It was a frustrating conversation. A bank holiday, this particular Friday. “I know you’re closed to the public but I’ve got to talk with an officer. It’s important.”

“I’m sorry, sir. This is the answering service. There’s no one in the bank except security personnel.”

Cushman hung up the phone and made a face and wasn’t quite sure what to do. He paced the office for a moment, alternately pleased to have made the sale but disturbed by suspicion. Finally he picked up the telephone again.

The lobby bustled: people checking in, checking out — business people and tourists in flamboyant island colors. In this class of hotel in this high season you could estimate the fifty people in the lobby were worth approximately $20 million on the hoof. Mr. Fowler watched with satisfaction until the intercom interrupted. “Yes?”

“It’s Mr. Henry Cushman, sir.”

“Put him on.”

“Jim?”

“How’re you, Henry?”

“Puzzled. I’ve got a little problem.”

Jim Fowler laughed. “I told you not to bet on the Lakers. Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“It’s serious, Jim. Listen. I’ve just sold a very expensive diamond ring to…a Mr. F. Breckenridge Baldwin. I understand he’s staying at your hotel.”

“Baldwin? Yes, sure he’s staying here.” And by the sheerest of meaningless coincidences Fowler at that moment saw the extraordinarily tall F. Breckenridge Baldwin enter through the main entrance and stride across the vast marble foyer. In turn Baldwin recognized Fowler and waved to him and Fowler waved back as Baldwin entered an elevator.

“What’s that, Henry? Hell, sure, he’s reputable. He and his wife have been here three weeks now. Royal Suite. They’ve entertained two bishops and a Rockefeller.”

“How long are they staying?”

“They’ll be with us at least another week. She likes the beach. I gather he has business deals in progress.”

“What do you know about him? Any trouble?”

“Trouble? Absolutely not. In fact he’s compulsive about keeping his account paid up.”

“He gave me a damn big check on the Sugar Merchants Bank.”

“If you’re worried about it why don’t you call Bill Yeager? He’s on the board of the bank.”

“Good idea. I’ll do that. Thanks, Jim.”

“That’s all right. You’re certainly welcome.”

It took Henry Cushman twenty minutes and as many phone calls to find Bill Yeager. In the end he tracked him down at the Nineteenth Hole Clubhouse. There was quite a bit of background racket: a ball game of some kind on the projection TV, men’s voices shouting encouragement from the bar. Yeager’s voice blatted out of the phone: “You’ll have to talk louder, Henry.”

“Baldwin,” he shouted, “F. Breckenridge Baldwin.”

“Is that the big tall character, looks like Gary Cooper?”

“That’s him.”

“Met him the other night at a luau they threw for the senator. Nice fellow, I thought. What about him?”

“What does he do?”

“Investments, I think. Real estate mostly.”

“Does he have an account with Sugar Merchants?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“You’re on the board of directors, aren’t you?”

“Henry, for Pete’s sake, I’m not some kind of bank teller.”

“It’s important, Bill. I’m sorry to bother you but I really need to find out. Can you give me a home number — somebody from the bank? Somebody who might know?”

“Let me think a minute…”

“That’s right, Mr. Cushman. He’s got an account with us. Opened it several weeks ago.”

“What’s the balance?”

“I can’t give out that kind of information on the telephone, sir.”

“Let me put it this way, then. He’s given me a check for four hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars. I need to know if it’s good.”

“I see. Then you certainly have a legitimate interest…If Mr. Yeager gave you my name…Well, all right. Based on my knowledge of that account from a few days ago, I’d say the check should be perfectly good, sir. It’s an interest-bearing account, money-market rate. He’s been carrying a rather large balance — it would be more than adequate to cover a four hundred and thirty-five thousand dollar check.”

“Thank you very much indeed.” Hanging up the phone, Henry Cushman was perspiring a bit but exhaustedly relieved. It looked as if he’d made a good sale after all.

Breck’s hand placed the immaculate ring onto the woman’s slender finger. Vicky admired it, turning it this way and that to catch the light, enraptured.

“It’s the loveliest present of all. My darling Breck — I worship you.”

He gave her a sharp look — she was laying it on a bit thick — but she moved quickly into his embrace and kissed him, at length. There was nothing he could do but go along with it. Over her shoulder he glimpsed Henry Cushman, beaming rather like a clergyman at a wedding.

Politely, Cushman averted his glance and pretended interest in the decor of the Royal Suite. If you looked down from the twelfth-story window you could see guests splashing around the enormous pool, seals performing in the man-made pond beside it, lovers walking slowly along the beach, gentle white-caps catching the Hawaiian moonlight.

Finally she drew away and Breck turned to the room-service table; he reached for the iced champagne bottle and gestured toward Henry Cushman. “Like a drink before you go?”

“Oh no. I’ll leave you alone to enjoy your evening together. It’s been a pleasure, sir. I hope we meet again.”

As if at court the jeweler backed toward the door, then turned and left. Breck and Vicky stood smiling until he closed it. Then the smile disappeared from Breck’s face and he walked away from her. He jerked his tie loose and flung off the evening jacket.

She said, “You might at least make an effort to be nice to me.”

“Fire that alimony lawyer and let me have my money back and I’ll be as nice as —”

“Your money? Breck, you’re the most unrealistic stubborn stupid…”

He lifted the bottle out of the ice bucket and poured. “We’re almost home with this thing. I’ll keep the truce if you will. Time out? King’s X?”

She lifted her champagne in a toast: “King’s X. To Daddy.”

He drank to that. “Your turn tomorrow, ducks:”

“And then what?”

“Just think about doing your job right now.”

AVAKIAN JEWELRY — BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

It was upstairs in an old building in Waikiki village. Patina of luxury; the carpet was thick and discreet. Past the desk and through the window you could see straight down the narrow street to a segment of beach and the Pacific beyond.

There were no display cases; it wasn’t that sort of place. Just an office. Somewhere in another room there would be a massive safe.

The man’s name was Clayton; he’d introduced himself on the telephone when she’d made the appointment. His voice on the phone was thin and asthmatically reedy; it had led her to expect a hollow-chested cadaverous man but Clayton in person was ruddy-cheeked and thirty pounds overweight and perspiring in a three-piece seersucker suit under the slowly turning overhead fan. He was the manager. She gathered from something he said that the owner had several shops in major cities around the world and rarely set foot in any of them.

Clayton was examining the ring. “Normally I don’t come in on Saturdays.” He’d already told her that on the phone; she’d dropped her voice half an octave and given him the pitch about how there was quite a bit of money involved.

He turned the ring in his hand, inspecting it under the high-intensity lamp. “I suppose it’s a bit cool for the beach today anyhow.” His talk was the sort that suggested he was afraid of silences: he had to keep filling them with unnecessary sounds. “Raining like the devil over on the windward side of the island today, did you know that?” It made her recall how one of the things she’d always admired about Breck was his comfort with silences. Sometimes his presence was a warmth in itself; sometimes when she caught his eye the glance was as good as a kiss.