The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [137]
“I understand, Madame, of course. May I see?”
She slid the brooch, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, across the counter to him, and he drew in his breath as he looked at it. “I see, Madame,” he murmured. “Yes, a very unusual piece. I could quite understand that you would not want to wear it.”
She watched nervously as he examined it minutely under his jeweler’s loupe for what seemed a long time. Then he said, “This pin dates from the turn of the century and was made in our Paris workshops for a famous family.” His eyes assessed her for a moment and he said smoothly, “It’s a pity you don’t know the name of the gentleman who gave it to you. It is always better with jewels like this to know the provenance. It facilitates the resale, you see.”
“I’m sorry.” She shrugged. “I simply have no idea. It was not important to me.”
“Of course not, Madame, of course not. Well, I am pleased to tell you that with the quality of the gemstones and the Cartier workmanship this is now a collector’s piece. We can offer you one thousand dollars for it.”
Missie closed her eyes. A thousand dollars. She had hoped at the most for five hundred, enough for one semester’s school fees.
“I’ll take it,” she said, opening her eyes and smiling.
The transaction was completed in a few minutes. After tucking the ten hundred-dollar bills into her purse, she smiled gratefully at him and floated out of the shop as if she were walking on air.
He watched speculatively as the door closed behind her, then he took the Ivanoff brooch and looked at it again. After going into his office, he placed an overseas telephone call. When it finally came through later that day, his conversation was brief.
“You asked us to let you know immediately, sir, should any of the Ivanoff jewels be offered to us for sale,” he said. “As a collector, I think you will be very excited with this piece. Yes, sir, it is quite rare. It’s a brooch in the form of the Ivanoff family crest: diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, set in platinum with a gold wolf’s head. You would like it? Very good, sir.” He listened for a while and then replied, “Yes, I remember you wanted to know, sir. It was a young lady who brought it in. A showgirl in Ziegfeld’s new Follies, by the name of Verity Byron.” He smiled, listening, and then he said, “In that case, I will hold it here for you, sir, until you arrive. Thank you, Baron Arnhaldt.”
It was opening night and she was wearing Cartier’s diamond necklace and snake bracelets with a dress of filmy silver gauze, flesh-colored silk tights, and her signature silver shoes, only this time with impossibly high heels. She had rehearsed in them a hundred times and practiced by herself a thousand times, and they still made her ankles wobble and still made her nervous.
Ziegfeld had said, “With all this publicity they’ll be flocking to see you out of sheer curiosity. Almost as much as for Fanny and Gaby, although to tell the truth, Gaby’s not so popular as she was. Pity, she’s a lovely girl. The trick is to make them wait for you. That way their curiosity will be even greater. So we’ve featured you in the opening scene of the second half and again in the finale. That’s all. I’m going to ration your appearances until they demand more!”
Unlike Elise’s mannequins, the showgirls were friendly as well as beautiful; they knew she was frightened and they crowded around her encouragingly as she sat, drooping nervously at her dressing table. “Just stand where you’re supposed to, walk when you’re supposed to, and smile whenever you feel like it,” they advised her. “There’s nothing to it. You’ve already done it a hundred times.”
The big dressing room she shared was full of flowers. There were bouquets for every girl, and the most popular ones had so many they had overflowed into the corridors. And she had flowers too, a huge bouquet of Madonna lilies from Mr. Ziegfeld with a note wishing her success; a