Bloodline Sidney Sheldon

One day, over lunch, a friend of his, Rene Du-champs, told Charles about an opportunity to make a fortune.

“An uncle of mine who owned a large vineyard in Burgundy has just died. The vineyard is going to be put up for sale—ten thousand acres of first-class Appellation d’origine contrôllée. I have the inside track,” René Duchamps continued, “because it’s my family. I don’t have enough to swing the deal by myself, but if you came in with me, we could double our money in one year. At least, come and look at it.”

Because Charles could not bear to admit to his friend that he was penniless, he went to the rolling red slopes of Burgundy to view the land. He was deeply impressed.

René Duchamps said, “We’ll each put in two million francs. In a year we’ll each have four million.”

Four million francs! It would mean freedom, escape. He could go away to some place where Hélène could never find him.

“I’ll think about it,” Charles promised his friend.

And he did. Day and night It was the chance of a lifetime. But how? Charles knew that it would be impossible for him to try to borrow money without Hélène immediately learning about it. Everything was in her name, the houses, the paintings, the cars, the jewelry. The jewelry…those beautiful, useless ornaments she kept locked up in the safe in the bedroom. Gradually, the idea was born. If he could get hold of her jewelry, a little at a time, he could replace the pieces with copies and borrow money on the real jewelry. After he had made his killing in the vineyard, he would simply return her jewels. And have enough money to disappear forever.

Charles telephoned Rene Duchamps and said, his heart pounding with excitement, “I’ve decided to go in with you.”

The first part of the plan filled Charles with terror. He had to get into the safe and steal Hélène’s jewelry.

The anticipation of the terrible thing he was about to do made Charles so nervous that he was barely able to function. He went through each day like an automaton, neither seeing nor hearing what was happening around him. Every time Charles saw Hélène he began to sweat. His hands would tremble at odd times. Hélène was concerned about him, as she would have been concerned about any pet. She had the doctor examine Charles, but the doctor could find nothing wrong. “He seems a bit tense. A day or two in bed, perhaps.”

Hélène looked long at Charles, lying in bed, naked, and smiled, “Thank you, doctor.”

The moment the doctor left, Hélène began getting undressed. “I—I’m not feeling very strong.” Charles protested.

“I am,” Hélène replied.

He had never hated her more.

 

 

Charles’s opportunity came the following week. Hélène was going to Garmisch-Partenkirchen to ski with some friends. She decided to leave Charles in Paris.

“I want you home every night,” Hélène told him. “I’ll telephone you.”

Charles watched her speed away, at the wheel of her red Jensen, and the moment she was out of sight he hurried to the wall safe. He had watched her open it often, and he knew most of the combination. It took him an hour to figure out the rest of it. With trembling fingers he pulled the safe open. There, in velvet-lined boxes, sparkling like miniature stars, lay his freedom. He had already located a jeweler, one Pierre Richaud, who was a master at duplicating jewelry. Charles had begun a long, nervous explanation about why he wanted the jewels copied, but Richaud said, matter-of-factly, “Monsieur, I am making copies for everyone. No one with any sense wears real jewelry on the streets these days.”

Charles gave him one piece at a time to work on, and when the copy was ready, he substituted it for the real piece. He borrowed money on the real jewelry from the Crédit Municipal, the state-owned pawnshop.

The operation took longer than Charles had anticipated. He could only get into the safe when Hélène was out of the house, and there were unforeseen delays in copying the pieces. But finally the day came when Charles was able to say to René Duchamps, “I’ll have all the money for you tomorrow.”