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.