepped aside as I unlocked and opened the door. Marlowe was standing just on the other side, and his expression seemed to ask why I was wasting my time with this dirty old lady when I could be walking him in the freezing rain. I didn’t have an answer, so I stuck a leash on him and took him outside.

  He’d just finished blessing Mrs. Garabaldi’s petunias in his own unique way when she stuck her head out the window and began cursing us both out, as usual.

  “Hey, Mrs. Garabaldi,” I said. “I want to make amends for my dog’s poor behavior.” She stared at me, frowning. “Mrs. Cominsky down the street has a bunch of pornographic letters she’d like to share with you.”

  She kept staring.

  “I’m not kidding. They’re the real thing.”

  “Mrs. Cominsky?” she said at last.

  “Right.”

  “Dirty letters?”

  “Filthy,” I said.

  She closed the window without another word. I went straight home and never did see if she showed up or not, but the thought of the two old biddies poring over those letters kept me warm on a chilly winter night.

  The next day, I woke up half an hour before kickoff, watched the Bengals almost blow a twenty-point lead, met Sorrentino for dinner, exchanged three pleasantries and no information, and went back home, where Marlowe and I spent a few hours watching Gary Cooper say “Yup” and “Nope” and occasionally shoot the bad guys. I walked him one more time and went to bed.

  This time I was photographing Bettie Page on a beach. There was no one within miles of the two of us, and she was twenty-four years old again. I told her I loved her. She opened her moist red lips to answer, and nothing came out but a ringing sound.

  “Bettie, are you all right?” I said apprehensively.

  She smiled reassuringly and tried to tell me she was fine and madly in love with me, but she made that ringing noise again.

  Suddenly the wind growled in my ear. It seemed to be saying, Answer the fucking telephone.

  I sat up in the bed, shook my head a couple of times to remove Bettie from it, told Marlowe to shut the hell up, and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” I muttered.

  “Mr. Paxton?”

  “Right,” I said, blinking my eyes to get some of the sleep out of them.

  “This is Phineas Kaiser.”

  “Who?” I said groggily.

  “Phineas Kaiser.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “I’m a jeweler. You were in my store on Saturday.”

  “Oh! Right!” I said, suddenly alert. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kaiser?”

  “Nothing,” he replied. “But perhaps I can do something for you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I passed the word about your missing diamonds to some of my colleagues, the ones who might expect to handle such items. And I scanned the insurance policy’s description and e-mailed it to them.”

  “And?” I said, trying to keep my excitement out
of my voice.

  “And Winslow Monroe, who runs a shop about a mile from mine, tells me he was offered a diamond ring that was worth in the neighborhood of one hundred thousand dollars. He passed on it—even a jeweler of Winslow’s stature doesn’t shell out that kind of money without a buyer in mind—and he returned it to her. But of course he examined it very thoroughly, and he is certain it was one of your missing diamonds.”

  “And his name is Winslow Monroe?” I said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do you happen to have his address?”

  He gave it to me. I’d fallen asleep in my pants and shirt, so I pulled a pen out of my pocket. I couldn’t find any paper on the bed table, so I wrote it down on my shirt cuff.

  “Thanks, Mr. Kaiser,” I said. “What time does he open?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock,” answered Kaiser. “He’s been open for two hours.”

  “You’ve been a big help,” I said. “If there’s ever anything I can do to thank you, just let me know.”

  “Well . . .” he began slowly.

  “Yes?”

  “Next time you’re near the store, please drop in and inspect my burglar alarm system. I’ve been wondering if it’s time to update it.”

  “You got yourself a deal, Mr. Kaiser,” I promised him.

  We hung up, I decided to change shirts, and then Marlowe reminded me that it was time to walk the dog. I took him out, and even though he spread more holy water on Mrs. Garabaldi’s petunias, there was no cursing.

  “Eli,” I muttered to myself as we turned to go back home, “you’ve made two old ladies very happy.”

  I decided that it was my good deed for the month, and it was time to get back to work. I returned Marlowe to the apartment, barely avoided him as he made a dash for the couch, and went off to talk diamonds with the one man who had actually seen what I was looking for.

  17.

  Winslow Monroe’s shop was called The Pearl Diver, which at least was attention-getting. So was the stuff he had on display in his window—the usual rings and bracelets and necklaces, but also a golden sword with rubies and emeralds embedded in the handle, and a beautifully carved cuckoo clock that was perpetually open at three o’clock, showing an onyx bird with diamond eyes and a sapphire beak poised to squawk out the hour.