The Property of a Lady (24 page)

He glanced impatiently at his watch. It was one minute to three. In one minute the man he was expecting to telephone would be late. After pushing back his chair, he stalked the somber room counting the seconds and then the minutes. At five past three the phone rang.

“You are late,” he said with a snarl into the receiver. He paused and then said, “I beg your pardon, I was expecting someone else.” He picked up a pen and doodled impatiently on his desk pad, sketching the Ivanoff tiara and the gem lying in front of him.

“American television? Now, why would American television want to interview me? General interest, you say? Mm … a series of profiles of great men in industry? And to whom am I talking?” He dropped the pen and a guarded tone crept into his voice. “Well, Miss Reese, I’m not sure I can spare the time…. I see, well, why don’t you call me again tomorrow. Yes, at my office.”

He replaced the receiver thoughtfully. Genie Reese was the young American who had covered the sale for that American television network in Geneva. Could it be mere coincidence that she was calling
him
now? Or had she found out he had bought the emerald? If so, how? Surely not through Markheim? He was still puzzling over Genie Reese when the phone shrilled again.

It was the call he was waiting for, from his mole within the Swiss banking system. “Yes?” he said crisply. He listened for a while then he said very quietly, “I see. You were late,” he added sharply. “Do not let it happen again.”

After putting down the phone, he sat in his big leather chair, thinking. He had the answer to the mystery the world was puzzling over, but somehow it wasn’t the answer he had expected. His contact had just told him that the seller of the emerald was the Kazahn Freighter Line, registered in Istanbul.

All the way in the taxi Genie asked herself why she was doing this. Was it to help her country—and to further her own ambitions? Or was it also because of Valentin Solovsky’s beautiful gray eyes? Either way she was committed: Ferdie Arnhaldt was expecting her, and she could already see the crenellated gray roofs of the Haus Arnhaldt over the tops of the trees.

The house came into view suddenly at the end of a long straight gravel drive, looming behind a series of
parterres
, the clipped box hedges enclosing more gravel in stiff geometric patterns. The only human factor in the whole design was the ornate marble fountain stuck dead center of the carriage circle. Water sprayed from a dozen fanciful dolphins with Neptune astride the largest fish, his trident aloft as if he were about to go spear-fishing. The wind was blowing coldly from the east, sending the fountain spray over her as the cab driver held open the door. He threw her an admiring glance as she told him to wait, and Genie felt glad because at least it meant she looked good. She needed all the confidence she could muster for this meeting.

Before she even had time to ring the bell, a butler in pinstripe trousers and white jacket flung open the door, showed her into a formal anteroom, and asked her to wait. The square room was almost as tall as it was wide, and the walls were covered with drawings and photographs of the Arnhaldt factories from their beginnings in a tiny smelting plant near Essen to the massive engineering plants of today. The thick carpet was a dark plum red and there were matching brocade curtains at the gothic windows. Genie perched on the edge of one of the heavy carved oak chairs ranged around the walls, thinking it was like the waiting room of a Park Avenue dentist with not even a mirror for visitors to check their hair before being summoned into “the presence.” She felt glad she was wearing the conservative beige Armani suit. With her
blond hair pulled back she looked professional enough to discuss big business and just the teeniest bit glamorous. She shrugged: Hadn’t Cal said she should use all she had got to further her career? Still, she was quaking a bit inside when the butler returned after a long wait and said the baron was ready to see her now.

She followed him up a wide flight of ancient oak stairs past several huge portraits of dead Arnhaldts and along a dark corridor. Baron Ferdinand Arnhaldt’s study was as gloomy as the rest of the house. He was sitting behind a large leather-topped desk writing busily. He glanced up, waved her to a seat, and continued writing.

Genie sighed as she sank into the seat he had indicated. So it was going to be like that, was it?

Ferdie continued his writing for another few minutes. He was used to assessing people and had taken her in in that one quick glance. She was young, extremely attractive, and nervous. And yet she was also determined, otherwise she would not be there.

“So, Miss Reese,” he said at last, coming around the desk to shake hands with her. “I am glad to meet you, though I’m not sure
why
we are meeting.”

Genie fished in her purse and handed him some papers. “My credentials,” she said with a smile, “just so you know I am who I say I am. And there’s a fax from my network giving me the go-ahead on this interview. Now all I need is you to agree, Baron Arnhaldt.”

He perched on the corner of his desk, taking her in silently with pale Prussian-blue eyes, and Genie’s smile widened. “Of course the program would not just be for America,” she said quickly. “There’s also a wide European audience for a human interest story like this. After all, Baron, they say you are one of the world’s wealthiest men,
and
one of its most interesting. I thought we might begin at the beginning, maybe with a tour of this house while you tell me the family history. And then perhaps a brief glimpse of the steel plants and your offices. I should
mention that the other names on our list for possible interviews include Agnelli, Getty, the Duke of Westminster: all men whose families founded dynasties and who have taken the family businesses to even greater power and wealth.”

She glanced apprehensively at him from beneath her lashes as she handed him a list of names. Would he, or wouldn’t he?

Suddenly Arnhaldt smiled. Folding his arms across his chest, he said, “I must admit I’m flattered to be included in such an elite roster of names and to be told that audiences might be interested in someone as mundane as myself.”

Genie smiled back, relieved. “I’m afraid I can’t accept that statement, sir. I’ve been looking into a few of the facts about your family and your business. I find both aspects fascinating, as I am sure my audience will. For instance, your great-great-grandfather, the founder of the business, must have been quite a dynamic character.”

“The first Ferdinand Arnhaldt. I am his namesake,” the baron said thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose each of the Arnhaldt men has made his mark in his own way. But of course, in this age of liberation, we must not forget the Arnhaldt women. For instance, the old lady with the drapery store whose only son founded the business. She was uneducated, poor and a widow, and yet it was her strength and wisdom that guided her son all the way to success. She translated all the knowledge she had gained in her dealings in her small business into larger concepts and Ferdinand Arnhaldt carried them out. She even insisted on living near the plant. She said if she could see the flames belching from the smelting sheds she knew the Arnhaldt business was safe. It wasn’t until she was very old and her son built this house that she agreed to move. The rest of the Arnhaldt men seemed to take their cue from her: They always married strong women. My own great-grandmother, who brought me up after my mother
died when I was still a child, would interest your viewers.”

He pointed to the full-length portrait hanging behind his desk. It was by Sargent and showed a tall woman in a pale satin ballgown with pink roses in her dark hair. Her features were symmetrical and the ambience romantic, but her pale eyes stared haughtily from the canvas as if she were already impatient with the sitting and the artist and had more important matters to attend to. “Bossy” was the word that came to Genie’s mind.

“I think she was probably the strongest of the Arnhaldt women. She ordered everyone around: the servants, the workers, the factory managers, the directors. Even my father, until he died, and then she went into seclusion and devoted her entire life to me.”

Genie stared at him, amazed. She hadn’t expected such intimate revelations, especially not at this early stage.

“I learned everything I know from her,” Arnhaldt said quietly. “She became my mother and father, my business adviser, and my judge.”

“Judge?”

He shrugged dismissively and changed the subject. “Did you come to Europe specially to see me, Miss Reese? Or did you have other business to attend to?”

Genie blushed. He had cleverly caught her off guard. “I … yes, actually. I came over to cover a jewelry sale. The one in Geneva with all the silly rumors about the Russian family. The Ivanoffs.”

He smiled deprecatingly. “Surely no one believes that old tale.”

“As a matter of fact, they do. And speculation has it, Baron, that you yourself might have been the buyer of the emerald.”

She held her breath as Arnhaldt stood up and walked back behind his desk. He sank into the worn leather chair and placed his hands on the desk in front of him. His pale-blue eyes had turned to chipped ice as he stared at
her and said, “Is this the real reason for your coming here today? To ask ridiculous questions about matters that do not even interest me?”

Genie shook her head and said quickly, “But you see, that is exactly the puzzle, Baron. I mean,
why
should you buy the emerald? It just doesn’t make any sense. Unless, of course, you are a collector of rare gems?”

“I have no interest in emeralds, Miss Reese,” he said harshly, “nor in diamonds, or rubies. My business is steel.”

He pressed a button to summon the butler, then walked to the door and held it open.

Genie bit her lip angrily. The interview was at an end; she had blown it. Yet it was odd that he was so angry.
Unless he really had bought the emerald and was angry at being found out

As she stood up, she glanced curiously at his desk. Baron Arnhaldt was a doodler and his telephone pad was covered with all kinds of little drawings. She could swear that he had sketched the Ivanoff emerald and the tiara. Dropping her purse deliberately on the floor, she then knelt to pick it up and snatch a closer look. It was the tiara, all right, if only she could get her hands on it. From the corner of her eye she caught Arnhaldt’s impatient glance and knew there was no chance. After picking up her purse, she walked regretfully to the door. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Baron,” she said quietly. “It was only a stupid rumor. It really had nothing to do with my project. It was just that you asked why I was in Europe.”

He nodded abruptly, holding out his hand. It felt as cold as his eyes as he said, “Good-bye, Miss Reese.”

She was halfway down the corridor when she heard him calling her name. She turned, surprised. “Miss Reese,” he said, “I’ll let you know about the interview. It might be interesting after all.”

She thought about it on the twenty-mile drive back to Düsseldorf, wondering what he had meant. Did he really
want to do the interview? And did the sketch mean he really had bought the emerald? But Arnhaldt was an enigma, and whatever he had done, he wasn’t telling. He’d surely been angry when she had asked. But she knew anger was not good enough proof for Valentin Solovsky; she would have to go into phase two of their plan.

She rethought his instructions. She was to go to Markheim’s office in Friedrichstrasse later in the day, after working hours. Solovsky had said that Markheim’s clients were international and because he had to allow for various time differences, he always stayed late to make his telephone calls. She was to tell him she knew he had acted as the agent and, in her role as a U. S. television reporter, she was to offer him a bribe to tell her whom he had acted for in the purchase, promising him absolute secrecy.

Genie gulped as she thought of the amount of the bribe.
One million dollars
. Oh, well, she told herself philosophically, they say all TV reporters are failed actors. How hard can it be to play the Mata Hari role anyway? Still, she wished uneasily that Cal was in on this. Back at the hotel, she called his room but was told that he had checked out. He had left a message asking her to call him in Washington. She sighed worriedly. Cal in Washington was too far away to be of any help—she was on her own. She waited until six-thirty and then took a cab to Friedrichstrasse.

Markheim’s office was on the tenth floor of a large modern block with entrances leading from two different streets into an enormous marble foyer. There were arcades of shops and four banks of elevators. Even though it was late there were still a lot of people coming and going as Genie pressed the up button. Two businessmen stepped out as she got in. She tugged at her jacket and ran a nervous hand over her hair as the elevator slid silently upward.

The tenth floor was a wide empty corridor with suites of offices on either side. Markheim’s was at the very end. She pressed the bell, staring at the spyhole in the solid-looking mahogany door, half expecting to see Markheim’s eye staring back at her, but no one answered. She pressed the bell again, hearing it ring inside, but there was still no answer.