Stone 588 (18 page)

The amount delighted Edwin. He took it to mean he was to be more favorably treated by The System. Up until then the value of his boxes had never been more than a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand. Evidently, The System had decided to allot him more goods or better goods or possibly both.

He broke The System's hardened wax seal, undid its blue grosgrain ribbon, and opened the box. In it was the same sort of medium-to-good grade material in approximately the amount he was accustomed to getting. The only additional thing was a piece of rough that weighed 56.41 carats, for which he was being charged one thousand dollars a carat.

Edwin looked into the stone with his loupe, realized immediately that it was rife with internal inclusions. He'd be lucky if even a few clean half-caraters could be cut out of it. He knew better than to protest. He paid up without a word.

The reason Edwin received such treatment became known to him shortly thereafter in a roundabout way and, assumedly, only because The System wanted him to know. It seemed that while in London for the previous January sight Edwin had sat at a table in the lounge of the Savoy for a drink with a fellow diamantaire, a mere acquaintance who openly expressed criticism of the obdurate way The System conducted business. Edwin had listened and made no comment, but his silence was overheard. The 56.41-carat piece of dreadful rough at a thousand a carat was his penalty for not having spoken up in defense of The System.

Edwin considered chucking the stone down the gutter drain opening outside the Savoy. On second thought he kept it. He kept it on his dresser at home in a shallow silver dish that also held his collar stays, shirt studs, and cuff links. Where, each morning when he dressed to go downtown to the office, he would see it and be reminded of what a dirty business he was in. That was why he called it his reminder stone. It remained in that silver dish for twenty-two years, until Edwin died. And even for several years after that when it was in Janet's possession.

And now there it was. Springer thought, gazing at it: not a diamond at all according to Joel Zimmer.

To bear out his recollections regarding the stone. Springer had Linda go into the old ledgers. Edwin Springer, like most diamond dealers, did much business off and around the books, but it was to the firm's advantage to record a transaction such as this. It was an expenditure, a considerable one that could be honestly carried forward as inventory.

To search that far back Linda had to go into the sealed cartons that were stored in a special room in the basement of the 580 Fifth Building. Fortunately the records were in chronological order. She pulled out the page that showed that particular bookkeeping entry and, as well. The System's invoice.

The stone was referred to as a separate lot: 588.

That was The System's method of numbering. It meant the stone had been sold from its inventory in 1958 and it was the eighth such lot.

Stone 588.

Blessing in disguise, Springer thought.

Despite his sitting there challenging the stone to prove itself in any supernatural way, Springer's attitude toward it had changed considerably. He was not swayed, at least not entirely, by the possibility that he was about to benefit because of it. The claims that Janet had made for the stone, and then Libby, had him really leaning. He realized now that he had experienced Janet's healed mind just as he had experienced Libby's healed hands.

Still, there might be room for a medical explanation.

He phoned Norman in Washington, intending to tell him about it, but he knew as soon as Norman was on the line it wasn't something for long distance.

"I'll be down there this weekend," Springer said.

"Business?"

"I need your professional smarts."

"Something to do with your health?"

"No."

"Money?"

"No."

"This isn't a good weekend for me."

Norman sounded more harried than usual.

"I'll only need a couple of hours. Norm, maybe less."

"Don't be so fucking mysterious."

Springer almost told him he hadn't heard anything yet. "You'll understand when I talk to you." "Coming with Audrey?" "And Jake."

Wednesday morning, true to Libby's word, Springer received written notification from the United States Trust Company of New York that an account had been opened on his behalf. Would he please accommodate the bank by dropping by at his earliest convenience to attend to some minor details?

Springer was there within a half hour: At 11 West 54th Street.

It was not an ordinary bank. It occupied a six-story Georgian-style townhouse designed in 1896 by Stanford White. No counter here. No slow-motion apathetic tellers. No hardhats or beehives or leather jackets standing in line. Instead, a prevailing quietness that assured the sort of confident efficiency needed for the personal tending of numerous millions. Oak-paneled walls, Sarouk oriental rugs, period antique furnishings.

Springer assumed the computers were somewhere out of sight and hearing range. The banker who served him, a Mr. Leeds, shook his hand with precise firmness. Mr. Leeds sat behind a mahogany kneehole desk and made it seem that Springer was doing him a favor by filling out a signature card. He explained in a voice as soft as his silk Dunhill necktie that Springer could draw on the account immediately if he so wished. Up to fifteen million. For some reason, in this place and the way Mr. Leeds said it, it didn't sound like so much. Springer helped himself to a couple of the foil-wrapped chocolate-covered mint wafers that were on a footed sterling dish on the corner of Mr. Leeds's desk. Altogether, while there, Springer said only about ten words, one of which was "thanks."

The following day Springer got a call from London. Though an excellent connection, it did not immediately register that the voice on the calling end belonged to the elderly diamantaire from whom he'd bought the Russian melee. Arthur Drumgold.

"I've some money for you," Drumgold said.

"That's a great opener." Springer reached for his memorandum ledger. He paged through and found the outstanding memo signed by Drumgold acknowledging consigment of four stones, altogether 9.52 carats at $48,100.

"I was wondering how and where you preferred to receive payment," Drumgold said, "cash, cashier's check here or there, or what?"

"I guess you did well with those goods."

"Anyone could have."

"How's that?"

"Do you have your memo there?"

"Right in front of me."

"All right then, first there's the matter of the forty-eight thousand one hundred outstanding. On top of that you've twenty-three thousand eight hundred coming."

"All you owe me is forty-eight thousand one," Springer said.

"And twenty-three thousand eight, which sums to seventy-one thousand nine. I believe that's correct."

"I don't know where you're getting the twenty-three thousand eight."

"I've got it. Those four stones went as a lot for ninety-five thousand seven hundred."

Springer was scribbling the figures on his sorting pad. He realized the $23,800 was a half split of Drumgold's profit. "Oh, no, you don't," Springer said.

"Oh, yes, I do. You know damn well you undercharged me for those goods, probably let me have them at your cost."

Denying that would be insulting Drumgold's intelligence. Springer decided.

"So, how do you want your money? Cash would be no problem."

"Hold it for me," Springer told him. "I'll pick it up when I get to London."

"When will that be?"

"Next week. Wednesday."

"Where will you be stopping?"

"The Connaught." That choice was a compromise, rather than the Savoy or Libby's Chester Terrace townhouse.

"I'll ring you up there. Be nice to see you again. You're coming for the sights, I assume."

"But not only for that reason." Springer and Mal had agreed that Springer might as well attend to the sight on his way to Antwerp, where he hoped to locate the diamonds for Libby.

"Well," Drumgold said, "if I can in any way be of help to you, don't hesitate."

It struck Springer like a hunch. The favorable way things had been going he had to follow it. "Do you know of anyone who wants to sell some particularly fine goods?"

"To what extent fine?"

"D-flawless."

"Investment goods are what you're after, I suppose. One- and two-caraters. Not much of that around anymore, since The System decided to be stingy with it." In the late seventies, when most currencies were unstable, investors bought large amounts of D-flawless diamonds of one and two carats, the most easily salable sizes. The investors stashed those diamonds away at such a rate The System had misgivings. It foresaw a time when those top-grade goods would come pouring back onto the market and raise hell with its price structure. To prevent such a possibility, it began holding back on D-flawless material.

"No," Springer told Drumgold, "I'm looking for stones in the twenty-five-carat range."

"Would you mind repeating that?"

Springer repeated it.

"Cut goods, twenty-five-carat D-flawless?"

"Yeah."

"Not exactly what most people peddle around, is it?" Drumgold commented, amused.

"I need twelve stones."

"Do you now?" Wryly.

"All twelve must be identical, perfectly matched."

"What shape?"

"All rounds or all cushions."

"You're bloody serious, aren't you?" Drumgold said, incredulous.

Calmly, Springer told him, "It occurred to me that with your many connections—"

"Have you considered Russian goods?"

"Not really," Springer fibbed.

"That would be your best bet, I believe. You know, of course, you're talking about an enormous amount of money."

"Isn't that the beauty of it?"

"Quite."

A long, silent moment over the 3,471 miles. Springer could practically hear the old boy's blood racing. "Naturally," Springer said, "if you can help on this there'll be a commission."

"Pardon?"

"I was saying there'd be a commission."

"I was thinking of how best to go about obtaining Russian goods of that size."

"What are the chances?"

"Numerous." Implying risky.

"Regarding the commission, how does two hundred thousand sound?"

"Dollars?"

"Dollars."

"Make it two hundred thousand and one," Drumgold said.

"Why?"

"So I can say I haggled."

The following Saturday was a rainy one in Washington, DC. Not an on-and-off rain but a steady, fine drizzle with no sign of letting up. It intensified the color of the grass along the Mall, polished the cars and the black-topped streets, and subdued the mainly white government buildings. All the American flags hung lank.

Springer, Audrey, and Jake hadn't come prepared for rain but they weren't about to let it handicap their day. Instead of running from it as though it might melt them, they welcomed it. A nice friendly summer rain was what it was. Springer bought a huge black umbrella at a men's store near the hotel, and off they went, down 15th Street past the White House to the Washington Monument. After having gone only that short distance, their clothes were soaked and stuck to them and their feet were squishing in their shoes and the umbrella wasn't really doing much good. They voted unanimously against going up the obelisk, just stood at its base and looked up, squinting as the rain struck their faces.

Jake felt he was too old to go piggyback, but when Springer squatted and offered his shoulders, Jake climbed aboard. With Audrey hugging Springer's arm and Jake riding high holding the umbrella they had a good time singing a Streisand song and strolling along like three rain-loving crazies across the open grass to the Lincoln Memorial.

"What do you think?" Springer asked Jake as they stood at the bottom of the steps taking in the huge statue of Lincoln.

"He was a great president, huh?"

"Sure was."

Jake studied the statue—reverently, Springer thought, until Jake said, "He looks to me like a guy sitting on his porch moping because he's got to go mow the lawn."

Springer would have stifled his laugh if Jake hadn't been so right. The brooding Abe with his hands placed tentatively on the arms of his chair. Probably it would have amused him. Springer thought.

"Out of the mouths of," Audrey said cryptically.

"I'm no babe," Jake contended.

"He's too fast for us," Springer said proudly.

They walked back the way they'd come, continued on along the south side of the Mall, passed up the old Smithsonian Castle, and entered the National Air and Space Museum. Jake was interested in the moon rock, the rockets, and the space capsule but much more in Lindbergh's plane, the Spirit of St Louis, that was suspended from the ceiling as though in flight. Jake stood at the railing of the second-floor balcony where he was eye level with the plane, as close to it as he could get. He read aloud word for word the glass-enclosed caption and had Springer lift him so he could see better into the cockpit. It was as though he understood and could easily accept the existence and functions of the rockets and other space things, but this vulnerable little plane astounded him.

From there they crossed the Mall to the National Gallery, where they were subjected to visual ovemourishment. While appreciating a Gauguin, for example, they were unable to keep their eyes from hurrying to its neighboring Monet. Neither Jake nor his attention wandered off, and Springer thought that outstanding for an eight-year-old. He had a fleeting fatherly projection of a future Jake as a successful artist.

They took the underground passageway to the Annex and went up to the restaurant there. Were lucky enough to get a table that offered an overview of the main gallery area. They appreciated how innovatively the architect had arranged the various open levels and steps. A huge Calder mobile hovered like a colorful insect.

Audrey ordered a bacon cheeseburger, a Coke, a slice of black-bottom pie and a slice of peach pie a la mode, vanilla please. Jake said he'd just have the same. Springer shot Audrey a look. She smiled contritely and told the waitress to bring the Cokes immediately, they were thirsty. Springer was torn between the beef-stew luncheon special and the scallops. Over his menu he glanced at Jake and made up his mind. "We'll all have the same," he said.