False Impression

42

Jack emerged from the Wentworth Arms just after seven thirty to find a Rolls-Royce parked by the entrance. A chauffeur opened the back door the moment he saw him.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “Lady Arabella asked me to say how much she is looking forward to meeting you.”

“Me too,” said Jack, as he climbed into the back.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” the chauffeur assured him, as he drove out of the hotel entrance.

Half of the journey seemed to Jack to be from the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the estate along the long drive that led up to the hall. Once the chauffeur had brought the car to a halt, he jumped out and walked around to open the back door. Jack stepped out onto the gravel drive and looked up to see a butler standing on the top step, obviously expecting him.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, “welcome to Wentworth Hall. If you would be good enough to follow me, Lady Arabella is expecting you.’

“ ‘A usually reliable source,’ ” muttered Jack, but if the butler did overhear him, he made no comment as he led the guest through to the drawing room.

“Mr. Delaney, m’lady,” announced the butler, as two dogs, tails wagging, padded forward to greet him.

“Good morning, Mr. Delaney,” said Arabella. “I think we owe you an apology. You are so obviously not a stalker.”

Jack stared at Anna, who also looked suitably embarrassed, and then turned toward Tom, who couldn’t remove the grin from his face.

Andrews reappeared at the door. “Breakfast is ready, m’lady.”

When she woke a second time, a young doctor was changing the dressing on her shoulder.

“How long before I’m fully recovered?” was her first question.

The doctor looked startled when he heard her voice for the first time — such a shrill, piping note didn’t quite fit her legend. He remained silent until he’d finished cutting a length of bandage with his scissors.

“Three, four days at most,” he replied, looking down at her. “But I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get myself discharged, if I were you, because the moment I sign your release papers, your next stop is Jilava, which I think you’re only too familiar with from your days serving the past regime.”

Krantz could never forget the barren, stone-walled, rat-infested building that she had visited every night in order to question the latest prisoners before being driven back to the warmth of her well-furnished dacha on the outskirts of the city.

“I’m told that the inmates are looking forward to seeing you again after such a prolonged absence,” added the doctor. He bent over, peeled an edge from the large dressing on her shoulder, and paused. “This is going to hurt,” he promised, and then in one movement, ripped it off. Krantz didn’t flinch. She wasn’t going to allow him that satisfaction.

The doctor dabbed iodine into the wound before placing a new dressing over it. He then expertly bandaged the shoulder and placed her right arm in a sling.

“How many guards are there?” she asked casually.

“Six, and they’re all armed,” said the doctor, “and just in case you’re thinking of trying to escape, they have orders to shoot first and fill in any unnecessary forms later. I’ve even prepared an unsigned death certificate for them.”

Krantz didn’t ask any more questions.

When the doctor left, she lay staring up at the ceiling. If there was any chance of escaping, it would have to be while she was still at the hospital. No one had ever managed to escape from Jilava penitentiary, not even Ceauşescu.

It took her another eight hours to confirm that there were always six guards, covering three eight-hour shifts. The first group clocked in at six o’clock, the second at two, and the night shift came on duty at ten.

During a long, sleepless night, Krantz discovered that the half-dozen guards on night duty felt they had drawn the short straw. One of them was just plain lazy and spent half the night asleep. Another was always sneaking off to have a cigarette on the fire escape — no smoking allowed on the hospital premises. The third was a philanderer who imagined that he’d been put on earth to satisfy women. He was never more than a few paces from one of the nurses. The fourth spent most of his time grumbling about how much, or how little, he was paid, and his wife’s ability to clean him out before the end of every week. Krantz knew that she could take care of his problem if she was given the chance. The other two guards were older, and remembered her only too well from the past regime. One of them would have been happy to blow a hole right through her if she’d as much as raised her head from the pillow.

But even they were entitled to a meal break.

Jack sat down to a breakfast of eggs, bacon, deviled kidneys, mushrooms, and tomatoes, followed by toast, English marmalade, and coffee.

“You must be hungry after such an ordeal,” remarked Arabella.

“If it hadn’t been for Tom, I might have had to settle for prison rations.”

“And I fear I am to blame,” said Anna. “Because I fingered you,” she added with a grin.

“Not true,” said Tom. “You can thank Arabella for having Jack arrested and Arabella for having him released.”

“No, I can’t take all the credit,” Arabella said, stroking one of the dogs, seated on each side of her. “I admit to having Jack arrested, but it was your ambassador who managed to get him — what’s the American expression? — sprung.”

“But there is one thing I still don’t understand,” said Anna, “despite Tom filling us in with all the finer details. Why did you continue to follow me to Wentworth once you were convinced I was no longer in possession of the painting?”

“Because I thought the woman who murdered your driver would then follow you to London.”

“Where she planned to kill me?” said Anna quietly. Jack nodded but didn’t speak. “Thank God I never knew,” said Anna, pushing her breakfast to one side.

“But by then she’d already been arrested for murdering Sergei?” queried Arabella.

“That’s right,” said Jack, “but I didn’t know that until I met up with Tom last night.”

“So the FBI had been keeping an eye on me at the same time?” said Anna, turning to face Jack, who was buttering some toast.

“For some considerable time,” admitted Jack. “At one point, we even wondered if you were the hired assassin.”

“On what grounds?” demanded Anna.

“An art consultant would be a good front for someone who worked for Fenston, especially if she was also an athlete and just happened to be born in Romania.”

“And just how long have I been under investigation?” asked Anna.

“For the past two months,” admitted Jack. He took a sip of coffee. “In fact, we were just about to close your file when you stole the Van Gogh.”

“I didn’t steal it,” said Anna sharply.

“She retrieved it, on my behalf,” interjected Arabella. “And with my blessing, what’s more.”

“And are you still hoping that Fenston will agree to sell the painting so that you can clear the debt? Because if he did, it would be a first.”

“No,” said Arabella, a little too quickly. “That’s the last thing I want.”

Jack looked puzzled.

“Not until the police solve the mystery of who murdered your sister,” interjected Anna.

“We all know who murdered my sister,” said Arabella sharply, “and if she ever crosses my path, I’ll happily blow her head off.” Both dogs pricked up their ears.

“Knowing it is not the same as proving it,” said Jack.

“So Fenston has got away with murder,” said Anna quietly.

“More than once, I suspect,” admitted Jack. “The Bureau has had him under investigation for some time. There are four—” he paused “—now five murders in different parts of the world that have the Krantz trademark, but we’ve never been able to link her directly to Fenston.”

“Krantz murdered Victoria and Sergei,” said Anna.

“Without a doubt,” said Jack.

“And Colonel Sergei Slatinaru was your father’s commanding officer,” added Tom, “as well as being a close friend.”

“I’ll do anything I can to help,” said Anna, close to tears, “and I mean anything.”

“We’ve had a tiny break,” admitted Tom, “though we can’t be sure it will lead us anywhere. When Krantz was taken to the hospital to have the bullet removed from her shoulder, the only thing they found on her, other than the knife and a little cash, was a key.”

“But surely it will fit a lock in Romania?” suggested Anna.

“We don’t think so,” said Jack, after devouring another mushroom. “It has NYRC 13 stamped on it. Not much of a lead, but if we could find out what it opened, it might, just might, connect Krantz to Fenston.”

“So do you want me to stay in England while you continue your investigation?” asked Anna.

“No, I need you to return to New York,” said Jack. “Let everyone know you’re safe and well, act normally, even look for a job. Just don’t give Fenston any reason to become suspicious.”

“Do I stay in touch with my former colleagues in his office?” asked Anna. “Because Fenston’s secretary, Tina, is one of my closest friends.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked Jack, putting down his knife and fork.

“What are you getting at?” asked Anna.

“How do you explain the fact that Fenston always knew exactly where you were, if Tina wasn’t telling him?”

“I can’t,” said Anna, “but I know she hates Fenston as much as I do.”

“And you can prove it?” asked Jack.

“I don’t need proof,” snapped Anna.

“I do,” said Jack calmly.

“Be careful, Jack, because if you’re wrong,” said Anna, “then her life must also be in danger.”

“If that’s the case, all the more reason for you to return to New York and make contact with her as soon as possible,” suggested Tom, trying to calm the atmosphere.

Jack nodded his agreement.

“I’m booked on a flight this afternoon,” said Anna.

“Me too,” said Jack. “Heathrow?”

“No, Stansted,” said Anna.

“Well, one of you is going to have to change your flight,” suggested Tom.

“Not me,” said Jack. “I’m not going to be arrested for stalking a second time.”

“Before I make a decision on whether to change flights,” said Anna, “I’ll need to know if I’m still under investigation. Because if I am, you can go on following me.”

“No,” said Jack. “I closed your file a few days ago.”

“What convinced you to do that?” asked Anna.

“When Arabella’s sister was murdered, you had an unimpeachable witness as your alibi.”

“And who was that, may I ask?”

“Me,” replied Jack. “As I’d been following you around Central Park, you can’t have been in England.”

“You run in Central Park?” said Anna.

“Every morning around the loop,” said Jack. “Around the Reservoir on Sundays.”

“Me too,” said Anna. “Never miss.”

“I know,” said Jack. “I overtook you several times during the last six weeks.”

Anna stared at him. “The man in the emerald-green T-shirt. You’re not bad.”

“You’re not so—”

“I’m sorry to break up this meeting of the Central Park joggers’ club,” said Tom, as he pushed back his chair, “but I ought to be getting back to my office. There’s a stack of 9/11 files on my desk I haven’t even opened. Thank you for breakfast,” he added, turning to Arabella. “I’m only sorry that the ambassador had to disturb you so early this morning.”

“Which reminds me,” said Arabella, as she rose from her chair. “I must get on with writing some humble-pie letters, my thanks to the ambassador and my apologies to half the Surrey police force.”

“What about me?” said Jack. “I’m thinking of suing the Wentworth estate, the Surrey police, and the Home Office, with Tom as my witness.”

“Not a hope,” said Tom. “I wouldn’t care to have Arabella as an enemy.”

Jack smiled. “Then I’ll have to settle for a lift to the Wentworth Arms.”

“You got it,” said Tom.

“And now that I feel safe to join you at Heathrow,” said Anna, rising from her place, “where shall we meet?”

“Don’t worry,” said Jack. “I’ll find you.”

43

Leapman was driven to JFK to pick up the painting an hour before the plane was due to land. That didn’t stop Fenston calling him every ten minutes on the way to the airport, which became every five once the limousine was on its way back to Wall Street with the red crate safely stowed in the trunk.

Fenston was pacing up and down his office by the time Leapman was dropped outside the front of the building and waiting in the corridor when Barry Steadman and the driver stepped out of the elevator carrying the red crate.

“Open it,” ordered Fenston, long before the box had been propped up against the wall in his office. Barry and the driver undid the special clamps before setting about extracting the long nails that had been hammered firmly into the rim of the wooden crate, while Fenston, Leapman, and Tina looked on. When the lid was finally pried open and the polystyrene corners that were holding the painting in place were removed, Barry lifted the painting carefully out of the wooden crate and leaned it up against the chairman’s desk. Fenston rushed forward and began to tear off the bubble wrap with his bare hands, until he could at last see what he’d been willing to kill for.

Fenston stood back and gasped.

No one else in the room dared to speak until he had offered an opinion. Suddenly, the words came tumbling out in a torrent.

“It’s even more magnificent than I’d expected,” he declared. “The colors are so fresh, and the brushwork so bold. Truly a masterpiece,” he added. Leapman decided not to comment.

“I know exactly where I’m going to hang my Van Gogh,” said Fenston.

He looked up and stared at the wall behind his desk, where a massive photograph of George W. Bush shaking hands with him on his recent visit to Ground Zero filled the space.

Anna was looking forward to her flight back to the States, and the chance to get to know Jack a little better during the seven-hour journey. She even hoped that he would answer one or two more questions. How did he find out her mother’s address, why was he still suspicious of Tina, and was there any proof that Fenston and Krantz even knew each other?

Jack was waiting for her when she checked in. Anna took a little time to relax with a man she couldn’t forget had been following her for the last nine days and investigating her for the past eight weeks, but by the time they climbed the steps to the aircraft, together for a change, Jack knew she was a Knicks fan, liked spaghetti and Dustin Hoffman, while Anna had found out that he also supported the Knicks, that his favorite modern artist was Fernando Botero, and nothing could replace his mother’s Irish stew.

Anna was wondering if he liked fat women when his head fell onto her shoulder. As she was the cause of his not getting much sleep the previous night, Anna felt she was hardly in a position to complain. She pushed his head gently back up, not wishing to wake him. She began making a list of things she needed to do once she was back in New York, when Jack slumped back down onto her shoulder. Anna gave in and tried to sleep with his head there. She had once read that the head is one-seventh of your body weight. She no longer needed to be convinced.

She woke about an hour before they were due to land to find Jack was still asleep, but his arm was now draped around her shoulder. She sat up sleepily and accepted a cup of tea from the stewardess.

Jack leaned across. “So how was it for you?” he asked, grinning.

“I’ve had worse,” she replied, “and some of them were awake.”

“So what’s the first thing you’re going to do now that you’ve miraculously risen from the dead?” he asked.

“Call my family and friends and let them know just how alive I am, and then find out if anyone wants to employ me. And you?”

“I’ll have to check in with my boss and let him know I’m no nearer to nailing Fenston, which will be greeted with one of his two favorite maxims: ‘Raise your game, Jack,’ or ‘Step it up a notch.’ ”

“That’s hardly fair,” said Anna, “now that Krantz is safely behind bars.”

“No thanks to me,” said Jack. “And then I’ll have to face up to an even fiercer wrath than the boss’s, when I try to explain to my mother why I didn’t call her from London and apologize for not turning up for her Irish stew night. No, my only hope of redemption is to discover what NYRC stands for.” Jack put a hand in his top pocket. “After I’d checked out of the Wentworth Arms, I traveled on to the embassy with Tom, and thanks to modern technology, he was able to produce an exact copy of the key, even though the original is still in Romania.” He pulled the facsimile out of his top pocket and handed it across to Anna.

Anna turned the small brass key over in her hands. “NYRC 13. Got any ideas?” she asked.

“Only the obvious ones,” said Jack.

“New York Racing Club, New York Rowing Club, anything else?”

“New York Racquet Club, but if you come up with any others, let me know, because I intend to spend the rest of the weekend trying to find out if it’s any of those. I need to come up with something positive before I face the boss on Monday.”

“Perhaps you could slow down enough on your morning run to let me know if you’ve cracked it.”

“I was rather hoping to tell you over dinner tonight,” said Jack.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Jack, much as I’d love to, I’m having dinner with Tina.”

“Are you?” said Jack. “Well, just be careful.”

“Six o’clock tomorrow morning suit you?” asked Anna, ignoring the comment.

“That means I’ll have to set my alarm for six thirty if we’re going to meet up about halfway around.”

“I’ll be out of my shower by then.”

“I’ll be sorry to miss that.”

“By the way,” said Anna, “can you do me a favor?”

Leapman strode into the chairman’s office without knocking.

“Have you seen this?” he asked, placing a copy of The New York Times on the desk and jabbing a finger at an article from the international section.

Fenston studied the headline: ROMANIAN POLICE ARREST ASSASSIN. He read the short article twice before speaking.

“Find out how much the chief of police wants.”

“It may not prove to be that easy,” suggested Leapman.

“It’s always that easy,” said Fenston, looking up. “Only agreeing on a price will prove difficult.”

Leapman frowned. “And there’s another matter you should consider.”

“And what’s that?” asked Fenston.

“The Van Gogh. You ought to have the painting insured, after what happened to the Monet.”

“I never insure my paintings. I don’t need the IRS to find out how much my collection is worth, and in any case it’s never going to happen twice.”

“It already has,” said Leapman.

Fenston scowled and didn’t reply for some time.

“All right, but only the Van Gogh,” he eventually said. “Make it Lloyd’s of London, and be sure you keep the book value below twenty million.”

“Why such a low figure?” queried Leapman.

“Because the last thing I need is to have the Van Gogh with an asset value of a hundred million while I’m still hoping to get my hands on the rest of the Wentworth collection.”

Leapman nodded and turned to leave.

“By the way,” said Fenston, looking back down at the article. “Do you still have the second key?”

“Yes I do,” said Leapman. “Why?”

“Because when she escapes, you’ll need to make a further deposit.”

Leapman smiled. A rarity, which even Fenston noticed.

Krantz wet her bed, and then explained to the doctor about her weak bladder. He authorized periodic visits to the bathroom, but only when accompanied by at least two guards.

These regular little outings up and down the corridor gave Krantz an opportunity to study the layout of the floor: a reception desk at the far end of the landing manned by a single nurse; a drug clinic that could only be unlocked if a doctor was present; a linen closet; three other single rooms; one bathroom; and, at the other end of the corridor, a ward containing sixteen beds, opposite a fire escape.

But the outings also served another, more important purpose, and it certainly wasn’t anything the young doctor would have come across when reading his medical textbooks or carrying out his ward rounds.

Once they had locked Krantz into her cubicle, also windowless, she sat on the toilet seat, placed two fingers up her rectum, and slowly extracted a condom. She then washed the rubber container in the toilet water, undid the knot at the top, and pulled out a roll of tightly wrapped twenty-dollar bills. She extracted two from the roll, tucked them into her sling, and then carried out the whole process in reverse.

Krantz pulled the chain and was escorted back to her room. She spent the rest of the day sleeping. She needed to be wide awake during the night shift.

Jack sat in the back of the taxi, looking out of the window.

The gray cloak of 9/11 still hadn’t lifted from Manhattan, although New Yorkers rushing by no longer stared upward in disbelief. Terrorism was something else the most frenetic city on earth had already learned to take in its stride.

Jack sat back and thought about the favor he’d promised Anna. He dialed the number she’d given him. Sam picked up the phone. Jack told him that Anna was alive and well, and that she had been visiting her mother in Romania, and he could expect her back that evening. Nice to start the day making someone feel good, thought Jack, which wasn’t going to be the case with his second call. He phoned his boss to let him know that he was back in New York. Macy told him that Krantz had been taken to a local hospital in Bucharest to undergo an operation on her shoulder. She was being guarded round the clock by half a dozen cops.

“I’ll be happier when she’s locked up in jail,” said Jack.

“I’m told you speak with some experience on that subject,” said Macy.

Jack was about to respond when Macy added, “Why don’t you take the rest of the week off, Jack? You’ve earned it.”

“It’s Saturday,” Jack reminded his boss.

“So I’ll see you first thing Monday morning,” said Macy.

Jack decided to text Anna next: Told Sam U R on way home. Is he only other man in yr life? He waited a couple of minutes, but there was no reply. He called his mother.

“Will you be coming home for supper tonight?” she asked sharply. He could almost smell the meat stewing in the background.

“Would I miss it, Ma?”

“You did last week.”

“Ah, yes, I meant to call you,” said Jack, “but something came up.”

“Will you be bringing this something with you tonight?” Jack hesitated, a foolish mistake. “Is she a good Catholic girl?” was his mother’s next question.

“No, Mother,” Jack replied. “She’s a divorcée, three ex-husbands, two of whom died in mysterious circumstances. Oh, and she has five children, not all of them by the three husbands, but you’ll be glad to know only four of the kids are on hard drugs — the other one’s currently serving a jail sentence.”

“Does she have a regular job?”

“Oh yes, Ma, it’s a cash business. She services most of her customers on the weekends, but she assures me that she can always take an hour off for a bowl of Irish stew.”

“So what does she really do?” asked his mother.

“She’s an art thief,” said Jack, “specializes in Van Gogh and Picasso. Makes a huge profit on each assignment.”

“Then she’ll be an improvement on the last one,” said his mother, “who specialized in losing your money.”

“Good-bye, Mother,” said Jack. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He ended the call, to find there was a text from Anna, using her ID for Jack:

Switch your brain on, Stalker. Got the obvious R. U R 2 slow 4 me.

“Damn the woman,” said Jack. His next call was to Tom in London, but all he got was an answering machine saying, “Tom Crasanti, I’m out at the moment, but will be back shortly, please leave a message.”

Jack didn’t, as the cab was pulling up outside his apartment.

“That’ll be thirty-two dollars.”

Jack handed the driver four tens and didn’t ask for any change and didn’t get a thank you.

Things were back to normal in New York.

The night shift reported for duty at ten o’clock. The six new guards spent their first two hours marching up and down the corridor, making their presence felt. Every few minutes, one of them would unlock her door, switch on the bare bulb that hung above her bed, and check that she was “present” before he turned off the light and locked the door. This exercise was repeated at regular intervals for the first two hours, but after that it lapsed to every half an hour.

At five minutes past four, when two of the guards went off for their meal break, Krantz pressed the buzzer by her bed. Two more guards appeared, the grumbler with money problems and the chain smoker. They both accompanied her to the bathroom, each holding an elbow. When she entered the lavatory, one remained in the corridor, while the other stood guard outside the cubicle. Krantz extracted two more notes from her rectum, folded them up in her hands and then pulled the lavatory chain. The guard opened the door. She smiled and slipped the notes into his hand. He looked at them and quickly put them in his pocket before rejoining his colleague in the corridor. They both accompanied Krantz back to her room and locked her in.

Twenty minutes later, the other two guards returned from their meal break. One of them unlocked her door, switched on the light, and, because she was so slight, had to go up to the side of the bed to make sure she was actually there. The ritual completed, he walked back into the corridor, locked the door, and joined his colleague for a game of backgammon.

Krantz concluded that her one chance of escaping would be between four and four twenty in the morning, when the two older guards always took their meal break — the philanderer, the smoker, and the dozer would be otherwise occupied, and her unwitting accomplice would be only too happy to accompany her to the bathroom.

Even before Jack had showered and changed, he began to scour the New York telephone directory in search of NYRC. Other than the three Jack had already come up with, he couldn’t spot Anna’s “obvious one.” He switched on his laptop and Googled the words “new york racquet club.” He was able to retrieve a potted history of the NYRC, several photographs of an elegant building on Park Avenue, and a picture of the present chairman, Darius T. Mablethorpe III. Jack was in no doubt that the only way he was going to get past the front door was if he looked like a member. Never embarrass the Bureau.

Once Jack had unpacked and showered, he selected a dark suit with a faint stripe, a blue shirt, and a Columbia tie for this particular outing. He left his apartment and took a cab to 370 Park Avenue. He stepped onto the sidewalk and stood staring at the building for some time. He admired the magnificent four-story Renaissance revival architecture that reminded him of a palazzo, so popular with the Italians in New York at the turn of the century. He walked up the steps toward an entrance with the letters NYRC discreetly etched into the glass.

The doorman greeted Jack with, “Good afternoon, sir,” holding the door open, as if Jack was a lifelong member. He strolled into an elegant lobby with massive paintings on every available space of suitably attired former chairmen dressed in long white pants and blue blazers, sporting the inevitable racquet. Jack glanced up at the wide, sweeping staircase to see even more past chairmen, even more ancient; only the racquet didn’t seem to have changed. He strolled up to the reception desk.

“May I help you, sir?” asked a young man.

“I’m not sure if you can,” Jack admitted.

“Try me,” he offered.

Jack took the replica key out of his pocket and placed it on the countertop. “Ever seen one of these?” he asked.

The young man picked up the key and turned it over, staring at the lettering for some time, before he replied, “No, sir, can’t say I have. It could well be a safety deposit box key, but not one of ours.” He turned and removed a heavy bronze key from the board behind him. A member’s name was etched on the handle, and NYRC in red along the shaft.

“Any suggestions?” asked Jack, trying to keep any sign of desperation out of his voice.

“No, sir,” he replied. “Not unless it was before my time,” he added. “I’ve only been here for eleven years, but perhaps Abe might be able to help. He was here in the days when more people played racquets than tennis.”

“And the gentlemen only played racquets,” said an older man who appeared from an office at the back to join his colleague. “And what is it that I might be able to help with?”

“A key,” said the young man. “This gentleman wants to know if you’ve ever seen one like it,” he added as he passed the key to Abe.

Abe turned the key over in his hands. “It’s certainly not one of ours,” he confirmed, “and never has been, but I know what the R stands for,” he added triumphantly. “Because it must have been, oh, nearly twenty years ago, when Dinkins was mayor.” He paused and looked up at Jack. “A young man came in who could hardly speak a word of English and asked if this was the Romanian Club.”

“Of course,” murmured Jack, “how stupid of me.”

“I remember how disappointed he was,” continued Abe, ignoring Jack’s muttered chastisement, “to find the R stood for Racquet. Not that I think he knew what a racquet was. You see, he couldn’t read English, so I had to look up the address for him. The only reason I remember anything after all this time is because the club was situated somewhere on Lincoln,” he said, emphasizing the name of the street. He glanced at Jack, who decided not to interrupt a second time. “Named after him,” he explained. Jack smiled at Abe and nodded. “Some place in Queens, I think, but I don’t recall exactly where.”

Jack put the key back in his pocket, thanked Abe, and turned to leave before he gave him the chance to share any more reminiscences.

Tina sat at her desk, typing out the speech. He hadn’t even thanked her for coming in on a Saturday.

Bankers must at all times be willing to set standards that far exceed their legal requirements.

The New York Bankers’ Association had invited Fenston to deliver the keynote speech at their annual dinner, to be held at the Sherry Netherland.

Fenston was both surprised and delighted by the invitation, although he had been angling for it for some time.

The committee had been divided.

Fenston was determined to make a good impression on his colleagues in the banking fraternity and had already dictated several drafts of the speech.

Customers must always be able to rely on our independent judgment, confident that we will act in their best interests rather than our own.

Tina began to wonder if she was writing a script for a bankers’ sitcom, with Fenston auditioning for the lead. What part would Leapman play in this moral tale, she wondered? For how many episodes would Victoria Wentworth survive?

We must, at all times, look upon ourselves as the guardians of our customers’ assets — especially if they own a Van Gogh, Tina wanted to insert — while never neglecting their commercial aspirations.

Tina’s thoughts drifted to Anna, as she continued to type out Fenston’s shameless homily. She had spoken to her on the phone just before leaving for the office that morning. Anna wanted to tell her about the new man in her life, whom she had met in the most unusual circumstances. They had agreed to get together for supper that evening, as Tina also had something she wanted to share.

And let’s never forget that it only takes one of us to lower our standards, and then the rest of us will suffer as a consequence.

As Tina turned another page, she wondered just how much longer she could hope to survive as Fenston’s personal assistant. Since she’d thrown Leapman out of her office, not one civil word had passed between them. Would he have her fired only days before she had gathered enough proof to make sure Fenston spent the rest of his life in a smaller room in a larger institution?

And may I conclude by saying that my single purpose in life has always been to serve and give back to the community that has allowed me to share the American dream.

This was one document Tina would not bother to retain a copy of.

The light on Tina’s phone was flashing and she quickly picked up the receiver.

“Yes, Chairman?”

“Have you finished my speech for the bankers’ dinner?”

“Yes, chairman,” repeated Tina.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Fenston.

“It’s remarkable,” responded Tina.

Jack hailed a cab and told him Lincoln Street, Queens. The driver left the meter running while he looked up the address in his much-thumbed directory. Jack was halfway back to the airport before he was dropped off on the corner of Lincoln and Harris. He looked up and down the street, aware that the suit he’d carefully selected for Park Avenue was somewhat incongruous in Queens. He stepped into a liquor store on the corner.

“I’m looking for the Romanian Club,” he told the elderly woman behind the counter.

“Closed years ago,” she said. “It’s now a guest house,” she added, looking him up and down, “but I don’t think you’ll wanna stay there.”

“Any idea of the number?” asked Jack.

“No, but it’s ’bout halfway down, on the other side of the street.”

Jack thanked the woman, walked back out onto Lincoln and crossed the road. He tried to judge where the halfway mark might be, when he spotted a faded ROOMS FOR RENT sign. He stopped and looked down a short flight of steps to see an even more faded sign painted above the entrance. The letters NYRC, FOUNDED 1919 were almost indecipherable.

Jack descended the steps and pushed open the creaking door. He stepped into a dingy, unlit hallway, to be greeted with the pungent smell of stale tobacco. There was a small, dusty reception desk straight ahead of him, and behind it, almost hidden from view, Jack caught a glimpse of an old man reading the New York Post, enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“I need a room for the night,” said Jack, trying to sound as if he meant it.

The old man’s eyes narrowed as he gave Jack a disbelieving look. Did he have a girl waiting outside? “That’ll be seven dollars,” he said, before adding, “in advance.”

“And I’ll also need somewhere to lock my valuables,” said Jack.

“That’ll be another dollar — in advance,” repeated the man, the cigarette bobbing up and down.

Jack handed over eight dollars in return for a key.

“Second floor, number three, and the safety deposit boxes are at the end of the corridor,” he said, passing him a second key. He then returned his attention to the New York Post, the cigarette having never left his mouth.

Jack walked slowly down the corridor until he reached a wall lined with safety deposit boxes, which, despite their age, looked solid and not that easy to break into, even if anyone might have considered the exercise worthwhile. He opened his own box and peered inside. It must have been about eight inches wide and a couple of feet deep. Jack glanced back toward the front counter. The desk clerk had managed to turn the page, but the cigarette still hadn’t left his mouth.

Jack moved farther down the corridor, removed the replica key from an inside pocket, and, after one more glance toward the front desk, opened box 13. He stared inside and tried to remain calm, although his heart was pounding. He extracted one bill from the box and placed it in his wallet. Jack locked the box and put the key back in his pocket.

The old man turned another page and began to study the racing odds as Jack walked back onto the street.

He had to cover eleven blocks before he found an empty cab, but he didn’t attempt to call Dick Macy until he’d been dropped back at his apartment. He unlocked the front door, ran through to the kitchen, and placed the hundred-dollar bill on the table. He then recalled how deep and how wide the empty box had been, before attempting to calculate how many hundred-dollar bills must have been stuffed into box 13. By the time he called Macy, he’d measured a space out on the kitchen table and used several five-hundred-page paperbacks to assist him in his calculation.

“I thought I told you to take the rest of the weekend off,” said Macy.

“I’ve found the box that NYRC 13 opens.”

“What was inside?”

“Hard to be certain,” replied Jack, “but I’d say around two million dollars.”

“Your leave is canceled,” said Macy.