Stone 588 (22 page)

B6 GERALD A. BROWNE

and, no doubt, squeezed through some very narrow openings. He downplayed it, said it was all in the run of business.

Of course it wasn't. This deal required sneaky discretion. They couldn't just descend on Antwerp and put out word that a dozen twenty-five carat round-cut flawless Russian stones were wanted. That would have caused troublesome attention from the dealers of Pelikaanstraat. Once given the scent they would scurry to show their better, more expensive merchandise, and, although some of it would have been Russian, it was highly unlikely that twelve stones of that size would be gleaned.

Then, with the word out, within a half day Almazjuvelirexport, the Soviet diamond selling office, would arbitrarily raise the asking price of its larger goods as much as 20 percent. At the same time or sooner. The System in London would hear about the pending transaction and put their security people on it. The way The System had its network of informants organized, there would be no way to keep it from learning that Springer was involved. Needless to say. The System would take a dark view of the matter. For going around The System and encouraging the Soviet's direct selling of diamonds, Springer would be struck from the list of the chosen. There'd be no more sights, no more boxes of rough. Like Drumgold, Springer would be an outcast.

Still, Springer had thought Antwerp would be where the deal would be made. Not Paris. Paris wasn't particularly a diamond city. Which was probably what made it ideal in this instance.

Springer stood just inside the entrance of stall 38 and looked across to stall 39. He overheard fragments of Audrey's exchanges with the stall owner. Compared to most others the stall was large. It sold only paintings. They were hung on every vertical surface, floor to ceiling.

Audrey now considered one that was hung disadvantageously low near a comer. Not even framed, a small painting about 7 by 10 inches, frayed where it was crudely tacked to its stretcher.

"What's this?" she asked.

"C'est rien."

A landscape so dulled with dirt and years it was difficult to tell which way was up.

Audrey placed it on the counter and held her pendulum above it. The emerald bead on the end of the twine swung to and fro. "How much for this?" Audrey asked.

"Please, cest un objet de rebut. I have been meaning to throw it out. It is not worthy of consideration by a person of your taste."

"How much?" Audrey insisted.

The stall owner grudgingly accepted that he'd misjudged this customer. "Five hundred francs."

"Will you take three hundred?"

"Three hundred," he agreed accommodatingly. He would have let it go for half that. The small satisfaction of such profit turned to pain when he caught a glimpse of the thick sheaf of brand-new thousand-franc notes from which Audrey plucked one.

At that moment Springer saw across the way a woman unlock the entrance to stall 39. A middle-aged woman with an inverted nest of hair dyed a carrot color. She switched on the lights inside the stall and carried out a display table that had a glass-enclosed compartment. She placed the table to one side of the entrance and arranged various items in it. She was not the sort of person Springer had expected. He hadn't been given a name, merely the stall number, and for some reason it was set in his mind that he'd be meeting a man—certainly not this dumpy woman in a cheap faded yellow dress and baby-blue rundown sneakers.

She was done with the display case. She locked it and went back into the stall.

Springer crossed the allee and entered.

It was one of the smaller stalls. Its specialty was jewelry, mostly gold-plated costume stuff, a lot of garish, faceted paste. The woman and her merchandise were well suited.

Springer pretended he was earnestly looking around.

"Monsieur?" the woman asked.

Eyes to eyes. Springer told her, "I'm interested in some unusual buttons."

"Small or large?"

"Large."

"Perhaps you will find what you want among these." The woman brought up a shoe box containing hundreds of odd buttons, placed it on the counter. Springer rummaged through them and finally found what he was required to find: a cut paste button about the diameter of a quarter. He held it up, told the woman, "Twelve of these."

"Twelve, you say?"

"Yes."

"I do not have that many on hand. In fact I doubt that I have even another like this."

Springer wondered if the woman was telling him the deal was impossible. Her expression had not changed throughout. He couldn't read her.

"I might, however, be able to locate what you want and send them to your hotel," she said.

"I'm not staying at a hotel."

"No matter. Leave me your address and I'll see what I can do." She offered Springer a stub of pencil and a tear of brown bag paper. He wrote the address. The woman looked at it and handed it back to Springer. She would rely on her memory.

"When?" Springer asked.

The woman smiled. Every line in her face deepened. "Tomorrow or the following day." She turned off the smile and in place of goodbye said curtly, "Merci, monsieur."

Springer and Audrey went home in a recklessly driven taxi that badly needed new shock absorbers. For quite a while after the long, chattering ride over Paris cobblestones they felt as though their bodies were still vibrating. Even tightly hugging one another didn't help. Springer recalled having once experienced a similar sensation after operating the old tractor all day on the family place in Sherman.

Audrey was delighted with herself because of the little painting she'd purchased. She propped it on the bidet so she might look at it while she took a bath. In Springer's unexpressed opinion the stall owner had been right. The painting was a murky globbed-on attempt worth about forty dollars less than the forty she'd paid for it.

Springer undressed down to his undershorts and sat before the open French windows on the fourth floor. He was glad now he hadn't insisted on staying at a hotel. It was the peak of the tourist season, and when, from London, he'd called the Crillon and gotten a brusque turndown, Audrey hadn't let him try elsewhere. Why should they bother when Libby's place on the lie St. Louis was so convenient?

Libby's place was a five-story, twenty-room private townhouse, the sort the French call a hotel particulier. Located on the Quai d'Orleans, it gave a splendid view of Notre-Dame and the Seine. The house dated back to the sixteen hundreds and, according to Audrey, had at times belonged to various full-fledged and near members of nobility. They were most remembered for their extreme libidinal ways. Perhaps, she suggested, they found the proximity of Notre-Dame ideal—all the swifter to get to daily confession and afterward resume their indulgences with a clean slate.

When Libby bought the place she'd had it done over, cleaned up, and repaired. The interior designer she hired had installed modem conveniences with minimal sacrifice of old elegance. As well, nothing had been done to chase the spirits of the former inhabitants, Audrey claimed. The essences of their salacious souls permeated every inch of the place, occupied the very air, got breathed in. Didn't Springer sense their influence?

It seemed he did.

Since he and Audrey arrived the previous afternoon they had made lengthy assorted love four times.

Now, seated alone before open windows, Springer watched the barges plying up and down river, took in the spires of Notre-Dame that appeared ethereal in the way the late sun backlighted and wrapped rays around them. From the traffic congested on the Pont d'Arcole it seemed the inhabitants of the Left and Right Banks were struggling to exchange banks. Directly below on the quai. Springer saw two very pretty girls strolling hand in hand. That, he thought, was seldom seen in the States: grown girls, close friends, walking together with hands held. It represented a more mature, less self-conscious attitude toward such platonic relationships. The girls were sharing a cassette player. Springer noticed; both had on head sets like little orange earmuffs. They stopped abruptly, turned to each other, and also shared a long, passionate kiss.

Springer decided not to mention the incident to Audrey when she came into the room wearing one of her loose silk kimonos and carrying a tray of things to eat. She placed the tray on the Savonnerie carpet and sprawled down next to it.

There was a tarte aux quetsches, a wreath-shaped loaf of crunchy crusted bread called couronne d epines, a creme renversee, two bottles of chilled Normandy cider, and an economy-sized jar of Jiffy peanut butter with a silver spreading knife jabbed down into it.

An average, substantial Audrey meal. Springer thought. He joined her on the floor. She was already tearing at the bread, slathering it with JiflFy. 'I'm so pleased with my painting," she said.

"Where did you get the peanut butter?"

"Fouchon carries it. Ten dollars a jar. And worth every penny when you're over here sick to death of pots-au-feu, quenelles, rotis, and all that stuff."

Where, Springer wondered, was he when she was tiring of those things? He spooned up some of the caramel custard. "Ever consider that you have a blood sugar problem?"

"Hell, no. I'm blessed. Sugar may be a problem for some but not for me."

"It'll catch up with you."

Her perfect teeth severed the tip off a wedge of plum tart. "That, lover darling, is why I'm getting such a huge head start."

For the next day and the day after. Springer was a prisoner of the house, waiting to be contacted as the Marche aux Puces button lady had promised. He went out only once, left a note on the door saying he would return within the half hour. He crossed over the bridge to the lie de la Cite. Along the quai there in colorful contiguity were the flower vendors. Springer bought anemones, two dozen purple/blue and two dozen red. They were fresh and shy, their faces still tightly hidden. They were for Audrey's bedside table, would open for her.

Audrey went out several times on errands. She told Springer a surprise was forthcoming. She bought him a pair of black alligator loafers at Hermes and an antique walking stick that had a carved ivory whippet's head. The shoes fit him perfectly and he liked them, though he doubted he'd ever be so much of a dandy he'd use the walking stick. Neither of those was the surprise Audrey had mentioned. On Thursday afternoon she came home with that.

Her little painting.

She had paid a restorer four times his going price to hurry it for her. He had removed layers of grime and varnish and paint to get down to what was there. Not a landscape at all. A portrait of a young girl, an idealized ingenue in a prim blue blouse that accentuated her bluer eyes. Blond hair painstakingly painted swirling around her placid, meticulous face. A direct, guileless gaze, a devoted mouth. Perhaps the artist had projected such ingenuousness, captured it, and then was betrayed by reality. Why otherwise would he have buried her under such drab layers? It was easy to say, looking at the painting now, that the artist had loved his subject. The painting was a Eugene Boudin, signed and dated 1864. A precious find worth a thousand times what Audrey had paid for it.

"How did you know it was there?" Springer asked incredulously.

"The pendulum," she replied matter-of-factly.

Springer recalled the arrogant manner of the stall owner from whom Audrey had bought the painting. Served him right. But Springer didn't believe the pendulum had had anything to do with it. A coincidence, that's what it was. Audrey had gotten lucky. Of course, for the sake of harmony. Springer didn't tell her that.

Thursday night at eleven the sounding of the front door buzzer turned out to be a man who introduced himself as Igor Bitov and said he was delivering some buttons. When he was seated in the salon with a tumbler of vodka in hand, he stated that Igor Bitov was not his real name and let it go at that.

The man was wearing a summer suit and a winter tie. Springer noticed, and black, round-toed, thick-soled shoes. He kept tugging down his shrunken shirt sleeves. His complexion was sallow, a bit jaundiced-looking, and his eyes were set so deep the skin around the sockets appeared bruised. He had black hair combed straight back, long hair. Combed forward it would have covered most of his face. He spoke English with a British accent.

Bitov made some preliminary small talk about Paris and the dispositions of the French. He glanced in Audrey's direction and then back questioningly to Springer.

"My partner," Springer explained.

Bitov reached down and fussed with the right cuff of his trousers. From the inside hem he withdrew a small folded square of chamois that he handed to Springer. It contained a single diamond, round cut.

"That is ten carats," Bitov said.

"I specified—"

"For quality only."

Springer examined the diamond with his loupe under the light of a nearby table lamp. He saw no flaws but couldn't possibly determine the diamond's color. Every lightbulb in the house, no doubt in keeping with Libby's wishes, was the diffused, flattering type. Springer remarked about the light. He blamed himself for not being prepared for such an eventuality; he had thought any evaluating would be done in the daytime.

"The kitchen," Audrey suggested.

They went back through the house to the kitchen and, indeed, there, illuminating the white tiled counters, were daylight-type fluorescent bulbs that allowed Springer to ascertain the diamond's true color.

It was a dazzling ten carats with that unmistakable clear-frozen Soviet quality. And cut to perfect proportions. There was no way Springer could negotiate by opening, as was customary, with some depreciating point. "How much?" he asked.

"This size?"

"This quality, twenty-five carats."

"This size would not satisfy you?"

"Why? Can't you supply twenty-five-carat goods?"

"It is not that," Bitov said calmly. "I merely wanted to make sure you know what you want."

"Twenty-five-carat goods."

"Fifty thousand a carat."

It was as though Bitov was reading the balance in Springer's new bank account. Twelve stones of twenty-five carats each would be three hundred carats. Fifty thousand a carat would come to fifteen million. "Too much," Springer said.