Try This One for Size

two

Under the shade of the awning, Herman Radnitz sat on the terrace of his penthouse suite at the Belvedere hotel, studying a legal document.

With his hooded eyes, beaky nose, almost lipless mouth, the mottle colour of his skin and his short, fat body, Radnitz resembled a repellent toad. His appearance never bothered him. He had money and power, and it amused him to see how men and women fawned over him, especially women.

This morning, he was putting together a deal that would net him even more money. There were a few legal problems to iron out, but Radnitz was a master at ironing out legal problems.

He glanced up, his hooded eyes showing irritation as Gustav Holtz, his secretary, came silently across the terrace.

Gustav Holtz, some fifty years of age, was tall, thin and balding, with deep-set eyes and a cruel mouth. He was a mathematical genius, a man with no scruples, with eight languages at his finger tips, and with a shrewd political knowhow. He was as important to Radnitz as Radnitz’s right hand.

“What is it?” Radnitz snapped. “I am busy!”

“Claude Kendrick is here, sir,” Holtz said. “Do you want to see him? It was agreed he should come here this morning.”

Radnitz laid down the document.

“I will see him.” He pointed to the document. “Look at this, Holtz: clause ten. I don’t like it. We must do better than this.”

Holtz picked up the document, then went into the penthouse suite. A moment later, Kendrick, immaculately dressed in a sky-blue linen suit, his wig carefully combed and on straight, and carrying a briefcase, came across the terrace.

Radnitz eyed him malevolently.

“What do you want? I am busy!”

Kendrick was frightened of Radnitz, but he knew this man had the money he wanted. His fat face creased into an oily smile.

“Busy? When aren’t you, Mr Radnitz?” he purred, advancing to the table. “Forgive me for intruding, but I have something that just, just might be of interest to you.”

Radnitz shrugged, then waved to a chair.

“What? Sit down!”

Kendrick lowered his bulk on to the chair.

“So kind, Mr Radnitz. It is a great privilege...”

“What is it?” Radnitz barked.

Kendrick winced. This dreadful man, he warned himself, was in a bad mood. Kendrick realized his usual soft-soap approach would only irritate Radnitz. He came immediately to the crux of his proposition.

“The Hermitage exhibition in Washington,” he said.

A look of interest appeared in Radnitz’s hooded eyes.

“What about it?”

“You may not have seen the catalogue. Splendid treasures... marvellous...”

“I’ve seen it. What about it?”

Kendrick took from his brief case the illustrated catalogue of the exhibition. He opened it at page fifty-four, then reverently laid the open catalogue on the table. He pushed the catalogue towards Radnitz.

“This magnificent item.”

Radnitz picked up the catalogue and studied the illustrated icon. He read the details, his face expressionless, then he looked at Kendrick.

“So?”

“A remarkable, unique treasure,” Kendrick said, smiling his dolphin smile. “Possibly the first icon...”

“I can read,” Radnitz snapped. “What’s this to me?”

“I understand, sir, that, on the open market, this icon is worth at least twenty million dollars.”

Radnitz laid down the catalogue, his eyes cloudy.

“That is possible, but this icon is not for sale. It is the property of the Soviet Union.”

“Of course, Mr Radnitz, but things happen. Let us suppose that this icon comes on the market. Would you be interested in buying it for say, eight million dollars?”

Radnitz sat for a long moment, staring at Kendrick who smiled hopefully at him.

“Are you serious?” Radnitz asked, a rasp in his voice.

“Yes, sir... very serious,” Kendrick returned, his smile drooping a little.

Radnitz got to his feet and walked over to a bank of flowers bordering the terrace. He stood with his back to Kendrick and stared down at the beach and the sea, his mind busy.

Watching him, Kendrick felt his heart flutter.

‘The fish nibbles,’ he thought.

Radnitz remained still for some five minutes. The long wait made Kendrick mop his face, but he hitched on his smile when Radnitz returned to the table and sat down.

“The icon is not coming on the open market,” Radnitz said.

“No, but for a private collector who is interested in acquiring this marvellous treasure, an arrangement could be made.”

“What arrangement?”

“I have been assured that if I can find a buyer, the icon will be delivered. I wouldn’t be here, sir, unless I was satisfied this can be arranged.”

“When?”

Kendrick drew in a long, soft breath. The fish was hooked!

“Some time next week, provided eight million dollars are deposited in a Swiss bank account.”

Radnitz took a cigar from a box on the table and went through the ritual of lighting the cigar.

“I hope for your sake, Kendrick,” he said, a vicious glare in his eyes, “you mean what you are saying.”

“You can rely on me, sir,” Kendrick began to sweat again.

“I haven’t forgotten the Russian stamps you promised to deliver, and what happened.”

Kendrick sighed.

“That was unfortunate. I can’t be blamed for what did happen[1].”

“I will give you that,” Radnitz said grudgingly. “All right, I will buy the icon from you for six million dollars, and no more. You can take it or leave it.”

This was better than Kendrick had hoped. It would mean he would make a three-million-dollar profit.

“Sir, I must remind you an operation like this has to be financed,” he said, his oily smile in evidence. “I suggest six million and expenses.”

“Don’t try to haggle with me!” Radnitz snarled. “Here is my offer. The icon is to be delivered to me at my villa in Zurich. On delivery, I will arrange payment of six million dollars to be credited to a bank you name. That is my final offer.”

Kendrick stiffened as if touched by a red hot iron.

“Zurich?” His voice shot up. “That isn’t possible, sir. How can I get such a treasure out of America to Zurich? You will realized that once the icon is missing...”

Radnitz cut him short with a wave of his hand.

“I’m not interested in problems. All I am interested in is to receive the icon in Zurich. If you are not capable of getting the icon to Zurich, say so. I am busy.”

Kendrick faltered. This was something he had to talk over with Haddon.

“It will be very difficult,” he muttered.

“It is never easy to earn six million dollars,” Radnitz snapped, tipping the ash off his cigar. “Go away and consider my offer. If my secretary has not heard from you in three days to say you can arrange this, then never bother me in the future with other offers.” He leaned forward, his eyes glaring. “Do you understand?”

Sweat was now running down Kendrick’s face. He got unsteadily to his feet.

“Yes, Mr Radnitz. I will do the best I can.”

Radnitz dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Kendrick drove immediately to the Spanish Bay hotel where he found Ed Haddon finishing a late breakfast. As Kendrick plodded towards him, Haddon signalled to a waiter to bring more coffee.

Kendrick sat down heavily at the table. His greedy little eyes surveyed the remains of crisp bacon on a serving dish.

“Coffee?” Haddon asked.

“That would be nice.”

The two men looked at each other, then Kendrick gave a slight nod of his head.

Neither of the men said anything until coffee had been served and the waiter had gone away, then Haddon said, “It’s on?”

“Let us say I have found a buyer,” Kendrick said. “It is now up to you.”

“How much?”

“You will be paid three million.”

Haddon smiled.

“Three million and expenses, of course.”

“Three million, dear Ed: no expenses,” Kendrick said firmly.

“The setting up of the operation will cost forty thousand dollars in bribe money, Claude. I’m not paying that. That’s your end of the deal.”

“No. It’s your end of the deal, Ed.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to Abe. It could take time, but he’ll come up with a buyer.”

Kendrick smiled his hark’s smile.

“I would be prepared to halve the expenses. No more.”

“You can rely on your buyer?”

“Of course.”

Haddon shrugged.

“Twenty in cash?”

“If you insist.”

“We have a deal. The operation is in the pipe-line, but there’s one thing I will want from you. I will need a replica of the icon: nothing elaborate: just something that will deceive the eye for a couple of hours.”

“You are planning a substitution?”

“Never mind. I have it all worked out. Can you get me a replica within three days?”

Kendrick nodded.

“Louis can do it.” He stared thoughtfully at Haddon. “You seem very confident. I only hope this comes off. I could be in serious trouble if you fail. My client is a dangerous man: a dreadful man. I have promised him the icon sometime next week.”

“You will have it Tuesday evening,” Haddon said quietly.

“You really mean this in spite of the difficulties?”

“You will have it Tuesday evening,” Haddon repeated.

Kendrick sighed, thinking this was only the beginning. He fully realised what an explosion the stealing of the icon would cause. Every exit from the States would be slammed shut. The FBI and the CIA, the police, the customs people would be alerted. If only he could have taken the icon to Radnitz at his hotel and have been shot of it! But Zurich!

He got heavily to his feet, wishing now he hadn’t approached Radnitz.

“I’ll get Louis to bring you the replica and twenty thousand in cash.” He paused, standing over Haddon. “Ed, I trust you. There is going to be a dreadful fuss once it is missed. I really can’t see how you can possibly get it, but if you say so, I must hope you can.”

Haddon smiled.

“You are getting too fat, Claude.”

“I know. Louis is always on at me about my weight.” Kendrick took off his wig, stared at it, then slapped it back crookedly.

Three million dollars!

Bracing himself, he waved, and plodded across the terrace to where he had parked his car.

Louis de Marney was completing a nice sale of a pair of George IV candlesticks when Kendrick entered the gallery. One look at Kendrick’s crooked wig alerted Louis that something was wrong. Kendrick didn’t even pause to gush over the elderly client who was writing a cheque. He went straight to his office, closed the door, then went to the small refrigerator, cunningly disguised as an antique commode. When under stress, Kendrick had need of food. He selected a wing of chicken, wrapped it in a crisp lettuce leaf then sat down at his desk.

He was just finishing the little snack when Louis bounced in.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, coming to the desk. “You are eating again!”

“Don’t bully me, chéri,” Kendrick said. “I have a job for you.”

Louis eyed him suspiciously as Kendrick took the Hermitage catalogue from his brief case and turned to page fifty-four.

“I need a replica of this, dear boy. Nothing special. I’m sure your talent will run something up looking like this.”

Louis stared at the icon, then took a quick step back.

“Don’t tell me that dreadful Haddon is planning to steal this?” he demanded, his voice shrill.

“I have a buyer for it,” Kendrick said softly. “Now, don’t get alarmed, chéri. Just make a replica.”

“Have you gone out of your mind?” Louis shrilled. “Don’t you realize all these things belong to the Soviet Union? Haddon must have gone mad! No, I want nothing to do with it! You mustn’t have anything to do with it! Baby, think! Our lives could be utterly ruined!”

Kendrick sighed.

“Perhaps I was a little hasty, but Ed is absolutely certain he can get it. Ed has never let us down, has he?”

“I don’t care! This is something we don’t touch!” Louis said, glaring at Kendrick. “I will not have anything to do with it! Suppose this dreadful Haddon does get the icon? What are you going to do with it? You must know that it is quite, quite unsaleable! Every beastly cop in the world will be watching for it. The Government will flip their horrid lids! The Russians will be utterly vicious.”

“Radnitz wants it,” Kendrick said.

Louis reared back.

“That ghastly creature! Have you been mad enough to talk to him?”

“I am committed, chéri.”

“Then it’s your funeral! I repeat I will have absolutely nothing to do with it!”

Kendrick forced an oily smile.

“Your share of the take, chéri, will be four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“I will have nothing to do...” Louis paused, his little eyes suddenly calculating. “How much did you say?”

“Yes, dear boy. This is a very big deal. Your share will be four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“All I will have to do is to make a replica?”

“No, dear boy, a little more than that,” Kendrick said. “That is a lot of money. You must expect to do more than make a replica.”

“What else?”

“There is a problem to solve. Ed will deliver the icon to me on Tuesday. Radnitz insists the icon be delivered to him in Zurich.”

Louis reacted as if he had been stung by a hornet.

“Where?” he screamed.

“Zurich, Switzerland,” Kendrick said, “and for heaven’s sake, chéri, don’t make so much noise.”

“Switzerland?” Louis repeated, the dream of owning nearly half a million dollars suddenly fading. “Are you out of your mind? Every exit will be watched! Interpol will be alerted! The heat will be unbearable! Every suspect art dealer will be plagued! Zurich? Impossible! Claude, you have been utterly irresponsible to have dealt with that dreadful creature!”

“Nothing is impossible,” Kendrick said quietly. “We have until Tuesday. Between then and now, we must think.”

Louis looked at him suspiciously.

“You are not expecting me to try to smuggle this thing out, are you?”

Kendrick had considered this might be a possibility, but decided Louis hadn’t the nerve.

“No, chéri, but there must be a safe way.” Kendrick pushed the catalogue towards Louis. “First things first. Make the replica, and think.”

Louis hesitated, then thought of the money he had been promised.

“At least, I will do that,” he said, “but I’m warning you that this is a mad and dangerous operation.”

“Let us both think. It is possible Ed will fail, but we must be ready. It is surprising what ingenuity and thought will produce.”

“Tell that to the deaf, dumb and blind,” Louis said. He snatched up the catalogue and flounced out.

Feeling in need of another snack, Kendrick plodded to the refrigerator and regarded the various dishes set out in readiness, then selecting a lobster tail, he returned to his desk and sat down to think.

In his usual show-off manner, Lepski arrived home, pounded up the path, threw open the front door and charged into the living-room.

He had had a splendid day telling Beigler and Max Jacoby how Carroll had inherited money, how he had insisted they should spend it on a trip to Europe. He bored the two men to distraction, but this was his big moment, and neither of them could stop him. Finally, Beigler suggested he should go home and leave them to cope with whatever crime happened, and if there was anything important, he would be called.

“Hi, baby!” Lepski bawled. “I’m back! What’s for dinner?”

Carroll was lying on the settee, her shoes off, her eyes closed.

“Must you shout?” she complained. “I’m exhausted.”

Lepski gaped at her.

“Have you been jogging or something?”

At this hour, Carroll was usually coping in the kitchen, preparing dinner. To see her lying on the settee, inactive, was a shock to Lepski.

“There are times, Lepski, when I think you are stupid,” Carroll said tartly. “I have been arranging our vacation, and let me tell you, I have been at it all day.”

“Yeah: tough. What’s for dinner?”

Carroll glared.

“Can’t you think of anything else except food?”

Lepski leered at her.

“Well, there is another thing, baby, but I’d get the old routine: not now, later. What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been at the American Express all day and I am tired.”

Lepski regarded his wife, then recognizing the signs he decided the situation had to be handled with tact and soft soap.

“Poor baby. All day, huh? How’s it going? What have you fixed?”

“Miranda has her ideas and I have mine!” Carroll exclaimed. “She couldn’t get into her silly head that we want to travel first class. She kept on and on about charter flights.”

“What’s wrong with charter flights, for God’s sake?”

“Lepski! This is a vacation to end all vacations! We are travelling first class!”

“Fine... fine. Yeah, you’re right, baby.” Lepski shifted from one foot to the other. “What’s for dinner?”

Carroll sat up, her eyes stormy.

“I don’t know! I don’t care! If you say that again I will divorce you!”

“Don’t know, huh? Okay, let’s have a drink.” Lepski went to the liquor cabinet. He opened the doors, then started back. “Where’s my Cutty Sark?”

“Will you please sit down and listen to what I have arranged?” Carroll said, her voice suddenly on the defensive.

“Where’s my Cutty Sark?” Lepski bawled.

“Can’t you think of anything but food and drink? For goodness sake, sit down and let me tell you what I have arranged.”

Lepski stared at her accusingly.

“You have been around to that drunken old sot, Mehitabel Bessinger, and you’ve given that old fake my Cutty Sark.”

To his surprise, Carroll looked sheepish.

“Now, Tom. I’m sorry about your Scotch. I shouldn’t have gone to see her. I have come to the conclusion you are right. She does drink too much.”

Lepski gaped at her.

For years now, Carroll had put her faith in this old clairvoyante: a large black woman who foretold the future. Twice she had given Lepski, through Carroll, clues to killers which he had ignored only to find, later, she had been right. Up to now, Carroll had sworn by her. This sudden change startled Lepski.

“What are you saying?” he demanded, sitting down.

“Well, Tom, I thought it might be a good idea to consult her about our trip,” Carroll said, looking anywhere but at him.

Lepski made a noise like a fall of gravel.

“So to oil her works, you took my bottle of Cutty Sark?”

“Yes, Tom, and I am sorry. I will buy you another bottle. I promise.”

This was so unexpected, Lepski dragged his tie down and released the collar button on his shirt.

“Okay. So what happened?”

“She got out her crystal ball and she seemed to go into a trance.” Carroll put her hands to her eyes and released a long, exhausted sigh. Lepski wasn’t the only one who could be a show-off. “I really think the poor old dear was a bit tiddly.”

“Hold it. Did she get out her goddamn crystal ball before or after she got at my Cutty Sark?”

“Well, she does need a little stimulant before she can read the future.”

“So she banged back half the bottle, huh?”

“A little more than half. Anyway, she talked a lot of rubbish. She said on no account were we to go on this trip. She said I must cancel all my arrangements and stay home. She said we would meet dangerous people and there was a woman named Catherine who would cause us a lot of trouble. She wasn’t sure about the name. She said she couldn’t see clearly. The crystal ball was misty.”

Lepski released a snort that would have startled a bison.

“I bet it was. I would be misty too if I had knocked back more than half of a bottle of Scotch.”

“I am a little worried, Tom. Mehitabel has always been right in the past. Do you think we should go? Should we cancel the trip?”

Lepski recalled his bragging, bending Beigler’s and Jacoby’s ears back. They would laugh themselves silly if he backed out of a de luxe European trip. What excuse could he make?

He got up and went over to Carroll and patted her gently.

“Forget it, baby. The old sot was drunk. She was trying to keep you here. Who else gives her a bottle of Cutty Sark?”

“But it does worry me, Tom. What does she mean about a woman named Catherine? That we would meet dangerous people? I asked her and asked her, but she just sat there, moaning and shaking her head.”

Lepski patted her again.

“Forget it! We’re going to have the greatest vacation of our lives! Now, come on, baby, forget that old rum-dum. We’re going to have a ball!” Seeing Carroll relaxing, he smiled hopefully, then asked, “What’s for dinner?”

Ed Haddon paid off a taxi outside a modest motor hotel on the highway leading to Washington’s downtown area. He was dressed conservatively in a dark business suit and he carried a briefcase. He paused to look at the balcony leading to the entrance to the hotel, but not seeing the man he had come to meet, he walked up the path, heading for the hotel’s lobby.

“Ed!”

A soft voice made him pause and look sharply at an elderly clergyman who was sitting on the balcony and smiling at him.

This clergyman appeared to be in his late sixties with a round, pink-and-white face, wispy white hair and a benign smile that would attract children and elderly ladies. He was heavily built: the body of a man who liked his food and of medium height. He wore half-moon glasses. Kindness and Christianity oozed from him with the gentleness of a saint.

Haddon stared suspiciously, then he said in a hard, cold voice, “Were you speaking to me?”

The clergyman laughed: a nice, mellow sound that would cheer the faithful.

“Is it as good as that, Ed?” he asked.

“Jesus!” Haddon moved forward and stared. “That you, Lu?”

“Who else? Not bad, huh?”

Haddon stared again, then moved on to the balcony.

“It’s really you?”

The clergyman nodded and patted a chair by his side.

“Good God!” Haddon said. “It’s marvellous! What an artist!”

“Well, yes, you can say that. It’s my best so far. I got your message. So, the deal’s on?”

Haddon sat down, still staring at the clergyman. He had worked with Lu Bradey for the past ten profitable years. Bradey was the best art thief in the business, and, what was more important, he had never been caught, and had no police record. Apart from his expertise with any lock, he was a master of disguise. To look at him now: fat, benign, elderly, no one would imagine he was only thirty-five years of age, and as thin as a stick of asparagus. His facial skin was like rubber: a few pads inside his mouth and his lean face turned to fat. By wearing a padded waistcoat, he appeared solid. A wig, made by himself, gave him baldness and wispy white hair. Haddon had seen him in various disguises, but none of them as successful as this: an elderly, fat, kindly man of the church.

“Lu, you are a marvel,” Haddon said. “I mean it!”

“Sure. I know I am. We go ahead?”

“Yes. Kendrick has found a buyer.”

Bradey grimaced.

“That fat fag? Why not Abe? I like working with Abe.”

“Abe’s run out of money. There’s a problem with Kendrick, but we’ll get to that.”

“I have problems too,” Bradey said. “I spent yesterday morning at the museum. The security there is tighter than a mouse’s ass hole.”

Haddon eyed him.

“Worry you?”

“Look, Ed, this is easily the toughest operation we have pulled. I’m relying on you. The museum is swarming with cops, guards, and worse, five bastards from the KGB. I went there in another disguise. I had to go through a scanner. The scanner picked up my car keys: it’s that sensitive. There was a goddamn queue of people who had to leave everything they were carrying in the lobby: bags, umbrellas, canes, briefcases and so on. It took time. All this high security doesn’t stop them from going: it adds to the excitement. Now, this icon you want. It’s in a glass case and electrically wired. Touch the damn case and an alarm goes off. There is a heavy cord around it, keeping the gawpers back two feet. Touch the cord and a guard moves in. Pretending I wanted a closer look, I pressed against the cord and two tough guards snarled at me. Believe me, this is a tough one.”

“Suppose there was no alarm and no guards, Lu, could you open the glass case?”

Lu chuckled.

“The lock is for the birds. Of course I could.”

“So, we cut off the alarm. I’ve got that fixed. We do the job on Tuesday. Fifteen minutes before you arrive, two City electricians will be on the job. I have them lined up. The electrical feed-in wires are in the grounds of the museum. All these two have to do is to lift a trap and cut a cable. With the crowd going into the museum, who’s going to bother with a couple of electricians in uniform? Okay, suppose one of the guards gets nosey? My two men can handle him. They are smooth operators and will have a forged permit. So, the alarm is out of action. Okay, so far?”

“If you say so, Ed, it is so.”

“Right. These Vietnamese? Have you got them lined up?”

“Yes: thirty-five refugees are arriving by coach to see the wonders of the Hermitage exhibition,” Bradey said with a sly smile. “Me, as the Reverend Samuel Hardcastle, bought the tickets, alerted the museum creeps and hired a coach... no problem there.”

Haddon took from his briefcase a flat object.

“I’ve spent money getting this made, Lu. It’s a smoke bomb, made of plastic. It’ll go through the scanner without trouble. There’s a switch. All you have to do is push the switch and you’ll get a hell of a lot of smoke: enough smoke to blot out the first floor of the gallery. Now, imagine: the gallery gets filled with smoke. There will be a panic. Guards rushing here and there, people screaming and rushing for the exits. While this is going on, you get the glass case open and grab the icon. I’m getting you a replica. You replace the icon with the replica, relock the case, and you’re home.”

Bradey leaned back in his chair while he thought.

Finally, he said, “No. Sorry, Ed, this won’t do. First, the bomb. These security creeps are right on the ball. This bomb is bulky. I can’t put it in my pocket. It would be spotted at once. Then the replica: someone carrying it would also be spotted. Someone carrying out the original would again be spotted even if there was a panic on. No, I don’t like it.”

Haddon smiled.

“Of course, but you haven’t thought of a factor I have thought of. Smart as you are, I am smarter. Now, tell me what is the most sacred thing men, including security guards, respect?”

Bradey shrugged.

“I’d say a bottle of Scotch.”

“You are wrong. The answer is a pregnant woman: a lovely looking woman about to give birth to a lovely, bouncing baby.”

Bradey stiffened.

“Have you gone out of your mind, Ed?”

“You remember Joey Luck?”

“Sure. He was the best dip in the business. I hear he’s retired.”

“Right. I’m borrowing a trick of his. His daughter used to strap an egg shaped wicker basket on her tummy and put on a maternity gown. Joe and she then went to some self-service store and filched. She filled the basket with food. It was a beautiful idea and it never failed. So, in your party, you will want two nice-looking girls who appear to be pregnant: one of them will carry the smoke bomb, the other the replica, in baskets strapped to their turns. The original icon will go out the same way... like it?”

Bradey closed his eyes and thought. Haddon watched him, smiling. Then Bradey opened his eyes and grinned.

“Ed!” he said, keeping his voice low. “Goddamn it! You’re a genius! I love it!”

“Okay. How about the girls? They’ll have to be in on this. Any ideas?”

“No problem. Among the party are two Viet whores who would slit their mothers’ throats if the money was big enough.” Bradey regarded Haddon. “This is going to cost, Ed. I’ll have to bribe them with five grand apiece.”

“So, okay. I’m not quibbling about costs. This is the big deal. Now, let’s look at Kendrick’s problem. He has to deliver the icon in Zurich, Switzerland.”

Bradey flinched.

“That’s his problem... and what a goddamn problem! Once the icon goes missing...”

“I know all that, and so does he. To get the icon into Switzerland is a big, big problem. No icon in Zurich, no money for him, nor you, nor me. That’s it, Lu, so we’ll have to help him. He’s smart and he’s working on it. If he doesn’t come up with a safe idea, the operation is off.”

Bradey shook his head.

“He can’t do it, Ed. We might as well call it off now. Mind you, if we can sit on the icon for six months until the heat cools off...”

“It has to be delivered ten days after the steal.”

Bradey shrugged.

“That’s not possible. The security...”

“I know, but Kendrick may come up with an idea. He’s a smart cookie. Let us assume he does. I want you to be in Zurich to take delivery of the money. Two million for me: one for you. Okay?”

“Man! He’ll have to come up with a very smart idea, but, if he does, the deal is fine with me.”

“Right. Now let us assume we can get the icon to Zurich, so we’ll now go into details.” Haddon dipped into his briefcase and produced a plan of the first floor of the Fine Arts museum where the Hermitage exhibition was on display.

The two men moved closer as they began to study the plan.

For the past years, Carroll Lepski often paused outside Maverick, the best and most fashionable couturier in the city. She would spend some time looking enviously at the display of elegant dresses and furs in the windows, then like Lepski staring at the display of choice cuts at Eddies, she would sigh and pass on.

But this morning, Carroll had money to spend, and she walked into the shop, her heart racing with excitement.

She found herself in a large room, furnished with antiques, with tapestry-covered chairs and several modern paintings of considerable value on the walls. At a large antique desk sat a middle-aged woman so elegantly dressed that Carroll paused.

The woman rose to her feet. Her dark eyes ran over Carroll, observing her linen dress, her elderly shoes and her plastic handbag.

The shop was owned by Roger Maverick who was Claude Kendrick’s cousin. The antiques and paintings were loaned to him by Kendrick who changed them every six months.

Maverick had instilled into his staff the following axiom: Never judge a sausage by us overcoat.

Lucille had for years worked with Dior in Paris. Now forty-eight years of age, she had settled in Paradise City, respecting Maverick’s genius for clothes and the enormous market opportunities among the rich women who swarmed into the city during the season.

Bearing in mind Maverick’s axiom, she gave Carroll a gracious smile, wondering if this good-looking woman, rather shabbily dressed was just another time-waster.

“Madam?”

Carroll was never intimidated. She had decided what approach she should use, knowing her appearance in this lush-plush shop would be against her. She came to the point with a directness that startled Lucille.

“I am Mrs Tom Lepski,” Carroll announced. “My husband is a first grade detective attached to the city’s force. I have inherited money. We are going to Europe. I need a wardrobe. I don’t intend to spend more than seven thousand dollars. What about it?”

This was still the dead season. Seven thousand dollars was not to be sniffed at, Lucille thought, and she widened her smile.

“Of course, Mrs Lepski. I am sure we can find you something suitable for your trip. Do please sit down. Mr Maverick will be delighted to discuss your needs with you, and make suggestions. Excuse me.”

As Carroll sat down, Lucille took the plush elevator to the first floor where she found Maverick draping a bored-looking girl with a dress length.

Roger Maverick was tall, lean and extremely handsome. Around fifty-five years of age, he was not only a dress designer of considerable talent, a homosexual, but also a secret dealer in stolen furs, a very profitable sideline.

Lucille told him that the wife of Detective Lepski was below, seeking a wardrobe.

Maverick knew of every detective on the city’s force, and he knew Lepski was the most dangerous. His lean, handsome face lit up.

“She appears to have inherited money and will spend seven thousand dollars,” Lucille continued.

“Splendid! Now listen, my dear, she is to have the VIP treatment. Take her to the Washington room. Make her comfortable. Champagne... you know the thing. I will come along in ten minutes. In the meantime, find out her colours, and what she has in mind.”

“Seven thousand dollars,” Lucille said scornfully.

“Yes, yes; just do what I say, my dear.”

With a slight shrug, Lucille took the elevator to the ground floor.

“Mr Maverick will be with you in a few minutes, Mrs Lepski. Please come with me.”

Carroll followed her into the elevator and to the first floor. She followed her down a long corridor carpeted in red to a door. Opening the door, Lucille stood aside and motioned Carroll in.

The room was elegantly furnished with some more of Kendrick’s antiques.

“Do sit down, Mrs Lepski. Perhaps a glass of champagne while we discuss what you require?”

A neatly dressed maid appeared with a silver tray on which stood an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“You understand that I am not spending more than seven thousand dollars,” Carroll said firmly. This VIP treatment made her uneasy.

“Of course, Mrs Lepski.” Lucille poured the wine, handed Carroll a glass and sat down. “Now tell me please what you have in mind.”

Three hours later, Carroll left the shop, walking on air.

She thought Roger Maverick the nicest, the most understanding, brilliant man she had ever met. She was now satisfied that she was equipped for the exciting trip to Europe. She had quickly realized that Maverick knew exactly what would suit her, and after a hesitant beginning, she relaxed and let him choose for her.

When the choice had been settled, she had begun to worry. Everything was so elegant that she couldn’t imagine what it would cost.

“Not more than seven thousand,” she said firmly when Maverick, beaming at her, asked if she was contented.

“Mrs Lepski, this is our dead season. Frankly, what you have chosen, in the season, would cost something around twenty thousand dollars. Frankly again, I have had these lovely clothes for some little time. Unhappily, I do not always have the opportunity of dressing a lady with a figure like yours. Usually, my clients are inclined to be stout. These are model dresses. I am only too happy to let you have them below half price. In fact, I will offer them to you for five thousand dollars which will allow you to have shoes and handbags to go with them.”

“Why, that’s marvellous!” Carroll had exclaimed.

“So happy you are happy. May I ask you to come here the day after tomorrow so my fitter can make a few minor alterations? I will have a selection of handbags and shoes for you to choose from.”

As Maverick was a late riser, he took a late lunch, and invariably lunched at the Arts Club. There he found Claude Kendrick eating a breast of chicken in a heavy cream and mushroom sauce. Maverick sat at the same table and the two men exchanged smiles of greeting.

“How’s business?” Kendrick asked, spearing a potato.

“Slow, but the season hasn’t as yet begun.” Maverick ordered twelve blue-point oysters. “You are getting too fat, dear Claude. You should never eat potatoes.”

Kendrick sighed and speared another potato.

“Louis is always nagging me, but I have to keep up my strength.”

“I had an unexpected client this morning,” Maverick said. “Mrs Tom Lepski, the cop’s wife.”

Kendrick’s face darkened. He had had several unpleasant interviews with Lepski whom he considered an uncouth bully. “What on earth did she want?”

“What on earth did she want?”

“Apparently she has come into money, and they are going to Europe for a vacation. I’ve kitted her out. She has a nice figure. I got rid of some of my model stuff that has been hanging fire. She spent some five thousand dollars.”

Kendrick looked longingly at another potato, then decided he mustn’t waste this delicious sauce. He began to mash the potato.

“Very nice. Europe?”

“The usual tourist circuit: Paris, Monte Carlo, Montreux.”

Kendrick’s fork, loaded with chicken, potato and sauce, hovered before his open mouth. His little eyes turned cloudy. He lowered the fork.

“They are going to Switzerland?”

“She says so. She wants to see the mountains. I told her she should also go to Gstaad.”

“And Lepski goes with her?”

“Of course.” Maverick regarded his fat cousin. “What’s on your mind?”

The oysters arrived.

“I don’t know yet.” Kendrick gobbled the food on his fork, then pushed back his chair. “I’ll leave you to enjoy those delicious-looking oysters. Meet me in the lounge for coffee.”

“But you haven’t finished your lunch.”

“It is time I began to think of my weight,” and Kendrick plodded out of the restaurant and into the big, half-empty lounge.

Half an hour later, Maverick joined him.

“Luggage, Roger,” Kendrick said as Maverick sat down by his side. “Mrs Lepski must have smart luggage to go with her purchases.”

“She is a little stubborn about money,” Maverick said. “Still, it is an idea. I’ll see if I can persuade her.”

Kendrick laid his fat hand on Maverick’s arm.

“She must have luggage: a nice suitcase and a vanity box. In fact, dear Roger, you had better provide two suitcases: one for her and one for her husband, but the vanity box is a must.”

Maverick studied his cousin.

“I rather doubt...”

“Wait. You will offer these pieces of luggage at such a ridiculously low price, she won’t be able to resist. I will pay the difference.”

“You are not being frank with me, Claude,” Maverick said, his voice sharp. “You are cooking up something.”

“Yes.” Kendrick sighed. He knew his cousin. “Let us say I will pay you ten thousand dollars, and no questions asked.”

“I am sorry, Claude. I will want to know what all this is about. I refuse to be involved in something you are hatching, unless I know exactly what it is.”

Kendrick sighed again. He knew he would get no co-operation from his cousin without laying his cards face up. His sudden inspiration had to be the solution of getting the icon to Switzerland. The icon, carried by a well-known police officer, surely would cross the frontiers.

Knowing it would now cost him a great deal of money, he told Maverick of the big steal.