The Diamond Caper Read online

  “That sounds to me like a pretty good reason for staying here,” said Sam. “I guess I’d better get a job.”

  He was rewarded by the biggest smile of the evening.

  —

  The following morning, Sam joined Reboul on the terrace for breakfast.

  “How was the opera?”

  “Beautiful,” said Reboul. “Quite beautiful. Monica was enchanted. She’ll probably come downstairs singing.” He poured coffee for them. “Now, then. Where were we last night?”

  “You were telling me what makes Coco tick. But before we get on to that, there’s another thing that’s been puzzling me. These miniature hands. I mean, if she’s connected to these robberies, why leave clues like that? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sam, it’s entirely consistent with her character. First of all, she thinks that what she does is art, and that art should be signed by the artist. The hands are her signature. She’s also an extremely confident woman—confident perhaps to the point of recklessness. She would have been quite sure that nobody would pick these little details up. And, until you and Philippe came along, she was right. The police didn’t notice them, and Mimi only picked up on them by accident. Even so, it’s highly circumstantial evidence. If you confronted her with it, she’d laugh in your face.”

  Sam had to agree. “You’re right. I’d thought of asking Hervé to take a look at the situation, but I guess there’s no point. What can he do?”

  “Don’t give up,” said Reboul. “If she’s done it three times, there’s always a good chance that she’ll do it again—and that would be the moment to catch her.”

  While Sam was taking this in, they were joined on the terrace by Monica, a picture in black and white—white shirt, white pants, shiny black sunglasses, and shiny black hair. “You two are looking far too serious on such a lovely morning. What’s the matter? Has the rosé finally run out?”

  —

  Claudine sat in the back of the car, going through the material she was taking to the Johnsons. There was a folder containing the paperwork that has to accompany any transaction in France. There was a selection of page proofs, complete with picture captions. And there was a detailed suggested design of the cover. This was going to be quite a coup for the magazine, she thought, as Roland, her driver, pulled up at the gates of the Johnson house.

  “Did you remember to bring the biscuits?” Claudine had been warned by Philippe that they were likely to be met on the drive by Percy, and that he had a weakness for attacking strange cars.

  “But of course, madame,” said Roland. “The very best—the bone-shaped Fido biscuit. I have a box of them here.”

  Sure enough, Percy appeared as they were going up the drive, but he quickly abandoned all thoughts of an attack as he was showered with a handful of biscuits. Johnson was watching with interest from the front door, and was smiling as he greeted Claudine.

  “Well, you certainly know the way to a dog’s heart. Come on in.”

  “Divine,” said Claudine, as they went through the house to Johnson’s office. “Even more gorgeous than I expected.”

  “That’s the spirit. I can see we’re going to get on famously. Now let’s have a look at what you’ve brought.”

  Claudine began to spread the proofs across Johnson’s desk, starting with the cover, a long shot of the house, glowing in the sunlight, under the headline “Paradise for Sale.”

  Johnson nodded. “I like that,” he said. “Jolly good.”

  His enthusiasm increased as Claudine took him through the six pages of the article, ending with a small space, blank except for a question mark. “Here I need your help,” said Claudine. “For people who would like to know more—and I’m sure there will be many—we should have the name and contact details of someone who can give them more information: the price, obviously, and anything else you think would interest a prospective buyer. But I’m sure you don’t want to do that yourself.”

  “No problem. I have this lawyer chappie in Nice. Very sound man. His office can take care of that. This is all most satisfactory. I have just one question. How much would I owe you for all this?”

  “Mais rien du tout. Nothing. You are providing the magazine with a marvelous story. If your house sells because of the article, a case of Champagne, perhaps. But that’s all.”

  Johnson did some simple calculations. A real estate agent’s commission would be around five percent. On a sale of ten million, that would be half a million euros he wouldn’t have to pay. “Excellent,” he said. “Every little bit helps.”

  Chapter 22

  Ah, the joys of entertaining.

  The Fitzgerald house was being transformed for the party that would take place the following evening. Workmen were putting up the white canvas awnings around the terraces. Three men with musical credentials were assembling the miniature bandstand, and deliveries seemed to be arriving every five minutes: Trois Étoiles Chez Vous, the most fashionable catering company on the coast, had organized tablecloths, napkins, and cutlery, and a supply of every kind of intoxicating liquid, from Champagne to beer. Three dozen flambeaux, the flaming torches that were an indispensable part of Riviera parties, were being installed at strategic points along the drive and around the garden. And then there was a fusillade of phone calls, principally from the florists, who were dithering about the correct balance between orchids and lilies. In the midst of it all was Kathy. She had been joined by Coco, who had volunteered to act as interpreter and second in command. Fitz had, very wisely, locked himself in his office until the dust settled.

  Kathy pushed the hair from her eyes and drew a deep breath. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you,” she said to Coco. “You’ve been terrific.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it,” said Coco. “The house is going to look wonderful. Now tell me—what are you going to wear? The men will all be in dinner jackets.”

  Before Kathy could reply, the phone rang yet again. It was Philippe, who was in Nice, asking if he and Mimi could come by for one last look at the arrangements. “Sure you can,” said Kathy, by now almost giddy with pre-party anticipation. “Come on over.”

  By a happy coincidence, when they arrived half an hour later the last of the flambeaux were being placed along each side of the drive, and Mimi hopped out of the car to take a quick shot. “These will look sensational at night when they’re lit.” Then she took another shot, this time of Kathy, who was walking up the drive to meet them.

  “Absolutely not for publication,” said Kathy, with a smile. “My hair’s a total mess. Now, where shall we start?”

  They toured the terraces. They admired the bandstand, the long dinner table, the placing of smaller tables and chairs around the pool, with Mimi making notes or taking shots of promising locations.

  As they were leaving, Philippe asked Kathy, “What time would you like us to get here this evening?”

  “Listen,” said Kathy, “as far as Fitz and I are concerned, you’re two of our guests, and we want you to enjoy the evening—pre-dinner drinks, dinner, dancing, the works. I just know the other guys are going to love you.”

  “Well,” said Mimi, “this place is a photographer’s dream. I think you’ll be pleased. This is going to be one of those evenings we call ‘suitable for framing.’ ”

  —

  On their way back to Marseille, Mimi and Philippe compared this with their recent experience of eating in the hotel kitchen at the Sofitel. “You’ve met more Americans than I have,” said Mimi. “Are they all like that—you know, generous and so enthusiastic?”

  “I think so,” said Philippe. “It must be something in the genes. They make some of us Europeans look like a pretty sad bunch. Anyway, it’s going to be a good evening, I think. Let’s stop off and see Elena and Sam—tell them to be on their best behavior.”

  They found Elena and Sam at their new house, in a state of mild euphoria. All the kitchen equipment had just been installed, and they were playing with the appliances like a couple of children with
a bunch of new toys.

  “Isn’t this great?” said Elena. “It might even get Sam to take up cooking.”

  Sam was scratching his head over a manual that described the joys of using a ceramic hob to prepare his culinary triumphs. “Not a chance,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll never figure out how all these damn things work.”

  But Elena wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “I’m going to have Alphonse come over. He’ll explain everything.” She turned to Mimi. “How did you get on at the Fitzgeralds’?”

  “Very good. It would be difficult to take a bad shot there. It’s a marvelous setting, and they’ve decorated it beautifully. Coco has done a great job.”

  At the mention of Coco’s name, Sam looked up from his manual. “She’s over there a lot, isn’t she?”

  “Kathy says she’s a godsend.”

  We’ll see, thought Sam. We’ll see.

  —

  The morning of the party saw Kathy up early, looking for any signs of unsettled weather. But the sky was deep blue, with only two small cotton-ball clouds fighting a losing battle with the rising sun. Greatly relieved, she saw that this was going to be one of the three hundred days of sunshine promised each year by the tourist board.

  She set off on yet another check of the preparations. The awnings were perfect, the little bandstand quite charming, the tables and chairs around the pool arranged just so, the flambeaux, even unlit, promising to look spectacular. She consulted the list that had been her constant companion for the past several days: just three last-minute arrivals—the caterer with the food, the florist, and the hairdresser Coco had organized for the houseguests—were scheduled for today. It was all going according to plan.

  —

  Six thirty on a glorious evening, and the advance party had already arrived. Kathy had asked Elena, Mimi, Philippe, and Sam to come early, and they were having a drink on the terrace with Coco. They made an elegant group: Coco and Elena in their best long dresses, Mimi in her black silk frock coat and white silk pants, Philippe in a white dinner jacket, and Sam, who disliked dressing up, in what he called undertaker’s black.

  “Coco, I’m impressed,” said Elena. “With all you have going on, how did you manage to do so much for Kathy?”

  “Oh, it was a pleasure—much easier than dealing with a bunch of temperamental workmen. Although I must say they did a good job on your kitchen. I hope you’re pleased.”

  “Thrilled,” said Elena. “I’m going to buy Sam a chef’s hat to celebrate.”

  The reluctant chef was quick to change the subject. “Tell us about the other guests.”

  “I think you’ll like them. They’re amusing, and they love parties. It should be a very pleasant evening, as long as I can keep Hubert from joining the musicians.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He tries to sing, and it’s terrible.” Coco shuddered. “Like a frog croaking.”

  The sound of suppressed giggling and the clatter of high heels announced the arrival of Kathy, Fitz, and their six houseguests. The ladies were resplendent, with diamonds everywhere—necklaces and earrings, brooches and bracelets.

  “Putain!” said Philippe to Sam, in a whisper. “It looks like a Cartier sales convention.”

  Mimi was already organizing the ladies into a glittering group in front of their husbands, ensuring that everyone had a glass of Champagne and the widest possible smile.

  She was still taking the “just one more” shot that photographers can never resist when the other guests started to arrive. Armand and Edouard, the gay couple who worked in one of the big Paris fashion houses, were first, both in white suits with matching red carnations in their buttonholes. They were obviously friendly with the next arrival, the ageless Nina de Montfort, accompanied by her latest young admirer, and there was a minor explosion of air kisses and compliments.

  Coco, of course, was the only one who knew everybody, and she was in charge of making the introductions, followed closely by Philippe, who was busy putting names to faces.

  Some were easier than others. For instance, the polo-playing Alain Laffont, tall, dark, and thirsty, and the equally statuesque Stanislavska, were not a pair one could forget. But Coco’s new clients, the Osbornes, although young and pleasant, were in no way memorable. Hubert, the cosmetic surgeon crooner, and his wife, the wrinkle-free Eloise, had a certain bizarre charm. And finally there was Coco’s father, Alex, suave and deeply tanned.

  Coco had asked Elena and Sam to circulate, and Sam made at once for Alex Dumas. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Sam, one of Coco’s satisfied clients. You must come around and see what she’s done for us. How long are you down here for?”

  Alex smiled and shrugged. “Not long, unfortunately. But I come down to see her quite often. Maybe during my next visit? How about you? I hope you’ll have time to enjoy your house.”

  While Sam was getting the measure of Alex, Elena had been chatting to Armand and Edouard, who had immediately made a good impression.

  “What a fabulous dress,” said Edouard. “Where did that come from?”

  “Not Paris, I’m afraid. It was a little place in L.A.”

  “Do you know, I thought so,” said Armand. “Americans are so good with bosoms.” He kissed his fingertips, and Elena could feel herself blushing.

  Fitz had moved in on Alex to renew the acquaintance that had begun in Paris, and Sam had taken his empty glass to the bar, where he was suddenly joined by Nina de Montfort, eyelashes aflutter as she looked him up and down.

  “Where have you been hiding?”

  Chapter 23

  Elena was not amused. “Sam Levitt, I was watching you with that woman. What did you think you were doing?”

  “Mingling, my sweet. Kathy told me to mingle, and I was mingling.”

  “You had your arm around her waist.”

  “Mimi’s fault. She wanted to take a picture of us. I could hardly stand six feet away. So relax. You know that I am forever a slave to your charms.”

  “I know that you’re full of it. But if you get me a drink I’ll forgive you.”

  They stood at the bar, watching the crowd. Hubert had persuaded Mimi to take a selfie of the two of them. Nina was now having a very intimate conversation with Alain, the polo player. The American guests seemed to have established an entente cordiale with the French. Coco and Kathy were doing the rounds from group to group. The atmosphere was convivial, with plenty of laughter. It looked as though Coco’s prediction of an amusing evening was coming true.

  Kathy called for everybody’s attention by climbing up on the bandstand and waving her arms. “OK, everyone—it’s time we gave you something to eat. Follow me.”

  She led the way over to the west terrace, where name cards had been provided for each place. To his relief, Sam found that he was seated between two of the houseguests, a safe distance from Nina de Montfort. Elena was also pleased when she found that she would be sitting between Armand and Edouard, with the promise of some indiscreet fashion gossip. When everyone was seated, Mimi asked them all to raise their glasses toward the camera, and she took a few quick shots.

  Kathy took over to make a short speech of welcome, which ended with heartfelt thanks to Coco for all her help. “Not only all this,” she said, waving an arm at the table, the flowers, and the other decorations, “but she even fixed us up for a weekend on the beach in Saint-Tropez. What a girl! Please join me in a toast to my friend and guardian angel, Coco Dumas.”

  Conversation resumed, and dinner was served, a light summer banquet: chilled Green Zebra gazpacho, cold lobster on basil linguine, and, for homesick Americans, chocolate cheesecake. As coffee was served, the band on the other side of the house could be heard getting into their first number, an upbeat version of La Mer.

  Some guests stayed, chatting at the table; others drifted off toward the music. Sam guided Elena onto the tiny dance floor, where they could catch up on how they spent dinner.

  “Those two guys,” said Elena. “They’re scandalous. You have
no idea what goes on in those Parisian fitting rooms.”

  “Do I want to?”

  “Probably not. How was your dinner?”

  “Fine. Two very nice women, and you’ll be pleased to hear I didn’t lay a hand on either of them. Ouch!”

  “Sorry. Was that your foot?”

  Other couples had joined them on the floor. Fitz, a latter-day Fred Astaire, was gliding Stanislavska around the floor, and Alain was doing the same with Kathy. Nina and her young admirer, Hubert and Mrs. Hoffman, each couple was exhibiting its ballroom techniques, with Mimi flitting among them. The reaction of dancers to the camera varied—the more adventurous men bending their partners backward, the others smiling or waving. Nina had taken a rose from the vase on her table and tucked it into her cleavage before posing for Mimi.

  —

  The dance floor had filled up, and Elena and Sam were taking a break. They noticed that Coco’s father was dancing with his daughter, hardly moving and deep in conversation, when they were distracted by the sight of Hubert making his way in a determined fashion toward the bandstand. Coco, fearing an outbreak of singing, left her father, swooped on Hubert, and twirled him into the middle of the floor. Her deserted dad shrugged, smiled, and came over to join Elena and Sam.

  “Poor Coco,” said Elena. “Does she have to do that often?”

  “I don’t think she minds. She’d rather do that than have him sing. Are you both having a pleasant evening?”

  Sam nodded. “I think everybody is, largely thanks to Coco. She’s really worked hard. I hope she gets a little rest in Saint-Tropez.”

  Alex shook his head. “Unfortunately, we both have to be in Paris for a meeting on Monday. One of my friends has bought a place near here and Coco has some ideas to show him.” He looked across the dance floor. “I see she’s managed to get Hubert away from the band—I’d better go and help her guide him to the bar.”