Florian's Gate (15 page)

He realized that it was over. “Thanks, Mr. Kantor. It won't.”

“Alexander, please. Fine. Now that's behind us. So tell me about this Katya. Is she as lovely as her name?”

Jeffrey nodded. “It fits her perfectly.”

“An attractive woman who works well with customers is quite an asset. You obviously trust her; I do hope it is not based solely upon your emotions.”

“No, sir. She's very religious, and her honesty is something that I've never had to concern myself about. She's one of the most honorable people I've ever met. I don't think it would even occur to her to steal.”

“Is she English?”

“American. Her father was from the States. But she's lived here in England for over ten years.”

“Her mother is not American?”

Jeffrey's brow furrowed in concentration. “Katya doesn't like to talk about her past all that much. Her mother is from the western part of Poland—I've forgotten the name. She told me only once.”

A new light entered Kantor's eyes. “Silesia perhaps?”

“That's it. Silesia. Her mother came from there to the West some time after the war.”

Kantor nodded slowly. “And what does the young lady do with the remainder of her time?”

“She's a third-year student at the University of London. She's in East European studies, specializing in the German and Polish languages.”

“How remarkable.” He straightened and spoke to the front seat. “Thank you, driver. You may proceed now.”

Kantor remained silent and pensive as the Rolls cruised up the block, waited at the light, turned down Mount Street. Jeffrey let himself out as the driver held Alexander's door, then followed his boss into the shop.

“Ah, at last.” Count Garibaldi rose from the chair that he had pulled up close to Katya's. “My good friend Alexander, you have saved me from disaster. If you had arrived just two minutes later, I would have been swept away by this lovely face and proposed. You know my heart. It leaps forward with little concern to this frail body. I would have lost our wager for sure.”

“But what is the value of a wager in comparison to a new love?” Alexander extended his hand, said, “It is wonderful to see you again, Ricardo.”

Count Ricardo Bastinado Grupello di Garibaldi prided himself on being a man of few illusions. He had grown from an unknown immigrant of doubtful heritage into one of London's leading property developers, and his title and courtly manners were as false as his teeth. He did not care who knew it, did not care what was said about him behind his back. He considered the manners and the title and the polish all a part of the game of being rich. Count di Garibaldi had been both rich and poor, and anyone who believed it was better to be poor was a certifiable fruitcake in the count's book.

The count was a dried-up old prune who was so sure he would outlive his friend Alexander that he had insisted they wager on it. His nose was the only feature that had withstood the ravages of time. It was an aristocrat's beak, a craggy mountain that could nest eagles in each nostril. It was a very
useful nose. He could raise his chin about one millimeter and snub the world down its double-barreled length. It gave a deceptive sense of strength to an otherwise shriveled frame.

All the count had to live for was his collection of antiques and his seventeen children. His five ex-wives no longer spoke to him. All seventeen children idolized him. They had to. The count demanded it. But he could not control his ex-wives because of what he considered to be the most pestilent of modern inventions—alimony. They had more than they would ever need, so they delighted in scorning him and calling him foul names. His children, however, were a different matter.

In return for seventeen most generous monthly payments, he demanded peace with him and peace with each other. Anyone who let a spoiled nature run wild within the family was swiftly stripped to a bread and water diet. A couple of months without petrol money for the Ferrari, and the worst of them learned to stew in silence. The count did not demand love; he was too realistic to insist on the impossible. He was quite happy to settle for peace.

The count stretched his bloodless lips in a smile of genuine pleasure. “You are well, Alexander?”

“Perfectly.”

“No morning aches and pains?”

“I would never permit myself such an indulgence.”

The count's smile broadened as he clapped his more virile friend on the shoulder. “You don't stand a chance, Alexander. I'll beat you by ten years.”

“This is one wager I do not look forward to winning,” Kantor replied. “Which I shall.”

The bet was for fifty thousand pounds. On the day the other died, the lawyers for their estates were instructed to issue a check—providing the survivor still had the strength to drink a glass of single-malt whiskey neat, then dance a jig on the other's grave.

“I must compliment you on your choice of assistants,” the count said.

Kantor turned to where Katya stood toward the back of the shop. In the soft lighting reflected from the highly polished surfaces, her features glowed. “I confess this arrangement was not of my choosing,” Alexander replied. “But she certainly meets with my approval. How do you do, my dear. I am Alexander Kantor.”

She walked forward and presented her hand with a poise Jeffrey found remarkable. She stood so erect as to appear regally aloof, a dark-haired vision with eyes the color of heavens seen through the smoke of a winter's fire. “Katya Nichols. Jeffrey has told me so much about you, Mr. Kantor.”

“Has he really.” Kantor did a stiff-backed bow over her hand, then said something in a tongue Jeffrey assumed was Polish. Katya responded with cool grace in the same language. Her remark caused Kantor's eyes to broaden momentarily. They exchanged more words; then Alexander repeated his formal bow. He returned to English, saying, “This is indeed an unexpected pleasure, Miss Nichols.”

Jeffrey thought his heart would burst with pride.

“My dear Alexander, if you would kindly return your attention to the business at hand,” the count said sharply. “You may be interested to know that I was not referring to the young lady. I have already been informed as to how she came to grace your establishment. I was speaking of your young man here. I am not sure you realize what a find you have under your roof.”

Kantor's eyes lighted upon Jeffrey. “I am well aware how fortunate I am.”

“Nonsense,” the count snorted. “How could you, since you are scarcely ever here? Now listen to your good friend, Alexander. The only passion left to me is my collection. I would not joke over something as important to me as my passion, you know that. There are few dealers with whom I consider it a genuine pleasure to do business. If you know what is good for you, you will do everything in your power to hold on to him.”

“I intend to,” Kantor replied. “And now that you have thoroughly embarrassed the young man, shall we get down to business?”

“Very well.” The tone turned lofty. “I had thought to purchase that rather poor example of a writing desk you have propped up there against the back wall. But your young man must have misplaced the proper price tag, and I therefore wanted to take it up directly with you.”

“The price is correct.”

“You have not even asked him what he quoted me.”

“I don't need to. You have just told me what an exceptional find he is. I am quite prepared to stand on whatever price he quoted.”

The piece in question was a seventeenth-century
escritorio
, a narrow cabinet with a fold-down face used for writing and fronted by as many as two dozen small drawers. In this case there were twelve, forming an upside-down
U
above and around a central door. When opened, the door revealed yet another door, this one opening only when a tiny switch elegantly concealed inside one of the drawers was pressed in just the right manner. The drawers and central door were inlaid with a mosaic of mother-of-pearl, brought in at enormous cost from some mysterious island on the other side of the globe by a wooden ship flying flags and as many as thirty-six sails. Jeffrey had spent long hours fantasizing about what the world had been like when pieces such as this had been created, and the stories connected to their centuries-long journeys to Mount Street.

The price on that particular work of art was seventy thousand pounds.

“Preposterous,” the count complained. “No writing table on earth is worth that much money, especially not one which made its debut in the back room of some second-rate counting house.”

Jeffrey cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should mention that we've received another offer.”

The count paled. “When?”

“Yesterday. A gentleman from Canada. I told him I would have to wait until this morning, as you had been granted first refusal.”

The count's bluster dropped immediately to weak relief. “Bless you, young man. That was truly kind.”

Jeffrey ignored the fact that Alexander's approving gaze rested upon him. “I knew you were interested in it, Count. It would have been incorrect not to allow you a chance to make a counter offer.”

The count glanced at Alexander, then turned to Jeffrey, “Shall we say seventy-five?”

“Perfect,” Jeffrey replied. “When shall I have it delivered?”

Since selling his Belgravia flat, Alexander had made Claridge's his London residence whenever he was in town. That evening he and Jeffrey departed the hotel for the
Ognisko
, the Polish club on Prince's Gate, one block off Hyde Park. It was a holdover from the time when post-war Polish refugees with money and status all gathered and lived in the vicinity. With the passing of time, rents in that area grew from high to vicious and on to levels that were affordable only by the super-rich and by corporations seeking headquarter addresses. Yet the Polish club lingered on, secure in its distinguished position because it was a freehold property.

The Polish club had a simple brass plaque on the pillar outside the entrance, announcing in a most understated way that the entire building belonged to the
Ognisko
, the Polish word for hearth. In days gone by, it was a haven for strangers forced by war's uncaring hand to leave behind home and beloved country, and begin again in a strange new world.

The club was open to all who wished to enter, and served excellent Polish dishes at what for London were extremely reasonable prices. In the seventies and eighties, however, as families had moved on and others had died out, attendance slowly dwindled to a handful of old faithfuls.

“Thank you, driver,” Kantor said as he allowed the chauffeur to hold his door. “We shall be several hours, if you would care to dine and come back.”

“Very good, sir.”

Jeffrey waited until Kantor had started up the stairs before turning back to the driver and saying in a low voice, “It'd be a good idea if you'd stick around for half an hour before taking off. We might not be staying as long as he thinks.”

“Half an hour it is, sir.”

“Thanks.”

They stepped through the wide double doors and were immediately awash in a flood of noise. Alexander Kantor hesitated, then stepped into the foyer and bade the two ladies staffing the front desk a good evening. One immediately went into the bar and returned with the club manager, a crusty old gentleman. His features were a series of jagged lines and caverns, carried on a body held stiffly erect despite the weight of seventy-some years.

“Welcome, Mr. Kantor, welcome.” The man grasped Alexander's hand and gave a formal bow. “It is always an honor to have you join us.”

Alexander glanced over the man's shoulder into the bar. It was wall-to-wall people, loud music, and thundering noise. “Sigmund, what on earth is happening?”

“Ah, Mr. Kantor, it's just awful.” The man showed tragic concern. “We've been discovered!”

“I beg your pardon?” As was his habit, Kantor continued to speak in English so long as Jeffrey was in listening range. Even with clients who stubbornly insisted on remaining in the old tongue, Kantor would politely continue to respond in English. If furrows appeared around the client's brow, Jeffrey would normally get up and leave the room. The only exception was when Alexander was dealing with someone whose English was not good; he then went to great pains to translate and include Jeffrey in even the most mundane of discussions.

“It was the Sunday
Times
,” the old man said, his voice almost a wail. “Their restaurant writer was brought here by Polish friends, or so the article said. Then some awful magazine called the
Tatler
came by, and since then it's been nonstop.”

“It's like this every night?”

The old man nodded. “You should see it on the weekends, Mr. Kantor. Simply dreadful.”

“I see. Any chance of a table?”

“Oh, Mr. Kantor.” It was clearly what the old man had feared hearing. “If only you had called ahead.”

“Of course, Sigmund.” Kantor gave the old man's shoulder a conciliatory pat. “Don't let it trouble you.”

“I could perhaps have something around midnight if you'd care to wait.”

“I think not.” Kantor grasped the old man's hand in both of his, gave it a warm shake. “We shall return another night, old friend. Rest assured of that.”

“Early is best, Mr. Kantor. It's not so bad before seven.”

The driver sprang from the car as soon as they appeared. Alexander asked Jeffrey, “You told him to wait?”

Jeffrey nodded. “I thought maybe it would be better for you to see that for yourself.”

“Quite right. I suppose we should travel on to Daquise, then, don't you?”

“Fine with me.”

“Number Twenty Thurloe Street, driver,” Alexander instructed. “Near the South Kensington Tube Station.”

“Very good, sir.”

Daquise was another holdover, but from a decidedly different strata of transferred Polish society. It was a single long room set in a block of other small, slightly seedy shops.