Charade

Vic

I arrived somewhere near seven and the hostess showed me to my table.

She was dressed like all the other workers – plain white shirt tucked into a slick black skirt, a navy blue apron wrapped around her slim waist. If only I was twenty years younger, I thought.

I slid into a mahogany chair and rested my arms on the glossy table. The dull murmur of other dinner-goers hummed in my ears as I breathed in the unmistakable scent of oil and whiskey. Various clangs and clunks echoed out from the kitchen, along with the occasional yell of the head chef to his inexperienced staff.

The restaurant was what you'd expect – gleaming, vanished tables spread evenly across the generous floor. Women dressed in pricy evening wear – midnight blue dresses, cherry red scarves, diamond necklaces. The men were all in suits with perfectly straightened ties, the clonk of their shiny black shoes running all along the polished floorboards. They all laughed politely at one another, eating off of tiny plates with food that looked more like edible art. Waitresses glided and weaved, taking orders and handing out little plates. I sat alone, the fabric of my silky suit against my skin, and waited for Mr Randall.

He arrived as I ordered our drinks – white wine for him and scotch for me – and he smiled pleasantly. I thanked the waitress, a young blond in her early twenties who wore the same uniform as the hostess, and then I stood to shake Mr Randall's hand.

"I'm glad you could make it," I said, smile plastic.

"It's nice to see you again, Mr Langley." He said, his firm grip squeezing my hand. "You have no idea how grateful I am for your generous offer. Not many business owners would organise such a meeting."

Mr Randall and I sat at our table, the waitress now out of sight. I eyed his exotic features – the luscious dark hair, the olive skin, the piercing brown eyes. Greek, maybe, or perhaps Italian. Mr Randall was obviously confident, considering the way he held himself so highly, undeniably, like he had all the intelligence and perhaps arrogance of a proper businessman. His smugness – that would be his Achilles heel.

"So tell me, how's you lovely wife? Has she mentioned exactly what she's after?" I said, examining him.

"Petunia? She's very well, thank you. And she did mention something about a necklace, but you know what it's like. Wives – they can talk the day away, if you let them. So I'm afraid I missed some of the details."

"A necklace?" I pondered, ignoring the slightly sexist end to his reply. "Just as well I brought some with me."

I pulled out five small boxes from my inside pocket and spread them out across the table. Inside laid some of the prettiest, most convincing jewellery I could find at the prop shop. Some were necklaces, some were rings. My personal favourite was a diamond bracelet in the fourth box from the left. That one was the most convincing.

"The first thing I'd like to show is this gorgeous necklace here," I said, opening the first box. "These diamonds here were imported from Africa. One of a kind."

"Nice, very nice." Mr Randall said, leaning forwards on his chair. "May I?"

"By all means," I smiled.

Mr Randall took the box and pulled it forward. He studied the necklace intently, narrowing his small eyes, trying to find a flaw that wasn't there. This wasn't my first rodeo – I knew what I was doing. I'd chosen this necklace out of hundreds of plastic knock-offs, looking for all the things collectors look for, and I wouldn't have picked it if I didn't think it was believable.

"Lovely," Randall said. "How much?"

"Well, these diamonds here," I said, running a finger over the encrusted glass. "They are worth thousands, just by themselves. Add in this silver and the other features, and the market value exceeds $85,000."

I eyed Mr Randall's reaction, looking for a twitch or any sign of hesitance, but instead he sat motionless. I smiled.

"But for you," I said swiftly, "I'm willing to lower the price to 75."

Mr Randall's suit cost more than a house, and his Porsche, which I witnessed being taken by the vale, would've sent me into decades of debt. This man was the definition of money, right down to the polished black shoes. His forking out eighty five grand would've been like me tossing a dollar into a homeless man's cup, but the secret to a good sale is to make the minimum price seem even lower than it really is. That was the trick of the game.

"My second piece," I said lightly, "is this beautiful blue diamond bracelet. It would go lovely with that midnight blue dress your wife favours – that was the colour you mentioned at the bar, right?"

"Yes, yes. I bought it for her on our trip to Rome last summer."

I smiled happily as I displayed the piece. It really was a lovely bracelet, even if it was fake. Sapphire blue diamonds were embedded into the glimmering silver, reminding me of the night sky. A flawless silver clasp that was easy to handle, even with clumsy hands. Fakes were sometimes lovelier than the real ones.

"This is a little bit steeper in price, with its value hovering around one hundred and twenty or so, but my word, look at it. One of a kind, perfect colours. Almost radiant."

"It is stunning," Mr Randall admitted. "It looks familiar. Have I seen it before?"

"Perhaps. It was rumoured to have been worn by Elise Johnson. Of course, there is no proof, but the story really is remarkable."

"Elise Johnson?" Mr Randall asked. "The fifties actress?"

"The very same. Why? Do you know of her?"

"My wife adores her films. She's a big fan of black and white."

I hid a smirk, revelling in my luck.

"So you must have heard the story, then." I said.

Mr Randall paused, then shook his head.

"I'm afraid not." He replied.

"Oh, well, then let me tell you." I smiled. "If this is the bracelet that was in fact worn by Elise back in the early 1950's, then it is the same bracelet rumoured to have washed up on Treasure Coast, Florida, from a shipwreck dating back to the seventeen hundreds. Elise was only a little girl when she found it, but she was especially attached to it for many years, believing it brought her good luck. Apparently, she never left the house without it."

"How very interesting," Mr Randall pondered, eyeing the bracelet. "Please, tell me again, how much did you want for it?"

"Considering the rarity of blue diamonds and the price of pure silver, along with the fact it's an antique with remarkable history, probably a substantial amount. But because I find you to be an honest man, I'm willing to make a deal. A hundred and fifteen thousand?"

Mr Randall reached for his wallet.

"Do you accept cheques?"

  ©  A.G. Travers 2015