Cat on a Cold Tin Roof (15 page)

He stared at me for a long moment. “You're ruining my meal,” he said at last.

“Finally, there's you,” I said.

“Me?”

I nodded. “I think you've been straight with me, but even if you haven't, would you have gone back to Chicago if the diamonds were only worth a million?”

“You think I've been lying to you all along?” he said in hurt tones.

“No, Val, I don't,” I answered. “I'm just pointing out that even if the diamonds were only worth a million, or even half a million, no one would be behaving any differently.”

He sighed. “All right, all right. Now let me finish this stuff in peace.” He dug into his four-way. “Whoever heard of chili with shredded cheese and spaghetti?”

“You're the one who wanted a Cincinnati chili joint,” I pointed out.

He chewed his mouthful thoughtfully and swallowed. “I can't imagine why this stuff hasn't caught on.”

“Ask yourself if any self-respecting Chicago restaurant owner would open a Cincinnati chili place.”

He considered it for a moment. “You got a point,” he admitted. Then: “Okay, we're friends again. What's our next step?”

“Well, I have to check in with the cops and see if the print on the glass was any use to them. And I have to figure out why Palanto lied to you. I mean, was he just trying to impress you, and if he was, wouldn't a million-dollar collar be as impressive as a ten-million-dollar collar?”

“That's a fair day's work.”

“Oh, there's more,” I said.

“Yeah?”

I nodded. “I got to figure out what the hell those descriptions on the policy meant.”

“I don't follow you,” said Sorrentino.

“There have got to be more hot diamonds in town than just the ones stolen from the collar,” I explained. “If one of my fences comes up with some, or one of my snitches tells me where some are, I have to make sure they're the right ones.”

“Shit!” he said. “I never thought of that.”

“And if the print wasn't any good, or if it was good but they can't deport the Smith brothers anyway . . .”

“They sound like cough drops.”

“Yeah, but I'll bet they don't
shoot
like cough drops.”

“Okay,” he said. “Where do we meet for dinner?”

I named a local steak house as he finished the last of his four-way and washed it down with a Pepsi.

“See you then,” he said.

“Right.”

“And let me say that the last sixty seconds have been a real eye-opener.”

“They have?” I asked, puzzled.

He nodded. “I always knew there were good reasons never to become a cop or a private eye. You just reminded me of some of the better ones.”

15.

Mrs. Cominsky was waiting for me when I got home.

“Hi, partner!” she said.

“Hi, partner,” I responded somewhat less enthusiastically.

“Ain't you gonna ask?” she said.

“Ask what?”

“About the mail!”

“Okay,” I said. “What about the mail?”

“I've gone through about three hundred already.”

“Anything worth reporting?” I asked, hoping to get the charade over with before some other tenant stumbled upon us talking “business” in the entryway.

“More than two hundred out-and-out liars, maybe forty perverts, six religious fanatics, two insurance salesmen, a writer who wanted to buy you lunch and get the rights to the heartwarming story of your reunion with the cat, and the rest were mostly animals lovers who congratulated you on getting the cat back, and I think at least a dozen of them want you to breed your cat to their cat and split the litter, though no one seemed to know what sex your cat is.”

“And you still have more to go,” I noted with a smile.

“They could come in three or four hundred a day for a week,” she replied. “But
somebody
is going to make a mistake, I'll pounce on it, and we'll have our man.”

“Right,” I said, remembering a couple of bad paperbacks I'd read recently. “A good cop just keeps on plugging away—and that goes double for private eyes.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then: “How much does a license cost?”

“Car or cat?” I asked.

She shook her head impatiently. “A private eye's license. Once we crack this case, maybe I'll apply for one. This is the most interesting thing I've done in years.”

I resisted the urge to ask her what was the
least
interesting thing she'd done in years.

“I like your attitude, partner,” I said. “Just keep at it. When you come to The Letter That Counts, let me know—or if I'm out, slip a message under the door.”
And if you spill a little gravy on it, Marlowe will be your friend forever, once he recovers from digesting it
.

“Will do, partner!” she said enthusiastically. “I had no idea reading mail from liars and perverts could be so interesting.”

“After a few years, it'll feel like reading the classified ads in the paper,” I assured her.

“The thrill wears off, huh?”

“Well, maybe not for really special detectives,” I said.

“That's me!” she said. “I'd stay and chat, but . . .”

“I know. Go open them, and good luck.”

I finally climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, said hello to Marlowe (who growled hello to me and went back to sleep), walked over to the section of the couch he'd left me, sat down, and started reading the insurance policy again. It didn't make a lot of sense this time either.

I kept coming back to the insured value. Even if the company's jewelry appraiser was dead wrong, why would Palanto have paid for the policy when he knew the diamonds were worth ten times as much?

And if they
weren't
worth ten times as much, where the hell was the other money that he'd scammed from the Bolivians? It wasn't in his bank account, the cops had gotten permission to check his safety deposit box, and Velma had to know every hiding place he had in the house and garage.

And I kept coming to the same conclusions. The Bolivians would have been fools to kill him unless they had their hands on the money or knew where it was . . . and it was clear from the fact that they were still hanging around that they didn't know. And it was just as obvious Velma figured all the money was in those ten diamonds. But that didn't make sense. She had access to the insurance policy and had me arrested because she thought I'd stolen the collar. If she knew the collar was worth 10 percent of what Palanto was hiding
somewhere
—and if she knew where it was, she'd be getting a new name and face in some other state or country.

I continued to stare at the policy.

“If you'd only been for ten million, this fucking case would make a hell of a lot more sense,” I muttered.

Shut up when someone's trying to sleep
, growled Marlowe, stretching his feet as he lay on his side and digging his nails into my thigh.

I picked up the remote and turned on the TV. There weren't any basketball games on for a few more hours. The best ESPN could do was a rerun of the fourth Pacquiao-Marquez fight, and I'd already lost enough money betting on it the first time. I tried TCM, hoping for something with Bogart or maybe with the team of Greenstreet and Lorre, who I persisted in thinking of as the Mutt and Jeff of international crime, but instead they were having a John Garfield festival. I watched the second half of
The Postman Always Rings Twice
and the first ten minutes of
Saturday's Children
, trying all the time not to think about the diamonds, and finally I couldn't sit still any longer. I turned off the set, forced Marlowe to go for a walk while I tried to clear my head, let him make a beeline for the couch when we got back, stuffed the insurance form into my coat pocket, and went back out.

I don't know one jeweler from another (well, except for the fences, those who'll talk to me and those who won't), but I figured if I stayed within a mile or two of Palanto's house I couldn't go too far wrong. So I drove over to his place, then hunted up the nearest upscale shopping area, and stopped at Kaiser's Jewelers.

The window looked impressive. I'd seen enough bullet-proof glass to know I was looking at some, and the prices on the stuff that was displayed there justified the expenditure for the glass and doubtless for one hell of an alarm system as well.

At the moment there was one middle-aged woman there, looking at watches or watchbands, I couldn't tell which, and since I needed the jeweler's attention I lit up a cigarette—only my second of the day (well, if you don't count the two I snubbed out after only a couple of puffs), found myself staring into a lingerie shop and attracting giggles from a couple of teenaged girls who were passing by, and moved on to pretend to be studying “Authentic! Oriental!! Rugs!!!” in the next store. I was starting to get really cold just standing there, so I only smoked half the cigarette, stamped on its remains and shoved it into a gutter, and walked into the jewelry store just as the lady was leaving.

“Good afternoon,” said the jeweler, a balding little man with thick glasses. “May I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” I replied. “I have to tell you up front that I'm not here to buy anything. You're way out of my price range. I'm a detective, working on a case, and I need some information.”

He gave me a little smile. “That woman who just left took up half an hour of my time for the third time this week. She's not going to buy anything either, but she hasn't even admitted it to herself, let alone to me. So why can't I take a few minutes educating an officer of the law?”

It's been my experience that half the people think I'm an ugly version of Humphrey Bogart, and the other half think I work for the police—and since I was taking up this guy's time for free I decided not to correct his wrong impression.

“Fine,” I said. “My name is Eli Paxton.”

He extended a hand, and I took it. “And I am Phineas Kaiser. Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Paxton—or is it Officer Paxton?”

“Just Eli will do,” I said. I pulled the policy out of my pocket and handed it to him.

“It looks like an insurance policy,” he said.

“It is. It's for ten diamonds, and they average one hundred thousand dollars apiece.”

He nodded, looking the policy over. “Nice tidy sum. They must be quite beautiful, these diamonds.”

“I've never seen them,” I said.

Suddenly his face lit up. “Hah! They've been stolen!”

“In all likelihood,” I replied.

“In all likelihood?” he repeated. “You're a detective, you've never seen them, you're showing me the policy. Of course they've been stolen.”

“Stolen or well-hidden by their owner.”

“Why not ask him if he hid them? Or is this some insurance scam?”

“It gets really complex,” I said. “Anyway, I need some information, and an expert opinion.”

“You've come to the right place,” he said. “Well, one of them anyway. What exactly do you need to know?”

“The policy describes each diamond,” I said. “How it was cut, how many carats, any flaws, just about everything there is to know about them.”

He nodded, studying the policy. “That's correct. Very thorough job.”

“Okay,” I said. “Here's my first question: does that seem like a fair appraisal of their worth?”

“The Bateman Company has been insuring jewels as far north as Cleveland and as far south as Nashville for half a century,” he replied. “Have you some reason to think they were mistaken?”

I shrugged. “I've no idea.”

He smiled. “Of course you have an idea, or you wouldn't have asked. How much do
you
think they're worth?”

“I don't know anything about diamonds, so my opinion would be meaningless,” I said. “But
someone
thinks they might be worth a lot more than a million dollars.”

“How much more?” asked Kaiser.

“Maybe ten million?” I said, feeling like a fool.

He laughed. “Based on this description, on their size and weight and color, not a chance. Maybe a million and a half in an up market, but surely no more than that.” He glanced down at the policy. “Three years old,” he noted. “Prices haven't varied five percent since then.”

“You're sure?” I said.

He drew himself up to his full, if minimal, height. “I know my trade, Mr. Paxton.”

“Eli,” I corrected him.

“Have you any other questions?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, one more,” I said. “I've been assuming that if these things turn up, it'll be with a fence.”

He smiled. “If you want the names and addresses of all the fences in the Tri-State area, I think your department is far better informed than I am.”

“No, I don't need their names,” I said. “But it occurs to me that they might not go through a fence. I mean, someone who can steal a million dollars' worth of diamonds can probably find a way to prove they're his if no one looks too closely.”

“I don't think I like what you're suggesting,” said Kaiser.

“I'm not suggesting that anyone could dupe
you
, especially now that we've had this conversation,” I said. “I'm just blue-skying here, wondering if someone with some kind of forged ownership credentials might try to unload them on a legitimate jeweler, or on a number of legit jewelers.”

He frowned. “I don't know, Mr. Paxton . . . Eli. He'd be taking quite a chance that someone could spot phony ownership papers. Fences won't care, so why take the chance?”

“You don't deal with fences, I take it?”

“Of course not,” he said severely.

“If you thought you had a wealthy customer who was about to buy his girlfriend a truly splendid diamond engagement ring, and you thought one of these diamonds might be just what he was looking for, and you know you could charge him a million for the diamond, plus whatever the setting and your time are worth, what would you pay me for the diamond if I could prove to your, shall we say, eager satisfaction, that I was the legitimate owner?”