Try This One for Size

four

Fred Scooner, Head of the security guards, permanently attached to the Washington Fine Arts museum, stood at the head of the three broad flights of marble steps leading to the entrance lobby of the first floor where the Hermitage exhibits were on display.

Scooner, in his early fifties, was a bulky man, wearing a dark blue uniform with a peak cap. The gold braid on his cuffs indicated his rank.

By his side was FBI Agent Jack Trumbler, wearing a dark suit, bare-headed, his jacket bulging slightly, concealing the police special .38 he carried in a shoulder holster.

The two men were regarding the orderly queue of people as they waited to go through the security screen. A guard was posted at the entrance doors, regulating the flow of the queue. Another guard was directing people to a long counter where they handed in everything they happened to be carrying.

Trumbler, lean and hard-faced, in his early thirties, disliked this assignment. It wasn’t his idea of action just to stand around and watch art-lovers and gawpers, but his instructions had been precise and clear. His boss had told him he and his four men must be continually on the alert.

“This goddamn city,” his boss had said, “is full of nuts. The exhibits are all wired so the chances of a steal are remote, but a nut with a bottle of acid can do damage. I have it from the President himself that there must be no incidents, and it will be your ass in a sling if there is.”

The same instructions from the White House had been passed to Fred Scooner. Every one of his men for the past week had been on key-alert, and the strain was beginning to tell. Even when the museum closed at 20.00, guards, in shifts, remained on duty throughout the night.

“I’ll be glad when this shindig is over,” Trumbler said. “One more week!”

Scooner nodded.

“These people look all right, but no one ever knows. There are so many anti-Russian cranks around. Someone politically motivated could try to damage one of these exhibits. I reckon the last week will be the most dangerous.”

“You mean someone casing the joint, then returning?”

“That’s my guess.”

“If someone does do damage, there’ll be one hell of a row,” Trumbler said gloomily. “What a chance for the Soviets to claim we are irresponsible: It wouldn’t surprise me if they would be happy if a nut did do something.”

“The security is as tight as we can make it.”

“Yeah. How do you get along with those KGB creeps?”

“No contact. They pretend they only speak Russian.”

“Me too.”

While the two men were talking and while a continuous stream of people moved up the museum’s steps, in the grounds, more queues were forming.

A small blue van on which was painted Washington City Electricity Corporation pulled up at the entrance gates. A tall black, wearing the familiar Corporation’s uniform, slid out of the van and went over to one of the guards.

“Mr Scooner phoned,” he said. “You have trouble with your fuse box.”

The guard eyed the black.

“You know where the fuse box is?”

“Sure.” The black grinned. “Around the back.”

The guard, seeing a big air-conditioned coach pull up, impatiently waved the black through. The van drove off around the back of the museum where there were no guards.

The guard moved to the coach. From it came a short, fat, beaming clergyman.

“Reverend Hardcastle,” he said. “I have brought my flock to see the exhibition. It has been arranged, I believe.”

The guard had been alerted that thirty-five Vietnamese refugees would be arriving in charge of a Reverend Hardcastle.

“Tickets, sir?” he said, saluting.

“Certainly.” The fat clergyman produced a book of tickets and a passport.

The guard waved the passport aside.

“That isn’t necessary, sir.”

“I understood the security is very strict. I thought I should bring my passport.”

Clergymen, fat or thin, were, in the guard’s opinion, goddamn do-gooders and a nuisance. He checked the tickets, looked at the yellow faces peering down at him from the coach windows, snorted, then waved to the driver.

“Go ahead, sir,” he said to the clergyman. “There’s a security check in the lobby. Please tell your people to leave everything in the coach that they may be carrying. This will save time. Umbrellas, bags, canes and any metal objects.”

“I understand. Thank you,” and the clergyman returned to the coach which drove up to the entrance of the museum.

There was a delay before the passangers descended. There was confusion in the coach while they rid themselves of their possessions. The last two women out of the coach had to be assisted. They were both in advanced stages of pregnancy.

“Oh, hell!” Scooner muttered. “Look at this lot!”

He stared down at the group of Vietnamese; some men, some women, some with small children: all dressed in their national costume: the women in Cheong-sams, the men in white shirts and black trousers.

“Refugees,” Scooner went on. “The padre organized this outing through the Brotherhood of Love society.”

“Look at those two women,” Trumbler muttered. “They look as if they are about to drop their bundles any moment.”

“I hope to God not!”

Below in the lobby, Chick Hurley, the guard on the entrance gates, was also staring at the two pretty Vietnamese girls, big with child.

Hurley, young, a little overweight, not over-bright, had opted to join the museum’s security guards, knowing it would be a steady pensionable job that would suit his lack of ambition and his pace in life. Ten months ago, feeling his position secure and with no extravagant tastes, he had got married. His wife was like him: without ambition, but desperately anxious to raise a family. They both loved children. His wife was also big with child, and the birth was expected any day. Hurley who doted on his fat wife was horrified by the way her body had expanded. He had seen a number of TV films depicting childbirth and they had so upset him that during the past week he had been in torture, visualizing what his wife was about to face. When he saw the two flower-like Vietnamese girls, he felt a chill run up his spine.

As the fat clergyman handed in the book of tickets, then moved to his group, Hurley left the entrance doors and approached him.

“There’s an elevator, sir,” he said to the clergyman. “These two ladies shouldn’t climb those steps.”

The clergyman beamed at him.

“How kind! How very thoughtful!”

Hurley smirked.

“Well, sir, I’m expecting my own any day now.”

“Congratulations! Splendid!”

Hurley indicated the elevator and hurried back to his post at the entrance.

While the rest of the Vietnamese climbed the steps, the clergyman and the two pregnant girls entered the elevator. They waited for the others, then the clergyman said, “Follow me, please and do not stray,” and he set off into the first room of the exhibition.

“Some of these Viets are attractive,” Trumbler said. “I wouldn’t mind giving one or two of them a ride.”

“Keep your mind on the job,” Scooner snapped. “You take the right wing. I’ll take the left. We’ll circulate.”

As the Vietnamese group moved from exhibit to exhibit, pausing to listen to the clergyman’s remarks, Trumbler walked on, past the special alcove that housed the Catherine the Great icon which was not attracting much attention, and into the vast hall that housed some of the finest oil paintings in the world. Here, the crowd was dense, and he noted that all five members of the KGB were mingling with the crowd, and two of his own men were also watching.

The clergyman paused at one of the windows and looking down, he saw a small blue van leaving the grounds of the museum. He glanced at his watch, then he moved on to another exhibit. Ten minutes later, he paused in his talk and gave a slight nod of his head to one of the pregnant girls. She moved away from the group and approached a guard who was stifling a yawn. He had been on night duty and was anxiously waiting to be relieved.

“A toilet, sir?”

He eyed her and her inflated belly, then gave her a friendly smile.

“That door over there, miss.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The girl walked to a door on the far side of the icon’s alcove as the fat clergyman led his group into the alcove.

“Now, here, my friends,” he said, “is the first icon known and used by Catherine the Great of Russia.”

The group made a complete circle around the roped off glass case.

A guard moved forward.

“Please keep clear of the ropes,” he said curtly.

“Of course; of course,” the clergyman said and opened the illustrated catalogue he was carrying. As the guard moved back, he went on, “The artist is unknown, but, as you can see, considering the vast age...”

There came a loud hissing sound and thick, black smoke billowed out from behind a large exhibit near the door of the lady’s toilet.

The Vietnamese immediately panicked. The girls screamed and jostled each other. The men shouted and the children wailed.

The guard rushed in the direction of the smoke, but the smoke now was so dense, he staggered back, choking and coughing.

People in the hall of paintings also panicked. Cries of “FIRE!” resounded through the rooms. There was a concerted rush for the various exits.

Scooner, hearing the uproar, ran from the right wing and into dense, black smoke. This was no fire, he told himself: this was a powerful smoke bomb. He ran to the head of the steps and bawled down to Hurley who was gaping up at him.

“Shut the doors! No one in; no one out!”

The other guard on the entrance doors with Hurley took the steps three at a time and joined Scooner. They were nearly knocked down the steps by the screaming Vietnamese who were trying to rush down to the exit, but Scooner and the guard blocked them off.

“Stay right where you are!” Scooner barked. “There’s no danger!”

Alone in the lobby, Hurley set his fat back against the closed entrance doors and gaped up the steps at the confusion going on above.

“My friend.”

He started and turned to find the fat clergyman at his side. The elevator doors stood open, and one of the pregnant Vietnamese girls lay on the floor.

“I fear this disturbance has brought her to labour,” the clergyman said. “Mr Scooner has been kind enough to telephone for an ambulance. Ah! I hear it coming. Please help!”

Had Hurley been less dim-witted, he would have realized that Scooner, battling with the Vietnamese at the head of the steps couldn’t possibly have had time to telephone for an ambulance, but the dreadful moaning coming from the Vietnamese girl, and the shrill note of the siren of the approaching ambulance paralysed what wits he had. God! he thought, this could be happening to Meg in a day or so! He hurried with the clergyman to the girl, and together they both lifted her. Her face, glistening with sweat, was contorted with pain.

“Let the ambulance people in,” The clergyman said sharply.

In a complete dither, Hurley ran to the doors, slid back the bolts and let in two black men, carrying a stretcher. He was not to know that these two men had but a quarter of an hour ago, been in the uniforms of the Washington City Electricity Corporation.

“We’ll take care of her,” the tallest of the blacks said. They scooped the girl on to the stretcher as she gave a wail of pain. Before Hurley, shuddering at the sound, had time to think, the two stretcher bearers were out, loading the stretcher into the ambulance, which went roaring down the drive with the siren at full blast.

“Splendid!” the clergyman exclaimed. “Thank you. Now, I must return to my flock. I can’t think what is happening up there.” He moved swiftly to the elevator and pressing the button to the second floor, waited until the elevator came to rest. People, and they were few, who had been looking at other exhibits on the second floor were gathered at the head of the steps. The clergyman entered one of the men’s toilets and shut the door. Three minutes later, the door opened and a young, thin man, in a white sports shirt and black trousers, his hair ruffled, joined the crowd that was now being held back by a guard.

It said much for the muscles and authority of the guards that the panic was quickly controlled. Every window was opened and the dense smoke slowly dispersed.

Scooner, using a bull-horn, kept shouting, “There is no fire. This is a hoax! Everyone is to remain still!”

Like sheep, the crowd obeyed.

Trumbler came up to Scooner.

“Look!” He showed Scooner a plastic container. “A sophisticated smoke bomb, and read...”

Scooner read the label stuck on the bomb:

“The sonofabitch is still here,” Scooner snarled. “We’ll find him!”

A squat KGB man came up.

“No one to leave until we have checked for damage!” he barked.

“Sure,” Scooner said. “This is a hoax. I’ll talk to these people.”

Using his bull-horn, Scooner, now sweating and knowing he was in trouble, explained to the crowd that some joker had let off a smoke bomb and before anyone could leave, names and addresses were needed. Would they all queue up in the lobby and when it had been ascertained that no damage had been done, they would be free to leave.

Relaxing, the crowd began to laugh. They seemed to think it was a good joke against the Soviet Union.

As soon as the first floor had been cleared, the KGB men went through the exhibits, looking for damage. To Scooner’s startled surprise, they all seemed to be art experts. One of them going to the icon in its glass case, stared at it, then stepped over the guard rope and found the glass case unlocked.

Watching him, Scooner’s heart sank. An alarm should have sounded as the KGB man opened the case.

The KGB man snatched the icon from the case, glared at it, then turned to Scooner, his face purple with rage.

“This is a fake!” he screamed.

Hearing this, Trumbler turned and rushed to the nearest telephone.

A black 280SL Mercedes pulled into a disused builder’s yard and into a shed out of sight of the street.

Ed Haddon consulted his watch. Give or take, he had a ten-minute wait. He was completely relaxed. His confidence in Lu Bradey was unshakeable. The operation had been well planned. Only bad luck could turn it sour, and Haddon didn’t believe in either bad nor good luck.

Nine minutes later, an ambulance drove into the yard. A tall black man slid out, ran to the double gates and closed them. The driver ran over to Haddon and gave him the thumbs-up sign.

“No problems, boss,” he said, beaming. “Sweet as honey.”

The tall black had opened the rear of the ambulance and the Vietnamese girl, no longer looking pregnant, wearing dark red slacks and a yellow blouse, clothes that had been waiting for her in the ambulance, came running over to Haddon. She thrust the icon through the window. Haddon examined it, satisfied himself it was the original, then produced three envelopes. He gave two of them to the blacks, and the third to the Vietnamese girl.

“Okay,” he said. “Get the gates open and get lost.”

The tall black opened the gates, and with a wave of his hand, Haddon drove just below the legal speed limit, out on to the street and headed for the airport.

Arriving at the airport parking lot, he reached for a suitcase, lying on the back seats. Opening it, pushing aside his overnight articles, he pressed a concealed spring and the false bottom of the case opened. He slid in the icon, then snapped the suitcase shut and leaving the Mercedes, walked over to the departure centre. He checked in under a false name. The girl recognizing an executive big-shot gave him a sexy smile.

“The Miami flight in ten minutes,” she said.

Nodding, Haddon paused to buy a copy of Time, then proceeded to the departure lounge, joining other busmess-men, also on their way to Miami.

Arriving at Miami airport, he hired a Lincoln from the Hertz desk and headed for Paradise City. As he edged his way into the traffic, he glanced at his watch. The time was 15.05. Nice going, he thought. Not for a moment did he wonder what was happening to Lu Bradey, but he smiled, imagining the commotion that must be going on at the Fine Arts museum. Bradey most certainly would have taken care of himself, and was probably now heading for New York.

An hour later, Haddon walked into Kendrick’s Gallery where Louis de Marney was nervously moving around, shifting objects, putting them back in their original places, tense with waiting. At the sight of Haddon, he caught his breath.

“Claude?” Haddon said curtly.

“In his office... waiting,” Louis said. “Did... did you get it?”

“What do you think?”

Haddon walked through the gallery, then pushed open Kendrick’s door. Kendrick was pacing up and down, his wig askew.

“Ed! Chéri!” he eclaimed. “I’ve been in utter torment! Have you...?”

Haddon closed the door and walked over to Kendrick’s desk. He laid the suitcase on the desk, snapped open the locks, pressed the spring, and turning with a wide smile, handed the icon to Kendrick.

“Dear God!” Kendrick muttered. “And how I worried! I should have known! Marvellous, marvellous man!” Then he stared apprehensively at Haddon. “Any trouble? No horrid violence?”

Haddon’s smile widened.

“Went as sweet as honey. Now it’s your turn to do some work.”

“Yes... yes.” Kendrick lumbered to the door and called for Louis. Then he went to his desk telephone and dialled his cousin’s number. When Maverick answered, Kendrick said, “The goods have arrived. I am sending Louis to you right away.” He listened, then said, “A beautiful job. No problems,” and he hung up.

Louis slid into the room. At the sight of the icon, his little eyes lit up.

“My pet,” Kendrick said. “Wrap this, and take it to Roger. He is waiting and ready. You know what to do.”

Louis picked up the icon and studied it.

“I think my colours are nicer, don’t you, baby?”

“Hurry... hurry.”

When Louis had gone, Kendrick went to the liquor cabinet.

“I am in such a nervous state, I must have a brandy,” he said. “Dear Ed. Join me.”

“No, thanks. Nervous? I told you I’d get it, and I’ve got it. The time to get nervous is when the real heat is on which will be around two hours’ time.”

“Yes. I can imagine. Those Vietnamese? The police will be horrid to them.”

“So what? They know nothing. The only two in on this are the pregnant girls. The one with the smoke bomb got rid of her belly basket in a toilet. Her clothes were reversible. She has false papers. She left the toilet and mingled with the crowd: just another art lover. Even if the cops catch up with her, she won’t talk. The girl who gave me the icon is probably in New York by now, and lost.”

Kendrick lifted his wig to mop his bald head.

“And Lu?”

Haddon laughed.

“Lu is the one man you never need worry about.”

Kendrick sipped his brandy, then came to his desk and sat down.

“So, it now remains for that dreadful Lepski to carry the icon to Switzerland, then we are rich.”

“That’s it,” Haddon said. “It’s a sweet operation.” Then he paused and stared at Kendrick. “Always provided your buyer doesn’t stall at the last moment. Six million is a lot of loot to find. Are you sure of him, Claude?”

“Certainly. He is enormously rich. Yes, I am sure of him.” Claude again sipped his brandy, then an uneasy thought crept into his mind. Could he be sure when dealing with Herman Radnitz? Could anyone be sure when dealing with this ruthless tycoon?

Even another gulp of brandy didn’t soothe his jumping nerves.

Fred Scooner was trying to placate Karrass Keremski, Head of the KGB security guards.

“For God’s sake, take it easy,” he was saying. “Okay, the icon has been stolen, but it must still be in the building. The moment the smoke started, I had all exits sealed. No one has left the museum. The thief is still here, and the icon is still here. This is a stunt by the Anti-Soviet League to cause trouble. Everyone will be checked, and their names and addresses taken. Ten of my men are already searching the whole museum. It’s my bet, they’ll find the icon.”

Keremski glowered.

“The icon is gone!”

Scooner turned away. He went to the head of the steps and looked down at the patient queue, giving their names and addresses, and submitting to a body search.

Hurley, guarding the exit doors, let them out as he or she handed him a clearance chit. The operation was going smoothly, and Scooner was satisfied that no one could smuggle out the icon.

Lu Bradey, in his white sports shirt and black trousers, laid a false English passport before one of the security checkers.

“I’m staying at the Delaware hotel,” he said. “I will be sight-seeing all day, and then I go on to Ottawa: Hotel Central.”

The guard surveyed him: just another goddamn tourist, he thought, nodded and passed over the clearance chit. Bradey submitted to the body search, then walked out, hailing a taxi that drove him to the Delaware hotel.

Within an hour and a half, with some thirty guards working fast, the last visitors had gone.

Scooner was relaxing. The icon could not, repeat not, have been smuggled out of the museum. It was now just a matter of careful searching to find it. Then he became aware that one of his men was signalling to him. It was a discreet signal and Scooner’s heart sank.

“I’ll be right back,” he said to Keremski, and walked over to where the guard was standing.

“Something odd here, sir,” the guard said. “In one of the women’s toilets.”

Trumbler joined them.

“What is it?” he asked.

Together he and Scooner entered the toilet and the guard pointed to an egg shaped wicker basket with elastic straps, lying on the floor.

“What in God’s name is this?” Scooner muttered.

“Don’t touch it!” Trumbler said sharply. He moved forward, crouched and examined the basket, then he looked up at Scooner. “That’s how the smoke bomb was brought in. Those Vietnamese! Two of them were pregnant!”

“Sir.”

Scooner turned to find another guard at his side.

“In the gent’s loo on the second floor, there is a disguise.”

“Hell!” Scooner exclaimed. “You stay here,” he went on to the first guard, then following the second guard, followed by Tumbler, he walked up the steps to the second floor. The guard opened the door of one of the men’s toilets and stood aside. On the floor was a black coat, a bald wig, a heavily padded waistcoat and a clerical collar.

Trumbler immediately read the photo.

“That fat clergyman! The Vietnamese!” he exclaimed. Shoving past Scooner, he raced down to the lobby. His inquiry as to whether a fat clergyman had been checked out brought a negative reply.

Scooner joined him.

“Those Vietnamese!”

“I have all their names, sir,” one of the guards said. “They are all staying at the Brotherhood of Love hostel.”

“When you were checking them out, did you notice two of the women were heavily pregnant?” Scooner demanded.

“I didn’t notice, sir, but Hurley might. He took the checkout slips and let them out.”

Trumbler said, “I’m calling the Boss,” and dived for a telephone.

Scooner crossed to where Chick Hurley was standing by the exit doors. The excitement over, Hurley was again thinking of his wife. He came to attention as Scooner grabbed his arm.

“Did you see two of those Vietnamese women who were pregnant leave?” Scooner demanded.

Hurley blinked at him.

“No, sir. Of course one of them was taken away in an ambulance, but I didn’t see the other one.”

“Ambulance?” Scooner glared at him. “What ambulance?”

Hurley stiffened.

“Why, the one you sent for, sir.”

“I sent for? What the hell are you yammering about?”

Sweat began to drip down Hurley’s fat face.

“Well, sir, when the smoke started, the clergyman told me this Viet woman, shocked, was in labour, and you had called an ambulance. The ambulance arrived moments later, and two black men with a stretcher carried her out. She was in great pain, sir. As you had ordered the ambulance, I let them out. Did I do wrong?”

Scooner stood motionless, his eyes glazed like a man who had been hit over the head with a length of lead piping.

Trumbler, rushing from the telephone box, grabbed his arm.

“There’s no such hostel as the Brotherhood of Love!”

Scooner drew in a deep breath. He now knew the icon had not only been stolen, but had been smuggled out of the museum.

“It’s gone, Jack! You take over. I’ll talk to this KGB creep. Man! Are we in trouble!”

Trumbler rushed back to the telephone. Thirty minutes later, every exit from the United States of America was slammed shut.

At 11.00 on Wednesday morning, a sleek, impressive-looking van pulled up outside the Lepskis’ bungalow. On each side of the van’s buff-coloured cabin was the magic word: MAVERICK. The van and the name caused curtains to be pulled back, neighbours to walk casually into their gardens and envious eyes to stare.

Carroll had been waiting expectantly, and seeing the van arrive, seeing the commotion it caused was a highlight of her life.

The van driver, a tall, elegant, blond young man, wearing a buff-coloured uniform, laced with brown braid, and a buff-coloured peak cap with a brown visor, carrying a vast parcel, arrived at the Lepskis’ front door.

Carroll practically tore the front door off its hinges as she opened up.

Giving Carroll a shy, smirking smile, this beautiful young man insisted on coming in to unpack the parcel.

“Mr Maverick wishes to be absolutely sure that you are completely satisfied, madam.”

Carroll was reluctant to let this glamorous young man into her home. The living-room, as usual, was in an utter mess. It took Carroll until late in the afternoon to straighten up. Somehow, she and Lepski always left the living-room in a state of chaos before retiring for the night. How this happened, Carroll never understood, but happen it did.

But the blond van driver was so charming, so apparently oblivious to the mess, she regained confidence.

The parcel was unpacked.

“The suitcase with your initials, madam, is packed with your dresses, shoes and handbags,” the driver said. “Mr Lepski’s case is empty. Here is the vanity box. Mr Maverick particularly wants to know if it pleases you.”

Carroll was still drooling over the vanity box, long after the van had driven away. Apart from a de luxe assortment of expensive cosmetics, it included a baby mink crocodile wallet for Traveller’s cheques, her initials embossed in gold, as well as a matching sleeve for her passport and a manicure set, so elegant that Carroll was nervous of touching it.

An hour later, three of her best girl friends, unable to contain their curiosity any longer, came knocking on her front door.

This was Carroll’s moment of glory. The little bungalow resounded to squeals of envy, admiration and warm delight as she displayed her purchases.

None of her friends were content until she had put on each dress and paraded around the messy living-room. As all her friends also had messy living-rooms, none of them cared a damn about the background.

They feasted their eyes on Maverick’s creations, dreaming of the day when someone would leave them money so they too could compete with Carroll.

While Carroll was changing into another creation, her closest friend cut sandwiches, using up the cold chicken and ham that Carroll had put aside for her husband’s dinner. They also attacked Lepski’s bottle of Cutty Sark which Carroll had replaced. The party became quite a party, even to a glee song, led by Carroll at her most powerful, with the others filling in, in a noise that set the neighbours’ dogs howling.

Finally around 18.00, the party broke up. The girls had to rush back to their homes to scrape up something for their husbands to eat. Carroll, a little tight, once again sat before the vanity box to finger the gorgeous bottles and sighing with delight.

Then Lepski arrived.

Lepski had had a trying day. Chief Fred Terrell had returned from his vacation. Lepski had had to fill him in on the various crime happenings since he had been away. Although of little importance, Lepski liked to make out that if he hadn’t been in charge, Paradise City would have been on its knees. Terrell, who knew Lepski well, had listened patiently, nodded and puffed at his pipe. He summed up: ten cars stolen: ten cars recovered, three minor break-ins and five drunken drivers.

“Okay, Tom,” Terrell said. “Now, you get off and have a good vacation.”

Sergeant Beigler came in.

“Report. There’s a nut with a rifle, shooting the lights out in a highrise. The squad cars are down there. Should Tom take a look?”

Terrell nodded.

“Okay, Tom, your last job. Take a look.”

This was meat and drink to Lepski. He threw himself into his car and belted down Paradise avenue, his siren screaming. He liked nothing better than to make a Rolls, a Bentley, a Caddy swerve out of his way.

Arriving at the scene, he found ten uniformed cops staring up at a distant window of a 17-storey highrise.

“He’s up there,” one of the cops said. “Shooting.”

Lepski patted his gun.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Aware of a big crowd watching, aware too that a TV crew had arrived, Lepski took his time, walking slowly and purposely towards the entrance to the highrise, hoping the TV creeps were filming him.

With three cops and a shivering, elderly janitor, Lepski rode up to the 11th floor.

“That’s the door to his apartment, sir,” the janitor said as they stepped out into the corridor. “It’s Mr Lewishon. I reckon he has bats in his attic.”

Lepski, gun in hand, waved the three cops into position, then raising his foot, he slammed it against the lock of the door and the door flew open.

It came as an anti-climax as they rushed into a well furnished room where a fat, elderly man was sitting before an open window with a .22 rifle in his hands.

“Hold it!” Lepski bawled in his cop voice, his gun pointing at the elderly man.

“Ah! The police! How right!” The man laid down his rifle. “Come in. Come in. Look at this disgrace! In broad daylight, people over there have their lights on. It is an utter disgrace! Our good President is continually asking us to save energy, but no one heeds. Lights! Lights! Everywhere are lights!”

When Lepski turned in his report, Beigler and Jacoby laughed themselves sick.

“Okay, you two jerks,” Lepski shouted. “I’ll be on TV, so laugh that off!”

It so happened, after inquiring, Lepski was told by the Paradise City TV people that the shot of him walking to the highrise had been blacked out by a kid who thought it smart to put his grimy little hand before the lens of the TV camera.

In a sour mood, Lepski, pounding into his bungalow like a fire engine on emergency, bawled, “I’m home! What’s for dinner?”

Carroll had just replaced an elegant scent spray in her vanity box. The sound of Lepski’s voice jarred her from the dream of how millionaires’ wives live down to the sordid reality of how a First Grade detective’s wife lives.

“Hi, baby!” Lepski bawled, rushing into the living-room. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving!”

Carroll closed her eyes. Her dream evaporated. Back into the reality of life, she stood up.

“Tom! Look at our luggage. Look! There’s a suitcase with your initials. Isn’t it marvellous?”

Lepski gaped at the suitcases.

“For me? What the hell do I want with a new suitcase? I’ve already got a suitcase!”

“Your grandfather owned it,” Carroll said coldly.

“What’s wrong with my grandfather?” Lepski demanded aggressively.

“This is the suitcase you are going away with!” Carroll said slowly and firmly.

Lepski approached the suitcase and examined it. He sucked in his breath.

“Jesus! This must have cost a bomb! Have you gone spending crazy, honey?”

“Look at this!” Carroll pointed to the vanity box.

Lepski stared.

“You bought this?”

“Mr Maverick gave it to me.”

Lepski peered at the contents of the box. He picked out a perfume spray and squirted his face.

Carroll snatched the spray from him.

“Hmmm... sexy,” Lepski said. “You mean he gave it to you.”

“Yes, and the two suitcases were only a hundred dollars.”

“Man! You must have sexed that fag into a real man,” Lepski said and grinned. “Trust my baby. What’s for dinner?”

“Lepski, can’t you really think of anything else but food?” Carroll demanded as she made her way to the kitchen.

“We’ve gone over all that before,” Lepski said, following her. “Let’s eat.”

As Carroll looked into the refrigerator and realized where those succulent chicken and ham sandwiches had come from, she released a wail of despair.

Lepski, recognizing the sound, released an expletive that made Carroll’s ears burn.

The news of the audacious theft of the Catherine the Great icon hit the TV news screens at 18.00. The telecaster said that already the President of the United States had talked to the Premier of the Soviet Union. He had assured the Premier that the icon would be recovered. He was offering a $200,000 reward that would lead to its recovery. The Premier of the Soviet Union had ordered the exhibits at the Fine Arts Museum to be packed and returned to the Soviet Union immediately under close guard.

The President had told the Premier that all exits had been shut and there was no way the icon could be smuggled out of the country. It was now only a matter of time before the icon was found.

All security forces, the Army and the Navy had been called in for the hunt. The thieves would be found and punished.

It wasn’t reported what the Premier had replied.

Kendrick, with Louis, listened to the broadcast and exchanged uneasy glances.

Ed Haddon listened in his suite at the Spanish Bay hotel and grinned.

Lu Bradey, in New York, also listened and also grinned. Even if one of the Vietnamese was tempted by the reward, he had completely covered his tracks. Whatever the possible Vietnamese said, it would only confuse the issue.

Bradey nodded to himself. He felt confident that with the help of First Grade Detective Tom Lepski, the icon would arrive in Switzerland.