“Oh.” I was deflated.
“However, Brigitte Kelly’s death is not really our concern. Let Scotland Yard puzzle it out. Not that they’re having much luck with it. What concerns Dombey of Dover is locating her heirs.”
“Heirs? There’s more than one, then?”
“There are three, Mr. Victor. Unlike her husband. Brigitte Kelly had made out a will before she died. All of her earthly belongings were to be divided equally among three girls who worked for her. Of course, when this testament was drawn up, she had no knowledge that her estate might inherit a uranium mine worth a fortune.”
“A trio of million-dollar doxies,” I mused. “I’ll bet not one of them ever expected to turn a trick like this.”
“You are probably right again, Mr. Victor. You see, when Brigitte Kelly’s estate was settled after her untimely death, each of the three received about five thousand dollars. And each of the three immediately disappeared."
“I wonder why she left even that amount to three hookers.”
“Well, she hated her family. Perhaps she looked on these three as her friends.”
“There must have been more to it than that,” I said positively. My O.R.G.Y. background has convinced me that madams don’t as a rule become quite that fond of the girls who work for them.
“You may be right, Mr. Victor. But that needn't concern us for the moment. The point is that Dombey of Dover has reached an impasse in its efforts to track down each of the three. And that is why we have decided to enlist your help."
“Why me?”
“Because of your connection with O.R.G.Y. You recently sent out certain letters in an effort to obtain a grant for the purpose of conducting a survey of various European establishments of pleasure. Operating under this guise, you will have entry to many places which Dombey of Dover dare not visit. Our reputation, you know. Plus the fact that we would have no reason other than the real one to become involved with such establishments. You, on the other hand, have a legitimate-sounding cover story. And as long as it is not known that you are connected with us, this is a great asset.”
“Why is all this cloak-and-dagger jazz necessary?”
“Because Brigitte Kelly’s will is being contested by certain members of her family. Somehow, they learned of the Gopher Hole bequest. A leak from her original solicitors, I imagine. And now they are doing everything in their power to hinder us in our efforts to locate the three heiresses.”
“But what can they do?”
“With four and a half million at stake, much more than you would dream, Mr. Victor. Perhaps you will appreciate just how dangerous they may be if I tell you that the Mafia is working with them.”
“The Mafia? How are they involved in all this?”
“Brigitte Kelly’s grandmother on her mother’s side came from Sicily. Her son, Brigitte’s uncle, is connected with the Mafia in Dublin. It is his branch of the family which will get the inheritance if the will is broken. Twice already during the course of this investigation, there have been attempts made on my life. One of these attempts was by a known Mafia killer. And now you know why I am holding this gun at the ready. I don‘t think I was followed here, but with the Mafia, one can never be sure.”
“Nice playmates you want to involve me with,” I remarked.
“The decision is yours, Mr. Victor. If the fee tempts you sufficiently-”
“It does,” I said. “I only hope I’m alive to spend it.”
“I hope so too, Mr. Victor. And I speak for Dombey of Dover when I say that.”
“Hear. hear!” Hell, why not get into the spirit of the thing? “Now suppose you tell me about these three million-dollar doxies? Who are they?”
“ Françoise Laval, Gina Moretti and Barbara Thomas. The first is French, the second Italian, and the third a countrywoman of yours.”
“Sounds like Brigitte Kelly was operating a sort of House of All Nations,” I observed.
“She was. The international variety of her establishment was one of the reasons for its popularity.”
“And just where do I start looking for these three trollops?” I wanted to know.
“I am coming to that. After they received the bequest, the three girls went to Rome together. Here they evidently had some sort of falling-out, and they split up. Françoise Laval and Barbara Thomas dropped completely from sight. Gina Moretti changed her name-—-we have been unable to find out what she changed it to—-and went to the Riviera. Here, we have been able to learn, she took up with a prominent Swiss industrialist named Gunther Friedriksenn. She may still be with him, or she may not. We're not sure.”
“And where is this Friedriksenn?”
“He’s at a private chalet about thirty miles from here at the present time. With him are his wife and his secretary. Also, although not officially with his party, his mistress. All three of these women are Italian. Prior to their connections with Friedriksenn, none dating back more than a year, the backgrounds of all three are quite obscure. Any one of them might be Gina Moretti.”
“Or might not be,” I pointed out.
“Or might not be,” Tarleton agreed.
“I don’t suppose you have a picture of her?"
“Unfortunately, there are no pictures available of any of the three women we seek. The description we have managed to put together of Gina is of a brunette—of course, she may have changed her hair color—about five-five, 120 pounds, thirty-six or thirty seven-inch bust, small waist, generous hips, in general a good figure and a face which has been described as pretty with regular features.”
“That could be any one of a million Italian girls. Any scars or distinguishing marks?” I asked him.
“Just one. There is a crescent-shaped scar about three-quarters of an inch long on the left cheek of her derriére. It’s the result of a brawl in the bordello. She was shoved against a man holding a broken bottle.”
“Well that simplifies everything,” I said sarcastically. “All I have to do is run around pulling up skirts. Providing none of these signorinas wear panties, of course.”
“You might also pull down the panties,” Tarleton suggested.
“And you an Englishman,” I tut-tutted. “The very idea."
I mulled things over for a moment. “By the way, how old is this Gina Moretti?” I asked finally.
“Her age is indeterminate. Some place between twenty and thirty.”
“That’s a big help, too.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Victor.”
“You said this Friedriksenn party is at a private chalet,” I remembered. “Just how do I go about wangling my way in there?”
“That shouldn’t be difficult, Mr. Victor. Your connection with O.R.G.Y. should provide you with entry. It is one of the reasons we decided to approach you about this matter. You see, Friedriksenn is a connoisseur of offbeat sex. Sadism, orgies, pornographic movies - things like that are his hobby. As a dedicated amateur, he will doubtless be delighted to encounter a professional like yourself. You will register at an inn near his lodge. Word of who you are and of your connection with O.R.G.Y. will be leaked to him by the management of the inn. We are gambling that he will be intrigued enough to contact you then.”
“I see. And suppose I do manage to make a positive identification of Gina Moretti, what then? How do I track down the other two?”
“It is our hope that she will be able to give you a lead to their whereabouts.”
“The whole thing sounds pretty iffy to me,” I told him, expressing what I honestly felt.
“It is. That’s why the rewards will be so high if you succeed.”
“Okay.” I took a healthy bite out of the carrot he was dangling in front of my nose. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Fine. Then there is nothing else to say, Mr. Victor. Good-bye for now. If you should wish to contact me, just call or write to the London office of Dombey of Dover. Now, if you will leave first, I will wait a while so that just in case one of us is observed, there will be no obvious connection between us.”