11 Harrowhouse (7 page)

“Do you golf, Mr. Chesser?”

“No.” Chesser was tempted to say he didn't hunt either.

“Nor do I any more. I don't go around. But I usually take a few swings before lunch. To stretch the body.”

It could have been a deliberate cue, for at that moment the huge man in black who'd driven the Rolls appeared with a golf bag and clubs. Natural-antelope bag with calf trim. The shafts and faces of the clubs were of a gold alloy.

Massey said the huge man's name was Hickey. My man, was how Massey categorized him. Hickey smiled at Maren and Chesser.

Massey got up. Hickey set a genuine ivory tee into the grass, placed a pale blue ball upon it, and handed Massey a driver. Massey didn't take any practice swings. In practically one motion he took his stance and hit the ball solidly.

The pale blue sphere shot away straight, was lifted by the clear afternoon air and became a speck of blue as it fell far down the hill. Massey remained in follow-through position, watching it. An excellent shot for a man Massey's age.

Three more balls were teed by Hickey. Massey hit each straight to about the same spot. Then he came back to his seat and took a sip of champagne, glancing over his glass at Chesser and Maren. They didn't compliment him as he expected. He liked them more for it.

Maren requested more champagne, but a servant, standing aside, remained in place until Massey instructed him.

“Such singular loyalty,” remarked Maren.

“Not really,” said Massey. “He didn't hear you.”

Maren was sure she'd spoken loud enough. She said so.

“He's deaf and mute,” explained Massey. “As are all my servants. You'd be amazed what a difference it makes in efficiency. They rely on reading lips and gestures, so they must always be attentive. And there are other advantages, of course. Such as peace and quiet. Nothing worse than a lot of babbling help around.”

It occurred to Chesser that such an arrangement was also fine for secrecy. No overheard phone calls or ears against doors of rooms where private conferences were taking place. And perhaps just as important, personal sounds could be as uninhibited as desired, day or night.

Massey glanced up at the sun. “We'll wait a while longer for her,” he said.

Maren and Chesser wondered who
her
was.

Massey answered their minds. He had a way of doing that. Making a statement to create a question he could answer. He told them, “Lady Gaye Bolding is joining us for lunch.”

“Is she a neighbor?”

“An associate,” said Massey. Another of those suspended statements. He waited for the inquiry in their eyes. Then he explained that Lady Bolding's husband was an executive in the legal branch of one of his companies. “Spends most of his time in the Middle East,” Massey informed. “Speaks fluent Arabic and practically all the dialects. But what makes him most valuable is he thinks like an Arab.” Massey paused and forced a small smile in tribute to Lord Bolding. “He thoroughly enjoys his … work.”

“And what does Lady Bolding do besides be a Lady?” asked Maren.

“For one thing, she helped me acquire this house and most of its furnishings. She's excellent at finding things.”

Chesser pictured Lady Bolding. The image that came with the name was a dropped-breasted, stick-legged older woman, resentfully past her prime because she'd made such poor use of her earlier opportunities. She'd be English stuffy and over-consciously correct. Chesser hoped she didn't show up.

“She functions more or less as my personal assistant,” said Massey. “You'll find her quite interesting.” He directed that remark more to Maren than Chesser. He looked up at the sun again. As though it told him the exact time, he decided, “We won't wait any longer.”

They took their places at the luncheon table. At last, grumbled Chesser's stomach, as the hand of a servant snapped a napkin and placed it across Chesser's lap.

Caviar came first. Two pounds of largest gray Beluga in a silver bowl in a bed of shaved ice. Maren and Chesser heaped large portions onto their plates. They ate it the way they liked it—by the spoonful without garnish of any sort.

Now Massey's subject was food. He referred to it as gastronomy, which made Maren realize it was astronomy with a g in front of it.

According to Massey, the earliest gods and goddesses were invented as a direct result of food. Primitive man required someone to thank when the harvest was good and someone to appease when it was bad. Food civilized man. Not until food became available in quantity did the family table come into existence. Before that there was little more than selfish, individual, animal grubbing.

What a boring old bastard, thought Chesser, devouring caviar and nodding politely just often enough. He resented being a captive audience. Massey or no Massey, he decided, they'd leave. Right after lunch.

“Do you play backgammon?” Maren asked Massey. An attempt to detour.

Massey merely shook his head and went on. It was a lecture. A soliloquy. The memorized ramblings of a self-proclaimed expert. Early gastronomy, Massey said, might have been the primary cause of the polarity of the genders, particularly responsible for woman's inherent hostility toward man, which is so manifest today. When prehistoric woman became burdened with advanced pregnancy, she was unable to participate in the hunt. Therefore, in keeping with atavistic rule, she did not deserve equal share of the food. All she could do was huddle in a corner of the cave and snarl and hope that man might be generous enough to toss her a bone. She had to be grateful for whatever she got. She was dependent. But dependent with a vengeance. Soon, of course, she learned to get her share by using her own more personal weapons. Anyway, it was quite possible that was how it all began. Said Massey.

Maren growled at Chesser and stole some caviar from his plate.

Massey continued. He hurdled millenniums in mere sentences. He went from the eating habits of the Pharoahs to the culinary genius of Curnonsky and Escoffier.

Maren was on her third portion of the Beluga.

“Apparently you enjoy caviar,” remarked Massey.

He'd caught her with a mouthful but she didn't hurry her chewing. When she finally swallowed, she told him, “I'm addicted.”

“They claim it has aphrodisiac qualities,” said Massey.

“So that's your secret,” exclaimed Maren, aiming her words at Chesser, who felt them ricochet and find Massey.

“In that respect it's much like Burgundy,” said Massey. “They say the women of Burgundy enjoy that wine most when their men have drunk it.”

Next came Tournedos Rossini. Filets of beef set on sautéed bread, capped with fresh foie gras, crowned generously with truffles, and covered with Périgueux sauce. As an accompaniment, there were artichokes à la Baligoure.

Chesser was encouraged, feeling better now that his appetite was being so luxuriously pacified. Also, as a consequence, his patience was being restored. Maren pilfered some of his truffles and begged forgiveness with a smile. Chesser pretended he hadn't noticed and forked a bite of filet into his mouth.

Chesser's position at the table gave him first sight of Lady Bolding's arrival.

She was definitely not the lady that Chesser had pictured. She was under thirty. A blonde with a tan that announced leisure. She was the perfect English example of the difference between being merely bred and, as they say, having breeding. During introductions, she offered a languid hand to Chesser. That same hand became more resolute when she offered it to Maren, who examined it a moment before accepting it. Lady Bolding apologized for being late, said she was glad they hadn't waited lunch and explained she'd been playing tennis. The game had been at match point for a maddening number of times, she said. She declined the caviar in a way that made one feel it represented expiation for her tardiness. She was served the tournedos, so they were all on the same course.

“I've seen you in fashion magazines,” she told Maren. Her tone so obviously admiring that Maren nearly said thank you.

Massey placed his hand upon the hand of Lady Bolding. His way of letting Chesser know. Chesser thought it was like an old leaf covering a flower.

Lady Bolding brought up Wimbledon. She advised Massey that a box had been arranged for the tournament. The same as last year, she told him.

Perhaps, thought Chesser, the reason he felt the lady was so attractive was that he had expected much less. He told himself that was it, while he appraised her and realized it wasn't. Lady Bolding's features were fine and ideally distributed. She wore a minimum of make-up. There was a trace of petulance to her mouth, and her large, brown eyes suggested they had something delightful to reveal. She was, altogether, very well finished. Her gestures were delicate, extremely feminine, but without affectation. She knew exactly what she was doing. What she was wearing, for example. Full-length silk chiffon, Bianchini in a floral pattern that was see-through enough to say she was proud of her bare breasts. The way she was sitting, nearly profile to Chesser, he could make out the perfect underline of her right one. The calculated transparency of the fabric invited eyes to steal and Chesser, that moment, was very much a thief. He projected the intimate experience her body conveyed in its movements and attitudes. Her voice, as well, multiplied that impression. At least it did for Chesser. She had the sort of voice most serious actresses achieve only after years of training. Resonance without effort, a quality that was both mellifluous and pure. Chesser imagined her saying something erotic. In this house of Massey's she could scream it. There was no one to hear. Chesser glanced to Maren and found her eyes fixed on him. She created a little mouth expression that said jealous.

The four discussed various things Chesser now found more interesting, such as the Mare Moda, a water-fashions festival held each year on Capri.

Finally, Lady Bolding announced that she was going in to freshen up. She invited Maren to do the same. The two women went into the house, leaving Massey and Chesser facing one another. It seemed the women were gone a long while. A servant cleared the table except for Perrier and glasses. Massey looked off down the hill, as though he were trying to identify something in the distance. He asked Chesser how long it had been since he was in the States. Chesser told him three or four years.

When Maren and Lady Bolding returned and were settled once again at the table, Massey reached into the upper pocket of his jumpsuit. He brought out two gems. He rolled them, like dice, across to Chesser.

“Which of these is genuine?” he asked.

Chesser didn't pick up the stones. For one thing, Massey had caught him a bit off balance, and obviously this was a challenge of some sort. They were finally getting down to business, he realized. He let the stones lie there on the yellow tablecloth. He estimated they were each about seven carats, round cut, identical.

“Can you tell?” challenged Massey, insinuating that Chesser couldn't.

Chesser fingered the stones, respectfully but nonchalantly. They refracted equally brilliant flares in the sunlight. He picked one up and pretended to examine it. Then the other. He wished he'd brought his loupe. That would have added a professional touch.

“Well?” said Massey impatiently.

“Tell him, darling,” urged Maren.

Lady Bolding remained silent, amused.

Chesser took his time. “I'd like some crème de menthe,” he said. “Clear. And a tall glass.”

Both were brought immediately. Chesser filled the glass with the liquor. Maren snickered. She thought he might drink it. Chesser placed the two gems in his palm and, with some minor ritual, dropped them simultaneously into the glass of crème de menthe.

The gems descended slowly in the viscous, syrupy liquid. One reached bottom before the other.

“That one,” announced Chesser.

“Which?” asked Massey.

Chesser poured most of the liquor from the glass and picked out the gem that had descended more slowly. Crème de menthe dripped from its facets and his fingers. He rinsed them in a glass of Perrier, dried with his napkin, and handed the gem to Massey.

Massey had no way of knowing if this gem was the real one or not. He told Chesser that.

“The other stone is man-made,” said Chesser, “probably strontium titanate, which has a specific gravity about one-third greater than a diamond. That's why the diamond lost the race to the bottom.”

“Impressive,” conceded Massey. But he was still dubious. Chesser could be inventing all this, putting on an act. “What if I told you they were both diamonds,” said Massey, intimating that might be the case.

“They're not,” said Chesser.

“There's a way of checking?”

Chesser removed the other gem from the glass. He rinsed, dried, and offered it to Massey. “Just scratch this one with that one,” he instructed. “Of course, if they're both diamonds, you'll probably ruin one or the other, possibly both. It's a chance you'll have to take.” Chesser was very confident. Now he was challenging Massey. Chesser knew the real stone was worth close to forty thousand dollars. It had excellent color and appeared very well cut.

Massey didn't hesitate. He took the stone from Chesser and scratched it harshly with the one he'd had. He looked at both and saw Chesser was right. The man-made gem was badly marred. The diamond not at all damaged.

“I congratulate you, Mr. Chesser.” He threw the man-made stone over his shouler. He tossed the diamond to the lap of Lady Bolding, who didn't even acknowledge it.

Massey sat back. It seemed a concluding movement. Chesser felt it was, but then Massey told him: “I want you to acquire a diamond for me.”

Massey allowed time for Chesser's questions to form.

“No,” he replied to Chesser's silence. “I don't want an already-famous jewel taken from the eye of some jungle idol. What I want is a new stone.”

“How large?”