“I’d like to take a look into the eyes of Dahlia Manning: She didn’t seem very upset by the sight of her husband getting shot to death. She took it pretty cool.”
Brother Simon shrugged. “She is the Ice Queen.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about these people.”
“Ah. You want to know how I knew they were going to be at the park yesterday.”
“Yes, I have been wondering about that.”
“I have my sources, mademoiselle, just as you, no doubt, have yours.” He had paused then, looking over at the hot-dog vendor on the corner, and smiled: “My treat.”
While they’d walked over to the stand, the afternoon breeze carrying the smell of hot dogs in the crisp October air, he’d continued: “We could, of course, pool our resources, but before that could happen there would have to be trust. And while I have every confidence in you, mademoiselle, I am well aware that you don’t trust me.”
He held up a hand to prevent her from protesting this remark. Mandy, though, had no intention of registering any such dissent. After he had ordered their hot dogs, Brother Simon said: “Trust, unlike love, is rarely unconditional — it has to be earned. And I hope that by the end of tonight I will have earned that trust.”
“Tonight? What exactly is so special about tonight?”
The vendor looked at the autographed napkin and grinned happily. Brother Simon smiled graciously in return. Mandy tossed the remains of her half-uneaten hot dog in the wastebasket and gave Brother Simon a look of mild reproach as she tried to resume their conversation: “You were saying?”
Moving discreetly away from the vendor, Brother Simon, still munching on his hot dog, reached with his free hand into the pocket of his suit, brought out a card, and handed it to Mandy. She looked at it: It was an invitation to the social event of the season — Toot Monroe’s Black and White Ball.
She blinked. Toot Monroe was the celebrated Southern author and Social Register gadfly, well known for giving lavish — and exclusive — parties. She said: “How in the world did you wangle this? You know there are people in this town who’d sell their grandmother for one of these.”
Brother Simon said: “It is for both of us, of course. I hope you won’t mind too much my being your escort for the evening.”
Mandy looked closer at the invitation and indeed found her name on it. She said, “I don’t understand.”
“Tonight the hunt for The One-Eyed Cat will come to its inevitable — and I pray successful — conclusion.”
The moon over the rooftop of Toot Monroe’s Fifth Avenue penthouse hung low and wide: a hunter’s moon. Down below, at street level, a caravan of limousines lined the curb and an army of chauffeurs and doormen, working in tandem with police and private security agents, were busy escorting a glittering array of international society — along with a token number of film and music industry types — past the paparazzi and into the towering high-rise where Toot Monroe held court in his luxurious penthouse.
Sitting in the back of a spacious black limousine, Mandy looked over at her diminutive tuxedo-clad companion, who was presently sipping a glass of champagne, and said: “I can’t help but think that this whole thing is nothing more than a wild-goose chase.”
Brother Simon stopped sipping his champagne and looked at her. “Perhaps, perhaps not; we shall see. But if nothing else, at least you will be able to say that you were in attendance at Toot Monroe’s Black and White Ball.”
“Yes — and I had a big three hours to run out and buy a dress and shoes, and get my hair and nails done.”
“I apologize for the short notice, but it couldn’t be helped. However, if you don’t mind my saying so, you do look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you,” Mandy said, taking a sip from her own glass of champagne and lowering her eyes. She hoped the little freak wasn’t getting any funny ideas. Probably not, but just to be on the safe side she brought the conversation right back to business. “Let’s go over this once more: You believe that Monsarrat is going to show up at this little wing-ding.”
Brother Simon peered owlishly over his champagne glass at her. “Wing-ding?”
“The ball.”
“Yes, my source tells me that he will be there. Though his purpose in going tonight will not be to steal anything.”
Mandy wondered if something was getting lost in translation. “Not steal anything,” she repeated for the sake of clarity. Brother Simon nodded. “His plan is to, how you say, fence the merchandise.”
“The merchandise being the Sunburst Diamond.”
Brother Simon nodded again and took another sip of champagne.
“So, let me get this straight: The One-Eyed Cat is going to fence the Sunburst Diamond right in the middle of Toot Monroe’s Black and White Ball.”
“Exactly, mademoiselle, exactly.”
“But, of all places, why here — on a night like this?” Mandy whispered to Brother Simon as the two of them hung back from the other guests who were now waiting in the palatial marble and mirrored lobby for the next elevator up to the penthouse. “I mean, look around, there are cops and security people everywhere — we just went through a metal detector, for God’s sake. He’d have to be crazy to show up here tonight.”
Brother Simon stood on his tiptoes and whispered back into her ear: “No, mademoiselle, not crazy — inspired. This ball is the safest place in all of New York City tonight. There will be no danger of repeating what happened in the park yesterday. No Russian mob assassins will be lurking behind the caviar tray. You can be sure of that.”
But Mandy remained unconvinced: It all seemed so fantastic.
While they were going up in the elevator she whispered to Brother Simon: “Have you ever met Monsarrat?”
“No, he’s always managed to stay one step ahead of me. The last time I saw him, or rather glimpsed him, he was going over the railing of a hotel suite’s balcony in Paris, with his pockets full of Lady Jerland’s jewels.”
Mandy looked at him. “But you’ll still be able to recognize him — I mean, pick him out of the crowd tonight.”
Brother Simon smiled. “Ah, all cats look alike at night, but remember, this one wears an eyepatch.”
“Yes, I saw those mug shots of him from the Spanish prison: a rather ordinary-looking man, with dark thinning hair and a grubby little moustache. Sort of disappointing. Not exactly the picture of the dashing English gentleman thief that I would have imagined. Aside from the eyepatch, there wasn’t really much to look at.”
Now Brother Simon gave her a wink and said: “Ce n’est pas ce que vous regardez, mais ce que vous voyez.”
“Translation?”
“Mademoiselle, it’s not what you look at, but what you see.”
The elevator came to a stop and everyone piled out and followed a waiting servant down a long red-carpeted hallway leading to the main ballroom. Mandy could hear music playing as the guests before her began to pass through the wide-open, illuminated doorway.
Half to herself she whispered: “What’s the name of that song?” She remembered it from her childhood; her grandmother used to play it on the piano. But now she couldn’t remember the title. Brother Simon slid his arm through hers, making an odd couple approaching the threshold of the doorway, and said: “Cole Porter — ‘Anything Goes’!”
As they passed into the ballroom, the lights from the overhead chandeliers reflecting on the gold silk that lined the walls momentarily dazzled Mandy and she blinked as though she had just come in from the dark. All at once she felt someone take her hand and put something in it. Mandy stared down at what was in her hand with astonishment: It was a white silk eyepatch, complete with an elastic band to go around the head. She looked at Brother Simon, standing next to her, and saw a servant handing him a black silk eyepatch. “Mon Dieu,” he said, speaking to the servant. “What is this?”