Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (62 page)

“What do you want?” the man who opened the door-asked.

“I have something for you.”

“For me? What is it?”

“Something you have been missing.”

“What do you mean?”

“May I come in?”

There was no question about the stranger’s coming in. His foot was firmly wedged in the door. The little man with the croupy voice said, “I’ll call the — ”

“The police? I don’t think so. You don’t want to talk to the police, do you?”

There was a silence. And then, “I understand you have been looking for these,” the man at the door said, taking a double strand of pearls out of his pocket. The pearls were nestled inside a white linen handkerchief with the embroidered initials J.N.

“Now may I come in, Jorge Nascimento?”

The visitor was there for over an hour. During that time the Senor was more than uncomfortable; he was profoundly distressed. It was pointed out to him, for example, that the man who sat across from him knew about the narcotics transactions, knew about the pipeline from Turkey, was well acquainted with the vice connections in Tunis.

“Nothing can be proved,” the Senor said languidly.

“Possibly. But there is still the dossier on you.”

“There is a dossier on millions of persons.”

“Very true.”

“Nothing can be proved. You must know that.”

“But this can be proved,” the other man said, dangling the pearls in front of him. “I made several transatlantic telephone calls. Tiffany’s, Van Cleef and Arpels. And Carrier’s.” He smiled. “I understand that a double strand of Oriental pearls was cleverly spirited out of one of those stores a week ago.”

Then he shook his head admiringly. “How did you manage it?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“They would recognize you, isn’t that so?”

After a while the Senor said, “What do you want? How much?”

“Not money.”

“Then what?”

It was explained what. And further explained what it would mean to Senor Nascimento in terms of good, hard cash. The terms were very good.

There was a long pause. “It’s not in my line,” the Senor said, regretfully. “You want the Spanish Mafia.”

“I want you. And I have you. Why should I look further?”

He rolled the pearls up in the handkerchief. “I assume we have reached an agreement.”

“I will have to think it over.”

“No, you won’t, my friend.” The visitor’s face was quiet, grave, cold. “It means danger for me too, but it’s the only way, and the stakes are high.”

“Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. I have access to diplomatic channels, let’s put it that way. Many people would be surprised at what I know. People who think themselves totally in the clear. But then, this doesn’t concern us now. You’re not a stupid man. You’ve covered your tracks neatly enough. You’re right when you say nothing can be proved.
Yet.
Except for this. That was a bad mistake on your part. Aren’t you rich enough?”

He patted his pocket. “The underwriters would be delighted to find the person who stole these. I was informed that the last persons to look at gems, just before the theft of this little haul was discovered, was a Spanish-speaking couple. The woman felt ill, asked for a glass of water, and then, in a most dramatic way, fainted.”

His smile was again admiring. “I didn’t think such a simple trick would work any more. But obviously, it did.”

After a thoughtful silence Senor Nascimento said, “When?”

“There will be further instructions.”

“What about those?” Senor Nascimento asked, pointing to the other man’s pocket.

“They’re yours. When the job is done.”

“How can I be sure of that?”

The visitor laughed. He patted his pocket. “This is chicken feed compared to — ”

He broke off. “You’ll get them back,” he said.

• • •

The Comstock villa, at eight o’clock, was jewel-lit; from the vantage point of the front courtyard it looked like fairyland, with every window, it seemed, blazing golden. The two visitors were shown into still another
sala
, this one obviously a main salon, a very large room comfortably furnished and quite clearly the family room of the household.

Constant Comstock joined them almost immediately, holding out a welcoming hand to each. Drinks were brought in, scotch for Steve, dry gin for Kelly, and when Richard came down a few minutes later, a coke for him, tinkling with ice in a glass. “I understand you went to the Rastro,” their host said, and there was general conversation about the Madrid Flea Market.

“Richard gave me a wonderful music book, you know.”

“He gave me a beautiful shell,” Kelly said.

“Did you like it?”

“I adore it. I’ll always keep it.”

“Good, I’m glad. I — ”

“Buenas noches”
a voice said suddenly, and a breathtakingly beautiful woman stood in the archway between the rooms.

Kelly stared, conscious of Steve’s sharpening eyes, and felt a small pang as she watched his face and thought, if I were a man I’d gasp too.

Constant got up and so did Steve. The young woman came forward. She had olive-tinted skin, pale blonde hair piled into a chignon on top of her head, amber eyes and long, slender legs. Her hands, as she extended them, were slim and with long-tipped nails.

As her husband made the introductions Kelly caught sight of the expression on his face, which was one of deep pride and infatuation. And when everyone was seated, he watched her intently as she manufactured some small talk. His eyes were on her every minute. She chattered, not mindlessly, but without brilliance of phrase, yet eyeing her husband, Kelly realized that Constant Comstock prized this particular acquisition of his very highly.

He was a born collector, with a taste for amassing beautiful objects, and this gorgeous young woman was a cherished possession, it was clear. And yet there was something about Dolores that smacked of the streets, a certain manner of speech which suggested that she came from a lower stratum of society from her husband. Kelly decided that Dolores was not high-born, but had come from pedestrian surroundings; however she had learned how to play the social game and did it very well.

That was, until her third cocktail. After that she effervesced a bit too much, laughed a little too loudly, and her lovely eyes were slightly filmed. At that point her husband took over and directed the conversation.

It was really very pleasant. A beautiful house, a beautiful room, delightful flower smells and excellent talk — for Constant Comstock was an erudite man and a gifted anecdotist. He was plainly taken by Steve, and was giving him a rough itinerary of some of the things to see in Madrid.

“The Cathedral of La Almudena. It’s to the left of the Palace and has a facade in the neo-classical manner. Also the Church of San Francisco el Grande, the interior of which has a great dome which was decorated by Goya.”

“Steve’s a Goya buff,” Kelly said.

“I don’t blame him. So am I.”

“Oh, but those awful war pictures,” Dolores said, shuddering.

“That’s only one phase of his work,” her husband said, looking indulgent. “Well, for me, of course, the second hand bookstalls on the Cuesta de Moyano are a great lure. I have found many of my treasures there. If you have any bibliophilic leanings, that’s the place to go.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“And don’t bother going to the Flea Market again. Go to the Calle de Cervantes. In a small quarter there I stumbled across a sale of paintings and sculptures. It didn’t look like much, but behind a jumble of junk I found one of those attenuated bronze figures. Of course it couldn’t be a Giacometti. Everyone is imitating Giacometti. However, I decided to buy it anyway; obviously the dealer thought it a fake but had priced it fairly high, reasoning that some fool would take it for the real thing and gamble on it. What do you think?”

“It was the real thing,” Steve hazarded, rolling his cigar to the other side of his mouth.

“It was, it was!”

“Oh, could I see it?” Steve asked, leaning forward.

There was a sudden, rather loud laugh from Dolores. It was almost a hoot. Her husband looked quickly at her and then said, “Am I boring you, darling?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course I am,” he said to the others. “She wants to talk about herself. All women want to do that. You see, she was a model when I met her. A very bad one, but that was the only thing she knew how to do.”

“Don’t listen to this man. I was a very good model. Of course I was looking all the while for someone to take care of me.”

“So you admit it,” Comstock said.

“Certainly,
si.
Otherwise, why are we women? If you are beautiful you deserve the best.”

It was said without the slightest trace of self-consciousness. Or even with vanity. It was simply stated as a fact.

“However,” she went on, “I picked the wrong man. I thought he was rich.”

It was taken as a joke until Kelly saw the faint flush on the man’s cheekbones. At the same time Dolores sent a challenging, defiant look her husband’s way. There was a small, rather uncomfortable silence and then Constant said, “All women want to be Jacqueline Onassis. With unlimited funds.”

“All women want security,” she cried, and this time her expression was decidedly unpleasant. “All right, show them the Giacometti,” she said. “Go on, our guests want to see it.”

The flush had risen on Comstock’s face. “Dolores …
if
you please,” he said quietly.

“You know why you won’t see it?” the woman said. “Because he sold it. To a gallery in New York. It brought in a lot of money. So you see, until the last piece is sold, we live very comfortably.”

She settled back in her chair, looking satisfied, as if she had gratified her desire to wound her husband. And she had certainly succeeded. By this time Constant Comstock was almost livid.

Steve broke the ugly silence. “It costs a bundle to live these days. Who doesn’t feel the pinch?”

Just the same, their host had lost some of his aplomb, That he was upset and angry, and embarrassed as well, was evident. “We still have a few minutes before the meal will be served,” he said, getting up. “I thought you might like to see the gardens.”

They went through to the back of the house. There were delightful little salons on either side of a long, columned passageway and then there was a kind of enclosed atrium, with open windows on either side. The gardens sprang into view through the apertures and then they were outside, in a veritable paradise. Poplars and twisted cypresses and plane trees stood high, and the flowering bushes, crimson and pearly white and deep pink, with the glory of the ubiquitous purple, like the mantle of a Herod, abounded. It was cool now, with a soft, whispering breeze.

“What a way to live,” Steve muttered to Kelly, as they walked the tiled paths.

“I could get used to it in no time,” she murmured back.

At the end of the driveway, to the far left of the gardens, was a large garage, vine-covered. The doors were open and there was a glimpse of two cars inside. One was the limousine that had been standing outside the previous evening. And as they stood there, with Comstock explaining that this beautiful bush was a Glorioso and in spite of its marvelous beauty was almost a weed, the chauffeur came out of the garage and closed the doors.

Kelly’s mind flashed back to the snapshot which had been taken at Botin’s. Yes, it was the same man. Now she was certain. He stood while the doors telescoped together, turned, raised a finger in the direction of his employer and employer’s wife, and then strode past them, on the balls of his feet, disappearing round a bend in the path.

But not before Kelly saw the narrowed eyes of her host. He was looking closely at his wife, whose perfect, chiselled face was calm and indifferent. The picture shifted into a more distinct focus. Why, he’s jealous, she thought. Watchful, suspecting …

Her eyes met Steve’s, and she saw that he was thinking the same thing. Shades of
Lady Chatterly’s Lover
, Kelly mused, and turned discreetly away. A few minutes later she asked Richard if he would direct her to the bathroom and when they were inside the house he took her upstairs.

“Can you find your way back down?” he asked. “Or shall I wait?”

“I can find my way.”

“Holler if you need me.”

“Don’t worry.”

She came out a few minutes later, took a wrong turning and, blundering into the adjunct to a suite of rooms, heard raised voices, was about to turn away when, reflected in a large pier glass inside the rooms off the hall, she saw the figures of her host and hostess.

They were glaring at each other.

“You’re a vulgar bitch,” Constant was saying.

“You’re a pauper!”

“You stupid slut. You never had it so good. I took you out of the gutter.”

“Stop screaming at me. They’ll hear downstairs.”

“I don’t care if all Madrid hears.”

“How amusing! You, of all people! Your respectability means more to you than — ”

“What respectability? I gave up a good woman and married a — ”

“Don’t say it,” Dolores ground out. “If you say it I’ll kill you. I mean it. I’ll …”

“Shut your mouth,” he flashed back, in a strangled voice. “All you really want is bed, you bird-brained bitch. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on. That truckdriver, that animal …”

He put a hand in her hair and dragged her head backwards. “Just let me catch you. Then we’ll see who kills whom.”

A cry of pain was wrested from the woman’s lips. Wide-eyed, wanting only to get back downstairs, Kelly was nevertheless transfixed by the drama inside. And then, as another cry burst from Dolores, the man’s arms went around her. There was a protesting struggle.

“I hate you …”

“You don’t hate me,” he said.

“I do!”

“You don’t. But I wouldn’t care if you did. You’ll stick with me and you know it. Who else would put up with you? There are a million women better looking than you and I could have any one of them. I could have a woman with money. Don’t you think so? Instead of pouring out thousands of pesetas practically by the hour on a gutter woman. I taught you how to behave and how to dress and — ”