Christian Morel left for Rheims a happy man. He made himself comfortable in the first-class compartment and gazed smugly at his reflection in the polished glass as the train pulled away. He had planned this as a jaunt; a little pleasure trip to ease his mind now the task of keeping a close watch on Henri was done. Still, putting constant pressure on the old codger had done some good. He had done the recutting and polishing faster than Morel could have hoped, and done it well in spite of his indignation. What’s more, stealing from the Countess had brought extra benefits. Her gratitude to him for returning the tiara discreetly and with due deference meant he had now made some very valuable contacts with rich Americans. America was the thing. A new, ambitious nation not dead and dried up like France, crisped, its juices all run out and lapped up before Christian had had more than a taste of it. Then he frowned, and still watching himself in the glass, raised one eyebrow. The brilliant man of business considers. Perhaps he should abandon the name Morel in Paris and disappear into that vast new continent as Gravot again. He had heard a couple of men in the club talking about Los Angeles as a place that looked likely to boom. And did he really want to swap Paris for the constrictions of Boston? He and Sylvie would travel quietly to New York, then head out west, sell the great stone in Chicago and arrive on the Pacific Coast like heroes. Yes, let Morel live and die in Paris. He stroked his chin. He was clean-shaven, a modern man. All the ambitious young men in America would recognise him as one of their own.
He went to the best jeweller in Rheims straight from the station with his story ready and waiting on the tip of his smooth tongue. He planned to say he was selling the bracelet on behalf of his sister, a woman of fashion in Paris who had accepted it from an admirer. Now the admirer was replaced by a respectable husband and it would be better if his sister became a wife with an equally respectable bundle of banknotes rather than another man’s jewels. They would take it from him with a vague smile, but then seeing the quality and clarity of the stones their hands would twitch to close round it. He would see the gulp of desire in their throats, the sheen in their eyes as they imagined the potential profit.
He took the tram to Place Royale rehearsing these pleasant conversations in his mind. He would seem a little uncertain when the first price was offered. He would say perhaps he should try another of the jewellers in the city, these happy few who supplied the champagne merchants with their diamonds and rubies. The jeweller would begin to sweat and gradually increase his price until he got to a reasonable amount – fifty thousand francs or so. Morel would then agree and everyone would be delighted with their bargain.
He hopped down from the tram and tipped his hat to the statue of the old King watching the square and providing a perch for the pigeons to watch it too, and chose his first target – an elegant little shop tucked into the corner of the square with a discreet window display of luxury and taste. The doorbell rang out and the girl behind the counter smiled at him sweetly as he pushed the door open, wished him good morning and asked if she could show him anything. She had the trace of a foreign accent which reminded him suddenly of Maud, her precise and mannered French. It almost made him stumble, but as soon as he began his story of the sister and the admirer his tongue gained its usual fluency. Her expression did not change, but there was somehow a slight chill in the air. He produced the bracelet, uncoiling it from a velvet pouch he kept in his breast-pocket. She nodded at it, but did not reach out to take it. Instead she rang a tiny brass bell on the counter and an old gentleman with powdery skin and wearing a black suit emerged from a door behind the counter. He had a slight stoop and the flesh hung from his thin face in loose pouches.
The young girl moved away, only very lightly touching his old liver-spotted hand as she passed. The old man glanced at the bracelet and at once came that tell-tale swallow. It was as obvious as licking his lips. He put his hand out and took it, then for fully five minutes examined the stones. Christian began to feel impatient. There could be no doubt about the quality of the stones, and he knew he looked like a respectable man, a man of means – the sort of man who would inspire trust in a well-brought-up Englishwoman, in fact. That he had proved in the last few weeks. The old goat should have named a price already, or at least be making himself friendly.
Christian never thought about his father when he could avoid it, or about his father’s death, but sometimes when he was tired or under some sudden strain the images would roll back over him. For a moment, the bracelet in the old man’s hands changed, became those half-remembered gleams smeared in his father’s blood. He was there again. The crack of gunfire in the distance and the caustic smell of smoke from burning buildings. Petrol thrown onto the barricades and ignited – the stink of it clung to him. He wondered if the old man examining the diamonds could smell it. He felt his mother’s hand – he had struggled to hang onto her when she screamed and started running across the square. He would have run the other way, away from the man kneeling over his father’s corpse but he had to follow her so he did. He looked away from the man in the shop, tried to concentrate on the mosaic borders in blue and gold that ran around the top of the walls. Instead he saw the woman holding back his mother. She had the build of a peasant and his mother, so thin and uncomfortable to lean against, had not half her strength. He threw himself at the man on the ground. He saw his father’s blank and empty face, the bullet-wound in his forehead and the man pawing at his innards. The man struck at him with his elbow and he fell back slightly stunned. Perhaps he could have got up again but he did not, only watched as the man held up one of the stones. He cleared his throat. He was sweating.
The elderly jeweller looked up finally and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. We are not buying today.’ But you want them, Christian wanted to say. I know you want them. And without even making an offer? How could a man have got so old and still be such a fool?
‘Very well. Do you recommend any other jeweller in town?’
Did he imagine it, or did the old goat’s eyes flicker towards the girl? ‘I respect all my colleagues in the city, but I suspect you will not find many willing to buy at this time.’ He handed the bracelet back to Christian, and he seemed in the moment the diamonds left his grip, to age a little further. He had the obvious hunger of the connoisseur, but he did not want them?
Christian controlled himself enough to give them a curt nod of farewell and went back out into the square. He had the feeling that the statue of the King was looking at him with a slight sneer. It reminded him a little of Jean Prideux, that self-righteous prig. Well, he had beaten him in the end. He crossed the square and swore violently at the driver of a tiny, ridiculous little motor-car who almost knocked him from his feet, coming out of nowhere and with no regard for the safety of others. Just when he was thinking of Prideux too – it was too much. Morel had to pause for a moment, smooth down his hair and adjust his high collar to reassure himself.
The rival jewellery shop on the square was rather more brash in its display than the first place, and there were two women on the premises already gossiping as the assistant wrapped up their packages. The man behind the counter was younger. He looked prosperous, modern. Christian noticed with approval that the fittings and furnishing of the place made the one opposite look drab and stately. True, this man did not look the type to become emotional about diamonds, and would probably be a greater challenge to bargain with, but surely he could be relied on not to turn down such an excellent offer. And anyway, a little hard bargaining got Christian’s blood flowing. However, the jeweller did not even look at the bracelet. As Christian fetched it from his pocket the man was already telling him he had no intention of buying today and with shocking rudeness turned away from his customer. Had a new mine been discovered? Had Rheims suddenly found a river of huge diamonds flowing through their cellars? Had they all become too simple-minded to see the bargain of a lifetime laid out in front of them?
Christian took a room at the Lion d’Or and retreated to it shivering. He had thought his business would be done by now and that he would have the whole of the next day to stretch his legs and buy foolish gifts for his wife. Instead, he ate a poor dinner that cramped his stomach all night and woke to a grey morning with the work still to do. He consulted the directory in the hotel and chose another three places of business that should, by rights, snatch the stones from him in gratitude and delight. All three turned him down.
On the second night in the hotel he tried half-heartedly to seduce a young woman who had travelled from London to see the cathedral, but something in the way she ate her food and mispronounced her French reminded him again of Maud and he lost his appetite for the game. He wondered if he were ill. The lean-to he had rented off Cours du Commerce to house Henri and his equipment had been damp with this continual rain, and he had been bored there, watching, always watching for any tricks from the resentful old devil. Locking him in at night with a bottle of red so he didn’t go off on his wanderings, hiding the diamonds in their place. Then that invitation from the Countess and badgering Henri to finish the job, so that the dinner would be a celebration of their cleverness.
He had worked hard for this, Christian thought. The continual restraint, the constant watch he had to keep on his behaviour while the English miss was in their hands. There was that one night after dealing with Prideux when he had drunk whisky late into the night. Sylvie had been angry with him, afraid that drunkenness would scare off their little English bird, but Miss Heighton had slept through his stumblings and he had needed a drink. It was a strain on the nerves to arrange an accident like that, even among the chaos of Paris.
After his story-telling to Maud he had gone in search of Madame Prideux at the raggedy guest-house where she was staying and greeted her like an old friend. He embraced her and insisted on taking her out to dinner, his second that evening, and all the time sympathised, apologised. All a misunderstanding. Letters gone astray. He showed her the stubs in his chequebook to demonstrate the amounts that he had tried to send to her. They had been cashed, he said. So he had assumed all was well. He’d been a little hurt not to receive any letter from her, of course but … By saying very little he all but convinced her that her own son was stealing from her. Funny. It seemed she’s rather believe that than believe she’d been fooled by him and Sylvie. He praised her brilliance at finding him against all the odds and learned she had seen him crossing Boulevard Saint-Germain but lost him in the crowd again and had spent the next four days asking after him until at last her questions had led her to his house on Rue de Seine.
How glad he was that she had persisted, he said, at which she blushed like a virgin. To explain his use of a new name had been trickier. He told her he associated the name of Gravot with his terrible past so had decided to take his wife’s maiden name as his own. He upset himself talking to her about his struggle with those awful memories; real tears trembled on his eyelashes. It was their time in his home town that had done it, he said. He had finally visited his mother’s grave and the emotion had been too much. That was why the couple had left so quickly. But he had never, never intended to desert his dear friend Mme Prideux. How could she think it? She could not have lost faith in him? Surely?
The woman was overjoyed to love him again and swallowed his charm like champagne. By the time he led her across the Champs with the promise of one more glass of wine at one of the really good restaurants to celebrate their reunion, she was happy as a child … then it was only a matter of waiting till the right moment when the crowd was thick and the traffic was charging by.
Christian took another drink and loosened his tie. He had not wished her to die, though he supposed in the long run, that was easier. A broken leg, the clanging of ambulances, her off her feet and out of the way for a few weeks was all that was necessary, but the car caught her and threw her in the air and into the path of another. He had walked away from the crowd gathering round the accident a little unsteadily. Killing was not easy. Maud too, the way she had tried to cling onto him. Disgusting, but necessary. It would make them rich, but still. Bloody diamonds.
He and Sylvie had arrived in Paris planning another ‘investment scheme’, called there by all that beautiful American money flowing through the city like the river. One only had to dip in one’s hand … He had only seduced the maid to gather a little more information about the rich circle Madame de Civray had around her. Then he’d seen the tiara and thirsted for the stones – and the way she just left the tiara in its case in the dressing room! She didn’t wear it more than once a year, the girl had said. It was more temptation than he could bear. He came home and told Sylvie. Explained his hunger. She understood and worked out how he could have the diamonds. Dear girl. All her cleverness. The opium had been his suggestion. They both enjoyed a smoke from time to time, and it added just the right thickening to the story of Maud’s downfall. It had all gone beautifully. Even Lafond, who seemed sceptical at first, hadn’t been able to resist the testimony of the shop girl and clerk at the pawn office. The body hadn’t turned up at the morgue, but no doubt it would some day. The Countess had been an angel. Yet after two days of refusals, of seeing the diamonds turned away as if he were trying to sell paste, they began to feel like a curse.
‘Hey, fella, you look like I feel.’ A man in a brown suit was addressing him. Another American. Why did they always want to talk to everyone? It was as if they were constantly astonished to find other human beings on this side of the Atlantic.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ the man went on. ‘I’ve been in this town three days and it’s been three days too long. There’s no sense of business in this place. No vision. No sense of opportunity. And my Gawd, the food! Still, the champagne is good. I buy for the best hotels in New York, but the way these people are, you’d think they were doing me the favour.’
This chimed so neatly with what Morel himself thought about the place that he sat up and began to look more fondly on the man in brown. A drink or two later and he was positively cheerful. Feeling more secure now the drink was in him, he took out the little pouch with the bracelet in and showed it to his new friend.
‘What were you asking for them?’ Christian told him and the man laughed. ‘What, that’s about five thousand dollars, yeah? Hell, I know a bargain when I see one. Sure, I’ll take them off you for that. We’ll go to my bank first thing in the morning.’
The clouds lifted from Christian and in the little bar, the sun began to shine. They ordered another bottle to seal their deal and their new friendship when the maid approached and told the gentleman there was a phone call for him at the booth by the reception desk. He shrugged. ‘Only be a minute, friend.’
Time passed. The champagne in the American’s glass lost its sparkle. Who spends so long on the telephone? Christian put the bracelet back into his breast-pocket and went out into the lobby where the reception desk stood; the telephone booth behind it was empty. The clerk looked up with a polite smile and a slight gesture of the head that seemed to convey she was at her guest’s disposal, of course.
‘That American man – came out to take a phone call. We were having a drink together. Where is he?’
The clerk smiled, though something in her eyes was blank and unwelcoming. ‘Our only American guest checked out a few minutes ago, sir.’
Morel controlled his temper and went to pay the bar bill. Each note seemed to burn as he passed it over. He hated this town.