One Sunday evening at dinner a member of Parliament turned to Tracy and said, "I've never met a real Texan, Miss Whitney. What are they like?"
Tracy went into a wicked imitation of a nouveau riche Texas dowager and had the company roaring with laughter.
Later, when Tracy and Gunther were alone, he asked, "How would you like to make a small fortune doing that imitation?"
"I'm not an actress, Gunther."
"You underestimate yourself. There's a jewelry firm in London--Parker and Parker--that takes a delight in--as you Americans would say--ripping off their customers. You've given me an idea how to make them pay for their dishonesty." He told Tracy his idea.
"No," Tracy said. But the more she thought about it, the more intrigued she was. She remembered the excitement of outwitting the police in Long Island, and Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco, and Jeff Stevens. It had been a thrill that was indescribable. Still, that was part of the past.
"No, Gunther," she said again. But this time there was less certainty in her voice.
London was unseasonably warm for October, and Englishmen and tourists alike took advantage of the bright sunshine. The noon traffic was heavy with tie-ups at Trafalgar Square, Charing Cross, and Piccadilly Circus. A white Daimler turned off Oxford Street to New Bond Street and threaded its way through the traffic, passing Roland Cartier, Geigers, and the Royal Bank of Scotland. A few doors farther on, it coasted to a stop in front of a jewelry store. A discreet, polished sign at the side of the door read: PARKER & PARKER. A liveried chauffeur stepped out of the limousine and hurried around to open the rear door for his passenger. A young woman with blond Sassoon-ed hair, wearing far too much makeup and a tight-fitting Italian knit dress under a sable coat, totally inappropriate for the weather, jumped out of the car.
"Which way's the joint, junior?" she asked. Her voice was loud, with a grating Texas accent.
The chauffeur indicated the entrance. "There, madame."
"Okay, honey. Stick around. This ain't gonna take long."
"I may have to circle the block, madame. I won't be permitted to park here."
She clapped him on the back and said, "You do what you gotta do, sport."
Sport! The chauffeur winced. It was his punishment for being reduced to chauffeuring rental cars. He disliked all Americans, particularly Texans. They were savages; but savages with money. He would have been astonished to learn that his passenger had never even seen the Lone Star State.
Tracy checked her reflection in the display window, smiled broadly, and strutted toward the door, which was opened by a uniformed attendant.
"Good afternoon, madame."
"Afternoon, sport. You sell anythin' besides costume jewelry in this joint?" She chuckled at her joke.
The doorman blanched. Tracy swept into the store, trailing an overpowering scent of Chloe behind her.
Arthur Chilton, a salesman in a morning coat, moved toward her. "May I help you, madame?"
"Maybe, maybe not. Old P.J. told me to buy myself a little birthday present, so here I am. Whatcha got?"
"Is there something in particular Madame is interested in?"
"Hey, pardner, you English fellows are fast workers, ain'cha?" She laughed raucously and clapped him on the shoulder. He forced himself to remain impassive. "Mebbe somethin' in emeralds. Old P.J. loves to buy me emeralds."
"If you'll step this way, please..."
Chilton led her to a vitrine where several trays of emeralds were displayed.
The bleached blonde gave them one disdainful glance. "These're the babies. Where are the mamas and papas?"
Chilton said stiffly, "These range in price up to thirty thousand dollars."
"Hell, I tip my hairdresser that." The woman guffawed. "Old P.J. would be insulted if I came back with one of them little pebbles."
Chilton visualized old P.J. Fat and paunchy and as loud and obnoxious as this woman. They deserved each other. Why did money always flow to the undeserving? he wondered.
"What price range was Madame interested in?"
"Why don't we start with somethin' around a hundred G's."
He looked blank. "A hundred G's?"
"Hell, I thought you people was supposed to speak the king's English. A hundred grand. A hundred thou."
He swallowed. "Oh. In that case, perhaps it would be better if you spoke with our managing director."
The managing director, Gregory Halston, insisted on personally handling all large sales, and since the employees of Parker & Parker received no commission, it made no difference to them. With a customer as distasteful as this one, Chilton was relieved to let Halston deal with her. Chilton pressed a button under the counter, and a moment later a pale, reedy-looking man bustled out of a back room. He took a look at the outrageously dressed blonde and prayed that none of his regular customers appeared until the woman had departed.
Chilton said, "Mr. Halston, this is Mrs...er...?" He turned to the woman.
"Benecke, honey. Mary Lou Benecke. Old P.J. Benecke's wife. Betcha you all have heard of P.J. Benecke."
"Of course." Gregory Halston gave her a smile that barely touched his lips.
"Mrs. Benecke is interested in purchasing an emerald, Mr. Halston."
Gregory Halston indicated the trays of emeralds. "We have some fine emeralds here that--"
"She wanted something for approximately a hundred thousand dollars."
This time the smile that lit Gregory Halston's face was genuine. What a nice way to start the day.
"You see, it's my birthday, and old P.J. wants me to buy myself somethin' pretty."
"Indeed," Halston said. "Would you follow me, please?"
"You little rascal, what you got in mind?" The blonde giggled.
Halston and Chilton exchanged a pained look. Bloody Americans!
Halston led the woman to a locked door and opened it with a key. They entered a small, brightly lit room, and Halston carefully locked the door behind them.
"This is where we keep our merchandise for our valued customers," he said.
In the center of the room was a showcase filled with a stunning array of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, flashing their bright colors.
"Well, this is more like it. Old P.J.'d go crazy in here."
"Does Madame see something she likes?
"Well, let's jest see what we got here." She walked over to the jewelry case containing emeralds. "Let me look at that there bunch."
Halston extracted another small key from his pocket, unlocked the case, lifted out a tray of emeralds, and placed it on top of the table. There were ten emeralds in the velvet case. Halston watched as the woman picked up the largest of them, an exquisite pin in a platinum setting.
"As old P.J. would say, 'This here one's got my name writ on it.'"
"Madame has excellent taste. This is a ten-carat grass-green Colombian. It's flawless and--"
"Emeralds ain't never flawless."
Halston was taken aback for an instant. "Madame is correct, of course. What I meant was--" For the first time he noticed that the woman's eyes were as green as the stone she twisted in her hands, turning it around, studying its facets.
"We have a wider selection if--"
"No sweat, sweetie. I'll take this here one."
The sale had taken fewer than three minutes.
"Splendid," Halston said. Then he added delicately, "In dollars it comes to one hundred thousand. How will Madame be paying?"
"Don't you worry, Ralston, old sport, I have a dollar account at a bank here in London. I'll write out a little ole personal check. Then P.J. can jest pay me back."
"Excellent. I'll have the stone cleaned for you and delivered to your hotel."
The stone did not need cleaning, but Halston had no intention of letting it out of his possession until her check had cleared, for too many jewelers he knew had been bilked by clever swindlers. Halston prided himself on the fact that he had never been cheated out of one pound.
"Where shall I have the emera
ld delivered?"
"We got ourselves the Oliver Messel Suite at the Dorch."
Halston made a note. "The Dorchester."
"I call it the Oliver Messy Suite," she laughed. "Lots of people don't like the hotel anymore because it's full of A-rabs, but old P.J. does a lot of business with them. 'Oil is its own country,' he always says. P.J. Benecke's one smart fella."
"I'm sure he is," Halston replied dutifully.
He watched as she tore out a check and began writing. He noted that it was a Barclays Bank check. Good. He had a friend there who would verify the Beneckes' account.
He picked up the check. "I'll have the emerald delivered to you personally tomorrow morning."
"Old P.J.'s gonna love it," she beamed.
"I am sure he will," Halston said politely.
He walked her to the front door.
"Ralston--"
He almost corrected her, then decided against it. Why bother? He was never going to lay eyes on her again, thank God! "Yes, madame?"
"You gotta come up and have tea with us some afternoon You'll love old P.J."
"I am sure I would. Unfortunately, I work afternoons."
"Too bad."
He watched as his customer walked out to the curb. A white Daimler slithered up, and a chauffeur got out and opened the door for her. The blonde turned to give Halston the thumbs-up sign as she drove off.
When Halston returned to his office, he immediately picked up the telephone and called his friend at Barclays. "Peter, dear, I have a check here for a hundred thousand dollars drawn on the account of a Mrs. Mary Lou Benecke. Is it good?"
"Hold on, old boy."
Halston waited. He hoped the check was good, for business had been slow lately. The miserable Parker brothers, who owned the store, were constantly complaining, as though it were he who was responsible and not the recession. Of course, profits were not down as much as they could have been, for Parker & Parker had a department that specialized in cleaning jewelry, and at frequent intervals the jewelry that was returned to the customer was inferior to the original that had been brought in. Complaints had been lodged, but nothing had ever been proven.
Peter was back on the line. "No problem, Gregory. There's more than enough money in the account to cover the check."
Halston felt a little frisson of relief. "Thank you, Peter."
"Not at all."
"Lunch next week--on me."
The check cleared the following morning, and the Colombian emerald was delivered by bonded messenger to Mrs. P.J. Benecke at the Dorchester Hotel.
That afternoon, shortly before closing time, Gregory Halston's secretary said, "A Mrs. Benecke is here to see you, Mr. Halston."
His heart sank. She had come to return the pin, and he could hardly refuse to take it back. Damn all women, all Americans, and all Texans! Halston put on a smile and went out to greet her.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Benecke. I assume your husband didn't like the pin."
She grinned. "You assume wrong, buster. Old P.J. was just plain crazy about it."
Halston's heart began to sing. "He was?"
"In fact, he liked it so much he wants me to get another one so we can have 'em made into a pair of earrings. Let me have a twin to the one I got."
A small frown appeared on Gregory Halston's face. "I'm afraid we might have a little problem there, Mrs. Benecke."
"What kinda problem, honey?"
"Yours is a unique stone. There's not another one like it. Now, I have a lovely set in a different style I could--"
"I don't want a different style. I want one jest like the one I bought."
"To be perfectly candid, Mrs. Benecke, there aren't very many ten-carat Colombian flawless"--he saw her look--"nearly flawless stones available."
"Come on, sport. There's gotta be one somewhere."
"In all honesty, I've seen very few stones of that quality, and to try to duplicate it exactly in shape and color would be almost impossible."
"We got a sayin' in Texas that the impossible jest takes a little longer. Saturday's my birthday. P.J. wants me to have those earrings, and what P.J. wants, P.J. gets."
"I really don't think I can--"
"How much did I pay for that pin--a hundred grand? I know old P.J. will go up to two hundred or three hundred thousand for another one."
Gregory Halston was thinking fast. There had to be a duplicate of that stone somewhere, and if P. J. Benecke was willing to pay an extra $200,000 for it, that would mean a tidy profit. In fact, Halston thought, I can work it out so that it means a tidy profit for me.
Aloud he said, "I'll inquire around, Mrs. Benecke. I'm sure that no other jeweler in London has the identical emerald, but there are always estates coming up for auction. I'll do some advertising and see what results I get."
"You got till the end of the week," the blonde told him. "And jest between you and me and the lamppost, old P.J. will probably be willin' to go up to three hundred fifty thousand for it."
And Mrs. Benecke was gone, her sable coat billowing out behind her.
Gregory Halston sat in his office lost in a daydream. Fate had placed in his hands a man who was so besotted with his blond tart that he was willing to pay $350,000 for a $100,000 emerald. That was a net profit of $250,000. Gregory Halston saw no need to burden the Parker brothers with the details of the transaction. It would be a simple matter to record the sale of the second emerald at $100,000 and pocket the rest. The extra $250,000 would set him up for life.
All he had to do now was to find a twin to the emerald he had sold to Mrs. P.J. Benecke.
It turned out to be even more difficult than Halston had anticipated. None of the jewelers he telephoned had anything in stock that resembled what he required. He placed advertisements in the London Times and the Financial Times, and he called Christie's and Sotheby's, and a dozen estate agents. In the next few days Halston was inundated with a flood of inferior emeralds, good emeralds, and a few first-quality emeralds, but none of them came close to what he was looking for.
On Wednesday Mrs. Benecke telephoned. "Old P.J.'s gettin' mighty restless," she warned. "Did you find it yet?"
"Not yet, Mrs. Benecke," Halston assured her, "but don't worry, we will."
On Friday she telephoned again. "Tomorrow's my birthday," she reminded Halston.
"I know, Mrs. Benecke. If I only had a few more days, I know I could--"
"Well, never mind, sport. If you don't have that emerald by tomorrow mornin', I'll return the one I bought from you. Old P.J.--bless his heart--says he's gonna buy me a big ole country estate instead. Ever hear of a place called Sussex?"
Halston broke out in perspiration. "Mrs. Benecke," he moaned earnestly, "you would hate living in Sussex. You would loathe living in a country house. Most of them are in deplorable condition. They have no central heating and--"
"Between you and I," she interrupted, "I'd rather have them earrings. Old P.J. even mentioned somethin' about bein' willin' to pay four hundred thousand dollars for a twin to that stone. You got no idea how stubborn old P.J. can be."
Four hundred thousand! Halston could feel the money slipping between his fingers. "Believe me, I'm doing everything I can," he pleaded. "I need a little more time."
"It ain't up to me, honey," she said. "It's up to P.J."
And the line went dead.
Halston sat there cursing fate. Where could he find an identical ten-carat emerald? He was so busy with his bitter thoughts that he did not hear his intercom until the third buzz. He pushed down the button and snapped, "What is it?"
"There's a Contessa Marissa on the telephone, Mr. Halston. She's calling about our advertisement for the emerald."
Another one! He had had at least ten calls that morning, every one of them a waste of time. He picked up the telephone and said ungraciously, "Yes?"
A soft female voice with an Italian accent said, "Buon giorno, signore. I have read you are interested possibly in buying an emerald, si?"
"If it fits my qu
alifications, yes." He could not keep the impatience out of his voice.
"I have an emerald that has been in my family for many years. It is a peccato--a pity--but I am in a situation now where I am forced to sell it."
He had heard that story before. I must try Christie's again, Halston thought. Or Sotheby's. Maybe something came in at the last minute, or--
"Signore? You are looking for a ten-carat emerald, si?"
"Yes "
"I have a ten-carat verde--green--Colombian."
When Halston started to speak, he found that his voice was choked. "Would--would you say that again, please?"
"Si. I have a ten-carat grass-green Colombian. Would you be interested in that?"
"I might be," he said carefully. "I wonder if you could drop by and let me have a look at it."
"No, scusi, I am afraid I am very busy right now. We are preparing a party at the embassy for my husband. Perhaps next week I could--"
No! Next week would be too late. "May I come to see you?" He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "I could come up now."
"Ma, no. Sono occupata stamani. I was planning to go shopping--"
"Where are you staying, Contessa?"
"At the Savoy."
"I can be there in fifteen minutes. Ten." His voice was feverish.
"Molto bene. And your name is--"
"Halston. Gregory Halston."
"Suite ventisei--twenty-six."
The taxi ride was interminable. Halston transported himself from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell, and back again. If the emerald was indeed similar to the other one, he would be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Four hundred thousand dollars, he'll pay. A $300,000 profit. He would buy a place on the Riviera. Perhaps get a cruiser. With a villa and his own boat, he would be able to attract as many handsome young men as he liked...
. Gregory Halston was an atheist, but as he walked down the corridor of the Savoy Hotel to Suite 26, he found himself praying, Let the stone be similar enough to satisfy old P.J. Benecke.
He stood in front of the door of the contessa's room taking slow, deep breaths, fighting to get control of himself. He knocked on the door, and there was no answer.
Oh, my God, Halston thought. She's gone; she didn't wait for me. She went out shopping and--
The door opened, and Halston found himself facing an elegant-looking lady in her fifties, with dark eyes, a lined face, and black hair laced with gray.