Family Jewels

38

On his first morning in Paris, Paul Eckstein was awakened by the doorbell in his beautiful suite at the Arrington. “Entrez!” he shouted, waking his wife. He pulled a sheet over her naked body as the room service waiter pushed his cart into the bedroom.

“Bonjour, M’sieur,” the man said.

“Just put the table on her side of the bed,” Eckstein said. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

The waiter did so, then departed.

“Breakfast is getting cold,” he whispered in his wife’s ear.

She rolled onto her back. “We’re in Paris, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“I wanted to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.” She plumped up her pillows, took the lid off a plate, and handed him his eggs Benedict. “You’re going to gain weight while we’re here,” she said.

“I plan to,” Paul replied, digging in.

She served herself, as well. “And what is your plan for today?”

“I’m going to see if I can arrange a lunch with Randol Cohn-Blume, and if so, I’m going to stop on the way at Charvet and buy a few things.”

“Then perhaps I’ll stop by Chanel and meet you for lunch.”

“I think you’d better make your own arrangements for lunch. Randol is more talkative when fewer people are present.”

“Oh, all right.”

The phone rang. “With any luck that will be Randol. I left him a message last night.” He picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Paul, is that you?”

“It is, Randol. How in the world are you?”

“I’m quite well, thank you. What brings you to Paris?”

“I came in search of knowledge, and I would like to discuss that with you over lunch.”

“I am available.”

“Brasserie Lipp at one?” He knew that was the man’s favorite restaurant.

“Lipp at one. I shall look forward to it.”

“As shall I.” Both men hung up.

“That sounded very cordial,” Lara said.

“It was, and will remain so, as long as Randol believes himself to be well compensated for his advice.”

Paul visited Charvet, selected some neckties and splurged on a cashmere dressing gown, all of which he had delivered to the Arrington. Lipp was abuzz, as usual, and Randol was already seated at his usual table. The two men shook hands, then embraced, then took their places.

“I took the liberty of ordering your wine,” Randol said as the waiter poured them glasses of a chilled Meursault.

“Thank you, Randol, your grasp of enology was always better than mine.” They clinked glasses and sipped.

“You’re having the choucroute, of course.”

“Of course.”

Randol caught a waiter’s eye and held up two fingers. “You’re looking very well, Paul, prosperous, even.”

“I can’t complain — well, I could complain, but it wouldn’t do any good.” The two men laughed at the little joke.

“And what knowledge do you seek in Paris?”

Paul decided to be oblique; it might save him money in the end. “Tell me,” he said, “was your father still working in 1946?”

“Indeed, yes. He worked until 1959, when the firm was acquired, and then for another five years under the new management.”

“Was he engaged in original work, still, or mostly in copying his old designs?”

“Both, I should imagine. Pickings had been lean during the war years, of course, except for pieces ordered by the Germans. What interests you about that period?”

“A client of mine, a prominent New York attorney, is the executor of a rather interesting estate, and he has engaged me to appraise the jewelry, among other things.”

“I see. Are there some pieces from Blume included?”

“Only one. It comes with a receipt from 1946, for a copy of a piece designed in 1899.”

“Ah, that would be near the beginning of my father’s long career. He would have been working under his uncle, François, at that time. What was the piece, and who ordered it?”

“It was a diamond-and-ruby choker, ordered by a Viennese, Ferdinand Bloch-Bauer, as a wedding gift for his wife.”

“Ah, of course, the piece in the Klimt painting. A great loss, that.”

“Loss? How so?”

“Well, it disappeared around the end of the war. Hermann Goering had appropriated it, and it never turned up after he was arrested by the Allies.”

“Yes, that is sad. The receipt mentions that the copy was made from the original designs. Do those still exist?”

“Well, as you know, Blume was acquired by Aubergonois et Fis, in 1964. Most of the value of their purchase, apart from some loose stones, was in the Blume designs.”

Paul’s heart leapt. “Are they still in business?”

“No, they went under in ’89.”

Paul’s heart sank. “Ah. Any idea what happened to the designs?”

“I could investigate that for you. They could have ended up in an incinerator.”

“Well, if you have the time, my client would be happy to see them.”

“Merely to view, or to purchase?”

“I imagine that copies would do, but I can inquire if he has any interest in the originals. He did ask about the possibility of a photograph of the original, so that he could compare his copy and have some judgment made about the quality of the workmanship in the estate piece.”

“And who would make that judgment, Paul?” Randol asked archly.

“I believe I would be asked to cast an eye over it.”

“I rather thought so.”

Their choucroute arrived, and their talk turned to other things. When they parted, Randol promised to phone in a day or two.

Back at the Arrington, Paul swept into the suite, to find his wife gazing at herself in the mirror, wearing a Chanel suit with a tag still on it.

“You look happy.”

“It was a productive lunch.”

“Did your friend have the information you want?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t tell me if he did, he wants to use the suspense to get his price up. But if anyone can find it, he can, believe me.” He checked out the Chanel. “Buy another, if you like.”