Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

On Wednesday Mrs. Benecke telephoned. “Old P.J.'s gettin' mighty restless,” she warned. “Did you find it yet?”

“Not yet, Mrs. Benecke,” Halston assured her, “but don't worry, we will.”

On Friday she telephoned again. “Tomorrow's my birthday,” she reminded Halston.

“I know, Mrs. Benecke. If I only had a few more days, I know I could —”

“Well, never mind, sport. If you don't have that emerald by tomorrow mornin', I'll return the one I bought from you. Old P.J. — bless his heart — says he's gonna buy me a big ole country estate instead. Ever hear of a place called Sussex?”

Halston broke out in perspiration. “Mrs. Benecke,” he moaned earnestly, “you would hate living in Sussex. You would loathe living in a country house. Most of them are in deplorable condition. They have no central heating and —”

“Between you and I,” she interrupted, “I'd rather have them earrings. Old P.J. even mentioned somethin' about bein' willin' to pay four hundred thousand dollars for a twin to that stone. You got no idea how stubborn old P.J. can be.”

Four hundred thousand! Halston could feel the money slipping between his fingers. “Believe me, I'm doing everything I can,” he pleaded. “I need a little more time.”

“It ain't up to me, honey,” she said. “It's up to P.J.”

And the line went dead.

Halston sat there cursing fate. Where could he find an identical ten-carat emerald? He was so busy with his bitter thoughts that he did not hear his intercom until the third buzz. He pushed down the button and snapped, “What is it?”

“There's a Contessa Marissa on the telephone, Mr. Halston. She's calling about our advertisement for the emerald.”

Another one! He had had at least ten calls that morning, every one of them a waste of time. He picked up the telephone and said ungraciously, “Yes?”

A soft female voice with an Italian accent said, “Buon giorno, signore. I have read you are interested possibly in buying an emerald, sм?”

“If it fits my qualifications, yes.” He could not keep the impatience out of his voice.

“I have an emerald that has been in my family for many years. It is a peccato — a pity — but I am in a situation now where I am forced to sell it.”

He had heard that story before. I must try Christie's again, Halston thought. Or Sotheby's. Maybe something came in at the last minute, or —

“Signore? You are looking for a ten-carat emerald, sм?”

“Yes ”

“I have a ten-carat verde — green — Colombian.”

When Halston started to speak, he found that his voice was choked. “Would — would you say that again, please?”

“Sм. I have a ten-carat grass-green Colombian. Would you be interested in that?”

“I might be,” he said carefully. “I wonder if you could drop by and let me have a look at it.”

“No, scusi, I am afraid I am very busy right now. We are preparing a party at the embassy for my husband. Perhaps next week I could —”

No! Next week would be too late. “May I come to see you?” He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “I could come up now.”

“Ma, no. Sono occupata stamani. I was planning to go shopping —”

“Where are you staying, Contessa?”

“At the Savoy.”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes. Ten.” His voice was feverish.

“Molto bene. And your name is —”

“Halston. Gregory Halston.”

“Suite ventisei — twenty-six.”

The taxi ride was interminable. Halston transported himself from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell, and back again. If the emerald was indeed similar to the other one, he would be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Four hundred thousand dollars, he'll pay. A $300,000 profit. He would buy a place on the Riviera. Perhaps get a cruiser. With a villa and his own boat, he would be able to attract as many handsome young men as he liked….

Gregory halston was an atheist, but as he walked down the corridor of the Savoy Hotel to Suite 26, he found himself praying, Let the stone be similar enough to satisfy old P.J. Benecke.

He stood in front of the door of the contessa's room taking slow, deep breaths, fighting to get control of himself. He knocked on the door, and there was no answer.

Oh, my God, Halston thought. She's gone; she didn't wait for me. She went out shopping and —

The door opened, and Halston found himself facing an elegant-looking lady in her fifties, with dark eyes, a lined face, and black hair laced with gray.

When she spoke, her voice was soft, with the familiar melodic Italian accent. “Sм?”

“I'm G-Gregory Halston. You t-telephoned me.” In his nervousness he was stuttering.

“Ah, sм. I am the Contessa Marissa. Come in, signore, per favore.”

“Thank you.”

He entered the suite, pressing his knees together to keep them from trembling. He almost blurted out, “Where's the emerald? But he knew he must control himself. He must not seem too eager. If the stone was satisfactory, he would have the advantage in bargaining. After all, he was the expert. She was an amateur.”

“Please to sit yourself,” the contessa said.

He took a chair.

“Scusi. Non parlo molto bene inglese. I speak poor English.”

“No, no. It's charming, charming.”

“Grazie. Would you take perhaps coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you, Contessa.”

He could feel his stomach quivering. Was it too soon to bring up the subject of the emerald? He could not wait another second. “The emerald —”

She said, “Ah, sм. The emerald was given to me by my grandmother. I wish to pass it on to my daughter when she is twenty-five, but my husband is going into a new business in Milano, and I —”

Halston's mind was elsewhere. He was not interested in the boring life story of the stranger sitting across from him. He was burning to see the emerald. The suspense was more than he could bear.

“Credo che sia importante to help my husband get started in his business.” She smiled ruefully. “Perhaps I am making a mistake —”

“No, no,” Halston said hastily. “Not at all, Contessa. It's a wife's duty to stand by her husband. Where is the emerald now?”

“I have it here,” the contessa said.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a jewel wrapped in a tissue, and held it out to Halston. He stared at it, and his spirits soared. He was looking at the most exquisite ten-carat grass-green Colombian emerald he had ever seen. It was so close in appearance, size, and color to the one he had sold Mrs. Benecke that the difference was almost impossible to detect. It is not exactly the same, Halston told himself, but only an expert would be able to tell the difference. His hands began to tremble. He forced himself to appear calm.

He turned the stone over, letting the light catch the beautiful facets, and said casually, “It's a rather nice little stone.”

“Splendente, sм. I have loved it very much all these years. I will hate to part with it.”

“You're doing the right thing,” Halston assured her. “Once your husband's business is successful, you will be able to buy as many of these as you wish.”

“That is exactly what I feel. You are molto simpatico.”

“I'm doing a little favor for a friend, Contessa. We have much better stones than this in our shop, but my friend wants one to match an emerald that his wife bought. I imagine he would be willing to pay as much as sixty thousand dollars for this stone.”

The contessa sighed. “My grandmother would haunt me from her grave if I sold it for sixty thousand dollars.”

Halston pursed his lips. He could afford to go higher. He smiled. “I'll tell you what… I think I might persuade my friend to go as high as one hundred thousand. That's a great deal of money, but he's anxious to have the stone.”