11 Harrowhouse (2 page)

Number 11 is one of the larger structures on Harrowhouse—a wider building of five stories, marked by four windows across at every level. The top floor slants to the roof, and the quartet of windows there is set back slightly, each with identical eaves. The building is painted black and crisply trimmed with white. Its entrance is only a degree warmer. Tall double doors of richly varnished oak. On the right-hand door is a rectangle of solid brass, originally chosen thick enough so that now it symbolizes durability and longevity after nearly thirty thousand polishings.

On the brass name plate there is no name. Only the words
number eleven,
in Spencerian script. Marking the headquarters of the Consolidated Selling System, or, as those in the business call it with no less veneration, The System.

It is here that The System maintains control of approximately ninety per cent of the world's diamonds, choking or releasing the supply according to its judgment.

It is a flagrant cartel, enjoying all the advantages of such an arrangement. From its own mines in South Africa and South West Africa comes sixty per cent of the world's supply. With this nucleus of power, The System either buys up or receives on consignment practically all the rough stones found elsewhere in the world.

The System has no competition. In its eighty years of existence there have been only a few challengers, and these have been swiftly dealt with, either dissolved or absorbed. Actually, no one in the business of diamonds wants to slay or even disturb the giant. It is better to have the giant, The System, in absolute control. Otherwise, there might be great fluctuations in price. Surely there would be underselling, and the entire market would be adversely affected. So, to the diamond merchant, The System plays a vital and rather heroic role. It stabilizes price. At least it dictates that the price of diamonds should go up and never down. And that seems to please everyone, including even those who finally purchase the cut gems for substantial investment or precious decoration.

While The System is a far-reaching and complex organization, its method of marketing is ingeniously simple.

Ten times each year invitations are cabled to a select group of two hundred diamond dealers and wholesalers. No one declines, for such an invitation is considered comparable to a gratuity. To be so included is a financial privilege, often handed down from father to son.

Prior to the arrival of these dealers, The System makes up individual packets of diamonds, choosing the stones from its inventory. One packet for each dealer. The size, quality, and number of stones in each packet are decided entirely by The System, and a price, also arbitrarily predetermined, is placed on each packet. Some packets are modestly valued—for example, at a mere twenty-five thousand dollars. Others have been known to be priced as high as nine million. Depending upon what The System dictates.

The dealer arrives at number 11. He is presented with his packet, and, if he chooses, he may examine its contents. Such an examination is called a
sight
. However, most buyers accept their packets without opening them. Not really a show of blind confidence. Merely an acknowledgement of The System's irrefutable terms, which are: No buyer may dispute what he finds in his packet, he may not utter a single questioning word about price, and he must accept all the stones in his packet, or none. If a buyer refuses his packet he is never invited again.

The System's volume is approximately six hundred million dollars a year.

On Friday, May 1st, at precisely two fifty-five
P.M.,
a chauffeured black Daimler deposited Chesser at the entrance to number 11 Harrowhouse Street.

Chesser approached the door and reached for its imposing brass latch. Only the very tips of his fingers contacted the metal, for the door was immediately pulled open to admit him. He should have remembered that from all the previous times, but he was distracted, anticipating what his mind had developed into a confrontation. He didn't want to see Berkely, or even Meecham, especially not Meecham. He wanted to get his packet and get the hell out of there. Maren's plane was due in at six.

Chesser entered and was greeted by the one who always opened the door with such perfect timing. The man's name was Miller. A large man, evidently strong. He was a guard, although that was not apparent from his dress. He wore a black suit and tie. He might have been a funeral director. Miller's post had been the front door of number 11 as long as Chesser could remember. Miller was a friendly sort, always had a smile ready. But as Chesser saw him now he realized that the man would be formidable to anyone uninvited.

Chesser went deeper into the reception area, a wide, impressive center hall that led to a full-width stairway. He heard his steps on the patterned black-and-white marble floor. For some reason, his hearing seemed overly acute. He was also aware of his body's reluctance to move. He didn't want to be there.

He sat on a bench that was genuine Queen Anne and placed his business case beside him. He was minutes early. He preoccupied himself with the wall opposite, where a large painting was hung. A snowscape, well done in convincing soft whites, peaceful, glistening. He had the urge to smoke, but decided to wait. He noticed there wasn't an ashtray on the nearby table. Miller was standing in his place by the entrance. They exchanged friendly expressions.

“They know you're here,” said Miller, reassuringly.

“Thanks.”

Chesser glanced at his watch. It told him three exactly. He expected the door on the right to open, but then he heard voices and saw them coming down the stairs—Meecham and Sir Harold himself. Everyone referred to him as Sir Harold. He was the chairman of the directors, the very top of The System. His last name was Appensteig.

Meecham and Sir Harold flanked a short man who had hyperthyroid eyes and a gray suit cut to minimize a paunch. The man's feet seemed too small for the rest of him. Very small feet, like a dancer's. In obviously expensive shoes. Chesser immediately recognized the short man as Barry Whiteman, the American whose packet was usually valued in the millions. In the United States the name Whiteman and diamonds were synonymous. Whiteman was carrying a black Mark Cross attaché case. He'd probably brought his bank draft in it. No doubt it now contained his packet.

Chesser stood when he saw them, an almost involuntary reaction. Although they didn't acknowledge Chesser, they seemed to know he was there. Whiteman was getting the important treatment from Meecham and Sir Harold. Chesser overheard them commenting on the lunch they'd shared.

They passed close to Chesser. Whiteman's eyes were aimed down, as though watching his shoes. They paused at the door. Whiteman touched his tie to verify that it was in place. Gray silk tie exactly matching a gray silk shirt. He made a remark about sherry. Meecham and Sir Harold laughed appropriately, and Meecham said he would see that Whiteman received some,
a case
, he said. Chesser thought it likely they were referring to a woman. Whiteman made Meecham promise. He extended his hand for two perfunctory shakes and was smiling when he went out.

Meecham and Sir Harold remained in place. Sir Harold was in his seventies, wore a suit of expensive worsted, black with an almost imperceptible blue broken stripe. In his youth his hair had been blond and his complexion English fair. Now what hair he had was a creamy-to-yellow shade, and his face was red from pressure, as though all the capillaries were trying to surface.

Meecham was a decade younger and about two inches taller. His mannerisms were sharp, alert, contradicting his rather indefinite, round features.

The two men spoke confidentially for a long moment. Sir Harold was faced away from Chesser, and Meecham was doing most of the talking. Once Meecham glanced over at Chesser, and that made Chesser feel he was their topic.

Finally, they came down the hall to him. They gave him automatic handshakes, first Meecham and then Sir Harold. Their hands felt dry and pulpy.

“Good to see you looking so fit,” said Meecham, smiling. “Been in the sun, I see.”

Chesser had a good tan from Nice.

“You've met Sir Harold before, I'm sure.”

Chesser said yes and would have said more but Sir Harold broke in. “Of course I know young Chesser.” The way he said it implied a compliment. “I knew your father very well,” he added.

Chesser knew that was a lie. His father had never been important enough to receive any close attention from The System's director. Besides, Chesser remembered his father speaking of Sir Harold with only distant respect, as one might refer to a force rather than a living man. So Sir Harold's next words were unexpected.

“Your father always wanted to have a store, I remember. A first-class place on Fifth Avenue.”

That was true.

“I suppose you continue his ambition?”

“Of course,” lied Chesser.

“He was a fine man,” said Sir Harold, with Meecham nodding concurrence. “Fine man,” Sir Harold repeated, his attention directed vaguely down the hall. It was now evident that Sir Harold had given more than he cared to this inconsequential meeting. Chesser was no Whiteman. Never would be. Sir Harold took the first step that started them down the hall together.

As they neared the stairs, Sir Harold moved from them toward what appeared to be a panel of blank wall. Immediately, as though anticipating his approach, the panel slid aside to reveal an elevator.

“Do see that young Chesser is cared for,” instructed Sir Harold without turning, and entered the elevator.

Meecham said that he would.

The wall panel wiped Sir Harold from view.

Going up the stairs, Meecham remarked, “Sir Harold seems genuinely fond of you.”

Chesser hoped he looked grateful.

“I'm surprised he didn't inquire about Mrs. Chesser. Can be a nasty thing, divorce.”

Chesser had never discussed his divorce with anyone this side of the Atlantic except Maren. He assumed The System had learned about it the same way they learned everything, however that was.

Meecham continued: “They take divorce much too lightly in America. It's a serious problem.”

“Actually, it's a solution,” was Chesser's opinion.

“How's that?” asked Meecham.

“Like peace,” Chesser told him. “Peace is a solution, war is a problem.”

“You believe marriage is a war?”

“It can be.”

Meecham grunted. Disagreement, particularly coming from anyone of Chesser's status, was insubordination. It wasn't done. “Thank the Lord we make divorce more difficult in this country,” he said.

Chesser thought of Henry the Eighth's chopping block and almost said it.

“No offense meant, of course,” said Meecham. “It's only that I've a personal prejudice against it. Married people should stick it out together, no matter what.”

Chesser wondered how many demerit marks The System had on his ledger. As yet, Meecham hadn't said anything about yesterday's missed appointment.

By then they were on the second floor landing. Meecham led the way into a room that was used exclusively for sights. It was a huge, high room. A pair of black leather Chesterfield sofas formed a seating area at one end. The walls were impressively paneled. Underfoot was a Persian rug, an authentic Kirman. At the other end was a long, sturdy table. The entire top surface of the table was covered with black velour.

The table was positioned beneath a large window that permitted exact northern daylight. This was
the
light for the entire diamond industry, considered such a criterion that electric illumination of precisely the same quality had been invented for use in diamond centers throughout the world. And in some important places the window itself had been identically duplicated in proportion and position, to standardize the examination of diamonds.

Behind the table was a man whom Meecham called by his last name. Watts. Chesser had seen Watts before in this room, at previous sights. The way he stood, Watts seemed more a fixture than a person.

On the table's black velour surface there was only one thing.

Chesser's packet.

It wasn't, as might be imagined, a parcel elaborately wrapped and tied. No special ribbon or paper. It was just an ordinary small manila envelope.

Meecham asked: “Would you care to look?”

Chesser wanted to decline but decided it might be in his favor if he didn't. A show of interest. He took a seat at the table. Meecham went around to the opposite side and stood beside Watts, a position that allowed him to maintain his view of Chesser, from above and head on.

From his business case Chesser removed a loupe, ten-power, the type of glass most jewelers use. He placed it on the table and picked up his packet. He undid the flap and, rather ceremoniously, emptied its contents. Four squares of neatly folded tissue. He undid one. It contained five uncut stones of two to four carats.

Chesser picked up the largest and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He placed the loupe to his right eye and sighted into the stone, turning it for various angles. He saw that it was of excellent quality, good color, and had but a single carbon spot on one side, close enough to its perimeter. It would cut nicely.

“A beauty,” Chesser approved.

He opened the other three folds of tissue. He sighted into several stones and then a few more, choosing at random, small and larger. All the while his expression remained set, and he made no comment. Finally, he refolded the tissues around the stones and replaced them in the envelope.

On the underneath side of the envelope's flap he saw the figure “17,000.” He didn't react. He brought his look up and found Meecham's eyes upon him. He read Meecham's eyes. Superiority inviting defiance.

Chesser's packet had never been valued at less than twenty-five thousand dollars. This time he'd been presented with as many stones as usual but, with only a few exceptions, these were of inferior quality. He had seen the flaws in them, the inclusions, the bubbles, clouds, and feathers. The System was punishing him. But he knew if he complained there would never be a next time.