said Graff.
After a moment’s
hesitation, Carvalho said, “I’m willing to pay half a million.”
“This is no
ordinary piece of jewellery,” 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 cheque for half a million pounds, and leave you to decide whether you wish to
cash it.” Carvalho took a chequebook from his inside pocket, unscrewed the top
of his fountain pen, and wrote out the words “Five Hundred Thousand Pounds
Only’. Consuela looked silently on.
Carvalho tore
out the cheque, 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 cheque has not been presented by the time I reach my office...” Graff bowed his head slightly, and left the cheque on
the table.
He accompanied
them to the door, and bowed again when they stepped out onto the pavement.
“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 judgement. 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. Rosenhelm.’
DOUGIE MORTON’S RIGHT ARM!
ROBERT HENRY KEFFORD III, KNOWN TO HIS
friends as Bob, was in bed with a girl called Helen when he first heard about
Dougie Mortimer’s right arm.
Bob was sorry to
be leaving Cambridge. He had spent three glorious years at St John’s, and
although he hadn’t read as many books as he had done for his undergraduate
degree at the University of Chicago, he had striven every bit as hard to come head of the river.
It wasn’t
unusual for an American to win a rowing blue in the early 97os, but to have
stroked a victorious Cambridge eight for three years in a row was acknowledged
as a first.
Bob’s father,
Robert Henry Kefford II, known to his friends as Robert, had travelled over to
England to watch his son take part in all three races from Puthey to Mortlake.
After Bob had stroked Cambridge to victory for the third time, his father told
him that he must not return to his native Illinois without having presented a
memento to the University Boat Club that they would remember him by.
“And don’t
forget, my boy,” declared Robert Henry Kefford II, ‘the gift must not be
ostentatious. Better to show that you have made an effort to present them with
an object of historic value than give them something that obviously cost a
great deal of money. The British appreciate that sort of thing.” Bob spent many
hours pondering his father’s words, but completely failed to come up with any
worthwhile ideas. After all, the Cambridge University Boat Club had more silver
cups and trophies than they could possibly display.
It was on a
Sunday morning that Helen first mentioned the name of Dougie Mortimer. She and
Bob were lying in each other’s arms, when she started prodding his
After a moment’s
hesitation, Carvalho said, “I’m willing to pay half a million.”
“This is no
ordinary piece of jewellery,” 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 cheque for half a million pounds, and leave you to decide whether you wish to
cash it.” Carvalho took a chequebook from his inside pocket, unscrewed the top
of his fountain pen, and wrote out the words “Five Hundred Thousand Pounds
Only’. Consuela looked silently on.
Carvalho tore
out the cheque, 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 cheque has not been presented by the time I reach my office...” Graff bowed his head slightly, and left the cheque on
the table.
He accompanied
them to the door, and bowed again when they stepped out onto the pavement.
“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 judgement. 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. Rosenhelm.’
DOUGIE MORTON’S RIGHT ARM!
ROBERT HENRY KEFFORD III, KNOWN TO HIS
friends as Bob, was in bed with a girl called Helen when he first heard about
Dougie Mortimer’s right arm.
Bob was sorry to
be leaving Cambridge. He had spent three glorious years at St John’s, and
although he hadn’t read as many books as he had done for his undergraduate
degree at the University of Chicago, he had striven every bit as hard to come head of the river.
It wasn’t
unusual for an American to win a rowing blue in the early 97os, but to have
stroked a victorious Cambridge eight for three years in a row was acknowledged
as a first.
Bob’s father,
Robert Henry Kefford II, known to his friends as Robert, had travelled over to
England to watch his son take part in all three races from Puthey to Mortlake.
After Bob had stroked Cambridge to victory for the third time, his father told
him that he must not return to his native Illinois without having presented a
memento to the University Boat Club that they would remember him by.
“And don’t
forget, my boy,” declared Robert Henry Kefford II, ‘the gift must not be
ostentatious. Better to show that you have made an effort to present them with
an object of historic value than give them something that obviously cost a
great deal of money. The British appreciate that sort of thing.” Bob spent many
hours pondering his father’s words, but completely failed to come up with any
worthwhile ideas. After all, the Cambridge University Boat Club had more silver
cups and trophies than they could possibly display.
It was on a
Sunday morning that Helen first mentioned the name of Dougie Mortimer. She and
Bob were lying in each other’s arms, when she started prodding his
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