Montaro Caine (18 page)

Jerome Voekle chuckled in response to a comment made by Gabler, and Cordiss’s attention swung back to focus on her host.

Gabler lowered the coin to the desk, then released it from the caliper. It bounced harmlessly and quivered to stillness while he removed the loupe from his eye. Then he looked up at Cordiss. Instinctively, she tried to sit taller; she threw her head back and engaged his expressionless stare.

“Is it six years that you have worked for the doctor?” Gabler asked.

“Yes, thereabouts,” she responded.

Without moving his eyes from Cordiss, he extended his left arm toward Voekle. The assistant pulled several pages from the folder on the table and laid them in Gabler’s hand. As Gabler stared unblinkingly at Cordiss, he waved the pages in her face.

“Your background, Miss Krinkle,” he began in a mocking monotone. “Nowhere in it do we find anything that remotely suggests that you are in any way qualified to engage in an undertaking such as the one you have suggested to us. Your proposal is preposterous, young lady, if I may be blunt. You are obviously not the true owner of this … object. Your credentials? May I ask where they are? Or do you think credentials are not necessary for transactions such as the one you propose? Well, let me inform you, they are. Therefore, we find no basis for any discussion along the lines you have suggested.”

For a moment, Cordiss wondered why Gabler was speaking as if an active tape recorder were hidden somewhere in the room. Then, a flash of intuition told her that Gabler was taking a necessary and understandable precaution. “If we are wrong, and this biographical material we have here”—he shook the pages in his hand—“is incorrect or incomplete, you will have the opportunity to set us straight. Let me ask you some questions about your background, if you don’t mind.”

With a nod, Cordiss indicated that he should proceed.

Gabler fired a barrage of questions, most of which concerned the biographical material he held in his hand, which described Cordiss’s place of birth, family history, educational background, employment
history, credit rating, and personal ambitions. She assumed that he was making sure she was who she said she was, though Cordiss noticed that he also managed to slip in a few inquiries about Dr. Mozelle, his practice, Anna Hilburn, Mrs. Mozelle, and, finally, the child mentioned in Dr. Mozelle’s notes.

“And the baby in this bizarre tale in whose hand this thing”—he pointed scornfully at the coin lying on the desk—“is supposed to have been found, where is he or she now?”

“Around,” said Cordiss, trying to sound vague yet tantalizing. By then, she knew that Gabler, no matter how harshly he was speaking to her, was hooked. His assistant’s behavior had given his boss away—Voekle had glanced at her while taking notes, then back at his notes, then seconds later, back at Gabler. Not once did he look at the coin. Cordiss figured that Voekle was trying not to bring undue attention to the object, and was making an extreme effort to appear so disinterested.

After Gabler seemed satisfied that the answers Cordiss gave matched the facts contained in the personal history he had been consulting, a smile of disdain creased the corners of his lips.

“Now, would you mind telling me exactly how you came to be in possession of this item?” he asked, his elbow on his right knee and his chin resting on his fist.

Cordiss smiled, leaned back in her seat, and said with a twinkle in her eye, “Exactly how I came upon it would take a very long time. All that should really matter is the fact that I have it.”

“Well,” Gabler said, “however you acquired it, I can tell you right now that there’s no way in hell anyone in his right mind would purchase it without the rightful owner signing a bill of sale. That is, assuming it has any value at all.”

Taking her cue from what she thought was the first crack in his façade, Cordiss offered a carefully worded suggestion that it would be easy enough for her to forge Dr. Mozelle’s signature. She felt sure that this was precisely what the art dealer was implying. But in words not so carefully chosen, Gabler berated her for making such an outrageous suggestion. Never in his professional dealings had there been a signature that could not be authenticated, he said. “So you see, young
lady,” he added, “since you obviously have no chance of delivering the signature of a legitimate owner, along with his consent for you to act as his representative, we have nothing to discuss.”

A long pause followed.
Anna Hilburn
, Cordiss thought. Gabler would definitely be less reluctant if she could present him with documents that identified Anna as the legitimate owner. How simple it would be to get Anna’s signature on a document without her knowing what she was signing. In the clinic, Anna always seemed to be signing dozens of papers while barely even looking at them. But Cordiss’s thoughts were interrupted when Gabler abruptly called the meeting to an end. “Now I have another appointment, Miss Krinkle. Jerome will show you out,” he announced.

Cordiss picked up the coin from the table, then secured it in the pill container before returning it to her shoulder bag.

“May I come see you again on this matter?” she asked Gabler.

“I don’t see why—unless, of course, you come with the proper documents with the signature of the rightful owner, and permission in writing from that person declaring you as that person’s representative. I hope I have made my position clear. Good day, Miss Krinkle.”

“Good day, Mr. Gabler,” she said.

Voeckle said a polite good-bye in the foyer, and as she moved toward the elevator, Cordiss listened for the front door to click closed behind her. When no click came, she knew that he was still standing there with cold eyes on her back. Not until she had entered the elevator did she hear the door click shut.

Cordiss emerged exhilarated from the exquisite Park Avenue building into the sunshine. Neither the oppressive summer heat nor the dreadful humidity could dull the heady, tingling sensation of a new excitement laced with danger. Cordiss had gotten her first whiff of the power game; she liked it, and she now knew she had an instinct for it.

That evening, Victor returned from Kansas City with the second coin in his possession, along with the remaining $1,500 from the juice loan he had taken out, plus a hard-earned lesson on the dangers of underestimating wise old black women—before Victor could take the seat the elderly midwife and her sister had offered him in their kitchen,
the shrewd sister had raised the price to $15,000, then ultimately settled on $13,500. As for Cordiss, she had little difficulty in getting Anna Hilburn to sign her name to yet another document.

A week later, Cordiss called Jerome Voekle to inform him that she was ready for a second meeting with Gabler. At first he seemed reluctant. But after she told him that she had the requisite documents and signature, a meeting was arranged. During that second meeting, Cordiss introduced the idea of the possible existence of a second coin. She divulged very little beyond what she deemed to be the one piece of information necessary to further whet his appetite. “Other dealers,” whom Cordiss said she would not name, were interested in the coin he had seen, but Gabler was the only dealer so far who knew about the second coin.

Cordiss told Gabler that this “companion piece” had come into the world in the hand of a child born to a different family some twenty-six years earlier—just as had happened with the birth of the girl at about the same time. And someone who had participated in that delivery had kept the object. She had the requisite documents from that person as well. Cordiss wanted to tempt Gabler, but she and Victor had already agreed that they would not sell both coins to the same buyer—when there was competition, prices would surely rise.

Gabler betrayed no reaction, yet as he sat, he recalled every facet of Dr. Mozelle’s notes, every element the doctor had focused on in his search for such a second coin. In a moment of uncharacteristic sentiment, Gabler allowed himself to wonder about the babies. What would they look like now at twenty-six? Were they still alive? Were they destined to meet? Or had they already met? He wondered just how much of this whole incredible story about the coins was truth and how much was fiction.

Interrupting his thoughts, Cordiss tried to press upon Gabler her belief that the person who purchased the first coin would have a better chance of obtaining the second. At this suggestion, a tiny smile appeared on Gabler’s face. He felt amused by this upstart’s attempt to manipulate him, yet he also felt an unlikely bubble of admiration for the spunky novice seated before him, green as an apple, still miles
from being a true con artist. She certainly had the flair and maybe the talent, and she reminded him a bit of what he had been like as a teenager worlds away back in Nebraska.

“So,” Cordiss began, her voice even. “Are you prepared to make an offer on the object I showed you?”

“How much do you want for it?”

That response had come more quickly than Cordiss had expected. “Twelve million,” she said. Cordiss and Victor had based their asking price on the ten million Gabler had reputedly paid for the Hungarian music box. The coin, in their view, was considerably more exciting than a music box.

Gabler didn’t bat an eye. She hadn’t expected him to.

“Another coin, eh?” Gabler muttered softly. “That makes two. Well, in my business there is a saying: Two of anything has only half the value of one of a kind. What guarantees can you make that there are not three of a kind, or four?”

“There are only two,” Cordiss assured him. “Dr. Mozelle has searched for twenty-five years, without any results. You’ve read his notes. You’ve seen the photographs, and you’re familiar with his theories about a second coin.”

“Yes, I’ve read the notes, I’m familiar with his theories, all of them; but the fact is, he didn’t find it after all these years, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Yet you tell me it exists. If he hasn’t found it, and if, in fact, it does exist, who did find it? And where is it at present?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that right now.”

“At any rate, twelve million is out of the question,” said Gabler. “You’ve been seeing too many movies, my dear. If that is your last word—then, good-bye.” He challenged her with a stare. She challenged back; her nerves were steady. He waited. She continued to sit. Not a hair moved that he could see. “On the other hand,” he said. “I will be prepared to tell you how much I will pay after I’ve had a chance to consider everything carefully. Say a week from today. Would that be reasonable?”

“I don’t know,” said Cordiss crisply. “For me, it might be. But I may
have other commitments to honor. I’ll call you back this afternoon, after I’ve consulted with my partner.”

Later that afternoon, Cordiss and Victor argued about the wisdom of allowing Gabler the week to make up his mind. Victor was against it, but Cordiss said they would be showing weakness if they did not agree to the delay.

“Maybe give ’em two days, or three. We don’t have that much time to play with,” said Victor.

“He’s looking to test our strength,” Cordiss said.

“He’s looking to fuck us,” said Victor.

“We’re so close, honey, let’s play it out. I told you, he wants it bad.”

In the end, Cordiss prevailed. She and Victor wound up making love before she phoned Jerome Voekle to tell him the week’s delay would be acceptable.

Still, during the course of the week that Gabler bought himself to try to learn more about Cordiss and the alleged second coin, Gabler learned nothing more of substance. The week came and went leaving him no alternative but to enter an offer for the first coin without knowing the whereabouts of the second, if it existed, or, more important, who among his competitors might already have it or be preparing to buy it. Gabler offered Cordiss $750,000 for the coin, and after prolonged negotiation, a deal was struck calling for two million dollars to be delivered to Cordiss in an account in Europe.

Shortly thereafter, Cordiss Krinkle quit her job. She was burned out, she claimed. “I need a break from this town. Too hard on my nerves; I need to find a quiet place and clear my head. Maybe I’ll look around in California,” she told Anna Hilburn. “You’ve been great to work with. And, of course, I’ll stay until the doctor finds someone he feels comfortable with,” she added with bogus conviction.

As soon as they learned that the deposit into their new account had been confirmed, Cordiss and Victor left for Europe. In the quaint municipality of Liechtenstein, they checked in to an elegant room at the Schatzmann Hotel, an easy drive from the private bank where Cordiss had scheduled an appointment for the following day. They ate their first European meal—grilled monkfish and white asparagus accompanied by a chilled Grüner Veltliner white wine—in the hotel’s
dining room, seated by a window that looked out onto the Eastern Alps.

The following morning, Cordiss entered a bank that closely resembled the graciously understated lobby of a Manhattan brown-stone. There were no tellers, no cages, and no lines. Only two other customers were in evidence.

“Good morning, Miss Krinkle,” said a middle-aged man with gray hair and a prominent gray mustache as he approached Cordiss. “Welcome. My name is Peter Fourneaux.” The man led her to his desk and handed her a folder. “Here are the documents we need you to sign. This is a necessary procedure that allows us to provide you with the privacy of a numbered account.”

Cordiss liked the sense of importance she felt during her meeting with Mr. Fourneaux.
Money surely has a language of its own
, she thought, and she appreciated the fact that she was learning how to speak it.

For a full week, she and Victor slept late, made love, strolled hand in hand along the trails of the Ruggeller Riet national park and along the Rhine River. They sipped cappuccino in romantic backstreet bistros, toured the castles of Liechtenstein and the municipality’s
Kunstmuseum
, and attended an open-air performance of
Fidelio
. In short, they submerged themselves in a weeklong binge on European culture and continental food, most of which, according to Victor, failed to live up to the food that was readily available in Hell’s Kitchen. But these were far from the most important items on Victor and Cordiss’s agenda; those were Switzerland, Kritzman Fritzbrauner, and the next seven-figure transaction they hoped to make. They wanted another target, and they had chosen Fritzbrauner from the lofty Ten to be the next dealer they contacted. Their decision was based less on the obvious influence and power his ten-billion-dollar conglomerate generated than on the crude psychological profile that emerged from their extensive research, which suggested a man whose tastes tilted toward the mysterious.