secondhand oak swivel chair.
But now — presto! — 1 had found myself living not only one, but
And you know what? I loved every minute of it! The best thing was that I wasn’t flummoxed or reduced to gibbering ineptitude. I handled both identities, adroitly I thought, and did everything that had to be done. Take that Monday for instance….
It occurred to me that as Bea Flanders, driving a rented car, 1 could continue my surveillance of Brandenberg amp; Sons with lessened risk. I could doublepark a ‘new’ car on East 55th Street, and I could spend more time at my observation post in the luncheonette across the street, a stranger to the staff.
So I did exactly that early Monday morning. The routine was what I had learned to expect: Brandenberg employees arrived about 8:45 A.M., the commercial cleaning truck and crew showed up around 9:00, departed at 9:45, and the store opened for business at 10:00 A.M. It was comforting to know that the daily routine appeared to be unchanging.
I drove slowly around the neighborhood for almost an hour. Dick Fleming had reported that he could spot no definite schedule for police patrol cars or foot patrolmen. They seemed to wander by at irregular intervals, and we guessed that was deliberately planned.
When I returned to East 55th Street to pass the jewelry store a final time, I saw one of those slick-looking gents exiting. He was carrying the usual black attache case, and manager Jarvis escorted him to the door to shake hands and bid him farewell.
Just for the hell of it I trailed the tall, somberly clad messenger, but not for very long. On Fifth Avenue he slid into the back seat of a chauffeur-driven black Mercedes. They pulled away from the curb and headed southward. I watched them go. It was, I thought, a nice way for a jewelry salesman to make his rounds.
In Jannie Shean’s apartment I brought my journal up to the minute, including the significant dinner with Jack Donohue at Fangio’s the night before. Then into the shower, followed by the careful donning of my favorite Halston, a black crepe cocktail dress that suggested there was more underneath than actually existed. God bless Halston!
I took a cab down to Park Avenue and 54th. I was a few minutes early, and watched from across the avenue. I didn’t have long to wait; in a few moments manager Jarvis and escort came striding around the corner from 55th Street. 1 went darting across Park Avenue, through the traffic, against the lights. Horns blasted, tires squealed, cabdrivers shouted two words at me. They were not Happy Birthday.
I watched Jarvis make his night deposit. The two men talked a moment, then separated. Jarvis came toward me. I started walking purposefully, directly toward him, eyes down.
‘Why, Miss Shean!’ he said, smiling, taking off his bowler. ‘This
‘Oh?’ I said, puzzled. ‘Oh, of course! How are you, Mr Jarvis? Nice to see you again. Finished for the day, are you?’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said blithely. ‘Ready to relax after the chores are done. I must say you do look smashing. Big evening ahead?’
‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘Eventually.’
We had-been exchanging these civilities in the middle of sidewalk traffic, buffeted by pedestrians rushing homeward. Noel Jarvis took my elbow lightly, politely, and drew me back to the building line, out of the scurrying stream.
‘I can’t
He did have a tendency to speak in italics, but the effect wasn’t as phony as you might think. Probably because the man was physically impressive and unmistakably masculine. He might have had a paunch, but the shoulders were wide, the chest admirable.
It was the first time I had really looked at him, close up. He had the ruins of a very handsome face, gone to seed a bit now but still showing what had been hard, craggy features. I estimated his age at fifty-two to fifty-five, in that range, and I guessed that thirty years ago he had been a very sexy lad indeed. Now there were burst capillaries in the meaty cheeks and nose, but the mouth was still tight, teeth his own and good, the smile secret and knowing.
The only thing about him I disliked, I decided, were the small eyes of washed-out blue. Too innocent to be true, those eyes.
‘… a little fun bar across the avenue,’ he was saying. ‘Just to relax for a few moments. If you have the time, of course.’
‘What?’ I said, confused. ‘Oh. Well … yes, just one. Then I’ll have to run.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Understood.’
So there we were, three minutes later, tucked into a cozy booth in a Park Avenue bar-restaurant. I remembered it vaguely as having five different names in as many years. On the evening I had my first fatal drink with Noel Jarvis, it was called Lucifer’s. Was fate trying to tell me something?
It didn’t take very long to realize I was in the presence of a very, very, heavy drinker. I was just finishing my first glass of white wine when he was sipping on his third martini, straight-up with a twist of lemon. As far as I could see, though, he could have been drinking ice water for all the difference it made in his speech and deportment.
He was good company too. Glib, witty, intelligent and informed, and very fast with a gold Dunhill to light my cigarette. He recognized my dress as a Halston. He told me scandalous stories of a few of his more famous customers. And he made me feel that at that moment he wanted nothing more from life than to be sharing a comfy, after-work drink with little ol’ me.
I don’t mean he came on heavy. There was no knee-rubbing, no hand-grabbing, no ‘accidental’ touches, no leers — nothing like that. He just made me feel I was important to his happiness.
Doing my Mata Hari number, I got him talking about his trade. It wasn’t hard at all; he was delighted to jabber on about diamonds, the controlling cartels, how price was determined, where the main cutting centers were located, how important the Israelis were to the business, how an increasing percentage of the sales of Brandenberg amp; Sons was now in unset diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. For investment.
‘Oh yes,’ Noel Jarvis said. ‘Investment. At the moment, I can assure you, diamonds are generally overpriced. But if you believe, as I do, in a continued inflation rate of seven to eight percent, I suggest you put all your loose change in gemstones. You do have some loose change, don’t you, Jannie? I may call you Jannie, may I not?’
‘Of course,’ I said automatically. ‘Yes, I have a few odd pennies. But wouldn’t I do better to buy set pieces, especially antique necklaces and chokers and things of that sort? I’ve been reading stories of the fabulous prices they bring at auctions.’
‘Um … well,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Not necessarily.
Some pieces have an antique value, an historical value. Tiaras and brooches owned by this queen, this and that duchess, and so forth. If you’re a collector, that might be of some interest. But what you must look for, beyond the provenance of a particular item, is its intrinsic worth. The cut of the stones, their color, weight, brilliance, and so on. I
‘My God!’ I gasped. ‘What’s the point — a rock like that hanging from a little chain?’
‘Several points,’ he said, smiling benignly. ‘The finished item is very simple, very elegant. Can be worn with a variety of gowns at a variety of functions. Marvelous with Halstons, for instance. Nothing ostentatious about it. And, most important perhaps, it never seems to occur to thieves that a simple chain-and-stone-necklace could be so valuable. So in addition to selling individual stones for investment, we also do a very good business indeed in
