Free Stone Cold by Norman Moss

it?”
    “We are assuming that you will approach him. My client is willing to pay considerably more than Mr Stakis paid for it.”
    “Do you know how much he paid for it?”
    “No. But whatever it is, my client will pay more. He is a wealthy man.”
    Azamouth paused to consider his reply. He was not the kind of man given to spontaneity. “May I ask why your client is so interested in this particular diamond?”
    “I haven’t asked him myself.”
    “Is it because of its unusual provenance?”
    “I don’t know about that. But of course my client would need to know the provenance of this diamond.”
    “I see.” He paused again, and then said, “Its provenance was something of a mystery in the diamond trade when it first appeared on the market. It was put on the market as coming from Uzbekistan. No one has ever found out any more. I assume you know that.”
    “No, I didn’t,” I lied. I had been lying all along and he did not believe me. This was an uncomfortable situation.
    “I imagine your client does,” he said. “I would find it hard to believe that he doesn’t. Let me think about your request.” He turned and looked out of the window, evidently pondering. I followed his gaze and looked at the tall column at the centre of the great rectangular place . I knew its history. This was the column erected by Napoleon to commemorate one of his victories, and torn down by the revolutionaries in the Paris Commune in 1871. It was re-erected after the Commune was crushed. I reflected that with the military figure on top of the column looking down proudly on the scene, and the Ritz Hotel on one side and Cartier, Chanel, Piaget, and Azamouth Frères on the other, there was not much doubt who won in the long run.
    Azamouth swung around in his swivel chair to face me, and the affability was gone. “Mr Root, are you, or your client, really interested in buying the diamond, or are you just interested in finding out its provenance?”
    He was no fool and it was a mistake on my part to think I could put something like this over on him. But I ploughed on. “Surely the two go together. My client is interested as a potential purchaser. No one is going to spend a large amount of money on a diamond without knowing where it comes from.”
    “I’m not prepared to approach Mr Stakis with a view to buying his diamond on behalf of an anonymous purchaser when he’s given no indication that he is prepared to sell it.”
    He leaned back, indicating that the subject was finished with, and then said, “You may know that one or two other people are interested in finding where this diamond came from. One of my clients, as a matter of fact.” This probably meant Nikolai, Madame Bulganov’s oligarch.
    “I didn’t know that,” I said.
    “And I should tell you something. Azamouth Frères has a reputation as a respectable, trustworthy business. We are totally above board. Some people among my clients, the ones who want to know what this diamond comes from, the ones with whom you may be in competition, are not the same. Their ways are not our ways. Unless you are paid very well indeed, it might be wise to consider whether it’s really worth pursuing your enquiries.”
    It was a warning delivered in a silk-lined box, but it was a warning. He probably thought I was fighting out of my class and should not be playing with the big boys. Perhaps he was right.
    I did not reply to this, but thanked him for his time, and said I would tell my client that he would not approach Stakis about the diamond.
    The next step was to seek out Duncan Bridey since he was the last owner of the diamond before Nadia. I go to films occasionally but don’t follow the film world, so although I had heard the name I couldn’t remember anything about him. I googled him on my tablet.
    He was an actor from Scotland who had briefly made it big in Hollywood. He had starred in two films in succession. He was big and handsome and rugged looking and was said to be the new