Stone 588 (13 page)

Her apartment was a seven-room duplex done throughout in a muted, complimentary gray and decorated with a tasteful mix of authentic pieces ranging from Louis Quinze to Regence to Art Deco. The apartment had cost three million five. That was merely for the bare undivided space. What Audrey had done with it cost another million, not counting the paintings. Every square inch and every stick had been paid for by the Hull Foundation and, ostensibly, it was the owner. What Springer liked most about the apartment was how beautiful Audrey looked in it. She knew well how to dress her own windows best, so to speak.

Audrey greeted him with a peck of a kiss. "I forgot to tell you to bring that stone," she said.

"Which stone?"

"The one Janet had."

"Why?"

"We've got to hurry." She turned and rushed up the stairs. Springer noticed the never-worn soles of her navy and white suede man-heeled spectators as he followed up after her.

"You're nifty," he said.

She was dressed to go, in a navy flannel, double-breasted, man-tailored suit that fit although it appeared too large for her. A creamy shirt buttoned low at the neck. Her broad-brimmed panama hat had just a hint of a gangsterish cock to it.

"I'll give you five minutes to change," she said.

On the bed laid out for him was a dark blue suit, fresh shirt, tie, and everything.

"Where we going?"

"Don't bother to shower. Just run your razor over your face and splash a bit."

Springer removed his suit jacket, despised his tie the way he slid its knot down and yanked it off.

"Damn," Audrey said, "I wish I'd thought to tell you to bring that stone."

He told her it was in his jacket pocket.

She got it out, examined it, checked to see it was the right one.

Springer undressed. He didn't feel up to much. More than anything he wanted to draw the curtains and take a nap.

"We're expected at five," Audrey told him.

"Where?"

"Aunt Libby's."

"I can't go."

"Why not other than you don't want to?"

Springer thought fast. "I have to go back to the office."

"Like hell."

"I have to close the safe."

"Anyone can close a safe," she said. "Opening a safe is the hard part. You should know that."

"Yeah, anyone can close a safe, but not just anyone will make sure what's supposed to be in it is in it."

"You're just grasping."

"I'm not. I can't neglect my business."

"Why, then, are you standing there bare-ass?"

"Unfair question."

"Is Mal at the office?"

"Probably."

"He can close the safe. I'll call him."

"I don't want to go to Aunt Libby's." Unequivocally.

"You have to, sooner or later."

"I'll take later."

Audrey shoved a hand into one of her trouser pockets, stated her terms: "I gave you five minutes to freshen up and change. I'll give you five more. If you're not ready by then I'll go alone ... to Aunt Libby's and who knows where else." With that she slung a white kidskin carryall over her shoulder and went downstairs.

Springer glanced at his watch. He went into the bath. His razor, brush, and things were right there on the marble counter. Might as well shave, he thought, he always felt better after a shave. He lathered and gave himself a quick once-over. He ran hot as possible water onto a facecloth. It burned his hands when he wrung it out. He pressed the steaming cloth to his face and rubbed it around the back of his neck. He dried on his way to the bedroom. No hurry, he told himself.

From downstairs he heard the front door slam, a loud pissed-off slam.

Springer legged into the trousers of the blue suit Audrey had laid out for him with such haste he hobbled himself and neady fell. He slipped on socks and shoes, armed into the shirt, and, without taking time to button or tuck it, grabbed up jacket and tie and rushed down the stairs.

Audrey was in the foyer, leaning against the edge of a console, one leg crossed over the other. She smiled, more lovingly than victorious.

"That predictable, huh?"

"I should hope," she said, helping him button.

"Did you reach Mal?"

"Rest easy. Diamond Jim, the safe is closed."

"Who's driving?"

"Aunt Libby sent a car."

The car that Libby sent was a custom-built Daimler limousine. Dark brown. Only someone beyond ordinary wealth would have such a car not be black. The chauffeur, whom Audrey addressed as Groat, was liveried in brown twill with bone buttons. Groat respectfully held his beaked cap in one hand while the other held open the door of the Daimler. He was like an automaton, built for efficiency and protection. His driving did nothing to contradict that impression: gradual, anticipative stops and a steady sixty.

All the way to Round Hill Road in Greenwich, north of the Merritt Parkway.

The Daimler was consistent with the high double gate it turned in at, a seventeenth-century Tijon-style gate with intricate scrollwork in solid repousse and an H monogram incorporated in its overthrow. The large brick piers that flanked the gate seemed obedient, as, from them, the gate automatically swung open left and right to admit the Daimler.

The house was three hundred yards from the gate, but it was immediately visible because the inner drive was straight. It struck Springer that the relationship of the house to its drive made it look like something with a long white textured tongue sticking out. At him. There were ten-foot-high boxwood hedges perfectly clipped along each side. At regular intervals, recesses accommodated huge pedestaled urns overflowing with Persian blue petunias.

The Daimler came to a stop at the main entrance.

Springer opened the car door before Groat could get to it. He stepped out and paused to take in the house. "No place like home," he quipped.

Audrey pinched his ass, sharply.

The architectural style of the house was uncompromisingly Georgian, a pleasing composition of brick and limestone and numerous double-hung eigh-teen-paned sash windows. It was two stories, sixty rooms, showing thirty chimneys above the blue-gray slates of its hipped roof.

The entrance door opened. A white-gloved servant emerged as though his sole assignment had been to await their arrival. He was by no means the typical fine-drawn butler but, like the chauffeur, a formidable man well over six feet, more of a bouncer with polish. Springer thought. A dutiful "Good afternoon, Miss," was said to Audrey. Springer got a sort of bowing nod.

Audrey entered the house with the relaxed bearing of one who belonged. Springer felt like a tagalong. He tried not to appear impressed. The crystal chandelier that hung above the wide reception hall was immense and yet so delicate that he would have preferred not to be under it. All the more so because it seemed to be suspended by a mere strip of blue velour, which, of course, was actually a sleeve that covered a length of chain. The feature on one wall of the reception was a full-length portrait by Sargent. On the wall opposite was a French trumeau mirror above an important giltwood console holding an extravagant arrangement of rubrium lilies.

Audrey tossed her hat to the butler, whom she called by his last name: Hinch.

Hinch had excellent reflexes. "Everyone is on the lower terrace," he informed her.

Audrey stood tiptoe to peek at herself in the mirror through the mass of lilies. She primped her hair briefly, then extended her hand to Springer to lead the way. They went across the width of the house, passing through several rooms so quickly that Springer got only a vague impression of their spaciousness and elegance.

Tall pairs of French doors opened onto a wide terrace that overlooked the grounds. A broad, gentle slope of flourishing lawn. Mature trees—elm, beech, chestnut—given room, had grown to plump, presiding shapes. Many dogwoods were lesser punctuations. Every edge and angle had been softened by evergreens and flowering shrubs.

From the higher vantage of the terrace, Springer's eyes caught upon a glint of glass in the distance that was the peak of a large greenhouse. Off to the right, obscured by vine, so it might be either ignored or more privately enjoyed, was a tennis court. Also in that vicinity. Springer assumed, would be a swimming pool. He sighted far out, could see no end to the grounds or any neighboring house. No doubt somewhere out there, probably fifty acres away, was a perimeter wall. This in an area where a two-acre building plot went for as much as a half million.

Audrey hurried him down twenty-five wide stone steps and across some lawn to where an expansive brick terrace was contained by the droops of willows.

There, facing the long aureate rays of the late sun, was Libby. She was seated in a deep duchesse brisee with her feet up. All but her head was covered by an elaborately embroidered blue silk Fu Manchu dynasty kimona of museum quality. None of the furniture there was meant for outdoors. It was down-filled Louis Quinze upholstered in a pale green silk. Several bergeres, tabourets, and a small settee, accommodated by marble-topped side tables. Evidently, the furniture was covered each night or taken inside whenever the weather turned suddenly bad.

On the terrace with Libby were Thomas Wintersgill and Gilbert Townsend. The two men stood as though pulled up, smiling automatically around their greetings. Libby merely tilted her head up to receive left and right cheek kisses from Audrey. Springer was introduced. Handshakes were performed.

"I believe we've met," Townsend said.

"Once," Springer told him.

"Nice to see you again." Townsend was one of the foremost jewelers in the world. His main place of business was on Fifth Avenue only three doors down from Winston's. He and the Winston people were arch competitors, vying for the patronage of the wealthy. Over the years nearly every important or famous stone that came on the market passed profitably through either the Townsend or Winston vaults, some stones three or four times, depending on the whims or the bequests of their clients. Townsend boasted, as did Winston, that he was an exclusive jeweler, while Tiffany and Cartier were department stores.

A short lean sixty-year-old, Townsend was meticulous about his appearance, gave any possible overstatement a wide path. Springer, during an appointment with Townsend a few years ago, had shown some of his better, larger goods. Townsend had treated the stones with disrespect, tossed them carelessly about on his desk, and not even asked their price.

It did not surprise Springer to find Townsend there. Libby was known as one of his choice customers.

Drinks were offered.

A white-jacketed servant appeared.

"We're having Potted Parrots," Libby said.

Springer noticed a frothy orange concoction in the stemmed glasses. "What's in it?" he asked.

"You've never had a Potted Parrot?" Libby said it like You 've never had a pair of shoes?

"No." Springer expected Libby to urge him to give one a try but she looked abruptly away. "I'll have some stout," he told the servant, just for the contrariness of it, believing stout was probably not to be had.

"A Montrachet spritz for me," Audrey said. She was already seated on the settee with her carryall between her feet, keeping in contact with it as though it contained something especially valuable. She patted the cushion of the settee for Springer to come sit beside her.

A bird somewhere up in the willow's branches let go. Its excrement dropped onto the highly polished toe of Townsend's left shoe. Everyone noticed and stared. Libby condemned the culprit with an upward glance. Townsend apologized, reached down, and self-consciously wiped away the whitish glob with his linen cocktail napkin. Springer hoped Townsend would forgetfully use the same napkin later to wipe his mouth.

The drinks were brought. Springer's stout was Guinness Extra in a heavy crystal mug. He raised the mug to the situation and took a gulp. He disliked the dark, nearly black stuff. To his taste the bitterness of it was a self-infliction. "Not cold enough," he stated and placed the mug on the table by his elbow.

Nose up, Wintersgill informed him, "Stout is best a bit on the warm side."

They'd have to tie him down and shove a funnel in his mouth to get another drop of that bile in him. Springer vowed.

"Before you arrived," Libby said, "we were discussing the Fasig-Tipton sales coming up. From what I've gathered, this year's crop of yearlings isn't much. Except for a couple of Slew and Affirmed colts, there's nothing worth paying two or three million for." She asked Springer, "What's your opinion?"

"I don't know horses," Springer told her.

"I would have thought not." Libby smiled.

It wasn't easy to verbally slice at someone like that and at the same time sweet-smile the way Libby could. Springer thought. Like an executioner beaming amiably as he dropped the blade. Well, this long-avoided head-on with Libby was turning out exactly as he'd always feared it would. He could only hope to get out of it with as little damage done as possible. He had the notion to pretend sudden food poisoning.

Wintersgill cleared his throat and asked Libby, "When do you intend to go down to the farm?"

"Before the Virginia weather gets muggy," she replied.

"You'll skip Keeneland?"

"Christ, yes. Whatever our animals bring they'll bring without my being there. And I can certainly do without all those obligatory dinners, all those idiot hags wilting in chiffon. We used to say July is for the shore, August for the mountains. I still abide."

The conversation went from that to the regretful opinion that Penobscot Bay was deteriorating socially. Townsend contributed little, agreed a lot. Wintersgill grunted and cleared his throat often. Audrey reached over and caressed the back of Springer's neck, a small reward for his forbearance. Springer discreetly appraised his adversary.

Libby.

She was the most victorious time-fighter he'd ever met. Well into her sixties and trying for twenty years less. She was naturally slender, had the fine bone structure of the well bred, which helped considerably in making her various physical renovations more successful. The foremost cosmetic surgeons from Rio to Geneva had done their paring, peeling, tucking, and lifting, so there were no pouches beneath her eyes, no droop to her lids, no furrows across her forehead or striations above her upper lip. They had achieved a perfect concavity for her cheeks, a tight, well-defined chin, and almost done away entirely with the crepiness of her neck. Her body had been taken up or in, like some ill-fitting garment, by its hems and seams. She had healthy, abundant hair, cared for, not the least bit crimpy. Once dark, it had gone gray and was now kept a subtle blond. Her capped teeth were up-to-date.