Try This One for Size

five

It was unfortunate that the Miami-Paris flight was scheduled to leave at 18.00. This meant that Lepski had all the morning and afternoon in which to fidget. Soon after 08.00, he began to prowl around the small bungalow while Carroll remained in bed, reading the morning’s newspaper.

Having made coffee, Lepski, finding it unrewarding to fidget on his own, entered the bedroom.

“Honey, have you the flight tickets?”

Carroll sighed.

“I have everything. For heaven’s sake, go for a walk! I’m taking a bath, then I’m going to the hairdressers. I won’t be back until three o’clock.”

“What’s for lunch?” Lepski asked anxiously.

“Go buy yourself a cheeseburger or something. The kitchen’s closed for the vacation.”

Lepski moaned softly, then asked, “Have you packed everything?”

“Lepski! Go away!” Then as Lepski moved reluctantly to the door, she asked, “Have you packed everything?”

Lepski gaped at her.

“I thought you were doing the packing.”

“I’ve done my packing. I am certainly not doing yours! Now, take the paper and leave me to dress. When I have gone, you can pack. Read about this icon that’s been stolen. There’s a two hundred thousand dollars reward for its recovery.”

“Icon? What the hell’s an icon?”

“Go away and read!”

Muttering to himself, Lepski went into the living room, sat down and read the two-page spread about the theft of the icon. He was impressed. Every cop in the country was on the alert. The Army and the Navy had been called in. The President was livid with rage and heads were already beginning to roll. What impressed Lepski more than anything was the big reward offered to anyone giving information that would lead to the recovery of the icon.

Lepski became all-cop. This art treasure couldn’t come on the open market. It would be bought in secret by some kinky collector. His sharp mind immediately thought of Claude Kendrick. Lepski was sure, but had no proof, that Kendrick dealt in stolen art treasures. This icon was just up Kendrick’s crooked alley.

Jumping to his feet, he snatched up the telephone receiver and dialled police headquarters. He bawled to be put through to Beigler.

The cop, handling the switchboard, recognized Lepski’s voice.

“Joe’s busy,” he said. “We’re right up to our eyes in this crap about the stolen icon. What do you want?”

“If you don’t put me through to Joe right this second, I’ll have your goddamn guts for garters!” Lepski snarled.

“Okay, okay.” There was a long pause, then Beigler came on the line.

“For God’s sake, Tom, you’re on vacation,” he said. “What is it?”

“This icon! Are the cops included in the reward?”

“How would I know? The Big-shot said anyone. Maybe cops aren’t anyone. What’s biting you?”

“That fat fag Kendrick! If anyone’s got that icon, he has!”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, Tom, go enjoy your vacation. The Chief thought of Kendrick as soon as the news broke. We have three of our men, plus the FBI, plus the CIA, plus a search warrant going over Kendrick’s gallery right now. Just relax and enjoy your vacation,” and Beigler hung up.

Lepski released a snort that would have brought a fighting bull to a standstill.

Carroll, dressed, swept in.

“What was that disgusting noise?”

“Nothing... nothing.”

“Now go and pack. I’ll see you around three. ’Bye for now,” and Carroll left.

Lepski spent a miserable morning, cramming his new clothes into his new suitcase, wandering around the bungalow, looking constantly at his watch, then driven by hunger, he drove down to a bar, popular with the cops, where he munched a hamburger and drank a beer.

As he was wondering if he should treat himself to another beer, Max Jacoby came in and climbed on a stool at his side. He ordered a cheeseburger.

“Man! This goddamn icon is as lethal as an atomic bomb!” Jacoby said. “The whole coastline has been sealed off. The heat is really something. The Navy is patrolling. The Army won’t let any motor cruiser or yacht out. Owners are blocking our lines with complaints.”

“How about Kendrick?”

“He’s clean. We really turned his gallery over.”

Lepski shrugged.

“Okay. So it could be anywhere.”

“You can say that again, but with the President this mad, the heat’s fierce.” Jacoby sighed. “Man! Are you lucky to be on vacation.”

“That reward? Suppose you found the icon, think you would collect?”

Jacoby laughed.

“I’m not going to find it, Tom, but even if I did, cops don’t get rewards. You told me that once, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but still...”

Jacoby finished his cheeseburger, patted Lepski’s arm and slid off his stool.

“Back to the grindstone. Have a good vacation.”

Lepski returned home. He kept thinking of the two hundred thousand dollar reward. Some creep would eventually squeal and the icon would be found and the creep would collect.

He was piling up the ash tray with cigarette butts when Carroll arrived home. He scarcely recognized his wife: she looked so glamorous.

“Pheeeew!” His whistle could be heard at the end of the street. “Baby! You look gorgeous!” And he started to his feet.

Seeing the look in his eyes, Carroll hurriedly backed away.

“Don’t you dare come near me! Have you packed?”

Lepski sighed.

“Oh, sure.”

“Then what are you doing wearing that ghastly working suit?” Carroll demanded. “You are not travelling in that abortion, and what are you thinking of, wearing your hat indoors?”

“Look, baby, I’ve packed all the new, goddamn clothes.”

“Then unpack them! You are travelling in the sport’s jacket and the dark blue slacks. You are wearing the pale blue shirt and the wine-coloured tie!”

By 17.00, Carroll was also getting fidgety. She kept looking at herself in the lobby mirror, looking at her watch while Lepski, now attired in his new finery, was walking around the living room, humming under his breath.

“Time’s getting on,” Carroll said. “I hope the taxi won’t be late.”

“Taxis are never late.” Then Lepski gave her a double-take. “Taxi?”

“Are you telling me you haven’t ordered a taxi?” Carroll screamed.

Lepski rushed to the telephone. Joe Dukas, who ran the local taxi service and was a good friend of Lepski, told him there was no problem. A taxi would arrive in good time to get them to the airport at 18.00. Smiling smugly, Lepski hung up.

“You know, baby, there are times when you get nervous,” he said. “The cab’s on its way.”

“I can’t understand why you are such a good cop,” Carroll sighed. “You seem to be a perfect idiot in the smaller things of life.” Then she smiled at him. “But I love you, Tom.”

Lepski pointed like a gun dog.

“The taxi will take half an hour, so suppose...”

“Lepski! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

At 17.15, the taxi arrived and a big, smiling black man came up the path.

“Here we go!” Carroll cried excitedly. “Give him the luggage, Tom.”

Lepski handed over the two blue suitcases which the black carried down the path. Lepski was aware that all their neighbours had come out into their gardens. A little boy had a Japanese flag which he was waving. Lepski always referred to him as Denis the Menace, but right now the kid seemed full of good-will and cheer.

Carrying the vanity box, Carroll moved on to the path, feeling like a movie star in her glamorous outfit. Then she paused.

“Tom! Did you turn off the electricity and the water?”

Lepski closed his eyes and released a soft moan.

“Just going to do it!”

He rushed back into the bungalow, watched by the neighbours.

Carroll waited, her smile fixed, her foot tapping, aware of the hum of voices as the news was passed on, over the garden fences, that Lepski had forgotten to turn off the electricity and the water. The know-alls wagged their heads with disapproval.

Sudden violent expletives came from the bungalow. Carroll, horrified by the language, ran into the bungalow to find Lepski nursing a bleeding hand.

“The goddamn, sonofabitch tap won’t turn!” he bawled. “I’m wounded!”

“The tap is already turned off!” Carroll screamed.

“Okay, so the bastard is off, but I’m bleeding!”

Carroll rushed into the bathroom, found a band-aid and slapped it on Lepski’s scratch.

“We’re going to miss the plane!”

Slamming and locking the front door, they bolted down the path and piled into the taxi.

The neighbours clapped and cheered.

“Get moving!” Lepski bawled. “We’ll miss our flight!”

The black cabby turned in his seat and gave a big friendly smile.

“Take it easy, boss. There’s a three-hour hold-up at the airport. You sure have plenty of time.”

The little boy with the Japanese flag came running up and, pursing his lips, blew them the loudest raspberry Lepski had ever heard.

Ed Haddon sat in one of the air traffic controller’s glass cubicles and looked down at the departure lounge that was crammed with irate passengers.

The air traffic controller knew Haddon was a close friend of his father who was serving a five-year stretch for robbery. He also knew that Haddon was pulling strings to get his father paroled. So when Haddon told him he wanted to see one of his friends get off to Paris without having to mix with the mob, he was happy to lend him his office. He was too busy in the control tower to wonder who Haddon’s friend might be.

Haddon smoked a cigar and watched the long line of passengers slowly passing through the customs’ barrier. He noted there were two FBI agents and two plain-clothes detectives with the customs men.

Every piece of luggage was opened and searched. The delay was endless. These passengers were on the New York flight. The Miami-Paris passengers were waiting outside the departure lounge.

Lepski’s taxi pulled up, and Lepski and Carroll alighted. As Lepski paid off the taxi, he heard a friendly voice saying, “Hi, Tom.”

Turning, he found Harry Jackson, a uniformed cop, grinning at him.

“Heard you were off to Europe,” he said. “Big deal! Afraid there’s one hell of a delay. It’s this icon crap.”

Lepski glared at the long queue waiting to enter the departure lounge.

“You’d better get in line, Tom,” Jackson went on. “I reckon there’s a good three-hour wait.”

“Not for me!” Lepski said firmly. “This is my goddamn vacation! I’m not standing in any goddamn line. Get me through to the check-in desks, Harry. Come on! Let’s go!”

Carroll said, “Lepski! You can’t do such a thing! These poor people might have been waiting hours.”

“Screw them!” Lepski said, and snatching up the two suitcases, he followed Jackson through a side door to the check-in lobby. Her face red when she saw how the waiting passengers were glaring, Carroll followed.

The girl at one of the check-in desks gave Lepski a sexy smile.

“Hi, Tom! I have your seats reserved, but there’s a delay. Go into the VIP lounge. I’ll tell Nancy to organize drinks. What do you fancy?”

Lepski, who was a well-known character and popular at the airport, gave her his big smile.

“Half a pint of Cutty Sark and half a bottle of champagne, sweetheart,” he said. He handed over the two suitcases. “I’ll bring you back some perfume from Paris.”

The girl giggled, then seeing Carroll glaring at her, lost her smile.

“Have a lovely vacation,” she said.

As Lepski steered Carroll to the departure lounge, she demanded, “Who was that?”

“I have my friends,” Lepski said with a smug smile. “Good cops always have friends.”

The Miami FBI agent came over.

“Hi, Tom! You going on this flight?”

The two men shook hands.

“Next flight: Paris,” Lepski said.

“There’s a delay, but you may as well go through the customs now. This flight has gone through.”

Lepski recognized Hermey Jacobs at the customs counter. He and Hermey shot regularly once a week at the Sharpshooter’s Club.

“Hi, Hermey!” he bawled. “I’m off to gay Paree!”

Jacobs’ face lit up. It was good to see a friend after handling all the rich creeps who kept moaning about opening their baggage.

Suddenly proud of her husband, Carroll followed Lepski up to the counter. She placed her vanity box on the counter and gave Jacobs a big smile.

“Hi, Hermey! How’s Mabs?”

Often Carroll and Mabs Jacobs played tennis together.

“Beautiful!” Jacobs said. “You look good enough to eat, Carroll.” He looked at the vanity box. “My! My! Big deal, huh?”

Although Haddon had nerves of steel, he was now sitting forward, staring down at this scene, and his cigar had gone out.

“Hey!” Lepski plucked at Jacobs’ arm, pulling him close. He whispered, “She’s got ten ounces of heroin in her panties. Want to take a look?”

Jacobs gave a bellow of laughter, punched Lepski lightly on his chest, then waved them through.

“Watch him, Carroll,” he said. “The French girls could fall for him in that suit.”

As they crossed to the VIP lounge, Carroll said, “Let’s get this straight, Lepski. No French girls... right?”

As Lepski was thinking up a reply, Ned Jason, Head of the Customs office, spotted them.

“Why, Tom! Haven’t seen you in weeks.” He shook hands, then turning to Carroll. “Honey, you look marvellous. You two off to Paris?”

“Yep. The first vacation we’ve had abroad. This is a hell of a mess, Ned. All this goddamn delay.”

“It’s this icon thing. The delay is all along the line. Interpol has moved in. You’ll have another long delay at Paris.”

Jason owed Lepski a favour. A year ago, Jason’s son got involved with a whore who tried blackmail. Lepski had fixed her.

“Can you fix something for us, Ned?” Lepski asked. “You draw a lot of water.”

The two men looked at each other, then Jason nodded.

“Sure, leave it to me. I’ll telex Charles de Gaulle to give you the VIP treatment. You’ll be at the head of the queue, and if you show your shield, they’ll pass you through pronto. How’s that?”

“Fine, and thanks.”

They shook hands and Jason hurried away.

“See?” Lepski crowed. “I may be an idiot in little things, but I’m a big deal in my job.”

Impressed, Carroll said, “You’re marvellous, Tom! I won’t ever let anyone say you are an idiot in little things ever again.”

“And don’t you say it either.” Lepski grinned. “Come on, let’s get drunk.” He grabbed hold of the vanity box, paused and gaped at her. “For God’s sake! What have you in this box... lead?”

“If you are too weak to carry it, give it to me!”

Carroll adored the vanity box, but had admitted to herself that it did seem unreasonably heavy.

Watching from the gallery, Haddon slowly relaxed. The vanity box, worth six million dollars, had gone over the first hurdle. Lepski’s plane wouldn’t arrive now in Paris until 11.00 the following morning. He picked up the telephone receiver and called Lu Bradey at the Sherman hotel, New York.

His talk was brief.

“They’ll arrive Paris eleven morning tomorrow,” he said. “So far, no problems,” and he hung up.

In his turn, Bradey put through a call to Duvine’s Paris apartment.

His call was as brief.

“Eleven morning, tomorrow, Charles de Gaulle. No problems,” and he hung up.

By the time Carroll and Lepski boarded the Jumbo jet, both of them were in a mellow mood. They had been cosseted by a bright-eyed, pretty hostess who was all over Lepski, and after finishing a second bottle of champagne, Carroll began to like her.

Settled in their seats, with half a bottle of Cutty Sark under his belt, Lepski was inclined to relax and sleep, but his peace was disturbed when, through the window, he saw a small coach arrive and from it spilled some thirty young people. The men and the girls were wearing the modern uniform of Levis and sweat shirts. They came storming into the first class section, shouting to each other in a language Lepski couldn’t identify.

He gave Carroll his sour look.

“How these young creeps can afford first class beats me!” he said.

“They have every right to travel as you and me,” Carroll said. “Do stop moaning.”

Lepski went to sleep.

Carroll woke him when dinner was served. The hostess gave them the VIP treatment. The dinner was excellent. Sitting in the front seats, Lepski was aware of the noise the youngsters were making, but it didn’t put him off his food.

After brandy, Lepski stretched out.

“This is the life,” he said, patting Carroll’s hand, and went to sleep.

After a hearty breakfast, Lepski began to take interest in his surroundings. The hostess told him that they would be arriving over Paris in two hours. She gave him a radio-telegram which read:

Carroll, who read over his shoulder, demanded, “What’s that mean?”

Lepski, who knew, put on his serious face.

“Just police business, honey.”

Carroll eyed him suspiciously.

“Tell that to your grandma,” she said. “I know what you-know-what means as well as you do.”

Lepski winked at her and patted her hand.

“Just their little joke.”

As the plane came in to land at Charles de Gaulle, both Carroll and Lepski stared out of the window. The first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower brought a squeal of excitement from Carroll.

“Oh, Tom! Paris!”

Lepski, staring down at the broad panorama of Paris, bathed in sunshine, felt a surge of excitement he had never experienced before.

As the Jumbo circled the airport and made its run-in, Lepski saw, below, a cluster of people, three TV cameras and crew, some ten press photographers, and three smartly dressed women holding big floral bouquets.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed. “Look at that! Ned must have really turned on the heat for us! Look at our welcome!”

“But it can’t be for us!” Carroll said, her eyes sparkling.

“Who else?” Lepski expanded his chest. “I’m telling you, baby, a good cop has good friends. Man! This certainly is the red-carpet treatment.”

The hostess came up to them.

“When we land, Mr Lepski, there will be a hostess to take you to the customs,” she said.

Lepski beamed at her.

“Thanks, and thanks for a great ride.” He turned to Carroll. “See? The big deal!”

As soon as the plane touched down, Lepski, never feeling more important than at this moment, carrying the vanity box and followed by Carroll, was the first passenger to move out on to the platform on the staircase that had been rushed up to the plane’s exit.

He looked down at the pressmen, the photographers, the TV crew and their cameras, and at the three smartly dressed women with the bouquets. He beamed and waved, and Carroll, following his example, feeling like the wife of the President, also waved.

Man! Was this a real, goddamn welcome! Lepski thought. Ned Jason had certainly repaid his debt.

Then he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. Glancing around, he saw a scruffy looking man with a beard, wearing Levis and a sweat shirt, glaring at him.

“Would you kindly move aside, sir,” the man said with a thick, foreign accent. “You are holding up the members of the Bolshoi ballet.”

Lepski had never heard of the Bolshoi ballet, but Carroll had. She immediately realized the explanation of this welcome and what a horrible gaff they were making. Grabbing hold of Lepski’s arm, she practically threw him down the staircase to the tarmac, and dragged him beyond the TV cameras.

Both of them paused to look back.

The scruffy young people were coming from the Jumbo, waving and laughing as the cameras rolled and the three women advanced with their bouquets.

“Idiot!” Carroll hissed. “You should have known!”

A smiling hostess confronted them.

“Mr and Mrs Lepski?” she asked.

“Yeah... yeah,” Lepski said, deflated.

“Please follow me to the customs. Your baggage will not be delayed.”

Well, at least, Lepski thought, as he carried the vanity box with Carroll at his side, Jason had done his best.

Well ahead of the passengers leaving the Jumbo, the Lepskis were conducted to the passport control. As soon as the officer took their passports, he turned to a hard-faced man in plainclothes, muttered something and the man came forward, offering his hand. He gave a speech in French that went right over Lepski’s head, but he put on what he hoped would register as an intelligent smile, shook hands and passed towards the customs control.

“Your bags are waiting,” the hostess said. “There’s no problem, Mr Lepski.”

Two customs officials beamed at Lepski, then at Carroll.

“Welcome to Paris, sir,” one of them said in English. “Have a good time,” and he waved them through.

Lepski grabbed the two suitcases, leaving Carroll to carry the vanity box.

They moved into the arrival lounge which was crowded.

“What do we do now?” Lepski asked, setting down the suitcases.

“We get a taxi,” Carroll told him. “I’m going to the ladies room. You get a taxi organized.”

“What do you want with the ladies room?” Lepski asked, uneasy to be left on his own.

“Lepski! Get a taxi!” and Carroll walked away.

Lepski blew out his cheeks. He looked around. Where the hell did one get a taxi? Seeing a fat, elderly man waiting, he went up to him.

“Where’s the taxi stand, pal?” he asked.

The fat man stared at him.

“I don’t understand English,” he said in French and walked away.

Lepski made a growling noise, and looked around helplessly. Didn’t any of these finks speak English?

A man in uniform walked near him. Lepski grabbed his arm.

“A taxi, pal. Where the hell do I find a taxi?”

The man jerked his thumb in an easterly direction, and walked away.

Lepski decided it would be safer to stay where he was. Carroll would eventually join him.

Muttering to himself, he waited.

Pierre and Claudette Duvine had been at the arrival centre since 10.30. When Lu Bradey’s call had come through, they had been in bed. They had been experimenting with a new sexual technique which they both had decided was not worth the energy. Pierre was a great reader of American paperbacks and was always looking for new ideas to give Claudette pleasure. He had released her in an undignified position, to pick up the telephone receiver.

He listened to Bradey’s curt message, then rolled off the bed.

“Business, sugar. Charles de Gaulle at eleven.”

Claudette moaned.

They were now standing in the arrival centre, watching for the Lepskis. Pierre had hired a Mercedes 280 SL which he had parked in the Charles de Gaulle parking lot. After standing and waiting for some forty minutes, Pierre suddenly nudged Claudette.

“There they are,” he said. “Get going.”

He had seen Carroll walk away to the ladies room, carrying the vanity box. The box was unmistakable from Bradey’s description.

Claudette went into action. She walked to where Lepski was standing, began to pass him, then lurched against him as if she had slipped.

Lepski, always quick on the reflex, caught hold of her, and found himself looking at the most sexy woman he had ever seen. Claudette’s sea-green eyes regarded him with a merry twinkle.

“Excuse me,” she said, speaking perfect English. “I always fall over handsome men.”

Gay Paree! Lepski thought. Man! Have I arrived!

“That’s fine with me, beautiful,” he said. “I’d do the same in your place.”

Claudette laughed. She had a rich, mellow laugh that she had cultivated, knowing few men could resist it.

“Have you just arrived?”

“Yeah. My wife’s just gone off to the loo. I’m looking for a taxi.”

“That’s no worry. I’m Claudette Duvine. My husband is somewhere.” Claudette flickered her long, false eyelashes at Lepski.

“Tom Lepski. Where do I get a taxi?”

Then Pierre decided it was time to move into the scene. He came up to Claudette.

“They haven’t arrived,” he said in English. “I guess they’ve changed their minds.”

“Meet Mr Tom Lepski, Pierre,” Claudette said on cue. “This is my husband.”

Lepski regarded the handsome, well dressed man and shook hands.

“Mr Lepski has just arrived. He’s worried about getting a taxi,” Claudette said smiling. “Suppose we give them a lift into Paris?”

“What’s the matter with that?” Pierre said. “Where are you staying, Mr Lepski?”

“The Excelsior hotel,” Lepski said after hesitating. He had been told over and over again by Carroll the name of the hotel, but he still wasn’t sure.

“The Excelsior! That’s where we are staying!” Claudette cried. “You must come with us!”

Then Carroll arrived. Introductions were made. For a brief moment, Carroll regarded Claudette suspiciously. She was so chic and sexy, then seeing Pierre, so glamorous, like a movie star, she relaxed.

Both Pierre and Claudette looked at the vanity box Carroll was carrying. Briefly they exchanged triumphant glances. The box Bradey was so worried about, had come through the customs without fuss. Now, they had only to steer it through the Swiss customs.

With Carroll sitting by Pierre’s side and Lepski sitting with Claudette in the rear seats, Pierre drove on to the autoroute and headed for Paris.

Both Pierre and Claudette turned on their professional charm. Pierre explained they were on vacation. They lived in Deauville, and were spending a few days in Paris, then they were driving down to the South. Their easy charm smothered the Lepskis like a comforting blanket.

Arriving at the Excelsior hotel, Pierre took the burden off Lepski’s shoulders, booking them in, filling up the police card for him, seeing them to their room and tipping the luggage porter while Lepski was wondering what to give him.

“Now you two dears must be exhausted,” Claudette said, “Why not take a nap? Look, suppose we get together around eight tonight?” She smiled at Carroll. “Unless you have something else to do. We would so love to show you Paris at night as this is your first visit. Be our guests!”

“We would love that,” Carroll said. “How nice of you!”

“Then let’s meet in the lobby at eight.”

“Aren’t they darlings?” Carroll said when they were alone. “Oh, Tom! We are lucky to meet such lovely people.”

“He’s pretty smooth,” Lepski said. “Does this happen to everyone coming to Paris?”

“Oh, Tom! Can’t you drop your dreary cop attitude? French men are smooth. Remember Maurice Chevalier?”

“You remember him,” Lepski said, eyeing the double bed. “Let’s sleep,” and he began to undress.

Carroll went to the big window and drew aside the curtain. She looked down at the avenue des Champs-Elysées with its teeming traffic, the Arc de Triomphe, the crowded cafés and the people wandering in the sunshine. She drew in a long breath.

Paris!

All she had dreamed it would be like!

She turned and found Lepski on the bed, reckoning. She unzipped her dress, let it fall to the floor, then threw herself on him.

“Oh, Tom! This is going to be the most marvellous time of our lives!” she exclaimed as Lepski flipped off her bra and slipped off her panties.

After an excellent dinner of lobsters for which Pierre insisted on paying at a small restaurant near the Pont d’Alma, he then insisted they should take a Bateau-Mouche and see Paris from the Seine. They boarded the boat, and getting good seats they relaxed, wonder-eyed at the beauty of the bridges, the Louvre, the Conciergerie and the floodlit Notre Dame.

It was during the return journey that Lepski casually asked Pierre what line of business he was in. Lepski, with his cop training, was always interested in how the other man made a living.

“Antiques,” Pierre said. He did have, as a cover, an antique shop in Deauville, run by two elderly and expert sisters. “I’m what is called an art broker, giving advice to people looking for the good stuff. It pays off.”

“Antiques, huh? How about this stolen Russian icon?” Lepski asked. “Do you think it could be sold?”

Pierre shook his head.

“Most unlikely. It’s too well known. Of course, there are secret collectors, but I think it would be too hot even for them. I understand it is causing some excitement in the States.”

Lepski laughed.

“You can say that again. The President’s flipping his lid. There’s a two hundred thousand dollar reward for its recovery. As soon as the theft was discovered all exits from the States were sealed. Every cop and Fed are searching for it. I’m glad I’m on vacation.”

Pierre felt Claudette’s shoe touch his leg lightly. She and Carroll were sitting behind the two men.

“Pierre, why don’t we take Carroll and Tom to the Crazy Horse?” Claudette asked.

Reacting immediately to her signal, Pierre explained that the Crazy Horse was the best strip-tease in town, and Lepski reacted to this like a bull to a matador’s cape.

The show at the Crazy Horse was everything that Pierre had promised, and the girls were gorgeous. Carroll decided that this was Lepski’s vacation as well as hers, so she let him enjoy himself, only patting his arm warningly when his whistle made heads turn and the girls on the stage giggle.

Around 02.00, the four wandered back to their hotel. It was agreed that they would all meet for a simple lunch, and the girls would go shopping. Pierre, with a sly wink at Lepski, said they would take a drive through the Bois. This Lepski took as a promise of more interesting diversions than driving around the Bois.

In their bedroom, Pierre and Claudette regarded each other.

“Something bothering you, Sugar?” Pierre asked. “That signal you gave me on the boat.”

Claudette kicked off her shoes, then flopped on the bed.

“The Russian icon you were talking about with Tom. Tell me more.”

Pierre sat down and lit a cigarette.

“It’s believed to be the oldest icon known, worth millions. It was brilliantly stolen from the Fine Arts museum in Washington some three days ago. The reaction was fast. As Lepski said there’s no way of getting it to Europe. Some secret collector just might buy it.”

“Suppose you got it, could you sell it?”

Pierre stared at her.

“What’s going on in that smart mind of yours?”

“Could you find a market for it?”

“It’s not in our league, sugar. Of course, there’s always a market for a unique treasure like that, but I haven’t the contacts who could find at least four million dollars. Anyway, I haven’t got it.”

“You said it was brilliantly stolen.”

“It was: a steal of a lifetime.”

Claudette raised herself on her elbows and looked at Pierre.

“Who could have organized a steal like that, my treasure?”

For a long moment, Pierre remained still, then his eyes lit up.

“You marvellous darling! Of course! Ed Haddon! Who else?” He jumped to his feet. “Bradey! The vanity box! My God! I’m willing to bet the icon is right here in this hotel!”

Claudette laughed.

“That’s my bet too, my treasure.”

Pierre began to pace around the room, thumping his fist into the palm of his hand.

“What a beautiful idea! To con a cop to smuggle it out! Haddon! He’s brilliant! Sugar! You’re the cleverest of the clever!”

“Lu wants us to see the vanity box through the Swiss customs. That must mean he has a client in Switzerland. Who?”

“Wait.” Pierre sat down, crushed out his cigarette and lit another.

Claudette flopped back on the bed, closed her eyes and waited.

Finally, Pierre said, “The only man I know of who lives in Switzerland and who has the right money is Herman Radnitz. He could be the client.”

Claudette opened her eyes.

“Isn’t he the horrible man you once sold a picture to?”

“That’s the man.”

“Suppose we had the icon, could you do a deal with him?”

Pierre hesitated.

“Maybe. I do know he’s interested in Russian art. If he is Haddon’s client, it depends how much Haddon is asking. At a guess, eight million. If Radnitz was offered the icon for five million...”

Claudette got to her feet, unzipped her dress and carefully folded it.

“We are to switch boxes, aren’t we? Lu is only paying us a mean twenty thousand Swiss francs and expenses. He and Haddon will make millions. Switched, we have the icon.” She looked at Pierre. “We could live in luxury on money like that for years and years.”

“Don’t get too excited about this, sugar. We must think of the consequences. We would be double-crossing Lu and Haddon. We would never get any more of their business.”

“Would that matter if we had five million dollars?”

“You have a point, but we don’t know the icon is in the box nor do we know that Radnitz is the client.”

“Think, my treasure. I will take a shower. Let’s sleep on it. We have plenty of time.”

When she had gone into the bathroom, Pierre’s mind became busy.

Just suppose, he thought, that the icon really was in Carroll Lepski’s vanity box. What could either Lu or Haddon do to him if he did double-cross them? They couldn’t squeal to the cops without getting into trouble themselves. They were no thugs. They wouldn’t attempt a Mafia-like revenge. No, there was nothing they could do except accept the inevitable.

Then Pierre’s shrewd mind turned to Radnitz. Just suppose Haddon had done a deal with Radnitz. Pierre couldn’t think of any other collector with Russian art interests, who had a residence in Switzerland and with millions to spend. It must be Radnitz.

This man was dangerous. Pierre had heard rumours that Radnitz had once employed a professional killer. He would have to be very careful how he handled Radnitz.

Five million dollars!

A sum as big as that was worth any risk!

First, he must be sure the icon was in the vanity box. At the first opportunity he must examine the box. If satisfied the icon was in the box, then he must contact Radnitz who would surely do a deal if the price was right.

Even when Claudette took him lovingly in her arms, Pierre couldn’t sleep.

The thought of owning five million dollars, to be free forever from debt, made sleep impossible.

He was still awake when the sound of the telephone bell brought him upright. He looked at his watch. The time was 03.30.

“A call for you, sir,” the operator told him. “New York calling.”

Claudette came awake and switched on the bedside lamp.

“Pierre? This is Lu.”

“Hello there, Lu,” Pierre said. “I was meaning to call you.”

“Well, you didn’t, so I am calling you!” There was a rasp in Bradey’s voice. “What’s the news?”

“No problems.” Pierre was cautious, knowing they were speaking on an open line. “Our friends are real friends now. No problems.”

“Why haven’t you called before?” There was a snarl now in Bradey’s voice. “Sure about the problems?”

“I’m sure.”

“Right,” and the line went dead.

“That was Lu,” Pierre said, replacing the receiver. “He seems anxious. Sugar, I think your guess is right.”

Claudette snuggled against him.

“I know it is right.” Her arms slipped around him. “Show me how a millionaire makes love.”

Pierre showed her.