Parisian Affair (35 page)

'You will never, ever again show anyone the
document books without my explicit permission,' he shouted at her.
'Never! Do you understand that?'

'What am I to do when our prize customers ask
to see them?' she asked, regaining a bit of her composure. 'One of
the Saudi or Kuwaiti princes, a Niarchos or Goulandris? One of the
royals? Tell me that, please.'

'In cases such as that,' he replied in a
calmer voice, 'you will do as you have always done, Jacqueline.'
His voice began to rise, and his face began reddening again. 'But
with a stupid young American nobody like the one today, you will
not give him the time of day.' He slammed a hand down on the bureau
plat.

The roses in the heavy crystal vase on the
corner of the desk quivered, but Jacqueline de la Montarron merely
glanced up at him with an imperturbable expression. What an
uncivilized heathen, she thought. Showing his true stripes.

'I should think,' she said at last, 'that if
a young man came in and told you he had been bidding for Princess
Karima's emerald at Dufour you would pay more than a little
attention to him. Would you not?'

He glared at her. He wanted nothing more than
to slap her patrician face. But he wouldn't allow his emotions to
rule the day. He needed Jacqueline de la Montarron, almost as much
as she needed him. Women like her weren't necessarily rare, but she
had made herself indispensable over the years at Jules Levant. Some
of the most valued customers would deal with no one but her. She
came from their world, after all. She not only knew many of them,
knew their likes and dislikes, their families, and their
idiosyncrasies, but she knew a great deal about jewelry, too. She
was one of
them
, he reminded himself, except that she had
been left penniless by her philandering husband.

He took a few deep breaths to calm himself
and sat down at the
bureau plat
across from her. 'You say he
was staying at the Ritz?'

'Yes,' she said with a nod.

'And he was definitely the young man you
pointed out to me? The one leaving Le Grand Vefour with the young
lady?'

She nodded again. 'I expected him to bring
the young lady into the shop after lunch,' she said, 'but perhaps
they had other plans.' She smiled, imagining what those plans might
have been, hoping that the young lady was worthy of such an
attractive, attentive, and altogether charming young man.

'I am going to leave now,' Ram said. 'I have
a great deal of business to take care of. I trust you will do as
I've said. If the young man returns— or the young lady—you will
call me immediately.'

'Of course,' she replied.

'And you will keep the document books here in
this office unless a customer known to us comes in and wants to see
them?'

'Yes,' she said, patting the side of her
cement hairdo.

'Good. See to it that you do.' He turned and
left the office and went down the hallway to the front of the shop.
Jacqueline de la Montarron rose to her feet, as regal as a swan,
and followed along behind him at her customary pace, mentally
calling him a slew of filthy epithets a lady of her position would
never say aloud.

Kitty stood at the closet in nothing but a
short silk kimono, riffling through the clothes neatly hanging
inside. Her movements were quick and angry, and she didn't try to
go quietly about her search for something to wear, even though
Hilton still slept in the big bed. Wooden hangers clacked against
one another, and plastic rippled and swished loudly, and his
continued snoozing only fed her fury all the more.

There was nothing in the goddamned closet for
her to wear. Anything she would want to put on was at her
apartment. She was sick and tired of running back and forth between
her place and Hilton's. The waiting game was beginning to wear
thin. Waiting for him to ask her to move in.

She continued angrily slamming one hanger
against the next as her eyes quickly scanned one garment after
another. She was sick and tired of her wardrobe, too. Today, she
planned on doing something about that. In a major way. She would
start at Dior, picking up every John Galliano creation she could
get into. From there she would probably go to Roberto Cavalli, and
if there was anything in the store that she didn't own, she would
buy it. Versace, ditto. Then go downtown to Alexander McQueen's
place in the meatpacking district and make a raid on his stock.

She would steer clear of the jewelers. That
was a man's territory as far as she was concerned, and the
principal reason for her anger this morning. She had called Dufour
in Paris yesterday and discovered that Princess Karima's ring had
been purchased by a young woman the auction house refused to
identify. The mere thought that another woman was in possession of
the ring was like an insidious disease in her mind. It would
suddenly creep up on her, this horrible thought, and make rational
thinking or behavior utterly impossible. She had never wanted
anything so much in all her life, and now someone else owned it.
Another woman.

Bang! Clack!
She slammed the hangers
with increasing speed, so intent upon her search for the outfit
that would suit her mood today that she didn't notice Hilton had
sat up on his elbows and was staring at her with a frown.

'What the hell are you doing?' he finally
asked.

She didn't respond to him, but kept rummaging
through the clothes as if she hadn't heard him.

Hilton watched her for a moment, annoyed by
her childish fit of pique, then threw off the bedcovers and got to
his feet. He padded across the room to her, put his arms around her
waist, and nuzzled her neck with his chin before kissing it.

'Don't!' she exclaimed, stiffening. 'Just. .
. just leave me alone!'

He continued lavishing kisses upon her neck,
disregarding her outburst.

Kitty gave up looking through her clothes and
stood still and mute, trying to calm herself. She didn't want to
upset Hilton, not at this stage of the game, and he wouldn't
appreciate her anger the first thing in the morning. Finally, she
turned in his arms and faced him.

'Good morning,' he said with a smile.

'I. . . good morning,' she replied.

'What's got your goat the first thing this
morning?' he asked, looking into her eyes.

Kitty looked away, carrying on a debate about
what to say. Perhaps she should level with him. It was a unique
tactic, but Hilton would appreciate her honesty. He was
old-fashioned that way.

Kitty looked up into his eyes and put on her
best lost-little-girl look. 'I—I'm sorry, Hilton,' she said. 'I'm
acting like a spoiled brat.'

You always do
, he thought. 'Tell me
what it is,' he said, kissing her lips.

'I—I. . . oh, it's . . . silly and useless
and not important,' she said, her voice quavering.

'Come on,' he cajoled, kissing her again.
'Tell me what it is. Anything that upsets you is important to me,
Kitty. You should know that.'

'I . . . oh, I just can't get Princess
Karima's ring out of my mind,' she replied. She felt his arms
loosen about her and saw the look of—what? disappointment?—that
came into his face. 'I know it sounds ridiculous,' she quickly went
on, 'but you know how she was always my idol.'

'I know,' he replied, trying not to sound
irritated. Hilton was getting tired of listening to her. She just
wouldn't let up. But he was still determined to save his surprise.
He wanted to give the ring to her next week and propose at the same
time. If he told her about it now, all of his plans would be
spoiled.

'Dufour wouldn't tell me who got the ring,'
Kitty said, 'but I know that you could find out.'

'Why would they tell me?' he replied in a
nonchalant voice.

'You know very well, Hilton,' she said.
'They'd tell you anything you want to know, with your money and
power.'

What she said was accurate, of course, but he
had to use a delaying tactic. Even though he was quickly growing
weary of this game—and her obsession with the ring—he needed
something to distract her. 'Maybe I'll give them a call,' he said.
'I can't call until Monday, but I'll see what I can do.'

'Would you really?' she asked
enthusiastically, her hips pressing against him.

'For you,' he said, 'you bet I will.' He
kissed her again and slid his hands inside the kimono.

'Oh, Hilton,' Kitty said in a breathy voice,
'you're so good to me.'

He knew what she said was true, but he was
beginning to wonder if she deserved it. His hands stroked her
breasts tenderly, then his fingers thrummed her nipples until they
were hard. 'Hmmm,' he said, kissing her in earnest now, 'why don't
we get back in the sack, Kitty. You don't have anything you have to
do this morning, do you?'

She shook her head, her hands stroking his
rounded buttocks in circles. 'No, Hilton,' she whispered. 'Nothing.
Nothing at all.'

He drew her toward the bed. Even though he
was becoming bored with her childish antics, he still enjoyed her
beautiful, voluptuous body. But he was beginning to ask himself if
the physical pleasure she gave him was worth all the expense and
irritation. Nobody had ever satisfied him physically as Kitty did,
but he was starting to realize that he wanted more. And Kitty was
incapable of giving more.

He heard the buzzer and slowly pushed himself
out of his chair and went to the button on the wall panel near the
front door.
It's Maurice
, he thought.
He's brought me
something for my dinner. A little early today, but who can
complain?
The people at the delicatessen across the street had
been wonderful to him since Elisse's death, bringing him food,
helping him up and down the stairs when he had to go out—a venture
seldom risked of late—picking up and doing his laundry. It was
nothing short of a miracle these days, he thought. This sort of
kindness and generosity. It restored his faith in humankind.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and
heard the sound of footsteps on the steep stairs. Leaving the door
ajar, he slowly shuffled down the hallway and returned to his
chair. He turned the radio's volume down a notch. Faure's
Requiem
, such a sublime piece of music.

He heard the screech of his door opening all
the way, then heard it close. He called to the young man, 'I'm in
the salon, Maurice. You're early today.'

He sensed rather than heard movement at the
doorway leading into the salon and turned his head in that
direction. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes
narrowed. 'You!' he exclaimed, his voice barely above a whisper.
'What are you doing here? What do you want?'

The man stepped into the room and stood over
Monsieur Weiss with a smile on his lips. 'How are you, Solomon?' he
asked.

'As if you cared,' the old man replied.

'You've got that right,' the man replied. His
gaze swept around the room before he crossed to the old
tapestry-covered sofa and picked up a throw pillow, then retraced
his steps to Monsieur Weiss. He stood with his legs spread wide,
and looked down at the old man sitting in his leather- upholstered
chair. The visitor's face was blank, devoid of emotion.

Solomon Weiss looked up at him, then allowed
his eyes to rest on the pillow. 'So this is what it's come to, is
it?'

The man did not reply. He took the glasses
off Solomon Weiss's nose and put them on top of the radio. Then he
brought the pillow up with both his hands, and brought it down hard
on Weiss's head, pushing him against the chair's back. Weiss
emitted a whimper that was quickly muffled, and began to struggle
against the pillow. But it was useless. The younger man held it
against his face with such force that Weiss could hardly fight
against it. His arms and legs flailed pitifully at the air for a
few moments, then went limp. A few moments later, his body slumped
in the chair.

The younger man removed the pillow from his
face and returned it to the sofa where he'd found it, fluffing it
up a bit. Then he picked up the old man's glasses from the top of
the radio and put them back on him. He felt for a pulse, but there
wasn't any. He turned the radio up slightly and removed his latex
gloves, shoving them in the pocket of his jacket.

He turned and left the room, walked down the
hallway, opened the door, and let himself out, then closed the door
behind him.

'The first thing we have to do,' Allegra
said, pacing the Savonnerie rug of the bedroom in their Ritz suite,
'is to try to talk to everyone on the list you made. All of these
people who've bought those emeralds from Jules Levant over the
years.' She took a sip of the champagne that had been awaiting
them, courtesy of the management, when they returned to the
suite.

'Why?' Todd asked from his perch on the
silk-draped bed. He'd taken off his suit and was spread out in his
Jockey shorts. 'What difference does it make?'

'I want to know if they still have them,'
Allegra said. She was wearing one of the hotel's robes, and she
adjusted the tie.

'But why?' Todd persisted. He sipped his
champagne and set the glass down.

'Ramtane Tadjer is trying to get them all
back,' she said. 'I don't know why, except for the obvious worth
they'd have if they were reunited, but—'

'Wait. Hold up a minute,' Todd said. 'You say
'reunited.' You can't be sure they were ever part of a set,
Ally.'

'You're right,' she said, 'but because of
their distinctive similarities, my professional opinion is that
they were together at one time. Then they were split up for
whatever reason, and sold separately over the years.' She didn't
want to tell him yet that she had a very good hunch about why. Todd
might decide that they should stay out of the whole affair.