The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [34]
This time Mr. Graff was allowed to relate its history before Carvalho politely inquired after the price.
“One million pounds,” said Graff.
After a moment’s hesitation, Carvalho said, “I’m willing to pay half a million.”
“This is no ordinary piece of jewelry,” replied the proprietor. “I feel …”
“Possibly not, but half a million is my best offer,” said Carvalho.
“The sheer beauty, not to mention the craftsmanship involved …”
“Nevertheless, I am not willing to go above half a million.”
“The word ‘unique’ would not be inappropriate.”
“Half a million, and no more,” insisted Carvalho.
“I am sorry to say, sir,” said Graff, “that with this particular piece there is no room for bargaining,”
“There’s always room for bargaining, whatever one is selling,” the coffee grower insisted.
“I fear that is not true in this case, sir. You see …”
“I suspect you will come to your senses in time,” said Carvalho. “But, regrettably, I do not have any time to spare this afternoon. I will write out a check for half a million pounds, and leave you to decide whether you wish to cash it.”
Carvalho took a checkbook from his inside pocket, unscrewed the top of his fountain pen, and wrote out the words “Five hundred thousand pounds only.” Consuela looked on silently.
Carvalho tore out the check and left it on the counter.
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide. I leave for Chicago on the early evening flight tomorrow. If the check has not been presented by the time I reach my office …”
Graff bowed his head slightly, and left the check on the table. He accompanied them to the door and bowed again when they stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“You were brilliant, my darling,” said Consuela as the chauffeur opened the car door for his employer.
“The Exchange,” said Carvalho. Turning back to face his mistress, he added, “You’ll have your necklace before the day is out, of that I’m certain, my darling.”
Consuela smiled and waved as the car disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly, and on this occasion she felt able to agree with her lover’s judgment. Once the car had turned the corner, she slipped back into the House of Graff.
The proprietor smiled and handed over the smartly wrapped gift. He bowed low and simply said, “Happy birthday, Mrs. Rosenheim.”
BROKEN ROUTINE
Septimus Horatio Cornwallis did not live up to his name. With such a name he should have been a cabinet minister, an admiral, or at least a rural dean. In fact, Septimus Horatio Cornwallis was a claims adjuster at the head office of the Prudential Assurance Company Limited, 172 Holborn Bars, London EC1.
Septimus’s names could be blamed on his father, who had a small knowledge of Nelson; on his mother, who was superstitious; and on his great-great-great-grandfather, who was alleged to have been a second cousin of the illustrious governor-general of India. On leaving school Septimus, a thin, anemic, prematurely balding young man, joined the Prudential Assurance Company; his careers adviser having told him that it was an ideal opening for a young man with his qualifications. Some time later, when Septimus reflected on the advice, it worried him, because even he realized that he had no qualifications. Despite this setback, Septimus rose slowly over the years from office boy to claims adjuster (not so much climbing the ladder as resting on each rung for some considerable time), which afforded him the grandiose title of assistant deputy manager (claims department).
Septimus spent his day in a glass cubicle on the sixth floor, adjusting claims and recommending payments of anything up to one million pounds. He felt that if he “kept his nose clean” (one of Septimus’s favorite expressions), he would, after another twenty years, become a manager (claims department) and have walls around him that you couldn’t see through and a carpet that wasn’t laid in small squares of slightly differing shades of green. He might even become one of those signatures on the