West 47th (14 page)

Often lovely pieces came to the store, brought by misfortunates embarrassed by the need to sell but rightly under the impression Laughton's would not take advantage of their plight.

A pair of Winston ear clips for instance.

“Why certainly Mrs. Whoever, we'll clean them for you.”

“That's most kind of you.”

“No bother, no bother at all. It will take only a few minutes.”

“While we're at it, I was wondering, could you give me an idea of what they're worth? To you, I mean.”

Others, whose fortunes had ascended, brought in pieces wanting to trade or leave on consignment. In fact, much of the Laughton stock was left by owners to be sold.

“Why in the world would you want to part with such a lovely bracelet. It's Van Cleef you know.”

“I never wear it. It's a hand-me-down from my bitch-from-hell aunt. Anyway, I'm bored with it.”

Many of those were frail, spindly-looking, overdieted women with scalpeled features, addicted to self-indulgence.

Mitch had learned to recognize their requirements. He knew how to wait on them. For one thing they didn't want him to be too well-mannered. Nor did they ever want to be called ma'am. At times he found them amusing, forgivable, and more often than not, his good nature was sincere.

All in all, Laughton and Sons was doing well, and there seemed to be no reason why it wouldn't continue to do so.

Came then the bitter cold morning, a Monday in February. The events of that day had had such a long run on the stage of Mitch's memory that he knew their every word and nuance.

To begin with, at about nine-thirty, a half hour before opening, Harvey Miner phones, to say his wife has fallen on the icy sidewalk. She has fractured her hip and he's at the hospital with her and won't be in until noon or one. Sorry.

Miner sounds unlike his usual laconic self, stressed, but considering his circumstances that's understandable.

Miner is the armed security man for the store, has been for several years. A retired cop of formidable height and bulk, intimidating even when he smiles. Normally, during business hours, Miner stands inside the entrance, from where he can watch over what's going on in the store and, as well, scrutinize and pass on those who wish to come in.

The entrance is arranged to prevent anyone from just walking in off the street. There's an outer and an inner door, both of thick glass heavily framed: and between the two is a vestibule that will accommodate no more than three persons at a time. The bolt of the inner door is electrically controlled. A button to activate the bolt and click it open is located inside within easy reach of where Miner stands. A second such button is located on the underside of the main display counter.

So, Miner won't be in until later and that's not important because its doubtful there'll be anyone out spending on this kind of day. It's punishingly cold. No sun and twenty degrees below freezing. The sidewalks and buildings along Madison appear brittle and depressed. There's no fast traffic to speak of and the cars and buses stopping and continuing along are coated dull with winter chemicals, their underneaths crusted with frozen muddy slush.

Still, like most other shops along the avenue, Laughton's is making ready. It is routine, the transferring of merchandise from the vault to the display cases and windows. Mitch and Andy and Kenneth pitch in and by regular opening time at ten the task is done.

At ten-thirty it's a welcome surprise when a customer comes from the street into the vestibule. A woman. Her impatience is apparent. It's as though she fears that if she's not immediately allowed in, the cold, like a monster, will catch up with her and consume her. And it is that impression, along with her qualifying well-off appearance, that prompts Andy to hastily click open the inner door.

Then she is in, standing there in calf-length sable, hunkered down, her head surrounded, nearly buried by the collar of the abundant fur.

“Damn cold!” are her first words.

She does a shiver, then sits and removes her expensive shoes. She rubs her feet vigorously to warm them. In front of strangers a self-confident, assertive act. She owns the world.

Through her sheer stockings Mitch sees the snug, enforced arrangement of her toes. Her toenails. Its seems too intimate. Her reddened nose and cheeks look as though they've been sharply pinched.

She's quite beautiful, Mitch thinks, anyway, a lot more attractive than most. Her hair and ears are contained by a black, wrapped turban which is pinned by an art deco period diamond, ruby and onyx jabot. A nice piece that Mitch's expertise makes out to be an authentic La Cloche Frères.

Also, she has on dark brown kid skin gloves. Outside the gloves on the second finger of her right hand is a large ring studded with various colored sapphires. Mitch appreciates that show of independent style.

A gasp from her, and another shiver. “I only walked over from Park,” she says plaintively, “and I'm frozen to the marrow. One has to be mad to be about on such a day.”

It's difficult to feel sorry for her, Mitch thinks, this lovely, privileged woman, temporarily uncomfortable. Her manner of speech is throaty, contains broad vowels with diphthongs here and there. An affectation that has probably become a habit. Mitch would never forget her voice. Later on, in one public place or another, he would hear a similar voice and be disappointed when he saw it wasn't her.

Kenneth asks her would she care for some coffee.

No thank you.

Kenneth suggests a glass of port.

She tells him archly that it depends on the port.

A twenty-year-old vintage finest reserve W. & J. Graham is presented, approved with an
mmmm
and poured into two finely etched claret glasses. Two because Kenneth won't allow her to drink alone.

In three uninterrupted swallows the port is down inside her and she is saying “Ah, that'll do the trick. May I have another?”

Kenneth obliges and that second portion limbers her. She ceases hugging herself. She slips back into her shoes and allows the sable to fall open enough to reveal a good, ample sling bag. The dress she has on is expensive but rather overstated, inappropriate for a winter Monday morning. Mitch thinks she should know better and must have her reason.

A paragraphic moment.

“What can we do for you?” Kenneth inquires.

“For one thing,” she replies lightheartedly, “let my husband in. After all, he'll be paying the bill.”

There's a man in the vestibule. Dressed in black. Well-tailored double-breasted topcoat, leather gloves, small-figured silk scarf.

Kenneth clicks the inner door open.

The woman calls the man Charles. He looks to be somewhere in his fifties. He gives her a brief hug and apologizes for being late. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Yes,” she lies.

“I would have been on time but there was a call from Rome.”

She forgives him with a smile and a slight shrug.

Mitch notices the man has a powdered face, aftershave powder that is a bit light for his complexion. Also, his shoes aren't up to the rest of his attire. They're round-toed, thick-soled, made to last ten or even twenty years with visits to a cobbler. Policeman shoes or those of a train conductor. Perhaps he has a foot problem, Mitch thinks.

Kenneth offers the man coffee or port.

The man declines with a gesture and asks the woman: “Have you chosen anything?”

She tells him she hasn't and he removes a pair of gold wire-rimmed eyeglasses from an inside pocket, puts them on and begins considering the pieces on display in the wall cases.

The woman, meanwhile, gives her attention to the main counter. She peers down through the glass surface to the items arranged just so. So many beautiful pieces. A diamond and ruby
sautoir
catches her eye and refuses to let go.

Kenneth is quick to realize her interest. He removes the necklace from the case and places it upon a cushiony square of black velour on the counter. “Exquisite, isn't it?” he says almost objectively.

She takes up the necklace, holds it up, enjoys examining it.

Kenneth pitches gently, informs that it once belonged to an heiress who, in her time, had been—how shall he put it?—a very free-spirited debutante.

A knowing grin from the woman. “I must have it,” she exclaims.

It happens swiftly.

She drops the necklace into her sling bag. Her hand follows it in and comes out with the pistol. It has a silencer on it.

At once the man admits two other men. They go at it, methodically emptying the windows and the display cases, throwing piece after piece into Bergdorf Goodman shopping bags.

Mitch has never seen valuable jewels treated so harshly. He wants to tell the men to be more respectful.

The woman has moved to the open end of the main counter where she has a sure view of Kenneth, Andy and Mitch. The pistol she holds on them is barely visible, only the lethal tip of the silencer protrudes from the wide sleeve of her sable coat. Her expression has changed little. She's not apparently nervous and, although that's reassuring, better than having her jittery and overheated, Mitch believes it's best not to move.

There's an alarm button inset in the floor beneath the counter. Kenneth is making a try for it, inching his foot toward it. The woman seems unaware. The alarm is the silent sort, connected directly to the Nineteenth Precinct.

No warning from the woman.

She shoots Kenneth in the foot, the instep. It's almost as though the pistol has done it robotically, altered its aim, fired with absolute accuracy.

Pain clogs Kenneth's breath. What comes from him is a short guttural bleat. He slumps to the floor.

Mitch is surging with fury. There's an automatic pistol in the drawer to his left but his better judgment tells him he'd never get to it, his better judgment reminds him that he has always believed it would be best to not resist an armed robbery, that no amount of jewels would be worth dying for.

He and Andy and Kenneth are ordered into the vault, made to lie on the floor among the emptied vault drawers and trays and cartons. They're bound with their neckties and belts. Positioned as they are, right there before Mitch's eyes is the blood oozing from the tongue of his father's shoe.

He hears the robbers going. They are gone. Everything is gone.

The loss comes to twelve million. It seems an inordinate amount but the Laughton books prove it. About seven of the twelve is the value of goods that were Laughton-owned. The remaining five is the value of pieces that had been left on consignment.

There's insurance. A policy that all along promised complete coverage. For all its years Laughton's has paid the pricey premiums to Columbia Beneficial. However, now that there's been a loss, and such a large one, Columbia Beneficial says there are considerations.

A term in the fine print, not ambiguous or vague; it's right there, clearly a stipulation of the policy.

Keith Ruder, the Columbia Beneficial representative who handles the claim, is insincerely sorry to point it out.

In so many words what the term says is that security measures must include an armed guard inside the store during all business hours.

Which, of course, had not been the case.

No matter that Harvey Miner, the Laughton guard, had been under mortal pressure—a pistol held to the back of his head—that morning when he called in and recited the lie of his wife's injury.

Ruder seems to take personal pleasure in having found the loophole for Columbia Beneficial. Smugly, he says the extenuating circumstances make no difference. He refuses to budge from that stand, doesn't until Kenneth Laughton's lawyers get into it. Then Ruder budges only some.

The settlement.

Columbia Beneficial agrees to pay out six million. Kenneth must absorb the rest of the loss.

Five of the six million that comes from Columbia goes at once to make good on the jewelry Laughton's had on consignment. From what remains of the six Kenneth buys out of his long-term lease and pays his legal bills.

There's relatively little left. Not enough for Kenneth to start over. Besides, he's as empty as the store, can't stop grieving over all those precious pieces of jewelry, lovely tasteful pieces that he'd so carefully acquired, being put to death, so to speak, their gems extracted, their fine mountings sacrificed to some smelter's crucible.

He retreats, moves to the west coast of Florida, lives in a modest condo, sits in the sun, watches the sea, walks with a limp. He has a collection of canes, most of which Mitch and Maddie or Andy send him. His favorite and one most used is a nineteenth-century blackthorn from the West of Ireland. Another that he treasures once belonged to Lord Byron.

A tinny clunk imposed on Mitch's self-communion. Then several more of the same.

Coins were being dropped through the slot of the brass poor box situated a short distance from where Mitch sat in the most rear pew of St. Patrick's.

He felt much better, in a way exorcised. The aftereffect of the
bonbonnière
was gone from his hands and the performance for his past that it produced on the stage of his memory was over, at least for the time being, without so much as a curtain call.

Perhaps Visconti would sell him the
bonbonnière
, he thought, but then maybe it wouldn't be good to have around. No. Leave bad enough alone.

Off to his right where the pew ended at the main aisle Mitch noticed the comers and goers doing genuflects that were actually only slight bobs in the direction of the distant altar.

Ask for the moon but don't bruise a knee.

Chapter 10

The elevator attendant wasn't fazed by what he'd been hearing from the thirtieth floor on up. He was a New York serving sort with acquired terminal apathy, and if Mrs. Laughton was playing music so loud it went through the Sherry's thick interior structures like a sonic ray, he didn't care to know why.