“She just returned this week with Paolo and Marguerita for the start of the school year here and already I’m better dressed than I was all summer, isn’t that right, Devereux? I could barely persuade her to let me out the front door in this tie this morning.” He laughed loudly, showing dimples at the corners of his mouth. “Now I make a campaign to persuade her to try the Chicago opera: her family have been in the same box at La Scala since it opened in 1778 and she can’t believe a raw young city like this can really produce opera.”
I told him I went to a production once a year in tribute to my mother, who had taken me every fall, but of course I couldn’t compare it to a European opera company. “Nor do I have a family box: it’s the upper gallery for me, what we call the nosebleed section.”
He laughed again. “Nosebleed section. My colloquial American is going to improve for talking to you. We shall all go together one evening, if you can condescend to climb down from the nosebleed section. But I see Devereux looking at his watch—oh, very discreetly, don’t be embarrassed, Devereux. A beautiful woman is an inducement to waste precious business minutes, but Miss Warshawski must have come here for some other purpose than to discuss opera.”
I pulled out the photocopy of the Aaron Sommers policy and explained the events around his aborted funeral. “I thought if I came straight to you with the situation, you could get me an answer fast.”
When Ralph took the photocopy out to his secretary, I asked Rossy if he’d attended yesterday’s Birnbaum conference. “Friends of mine were involved. I’m wondering if Edelweiss is concerned about the proposed Holocaust Asset Recovery Act.”
Rossy put his fingertips together. “Our position is in line with the industry, that however legitimate the grief and the grievances—of both the Jewish and the African-American communities—the expense of a policy search shall be most costly for all policyholders. For our own company, we don’t worry about the exposure. Edelweiss was only a small regional insurer during the war, so the likelihood of involvement with large numbers of Jewish claimants is small.
“Of course, now I’m learning that we do have this fifteen-year history of slavery still taking place in America while Ajax was in its early days. And I am just now suggesting to Ralph that we get Ms. Blount, the woman who wrote our little history, to look in the archives so we know who our customers were in those very old days. Assuming she has not already decided to send our archives to this Alderman Durham. But how expensive it is to go back to the past. How very costly, indeed.”
“Your history? Oh, that booklet on ‘One Hundred Fifty Years of Life.’ I have a copy—which I confess I’ve yet to read. Does it cover Ajax’s pre-Emancipation years? Do you really think Ms. Blount would hand your documents to an outsider?”
“Is this the true reason for your visit here? Ralph says you are a detective. Are you doing something very subtle, very Humphrey Bogart, pretending to care about the Sommers claim and trying to trick me with questions about the Holocaust and slavery claims? I did think this little policy was small, small potatoes for you to bring to the director of claims.” He smiled widely, inviting me to treat this as a joke if I wanted to.
“I’m sure in Switzerland as well as here people call on those they know,” I said. “Ralph and I worked together a number of years ago, before he became so exalted, so I’m taking advantage of our relationship in the hopes of a fast answer for my client.”
“Exalted’s the word for me,” Ralph came back in. “And Vic has such a depressing habit of being right about financial crime that it’s easier to go along with her from the start than fight her.”
“What crime surrounds this claim, then—what are you correct about today?” Rossy asked.
“So far, nothing, but I haven’t had time to consult a psychic yet.”
“Psychic?” he repeated doubtfully.
“Indovina,” I grinned. “They abound in the area where I have my office.”
“Ah, psychic,” Rossy exclaimed. “I have been pronouncing it wrong all these years. I must remember to tell my wife about this. She is keenly interested in unusual events in my business day. Psychics and nosebleeds. She will enjoy them so much.”
I was saved from trying to respond by Ralph’s secretary, who ushered in a young woman clutching a thick file. She was wearing khaki jeans and a sweater that had shrunk from too many washings.
“This is Connie Ingram, Mr. Devereux,” the secretary said. “She has the information you wanted.”
Ralph didn’t introduce Rossy or me to Ms. Ingram. She blinked at us unhappily but showed her packet to Ralph.
“This here is all the documents on L-146938-72. I’m sorry about being in my jeans and all, but my supervisor is away, so they told me to bring the file up myself. I printed the financials from off the microfiche, so they aren’t as clear as they could be, but I did the best I could.”
Bertrand Rossy joined me when I got up to look over her shoulder at the papers. Connie Ingram flipped through the pages until she came to the payment documents.