William F. Buckley Jr. (20 page)

“It was purchased at auction in Geneva from the estate of the late Viscountess Asquith.”

“Does it indicate how long she had it? Where she got it?”

“No, sir. It doesn’t. But as I say, it has been appraised, both by the auctioneer in Nice and by our own establishment.”

“That necklace was stolen from my mother,” he said.

The woman treated the declaration with equanimity.

“Perhaps you are right … perhaps not. But there is no legal question about our title to it. Or, for that matter, yours, should you decide to purchase it. I’m sure Lady Asquith bought it on the assumption that it was the seller’s to sell.”

“Tell me, from your experience. Am I bound to inform the insurance company that I have happened on a diamond necklace stolen from my mother?”

“I think that would be courteous. The insurance company is of course at liberty to attempt to trace its purchase back to when Lady Asquith, or her late husband, acquired the necklace. These things are not always easy to do, as you can imagine. And then, of course, we don’t know now how many generations of owners figure in between your mother and Dominique LaBrave. May I ask, when was the robbery?”

“It was in September 1951.”

“About ten, twelve years ago. Yes. Well.”

“You would sell it at a discount, I suppose?”

“We like to oblige, especially younger men who might make a habit of patronizing our store.” Mrs. LaBrave smiled lightly and studied the necklace, though her appraisal was of the man who made the offer. He was a cosmopolitan man in his mid-thirties, perhaps not the killer-handsome he must have been a decade earlier, but nevertheless strikingly pleasing to look at. His nose and upper cheeks showed a trace of pink. Either he had been drinking at lunch or else the strain was now ineffaceable, years of heavy drinking. His brown hair was plentiful and carefully brushed. The light blue shirt was button-down, his custom-fitting suit made of the lightest gray flannel.

“I could let you have it for forty-seven thousand five hundred dollars.”

“How about thirty-five?”

She smiled. “No,” she said sweetly. Then: “Forty-five, period.”

Danny smiled back at her. “Well,” he said, “no harm in asking,
is there? Dear old Mum will have to do without her necklace. But for the hell of it, I’ll take your home number.” She gave him a card. He was talking with Mrs. Dominique LaBrave herself.

At the hotel he checked his watch. It was 9:30
P.M.
in Palm Beach. His stepfather would be relaxed, enjoying the general amplitude of life. Danny rang the house; his mother answered.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

Rachel Bennett sounded genuinely pleased. “Hello, darling. How are you? Where are you? Why are you calling, since you have all the money you need these days?”

“Los Angeles. You know, the usual. Hotel duty. I’m fine, but want to have a private talk with Harry about your—I won’t tell. Promised not to.”

She laughed. “Dear Harry. He thinks the party is secret. Every other person I walk into at Palm Beach whispers to me not to betray the confidence, that they’re coming to my surprise party. Are you and Caroline going to surprise us?”

“I hope so, but of course it depends on whether one of the children is about to be baptized or confirmed or ordained. You know, we have divine priorities in our household.”

“Now, darling, don’t be so negative about Caroline’s faith. I pause to say that it is in refreshing contrast to your own. When last did you attend divine service—at your wedding?”

Danny decided he would take the fork on that road. “No, really, Mom, we’d like to be there. Some things are coming up in the business so I can’t say absolutely for sure, but we’ll—”

“Surprise me?”

He laughed. “Yes, surprise you. Now let me speak to Harry. But you are not to be in the room when I talk to him. Promise?”

“That’s easy, darling. He’s upstairs in the study, watching television. I’ll buzz him on the intercom. Hang on.”

“Harry? Hi, Harry!”

“How are you, Danny? You and Caroline coming to the”—he lowered his voice—“surprise party?”

“We’re going to try. But let me tell you something exciting. You know the stolen necklace? The one you gave Mom on your first wedding anniversary?”

“They catch the thief?”

“No. But guess what, I
spotted
it! It’s in a very reputable store here, Beverly Hills. It really is a stunner. That design of yours, fantastic!”

“But—what kind of a price? Where did they get it?”

“We went all through that. Legitimate auction, all certified, estate of Lady Asquith, Geneva.”

“What a hell of a present that would be! To give it to Rachel on her birthday! What do they want for it?”

“They want eighty-five. But I prodded the lady real hard, told her it had been Mum’s, that you designed it. I think—I think—I could get it for seventy-five.”

Harry Bennett prided himself on being a tough man of business.

“Offer her seventy, and just walk away if she says no. Well, no, don’t walk away. Call me from the hotel. When can you get back to me?”

“Well, the store’s closed now. But I’ll get to the woman first thing tomorrow. I’ll let you hear from me as soon as possible after noon, Florida time. If she says yes, how do you want me to handle it?”

“Call me, I’ll call the bank, they’ll have a certified check by the end of the week. Hell, that’s terrific news, Danny. You’re a hell of a thoughtful guy. The perfect surprise! Her missing necklace!”

Danny dialed, Mrs. LaBrave’s voice came on, soothing, poised.

“Mrs. LaBrave? This is my mother’s son.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “Yes, of course. You wish the necklace?”

“Yes, but there is one string attached. Not one, I’m sure, that will bother you. You will receive a certified check for seventy thousand dollars, and you will give me cash, twenty-five thousand dollars. Broker’s fee.”

“I understand,” she said. “I see no problem.”

“Good. You will be receiving a check from Mr. Harry Bennett, to whom you will send the necklace. When you get his check, go to the First National Bank at El Camino and ask for Mr. Umin.
Tell him to credit Windels and Marx, attorneys, Fifty-one West Fifty-first Street, New York, the account of J. Taggart. Got that?”

There was the briefest pause.

Yes, Mrs. LaBrave said, she got it and was certain his mother would be very happy to have back so beautiful a piece of jewelry.

Danny thought the whole thing amusing. Cashing in on dear old Mom’s necklace when she lost it, then cashing in on it when she retrieved it. He could only top that one, he thought wryly, by stealing it again from dear old Mom.

Fun thought. But that would be gilding the lily.

He would have liked to share his escapade with Florry. Florry loved to hear about Danny’s maneuvers, though she would never have had reason to suppose that there was anything unconventional in Danny’s relationship with Mr. Martino. Florry was intensely interested in Danny, in his business, his thoughts, his insights and, sure, his potency. She would even argue with him on this point or that: Was it likely that a piano player in the large lobby, playing in the afternoon, would amuse the guests, tend to bring them back? She thought not, but she let Danny persuade her that he was right, and he felt after all such exchanges with her both a sense of accomplishment and a closeness with the person who had challenged him, and then succumbed to his reasoning.

He blurted out the story of the necklace. But he did not get from her, after telling it, the collaborative enthusiasm he was looking for. In a strange way, Florry was all … middle-class. It amused Danny, the fruit of Hyde Park vineyards, to think that of someone brought up as Florry had been, reacting as she now did. Well, at least he scored on the matter of his cunning. Artistic cunning, he thought it appropriate to describe it. At least it would make him smile every time he thought of it.

A
T THE ARVN OFFICERS CLUB at Tan Son Nhut airfield outside Saigon in the late afternoon of November 1, 1963, a dozen Vietnamese off-duty officers, including two generals, were relaxing. Four of them played cards; the bar dispensed wine and beer. The day’s newspapers, in Vietnamese and in French, lay on the wide table at one end of the large room, along with bulletins from Agence France Press. At one corner of the common room the television set was on, its sound muted so as not to interfere with those who sought other distractions. Even in November, the heat was felt, the distinctive jungle heat, in an area only twelve teasing degrees north of the Equator. The air conditioner pumped in shafts of cooler air, but fitfully. The card players
arrested their game when the chief steward came in from the office next door obviously with an urgent message.

“General Nguyen, a call from the presidential palace.”

The steward led the general to the ornate carved telephone booth in the foyer, opened the door to let the general in, closed it, and walked away toward the door leading to the common room. But as soon as he was safely out of sight of the booth he circled back and, moist ear to the wooden panel of the telephone booth, listened intently to the conversation. He had no difficulty in making out the words spoken by General Nguyen Khanh.

“Yes, Mr. President. I shall most instantaneously convey your message. But, sir, exactly to which gentleman do you expect me to convey it?… Well, Mr. President, if you do not know, sir, who is in charge of the … insurrection you speak of, I can certainly report your message to the Chief of Staff, and surely he will get it to the right gentleman? To the right party?… The Chief of Staff is with the insurgents? Well, Mr. President, in that event, he surely
would
know to whom to convey your message?… Yes, sir. I repeat it: You agree to resign the presidency in exchange for safe conduct for yourself and your brother. Mr. President, I will telephone you within the space of one-half hour. I shall drive instantly to the headquarters with your message.”

And then, in French, his voice muted, “
Adieu
, Monsieur President.”

General Nguyen walked briskly from the anteroom, opened the door and slammed it shut. His voice, commanding his aide’s presence, resounded through the flimsy wall of the common room.

The steward, his face held tight against the side of the phone booth, had escaped detection. Now he ducked into the booth and, his foot tapping out his impatience, dialed the number he had dialed so often these past months. He was grateful to hear the voice of his younger brother at the other end of the line.

“
The coup is on!
I have overheard this end of the conversation.
General Nguyen Khanh, talking with the President. Diem offers to resign in exchange for safe passage for him and the family.”

“To whom is General Nguyen reporting the President’s offer?”

“I don’t know. The best I could make out was that the President doesn’t know who is heading up the coup.”

“Surely it is General Minh?”

“I think so, and that fits with other information I have given you. But I could hear General Nguyen distinctly, and he said,
‘If you don’t know who is in charge of the coup, Mr. President, I’ll have to report your offer to the Chief of Staff.’
”

“Then the President is still in the palace?”

“Yes. Because I took the call myself, and it came from the palace, and General Nguyen said within one-half hour he would call the President back, obviously in the palace.”

Than thanked his brother. And then, “We will use our customary signals. Do not leave the club, Tri. Stay as close to the telephone as you can.”

Than Koo put down the telephone and walked quickly across the hall. He opened the door into the sultry office, Henry’s typewriter clicking away, without knocking.

Mrs. Fuerbinger, wife of
Time
’s managing editor Otto, told Henry that her husband was in South Africa and was “just plain inaccessible.” Henry then dialed the home number of Chief of Correspondents Richard Clurman, his own direct boss. When no one answered the telephone—it was just after six in the morning in New York—Henry Chafee very nearly rang the home telephone number of Henry Luce (he had secreted it when, one evening in New York, he had heard it read out by Clurman to a telephone operator at the Council on Foreign Relations). But he stopped himself. Wake up Henry Robinson Luce, the most formidable publisher in America, at 4
A.M.
Arizona time!

Besides, there was only one thing for an enterprising journalist to do, and he would do it, with or without the explicit sanction of New York. He must follow President Diem, wherever he went.

The only way to peer into the presidential compound was from
Han Thuyen Street. The large house on the corner, directly opposite the palace, was the property of Ngo Viet Thu. He knew of Henry Chafee as the author of a
Time
profile on American architects, and early in the summer had asked Henry to introduce him to architect Philip Johnson at a convention he would be attending in New York City. Ngo Thu could now return the favor.

But on November 1, he was out of town.

Than Koo moved dramatically and convincingly, and persuaded the housekeeper to let them in and give them access to the study on the third floor.

Henry Chafee took his station there, binoculars in hand. Than Koo returned to the car, put on a chauffeur’s cap, and waited at the wheel, his walkie-talkie in hand. The sun had just now set and the relief in temperature was immediate.

“There’s a car coming out of the palace”—Than heard Henry’s voice crackle—“no flags or anything. But that doesn’t surprise. Let’s see what the guards do.… They’re checking an I.D. Obviously not the car we’re looking for.”

At eight, Henry thought it time to check in with Koo’s brother at the Officers Club. “Any way you can patch in from your phone to your brother?”

No, Than Koo said. But he would take the radio with him and duck into the café at the opposite corner and use the phone there. Meanwhile, if Mr. Henry spotted the presidential car he should alert him through the radio and Than would immediately make chase. Okay?

“Okay. Go ahead.”