Stone 588 (31 page)

"Why don't you just bring the diamonds over to me and I'll see that she receives them," Wintersgill suggested amiably.

"Would that be putting you out?"

"No bother at all. Can you be here within the hour?"

Springer was a breath away from saying sure when some part of him told him he was about to step out onto a wrong bridge. "What I'd prefer," he said, "is to deliver them to Libby myself. I guess I'm a bit proud of them."

"As you wish," Wintersgill said, changed to curt.

Springer couldn't blame the man for that. He was probably sitting there surrounded by importance wondering why the hell Springer had bothered to call.

At noon the next day when Springer came out of Sloan-Kettering, that dark brown Daimler limousine of Libby's was at the curb. Attending it was the same big chauffeur named Groat. For a moment Springer had the notion to ride up front, but then he wasn't sure Groat would approve. So he sat where he was supposed to, in the back sunk in the plush.

He'd spent the morning with Jake. The boy was giving his bravest best; however, the chemotherapy had really gotten to him, sunk and dulled his eyes, sallowed his coloring, made him nauseated and dizzy and sapped. Several times that morning Jake had been on the verge of tears. So had Springer.

Tomorrow, Jake would be allowed to go home. Dr. Stimson had said. That would be better. But in four weeks he'd be due back in the hospital for more chemotherapy. It might take as many as six treatments. Six months of such misery for Jake before they'd take a slice of him, then more chemotherapy to make sure. And that was if everything went well.

"Every positive thought is another for our side," Mattie had said.

Springer tried now for a positive.

The best he could do was a neutral as he gazed straight ahead through the separating glass at Groat's bullish neck and thought. Groat takes at least a size twenty collar. He caught Groat's glance in the rearview mirror. Three times, before Groat put on aviator-type dark glasses, and that was that.

At one o'clock precisely Springer was looking at another equally massive neck: that of the butler, Hinch, who preceded him along the ground-floor main hallway of Libby's mansion in Greenwich. All the way to an extremity of the south wing, where doors like a triptych decoratively painted in the manner of Fragonard were folded back, giving to a garden room. It was a large semicircular room enclosed all around and high above by small framed glass panes. The panes were frosted so everything was bathed in a flatteringly soft light.

Including Libby.

She was on one of a pair of facing white-lacquered sofas: arranged on it, was Springer's impression. No doubt she'd been notified of his arrival the moment he'd gotten out of the Daimler and there was no possible way she hadn't heard his and Hinch's footsteps on the marble floor of the hall, yet she remained preoccupied for a long moment before she glanced up to be pleasantly surprised.

Her initial smile broadened.

She offered her hand and drew Springer down to her face with it for welcoming cheek kisses right and left. Springer got a whiff of her, an extravagant scent that was not just her perfume. The rich smell different, he'd once quipped to Audrey at a playful, erotic moment, and that applied now.

Springer sat on the sofa opposite, which was what Libby had planned. There were unfolded blueprints on the cushion beside her. She picked them up and flung them over the back of the sofa.

"Plans for a new boat someone wants to build for me," she said. "The best, of course, are built in Bremen, outfitted in Southampton, and moored almost constantly in Monaco. I'll bet you're one hell of a sailor."

"I get seasick."

Springer believed he discerned a hint of I-would-have-thought-as-much in her expression, or perhaps that was only because he was looking for it.

"I can take an average sea," she said, "but there's nothing I detest more than being out when it's heavy. All that energy wasted just trying to move about. The most deplorable thing about a heavy sea is you can't just turn it off. I don't for the likes of me understand why some people enjoy being out there, tossed about to the point of upchucking. Perhaps they're closet bulimiacs." She laughed at that, as though it was the first time she'd said it.

Springer saw that she'd taken considerable care with her appearance. The pale pastel floral-printed dress she had on was of that finest cotton called lawn, with an amply pleated skirt and oversized sleeves. Considerably less casual than such a Saturday afternoon called for. Her makeup was by no means slapdash. The various layers of hues on her lids, the gradually edged dominance of blue that shot from her lashes out and up to her impeccably tweezed brows, the blushing concavity of her cheeks, the red slicks that helped her mouth — all had required time. And motive. Her only jewelry was a ring: a thirty-carat Burma sapphire of a very unusual intense lavender shade. Springer thought of it as a stone with a dilemma, one that could not make up its mind whether it should be a sapphire or a ruby.

"What will you have to drink?" Libby asked.

Too early for his Usquaebach, he decided; what was she having?

The open bottle on the table between them was a Chateau La Conseil-lante 1966. A white-jacketed servant came forth as though his cue had been said. He was another large man. Perhaps, Springer thought, this one, Hinch, and Groat took turns butlering, driving, and waiting on.

"Thank you, Fane," Libby said automatically as he poured fresh glasses and set down a doilied silver tray bearing tiny crustless sandwiches. Fane soundlessly gathered up the soiled glasses and napkins and was gone. Springer couldn't see where. Well-trained orange trees in bleached white tubs were lined along the perimeter. There were numerous other plantings, some with huge leaves and undoubtedly tropical. Two or three enormous ficus almost reached the ceiling, their containers softened by legions of primroses, day lilies, dahlias, and ranunculus. Fane was hiding somewhere in the bushes. Springer thought: Fane and probably a few others equally formidable. What would happen, he wondered, if he responded to Libby's flirtatious manner? At what point, what temperature, would they skulk away? Had they been told? He had a mind to turn and see if he could catch sight of them. Schubert's Ninth Symphony began as though its time had come, but at a level that would not interfere. An orange dropped from one of the trees and landed on the marble floor with a thump soft as a final heartbeat. Springer gazed upward. Among the hundreds of perfect glass panes he found one that was cracked. He looked directly at Libby, tried to magnify, to determine any of the cosmetic surgeon's tiny incisional lines that he knew were there. Why was he so ready to notice, trying to find, mistakes? With an air of light-hearted reproach Libby told Springer, "You're incorrigible."

"Why?"

"You were in London and didn't take me up on my hospitality."

"I thought it best not to impose."

"Nonsense. What do you take me for, one of those bourbon-brained Southerners who invite irrepressibly and then are at a loss when someone shows up?"

"It wasn't that—"

"You're practically family," she reasoned and blotted wine from her lips with her napkin.

Springer tried to appear appropriately contrite.

Libby did a simultaneous moue and a smile. "I'm chiding only because I'd enjoy seeing more of you. You really should come up to Penobscot."

"What's there?"

"Our own island."

"How large?"

"About two miles long and—oh, I'd say a half mile across."

"I'm not partial to islands," Springer said, having decided to give her some of her own. "They bore quickly. You know what I mean, they're so limited."

"Our Penobscot place is craggy around the edges, very Mainelike, but soft in the middle with many beds of pine needles and moss."

Her tone was insinuating, caused Springer to suspect Audrey had confided their alfresco love-making penchants to her. He imagined such woman-to-woman dialogue on the subject. More boastful than anything, so how could he mind?

Springer looked away. His eyes aimed into the peach-pink bell-like face of a nearby day lily but he wasn't seeing it. He absently sipped wine. His thoughts were on Jake.

Sensing the cloud that had come over him, Libby said, "Audrey told me your son is ill."

"Yes."

"Is it as serious as she said?"

Springer nodded.

"If there's anything I can do, anything at all, please ... let me know."

"Thank you."

"I also understand that your miraculous little stone was stolen."

"A week ago."

"That's a shame. You have no idea who took it or where it is?"

"No."

A deep, dreary sigh. "I wasn't kidding when I offered to buy it, you know. You could have named your price."

"A hundred million?" Springer asked casually.

"Yes. I might have hesitated and wanted more of a demonstration, but yes."

"Really, a hundred million?"

"That amount would leave a hole in any fortune," she said. "However, great wealth does have a way of swiftly replenishing itself. You might say it grows out of control."

Malignant osteoblastic cells came to Springer's mind. "Would you like to see your diamonds now?" he asked.

"Not yet," Libby replied quickly. "Once I've been shown the diamonds you'll have no other excuse for staying. Or will you?" she asked, bold-eyed.

Springer was reminded of Lady Irith, his initiatrix at the Savoy in London so many years ago. Where was she now? Flourishing, he hoped. Had his intimacies with her really been as delirious as he remembered? How much had he embellished? Clearly he recalled how Lady Irith with words and reactions had made him feel the exceptional lover, manful. He was grateful to her for that and, as well, grateful to his gullibility.

A Doucai bowl painted with lotus flowerheads and scrolling foliage that would have been a treasure to any collector of things oriental was on the table, filled with salted cashews. Springer put a couple of the nuts in his mouth, chomped on them.

"How much in love with Audrey are you?" Libby asked.

"How much is too much?"

"She's my pet, you know." And after a shrug: "Well, not actually mine. I suppose she told you?"

"She did."

"There isn't a chink anywhere in the adoption papers. I made sure of that. Should any of Gillian's forgotten relatives come pestering with a claim, hoping to be bought off."

A leather-bound volume of Stendahl's On Love lay on the floor near Libby's foot. Springer noticed a red wildbird's feather marked a place. How many other similar things?

"Gillian," Libby said, as though she were announcing the title of something she was about to recite, "was a marvelous person to be around—to have around. She and I both had the same low threshold of ennui. It was uncanny in a way. No matter where we were we never once disagreed about whether or not to stay or leave. She was, I must admit, a bit more of a daredevil than I, loved being in over her head, waiting until the last possible second to shoot the charging tiger. Metaphorically speaking, of course. There's never been anyone in my life like her."

That, Springer knew, was not entirely true.

"Gillian had her faults," Libby went on, "but none too messy to put up with. She was an incurable tester, if you know what I mean. Every once in a while she'd do something dreadful just to find out if you'd love her in spite of it. Put a lot of people off with that, and I suppose I was the object of it more than anyone, but I never fell for it. She used to get absolutely livid when I just allowed her to get away with things. We'd laugh about them later."

Libby drank what wine remained in her glass. Fane appeared to refill: Springer's glass as well.

"Anyway," Libby said, "Audrey has never wanted for anything."

"Then what is it I'm supplying her?" Springer asked, a bit insubordinately.

"Good question. Do you foresee marrying Audrey?"

"It's being mentioned."

"Why the wait?"

"I don't know."

"Perhaps you're trying to wear one another thin."

That could very well be it, Springer thought, and if it was he knew Audrey was failing at it. For him every experience with her was the adding on of another strengthening layer.

"You're aware, no doubt, that Audrey stands to get all the Hull money someday."

"I'll never dislike her for that," Springer promised straight-faced.

Libby smirked sardonically. "Broadminded of you."

Springer agreed.

"Be warned, however," Libby said with a glare too suddenly cool to be believed, gracefully pointing a beautiful finger at him, "I plan to live to be over a hundred. Well over."

Fighting words. Springer thought. She was indeed a tenacious time-fighter.

"Now"—she sat forward—"let's see those diamonds."

He placed the twelve little chamois pouches on the table. She looked at the diamonds one at a time. Held each up for a moment before returning it to its pouch. The diffused light was disadvantageous, most diamonds would have suffered tremendously in it, but these had blaze to spare.

Libby was merely pleased, not enthusiastic. "Nicely done," she said.

Springer reminded himself that neither the diamonds nor the appreciation of them mattered, only the money. "Do you want me to get these to Townsend?" he asked.

"No." She stood abruptly and instructed: "Bring them along."

Springer gathered up the diamonds and followed her out of the room, along the hall, and down a flight of stairs to a lower level that was not at all dank. There at the end of another passageway was the wide and tall blackened steel door of a vault. Off to one side was an electronic panel consisting of ten buttons numbered one through zero, much like the dialing face of a touch-tone telephone. Probably it worked on the same principle.

"Only I know the combination," Libby said, "and it's something I'd never divulge."

Springer politely faced away while she touched off the combination. "The day, month, and year of your birth," Springer guessed and knew he'd hit it right when he turned back and saw Libby's disconcerted expression.

The vault door clicked open, a thick heavy door but evidently well balanced, for Libby easily swung it open. It was a walk-in vault, actually a small, brightly lighted room. Nearly all the space of the wall directly ahead was taken up by a pair of handsome Louis Seize mahogany cartonniers, each with fourteen numbered drawers faced with tooled leather. As with all such cartonniers, it was impossible to pull any of the drawers open without first unlocking and folding back the narrow hinged panels that ran vertically along each side. That was no problem, of course, when the keys were in the escutcheons as they were now.

Libby pulled open a drawer.

Springer dropped the twelve chamois sacks into it, giving in to his 47th Street nature and counting them aloud so there would be no misunderstanding.

"You did so well with this," Libby told him, "I'm going to have you handle something else for me."

"Thank you. What?"

"I'll think of something." Even though they weren't cramped for space, she seemed very close. She lavished her softest smile on him. "I'm going to recommend you to Wincie Olcott," she said. "The poor thing was broken into a month or so ago. I know she especially misses a certain bracelet, a chunky all-diamond piece that was at least a hundred carats. You could have it duplicated using the insurance photographs, couldn't you?"