Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 110, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 673 & 674, September/October 1997

Games of Chance by Clark Howard

© 1997 by Clark Howard

“Clark Howard’s concerns are for the outcast, the minority, the prisoner,” writes Ed Hoch in St. James Guide to Crime and Mystery Writers. “He has a deep interest in convicts and ex-convicts, a theme that runs through his writing.” That’s why the splendidly developed upper-class hero of this new Howard story is a departure. But Mr. Howard has us rooting for him all the way.

The man standing before a floor-to-ceiling window of an eighty-first-floor apartment in the Prudential Tower was lean, almost handsome, but at the moment wearing an expression that was worn, weary. It was almost dawn in Chicago, a wet, misty April morning. As he looked out over Lake Michigan, watching the day’s first light break grayly on the black expanse of water, his eyes reflected perplexity. A single thought plagued him.

How much longer, he wondered, can it go on?

A voice behind him asked, “Is that it for tonight, Mr. Harvard?”

James Harvard turned from the window. He was in a large, luxuriously appointed living room, in one corner of which was a custom-built octagonal poker table with an array of leather chips and playing cards on the green felt top. Four men, in various stages of weariness, sat at the table. Three of the men looked, respectively, incredulous, victorious, and embarrassed. The fourth, a professional gambler, was merely inscrutable. It was this man who had asked the question.

“Yes, I think that’s it for tonight,” Harvard answered. “What’s my tab?”

“One hundred fifty-six thousand,” said the gambler.

Harvard gestured to one of two room stewards who worked for the professional gambler, and the steward brought him his suit coat and held it for Harvard to put on. From an inside pocket, Harvard produced a checkbook and a Mont Blanc and stepped over to the room’s serving bar to write the check. As usual, he left the payee line blank.

“I’ve never seen a run of bad luck like that in my life,” he heard the incredulous player say from the table. You don’t know the half of it, Harvard thought wryly.

“We never should have let the betting get so high,” said the embarrassed player.

“Forget it,” said Harvard, turning from the bar with the check. “In every game of chance, there has to be at least one loser. It just so happens that in this particular game, I was the only loser. Fortunes of poker.”

“That’s the spirit, Jim,” said the third player, who had the most chips in front of him. He laughed a little too loudly, adding, “Hell, if I had your money, I’d throw mine away!”

Harvard handed the check to the gambler, who ran the game and would be paying off the winners. The gambler studied it for a moment with pursed lips. “I hope there won’t be any problem with this, Mr. Harvard,” he said quietly. “It’s a rather large check—”

“Would you like me to write you a dozen small ones?” Harvard asked drily.

“That’s what I like about you, Jim,” said the victorious player. “No matter how much you lose, you can still joke about it.”

“Next to my ability at cards, I’m most noted for my sense of humor,” Harvard replied with a slight, sardonic smile. He slipped his arms into a tan London Fog the steward was holding. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, and left.

On the way down in the elevator, Harvard said to the uniformed operator, “I’ll bet you twenty dollars that we stop at least twice before we reach the garage.”

The operator, a black man with processed hair and knowing eyes, glanced at his wrist watch and said, “All right, sir, I’ll take that bet.” Smiling, he added, “There’ll be a blond hooker leaving about now, on fifty. After that, it should be nonstop to the garage.”

At fifty, the car stopped and the blonde got on. She was one of those soft blondes, smart-looking in an Antonio Fusco cashmere suit, carrying a Prada shoulder bag. She smiled briefly at Harvard but did not flirt.

After the elevator reached the parking garage without another stop, Harvard waited until the blonde got off, then peeled a twenty from the money-clipped fold of currency in his pocket and handed it to the operator, saying, “Thanks for the action.”

“My pleasure, sir,” the operator replied.

By the time Harvard got to his gun-metal gray Jaguar, the blonde was already driving out in a white Mercedes. Harvard got into the Jag, but before starting the engine, he took a moment to rest his head back against the cold leather seat and wondered, How did it get this bad? How did it go this far? He thought of the racetracks, the billiard matches, the lottery tickets, the trips to Atlantic City, the football and baseball and basketball and hockey games, the boxing matches that the wrong fighter won. And the illegal poker and dice games played in plush apartments high above the city. Four million, he thought, in less than a year. Almost his entire inheritance. It was unreal.

Finally starting the car, he drove up to street level, exited into a misting rain, and turned onto Lake Shore Drive, heading north toward the wealthy suburbs.

James Harvard’s background was wealthy upper class: the North Shore old money of Wilmette, Winnetka, and Glencoe. His family had been in textiles for four generations; there were branches of Harvard Mills throughout the Midwest and South. His education had been premium: Mason Foster Prep School, a bachelor’s in business administration from Notre Dame, a master’s in the same field from Northwestern, never once abandoning solid Midwestern values for Eastern pomposity.

In school, Harvard’s grades had never fallen below B. He had belonged to all the right clubs while politely declining fraternity invitations. He had been a very good tennis player, thanks to an excellent backhand; a fair boxer, because he was fast on his feet; and a poor soccer player, due to his tendency to forget and grab the ball with both hands. He spoke fluent Spanish and French, the former learned in school, the latter from a family maid twelve years his senior who taught him many other things as well.

All in all, James Harvard’s manners were cultivated, his tastes impeccable, his social demeanor flawless, his family credentials enviable, and his future thought to be as solid as Gibraltar. At the age of thirty, he should already have taken his place alongside his two older brothers at the executive offices of Harvard Mills. He had not done so because of a single flaw in his character.

James Harvard was an obsessive gambler.

Harvard arrived at the palatial family mansion, which occupied a large promontory on the North Shore of Lake Michigan, just before eight, with the misting rain breaking and a morning sun lighting up the first new greenery of the year. He could have left his Jag at the front door and a servant would have moved it for him, but he chose to drive around to the rear ten-car garage and enter through the grand kitchen that served four separate family wings of the mansion. Andre, the French chef, was at a long grill, about to begin cracking eggs from a bowl on the counter.

“Hold it,” said Harvard. “I’ll bet you twenty that the yolk of the first egg you crack is smaller than a half dollar.”

André glanced around cautiously; there was a household rule that domestic and culinary staff were not allowed to gamble with the youngest Harvard brother. But after examining the egg with a critical eye, André said, “It’s a bet.”

The egg was cracked onto the grill and Harvard held a half-dollar over its yolk. The yolk was discernibly larger. Harvard slipped the chef a twenty. Just then, Marie, André’s wife and the head housekeeper, emerged from the pantry. “What are you two doing?” she asked suspiciously. This would not be the first time she had caught them gambling.

“We are discussing eggs,” André replied innocently.

Harvard winked at Andre, patted Marie on a plump cheek, and left the kitchen.

In the mansion’s sunny breakfast room, overlooking the lake, Harvard found his two older brothers, John and William. John was now chairman of the board and president of Harvard Mills, and William was executive vice president and chief executive officer. Each of them was at his own end of the table, sipping orange juice and reading the Wall Street Journal, while their respective wives got their respective children ready for school in their respective wings of the mansion.

“Good morning, brothers,” said Harvard. He poured himself a cup of coffee from a nearby serving table. “How’s the price on Harvard Mills this morning?”

The brothers exchanged quick glances. “Up an eighth,” said John. “Why?”

“I’m thinking about selling a block.”

“How large a block?” William asked, a little uneasily.

“Pretty large,” said Harvard. Joining them at the table, he looked steadily at each brother in turn. “In fact, all I’ve got left.”

The brothers shook their heads in unison. “James, James, James,” said John with a sigh. “Why do you let yourself do these things?”

“What you’re really asking is why I’m not like you and Willie — excuse me, I mean William. Can’t call a chief executive officer Willie.” Harvard took a quick sip of coffee, burning his tongue slightly. “I don’t know why I’m not like you two, John. But I’m not. Maybe you two got all the good genes in the family; maybe there weren’t any left for me.”

“That’s nonsense and you know it,” snapped William. “You’re every bit as capable and competent as we are. If you’d just make an effort to control that damned gambling habit!”

“I have made an effort!” Harvard snapped back. “I’ve made a number of efforts. I just — I can’t seem to resist it. The turn of a card, the spin of a wheel, pitch of a baseball, two men in the ring, a new filly on a fast track.” He leaned forward on the table, a sudden urgency in his expression. “It’s like being in love with a woman you know is no good for you. She’s the worst thing that can ever happen to you, and the blackest day of your life was the day you met her. But you’ve got to have her — no matter what the consequences.” Sighing quietly, he sat back. “Do you want the stock?”

“James, let us make you an interest-free loan so that you won’t relinquish part-ownership of the mills,” suggested William. But Harvard was already shaking his head.

“No. I want out, Willie. If I’m going to ruin my life, I want to do it with my own money. Thanks anyway.” He turned to John. “Do you want the stock?”

“Of course,” said the elder brother. “We never want family stock sold to outsiders. I’ll take half and William will take half. Are you sure you want to sell all you’ve got left?”

“Yes. What’ll it come to, roughly?”

William took a wafer-thin calculator from his vest pocket and began entering figures. “If I recall correctly, you have seven thousand shares left. At the current market value of fifty-one, it comes to three hundred fifty-seven thousand.”

Harvard nodded slowly. After he deposited a hundred fifty-six thousand to cover the check he had written earlier, he would have just over two hundred thousand left. Rising from the table, he forced himself to keep his shoulders back and chin up. “Can you draw up the transfer today?”

“Of course, Jim. I’ll have everything ready by noon in our Loop office.”

The servants began bringing breakfast to his two brothers, so Harvard excused himself and walked through the mansion to his own small wing and into his bedroom. Getting down his matched Hartmann luggage, he began to bring clothes out of his closet to pack. All the time he was thinking: Where shall I go with the two hundred thousand I have left? The names of cities flashed into his mind. London. Monte Carlo. Nassau. Las Vegas.

He smiled to himself. Why not decide by chance? From a desk drawer in his adjoining study, he took a deck of his personal, high-quality, monogrammed playing cards, leather encased. Without sitting down, he began to deal the cards one by one, facedown, into four talons, or stacks. Mentally, he designated the talons alphabetically, from left to right, as Las Vegas, London, Monte Carlo, and Nassau. When each talon had thirteen cards in it, he began turning them up, one at a time across the board. Ace of spades takes it, he decided.

The ace of spades showed up on talon number three. Monte Carlo.

Harvard returned to his bedroom and resumed packing.

At six that evening, Harvard was comfortably settled in a first-class seat on an Air France 747 about to depart Chicago’s O’Hare Airport for Nice, France. In a zippered pocket of the carry-on bag at his feet was a certified cashier’s check for $201,000 — the last of what had once been a considerable inheritance and interest in Harvard Mills.

Sipping a martini before takeoff, Harvard became aware of a whip-thin woman with burnished red hair who entered the cabin with a group of several others, all taking seats in a section across the aisle from him. The redhead was vaguely familiar but he could not quite place her. She was expensively dressed in an Eric Bergere pantsuit for traveling, and had on a pair of Ferragamo boots which she unzipped and removed as soon as she sat down directly across from Harvard. He turned his attention away from her, but presently became aware that she was staring at him.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but haven’t we met?”

“That’s supposed to be the man’s line,” Harvard said, looking over at her again.

She shrugged. “Okay, you use it.”

Suppressing a smile, Harvard said, “Excuse me, but haven’t we met?”

Tilting her chin up slightly, she looked down her nose at him and replied aloofly, “I can’t imagine where.” Then she laughed a throaty laugh. “You’re James Harvard, aren’t you? I’m Adriana Marshall—”

“Of course,” said Harvard. “Henry Marshall’s daughter. Our fathers were friends. You and your family were at some charity event at our place five or six years ago.”

“Yes. It was for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, I think.” She paused a beat, then said, “We were all terribly sorry to hear about your father’s heart attack.”

“That’s kind of you. Your parents are well, I trust.”

“After a fashion,” Adriana said, raising one eyebrow. “They’re divorced. Mother is in Buenos Aires with some lothario she met in San Juan last year. Father is in robust good health, still single-handedly running Marshall Chemicals, which, as I’m sure you know, is the oldest and most reliable manufacturer of household cleaning products in America. When you use a Marshall product, you help stamp out grime.”

“I use them all, faithfully, every day,” Harvard assured her.

A cabin attendant brought Adriana a cocktail and she and Harvard touched glasses across the aisle. “Are you on your way to the film festival?” she asked.

“Film festival? What film festival?”

“The Monaco Film Festival, which you obviously aren’t attending.”

“No,” Harvard replied, frowning slightly. “I didn’t even realize it was being held.”

A tall man, handsome except for a somewhat slack jaw, came up and said, “Adriana, darling, come on back here. There’s a vacant seat and Buffy’s getting up a trivia contest.”

“Oh, good,” Adriana said, “I love trivia.” With her cocktail, and in her stockinged feet, she started down the aisle. “Join us if you like, James,” she invited over her shoulder.

“Perhaps later,” Harvard said, forcing a smile. Damn, he thought. A stupid film festival. If he had known that was going on, he would have chosen some other place to go to gamble. Instinctively, he hated crowds, hated people standing too close to him, casually brushing up against him. He was convinced that it brought bad luck, and spread germs besides. He made up his mind that if the casino was uncomfortably crowded, he would go on to London and the always tranquil private gaming clubs there.

As he sat finishing his martini, Harvard thought about Adriana Marshall. She had a reputation for being fiercely independent, and was completely liberated. Harvard knew of two serious affairs in which she had been involved, both of which supposedly cost her father considerable sums, and there had been a rumor several years earlier about an abortion. Adriana’s upbringing, like his own, had been the finest: finishing school in Virginia, college in Switzerland, art studies in France. In spite of it all, she managed to become involved with chauffeurs, gigolos, and professional rebels of various persuasions. Here she was now, traveling with a group of obviously idle rich, with nothing better to do than take in a foreign film festival.

Certainly not smart like me, he thought. At least he had a chance to win. Adriana, he felt, was a born loser.

Before he could analyze the absurdity of his conclusion, the cabin attendant came by to collect his glass and have him fasten his seat belt for takeoff.

By the time the 747 was well airborne, and Harvard had another martini, then hors d’oeuvres and a glass of champagne, then an excellent dinner of veal cutlets with a 1982 Château Margaux, he had been awake for some thirty-two hours and was physically spent. With a set of headphones in place, Mozart sonatas selected on the audio, the volume turned down to its lowest audible level, and a sleep mask on, he closed his eyes and went into a long, deep sleep. By the time he awoke, ten hours of the thirteen-hour flight had passed.

“So you’re not dead, after all,” Adriana said from across the aisle when he removed the sleep mask.

“I’m not sure yet,” Harvard replied. He looked anxiously toward the forward section of the cabin.

“It’s on the left, and it’s unoccupied,” Adriana said.

Quickly retrieving his shaving kit from the carry-on, Harvard hurried toward the lavatory.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned, shaved, hair combed, teeth brushed, relieved, and more than ready for the black coffee he was brought.

“Only a person who leads a decadent life can sleep that soundly for that long,” Adriana accused lightly.

“Are you speaking from experience?” he asked.

“Definitely. So tell me, since you’re not going to Monaco, what are you going to do in Nice?”

“But I am going to Monaco,” he said. “I’m just not going for the film festival.”

“What then?”

“To gamble.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.” His eyes locked onto hers. “You’re not the only one who’s an embarrassment to their family, Miss Marshall.”

Adriana stiffened just enough for it not to go unnoticed. “Exactly what does that mean?” she asked, her voice taking on an edge.

“It means that while you romp around the world spending your father’s hard-earned money associating with personality washouts, I squander my father’s hard-earned money across gambling tables frequented by equally worthless individuals who, like myself, contribute absolutely nothing worthwhile to mankind. We’re meaningless, you and I. Totally insignificant. It’s interesting that you like trivia so much — because you are trivia, just as I am.”

Adriana glared at him icily, sculpted lips compressed in anger. “Why don’t you go to hell, Harvard,” she said tightly.

“All in good time,” he replied.

Adriana stalked down the aisle away from him.

The Air France 747 set down at Nice International Airport just before noon. Deplaning, filing through Immigration, claiming baggage, and proceeding through Customs, Harvard and Adriana were never more than thirty feet apart, but they neither spoke nor looked at one another. To a degree, Harvard regretted what he had said to her; it had been boorish and unnecessary, and the only way he could explain it to himself was to rationalize that Adriana lived as she did because she was shallow and without character, while he was in a sense compelled to the life he led by some inner obsession, some psychological addiction over which he had no control, like the weakness that drove an alcoholic. Absent the force that generated his compulsion to gamble, Harvard was certain he would have been every bit the respectable, successful business executive his brothers were. The logic of that reasoning was all that allowed him to keep from despising himself.

As Harvard left the Nice arrivals terminal, he saw Adriana and her group dividing themselves between two gleaming white limousines. Putting the woman and their encounter out of his mind, he boarded a tram with his bags and several minutes later debarked on a rental lot where he signed for a red Audi convertible. Soon he was hugging the coastal road above the Cote d’Azur and the glistening Mediterranean, heading south out of Nice toward Monaco and Monte Carlo. Halfway along on the twenty-mile drive, he passed both white limousines. They had tinted windows, so he could not tell whether Adriana Marshall was looking out at him or not, and in any case he kept his eyes straight ahead. Already Adriana was beginning to move to the back of his mind as he started thinking about the games of chance that awaited him in the great marbled, mirrored, chandeliered casino called Monte Carlo.

Within an hour, Harvard had cruised down the wide, colorful Avenue de Monte Carlo and swung into the entry drive of the magnificent Hotel de Paris. Crossing the ornate lobby, momentarily crowded with motion picture people between screenings, he was thankful he’d had the foresight to make a confirmed reservation before leaving Chicago, and realized he was fortunate to have found a vacancy at all. As he registered, he said to the desk clerk, “I have a large cashier’s check that I’d like to have cleared for casino play as soon as possible.”

“Of course, sir. Let me get the concierge for you.”

The check was turned over for approval and Harvard given a receipt. “Your funds should be available through the concierge desk by six P.M., Mr. Harvard.”

A bellman showed Harvard to a luxurious mini-suite on the third floor, facing the broad boulevard and the shining sea beyond. When he was alone, he stepped out onto his small balcony to look across the street at the casino. A sense of anticipation trickled down his spine and made him shudder slightly. Then he glanced down and saw Adriana Marshall alighting from one of the white limousines at the hotel entrance. At once, his sense of anticipation vanished.

Turning back into the hotel room, Harvard found himself hoping that the encounter with Adriana was not going to bring him continued bad luck.

Just after six that evening, fortified by a light, early dinner ordered from room service, Harvard donned what he perceived to be his lucky white dinner jacket and went down to the concierge desk. On duty was an attractive, dark-haired young woman in a black tail coat, pinned to which was a brass name tag reading: GEORGETTE MANON. Identifying himself, Harvard obtained a validated note of credit from the hotel to the casino for twenty thousand American dollars in French francs, with the amount charged against his now-verified credit.

“Good luck at the tables, sir,” said Georgette Manon as she handed him the credit note.

“Thank you very much,” Harvard replied, pleased. He considered it a good omen to be wished luck by a total stranger.

Crossing the brilliantly lighted Avenue de Monte Carlo, Harvard entered the foyer of the opulent casino, paid his ten-franc entry fee, and proceeded onto the impressive expanse of the casino floor, relieved to see that it was busy but not as overly crowded as the film festival event might have suggested. At a convenient cashier’s cage, he changed his note of credit for a rack of thirty-two five-thousand-franc jetons, or playing chips. Then, turning to survey the floor, he quickly chose a boule table where only one other person was engaged in play.

Boule is a high-risk game of roulette. There are only nine numbers on the wheel. Even numbers — two, four, six, and eight — pay seven-to-one on a bet, as do odd numbers — one, three, seven, and nine. Number five on the wheel takes all bets for the house. Players may also bet red or black, odd or even, or split combinations of two-four-seven-nine or one-three-six-eight.

Harvard played boule for nearly an hour and a half, wagering against a short Arab croupier with the name HABIB on his casino badge. First winning, then losing, then winning again, then losing again, Harvard finally began to lose steadily. By seven-thirty, the entire twenty thousand was gone, his jeton rack empty.

Returning to the hotel concierge desk, Harvard obtained from Georgette Manon another note of credit for an additional twenty thousand dollars. “Good luck again, monsieur,” she said, smiling.

“Thank you again,” he said, returning the smile.

Entering the casino again, Harvard saw Adriana Marshall, in a gold lame evening gown, playing boule at the same table at which he had played earlier. Even sitting in the same chair. And the same short croupier, Habib, was still spinning the wheel. Adriana appeared to be alone, which he found mildly surprising. Quickly ignoring her presence, in case she was bad luck, he got his rack of chips and walked into the Trente-et-Quarante area and took a seat.

Trente-et-Quarante, or Thirty-and-Forty, is a card game in which 312 cards are dealt a few at a time from a highly polished wooden sabot, or shoe. Face cards are considered tens, aces are ones, and all other cards keep their numbered value. The cards are laid out faceup in a single row until the points total at least thirty-one but not more than forty. A second row is then dealt below the first row, again until the point value of the cards reaches thirty-one but no more than forty. Players bet on which row will come closest to thirty-one. They may also bet on couleur: that the first card of the first row will be the same color as the first card of the second row; or inverse: that the colors will not be the same. All winning bets are paid even money.

Determined to quickly recoup his earlier losses, Harvard bet heavily for a full hour — and for the second time that evening lost his entire rack of chips.

At the concierge desk again, Harvard obtained a note of credit for forty thousand dollars, instead of twenty.

“I do hope monsieur’s luck changes,” the dark-haired young woman at the desk said, rather self-consciously.

“So do I,” Harvard replied curtly.

They did not exchange smiles this time.

Crossing the casino floor for the third time, Harvard noticed that Adriana was still at the same boule table, but with a different croupier on duty. He thought nothing of it until he was standing at the cashier’s cage getting his chips — a double rack this time. That was when he saw the Arab croupier, Habib, standing nearby, pointing Adriana out to a somewhat flat-faced Anglo with a head of tightly curled black hair, and wearing a leather coat over a turtleneck. The man nodded and surreptitiously passed an envelope to Habib, who quickly put it in his inside coat pocket. Probably some gigolo, Harvard thought, staking out an American rich girl brought to his attention by a casino employee with a profitable little sideline.

With his new chips, Harvard walked over to the Baccarat area, his face set with the grim determination he felt to break his unbelievable losing streak. Settling into one of the plushly upholstered chairs, he began to place conservative bets while getting the feel of the table.

As with Trente-et-Quarante, six decks of cards were used in Baccarat. Face cards and tens had values of zero; aces were one point; all other cards counted for their number value. The object of the game was to get as close to nine as possible with either two or three cards. Amounts of ten were subtracted from a player’s total. In Harvard’s first hand, he was dealt an eight and a nine, for a total of seventeen, minus ten, which gave him a value of seven. He chose not to draw a third card, and lost when the dealer hit a six, a four, and an eight, for a score of eighteen, minus ten, for a winning eight.

That was the first of twenty-four consecutive hands that Harvard lost at Baccarat. On the twenty-fifth hand, he pushed in all the chips he had left, a bet of nearly six thousand dollars, and lost again.

Stunned, he left the table. Walking ahead of him as he approached the foyer was the flat-faced man he had seen having Adriana Marshall pointed out to him by the boule croupier. Harvard scarcely noticed him, nor was he aware that Adriana herself was only a dozen yards behind him, also walking toward the foyer.

Outside, as Harvard waited to cross the boulevard back to the Hotel de Paris, the flat-faced man stopped at the casino entrance and signaled the driver of a Porsche four-seater parked nearby. The Porsche pulled up to the entrance just as Adriana Marshall came out the door.

Traffic on the boulevard stopped and Harvard crossed to the hotel.

Behind him, Adriana Marshall was quickly and quietly forced into the Porsche by the flat-faced man, and the car sped off around the corner, away from the busy boulevard.

At three o’clock the next afternoon, Harvard woke from a drunken sleep with a crushing headache and barely enough strength to make it into the bathroom to gulp down four aspirin, take off the underwear in which he had slept, and stand under a moderately cold shower until his mind began to clear. A while later, in a thick terrycloth hotel robe, he made it out to a couch in the sitting area and began trying to regroup.

On the table in front of him were his canceled notes of credit which had, one by one, come back to the hotel concierge for payment. Tallying through them, Harvard learned that his losses for the night totaled one hundred eighty-eight thousand U. S. dollars. Groaning audibly, he rested his head back as the last few hours of the previous evening started surfacing in his memory.

After losing forty thousand dollars at baccarat, he had made his fourth trip to the hotel for another note of credit. “Make this one for the entire amount I have left,” he instructed.

“The full one hundred twenty thousand, monsieur?” Georgette Manon asked, with a slight, troubled frown.

“Yes, yes, the entire amount,” he replied impatiently.

“Monsieur must be having a very bad run of luck,” she commented sympathetically.

“Aren’t you observant,” Harvard said with an edge. He glanced at his watch. “Would you mind hurrying?”

He had gone back to the casino. At the entrance, he passed several police cars and saw a number of gendarmes and security personnel moving anxiously about. Ignoring them, he had returned to the gaming tables.

In a matter of less than two and a half hours, by the time the chimes sounded to close the casino at two A.M., Harvard had lost an additional one hundred eight thousand dollars. Returning the scant few chips he had left to the cashier’s cage, he had received a credit for twelve thousand dollars, left the casino, and walked down the busy boulevard to the first bar he came to. There he had begun drinking. By three-thirty he was swacked. Staggering out of the bar, he managed to walk down to the waterfront where, after discussing his problem for a few minutes with a luminous full moon, he eventually lay down on the bench he was sitting on and passed out. Sometime around dawn, a police patrol found him, discovered a Hotel de Paris key card in his pocket, and called the concierge there. Two bellmen were dispatched and Harvard was returned to his room, undressed, and put to bed in his underwear.

As he sat mulling over his incredible bad fortune, the buzzer at his door sounded briefly and seconds later the door opened and Georgette Manon came in, with a room service waiter who went about setting up a breakfast table.

“The maid came in and heard your shower,” Georgette said. “I had notified her to advise me when you woke up. Are you all right, monsieur?”

“Yes, I’m just dandy,” he replied in a raspy voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said, crossing to open the door to his balcony. “That was a foolish question.” Dismissing the room service waiter, she came over and took his arm. “Come, some coffee will help.”

“Who put me to bed this morning?” he asked as she moved him to the breakfast table.

“I did.” Georgette blushed slightly.

There was a folded newspaper on the breakfast table and Harvard saw at once a photograph of Adriana Marshall, under a headline that read: AMERICAN HEIRESS KIDNAPPED.

“My God—” he said, head beginning to clear more quickly as he read the French language story.

“Yes, it’s dreadful,” Georgette said. “She was taken from directly in front of the casino, in full view of a dozen people. The kidnappers telephoned the media to say that they were demanding five million dollars in ransom. No one knows whether they are terrorists or merely criminals.”

From outside the balcony door suddenly came the sound of sirens. Georgette went over to look. A motorcade of automobiles with a police escort pulled up in front of the hotel.

“That must be the young woman’s father,” Georgette said. “He was on his way by private jet from the States to await further word from the kidnappers.”

Harvard’s now completely unfogged mind was racing. Five million dollars. And nobody knew yet who the kidnappers were.

“Georgette, I want you to do something for me,” he said, taking his cup of coffee into the bathroom.

“Certainly, monsieur.” She followed him, but stopped, mouth agape, when he discarded his robe and stood naked before her. Turning his back to her, he began lathering his face to shave.

“I want you to find out which suite the kidnap victim’s father will be in. His name is Henry Marshall.”

“All right, monsieur.”

He turned to face her and she tried unsuccessfully to avoid looking at him.

“Also,” he added, “I should have about twelve thousand dollars left in my concierge account. Exchange it, half for dollars, half for francs, and have the money ready for me when I come down.”

“Yes, monsieur.” She had never seen a naked American man before and wondered fleetingly if they were all so well built.

“Please hurry, Georgette,” he urged.

“Uh — yes, certainly, monsieur.”

Wrenching her eyes away, she hurried from the room, blushing deeply.

Less than an hour later, dressed in a conservative business suit, with the currency he had picked up from Georgette in his pocket, Harvard crossed the boulevard and entered the casino. Habib was at the same boule wheel as the previous evening. There were no players at his table. Harvard sat down and placed a bet with a bank note. Habib spun the small wheel.

“How much was in the envelope you got last night for pointing out Adriana Marshall?” Harvard asked quietly.

“Pardon, monsieur?” the croupier said innocently.

“You were given an envelope by a man in a leather coat. He was paying you for showing him which woman in the casino was Adriana Marshall. A short while later, she was kidnapped. You are involved.”

The boule ball dropped into the wheel’s number-four slot. Harvard had bet eight.

“Monsieur is mistaken, I assure you,” the croupier said.

“I saw the transaction,” Harvard said firmly. He placed another bet.

“It did not occur, monsieur. You are mistaken.” Habib spun the wheel.

“There are two other witnesses,” Harvard lied. “We are prepared to go to the authorities.”

The croupier fell silent, studying him. His dark Algerian eyes shifted back and forth to see if anyone was watching them. Finally he asked calmly, “What do you want?”

“The name of the man who paid you.”

“I do not know. I know only that he is with an organization.”

“What organization?”

“Some Irish group from Northern Ireland. Not the IRA. Something smaller, newer, less well known. I think he called it the ‘INF.’ I don’t know what that stands for.”

“Why did they kidnap her?”

Habib shrugged. “The money. To fund their activities.”

The wheel stopped again and Harvard lost another bet.

“Where have they taken her?”

“I have no idea, monsieur, I swear. I only identified the woman for them.”

“Do you have any way of contacting the man who paid you?”

“No.”

“If you’re lying to me, you will regret it.”

“Allah be my judge,” the croupier declared, “that is all I know.”

Returning to the hotel, Harvard paused at the concierge desk long enough for Georgette to whisper the number of Henry Marshall’s suite. When he got to it, he was stopped by two private security guards.

“My name is James Harvard,” he said. “Tell Mr. Marshall I’m the son of the late Harry Harvard, of Chicago. It is urgent that I see him.”

Several minutes later, Harvard was shown into the living room of the suite, where Henry Marshall was in discussion with his executive assistant, a representative from the U. S. State Department, and two high-ranking French law enforcement officials. Marshall, a blunt, no-nonsense Midwestern businessman, rose when Harvard entered and said, “Young man, I was a great admirer of your father, but I must tell you that this is not the time for either a social call or a sympathy visit—”

“Sir, I believe I may be able to help you in this matter,” Harvard said straightforwardly. “Just give me five minutes in private and you can decide.”

Marshall studied him closely for a moment, then said, “All right, come with me.”

Leaving the others, Marshall led Harvard into the large master bedroom of the suite. They sat at a small table overlooking the boulevard.

“If I can find out who has Adriana and where she is being held,” Harvard said, “and if she can be rescued without you paying the five-million ransom, would you be willing to pay me a ten-percent fee? Half a million dollars?”

Henry Marshall frowned in puzzlement. “Did you say you were Harry Harvard’s son?”

“Yes, but don’t confuse me with my father. He was wealthy, I’m not.”

“Didn’t he leave you anything?”

“A great deal. But I’ve lost it all. I gamble.”

Marshall shook his head in disgust. “You’d better leave. I don’t want you meddling in this matter when my daughter’s safety is at risk. I intend to pay the ransom. You’ll have to find some other way to make half a million dollars.”

“Look,” Harvard reasoned, “it’s going to take seventy-two hours for you to accumulate enough money to meet the ransom demand. Suppose I deliver Adriana back to you safe and unharmed within that time? Would you pay me the fee then?”

“No, I would not,” Henry Marshall stated emphatically. “Understand, paying this ransom will be the most personally repugnant thing I’ve ever had to do. But I have no choice. I cannot risk my daughter’s safety by allowing any rescue attempts or other activity that might agitate or perturb the people holding her. I cannot agree to let you intercede in this matter. That’s my final decision.”

Back in his own room, Harvard tried to rationalize Henry Marshall’s position. He decided there was no other course Marshall could have taken. If he approved of Harvard’s proposed involvement and something went wrong, resulting in harm to Adriana, her father would never forgive himself. But no one could fault him for following the kidnappers’ instructions to the letter and paying the ransom. Even if something went badly wrong then, Henry Marshall could not be blamed; he was only doing the right thing.

But Harvard was convinced that Marshall would pay him the fee if he rescued Adriana. Everything Harvard had ever heard about Henry Marshall told him that Marshall was a fair man, an honest man, a man of ethics and morals and decency. A man much like Harvard’s own late father.

So Harvard decided to take a chance. He did not have a hell of a lot to lose. Almost broke already, with no financial prospects for the future, maybe, just maybe, this was the break he needed, the opportunity to end his miserable run of bad luck and turn his fortunes around. A chance to hit for half a million dollars and start a new life. Go back to his brothers, buy back his stock, become a productive executive in the business their father and grandfather and great-grandfather had built.

There was just one covenant he had to make with himself. If at any time it appeared that what he was doing was in any way further endangering or threatening Adriana Marshall, he would back off at once. He did not particularly like Adriana, but if he could not help her, he certainly did not want to harm her.

That decided, he called Georgette at the concierge desk. “Georgette, I want you to get me a round-trip first-class ticket on the earliest flight to London, with the return open. I want to keep my room, so don’t check me out. Charge the ticket to my room account. Call me as soon as the arrangements are made.”

Hanging up, he could not help smiling briefly to himself. The way she had looked at him so frankly had not escaped his attention.

With only a carry-on bag, Harvard flew to London on a British Air flight. At Heathrow, he paused long enough to telephone a former college roommate in Belfast to arrange a meeting, then paid cash for a seat on one of the hourly commuter hops across the Irish Sea to Northern Ireland. It was nine P.M. when he touched down at Aldergrove Airport and taxied into the city. Checking into the Midland Hotel, he quickly unpacked his extra clothes before hurrying out into the nippy Belfast night.

Mooney’s Pub was only a block away, as his old roommate had said it would be, and that roommate was waiting for him with a wide, almost leering smile and a clamorous greeting. “Jimmy Harvard, you bloody Yankee! Did they finally run you out of Shy-cago?”

“Tyrone Buchanan, you Irish scoundrel!” Harvard greeted him back. The two men embraced and then Harvard stepped back and patted Tyrone’s ample midsection. “Who’s the father, Buck?”

“It’s the bloody beer, Jimmy. Best in the world! My only remaining vice.”

Harvard’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? And what happened to all the others?”

“Gone,” Tyrone said sadly. “Smothered by the bonds of holy matrimony and the awesome responsibilities of parenthood. Here, let me show you pictures of my family—”

They sat in a private booth with a stained-glass door, drinking dark ale, and for a few minutes talked of times past and things changed, before smiling a little sadly at each other about a good life once lived but now gone forever.

“Ah, Jimmy, we’re a long ways from Notre Dame,” Tyrone finally said with a sigh.

“Yes, we are,” Harvard agreed.

Tyrone sat back and tilted his head a little. “So. You said your trip was important.”

“Are you still in the civil service here, Ty?” Harvard asked.

“Yes, I am,” his friend replied soberly. He lowered his voice, as if by habit. “It’s difficult at times, me being a Catholic and the great majority of government offices being held by Protestants. But a few others and myself try to keep some sort of balance that will enable the peace discussions to continue. No matter what you hear from the press, Jimmy, we all, Protestants and Catholics alike, want the bloodshed to stop. It’s the politicians, not the people, that can’t seem to pull it together.”

Harvard nodded solemnly. “I remembered all the talks we had about the troubles, as you called them, when we were back in school. I remembered the plans you had to go into government to see if you could make a difference. That’s why I thought of you when I needed help in something.” Harvard lowered his own voice. “What’s the INF?”

Tyrone Buchanan’s expression darkened. “The Irish National Front. A splinter group that broke off from the IRA when the peace talks began. Its leader is a man named Brian Kenna. He’s very popular, very charismatic, and very much against any compromise with the British in Northern Ireland. What’s your interest in him, Jimmy?”

“You know about the Marshall kidnapping, of course. Five million dollars in ransom is being demanded. I have very good information that the INF is behind it.”

Tyrone sat back, pursing his lips for a moment. “That’s a theory no one’s come up with, but it certainly makes sense. The IRA has refused to fund any of Kenna’s activities, and it’s a known fact that he’s desperately short of operating money. Five million would keep his group afloat for a long time.” Tyrone’s eyes fixed on Harvard. “How are you involved, Jimmy?”

“Our families are close,” Harvard lied. “I’m trying to get her back before her father has to pay the ransom.” He paused a beat, then asked, “Do you think this Kenna will kill her if things don’t go his way?”

Tyrone shook his head emphatically. “Never. He’s too smart for that. If he killed the girl, he’d be branded a murderer and a terrorist by most of the world. Brian Kenna wants to be a political force. He wants the people to love him, think he’s a hero. He probably won’t even publicly admit the kidnapping.”

“You don’t think any attempt by me to rescue her would result in her death?”

“No. Your death, perhaps. What’s your plan, Jimmy?”

“I’m hoping you can help me locate an INF contact in Monaco. I don’t care who or what the contact is: agent, informant, arms buyer, go-between, anything, as long as there’s a connection.”

“And if you locate such a person, what then?” Tyrone wanted to know.

Harvard shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to improvise from there.” Harvard leaned forward with an urgency that surprised his friend. “This is very important to me, Ty. Please help me if you can.”

Tyrone stared at him long and steadily. “All right,” he said at last, “I’ll try. I have friends in the constabulary; perhaps they can help.”

Harvard sat back, silently nodding his gratitude. And for the first time felt an inkling of fear at what he was doing.

At noon the next day, Tyrone picked Harvard up at the hotel and drove him outside the city to Ulster Prison.

“I’ve arranged this through a friend, who arranged it through a friend, who arranged it through another friend,” the Irishman said. “There’s no guarantee that it’ll work.”

At the old, fortress-like, stone-constructed prison, the two were met by Chief Warden Charnley, a robust man with a cherub face belied only by flat, hard eyes that had seen more misery in their time than they should have.

“We’ve a fellow in solitary that might be of some use to you, Mr. Harvard,” he said. “His name’s Denny Yougal. He’s been in strict isolation for a couple of weeks now, so there’s a good chance he won’t be aware of the kidnapping.”

“Will he cooperate, do you think?” Harvard asked.

“On something like this, possibly. I have a way I use now and then to get low-priority information. I think it’s perfect for this situation.”

Charnley pressed a button on his desk and Denny Yougal was brought in by a guard sergeant. He was a pudgy, kinky-haired young man with an attitude of innocence and false conviviality.

“Denny, my boy,” said Charnley, “this gentleman here wants to locate an INF contact in Monaco. Any level will do, even a runner. Give us a name like a good lad, will you?”

Denny managed a puzzled expression. “I don’t know no such people as that, Chief Warden,” he said, as benignly as he could. “I couldn’t even name an INF member here in Belfast. I’m completely nonpolitical, I am.”

“All right, Denny,” the chief warden said with a knowing chuckle. He nodded to the sergeant. “Take him down and have him released. Note in his record that he was cooperative with us.”

“What’s that, sir?” Denny asked, puzzled. “I wasn’t cooperative.”

“Of course, you were, Denny. You told us the truth, didn’t you?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I mean, you didn’t believe me, did you?”

“What difference does it make?” the chief warden replied, all warmth vanishing from his voice now. “The office trusties will see the record and pass the word out next visiting day, but if you’re not INF, the ones who get that word will know you couldn’t have told us anything.”

“Then why do it, sir?” Denny all but implored.

“As a reason to release you, Denny. The prison’s too crowded. Go along now.”

The sergeant started to take him out, but Denny pulled back. “Wait a bloody while, will you?” He wet suddenly dry lips. “Supposin’ I was to give you a name, what then?”

“Then I’d think you were lying and I’d have your file noted that you were most uncooperative and you’d be thrown back in isolation for another week or so, then released.”

Agitated, Denny quickly thought it over. “All right,” he said after a moment. “There’s a man named Grimaud. He has an antique shop on the Rue de la Scala. He launders currency for the INF. That’s all I know.”

The chief warden and Tyrone Buchanan looked at Harvard, who nodded.

“That’ll do,” said Harvard.

Driving Harvard back to his hotel, Tyrone asked, “You can’t stay for just a few hours? I’d really like you to meet my family—”

“Sorry, Ty. I’m on a tight schedule, remember? That ransom is now due to be paid in less than forty-eight hours.”

“Of course. Stupid of me. Promise you’ll come for a visit when this mess is over?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Tyrone dropped Harvard back at the Midland and the two former roommates said goodbye. In his room, Harvard called the Hotel de Paris in Monaco and asked for Georgette at the concierge desk.

“This is James Harvard. I’d like you to do me another favor. Find out everything you can about a man named Grimaud who has an antique shop on Rue de la Scala.”

Georgette agreed to help him further, but Harvard could detect a nervousness in her voice when she did. He had her transfer the call up to Henry Marshall’s suite, where it was answered by an aide. “Tell Mr. Marshall that James Harvard called,” he said. “Tell him I may soon have his daughter located. I’ll call back when I have news.”

Quickly then, he packed his carry-on and hurried down to the lobby to check out. Leaving the hotel, he settled into the back of the first taxi in the queue and said, “I need to get to the airport as quickly as possible.”

“I know a good, fast shortcut, sir,” the driver replied.

The taxi swung into the flow of traffic. Behind it, a panel truck pulled out and followed.

The taxi driver avoided the busy express highway that led to Aldergrove in favor of a two-lane asphalt road that cut through a rural area and was virtually traffic-free. “This’ll save us fifteen minutes, sir,” the cabby assured him.

Resting his head back, Harvard tried to formulate in his mind some kind of approach to use on the antique dealer, Grimaud. Denny Yougal had said Grimaud was a money launderer; maybe offering him a cut of the fee from Henry Marshall was the way to begin. If that failed to tempt him, perhaps a threat of reporting him to French authorities would work. And if that failed—

Harvard’s thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the panel truck speeding up alongside the taxi, and the muzzle of an automatic rifle suddenly appearing in the lowered passenger window.

“Driver, look out—!” Harvard yelled, throwing himself to the floorboard as a burst of gunfire strafed the backseat of the taxi.

In what seemed like only a split second, the taxi had left the pavement and slammed to a complete stop against the buttress of a culvert running alongside a wide field. Harvard’s shoulder smashed into the car’s right rear door and he was spilled half out of the vehicle when the door opened. From the ground he saw steam spewing from the taxi’s cracked radiator. Scrambling to a crouch, he peered into the front seat and saw that the driver was bent over the steering wheel, groaning, with what looked to be a broken nose. Looking up over the edge of the road, he saw that the panel truck had come to a stop and two men were hurrying back to the crash site. There were no other vehicles in either direction.

“Stay put,” he said to the driver. “They’re not after you.”

Scrambling down the grade, Harvard began running in a low, painful crouch along the bottom of the culvert. Sweat streamed into his eyes, burning them, and something thicker than sweat ran over his top lip. Reaching up, he found that he too had a nosebleed. Pausing for a second, he looked back and saw that the two men, guns visible in their hands, had now reached the taxi and were scrambling down to it. At the same time, across the culvert, he saw a storm drain that ran under the road.

Sucking in a deep breath, Harvard got inside the drain and began duck-walking toward the circle of light at the other end, balancing himself with both hands on the curved inside walls of the drain. In less than a minute, he emerged on the opposite side of the road. He was just in time to hear one of the men yell, “The bloody bastard ain’t here!”

“He’s got to be out in the field somewhere,” shouted the other. “Come on!”

As the two men, squinting against the sun, moved tentatively into the field, Harvard doubled back in the culvert across the road and hurried toward the point where their panel truck was pulled over. If he could just get far enough away from them in the opposite direction from where they were looking, he might have a chance—

Abruptly, he stopped. As he was about to rush past the panel truck, he suddenly became aware that the vehicle’s engine was idling. The fact struck him like a fist. They didn’t turn the ignition off!

Harvard peered down the road. The two men were at least fifty yards away. Taking another deep breath, he scurried out of the culvert and raced to the truck. Leaping inside, he was momentarily surprised to find the steering wheel missing. But it was merely on the other side, and his harried mind snapped back to the fact that he was in Ireland and vehicles had right-hand drives, not left. Sliding over, he shifted gears, eased onto the road, and drove off.

Behind him, in the rearview mirror, he saw the two men scramble back up to the road and stand there helplessly as the truck moved farther out of their range of fire.

Within an hour, Harvard was on a commuter flight back to London. He had lost his carry-on bag in the wreck, but his plane ticket had been in his inside coat pocket, along with his passport and wallet. After abandoning the panel truck on the airport parking lot, he had brushed himself off good, then gone to a men’s room and cleaned up even more. A cold, wet paper towel had taken care of his bloody nose and made him presentable enough to board the plane. After a ninety-minute layover at Heathrow, he was on a flight back to Nice. It was just dusk when he got into his rented convertible for the drive from the Nice airport to the Hotel de Paris, but he felt as if he had traveled ten thousand miles and not slept in days.

Georgette saw him the moment he entered the lobby and hurried over to him. “Are you all right?” she asked with genuine concern.

“I think so. Did you get any information on Grimaud?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. He is a fairly well-known antiques dealer, has a good reputation, in business for about ten years, apparently is very prosperous. Incidentally, your friend has been here twice this afternoon looking for you—”

Harvard froze and his eyes swept the lobby. “What friend?”

“He did not give me his name. A nice-looking man with an Irish accent. He was most anxious to know when you would return.”

Harvard put his hand on Georgette’s arm and casually, unobtrusively guided her to a corner of the big lobby where he could see everyone who was moving about.

“Georgette, listen carefully to me,” he said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. “My life is in danger. I am trying to help find the American girl who was kidnapped night before last. The man who was here looking for me may be a member of a terrorist group that has her. I’m telling you this because I don’t dare stay here at the hotel tonight. I need someplace to hide. Is there any way you can help me?”

“I–I don’t know, monsieur,” she replied nervously. “It all sounds — so very frightening—”

“Do you live alone, Georgette?” he asked straightforwardly.

“Well, I — sometimes. That is, I have a boyfriend who is a seaman. He stays with me when he is in port. But he is at sea right now, due back in two days.”

“Will you let me stay with you tonight?”

Georgette looked down at the carpet, as if embarrassed.

“Please, Georgette. I have nowhere else to turn.”

She nodded. “Yes, all right.”

“I’m very grateful,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Where do you live?”

“Forty-four la Belle Aurore. In the La Condamine district.”

“Call your landlady. Tell her I’m your cousin from the U. S. and to let me in.” He glanced around. “Now, walk away from me and return to your desk. If anyone asks, say that you were giving me some messages and that I was going up to my room.”

Georgette walked away and Harvard strode toward the nearest elevator bank. A burly man in sports clothes rose from a chair across the lobby and walked the same way. Noticing him, Harvard walked faster and managed to get on an elevator and close the door just before the man got there.

On three, Harvard exited the elevator, walked to the end of the hall to a stairwell, and hurried down to a side exit of the hotel.

In a small department store in the La Condamine district, Harvard purchased a pair of jeans, a turtleneck pullover, deck shoes, and a windbreaker. He also took time to shop for wine, cheese, sausage, peppers, and bread for his and Georgette’s dinner. At the address she gave him, he found a neat six-flat building. Georgette’s flat was on the third floor in the rear, and the landlady not only let him in without a problem but flirted openly with him as well.

Georgette’s flat, Harvard found, was clean but outrageously untidy. There was lacy underwear in the kitchen, uneaten food in the sitting room, the bed was unmade, drawers left open, magazines, shoes, soft-drink bottles strewn about. Harvard, fastidiously neat himself, spent an hour straightening up the place, even folding Georgette’s panties and putting them away. Then he showered and changed into the new clothes he had bought, after which he cooked up the sausages and peppers, sliced the cheese and bread, and opened the wine to let it breathe before pouring. When Georgette arrived home, she found her apartment tidier than it had ever been, and her dinner ready.

“My, aren’t you the little homemaker,” she said. “Perhaps I should forget Marcel and just keep you.”

“Marcel?”

“My boyfriend who is at sea.”

“I think,” Harvard told her wryly, “you are better off with Marcel.”

Georgette showered and donned slacks and a blouse for the evening, and they dined at a little table next to high, open windows that overlooked a smaller building across the alley, on the lighted rooftop of which a young boy and girl alternated between feeding pigeons and kissing passionately. Harvard tried to make conversation around an awkwardness that seemed to hang between them. He told her a bit about himself, while inquiring of her own life and past. Her background was ordinary: She was one of six children of a farming family in LaMotte in Provence. Three sons had remained to become farmers, while three sisters left to find lives elsewhere. One of her sisters was a maritime expediter in Marseilles, the other a banking clerk in Toulon. Georgette herself had begun as a hotel maid and moved through the ranks as a café waitress, café cashier, hotel reservations clerk, desk clerk, and finally apprentice concierge. She had met her boyfriend Marcel at a dance across the Italian border in San Remo, where his Mediterranean cargo ship was docked. Their affair had been ongoing for three years. Both wanted to get married — but they never wanted it at the same time.

Even though Georgette answered his questions about her family and her life, Harvard sensed that as the meal progressed she seemed to grow somewhat cool and distant. He thought perhaps it was because she was developing concerns about him being there.

“Georgette,” he said, “if this arrangement has become uncomfortable for you, I can try to find someplace else to stay—”

“Certainly not,” she said emphatically. “I agreed to let you stay, and stay you will.” She looked out the window. “I suppose I feel a little ill at ease because there is such a great difference between us. You come from wealth, prosperity, a life of advantages. Next to that, I am so very common and uncultured, not refined or—”

“Georgette,” he interrupted, taking her hand across the table, “let’s remember who is helping whom in this situation. You are those things only in your mind. To me, you are a flawless person that I have been very fortunate to meet.”

“You are just being kind,” she said. “Were it not for the fact that you are in trouble, I would not get a second glance from you. We both know that.” She stood up abruptly. “Excuse me, please. I have an errand to run.”

Almost before Harvard knew it, she had got her purse and a beret, and was out the door.

Depressed, Harvard finished eating alone, then cleaned up after the meal, and finally sat next to the window looking up at the stars as he drank the last of the wine.

Georgette came back two hours later, obviously having had more to drink after leaving. Although slightly tipsy, she was nevertheless politely reserved.

“Please forgive my earlier behavior,” she said rather formally, bringing him a quilt and pillow to sleep on the couch. She retired to her bedroom and Harvard heard a loud metallic click as she locked the door.

Feeling guilty about involving her, he undressed down to his underwear and stretched out on the couch. He had a bad tension headache, and a shoulder ache from the jarring crash of the taxi, which seemed like so long ago but was actually less than twelve hours earlier. Wishing he had asked Georgette for some aspirin, but not wanting to disturb her now, he settled down with his eyes closed and tried to go to sleep. But each time he began to drift off, he heard a loud crash in his mind and remembered again the impact of the taxi smashing into the culvert.

Finally, well after midnight, when Harvard at last was slipping into a restful sleep, he heard another sharp metallic click like the one that had sounded when Georgette locked her bedroom door. He lay very still in the dark, drawing bare, soundless breath, wondering if someone was trying to get into the apartment. Then he felt Georgette’s smooth, warm arms slide down his torso as she bent over him from the end of the couch where his head lay. She spoke in a whisper, her face mere inches above his in the blackness.

“I am sorry for the way I acted tonight,” she said. “I was not angry with you, but with myself because I am so attracted to you. I have been trying to resist the temptation I feel so strongly to make love with you. I wanted to be faithful to my boyfriend, who is the only man I have ever made love with. I wanted to be able to say that in all my life, only one man had me. Now you have ruined all that—”

He felt the quilt being dragged off him, felt her fingers searching. “Georgette, I don’t want to be the reason for you being angry with yourself,” he said. He took hold of her hands and stopped their movement. “Let me find someplace else to stay—”

“No!” she snapped, jerking her hands from his. He tried to push himself up as he heard a drawer being opened in a table against the back of the couch. That was followed by the unmistakable sound of a switchblade stiletto being opened, and Harvard immediately felt the point of a blade touch his throat. “If you try to leave, I will cut you,” Georgette threatened. “You’re going to do everything I tell you to.”

Harvard lay back and remained very still as her free hand began a tantalizing finger dance on his flesh. Her breasts covered his face as she leaned farther over him. After several moments, he reached up and took the knife from her hand.

“You won’t need that,” he said as he pulled her down on top of him. He closed his eyes again, but not to sleep this time.

The next morning, a lazily satiated Georgette looked up from the bed as Harvard dressed. After expelling a deep, pleasure-saturated sigh, she suddenly became serious and asked, “What will happen today?”

Harvard grunted softly. “I couldn’t even guess.” He bobbed his chin toward the other room. “There’s coffee on; shall I bring you a cup?”

“No, I’ll come out.” She got up, wrapping a sheet around her supple young body like a great cape, and following him out of the room. He poured the coffee and they sat together on the couch where their marathon lovemaking had begun. Harvard picked up the stiletto where it lay on the floor and closed its spring blade.

“Do you use this often to have your way with men?” he asked.

Georgette blushed slightly. “Of course not, you idiot. I was only being dramatic. It’s not even mine, not really. I found it on the street; someone must have dropped it. I was going to give it to Marcel, but I forgot I had it. Until last night, that is.” Georgette squeezed his thigh. “I’m so glad you didn’t make me use it.”

“So am I,” Harvard said, laughing. He hefted the weapon thoughtfully in his hand. “May I borrow it for today? Just in case?”

“Of course,” she said, her expression turning to worry.

They finished their coffee in a quieter mood, with Harvard assuring Georgette that he would be very, very careful in what he was about to undertake, and would let her know at once when he was safe. At the door, as they kissed goodbye, Harvard asked, “Are you sorry about last night?”

“No, I am glad. You were — well, very different from Marcel.”

“Different how?”

“More — proficient, I would say. More gifted.”

“Perhaps we can do it again sometime,” he suggested, her words stirring him.

“I don’t think so. Last night was incredible, but it wasn’t love. Marcel is love.”

She pushed him gently out the door and closed it.

The antique shop of André Grimaud was small, tidy, and had an understated elegance. Grimaud himself was a tall, gray-haired man with a matching goatee and slightly stooped shoulders.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” he greeted Harvard. “How may I help you?”

“This settee,” Harvard said, going over to a period piece done in richly woven gold brocade, “what is its price?”

“That is from the estate of Prince Dupré,” said Grimaud. “A very fine piece. It is seventy-five thousand francs.”

“And this canvas?” Harvard asked, indicating an ornately framed oil painting hanging above the settee.

“That, monsieur, is an original Commard, done in 1851. Forty thousand francs.”

“They are both exquisite,” Harvard said with a smile. “What I really want, however, is the name of your principal INF contact in Monaco.”

Grimaud frowned. “I do not understand, monsieur.”

“INF,” Harvard repeated. “Irish National Front. You launder currency for them, I believe.”

Grimaud placed one hand on a telephone on his desk. “The gendarmes can be here in five minutes,” he said threateningly.

“Five minutes,” Harvard told him evenly, smile fading, “can be a long time.” From the pocket of his windbreaker he took the stiletto, released its blade, and sliced a six-inch cut in the Prince Dupré settee.

“Oh my God—” Grimaud said, the blood draining from his face.

“Who’s your contact?” Harvard asked again, raising the blade to within an inch of the Commard oil.

At that moment, a man stepped from behind a curtained room next to Harvard and punched a gun barrel roughly in the small of his back. “Stand still, Yank,” he said in a quiet Irish brogue, “or I’ll open you up like you did that bench.”

Harvard froze. Grimaud turned whiter.

“Bench?” the antiques dealer said, as if he were going to be ill. “A Prince Dupré settee a bench?”

“Shut up, Andre,” said the gunman. “Hand the sticker back, mate,” he told Harvard. “Easy does it.”

Harvard surrendered the stiletto. Taking him by the collar, the gunman eased him into the curtained room, where another man stepped forward and handcuffed his wrists behind him. While that was being done, the first man put away his gun and from a pint bottle poured liquid ether onto a folded cloth. While one man held him as still as possible, the other clamped the cloth over Harvard’s nose and mouth. Harvard struggled to break free, but in seconds his mind began to fog and he felt his muscles responding laxly. Presently he realized that he was being lowered to the floor. Consciousness faded, then returned as his system fought it, then faded again. His awareness and understanding were filtered, reduced to fuzzy images and deep, hollow voices.

“—the value of that settee!” one voice said angrily.

“—adequately reimbursed just as soon as we collect for the girl,” another placated.

“—suppose you don’t collect? Suppose the police find her first?”

“—safe and well hidden. The ballet theater has been closed since February. No one would even think to look there. Now relax, mate—”

That was the last thing Harvard heard before he went under completely.

Slowly he became aware of a gentle, swaying motion, as if he were swinging lightly in a hammock. Both arms were numb and he could feel that his wrists were still handcuffed behind him. Opening his eyes, he found that he was lying on the deck of a boat of some kind. An anchored boat. With the waves lapping against its sides, rocking it buoyantly.

Slowly, with great effort, Harvard managed to sit up. He saw that the boat was a cabin cruiser. Beyond its port rail, he could see the pastel hillside homes of Monaco rising toward a cloudless sky. On the stern, the two men who had captured him at Grimaud’s were playing cards on a wooden water cask.

“Looks like Secret Agent Double-0 Zero is waking up, Tim,” said one of them.

“He ain’t no secret agent,” replied Tim. “He’s Jack the bloody Ripper. The furniture ripper!”

They laughed in unison and Tim fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Give us a light, Beamon.”

Beamon flicked a lighter to Tim’s cigarette and they continued their game, ignoring Harvard. Even when Harvard managed to struggle to his feet, balancing himself on the outside cabin wall, they did not seem particularly concerned.

“If you’re a mind to jump overboard, go right ahead,” Tim told him casually. “Neither Beamon or me’ll stop you. But you probably won’t get very far with your hands cuffed like that.”

Harvard looked around. The cruiser was anchored about three hundred yards offshore in Monaco Harbor. There were other craft on the water, but none near enough for him to count on their help if he jumped. With a quiet sigh, wiggling his fingers to get the blood circulating faster in his tingling arms, he made his way sluggishly over to where the men were playing and slumped down on a bulkhead locker.

“What’s the game?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t know it if we was to tell you,” Tim replied sarcastically.

Harvard watched the next hand closely. Five cards were dealt and the men placed bets in French francs. Each player then threw in certain of his cards and was dealt replacements. Each then bet again, laid down his cards, and called out the value of his hand.

“Minus two,” said Tim. He had the ten of diamonds, queen of spades, seven of hearts, three of clubs, and six of spades.

“Plus four,” said Beamon. He laid down the king of hearts, six of clubs, nine of hearts, four of clubs, and five of spades.

“You’re playing Red-and-Black,” Harvard said.

The two Irishmen looked at him incredulously. “You know the game?” Beamon asked.

“Yes. Are you playing it high or low?”

“Low,” Tim said.

“I’d like to take a hand,” Harvard told them, “but I assume you’ve stolen my money.”

Tim glared at him. “Well, you assume wrong, Yank,” he said coldly. “We’re not common thieves. We happen to be members of the Irish National Front; in other words, we’re revolutionaries. Your bloody money is still in your pocket.”

“Get it out for me, will you?” Harvard asked, standing and stepping over to Beamon. The Irishman dug out Harvard’s wallet, removed the currency, and replaced the wallet. “Well-heeled, aren’t you?” he commented, examining Harvard’s last few thousand dollars.

“Cuff my hands in front of me so that I can play, and I’ll give you a chance to win some of it,” Harvard offered.

Tim and Beamon exchanged cautious but clearly interested glances. After a moment, Beamon asked with a shrug, “What’s the harm?”

“All right, cover him,” Tim said.

With Beamon holding a gun to Harvard’s head, Tim uncuffed the prisoner’s wrists from behind and recuffed them in front of him. Harvard immediately took his money and drew up a keg to sit down. “Whose deal is it?” he asked.

“Mine,” Tim said churlishly. He snatched up the cards, muttering, “He assumes we’ve stolen his money. The bloody nerve.” Shuffling the cards, he began to deal, but Harvard stopped him.

“Excuse me, but I believe I’m entitled to cut the cards before you deal.”

“Are you saying we’re cheats, as well?” Tim asked irritably. But he gathered the cards back into a deck, shuffled again, and slammed the deck down on the barrel.

“Thank you,” Harvard said, cutting.

They played for nearly an hour, each of them winning a little and gradually losing it back, all three staying about even. As they played, Harvard unobtrusively got his bearings on the boat. From where he sat, he could see into the cabin, see that the key was in the ignition switch. The cabin hatch opened in, and was held that way by a shim. The boat was turned outbound, barely bobbing in a tide of no more than six inches, which meant that the anchor was probably at half-depth or less. The cabin hatch, Harvard judged, was about fifteen feet away.

He waited until a particularly competitive hand was being played, with all three of them betting more heavily than usual. Then, as Tim and Beamon concentrated on their replacement cards, Harvard suddenly brought up both feet and kicked out from under them the kegs on which they were sitting, sending them sprawling back onto the deck. Leaping up, he sprang past them and dove through the open hatch into the cabin. Kicking away the shim, he slammed the hatch and bolted it from the inside. Behind him, Beamon got to his knees and drew his gun, but Tim quickly seized Beamon’s arm.

“No gun play — harbor police—”

Together they charged the hatch, putting their shoulders against it, but it held firm. Inside, Harvard started the inboard engine and jerked back on the throttle, not hard enough to stall, but with enough force to send the boat into a tight circle as he raised its anchor. The two Irishmen were tossed back to the deck in the maneuver, groped to regain their balance, then were slammed back again as the anchor broke the surface and the craft accelerated to high speed on a straight course.

As soon as he had the boat under control, Harvard began veering all over the outer harbor, making sharp turns that doused his captors with heavy spray and several times almost careened one or the other of them overboard. Still, the two men doggedly resumed trying to break through the cabin hatch. After several minutes of wild maneuvering, Harvard saw the blue flashing lights of a harbor patrol boat leaving the shore in his direction. At the same time, he heard the sound of wood splintering as the cabin hatch began to give way to the solid shoulders of the two Irishmen.

Looking desperately around the harbor, Harvard saw an empty inbound garbage scow creeping slowly toward shore. A reckless idea quickly forming in his mind, he made a wide circle around the scow and reduced speed as he came alongside it, heading in the opposite direction, on the side away from the approaching patrol boat. Shifting to neutral, he let the engine idle as he clumsily used his cuffed hands to slide open a cabin window and squeeze through it onto the forward deck. Balancing himself precariously on the bow, he stuck one foot back through the window and kicked the throttle to full speed again. Tim and Beamon were rushing around the starboard side to get to him, and the cruiser was churning up forward motion, when Harvard made a short, running jump and leaped onto the slow-moving scow. He managed to land without falling and at once grabbed onto a pipe railing to balance himself. Tim and Beamon looked back at him in flabbergasted surprise, and Harvard smiled and gave them the finger as the cruiser sped off toward the open sea with the harbor patrol boat in hot pursuit.

On the scow, the French garbage workers, who had been on the bridge lying in the sun as they cruised back to port, sat up and looked curiously at Harvard. Noting his handcuffed wrists, they spoke a few quiet words among themselves, shrugged, and resumed lying in the sun.

Harvard peacefully rode the scow back to the industrial dock and went ashore without incident.

Carrying an empty jute sack from the scow to conceal his cuffed hands, Harvard made his way to the nearest marketplace and found a locksmith.

“I have a problem,” he told the man in French, and exposed his hands. “I am not a fugitive; it is a personal matter. No police are after me. Can you help me?”

The locksmith examined the cuffs. “Perhaps,” he said, with typical French reserve and indifference.

“I also have another problem. No money. But I have a very expensive Movado watch,” he said, turning his left wrist to show the watch. “I will trade the watch for release from these cuffs and two hundred francs.”

The locksmith took the watch several doors away to a jeweler friend for appraisal, and when he returned accepted the offer. He only had to make three attempts from a ring of keys before unlocking the cuffs. Minutes later, Harvard was crossing the marketplace, free of the handcuffs and with two hundred francs in his pocket.

At a small café, he ravenously ate two plates of fried fish and half a loaf of bread and mustard. As he ate, the snatches of conversation that he had heard just before he passed out from the ether came back to him. Particularly conspicuous in the recollection was the mention of a ballet theater.

“Excuse me,” he said to the proprietor, “where is the ballet theater?”

“The Salle Garnier, monsieur? It is directly behind the casino building, across from the train station. But it is closed until the fall season.”

“Merci,” said Harvard. Bad luck, he thought, He did not relish the idea of moving about that close to the hotel; any other INF members in the area would likely be on the lookout for him as soon as his escape became known. But, he decided, he had no choice. It was already late afternoon of the third day since the kidnapping. If he waited any longer, he ran the risk of the ransom being paid and losing his chance for a fee.

Leaving the café, Harvard hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the railroad station. It was only a short drive away, across the Rue de Portier behind the huge casino building. Emerging from the taxi, he walked briskly into the station and from inside one of its doors studied the building which housed the ballet theater. It was set on magnificent grounds, which at the moment were being tended by a cadre of municipal gardeners wearing dark green coveralls with a Monaco state patch on their left shoulder. Most of the men seemed to be working independently, some on the lawn, some on flower beds, shrubbery, trees.

Leaving the train station, Harvard crossed the street and began strolling the grounds, pausing here and there, pretending to study the building’s architecture and landscaping. Near the rear on one side of the building, he came upon the tool and supply shed used by the gardeners. Just inside the door was a bin containing clean, folded sets of the green coveralls. An attendant was farther inside, with a clipboard, appearing to inventory bags of fertilizer.

“Monsieur,” Harvard said in French, “pardon, but could you tell me the time?”

With only a cursory glance, the attendant told him the time. Harvard thanked him, shoved a set of coveralls under his wind-breaker, and walked away.

In some bushes, Harvard hid the windbreaker and donned the coveralls. Then he began exploring the theater building much closer up, being careful to avoid contact with other men in green coveralls as he did. Everything was locked up tightly, not a door or window offering access. But near the rear on the opposite side, he discovered a low basement window concealed by shrubbery. Finding a small rock, he wrapped his handkerchief around it and with one sharp tap broke a single pane enough to remove a piece of it large enough to reach inside to the lock. Within a minute, he had slipped inside.

The basement of the theater was dark and silent, and Harvard felt himself begin to perspire. In the light filtering from outside, he located a stairway and climbed slowly to the main level. Passing through a door at the top, he found himself in the backstage area of the performance arena. Quietly, moving one slow step at a time, he made his way from one shadowy part of the floor to another, pausing to listen intently for any sound. The silence was eerie, and the darkness, even after his eyes had adjusted to it, seemed menacing.

Harvard moved farther into the deepness of the place, feeling around ropes and props and weights and all manner of other stage apparatus. His eyes shifted constantly, trying to penetrate the void around him, his head turning in all directions as his ears searched for sound; his neck and torso now slick with sweat, but his mouth bone-dry, throat constricting, stomach becoming acidy, hands beginning to tremble—

Then he stopped, stood as if welded motionless, and stared at a thin line of light coming from a door that was cracked open an inch.

Slowly, inches at a time, he moved over to the door. From inside, he heard a faint rustle of paper, nothing more. Leaning closer, he peered through the crack. Inside the room he could see the end of a cot, and on it part of a woman’s bare feet and calves.

Bracing himself for any consequence, Harvard used one finger to push the door open an inch farther. More of the woman’s bare legs came into view, up to mid-thigh. He also now saw, between the door and the cot, the back of a straight chair with a shoulder holster and automatic pistol hanging from it.

Another inch. The woman was wearing ice-blue satin bikini panties. A man was sitting on the straight chair in his undershirt, his back to the door, reading a newspaper. Harvard judged himself to be about eight feet from the shoulder holster. Trying to wet his dry lips, trying to keep his hands steady, he began to slowly push the door far enough open for him to step inside.

The woman on the cot, he saw as more of the room came into view, was Adriana Marshall. She was wearing a sheer halter bra on top, raised up on one elbow, idly thumbing through a magazine. Harvard got the door open wide enough and stepped toward the gun. Adriana looked up; her eyes widened and she drew in her breath audibly. The slight noise caused the man on the chair to look over. Seeing Adriana’s eyes focused on something behind him, he leapt to his feet, whirling around, but he was not quick enough. Harvard beat him to the gun by a microsecond and leveled it at him. The man froze, hands raised outward.

“Keep very still,” Harvard ordered. He flicked his glance to Adriana. “You all right?”

“I — yes — what — what are you doing here?”

“Working for your father. Where are your clothes?”

“Over there,” she pointed to a closet.

“Get dressed. Quickly.” As Adriana moved nervously to the closet, Harvard studied the man he held at gunpoint. He was rough-cut handsome, with chiseled features under a pasture of thick black hair. There was a hint of a smile on his lips and no fear to be found in the level gaze of his flat blue eyes. “Are you Kenna?” Harvard asked.

“That’s right, mate. Brian Kenna. Since you know my name, you must also know that I’m commander-in-chief of the Irish National Front, which means I’m in a position to negotiate with you.”

“Save it,” Harvard told him. He glanced over at the closet, where Adriana was removing clothes from a hanger.

“Whatever her old man’s paying,” Kenna said, “I can do better for you out of the ransom. It’s five million, y’know.”

Harvard shook his head. “Taking money from you would be the same as joining your organization. That doesn’t appeal to me. People are working very hard to make a peace in Northern Ireland, and all you’re doing is trying to sabotage it. You want to keep the war going because you think it makes you a big man. Commander-in-chief. Of what? Bombing pubs? Ambushing soldiers and policemen? Seeing little kids get shot down in the street? No, Kenna, I wouldn’t be good at any of that—”

His words were interrupted by the unmistakable feel of a pistol barrel against the back of his head.

“Lower that gun,” Adriana Marshall said evenly. “Do it now or I’ll kill you.”

Son of a bitch, Harvard thought. I don’t believe this.

When Harvard lowered the gun he held, Brian Kenna stepped forward and relieved him of it. Adriana, still in bra and panties, stepped around Harvard and stood next to Kenna. Smiling, he kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, darlin’,” he said. “I knew I got you your own gun for a reason.”

With one finger, Adriana touched a religious medal hanging around Kenna’s neck. “I think this St. Christopher medal I gave you brought us luck.”

“Could be, darlin’. Put on a robe now; I don’t want this Yank getting his eyes full of my woman.”

“So the whole kidnapping was arranged,” Harvard said.

“Every step of the way,” Kenna confirmed. “Y’see, Adriana inherits five million dollars from her late grandmother’s estate when she reaches age thirty. This was just a way for her to get it three years early.”

“You mean for you to get it.”

“Her, me, what’s the difference? It’s all for the organization. She believes in the cause same as me. Now then, where’s Tim and Beamon?”

“Probably in jail. Last time I saw them, the harbor police were running them down.”

“I see. And you got away — again. You’re a slippery one, Yank. I don’t mind telling you, you’ve had us jumping these past two days. But now we’re almost down to the wire on that ransom, so it’s time to stop playing games. I’m going to have to settle you down somewheres myself.” To Adriana, he said, “Get my shirt and coat for me, luv.”

With the gun in his coat pocket, and the pocket pressed into Harvard’s side, Kenna escorted him to the rear stage door, Adriana going ahead of them to turn on enough light for them to see. “We’re going for a little drive, mate,” Kenna said at the door. “Out in the country, where I can handcuff you to a tree this time. But if you get funny and try anything slippery, I’ll pack you in right on the street and take my chances getting away. I don’t want to kill you, Yank, but if I have to, I will. That’s a promise.” He kissed Adriana on the cheek again. “Get your clothes on and pack up. Soon’s I get back, we’ll move to another location.”

Nudging Harvard with the gun, he said, “Okay, move out.”

Exiting the building by the stage door, Kenna prodded Harvard toward a Volvo parked on an adjoining lot. As they proceeded along, several theater workmen stared curiously at the pair, Kenna glancing around edgily, Harvard still wearing the stolen green coveralls. Soon several of the workmen were in a group, talking and gesturing toward the pair. Kenna, noticing the attention, coaxed Harvard to walk faster. But before they could get to the car, one of the workmen shouted to a pair of municipal policemen patrolling the grounds.

“Hey, gendarme, there is something funny there!” he yelled, pointing. “That man in green is not one of us! He has stolen those coveralls!”

Frowning, the policemen altered their path and intercepted Kenna and Harvard at the edge of the lot.

Paying only cursory attention to Kenna, the officers began to question Harvard about the green coveralls. Harvard shrugged and pretended he could not understand them.

“What the bloody hell are they saying?” Kenna asked crossly.

“I don’t know,” Harvard lied blandly. “Perhaps if we were to show them our passports—”

“We’ll show them nothing,” Kenna said tightly. “Get in the car or I’ll blast you and them—”

Several of the workmen then straggled over, talking among themselves, and out on the street a police car patrol noticed the gathering and pulled over, its two occupants hurrying to join their fellow officers.

“You going to shoot everybody, Kenna?” Harvard asked.

Kenna glanced around helplessly, then took his gun hand out of his pocket.

Turning to the policemen, Harvard said, in perfect French, “Officers, I am an American tourist. I stole these coveralls as a joke. But this man here,” he indicated Kenna, “is an Irish terrorist, and he has a handgun in his coat pocket.”

Two officers quickly seized Kenna and wrested the automatic from his pocket. A police van was summoned, and moments later both Harvard and Kenna were hustled off to jail.

Two hours later, Brian Kenna was pacing nervously up and down in a cell when the jail corridor door opened and a turnkey let Harvard enter. He walked up to Kenna’s cell.

“I’m leaving now, Kenna. Just wanted to say goodbye.”

“How the hell did you get out?” Kenna demanded.

“By admitting the error of my ways, of course. I went before the police magistrate and pled guilty to minor mischief in the theft of the coveralls. My fine was one hundred fifty francs, which I barely had enough money to pay. I am now a free man.” He forced himself to look solemn. “You, on the other hand, are charged with possession of an illegal concealed firearm, a much more serious matter. If I were you, I’d learn to speak French; you’re going to be in here for quite a while.” Glancing at the turnkey, Harvard lowered his voice. “However, I might be able to help you—” He gestured for Kenna to come closer to the cell door, and he himself also stepped closer, as if to speak confidentially. Instead, when Kenna was close enough, Harvard reached in and snatched the St. Christopher medal from his neck, breaking the chain that held it. Kenna grabbed for him through the bars, but Harvard moved quickly away.

“Give that back!” Kenna snarled.

“So long, Commander-in-Chief,” Harvard said, walking away.

Back at the ballet theater, Harvard entered this time through the unlocked stage door. He found Adriana in the same room, dressed in slacks and a jacket now, sitting on the cot, a small bag at her feet. When Harvard entered, she snatched up the gun Kenna had given her and leveled it at him. He merely shook his head calmly.

“It’s over, Adriana,” he said quietly. “Kenna’s in jail.”

“You’re lying—”

“No, I’m not. Here—” He tossed the St. Christopher medal onto the cot. “It’s over.”

Staring at the medal, the young woman’s shoulders slumped. She lowered the gun and Harvard came over and gently took it from her hand.

“Come on. I’ll take you to your father.”

Head bowed, she began to cry softly. With one finger under her chin, he raised her face and brushed away her tears.

“Look, I won’t tell your father the kidnapping was faked,” Harvard said. “Kenna can’t admit it, so no one will ever know. In three years, you’ll get your inheritance legitimately. Maybe by that time, you won’t want to give it away. And maybe by that time, there’ll be peace in Northern Ireland.” Picking up her bag, he put an arm around her shoulder. “Come on, now.”

Together, they left the theater.

Harvard managed to slip Adriana into the Hotel de Paris by a rear door. There was an emotional reunion with her distraught father in his suite. Afterward, Henry Marshall’s aides accompanied Adriana to her own suite to be examined by an American Embassy physician, and put in the care of a private nurse for the rest of the night.

After his daughter left, Marshall turned to Harvard. “You have my gratitude, Mr. Harvard.”

Harvard smiled slightly. “I value that, sir. But we also discussed a fee—”

“No, you discussed a fee. I rejected it, remember? In fact, if you will recall, I specifically declined to enter into any arrangement with you on the ground that it might further endanger my daughter’s Life.”

“But I got her back,” Harvard appealed, beginning to feel ill. “I got her back safely and unharmed—”

“That’s not the point,” Marshall argued. “The fact of the matter is, we had no agreement, young man. But, as I said, I am grateful. Come see me back in Chicago and I’ll find a job for you in my firm.”

“A job?”

“Yes, a job. Work. Lots of people do it.”

“But, sir—”

“That’s my final word on it,” Henry Marshall said emphatically. “If you’ll excuse me now—” Marshall opened the door of the suite and gestured to his private security guards. “Escort this gentleman to the elevator.”

Harvard stared incredulously at the millionaire manufacturer for a moment, then looked at the grimly determined expressions of the security guards, and shook his head wryly at the futility of further argument. Feeling like a fool, he let the security guards walk him through the hall and put him on the elevator.

On the way down in the elevator, Harvard wondered briefly if Henry Marshall would have paid him had Harvard revealed that the kidnapping had been contrived instead of real. Not that it mattered; Harvard had made a vow with himself not to do anything that would hurt Adriana, and he intended to live up to that vow. She would have enough problems getting over this affair without him adding to them.

Walking glumly to his room, Harvard felt a malaise settle over him as he realized how completely broke he was. He knew he could live well for a couple of months on his credit cards, until they continued to remain unpaid, and then he would be bankrupt. His future, which somehow had always seemed to have a buffer, a cushion against absolute failure, was at the moment more bleak and dismal than ever before in his life.

So this is what it feels like, he thought. He had always heard about it, but never personally experienced it before.

But now he knew.

Now he was there.

Rock bottom.

The next morning, Harvard was having breakfast on the outside terrace when he saw Henry Marshall and his entourage, with Adriana in the middle of it all, emerge from the hotel to waiting limousines. Adriana did not see him, but her father did. Henry Marshall smiled and waved at Harvard as if he were an old friend. Harvard could only shake his head cynically at the irony of it all. There went his half-million dollars, he thought. There went his new beginning, his chance at a new life, his opportunity to go back to his roots and make something reputable of himself. Of course, he knew he could go to John and William on bended knee, contrite, repentant, and they would take him back, finance his rehabilitation into respectability, but he could not bring himself to do that. With the half-million, he could have walked back in like a man, like a winner, with some pride left. The other way — well, he simply could not bring himself to do it.

And he had wanted it so badly, he thought as the Marshall entourage drove away. For the very first time, he had really, really wanted it.

As Harvard was finishing breakfast, a bellhop delivered a sealed envelope to him. Inside, on hotel stationery, was a handwritten note from Henry Marshall.

Included with the note was Henry Marshall’s certified check for five hundred thousand dollars.

Later in the day, after he had checked out of the hotel, Harvard went to the concierge desk looking for Georgette.

“I am sorry, monsieur,” said the person on duty, “but Georgette is off for the rest of the week. She and her fiancé suddenly decided to get married. They eloped to Paris.”

On impulse, Harvard signed a credit-card advance for five thousand dollars and instructed that it be given anonymously to Georgette when she returned. “Monsieur is extremely generous,” the duty concierge praised.

“Monte Carlo was very good to me,” Harvard said. “I made a lot of money.”

Smiling, his new life ahead of him, Harvard left for the airport.

The only flight Harvard could get to Chicago had a change of planes in London. During his two-hour layover, while strolling idly around Heathrow, he happened to pass the British Air desk for commuter flights to Northern Ireland. Stopping, he stared intently at the schedule of flights, his eyes riveted, expression grave. After several moments, he walked up to the desk and purchased a seat on the next flight over to Belfast.

At the end of the business day that evening, Harvard was standing on the steps of Northern Ireland’s Government House when a group of civil servants emerged. Among them was Harvard’s old Notre Dame roommate, Tyrone Buchanan.

“Hello, Ty,” said Harvard.

“Why, hello, Jimmy! This is a surprise.”

“I can imagine. Have your people in Monaco told you what happened yet?”

Buchanan frowned. “My people in Monaco? I don’t understand—”

“I think you do, Ty. It had to be you. You’re the only one who knew I was staying at the Midland Hotel the other day. You’re the only one who could have sent that panel truck after my taxi on the way to the airport.”

Buchanan smiled tightly. “Quite the detective, aren’t you, Jimmy?”

“How long have you been a member of the INF, Ty?”

“Since the day it started,” Buchanan replied coldly. “I founded the organization, Jimmy. But you’ll never be able to prove it.”

“Won’t I?” Harvard opened his coat. There was a miniature microphone clipped to his shirt pocket. “Did you get all that, gentlemen?” he asked, speaking into the microphone.

Turning, Harvard looked down the broad steps of Government House and saw Chief Warden Charnley and three other officers on their way up to get Buchanan.

“So long, Ty,” Harvard said, and walked down the steps.

Late that night, Harvard was back at Heathrow. He had missed the last connection of the day to Chicago. It would be eight hours before there was another flight.

Walking outside into the chilly night, he turned up his collar in back and stood thinking about Georgette, probably making love in Paris, and Adriana, back safely with her father in suburban Chicago by now, and his brothers and their wives and children, all going about their lives in separate wings of the Harvard mansion.

And he thought of the four million dollars he had gambled away since receiving his inheritance. Thankfully, he would be able to make that back in his new life, having his stock in Harvard Mills again, helping his brothers run the business.

Shaking his head, he laughed softly at himself. What a losing streak he’d had! It was almost unimaginable. Yet it had happened, really happened. Four million!

Still, he reasoned, it was only a losing streak. They came along every once in a while and you just had to ride them out. A streak was just a streak; it could be broken.

A little black London taxi pulled to the curb in front of him. “Cab, guv nor?” the driver asked.

Harvard smiled. Why not? After all, he had a certified check for half a million dollars in his pocket and eight hours to kill.

Getting into the taxi, he said, “Take me to the International Club. It’s on Berkeley Square in Mayfair.”

The taxi pulled out into the night toward London. In the backseat, Harvard felt the old thrill beginning.