slugged down two, and was chattering away like a magpie, working on his third, when he suddenly stood up, and excused himself. Minutes passed, and I wondered how long it took him to pee. Then more minutes, and I heard no sounds at all. I began to get concerned. Fainting spell? Heart attack?
‘Noel,’ I called softly. Then, louder: ‘Noel! I really do have to get going. And I’m sure you have to get up early.’
No answer.
I sat there a moment. Then I finished my brandy, rose, wandered towards the bedroom, having first put on my shoes. If I found him naked, waiting with a leer, I was prepared to make a fast withdrawal.
I found him fully dressed and prone on the satin coverlet of the king-sized bed in the master bedroom. His head was on the pillow, face turned to one side. He was snoring gently.
He hadn’t managed to get his feet off the floor when he collapsed onto the bed, so I lifted them up and took off his shoes. I also loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, unbuckled his belt. During these ministrations, he didn’t stir. He was out cold, a not unpleasant reek of wine, garlic, and brandy rising from his burbling lips.
I thought I went about it very cleverly. I went back into the foyer, double-locked the door and put on the chain. Drew the curtains and shades. When I went back into the master bedroom, Noel Jarvis hadn’t changed position. He was still snoring gently.
I went into the main bathroom and took a look in the medicine cabinet. Jarvis had an eye-widening selection of vitamins and minerals in there, plus Librium and Valium and several other pill and capsule containers without labels. Just clear plastic containers of pills and capsules. All colors and shapes.
I came back into the bedroom. Still no movement from
Jarvis. I went through the big walk-in closet first. Nothing in there but an enormous and costly wardrobe of suits, jackets, coats, hats, shoes, ties. Good labels, too. Italian and English designers. In the first of the twin dressers, in cream-colored French provincial, were enough shirts, drawers, socks, and scarves for a regiment. Plenty of pure silk, and lots of pure cotton, which these days is almost as expensive as silk. Linen handkerchiefs. Foulard squares. Ascots, monogrammed undershirts.
The top drawer of the second dresser was filled with jewelry: cufflinks, and studs and rings, bracelets and neck chains. At least a half-dozen wristwatches. Stickpins.
The bottom drawers held his winter and sports stuff: heavy flannel shirts, sweaters, waistcoats — things like that. Plenty of suede and good glove leather.
I had taken care, with all the drawers I opened and inspected, to leave things just the way I found them. I turned nothing over. I rearranged no stacks. I just thrust my fingers down between the piles of fabric and groped around on the bottom of each drawer. Nothing.
Until I came to the last drawer of the second dresser. Heavy knitted sweaters in there, each in its own plastic bag. I should be so neat! I was prying down at the bottom when I felt it. Something.
I glanced toward Noel Jarvis, still sleeping, his face turned away from me, I gripped what I discovered and slowly, carefully, drew out a passport.
I took it to the bedside lamp and flipped through it quickly. It was undoubtedly a photograph of Noel Jarvis: the heavy jowls, meaty nose, flinty eyes, smiling mouth. The passport showed three overseas trips in the past two years: to Holland, Italy, Israel. Everything seemed in order.
Except for one thing.
The name in the passport was Antonio Rossi. I stood staring at the signature, a little ashamed at myself for prying. If an Italian wished to use an English name, it was really none of my business. I could understand it; he was the manager of a shop with a clientele that might be impressed that way.
That left only a small bedside table, a taboret covered with antiqued gold leaf, stamped with a colored, vaguely Persian design. Jarvis’ head on the pillow, was awfully close to that table, and I debated a moment as to whether I really wanted to risk opening the top drawer. Finally, watching the face of the sleeping man constantly, I softly pulled the drawer out, just far enough to take a quick look inside.
It wasn’t finding a revolver that surprised me so much. The manager of a jewelry store would have little trouble getting a gun permit. But this gun was shockingly big. I don’t know make or caliber, but it looked like a cannon without wheels. The black leather half-holster seemed old and worn.
Then I turned off all the lights and got out of there, making certain the front door locked on the spring latch. I rode home grandly in the limousine, and the uniformed chauffeur insisted on seeing me to my door.
‘Mr Jarvis ordered it, miss,’ he said firmly, so I let him do his job.
Later, safely locked within my own apartment, I undressed swiftly, got into bed, and tried to ponder the contradictions in the character of Mr Jarvis-Rossi.
But I fell asleep thinking of a broiled veal chop and warm zabaglione, and smiling happily.
A MEETING OF MINDS
At 9:00 that Friday night we were seated in Donohue’s room at the Hotel Harding. I was Bea Flanders in blond wig and tight turtleneck. Jack looked like Hialeah; knife-creased silk slacks, nubby gold sports jacket, white moccasins decorated with brass trim. Dick Fleming, by contrast, looked pretty drab.
Donohue was polite, unsmiling, and very, very cool. He got us comfortable, locked the door, and supplied us with vodkas on ice. The glasses were clean.
‘Well?’ I demanded in my gunmoll voice, having decided to come on strong. ‘Are you in or out?’
‘I took a look at the place,’ Donohue said, staring at me. ‘I’ve practically lived on that block for the last two days. I was into the store twice, and I checked out the daily routine. Before I tell you what I think, spell it out for me in more detail. Just how do you plan to hit it?’
I had brought along my schedules and maps. I went over it once more:
The precise time the three of us plus the two added recruits would meet.
The route the five of would take south, me at the wheel.
I would stay with the car, doubleparked near the construction site at the corner of East 55th Street and Madison Avenue.
The four men, masked, would go into Brandenberg amp; Sons at 10:00 A.M., the moment the door was unlocked for business.
Two men would race to the rear, to the vault room, before the repairmen had a chance to slam the door or lock the safe.
The other two would cover the manager and clerks in the front room, force them to lie down, gag and tape them. The two repairmen would be treated similarly, and the aged porter if he was present.
Then the safe and showcases would be rifled as rapidly as possible. Obvious pressure alarms would be avoided; the glass cases would be smashed from the top rather than the sliding doors forced.
‘Then everyone piles out,’ 1 finished, ‘and gets in the car. By this time I’ll have pulled up in front of the store. The best route for a getaway, I figure, is to-’
‘Bullshit,’ Jack Donohue interrupted harshly. ‘Pure, unadulterated bullshit! It sucks. Do it your way and we’ll all be in the slammer within an hour. If we’re not in the morgue with tags on our big toes.’
I looked at Fleming. He looked at me.
‘All right,’ Dick said. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Right,’ I said, preparing to rise and depart. ‘You say you don’t want in. That’s okay if-’
‘Shut up and sit down!’ Donohue snapped. ‘You too, Fleming. I didn’t say I didn’t want it. I just said you got a lousy plan. I thought you told me your old man was a whiz at jewelry jobs? If this is an example of how he did it, no wonder he got squashed.’
‘What the hell’s wrong with my plan?’ I said hotly. ‘I worked for weeks on this. It’s got-’
‘Shh, shh,’ Donohue said, relaxing and giving me one of his brilliant grins. ‘Just keep your voice down, Bea. Take it easy and I’ll tell you what’s wrong.’
‘First of all,’ he started, ‘I like the place. For a target, I mean. Big enough but not too big. Not too many clerks. And lots of lovely, lovely rocks-’
‘Bea told you,’ Fleming broke in. ‘At least a million.’
