James Hadley Chase
Try This One for Size
This one is for
John Skalicky
one
Claude Kendrick, owner of the Kendrick Gallery, back from his August vacation, sat at his desk making plans for another prosperous season.
The heat and the humidity that turned Paradise City, the billionaires’ playground, into a dead city was now in the past. September had arrived, and the city was coming alive with the rich, the jet-set and the tourists.
Recognized as a character in the city, Kendrick was a tall, enormously fat queer who resembled a dolphin without, it had been said, the amiable expression of a dolphin. There were times when he resembled a man-eating shark.
Although immaculately dressed at all times, Kendrick, bald as an egg, wore an ill-fitting orange-coloured wig and pale pink lipstick. When he met a lady client on the street, he would raise his wig as if it were a hat. In spite of his enormous bulk and his eccentricities, he was considered in the art world as an expert in antiques, jewellery and modern paintings. His Gallery was known and patronised by the world’s collectors. What was not known was that Kendrick was one of the most important and active fences in the United States, and was in constant touch with all the expert art thieves where art treasures were to be found.
Many of Kendrick’s clients had their own private museums for their eyes only. It was with these clients that Kendrick did most of his lucrative business. A client would see some art treasure in some museum or in some friend’s house and would covet it with that lust only fanatical collectors have. Eventually, unable to control the gnawing urge to possess this particular treasure, he would come to Kendrick and drop a hint: if the so-and-so museum or Mr so-and-so would sell this particular treasure, money would be no object. Knowing the treasure was not for sale at any price, Kendrick would discuss a price, then say he would see what he could arrange. The collector, knowing from past dealings with Kendrick that the affair would work out to his satisfaction, would return to his secret museum and wait. Kendrick would alert one of his many art thieves, discuss terms and also wait. Eventually the art treasure would mysteriously disappear from the so-and-so museum or from Mr So-and-so’s collection and arrive at the collector’s secret museum. A large sum of money would arrive in Kendrick’s Swiss bank in Zurich.
Having spent the month of August on his yacht, sailing the Caribbean sea, in the amusing company of male ballet dancers, Kendrick, refreshed, heavily suntanned, took pleasure to be, once again, seated at his desk, turning his expertise and his crooked mind to making money.
Louis de Marney, Kendrick’s head salesman, slid into the vast room with its picture window and its antiques in which Kendrick worked.
Louis was thin and could be any age from twenty-five to forty. His long thick hair was the colour of sable. His lean face, close-set eyes and pinched mouth gave him the appearance of a suspicious rat.
“Surprise!” he exclaimed in his high-pitched voice. “You’ll never guess! Ed Haddon!”
Kendrick stiffened.
“Here?”
“Waiting!”
Kendrick laid down his gold pencil. His fat face moved into his shark-like smile.
Ed Haddon was the King of art thieves: a brilliant operator who appeared to live the immaculate life of a retired business man, paying his taxes, moving to his various apartments in Fort Lauderdale, the South of France, Paris and London.
Although he had been operating for some twenty years, organising some of the biggest art steals, he had so covered his tracks that the police of the world had no suspicions of his nefarious deals. He was the master-mind who planned, organised and directed a group of experts who did his bidding. It was seldom that he worked with Kendrick, but when he did, the profit for Kendrick was always substantial.
“Hurry, stupid,” Kendrick said, lumbering to his feet. “Send him in.”
Louis fluttered away, and Kendrick was at the door to greet Haddon, his smile oily, his hand thrust out.
“Ed, darling! What a lovely surprise! Come in, come in! You are looking splendid, but then when don’t you?”
Ed Haddon stood in the doorway and regarded Kendrick, then he took and shook the offered hand.
“You don’t look so lousy yourself except for that god-awful wig,” he said, moving into the room.
“It’s my trade-mark, Ed, dear boy,” Kendrick tittered. “No one would recognise me without it.” Still holding Haddon’s hand, he led him to a big comfortable chair. “Sit down. Perhaps a glass of champagne?”
Haddon could have been mistaken for a Congressman or even a Secretary of State. His appearance was impressive: tall, heavily built, with thick iron-grey hair, a florid, handsome face, steel-grey eyes and a benign smile which would have earned him a mass of votes had he considered running for Congress. Behind this facade was a razor-sharp brain and a ruthless and cunning mind.
“Scotch on the rocks,” he said, taking out a cigar case and selecting a cigar. “Want one of these? Havana.”
“Not this early,” Claude said, pouring the drink. “I am really delighted to see you after all this time. It’s been too long, Ed.”
Haddon was looking around the vast room. His eyes examined the various pictures on the silk-covered walls.
“That’s nice,” he said, pointing to a picture above Kendrick’s desk. “Nice brush work. Monet, huh? A fake, of course.”
Claude brought the drink and set it on a small antique table by Haddon’s side.
“Only you and I know that, Ed,” he said. “I have an old trout, with too much money, nibbling.”
Haddon laughed.
“After Monet, huh? Just to cover yourself.”
“Of course, dear boy.” Claude made himself a dry martini, then went behind his desk and sat down. “It’s not often you come to our fair city, Ed.”
“Not staying long.” Haddon crossed one leg over the other. “How’s business, Claude?”
“A little slow. It’s the beginning of the season. The antiques will be moving soon. The rich will be back next week.”
“I mean... business,” Haddon said, his steel-grey eyes probing.
“Ah!” Claude shook his head. “Nothing right now. As a matter of fact I could handle something if it came my way.”
Haddon lit his cigar and puffed smoke for a long moment.
“I’ve been trying to decide: whether you or Abe Salisman.”
Claude flinched. The name Abe Salisman was always like a drop of acid on his tongue for Salisman was without doubt the biggest fence operating in New York. Many a time he had beaten Kendrick to a big deal. The two men hated each other as a mongoose hates a snake.
“Come now chéri,” he said. “You don’t want to deal with a cheap shyster like Abe. You know you can get a better price from me. Have I ever cheated you?”
“You’ve never had the chance, nor has Abe. This is a matter of big, fast cash. It’ll run to six million.” Haddon puffed smoke. “I want three.”
“Six million isn’t impossible,” Claude said slowly, his shark-like mind active. “Depends on the goods, of course. There is a lot of money around for something special, Ed.”
“There’s not all that money right now in New York. That’s why I’m giving you the first offer.”
Claude put on his dolphin smile.
“Appreciated, dear boy. Tell me.”
“The Hermitage exhibition.”
“Ah!” The look of greed faded from Kendrick’s eyes. “Very nice. I have the catalogue.” He opened a desk drawer and produced a thick, glossy brochure. “Yes, very nice. Beautiful items. A gesture of detente. The Russian government lending some of its finest exhibits for the citizens of the United States of America to admire.” He flicked through the pages of coloured illustrations. “Magnificent. Thousands taking advantage of this splendid co-operation between two of the most powerful countries.” He looked up and eyed Haddon who was smiling. “Yes, but strictly not for you and strictly not for Abe and strictly not for me.” He sighed and laid down the catalogue.