De Jersey bent over the table. “Never ceases to amaze me that a man with such big hands can do such fiddly work.”
Dulay nudged him in an overfamiliar way. “You know what they say about big hands?”
De Jersey laughed. “But earlier you were shaking badly. Shaping these tiny stones into settings must take a steady hand.”
Dulay blushed. “I admit I was nervous to see you again.”
De Jersey looked at his watch. “I’d better go. You can call me on this number, should you change your mind.”
“Thank you. You must come to dinner and meet my family,” he said.
“Another time perhaps.”
Dulay watched Simmons on the surveillance camera monitors. He saw him exit the building, then pause a moment to glance at the window. Then Simmons suddenly looked up, virtually into the eye of the camera.
“Who was that?” the shop assistant inquired.
“Just a buyer,” said Dulay, unnerved. “Wanted a birthday gift for his wife.”
“What did he buy?”
“Nothing.”
“Will he be coming back?”
“No.” He hoped to God it was true.
The bank manager laid a thick file in front of de Jersey. “A deposit was made recently from a U.S. bank account for one point five million dollars.” He uncapped his fountain pen. “The transaction was cleared two days ago.”
De Jersey studied the documents. This was the money from the sale of the lease of Moreno’s apartment.
“I will need to make a substantial withdrawal,” he said.
“No problem. We can have the money transferred within the hour.”
De Jersey looked up. “Now, I’d like the details of my discretionary trust.”
The manager turned to the relevant pages, and de Jersey was stunned to see that the balance of the offshore account in the Caymans stood at only a few hundred pounds. He flicked back through the pages, checking the transactions as the truth dawned on him. David Lyons had abused his position as a named trustee in the discretionary trust to withdraw nearly every penny from the account. All de Jersey had left was the money he had taken from Alex Moreno.
“That seems to be in order,” he said without emotion as he stood up and shook the bank manager’s hand. “Thank you very much.”
De Jersey tilted up his head, and jets of ice-cold water from the shower pummeled his face. He was angry that he had so misjudged David Lyons, angry that he had not retained more control over his finances. He made himself focus on Dulay. He had presumed that a man with such a passion for the profession could not resist the lure of the Koh-i-noor Diamond. But Dulay had turned him down. Wilcox and Driscoll had turned him down too.
De Jersey dried himself, then lay down on the bed. His whole fortune was gone. Worst of all, he was unable to do anything about it. But he refused to allow himself to dwell on such disastrous events. He closed his eyes. He adored Christina and his daughters. He loved his life and his champion, Royal Flush.
He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “All or nothing,” he whispered. That was what made him different from the others. He would take the risk, with or without them.
The extensive gardens were lined with olive trees; they forged avenues bordered with thick clumps of lavender. Tall, pointed conifers like slim sentries towered above the old stone walls. The vine-covered terraces were winter bare. Dulay parked his Jeep outside his villa and hurried inside. The kids were playing in the sprawling back garden. His wife, Vibekka, was gardening, wearing old jeans and a sweater.
“Hi, you’re home early,” she said, stretching her arms wide for a hug. Her silky black hair was twisted into a thick braid down her back. Even at forty she had a taut body and was naturally beautiful without a trace of makeup. “I’ve had a really lazy day. The kids and I just hung out here all afternoon. Then when it rained we watched TV.” She was six inches taller than her husband and hooked her arm around his square, solid shoulders. “We have that big party tonight,” she reminded him. “You want me to fix you a sandwich or something?”
“No, I need a shower. I’ll eat later. Do we have to go?”
“A lot of your customers will be there, and it’ll be good for business.” She ruffled his hair.
“Don’t do that.”
“You’re in a nasty mood.”
Dulay walked to the house, stepping over the steel straps of the pool cover. All he could think of was Philip Simmons. Your past always catches up with you, no matter how many years go by, he thought.
After dinner Christina and de Jersey had decided to have a quick flutter at the tables. They didn’t do well, so they returned to the hotel. The following morning de Jersey could muster little enthusiasm for shopping and returned to the hotel alone. By the time they met for lunch, Christina was carrying several boxes and two suit carriers.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked, smiling.
“I met a girlfriend I haven’t seen for years, not since I was a model, and she lives here. We’re invited to a big charity function this evening,” she told him. “So I decided to buy something new to wear.”
“I thought we might go to Longchamp,” he said. “I want to meet up with a breeder who’s been recommended to me and see his yard.”
“We can go another day,” she said. “Vibekka’s lovely, and she’s very high up in society here. All the Monaco Royals will be at the ball.”
“In that case we’ll go to the stables another day,” he said, feeling frustrated; he did not have the time for frivolous charity events.
“It’s just that we haven’t seen each other in so long, and besides, I’d like to meet Vibekka’s husband. She said I could borrow some jewelry from her as I’ve brought so little with me, and since her husband is Paul Dulay, I’ll have quite a choice.”
The waiter interrupted them to take their order, and de Jersey went on automatic pilot, hardly aware of what he ordered.
“So it’ll be a stuffy dinner-jacket evening?” he asked eventually.
“Yes, darling, but Vibekka is so looking forward to meeting you. They have three children, they’ve converted a farmhouse, and they have a huge yacht in the harbor. Maybe we should think about it for summer.”
De Jersey’s mind was turning somersaults; this was a potentially dangerous situation.
On returning to their suite, Christina promptly called Vibekka. De Jersey watched her, almost girlish with excitement as she discussed her evening attire and arranged to meet up later at Vibekka’s husband’s shop. Afterward she unwrapped her purchases, showing de Jersey a sleek emerald green silk dress, and another in ice blue chiffon with a tight bodice and multilayered skirt.
De Jersey said quietly, “It’s warm in here. I think I’ll take a shower.”
When he returned, he lay down on the bed. “My head hurts,” he murmured.
Christina walked over to him. “You should never order oysters out of season. I’m always telling you this. Let me feel your head.”
She laid a hand across his brow. He was hot-he had showered in almost boiling water. “Darling, I think you have a temperature.”
He jumped up and hurried to the bathroom. “I’m going to throw up.” He remained in the bathroom, making retching sounds and flushing the toilet, then came out and slumped onto the bed. “It must be those oysters.” He moaned.
Christina wanted to call the hotel doctor, but he wouldn’t hear of it, insisting that she leave him to sleep, that he would feel better by the evening, and she should go to meet Vibekka as she had arranged.
When his wife had gone, he threw back the sheets and began to pace the suite. This situation with Paul Dulay would never have happened in the past. Then again, he was a bit out of practice. He sat at the writing desk, picked up a pen, and began to doodle on the hotel notepaper. In the old days he would not have risked meeting up with Paul Dulay without being certain he would bite. He should not have mentioned the Koh-i-noor Diamond. When the robbery hit the press, Dulay would know the identity of the thief. The Colonel was losing hands down, and he had to do something about it fast.