Diamonds Can Kill

By Joan Argenta

Tom Barton was a New Yorker, aged 38, and an ex-FBI agent. He came to London for a holiday plus business venture. Checked into the Hilton Hotel, and whilst waiting for the room service waiter to bring coffee and sandwiches, he glanced at the daily newspaper, and on the front of it, he saw a photograph of Maria Fantini, the Opera singer, who was giving a performance of La Boheme the following evening at Covent Garden. Tom noticed the necklace of sapphires and diamonds she was wearing, and decided to try and steal it, in a daring gesture. He visited a nightclub and met a beautiful socialite, who was the cause of his undoing. In Paris, and on to the Cote dAzure, exciting events developed, with the entrance of a rich French widow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 13, 2009
• ISBN: 9781456791940

Joan Argenta

She is a housewife, English, writing her first novel, a fiction thriller, which develops into an exciting murder story, with love, and visits to Paris, and the Cote dAzure. She enjoys company, and people who have interesting lifestyles, especially the unusual. She also enjoys travelling, which helps to widen her writing horizons.

Book preview

Diamonds

Can Kill

by

Joan Argenta

missing image file

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

500 Avebury Boulevard

Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2009 Joan Argenta. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 9/17/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4389-4277-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4389-4276-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9194-0 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

About The Author

Chapter One

Tom Barton had just flown into London, from New York. He ‘was’ a New Yorker, aged 38. Being 5 ft 11 ins in height, with a perfectly toned muscular body, added to his dark wavy hair and flashing brown eyes, he was attractive to the opposite sex.

It was late August, and a dull drizzly evening, as he waited to go through customs, at Heathrow air-terminal.

Handing his passport to the customs officer, he was asked,

‘What is the purpose of your visit Sir?’

Tom Barton’s reply, was,

‘I’m here on both business and pleasure. My business is computer-software.’

The customs officer being satisfied, after inspecting the Americans passport, then asked how long he would be in the country for.

‘Oh, a few weeks. I don’t know for certain.,’ was Tom Barton’s reply.

‘That’s alright Sir, I’ll stamp your passport for 3 months.’ the customs officer told him.

Tom Barton thanked him, put his passport back into his pocket, and made his way out of the barrier, towards the taxi-rank. He didn’t have to wait long, before a pleasant cockney-sounding cabbie helped him with his two suitcases. Then having settled the American into the car, asked where he wished to go.

Tom Barton said,

‘I want to go to a nice Hotel, somewhere central.’

The cabbie told him,

‘O.K. guvnor, I’ll take you to the Hilton. Will that be alright?’

‘Yeah, that’ll do fine,’ replied Tom Barton. And having established that, he settled back into the warmth of the taxi-cab, and the driver took him through the congested London traffic, towards his destination.

‘Here we are, Sir.’ Said the cabbie, having brought the vehicle to a halt, outside the Hilton Hotel in Park Lane.

Tom paid the taxi-driver, and included a generous tip. He entered the Hotel, and went to the reception desk, where he was immediately approached, and asked by the head receptionist, if he could be of assistance.

‘I would like a room for a week.’ Tom Barton replied. And after giving his particulars to the receptionist, and signing the register, he was given the key to room 150.

A porter was summoned, to carry the suitcases, and lead the American to the lift, and then along the richly carpeted corridor, stopping outside of his room. Once inside, the porter handed the key back to Tom, and put the cases down on the floor.

After receiving a generous tip, he smiled, and thanked the American, then left the room, and Tom Barton was thankfully alone, to relax awhile.

It didn’t take long to unpack his things. First, his clothes, and then his personal items, which he put away in the dressing-table.

The smaller suitcase of the two, which he’d purchased in New York, had a special secret compartment. And by pressing the two studs on it’s outside, at exactly the same time, opened it up.

Tom removed from it’s hiding-place, a black eye-mask, a black scarf, and a pair of fine black leather gloves. Also amongst the special affects, was a small compact torch, and a flick-knife.

Having checked that those things were intact, Tom Barton then carefully replaced them, and locked the suitcase up. He was satisfied that it was secure, before placing it on top of the wardrobe, with the large case.

What now, Tom thought to himself. Then realized he was in need of a drink. Reaching for the telephone, whilst sitting on the side of the bed, he called room service.

‘Can you bring a bottle of beer, and a few sandwiches to room 150?’ he asked.

‘Right away sir,’ was the reply from the kitchen porter.

Tom just had time to remove his jacket, and loosen his tie, having picked up that days newspaper from off the coffee table, where it had been placed by the Hotel’s staff.

He was sitting in the chair, scanning the front page, when his attention as caught by a photograph of the famous Italian soprano Maria Fantini. As he read that she was appearing in a gala performance on Saturday, the following evening, at Covent Garden Opera House, a knock on his room door, heralded the arrival of his beer and sandwiches.

‘Com in.’ Tom replied. And a waiter entered the room, carrying a tray over to where the American sat.

‘Just put it down there.’ Tom told him, with a gesture of the hand. After which, the waiter complied, then took the chit for it, from the tray, and gave it to Tom Barton to sign, with his pen. The waiter then left the room, having received a tip, which Tom took from his trouser pocket.

Once alone again, Tom poured the beer into the glass from off the tray, and drank it thirstily. He then ate the chicken sandwiches, and smoked a cigarette, before taking a shower.

The tangy eau-de-Cologne after-shave he splashed on his face, had an invigorating affect, and he dressed himself in a smart beige suit, with a cinnamon coloured shirt, and a yellow tie. Tom put on a pair of hand-made tan leather shoes to match, and after making certain that he had his wallet and cigarettes, he picked up his light-weight raincoat and went down to reception to drop his key off.

The commisionaire at the front of the Hilton Hotel, asked Tom Barton if he required a taxi. The American replied,

‘Yeah, I guess I’d better. It looks like it’s gonna rain.’ The doorman then raised his hand, to beckon a cab, and once settled inside it, the driver asked the American where he wished to go.

‘To the Covent Garden Opera House." Tom told him.

‘Right away Sir," was the cabbie’s speedy reply.

Tom lit a cigarette, and watched the passing traffic etc, during the short journey to his destination. After receiving a tip with the £5-00 fare, the cabbie drove off into the night.

There was plenty of activity around the Opera House. Comings and goings, with people in their finery, and raised voices of excitement, from lovers of classical music.

Tom approached the ticket-box, to purchase a ticket for the following evenings performance. Blown-up pictures of soprano Maria Fantini on the billboards in her regalia, reminded him that he would need something suitable to wear, for the occasion.

With the reservation ticket safely tucked inside his wallet, Tom then walked until he arrived at a nice-looking restaurant in the area. He entered, and immediately, a waiter approached him, and guided him to a table for one, having ascertained that Tom was alone.

A brief glance at the menu was all that Tom needed, to decide upon the smoked salmon, with a fillet steak to follow. And when asked if he would like to select something from the wine-list, Tom told him some red wine would be alright.

He ate hungrily, enjoying the meal. Then finished it off with a coffee and brandy.

It was approaching 9 o’clock when Tom paid the bill, and left the restaurant. He put a tip on the side-plate for the waiter, who had been efficient, but unobtrusive.

It occurred to Tom Barton as he passed an arcade with a photograph kiosk, that he would be needing one, for the job he had in mind. So, after examining the loose change in his pocket, he found the necessary coins, and inserted them in the machine, after settling himself on the swivel seat, to the correct height, and pulling the curtain across, to shut out the light.

Having performed that task, Tom waited outside, for the kiosk to eject the photographs. He lit a cigarette, just for something to do, whilst waiting.

After a few minutes, Tom carefully took hold of the wet prints, so as not to smudge them, and strode away from the arcade, in pursuit of a taxi, to return to the Hilton Hotel in Park Lane.

He saw one moments later, pulling up at the kerb, to let a passenger out, just a few strides away. Tom called to the driver, and the vehicle was brought to a halt, so that he could get in.

The cabbie enquired where Tom Barton wanted to go.

‘To the Hilton Hotel,’ the American replied.

‘Yes Sir, right away,’ said the driver.

Tom Barton had heard about London cabbies. And he’d discovered for himself, how quick and obliging they were. No sooner had he started to plan in his mind, how he would go about the next evenings ‘operation,’ than he was brought back to the present moment, by the cabbie saying,

‘Here we are sir, the ‘Hilton,’ and with that remark, the taxi stopped almost outside the hotel.

Having settled with the cab-driver, Tom then re-entered the Hotel, collected his key from reception, and made his way up to his room, via the lift.

Tiredness was closing over him by that time, after his flight from America, etc. So, having undressed, put on his pyjamas, and smoked a final cigarette before getting into bed, sleep, and oblivion, overtook him.

Chapter two

After a good nights rest, Tom Barton awoke on the Saturday morning, and saw from his watch, that it was almost 9 o’clock. Stretching himself, he contemplated what to do first. Nothing, he thought to himself, before he had had a good breakfast.

Picking the phone up from his beside table, Tom asked room-service to bring some coffee and toast, and ham and eggs to his room, in about fifteen minutes time. It allowed him time to get showered and shaved, and dressed.

The breakfast waiter knocked on Tom’s door, and entered the room, carrying a tray which included the mornings newspaper. Laying it down on the table, he then gave the American the bill to sign, and soon afterwards, left the room, with a tip in his hand.

Tom opened the newspaper, and laid it down on the table, at the side of his breakfast plate, not letting the food go cold, as he was not particularly interested in the days news. His thoughts were more focused on the ‘job’ he had planned for that evening.

Breakfast finished, Tom Barton then walked over to the window, taking note of the weather. It would rain later, he thought. If the clouds were anything to go by. He would need to take his raincoat, before leaving the Hotel.

Checking that he had sufficient change for tipping, plus his cheque-book, and credit cards, Tom then made his way down to reception, leaving his room-key with the person on duty.

He left the Hotel, and walked a little, down Park Lane, and then turned into Oxford Street. He was looking for a stationers, to purchase a plastic identification-card holder. Also, a clip, to secure it onto his jacket.

Before finding such a shop, Tom arrived at one selling camera’s and photographic equipment. It made him aware of the fact, that he would need a camera. So he entered the shop, and browsed around, looking at the different types, until a suitable model caught his attention.

Lifting the camera from off it’s shelf, Tom Barton put the strap over his head. The sophisticated machine rested comfortably on his chest, and suited his requirement, so he purchased it. Before leaving the shop, Tom asked the salesman who had served him, if there was a stationers nearby.

‘Yes,’ the young man replied, ‘a little further up the street, on the opposite side.’

‘Thanks.’ Tom answered, before making his way out of the door, and crossing over Oxford Street, in search of the stationers.

After walking a short distance, he caught sight of it. He entered the shop, and after a few minutes of searching between the well-laden racks, spotted just what he had been looking for. A plastic card to insert one of the passport photos he’d had done the night before, a small tube of glue, and a pen suitable for writing on all types of surfaces.

By this time, Tom felt in need of a cup of coffee. So he went into Debenham’s, thinking that he could kill two birds with one stone. He could get coffee in one department, and afterwards, purchase a dinner-suit from the menswear department.

The escalator took Tom upstairs to the coffee-bar, where he ate a doughnut as well. Then smoking a cigarette, he glanced at his wristwatch, which told him it was almost 12 o’clock noon.

He browsed around a little, after moving away from the coffee shop section, attracted by the various artistic displays. Then he followed the sign which told him where the menswear department was. Up the stairs, on the next floor, male models wearing dinner-suits took Tom to what he was looking for.

Before deciding on which one to purchase, he hovered awhile. The salesman standing discreetly nearby, felt the time was right to ask the American if he could be of assistance.

‘Yeah,’ Tom told him, ‘I would like to try this suit on, in size 42 or 44.’

The salesman moved across to the rack holding the various sizes of the style of dinner attire which Tom Barton had selected. Taking two sizes of the chosen model, the salesman then invited Tom to try them on in a nearby cubicle, waiting outside of it, in case he was needed again.

Tom was pleased with the fit of the larger one. He felt comfortable in it. And his reflection in the mirror, as he studied his appearance, satisfied him.

The American then changed back into his own clothes, and stepped out of the cubicle, carrying the dinner-suit which had fitted him. He handed it to the salesman, saying,

‘This one will do fine, I’ll take it.’

‘Do you require a dress-shirt and bow-tie to go with it, Sir?’ the salesman asked

‘Oh yeah,’ Tom replied, and followed the young man over to where the accessories were kept, in order to make his choice.

After paying for his purchases, Tom then left the Debenhams store, and walked along Oxford Street for a 100 yards or so. Seeing a black London taxi approaching, he raised his hand to attract the drivers attention. The cabbie stopped as close to Tom as he was able to, with traffic and pedestrians around him. Tom quickly strode towards the cab, opened the rear door, and jumped inside, laying his parcels down on the seat beside him.

The cabbie asked the American where he wished to go, and Tom replied.

‘To Park Lane’s Hilton Hotel.’

The cabbie had to go with the busy flow, on a Saturday at mid-day, in the central London traffic. Tom sat quietly admiring the drivers negotiating skills, before being deposited outside the hotel he’d checked into, only the night before.

After tipping the pleasant cockney cabbie with his fare, Tom made his way into the Hilton, going first to the reception desk, to pick up the key to his room.

He asked the clerk on duty, to reserve him a table for one, in the restaurant, at about 1-30. It gave him fifteen minutes approximately, to drop off his parcels and freshen up a little, before going down stairs to eat.

On entering the Hotel’s dining-room, the headwaiter approached the tall handsome American, enquiring as to whether he had a table booked.

‘Yeah, a table for Mr. Barton at 1-30.’ Tom told the waiter.

After checking the reservations, the waiter led Tom to a table for one, on the side of the restaurant, giving him the obligatory smile, whilst pulling out a chair for him.

Tom lifted the menu, to consult it, and after a moment or two, the wine-waiter approached Tom’s table, and laid the wine list down on it, so that the American could select his preference.

The station waiter then approached Tom’s table to take his order.

‘I’ll have the ‘lobster thermador,’ but first I would like some ‘h’orsdoevres,’’ Tom told the waiter.

With a brief nod of the head, the waiter soon brought the trolley bearing the h’orsdoevres close to Tom Barton, so that he could make his choice.

That done, the wine waiter then approached, asking Tom what he would like to drink with his meal.

‘Your white house wine will be O.K.’ Tom replied and the wine-waiter brought half a bottle, and poured some into a glass, for the American’s approval. And after a sign that it was satisfactory, he filled the glass up for Tom, and removed himself from the table.

The serving waiter, having watched events from a discreet distance, saw that Tom Barton had finished eating his starters, and so went to the table to remove the plate, in readiness for the main course.

Tom drank his wine, and waited readily for his lobster. The serving waiter brought the trolley with the silver salvers bearing the lobster, rice, and brandy. Also, the ‘flambe lamp.’

The waiter asked Tom if he would like brandy poured over the top of his lobster, to which the American replied,

‘Yeah, that sounds nice.’

The waiter then lifted the ladle, pouring brandy into it, from the bottle. He held it over the flame until it was hot, then proceeded to pour the flaming brandy over Tom’s lobster on the silver salver, which was still on the trolley.

During this time, Tom watched, with an interested expression on his face, as the Commis waiter was called upon to do his part. Lifting the plate with the lobster from off the trolley, he placed it in front of the American. A dish of rice was also put on the table, separately, so that Tom could help himself to it.

The waiters removed the trolley immediately, allowing Tom to get on with his meal undisturbed.

Shortly afterwards, the wine waiter went over to refill Tom’s glass, briefly asking if everything was was satisfactory. Tom told him, ‘it was.’

The meal over, Tom then lit a cigarette, left a tip on the table, and got up to go over to the coffee bar, and drink a cup, whilst turning over in his mind, what to do next.

Chapter Three

After awakening from his slumber, Tom, looked at his watch, and seeing that it was now 6 o’clock, concentrated on his plan of action, for later that evening. But now, he would have a shower and shave, in preparation.

After that, he sat down in the chair, while he smoked a cigarette. He then lifted the larger of the two suitcases, from off the top of the wardrobe, where he had placed it the night before, on his arrival at the Hotel.

Tom placed it on the bed, opened it up, also, the secret compartment. He took out the black eye-mark, the black scarf and gloves, the light brown wig, the moustache, which was the same colour as the wig, a flick-knife, and finally, a pair of glasses, with tinted lenses.

After checking these items, the American closed the case up, and replaced it on top of the wardrobe once again.

Tom needed a cup of coffee now., So, after he had camouflaged the ‘suspicious items’ under the bedspread, he lifted the telephone, and called room-service. He didn’t have to wait many moments for a reply. ‘Can you bring coffee and sandwiches to room 350 please?’ Tom asked, and replaced the phone, then sat in the chair, glancing at the days newspaper, while waiting for the coffee to arrive.

Soon, there was a knock at his door. Tom got up from the chair and went over to open it for the room-service waiter.

Tom asked the young man to leave the tray on the table, gesturing with his hand. The waiter then brought the bill over to the American to sign. He was given a tip, thanked Tom, and left the room.

Tom drank the coffee, and ate the ham and salad sandwiches, before returning to the bed to uncover the ‘suspicious items’ he had carefully camouflaged prior to the service-waiter entering his room.

He placed the items of disguise, namely, the mask, black scarf and gloves, in the inside breast pocket of the dinner jacket he had purchased that same morning, the remainder of the things, the wig, moustache, glasses and flick-knife, he put into the outside pockets, to be easily accessable.

The last thing he did, before putting on his rain-coat, was to attatch the plastic identity card, stating that he was a newspaper reporter.

He put the plastic identity card into the small pocket inside his jacket, then the strap of the camera which he had bought especially to do the ‘job,’ he put over his right shoulder, letting the camera itself, hang unobstrusively down his side.

Finally, when he put his rain-coat on, the camera was un-noticeable. Tom went out of his room now, confident that he had taken sufficient care in his preparation, to do ‘the job.’

He took the lift down to the ground floor, but without leaving his room-key in reception, he made his way out of an exit door, at the rear of the Hotel, which led to the garage.

He went to the hired Jaguar, then, from the front of the vehicle he bent to take note of the numbers of the registration plate. Quickly, he produced from out of his wallet, a book of numbers and letters, with glued backs. This special book which he had brought with him from New York, was approximately the size of a pack of cigarettes.

Tom Barton looked around the garage quickly, there was nobody about, and so without hesitation, he speedily changed the registration of the Jaguar car, by tearing out of his special little book of his, a few letters and numbers, and pressed them onto the original ones. They adhered easily. And so, the car now had a different number plate, after having completed the same job at the rear of the Jaguar.

Still snatching furtive glances around him, Tom was feeling somewhat taut. It was essential that nothing went wrong at this stage of his planning. He removed his rain-coat, and put it into the boot of the car. Then, he got into the Jaguar, and drove out of the Hotel garage, making his way along Park Lane towards Oxford Street, then on along Regent Street, past Piccadilly Circus towards the Strand. He turned left into Bedford Street and sharp right into Henrietta Street, where he parked the car.

Tom Barton then took the wig from his pocket, and arranged it on his head. He then put the false moustache on, and the pair of tinted glasses which were to add to his disguise. Having done this, he checked his appearance in the car mirror, and was satisfied that it was O.K. Tom then looked at his wristwatch, seeing by it, that the time was 7-00. The gala performance he reminded himself, commenced at 7-30.

So Tim lifted the camera from off the seat beside him, and got out of the Jaguar, making certain he locked it. He stood then for a moment, in the darkness, turning his face upwards, as if testing the severity of the falling rain, which was light.

Tom then started walking towards the Opera House, which was just a short distance away. As he drew closer, he could hear raised voices, and the sound of traffic. One more left turn, and he could see the Covent Garden Opera House well lit, showing the music lovers arriving in their evening wear. People who had come to hear the international soprano ‘Maria Fantini.’

The American made his way through the famous entrance doors, and in the foyer, he was soon mingling with the crowd. Tom wasted no time in searching out the ‘gents’ toilets, where once inside then, he took the plastic identification card, bearing the words, ‘NEWS OF THE WORLD, REPORTER, on it, and clipped it onto the breast pocket of his evening jacket. Tom then placed the strap of the camera he had purchased especially for ‘this job,’ around his neck, letting the camera itself, fall down in front of his chest.

Tom Barton came out of the ‘gents toilet,’ and purposely quickly looked around the passageway, to find out just where the star soprano’s dressing-room was located. Having done this, he retraced his steps to the foyer, which was almost empty, because of the time. People were already seated in the auditorium, ready for curtain up, and act 1 of ‘La Boheme,’ except for a few latecomers.

Tom hadn’t been able to get a