Florian's Gate (14 page)

“You're putting us on,” someone breathed.

“So she sold it for a quid,” Andrew continued. “And passed the money over, just as the will instructed.”

“I still don't believe it.”

“Stop by the shop sometime,” Andrew replied with a grin. “I'll be happy to make you a special offer.”

Jeffrey spoke up. “The other day I had a French client tell me how she'd visited an auction house in Paris. She was leafing through the catalog and saw a marble-topped Empire table just like her own. She thought it would be wonderful to have a matched pair, so she spoke to the dealer, who gave her a really attractive price. She examined the page more closely, just to make sure there were no visible flaws in the piece, and recognized the painting on the wall above the commode. It was the painting from her own living-room wall.”

“So what did she do?”

“She immediately placed an order for the table, paid a cash deposit, gave a friend's name for her own, and pressed the dealer for an early delivery date. Then she went straight to the police. They staked out her house, and tapped the dealer's lines. The woman went around making noisy plans for a big trip. The night she left, the thieves arrived and the police busted a ring. Turned out they were working all over France, paying a photographer to break in and photograph pieces, then not stealing anything until a buyer had been found. Kept them from needing to have the stolen goods around for long.”

“Is that how your Kantor gets his hands on all those
goods?” Tim's voice was taunting. “You telling stories on your own boss?”

“Oh, do be quiet, Tim.”

“Absolutely,” Andrew agreed cheerfully. “Even if you were right, our lad here wouldn't let on, now, would he?”

Tim subsided behind his drink. “All I know is, it's uncommon strange how he keeps turning up with these little gems nobody's ever heard of before.”

“It's because Alexander keeps his nose to the grindstone and not to his glass,” Sarah countered. “Isn't that right, Jeffrey?”

“It sure is,” he replied, rising to his feet. “And you'll have to excuse me. His plane arrives first thing tomorrow morning, and I've got to go out to Heathrow to meet it.”

“Where'd you say he was coming in from, lad?” Andrew asked.

“I didn't,” Jeffrey replied. “Good-night, everybody.”

CHAPTER 6

Jeffrey arrived at Heathrow Airport half an hour before the flight was scheduled to land. He sat in the Rolls' front seat, somewhat embarrassed by the stares of passersby. The driver was new, but he came from their traditional car-hire firm, and had clearly been warned in advance of Alexander's abhorrence for small talk.

The chauffeur eased the massive car in front of the arrivals gate, then spoke for the first time since greeting Jeffrey at the shop, “I'll be in the VIP lot at the terminal side, sir. I'll have to ask you to come out to let me know if the plane's been delayed. I can't sit there but a few minutes.”

“Right.” The door shut behind him with a satisfactory thunk. It was one of the Rolls' trademarks; all the pieces fit together as though designed to last several generations.

Jeffrey stood by the doors to baggage claim and found himself growing excited. He had not seen his boss in almost a month, had not spoken with him for over three weeks. The distances between Alexander Kantor's visits to London were growing longer, the periods when he was lost and gone and out of contact easier to bear.

Large metal doors pulled back and permitted a slightly dazed Alexander Kantor to walk through, followed by a porter carrying three Louis Vuitton cases. Jeffrey stepped forward and took the matching briefcase from Alexander's limp hand. Flying always left his boss exhausted.

“Ah, Jeffrey. You received my fax.”

“Over this way,” he said, grasping Alexander's elbow and pointing toward the far doors with his free hand. “I confirmed the fax the day it arrived.”

“Did you? When was that?”

“Last Friday. Are you sure you want to talk about this right now?”

“Quite right.” He rubbed a weary brow. “Why on earth did they do away with shipping liners? Allow a body to arrive in proper style.”

“You can't get to London from Geneva by liner, Alexander. The Alps are in the way.” Kantor now had his only residence in Geneva. All the others—London, Monte Carlo, Sicily, Montreal, a flat on Copacabana in Rio—had been gradually sold off over the previous twelve months. The only explanation he had given Jeffrey was that the cost of keeping servants on three continents was becoming ridiculous.

Kantor shot his assistant a peeved look. “You are positively enjoying yourself. I had no idea you had sadistic tendencies.”

“It's just that you are so seldom in less than top form.” Jeffrey allowed Kantor to pass through the exit before him. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Don't be ridiculous. There is no such thing as a good trip on an airplane.”

“I've always thought flying was great,” Jeffrey replied, signaling to their driver.

“Flying is never great. You can have a ten-course meal, watch the finest film since
The Maltese Falcon
, be served by a matched pair of angelic hostesses, and your flight would still not be great. Interesting, perhaps, but never great.”

“You're slurring.”

“Of course I'm slurring. I always try to nap on a plane, which makes me more tired than I was before I started, and I always slur. Where is Roger?”

Roger was Kantor's driver of choice in London. As far as Jeffrey could tell, his entire vocabulary consisted of three words: very good, sir. “With a trio of golfers in Scotland. Gone all week.”

Alexander replied to the driver's murmured greeting with a nod and allowed himself to be guided into the Rolls' leather backseat. Jeffrey supervised the loading of the cases, tipped the porter, and climbed in beside Kantor.

“Claridge's, driver,” Kantor said.

“Sorry, Alexander,” Jeffrey said. “We don't have time.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Count di Garibaldi is waiting for us at the shop. He is on his way overseas, and he insists on speaking to you personally about a certain item.”

Kantor let out a groan. “I positively do not have the strength to deal with that man.”

“You always say that when you arrive, and in fifteen minutes you're always fine.”

“Am I really?”

“Always.” Jeffrey reached over to the front seat, retrieved his briefcase, extracted a thermos and a pair of embossed mugs, said, “Would you care for a cup?”

“My dear boy, how thoughtful. I have no idea what they serve on those planes, but it is most certainly not coffee.”

He handed over a steaming mug, sweetened as Kantor preferred. “You always say that, too.”

“Am I becoming so predictable in my old age?” He took another sip and color began returning to his features. “Your coffee is improving.”

“Betty accused me the other day of trying to dissolve the roof of her mouth.”

“Americans declare anything stronger than old dishwater to be dangerous.” He took another sip. “Yes, I do believe I will survive after all.”

They sped down the M4 until the morning traffic backed up and reduced their progress to a crawl. It took them over an hour to arrive in Mayfair, by which time the thermos was empty, most of the papers in Jeffrey's briefcase had been covered, and Alexander's traditionally alert good nature had been fully restored.

He rewarded his assistant with an approving look. “You have done well, Jeffrey. Remarkably well.”

“Thanks. It's getting to be a lot of fun.”

“I'm so glad to hear it. A business like ours requires that sort of attitude. Otherwise it is next to impossible to close
a sale.” He studied Jeffrey a moment longer. “And you are weathering my absences well?”

“Easier each time. I do have the odd moment, though, usually late at night after you've been out of touch for a couple of weeks. I wake up in a sweat, wondering what I'd do if you didn't show up again.”

Alexander Kantor turned toward the window streaked with misting rain. “There has been a method to the madness, I assure you.”

“I figured there was.”

“Yes?” He turned back around. “And what did you suppose was the purpose?”

“To test me.”

“Obviously. But in what way?”

“To see if I could be trusted when there was no way you could be looking.” Jeffrey took a breath. “To leave me with no set rules, no real parachute, a lot of opportunities to sell at one price and record another, buy and sell on the sly, that sort of thing.”

“Quite right. You've done very well, I might add.”

“I thought you had some of the customers in there, you know, watching and reporting back to you.”

“Of course I did.” He reached to the burl table which folded out from the driver's seat-back and lifted the sheaf of ledger pages. “But the real evidence is right here, Jeffrey. Not only are you scrupulous in your record-keeping, you have done an exceptional job in researching our pieces, presenting them in the best possible light, placing them at auction houses when appropriate—basically, in coming to master the various facets of your new profession. I am indeed pleased.”

Jeffrey felt his face flush with pleasure. “I've tried to be careful.”

“You've been meticulous. I shall return to these compliments under more conducive circumstances. Now tell me—” He leafed through them to the section labeled
Miscellaneous
Expenses
. “You have several items here for salary. I take it this is not for a raise you have given yourself.”

“No.” Jeffrey tugged at his ear. He had thought this over several times, was still not sure how to handle it. “It was one of those judgment calls I had to make myself.”

“Go on.”

“I needed someone who could help in the shop when I was out at auctions or seeing out-of-town buyers or visiting another business. Somebody pretty much available to work only when I needed them.”

The smoky gray eyes gave away nothing. “And how long has this person been employed, may I ask?”

“About four weeks.”

“Since just after my trip began, then. And why did we not discuss this on the phone?”

Yes. That was the clincher. Jeffrey swallowed. “It's a little hard to explain.”

The Rolls turned onto South Audley one block up from Mount Street. Alexander leaned forward, said, “Find some place to pull over and park, please, driver.”

“Right you are, sir.”

“Go on, Jeffrey. I'm all ears.”

He took a breath. “She is more than just a shop assistant.”

“Ah.” Kantor was visibly relieved. “I understand. You did not wish to discuss your personal situation on the phone with me, and you did not want to discuss hiring her without telling me everything.”

He nodded, immensely glad to have it out in the open. “If I knew what our personal situation really was, maybe I wouldn't have such a tough time talking about it.”

“We can leave that for later. Perhaps I shall be able to help you see the situation more clearly. For now we shall focus on the business aspect. And I must say, Jeffrey, your judgment call, as you describe it, was not the optimum one. You should have felt obliged to tell me about this young lady immediately. You
have entrusted the shop and all its contents to an unknown. That simply will not do.”

Jeffrey nodded miserably. “It started off as an emergency. I had to go out to Sussex to see the Countess Drake. You know what she's like. She called up and said it was now or never, and it was that Florentine dresser you've been talking about with her for as long as I've been with the shop. I had a buyer from Spain who had telephoned for an appointment that same afternoon. And Mrs. Grayson had been called out of town the day before. Her daughter went into labor with Mrs. Grayson's first grandchild.”

Mrs. Grayson was a mild-mannered old dear who had been with Kantor's shop for years. She did little more than mind the store when everyone else was away, but she did this with honest diligence. Her courtesy and genuine friendliness ensured that customers returned to learn more details or conclude a transaction with Alexander or Jeffrey.

It had taken several months before Mrs. Grayson would give Jeffrey her approval, for she was fiercely loyal to her oft-absent director. Yet once it was granted, it was done with the wholehearted warmth of a proud mother. She made no bones over her dislike of the previous three assistants Alexander had brought in, none of whom had lasted a year. Jeffrey had known an inordinate amount of pride over his acceptance into Mrs. Grayson's fold. During his boss's long and silent absences, it was the only signal he had received of a job well done.

“So I asked Katya to come over and cover for me,” Jeffrey finished, mightily worried.

“Katya,” Alexander murmured. “A lovely name.”

“Yes, sir.” He swiped at his brow. “Anyway, the next week I had this group over from New York, fourteen people in the shop at once, and Mrs. Grayson let me know that even if I threatened her with dismissal she was not coming back. It seems there's been some kind of health problem with her daughter. Mrs. Grayson is staying in the Midlands until
everything is okay. Anyway, with the tour and a lot of other things going on right then, Katya came over and worked three more afternoons. And then there was something the week after that—I don't remember what. I had a terrible time just getting her to accept a salary; we had a real argument over that one.”

“Did you really. How remarkable.”

“By then it was already sort of a done deal. I started to try and call and tell you, if I could track you down. But like I said, I honestly didn't know how to describe our own situation. So I left it. I'm sorry. I realize I messed up.”

“Indeed you did. So. Consider yourself chastised, Jeffrey. And see that it does not happen again.”