Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(114)

She found that place twelve blocks south, in a better part of town near Herald Square: an expensive-looking jeweler that specialized in diamonds. The street traffic and the crowds were thicker here. She stepped inside and strode up to the nearest counter.

A salesman faced her from the other side of the glass top. He was young, the sleeves of his white shirt held in place above his elbows by black armbands, and he sported a leather visor over his sun-freckled face. He looked Constance up and down as she entered, his expression somewhat confused as he tried to place her and her unusual dress in the social and class milieu of the time.

“May I help you, miss?” he asked, slightly accenting the last word.

“I’d like to see your manager,” Constance replied.

The man was taken aback by her directness but tried quickly to cover it up. “And what business might you have with him?”

“A transaction that will be much to his benefit, and that requires someone of greater authority than yourself.”

This answer, even more direct and delivered with imperious crispness, was still more surprising. The man hesitated and then vanished into a room in the back. A moment later an older man, around fifty, with snow-white hair, appeared. He had a friendly, though guarded, expression—Constance imagined he’d seen his share of grifters and robbers. A jeweler’s loupe hung from around his neck.

“How may I be of assistance?” he said in a neutral tone but one nevertheless more approachable than that of his employee.

Constance reached into the pocket of her smock—feeling the reassuring heft of the stiletto as she did so—and brought out a felt pouch. “I’m interested in selling a diamond,” she said.

“Very well,” the man said, removing a velvet tray and placing it on the counter. “Let’s have a—” He suddenly fell silent as Constance turned up the pouch and allowed the diamond inside to roll out onto the velvet. It was a most unusual vermilion color.

Using rubber tweezers, the man picked it up and examined it with the loupe. A long silence ensued. He placed it back down on the velvet. A look of suspicion had gathered on his face. “Where did you get this, young lady?”

“It’s a family heirloom.” Constance replied, her haughty tone daring him to accuse her of theft.

The man fell silent. Once again, his eyes moved between her and the diamond.

With a show of irritation, Constance picked up the vermilion gem. “Have you ever seen a stone of this coloration?”

“No,” came the reply.

“In your profession, have you ever heard of one?”

“Red diamonds are the rarest,” the man said.

“If such a stone had been stolen, it would be news, would it not? The stone has been in my family for generations. I wish to sell it quietly and anonymously. Now: do you think you can manage that, sir?”

Conflicting emotions crossed the man’s face. “Ma’am, I—”

“In addition to its unique color, you will see that it is not only genuine, but of exceptional clarity, with a carat weight just over three-point-five. Please note also the impeccable radiant cut.”

Fixing the loupe to his eye, the man looked carefully at the stone again. Constance counted the minutes as he examined it from every angle, weighed it, and even immersed it in oil. Finally he lowered the loupe.

“Five hundred dollars,” he said.

Constance fixed her gaze on his. “Don’t think you can take advantage of me because I’m a woman. That stone is unique—and worth far more.”

The man hesitated. “Seven hundred.”

Constance held out her hand for the stone.

“Eight hundred and fifty,” he said. “I can’t go any higher because…frankly, that’s all the funds I have on hand.” He paused. “Since you wish to remain anonymous, I might point out that I am taking a risk.”

Constance worked out just how large that sum was in 1880. Workingmen earned less than two dollars a day, and a good house cost fifteen hundred dollars. While it still was far less than the diamond was worth, it would do—for now. “Very well,” she said.

She waited as the man went into the back room. She heard a whispered conversation, and—slipping her hand into her pocket and grasping the stiletto—she made sure she had a clear path to the door. But a minute later, the manager appeared again. Wordlessly, he laid a stack of bills on the velvet tray and overturned a small bag of twenty-dollar gold pieces on the velvet for her to count. Constance flipped through the bills and counted out the coins. She nodded. He put the notes in an envelope and the coins back in the bag and gave them to her. She tucked both bag and envelope into the pocket of her dress, thanked him, and exited to the avenue.

A block away, she found a couturier that, in addition to tailored dresses, also sold prêt-à-porter outfits. An hour later she emerged again, with a shop’s assistant holding a hatbox and two large bags in tow. Instead of the purple gown, Constance was now wearing an elegant bustle dress of peacock-blue silk and white ruffles, with a matching bonnet and heavy Eton jacket. As she walked briskly to the curb, the gazes she attracted were admiring rather than curious. Constance paused while the assistant flagged down a hansom cab.

The driver began to get down from his seat, but Constance opened the door herself and—putting a high-buttoned shoe on the running board—sprang up easily into the compartment.