Twelve Red Herrings (11 page)

“Certainly,
madam,” the manager replied, pulling back a chair for his customer. He nodded
almost imperceptibly to an assistant, who silently walked over to the window,
unlocked a little door and extracted the necklace. The manager slipped behind
the counter and pressed a concealed button. Four floors above, a slight burr
sounded in the private office of Mr. Laurence Graff, warning the proprietor
that a customer had enquired after a particularly expensive item, and that he
might wish to deal with them personally.

Laurence Graff
glanced up at the television screen on the wall to his left, which showed him
what was taking place on the ground “Ah,” he said, once he saw the lady in the
pink suit seated at the Louis XIV table. “Mrs. Consuela Rosenheim, if I’m not
mistaken.” Just as the Speaker of the House of Commons can identify every one
of its 650 members, so Laurence Graff recognised the 650 customers who might be
able to afford the most extravagant of his treasures. He quickly stepped from
behind his desk, walked out of his office and took the waiting lift to the
ground floor.

Meanwhile, the
manager had laid out a black velvet cloth on the table in front of Mrs.
Rosenheim, and the assistant placed the necklace delicately on top of it.
Consuela stared down at the object of her desire, mesmerised.

“Good morning,
Mrs. Rosenheim,” said Laurence Graff as he stepped out of the lift and walked
across the thick pile carpet towards his would-be customer.
“How
nice to see you again.”
He had in truth only seen her once before – at a
shoulder-toshoulder cocktail party in Manhattan. But after that, he could have
spotted her at a hundred paces on a moving escalator.

“Good morning,
Mr....”
Consuela
hesitated, feeling unsure of herself
for the first time that day.

“Laurence
Graff,” he said, offering his hand. “We met at Sotheby Parke Benett last year –
a charity function in aid of the Red Cross, if I remember correctly.”

“Of course,” said
Mrs. Rosenheim, unable to recall him, or the occasion.

Mr. Graff bowed
reverently towards the diamond and ruby necklace.

“The Kanemarra
heirloom,” he purred,
then
paused, before taking the
manager’s place at the table. “Fashioned in 936 by Silvio di Larchi,” he
continued. “All the rubies were extracted from a single mine in Burma, over a
period of twenty years. The diamonds were purchased from De Beers by an
Egyptian merchant who, after the necklace had been made up for him, offered the
unique piece to King Farouk – for services rendered. When the monarch married
Princess Farida he presented it to her on their wedding day, and she in return
bore him four heirs, none of whom, alas, was destined to succeed to the
throne.’

Graff looked up
from one object of beauty, and gazed on another.

“Since then it
has passed through several hands before arriving at the House of Graff,”
continued the proprietor. “Its most recent owner was an actress, whose
husband’s oil wells unfortunately dried up.” The flicker of a smile crossed the
face of Consuela Rosenheim as she finally recalled where she had previously
seen the necklace.

“Quite
magnificent,” she said, giving it one final look. “I will be back,” she added
as she rose from her chair. Graff accompanied her to the door. Nine out of ten
customers who make such a claim have no intention of returning, but he could
always sense the tenth.

“May I ask the
price?” Consuela asked indifferently as he held the door open for her.

“One million
pounds, madam,” Graff replied, as casually as if she had enquired about the
cost of a plastic keyring at a seaside gift shop.

Once she had
reached the pavement, Consuela dismissed her chauffeur. Her mind was now
working at a speed that would have impressed her husband. She slipped across
the roan, calling first at The White House, then Yves Saint Laurent, and
finally at Chanel, emerging some two hours later with all the weapons she
required for the battle that .lay ahead. She did not arrive back at her suite
at the Ritz until a few minutes before six.

Consuela was
relieved to find that her husband had not yet returned from the bank. She used
the time to take a long bath, and to contemplate how the trap should be set.
Once she was dry and powdered, she dabbed a suggestion of a new scent on her neck,
then slipped into some of her newly acquired clothes.

She was checking
herself once again in the full-length mirror when Victor entered the room. He
stopped on the spot, dropping his briefcase on the carpet. Consuela turned to
face him.

“You look stunning,”
he declared, with the same look of desire she had lavished on the Kanemarra
heirloom a few hours before.

“Thank you,
darling,” she replied. “And how did your day go?”

“A
triumph.
The takeover has been agreed, and at half the price it would have cost me only
a year ago.” Consuela smiled.
An unexpected bonus.

“Those of us who
are still in possession of cash need have no fear of the recession,” Victor
added with satisfaction.

Over a quiet
supper in the Ritz’s dining room, Victor described to his wife in great detail
what had taken place at the bank that day.

During the
occasional break in this monologue Consuela indulged her husband by remarking
“How clever of you, Victor,”

“How amazing,”

“How you managed
it I will never understand.” When he finally ordered a large brandy, lit a
cigar and leaned back in his chair, she began to run her elegantly stockinged
right foot gently along the inside of his thigh. For the first time that
evening, Victor stopped thinking about the takeover.

As they left the
dining room and strolled towards the lift, Victor placed an arm around his
wife’s slim waist. By the time the lift had reached the sixth floor he had
already taken off his jacket, and his hand had slipped a few inches further
down.

Consuela
giggled. Long before they had reached the door of their suite he had begun
tugging off his tie.

When they
entered the room, Consuela placed the “Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outside
doorknob. For the next few minutes Victor was transfixed to the spot as he
watched his slim wife slowly remove each garment she had purchased that
afternoon.

He quickly
pulled off his own clothes, and wished once again that he had carried out his
New Year’s resolution.

Forty minutes
later, Victor lay exhausted on the bed. After a few moments of sighing, he
began to snore. Consuela pulled the sheet over their naked bodies, but her eyes
remained wide open.

She was already
going over the next step in her plan.

Victor awoke the
following morning to discover his wife’s hand gently stroking the inside of his
leg. He rolled over to face her, the memory of the previous night still vivid
in his mind. They made love a second time, something they had not done for as
long as he could recall.

It was not until
he stepped out of the shower that Victor remembered it was his wife’s birthday,
and that he had promised to spend the morning with her selecting a gift. He
only hoped that her eye had already settled on something she wanted, as he
needed to spend most of the day closeted in the City with his lawyers, going
over the offer document line by line.

“Happy birthday,
darling,” he said as he padded back into the bedroom. “By the way, did you have
any luck finding a present?” he added as he scanned the front page of the
Financial Times.

The City Editor
was already speculating on the possible takeover, describing it as a coup. A
smile of satisfaction appeared on Victor’s face for the second time that
morning.

“Yes, my
darling,” Consuela replied. “I did come across one little bauble that I rather
liked. I just hope it isn’t too expensive.”

“And how much is
this “little bauble?” Victor asked.

Consuela turned
to face him. She was wearing only two garments, both of them black, and both of
them remarkably skimpy.

Victor started
to wonder if he still had the time, but then he remembered the lawyers, who had
been up all night and would be waiting patiently for him at the bank.

“I didn’t ask
the price,” Consuela replied. “You’re so much cleverer than I am at that sort
of thing,” she added, as she slipped into a navy silk blouse.

Victor glanced
at his watch. “How far away is it?” he asked.

“Just across the
road, in Bond Street, my darling,” Consuela replied. “I shouldn’t have to delay
you for too long.” She knew exactly what was going through her husband’s mind.

“Good. Then
let’s go and look at this little bauble without delay,” he said as he did up
the buttons on his shirt.

While Victor
finished dressing, Consuela, with the help of the Financial Times, skilfully
guided the conversation back to his triumph of the previous day. She listened
once more to the details of the takeover as they left the hotel and strolled up
Bond Street together arm in arm.

“Probably saved
myself several million,” he told her yet again.

Consuela smiled
as she led him to the door of the House of Graff.

“Several
million?” she gasped. “How clever you are, Victor.” The security guard quickly
opened the door, and this time Consuela found that Mr. Graff was already
standing by the table waiting for her. He bowed low,
then
turned to Victor. “May I offer my congratulations on your brilliant coup, Mr.
Rosenheim.
” Victor smiled. “How may I help
you ?”

“My husband
would like to see the Kanemarra heirloom,” said Consuela, before Victor had a
chance to reply.

“Of course,
madam,” said the proprietor. He stepped behind the table and spread out the
black velvet cloth. Once again the assistant removed the magnificent necklace
from its stand in the third window, and carefully laid it out on the centre of
the velvet cloth to show the jewels to their best advantage. Mr. Graff was
about to embark on the piece’s history, when Victor simply said, “How much is
it?” Mr. Graff raised his head. “This is no ordinary piece of jewellery. I feel...”

“How much?”
repeated Victor.

“Its provenance
alone warrants...”

“How
much ?”

“The sheer
beauty, not to mention the craftsmanship involved...”

“How much?”
asked Victor, his voice now rising.

“...the word
unique would not be inappropriate.”

“You may be
right, but I still need to know how much it’s going to cost me,” said Victor,
who was beginning to sound exasperated.

“One million
pounds, sir,” Graff said in an even tone, aware that he could not risk another
superlative.

TI1 settle at
half a million, no more,” came back the immediate reply.

“I am sorry to
say, sir,” said Graff, ‘that with this particular piece, there is no room for
bargaining.”

“There’s always
room for bargaining, whatever one is selling,” said Victor. “I repeat my offer.
Half a million.”

“I fear that in
this case, sir...”

“I feel
confident that you’ll see things my way, given time,” said Victor. “But I don’t
have that much time to spare this morning, so I’ll write out a cheque for half
a million, and leave you to decide whether you wish to cash it or not.”

“I fear you are
wasting your time, sir,” said Graff. “I cannot let the Kanemarra heirloom go
for less than one million.”

Victor took out
a chequebook from his inside pocket, unscrewed the top of his fountain pen, and
wrote out the words “Five Hundred Thousand Pounds Only’ below the name of the
bank that bore his name. His wife took a discreet pace backwards.

Graff was about
to repeat his previous comment, when he glanced up, and observed Mrs. Rosenheim
silently pleading with him to accept the cheque.

A look of
curiosity came over his face as Consuela continued her urgent mime.

Victor tore out
the cheque and left it on the table. TII give you twenty-four hours to decide,”
he said. “We return to New York tomorrow morning – with or without the
Kanemarra heirloom. It’s your decision.” Graff left the cheque on the table as
he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheim to the front door and bowed them out onto
Bond Street.

“You were
brilliant, my darling,” said Consuela as the chauffeur opened the car door for
his master.

“The bank,” Rosenheim
instructed as he fell into the back seat.

“You’ll have
your little bauble, Consuela. He’ll cash the cheque before the twenty-four
hours are up, of that I’m sure.” The chauffeur closed the back door, and the
window purred down as Victor added with a smile, “Happy birthday,
darling
.” Consuela returned his smile, and blew him a kiss
as the car pulled out into the traffic and edged its way towards Piccadilly.

The morning had
not turned out quite as she had planned, because she felt unable to agree with
her husband’s judgement – but then, she still had twenty-four hours to play
with.