Free Murder in the Smithsonian by Margaret Truman Page A

his fees. After all, he was only thirty-four.
    Short and compact, with an upper body reflecting the weights he worked out with three times a week, and a strong, square olive face framed by black curls and even blacker eyes, he had joined Washington’s long list of eligible bachelors. He had brought with him to the nation’s capital the spoils of his previous career. His automobile was a silver Corvette. He had an extensive wardrobe of designer suits and expensive gold jewelry, including a seventeen-thousand-dollar Rolex watch. He lived in a Watergate apartment, which he had furnished in leather and chrome.
    “Always impressive,” said Shilter, who spoke with a German accent and whose fingers were like fat sausages,more the hands of a butcher than a lapidist. “The original stone must have been so beautiful. I’ve examined the Brunswick,” he said, referring to a fourteen-carat diamond identical in color to the Hope and presumed to have been cut from the original Tavernier gem by its thieves. “No question they came from the same mother stone.”
    A secretary whispered to Kazakis, “Mr. Throckly from American History is on the phone. He says it’s important.”
    “Not now. I’ll call back in an hour. Please, I want to watch this.”
    An hour later, after Shilter had proclaimed the Hope as flawless as its reputation and had weighed it in at 45.5 carats reflecting the change in standards, Kazakis returned the call to Throckly.
    “It took you long enough,” Throckly said.
    “We were working with the Hope. What’s up?”
    “Has Walter called you?”
    “Walter Jones? No.”
    “He said he was going to. He wants to have dinner tonight.”
    “I can’t. I have other plans.”
    “Change them.”
    “Why?”
    “You’re trying my patience, Constantine, and I can assure you that Walter feels the same way.”
    “I don’t like being at anyone’s beck and call. I have a life of my own—”
    “Tell Walter that when he calls.”
    “I will. I’m not trying to be difficult, Alfred, but these plans for tonight can’t be changed. I’ll talk to you later.”
    A few minutes afterward he received a call from Walter Jones. “Constantine, how are you?” Jones asked pleasantly in his well-known gravelly voice.
    “Just fine, Walter. We examined the Hope today. Absolutely flawless, according to Max Shilter, and a carat heavier than before.”
    “No surprise. Is it safely back in the crib or did some ambitious young curator steal it en route?” He laughed too loudly.
    Kazakis laughed too. “As a matter of fact, Walter, I did steal it. You called just as I was about to put a chisel to it.”
    “Just as long as you’re not hung over. Connie, Chloe and I are putting together a last-minute dinner party tonight, just a few friends in for something simple. Naturally, you head our list.”
    “I’m flattered. What happened to the other thousand-and-one names?”
    “All fleeting acquaintances. You’re special. Seven?”
    “I’d made other plans that I—”
    “And she’s young, blond, very pretty and madly in love with you, in which case she’ll understand your need to break her heart for one evening. Seven?”
    “I’ll be there.”
    “Informal, just a simple get-together. Careful with the chisel, Constantine. You’d never be forgiven.”

Chapter 10
    Heather McBean gave a complete statement about the previous night’s attack to an MPD stenographer. When she was finished and the stenographer had left the office, Hanrahan asked, “What are your plans now?”
    Heather looked at him quizzically. “I told you my plans, Captain. I intend to stay here until Lewis’s murderer is brought to justice.”
    “I knew what your plans
were
, Miss McBean, but considering what’s happened to you over the past twenty-four hours, I thought you might be thinking about returning to England.”
    “That never crossed my mind.”
    Hanrahan shuffled loose papers into a pile, put a paper clip on them. “I happen to find your