“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.