She cabbed home to her apartment, furious but controlling it because she had already prepared a fallback scenario in case Schnabl couldn't be manipulated. He couldn't, and now she would have to do it herself. She was not daunted by that prospect.
Her spirits rose when the concierge handed her a package that had just been delivered by a messenger from Starrett Fine Jewelry. Helene hugged it to her breast in the elevator; she knew what it contained.
That night she and Clayton were going to attend a charity dinner-dance at the Waldorf, the first time they would be out in public together. Helene had bought a new evening gown: a strapless sheath of lapis-hued sequins. And Clayton had promised to lend her a necklace from Star-rett's estate jewelry department.
"Remember, it's only a loan," he had said, "for one night. It has to be returned to the store-unless some woman at the party will kill for it and can come up with the two million five it costs. In which case you get a commission."
"I understand," Helene said.
She tore open the package with trembling hands, lifted the lid of the velvet case, caught her breath. It was a magnificent strand of ten splendid sapphires, each gem set in a pyramid of diamonds, the pyramids linked with 18K gold. Helene guessed the total sapphire weight at about 75 cts. and the diamonds at 50 cts.
She took off jacket and blouse and clasped the necklace about her throat. It was beautifully designed, and lay flat and balanced on her bare skin. She stood before the mirror, turned this way and that, admired the sparkle of the gems, the glow of the gold. This was the kind of adornment for which she was destined. She had always known it. All she had ever needed was a break-and Clayton Starrett was it.
She spent a long time bathing, doing her hair, applying makeup, stepping carefully into the sequined sheath, donning the satin evening pumps. Then she locked that wondrous necklace about her throat and saw in the mirror the woman she had always wanted to be.
She went downstairs carrying a silk trench coat. The stretch limousine was waiting. Clayton was standing alongside on the sidewalk, smoking a cigar. When he saw her, he tried to speak but something caught in his throat. She recognized the longing in his eyes.
"I feel like Cinderella," she said, laughing, "on her way to the ball."
"But midnight will never come," he proclaimed. "Never!"
At the Waldorf, they sat at a table for ten. All the other men seemed to be suppliers to Starrett Fine Jewelry, and they and their wives treated Clayton with the deference a good customer deserved. They were no less ingratiating toward Helene, admiring the necklace, her gown, even the shade of her fingernail polish. She basked.
It was a black-tie affair and, looking about the big dining room, Helene saw nothing but wealth and finery. Flash of jewels. Scent of expensive perfumes. It seemed to be a room without worries, without grief or regrets. This was, she decided, what life should be.
Later, during the dancing, she was introduced to many people: admiring men and sharp-eyed women. She conducted herself demurely, murmured her thanks for compliments, held Clayton's hand and let him exhibit her proudly: his newest and most valuable possession.
The band played "After the Ball" at 2:00 A.M., but it was almost another hour before they had a final glass of champagne, reclaimed their coats, and waited for their limo to be brought around. They returned to Helene's apartment through a soft snowfall that haloed the streetlamps and added the final touch to a fairy-tale evening.
"I'd love to come up," Clayton said huskily, "but I can't. Heavy schedule tomorrow, and besides, I had too much to drink. I better get some sleep."
"Oh Clayton," she said sorrowfully, immensely relieved and gripping his hand tightly, "the first disappointment of a really fabulous night."
"It was super, wasn't it? Darling, you were the belle of the ball. I've never heard such praise. All the guys wanted your phone number, of course, but I told them you were taken."
"I am-with you," she said and kissed him fiercely.
"Oh God," he said, almost moaning, "what a life we're going to have!"
"Do you want the necklace now?" she asked.
"No, you keep it till tomorrow. I'll send a messenger around in the morning. Helene, I love you. You know that, don't you?"
She kissed him again as an answer, then went up to her apartment alone, the collar of her trench coat raised to hide the necklace. She undressed swiftly, realizing she would have to shampoo before sleeping to rid her hair of the smell of Clayton's cigars.
She stroked the necklace softly as it lay on her suede skin. It was an enchantment, an amulet that would protect her from failure and bring her nothing but good fortune.
So bewitched was she by this extraordinary treasure that never once did she remember that it would be taken away by a messenger in the morning.
Chapter 40
Dora Conti was beginning to get a glimmer, just a faint perception of what was going on. She cast Sidney Loftus and the Pierces as the sharks and the Starretts as their wriggling prey. But who was doing what to whom remained murky. Dora even drew a diagram: boxed names linked by straight or squiggly lines. It didn't help.
Then Detective John Wenden called.
"Hey, Red," he said with no preliminary sweet talk, "there's a guy I want you to meet: Terence Ortiz, a detective sergeant. We call him Terrible Terry."
"All right," Dora said, "I'll play straight man: Why do you call him Terrible Terry?"
"He's in Narcotics," Wenden said, "and he shoots people. Listen, can we stop by tonight? Late?"
"How late?"
"Around eight o'clock."
"That's not late," Dora said. "I rarely go to bed before nine."
"Liar!" he said, laughing. "See you tonight."
Terry Ortiz turned out to be a short, wiry man with a droopy black mustache that gave him a melancholic mien. But he was full of ginger and had a habit of snapping his fingers. When he was introduced, he kissed Dora's hand, and the mustache tickled.
"Hey," she said, "would you guys like a beer?"
"The sweetest words of tongue or pen," Ortiz said.
"Except for 'The check is in the mail,' " Wenden said.
"Yeah, except it usually ain't," Ortiz said. "I'll settle for a beer."
He was wearing a black leather biker's jacket and black jeans. When he took off the jacket, Dora saw he was carrying a snub-nosed revolver in a shoulder holster. She brought out cans of beer, a bag of pretzels, and a saucer of hot mustard. They sat around the cocktail table, and Terrible Terry slumped and put his boots up.
"I got maybe an hour," he announced, "and then I gotta split. If I don't get home tonight my old lady is going to split me."
"Where do you live, Sergeant Ortiz?" Dora asked politely.
"Terry," he said. "The East Side barrio-where else?
Let's talk business."
"Yeah," John said, "good idea. Red, tell Terry how you came up with the name of Ramon Schnabl."
She explained again how she asked her boss to run a computer check on the ownership of the premises occupied by Stuttgart Precious Metals on West 54th, and eventually the paper trail led to a Luxembourg holding company headed by Schnabl."
"Uh-huh," John said, "and who was the first owner you turned up-the outfit that leased the place to Stuttgart?"
"Spondex Realty Corporation."
The two detectives looked at each other and laughed.
"What are you guys giggling about?" Dora demanded.
"After you mentioned the name of Ramon Schnabl," Wenden said, "I remembered your telling me about that trip to Boston you made and how the store in Roxbury looked like a deserted dump. So just for the hell of it, I called the Boston PD and asked them to find out who owns the building occupied by Felix Brothers Classic Jewelry. Guess what: It's owned by Spondex Realty Corporation."