Try This One for Size

six

Carrying an over-night case and a gift-wrapped parcel, Ed Haddon took a cab from Kennedy airport to the Sheraton hotel where he found Lu Bradey in the main bar, nursing a Scotch on the rocks.

For a change, Bradey was as himself, wearing a dark lounge suit, his hair in a crew cut, his thin features pallid, his dark eyes alert. He lifted a hand, and Haddon joined him. Bradey signalled to a waiter. Haddon said he would have a Bourbon straight.

“Any news?” he asked as he lit a cigar.

“I talked to Duvine not an hour ago. No problems,” Bradey said. “He must be handling the job beautifully. He says the Lepskis are now old friends. No problem with the French customs.”

The waiter brought Haddon’s drink. When he had gone, Haddon sipped, then said, “Good news. Now the Swiss customs.”

“Pierre will drive them to Monaco, then to Montreux. He’ll pick one of the small Swiss customs posts. He knows what he is about.”

“Seen the newspapers?” Haddon pulled at his cigar.

“Yeah. Plenty of fuss: plenty of heat.”

“Front page news even in the continental papers.”

“Well, we expected it.”

“Yes.” Haddon finished his drink. “I have the replica of the vanity box.” He nodded to the gift wrapped parcel by his feet. “You’re taking it to Montreux... right?”

“To the Montreux Palace hotel when I hand it to Duvine who will switch. Something bothering you, Ed?”

“Could present a problem, Lu. A man carrying a lady’s vanity box could attract cop attention.”

Bradey chuckled.

“I’ve thought of that. My girlfriend’s coming with me.”

Haddon eyed him.

“I didn’t know you had a girl friend.”

“Oh, sure. She’s a nice piece of flesh. She’s out of her tiny mind at the thought she’s going to Switzerland.”

“Can you trust her? You know how women will yak. They can’t even keep their sex lives to themselves.”

“You don’t have to worry about Maggie. She’s so dumb she thinks Richard Nixon is a pop singer. She does exactly what I tell her to do.”

Haddon shrugged.

“Okay. It’s a good way to get the box into Switzerland. Now, how about the Duvines?”

Bradey finished his drink.

“What about them?”

“All this goddamn publicity. Every paper in the world is carrying a photo of the icon and a description and what it is worth. On the plane, I got thinking. Would you say the Duvines are smart?”

“Couldn’t be smarter. That’s why I’m using them.”

“Do you think they are that smart they could guess what’s in the vanity box?”

Bradey stiffened and a look of alarm jumped into his eyes.

“With all this publicity,” Haddon went on, “it struck me if they are really smart, they could guess right. We are paying them only twenty Swiss francs and expenses, and there’s a reward of two hundred thousand dollars. You know them. I don’t. Think we can trust them not to pull a double-cross?”

Tiny sweat beads appeared on Bradey’s forehead.

“I don’t know. They’re always in debt. Two hundred thousand would be a hell of a temptation.” He thought, then shook his head. “No. If they claimed the reward the French police would investigate them and that’s something the Duvines couldn’t afford. They are in all kinds of rackets. No, I’m sure they wouldn’t dare go for the reward.”

“Let’s take this a step further,” Haddon said, “but first let’s have another drink.”

Bradey signalled the waiter who brought refills.

“Go on,” Bradey said uneasily when the waiter had gone.

“They are going to switch boxes. Suppose when they get the Lepski box, they vanish,” Haddon said, staring at Bradey. “Have they any big contacts? Someone they could sell the icon to?”

Bradey took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“I doubt it. The Duvines deal with the little fish. No one who has millions to spend.”

“Have you wondered who Kendrick’s client is?” Haddon asked.

Bradey nodded.

“Could only be Herman Radnitz... right?”

“My thinking too. He fits the scene: Kendrick has had dealings with him. He has a villa in Zurich. He’s interested in Russian art, and he has money.” Haddon paused, then asked, “Do you know if Duvine has ever had contact with him?”

Bradey thought, and his expression became more and more unhappy.

“Come to think of it, I believe I did hear he sold a painting to Radnitz about a year ago.”

“So he could go to Radnitz with the icon, offer it at a cut-throat price and double-cross us?”

Bradey shifted uneasily.

“Well, yes. Duvine would dig up his father’s grave if he thought there was money in the coffin.”

“And Radnitz would deal with him?”

“That sonofabitch would deal with anyone to save a million.”

“My thinking.” Haddon sipped his drink. “Looks as if we have a problem, Lu.”

“We could be jumping to conclusions. Duvine might not guess the icon is in the box.”

“I smell a double-cross,” Haddon said quietly. “If Duvine is as smart as you say, he’ll have guessed right.”

Bradey crossed and recrossed his legs.

“We have time. The Duvines and the Lepskis are now in Paris. They drive to Monte Carlo on 14th. They leave for Montreux on 20th. If Duvine plans to double-cross us, he will wait until Lepski has carried the icon through the Swiss customs. So we have nine days.”

Haddon brooded, staring into space while Bradey sat still. He had tremendous faith in Haddon’s talent for solving problems.

Finally, Haddon said, “The plan is that Duvine switches the boxes at the Montreux Palace hotel, delivers it to you at the Eden hotel, Zurich, and you pay him twenty thousand Swiss francs and his expenses. Kendrick will already be at the Eden. You give him the box, and he takes it to his client, gets paid and gives us our share. That’s the operation as planned. Now, if Duvine plans to double-cross us, when he has switched the boxes, he will drive to Zurich, but not to the Eden hotel. He will go to Radnitz’s villa which I understand is some way out of Zurich on the lake. He will make a deal with Radnitz, get paid and vanish.”

“This is all surmise,” Bradey said, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. “I’ve worked with Duvine for years. I find it hard to believe he would double-cross us.”

“We are going to assume he is going to double-cross us,” Haddon said, his face like stone. “When so much money is involved, I trust no one except you. So we are going to assume Duvine will try to pull a smart one and we must take precautions.”

“What precautions?”

“We will beat him to the punch. He and his party will arrive at the Montreux Palace hotel on 20th. You and your girl friend will arrive on the 18th. You will tell the reception clerk that you will be leaving on the 21st, but you want to reserve a room for a friend who is a friend of the Duvines. You want a room on the same floor and near the Duvines’ reservation. When Duvine arrives, you will give him the duplicate box and tell him you are leaving for the Eden hotel and you will wait for him to deliver the Lepskis’ box. On 21st, you will leave the hotel, making sure Duvine sees you go. You will stop somewhere close to Montreux, send your girl on to Zurich, put on a disguise and return to the Montreux Palace hotel in the name of the friend you have reserved a room for. From then on, you will not let Duvine out of your sight while he is in the hotel. When he has switched the boxes, you will jump him, take the box, pay him off and drive to the Eden hotel. In this way we forestall a double-cross. What do you think?”

Bradey thought, then finally he nodded.

“The idea is sound, but we mustn’t forget, if Duvine is really planning a double-cross, he must already be dreaming of owning at least five million dollars. He could turn rough, and he’s bigger than I am. Suppose he bashes me and bolts? If I had his muscles, that’s what I would do.”

Haddon smiled grimly.

“When you arrive at Geneva, you buy a gun. I will give you the address of a man who will sell you a gun without asking questions.”

Bradey’s eyes popped wide.

“No! I’ve never touched a gun! No violence! That’s strictly out, Ed!”

“This operation involves three million dollars: one for you: two for me,” Haddon said, a snarl in his voice. “The gun needn’t be loaded. If Duvine turns rough, all you have to do is to wave the gun in his face and that’ll quiet him down. There must be no slip-up on this, Lu.” He took from his wallet a card and wrote an address. “Just mention my name. There will be no problem, but get the gun.”

Bradey hesitated, grimaced, then took the card.

“Maybe Duvine isn’t going to double-cross us,” he said without much hope. “Maybe we are making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Haddon picked up the gift-wrapped parcel and placed it on Bradey’s knees.

“I’m going to bed. Don’t worry about mountains. Don’t worry about molehills. Just make sure Kendrick gets the icon and we get our money.”

Leaving Bradey staring uneasily at the gift-wrapped parcel, Haddon walked across the bar and towards the elevators.

Vasili Vrenschov was Herman Radnitz’s Russian contact. He was a squat, heavily built man with balding head and eyes like black beans set in white dough.

He lived in a modest three-room apartment at Sellinburen, just outside Zurich. This apartment was owned by his Swiss mistress, allowing him to live there without tiresome police interference. He spent much of his time commuting to Moscow, and he was highly thought of by the Soviet upper échelon.

This morning, he had received a telephone call from Radnitz who had invited him to lunch at the Villa Helios, one of Radnitz’s many luxury homes, which was situated a few kilometres outside Zurich, set in two acres of ornamental gardens by the lake with its own harbour and motor boats, to say nothing of a luxury yacht on which Radnitz, when in the mood, entertained.

Vasili Vrenschov was always pleased to receive an invitation from Radnitz. He had arranged a number of lucrative deals with Radnitz and the Kremlin, and Radnitz had always paid him a commission which was credited to Vrenschov’s numbered account in the Bank of Zurich: money that the Kremlin knew nothing about.

Leaving his shabby Beetle VW car in the parking bay, Vrenschov mounted the marble steps that led to the impressive portals of the villa. He pressed the doorbell and turned to survey the magnificent flowerbeds and looked enviously at the harbour, the yacht and the view of the lake.

The doors were opened and an elderly butler gave him a little bow.

“Mr Radnitz is expecting you, Mr Vrenschov,” he said. “Please follow me.”

“Good to see you again, Mythen. Tell me, what have you arranged for my lunch?” Vrenschov asked as he removed his hat and walked into the vast hall, decorated with suits of armour and splendid tapestries.

“Whitstable oysters and Scotch grouse, sir,” Mythen said, smiling. He knew what a glutton this Russian was. “The oysters were flown out from England this morning.”

Vrenschov rolled his eyes.

“Splendid! And Mr Radnitz? I trust he is well.”

“He appears to be in excellent health, sir,” Mythen said and led Vrenschov down a long corridor to Radnitz’s study.

Radnitz was seated behind a big, antique desk which was littered with papers. As Vrenschov walked in, he rose to his feet with a wide smile of welcome.

“Good to see you, Vasili,” he said, coming around the desk to shake hands. “Good of you to come at such short notice. Sit down. A little Vodka?”

Vrenschov settled his bulk in a chair near the desk.

“That would be nice, Mr Radnitz. You are too kind.”

Mythen served Vodka in large crystal goblets with crushed ice.

“A cigar?”

“Nothing I would like better.”

Mythen took a cigar from a box on the desk, clipped the end, presented it to Vrenschov, offered a light, then with a bow, he left the room.

“Madame? Is she well?” Radnitz asked, sitting behind his desk.

“Yes, thank you. She finds the Zurich climate not to her taste, but she survives.”

Radnitz paused to light his cigar, then lifting his glass, nodded to Vrenschov who raised his glass, then drank.

There was a slight pause, then Radnitz said, “I thought it is time we had a talk, Vasili. It is now three months since we last met. Have you any news for me?”

Vrenschov lifted his fat shoulders.

“The Kazan dam?”

Radnitz’s hooded eyes hardened.

“What else but the Kazan dam?”

“Yes. Well, you may be sure that I am promoting your interests, Mr Radnitz, as I always do and will.”

“And...?”

“This is, of course, an enormous undertaking, Mr Radnitz,” Vrenschov said with an oily smile. “The cost...”

“We have gone into all that,” Radnitz said, a snap in his voice. “I am prepared to finance half the project. Your people the other half. My technicians will assist and advise. That is my proposal. I now want to know what your people are doing about it.”

“Well, to be frank, Mr Radnitz,” Vrenschov paused to sip his drink. “My people are hesitating. As you can be sure. I have pressed your case, but they think they should consult other contractors to see if the dam can be built for less money.”

A tiny flame of rage flickered in Radnitz’s eyes and immediately vanished.

“No other contractor can build the dam for less, and certainly not as well as I can.”

“I am quite sure that is correct, but my people are difficult. They are investigating further in spite of what I advise. So, there is a delay. I am confident that before very long, matters will be arranged in your favour.”

There came a tap on the door and Mythen entered.

“Lunch is served, gentlemen,” he announced.

The oysters were succulent and the grouse impeccable, served with a 1959 Margaux, followed by cheese and a champagne sorbet.

While the two men ate, Radnitz talked lightly of this and that, not referring to business, but Vrenschov knew that after lunch he would come under pressure. His past dealings with Radnitz warned him that Radnitz was a ruthless negotiator and he would have to handle him with kid gloves.

Finally, the two men returned to the study, sat down with brandies and cigars, then Radnitz opened fire.

“You and I, Vasili, have had a happy and profitable association,” he said, staring with his hooded eyes at Vrenschov. “We have done four deals together. You have been paid, into your numbered account, some ninety thousand Swiss francs as commission which your masters know nothing about.”

Vrenschov smiled. He was too old a hand to react to any hint of blackmail. A Swiss numbered account gave complete security.

“My people know nothing about my Swiss account and will know nothing about it, Mr Radnitz,” he said.

Radnitz realized this smiling Russian was not blackmail material. He nodded, and changed tactics.

“If I get the Kazan dam contract through your efforts, Vasili, I think I promised you a quarter of a million Swiss francs.”

Vrenschov smiled again.

“That was your kind arrangement, and you may be sure I am doing my very best in your favour, but, as I have said, my people insist on getting other tenders.”

Radnitz studied the end of his cigar, his toad-like face expressionless.

“It seems to me,” he said finally, “that a lever is needed to bring your masters down on my side.”

“A lever? This I don’t understand.”

“The Catherine the Great icon,” Radnitz said, watching Vrenschov closely, but the fat Russian merely lifted his eyebrows.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I hear that it has been stolen when on exhibit in Washington. What can it have to do with the Kazan dam?”

Radnitz controlled his impatience.

“Your masters are making considerable political capital out of the theft. The theft has put the President in a very awkward position. He is not popular. The world press are critical of him. He has taken immediate precautions the icon does not leave the States and by sealing all exits, he is causing considerable inconvenience to the public who are already protesting, blaming the President. From their point of view, I understand this. Very few Americans care a damn about a Russian icon and to have delays and baggage checks at all airports, restrictions on ships and so on makes the President very unpopular.”

“That is regrettable,” Vrenschov said with a sly smile, “but what has your President’s troubles to do with my people?”

“Come Vasili, you know as well as I do, any trouble that affects the President is joyful news at the Kremlin.”

Vrenschov laughed: a harsh guttural sound.

“Off the record, Mr Radnitz, I would say you were correct.”

“It is said that the President has assured your Premier that the icon is still in the States, and before very long, it will be recovered.”

“Yes, this is so. Pravda has published an account of the conversation, but it may take months or even years to find it, if the thief is prepared to wait.” Vrenschov passed his brandy glass under his fat nose, sniffing at the aroma. “Is it possible that this exit check, delaying travellers, could continue indefinitely until the icon is found?”

“No. I would imagine the check will continue for at least a month, causing the President more and more trouble, then it will gradually be lifted under the pressure of public complaints.”

“That would be the thief’s opportunity?”

“No. There would be spot checks, sudden searches. He would have to have very strong nerves to attempt to smuggle the icon abroad.”

Vrenschov finished his brandy.

“Happily, Mr Radnitz, this isn’t in my province. We seem to have moved away from the Kazan dam which is.”

“I was talking about a lever,” Radnitz said. “Have some more brandy, my dear Vasili.”

“That is kind.” Vrenschov helped himself liberally from the cut-glass decanter. “Splendid brandy.”

“I take it your masters would be glad to have the icon back?”

“Of course. The icon is one of the finest exhibits in the Hermitage. It always attracts great interest with the tourists and its value is incalculable.”

Radnitz pulled at his cigar.

“This is the lever I have mentioned. Just suppose I was in the position to return the icon to the Hermitage and give you proof that the President has lied that the icon is still in the States would you think your masters would be pleased enough to give me the Kazan dam contract? Just suppose I can prove that the icon left the States the day after it had been stolen in spite of the security precautions, involving all the police, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the CIA, the Army and the Navy. Well handled, the publicity in the world press, once the story was cleverly leaked, would make the President a laughing stock, would it not?”

Vrenschov inclined his head.

“Yes. That is obvious, Mr Radnitz. Are you in the position to return the icon or is this just supposition?”

“It depends on your people,” Radnitz said. “If I get the Kazan dam contract, they will get the icon.”

Vrenschov sucked in his breath.

“Mr Radnitz, I have dealt with you for some time and I have come to rely on any statement you make. Then can I take it you have the icon?”

“I did not say that. I said I could get it. It will cost me money, but I’m prepared to pay for the icon provided I get the contract.”

“It is no longer in the States?”

“No.”

Vrenschov waited, hoping Radnitz would say where it was, but as Radnitz remained silent, he ventured, “You can guarantee its return?”

“Provided your people guarantee me the dam contract,” Radnitz said, looking directly at Vrenschov. “We can make the exchange here. You get the icon. I get the contract.”

“This is a very interesting proposal, Mr Radnitz. I will leave for Moscow tomorrow,” Vrenschov said. “I can tell my people that the icon has in fact left the States?”

“You can tell them that and they can have it within ten or fifteen days.”

Vrenschov nodded.

“You may be sure I will do my very best to promote your interests, Mr Radnitz, but, of course, I can’t tell how my people will react. The dam will cost an enormous sum. I hope they will consider the icon enough to tip the scales in your favour.”

“That, of course, is up to them.” Determined to make some profit from the Russians, Radnitz went on, “Even if they don’t give me the contract, I would be willing to buy the icon from my contact if your masters would be willing to pay for it.”

“How much would it cost, Mr Radnitz?”

Mindful that it was his intention not to pay Kendrick anything for the icon, Radnitz said, “Six million dollars.” Seeing Vrenschov flinch, he added, “On the open market, the icon would be worth at least twenty million dollars. Your masters would not only be getting it cheaply, but would be able to make considerable political capital. Who knows? The President might even re-imburse them. To avoid more unwelcome publicity, it is very possible, he would do this.”

“So I have two propositions,” Vrenschov said. “Either you get the dam contract and the icon is returned or you don’t get the contract, but you will sell the icon to my people for six million dollars. Is that correct?”

Radnitz got to his feet.

“You understand perfectly, my dear Vasili. Get me the contract and I will pay you a quarter of a million Swiss francs. If you fail, but your masters pay six million dollars for the icon, I will pay you fifty thousand Swiss francs. Obviously, it will be to your advantage to press hard for the contract.”

“And you can be sure I will, Mr Radnitz.”

The two men shook hands.

“You will hear from me within a week,” Vrenschov said as Radnitz walked with him to the door.

“Mythen has put a little parcel in your car,” Radnitz said. “With the compliments to madame.”

“How kind! How thoughtful!” Vrenschov’s greedy eyes lit up.

Radnitz smiled, then waved good-bye.

On the third day of their stay in Paris, Pierre Duvine took the Lepskis on a sight-seeing tour. Pierre knew Paris like the back of his hand. After a brief tour of the Louvre, he took them to Notre Dame, then to the Ste Chapelle, and finally to the top of the Eiffel Tower. His commentary was so interesting, even Lepski began to accept this cultural tour.

When they had heard what Pierre proposed, Lepski and Carroll, in their hotel room, had their usual fight.

Lepski said the hell with sight-seeing. He wanted to walk the streets and see the way the French lived. Who needed to look at dreary museums?

Carroll would have none of it.

“It is time, Lepski, for you to have some culture! All you think about is crime, food and women. You are going to take this chance to improve your mind!”

Making a noise like a wasp trapped in a bottle, Lepski submitted.

They returned to the hotel at 17.50, all of them slightly weary and footsore.

“Tonight we go to the Tour d’Argent,” Pierre said as they entered the hotel lobby. “One of the great restaurants of Paris. Then we will go to the Lido. I have booked a table.” He nudged Lepski. “Georgeous girls.”

Lepski immediately brightened.

“Fine. How about a drink, Pierre? Let the girls go up, and you and me rinse our tonsils.”

“Lepski! Must you be so vulgar?” Carroll exclaimed.

“You two go on up,” Lepski said, and catching hold of Pierre’s arm, hurried him towards the bar.

This was the opportunity Claudette had been waiting for. As the two girls walked down the corridor to their rooms, she said, “Carroll, dear, that vanity box you have. I’m so envious! I want to persuade Pierre to buy me one just like yours.”

“You haven’t even seen the inside,” Carroll said, unlocking her bedroom door. “Come in. I’ll show it to you. It’s marvellous!”

They entered the room. Carroll went to a closet, opened it and took out the vanity box, set it on a table and unlocked it.

“Look! Isn’t it super?”

Claudette took her time. She encouraged Carroll to take out all the items, examining them while she gave little gasps of admiration until the box was empty. She then examined the interior, declaiming on the workmanship while Carroll, swelling with pride, watched her.

Claudette then closed the box and lifted it to admire the exterior, noting that there was at least three inches more on the outside than the inside.

“It’s perfect!” she exclaimed, “but it is a little heavy.”

“Yes, but it’s so strong! Tom hates carrying it.”

Claudette laughed as she set the box down.

“Well, I wouldn’t. I must talk to Pierre.”

She watched while Carroll, with loving care, replaced all the items, watched as she locked the box, taking note of the key, then said, “Well, darling, have a rest. We’ll all meet in the lobby at eight o’clock. I do hope you have enjoyed your day.”

“It’s been truly wonderful! I can’t thank you both enough!” Carroll said. “You are perfect pets! You utterly spoil us. Now tonight. We insist that you be our guests. You have done so much for us... now, please...”

“Well, of course.” Claudette smiled. “But it is our pleasure. We are so happy to have found such good friends. All right, I will tell Pierre.”

Returning to her room, Claudette waited impatiently for Pierre who finally arrived an hour later, looking a little flushed.

“My God!” he exclaimed, holding his head. “How that man can drink! What news?”

“The box has a false bottom and it is heavy when empty. The icon must be in it.”

Claudette went on to explain her reasons while Pierre listened.

“The key?”

“It is nothing, a hairpin could turn the lock.”

Pierre drew in a long breath.

“Now we must think, sugar.”

“You think, my treasure, I am taking a shower. We have a long night before us.”

“And we have another six days. This mustn’t be rushed.”

“At least, they are paying tonight,” Claudette said as she began to undress.

After a splendid dinner at the Tour d’Argent, they all went to the Lido, that glamorous musical show on the Champs-Elysées.

Although Lepski was impressed with the magnificent view from the restaurant’s windows of the flood-lit Notre Dame, he proved difficult when Pierre proposed the famous pressed duck. Lepski said he didn’t dig fancy food, and he would have a steak.

“You will have nothing of the kind!” Carroll snapped. “You are in Paris, and you must take advantage of the beautiful food.”

“Can’t a guy eat what he likes?” Lepski grumbled.

“We will have the duck,” Carroll said firmly.

When the duck was served, Lepski tried it suspiciously, then declared, “This isn’t bad! Look, baby, you must try this when we get home.” He turned to Pierre, “Carroll is a marvellous cook.”

“Eat it and be quiet!” Carroll snapped.

Finally, the dinner finished, Lepski flicked his fingers for the check. He paled visibly when he saw what the dinner had cost, and paled again when he asked Pierre what tip he should leave. He counted out the French banknotes, muttering to himself, then with a croaking laugh, said to Pierre, “This little joint sure won’t go bankrupt,” and got a sharp kick on his shin from Carroll.

But the show girls at the Lido lifted his depression, and when they finally returned to the hotel, around 02.00, Lepski said it had been a great day.

“Tomorrow will be your last day in Paris,” Pierre said as they all went up in the elevator to their rooms. “I suggest we visit the Left Bank and take a walk around the old quarters. There is much of interest to see, then you must go to the Folies Bergère: more girls and a great show. I suggest we dine at the Grand Vefour, another of Paris’s greats. This will be on us, Tom.”

Lepski visibly brightened, but Carroll would have none of it.

“It is on us!” she said firmly. “We insist.” She ignored Lepski’s faint moan.

There was a friendly argument as they walked to their rooms, but Pierre, knowing what the check for the following evening would come to, graciously accepted that they would be the Lepskis’ guests.

While Lepski was protesting in their room, telling Carroll she was out of her mind to throw their money around in this way, the Duvines, in their room, regarded each other.

“I had a terrible feeling,” Claudette said, “they would let you pay for tomorrow. We must save our expenses, my treasure.”

Pierre patted her.

“I knew she would insist. I wouldn’t have suggested the Grand Vefour if I hadn’t been sure.” He smiled lovingly at his wife. “Are you enjoying all this?”

“If we could only live like this forever!” Claudette began to undress. “Have you been thinking?”

“Of course. We can’t do a thing until we get to Montreux. I am still wondering how I can contact Radnitz. This is the problem, sugar.”

“We have six days. Are you tired?”

“Not too tired,” Pierre said, looking at her nakedness with adoring eyes, and began hurriedly to undress.

At Zurich airport, a tall thin man with straw-coloured hair, neatly trimmed to his collar, wearing a dark blue business suit, carrying a suitcase, moved with the passengers just off the New York flight towards the Swiss passport control. As the queue moved forward, he saw there were two men in plain clothes standing behind the passport official, and guessed they were security police.

When his turn came, he presented his passport. The three men eyed him.

“Are you here on business, Mr Holtz?” The passport official asked.

“No. I am visiting friends,” Sergas Holtz replied in his cold, clipped German, “I will only be here for a week.”

“Have a pleasant visit.”

Sergas Holtz moved into the customs shed. There was a long queue of exasperated passengers, waiting while several grey uniformed customs men dealt with their baggage.

With a sardonic little smile, Holtz waited patiently. He thought all this effort and delay for nothing slightly amusing. Finally, his turn came. He opened his suitcase and watched the official search, his fingers tracing around the inside of the case, and Holtz was thankful he hadn’t had to bring the vanity box through this customs’ check.

“Thank you, sir,” the official said, and leaving Holtz to replace his things into the case, moved on to the next passenger.

Holtz walked to the Hertz desk. With his Hertz credit card, he was quickly provided with a Ford Escort. He asked for a street guide of the city which was handed to him.

His uncle had given him two addresses. Sitting in the rented car, he tracked down the addresses on the map, then headed for the centre of the city.

The first address was a shabby apartment block not far from the airport. He found parking space with difficulty, then entered the building, took the creaking elevator to the third floor and rang the bell of a heavy oak front door.

The door opened, after a delay, and a small bearded man in his late sixties, dressed in a grey flannel shirt and dark brown corduroy trousers, peered suspiciously at him from behind thick-lensed glasses.

“Mr Frederick?” Holtz asked.

“Yes.”

“You are expecting me.” Holtz offered his passport.

Frederick examined the passport closely, grunted and handed it back. He stood aside.

“Come in, Mr Holtz.”

Holtz entered a dark lobby, then followed Frederick into a large living room, furnished with heavy, ugly furniture.

“I am here to serve you,” Frederick said. “I have had many pleasant dealings with your uncle. What can I do for you?”

“A pistol,” Holtz said. “A Beretta if you have one.”

“Ah! That’s a beautiful weapon, only weighing ten ounces and only four and a half inches long.”

“I know that!” Holtz said impatiently. “Have you one?”

“Yes. It is almost new, and in perfect condition. It costs...”

“I am not interested in what it costs. You will charge it to my uncle,” Holtz said curtly. “Let me see it.”

“In a few moments.”

Frederick left the room, closing the door behind him. Holtz went to the window, drew aside the net curtain and looked down into the street. His hard eyes surveyed the passing people, the crawling cars. He saw nothing suspicious, but suspicion was ingrained in his nature. He dropped the curtain and moved to the centre of the room as Frederick came in, carrying a cardboard box.

“There are twenty five rounds of ammunition,” he said, setting the box down on the table. “I fear I have no more.”

“They will be enough.” Holtz opened the box, took out the gun, lying in cotton wool, and examined it. His examination was searching and expert.

“I see you understand guns,” Frederick said, watching. “You will find it in perfect order.”

Holtz ignored the remark. Satisfied with the gun, he opened the box of ammunition, and after scrutinising each bullet, he loaded the gun.

“I’ll take it,” he said. “Now, I want a hunting knife.”

“Certainly, Mr Holtz. I will fetch my best selection.”

Again Frederick left the room and returned some minutes later with a large box which he set on the table. Removing the lid, he said, “Please make your selection.”

Holtz took nearly half an hour examining the collection of knives before he made his choice.

“This one,” he said, holding up a murderous-looking knife with a flat ebony handle and a razor-shape blade some four inches long.

“An excellent choice. The best knife I have in my collection,” Frederick said. “There is a sheath to go with it.” He rummaged in the box and produced a soft sheath in deerskin with straps.

Holtz put the knife into the sheath, then pulling up his right trouser leg, he strapped the knife into place. After a little adjustment, he found the knife lay snugly against the fleshy part of his calf. Pulling down the trouser leg, he walked around the room, then nodded.

“I’ll take it. Charge it to my uncle,” and with barely a nod, he walked out of the living room, opened the front door and took the elevator down to the entrance of the apartment block, the Beretta in his hip pocket, the box of ammunition in his jacket pocket, the knife strapped to his leg.

Since he had left New York, completely unarmed, Holtz had felt naked, but not now. He walked with an assured step to his car, got in, paused to check the map, then set off to the second address.

He had some difficulty with the one-way streets and the heavy, slow-moving traffic, but eventually he came upon a pair of gates with a plaque bearing the number he was seeking. He drove into the yard.

A few minutes later, he stood in a handsomely furnished office, shaking hands with a tall, balding Swiss who introduced himself as Herr Weidmann.

“Your uncle telephoned, Mr Holtz. It is always a great pleasure to do something for him. The box is ready. I can assure you everything is as your uncle has ordered.”

Holtz nodded.

“I am pressed for time,” he said curtly. “Give me the box.”

Weidmann’s smile slipped. He wasn’t used to such abrupt treatment, nor did he like the look of this tall, thin man with his hard, probing eyes.

“Certainly, certainly.” He went to a cupboard, unlocked it and took out the blue vanity box. “It is a perfect replica. You will see from the photographs...”

“Have it wrapped!” Holtz barked. “I am in a hurry!”

Weidmann took the box and left the office. What an uncouth fellow, he thought as his secretary wrapped the box. Who would believe he was Gustav Holtz’s nephew?

He returned with the parcel and Holtz took it from him.

“I can assure you everything has been carried out, according to Mr Holtz’s instructions,” Weidmann said, forcing a smile. “There is...”

“Okay, I’ll take it as read,” Holtz said, and turning, left the office and walked back to his car.

Now for Radnitz’s villa.

The journey to Villa Helios took time. Holtz was exasperated by the heavy, crawling traffic, but he was careful to control his impatience. It wouldn’t do to have a collision, but there were moments when he had to contain his vicious temper not to shout at the drivers who tried to edge in on him, tried to beat the traffic lights, tried to force their way out of side streets.

It was a little after 16.00 when he eventually pulled up outside the impressive portals of the villa, although Holtz was not impressed. The way rich tycoons put on a show of wealth bored him. As he mounted the marble steps, he wondered how anyone could live in such an ostentatious style.

Mythen opened the front door and gave him a little bow.

“Mr Holtz?”

“Yes.” Holtz regarded the old man with contempt: a born lackey, a boot licker, he thought.

“Please come in. Mr Radnitz is engaged, but he will see you in a little while.”

Holtz followed the old man into a large room furnished with priceless antiques.

“Perhaps coffee, tea or a drink of some kind while you wait, Mr Holtz?” Mythen inquired.

“Nothing!” Holtz snapped, and crossing the room to the window, he gazed out at the vast expanse of lawn, the trees, the flowering shrubs and the big swimming pool.

Mythen quietly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Holtz remained at the window. After some minutes, he saw a powerfully built man, wearing a black jogging suit, move across the lawn. He was followed by two other men of the same build and wearing similar clothes. They all disappeared behind a high bank of flowering shrubs. Holtz registered this with a sardonic grin. Radnitz’s bodyguards, he thought. Well, they looked efficient. He supposed a man in Radnitz’s position automatically wasted money on bodyguards: more for self-esteem than protection.

Half an hour later, Mythen came to the door.

“Mr Radnitz will now see you. Please follow me.”

Carrying the wrapped vanity box, Holtz walked behind Mythen to Radnitz’s study.

Radnitz, seated behind his paper-strewn desk, a cigar between his fat Angers, regarded this tall, thin man as he came into the room with searching interest. He watched Holtz’s cat-like walk as he moved towards his desk.

Radnitz, an astute judge of men, came to the immediate conclusion that this man could match up to Lu Silk’s standards. Since Gustav Holtz had recommended him, Radnitz had no misgivings, but he wanted to see for himself.

In his turn, Holtz regarded Radnitz. Yes, he thought, this was a man he could co-operate with. His uncle’s description of the power, the ruthlessness of Herman Radnitz was no exaggeration.

“You have the vanity box?” Radnitz asked in his hard, guttural voice.

“Yes, sir.” Holtz placed the parcel on the desk.

“Is it satisfactory?”

“That I don’t know. Weidmann who made it said it was. He and my uncle discussed it. I was only told to bring it to you. I haven’t checked it out.”

“If your uncle is satisfied, I am.” Radnitz puffed at his cigar. “Sit down.”

Holtz sat in a chair near Radnitz’s desk.

“You are now a member of my staff,” Radnitz said. “Your uncle has guaranteed you. Has he explained your duties?”

Holtz inclined his head.

“You may have nothing to do for weeks, then you could get an assignment. You are always to be within reach. You will keep me informed where I can contact you at a moment’s notice. Understood?”

Again Holtz inclined his head.

“You are, from now on, my hit-man as they call killers. Your uncle has told you the terms of payment. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have no hesitation accepting this job?”

A faintly bored expression came into Holtz’s eyes.

“Why should I, sir?”

“You understand your immediate task?”

“My uncle told me I was to go to the Montreux Palace hotel at Montreux and exchange this vanity box for a similar one owned by a Mrs Lepski.”

“That is correct. How are you going to do this?”

“The Lepskis will be arriving at the hotel in six days’ time. I will arrive two days before they arrive. My uncle has already reserved a room for me on the same floor as their reservation. I will wait my opportunity, then make the exchange.”

“You think you can do this?”

Again the faintly bored expression came into Holtz’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t be here, sir, unless I was certain.”

Radnitz liked this confidence. He nodded approvingly.

“When you get Mrs Lepski’s box, you are to bring it without delay to me here.”

“I understand, sir.”

“You have three days before leaving for Montreux. A room has been reserved for you at the Eden hotel. What will you do while waiting to leave?”

“Learn to open hotel bedroom doors,” Holtz said. “My uncle has given me the name of a locksmith who will teach me. This is something I have to learn. Unless I can open Mrs Lepski’s bedroom door, I wouldn’t be able to get the box.”

Radnitz nodded.

“Your uncle is a remarkable man. He thinks of everything. I trust you will come up to his standards.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. You are now at liberty to do what you think necessary. I will expect you here with Mrs Lepski’s box within a week. Should you fail, I will have no further use for you. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” and Holtz stood up.

“I am told by your uncle that you are very able to take care of yourself,” Radnitz said with a sly little grin. “Although I usually take your uncle’s opinions seriously, I also prefer sometimes to check out these opinions. Have you any objections to a test as to how well you can take care of yourself?”

Holtz’s eyes turned cloudy.

“Why should I?” he asked in a cold, flat voice.

“Then do me a favour of taking a walk down to the lake.” Radnitz waved towards the open French windows. “I would like to see for myself if you can take care of yourself.”

“If that is what you want, sir, then, of course, I will do what you ask.” Holtz paused and stared at Radnitz. “I take it the three goons who are probably your bodyguards and who are hiding in that distant clump of shrubs will attempt to rough me up for your amusement. That is understandable, sir, but I should tell you I don’t play rough games. Before I go out there, I must ask you if you have anywhere convenient to bury those three goons?”

Radnitz stiffened.

“Bury them? What do you mean?”

Holtz bent, lifted his right trouser leg and the glittering bladed knife jumped into his hand. The movement was so swift Radnitz sat motionless, his frog-like eyes wide open.

“You see, sir, I don’t play rough games. When three powerful men attempt to crowd me, I cut them,” Holtz said quietly. A sardonic smile twitched at his lips. “You wouldn’t employ them unless you had faith in them to guard you. It seems a waste to lose them, but it would also be a nuisance for one of your servants to bury them. I don’t undertake burials. I only undertake elimination.” He stared at Radnitz, his eyes vicious. “Do you still wish me to take a walk down to the lake, sir?”

For a long moment, Radnitz sat still, staring at this man and at the murderous knife in his hand, then he recovered himself.

“Under the circumstances, I think a test is unnecessary,” he said. “Go and learn how to unlock hotel bedroom doors, go to the Montreux Palace hotel and return with the box.”

“It is as you wish, sir,” Holtz said, returning the knife into its sheath, then picking up the parcel, giving Radnitz a slight nod, he left the room.

Radnitz stubbed out his cigar. He felt slightly shaken. It was as if Death had walked out of the room, and Radnitz feared death: the only thing he did fear.