“You are a craftsman, chéri,” he said. “This is very good.”
He carefully compared the replica with the illustration of the original.
“I couldn’t match the colours exactly,” Louis said, “but it is near enough.”
“Yes... near enough.”
“Do be careful what you are doing, baby,” Louis said. “There will be a horrid uproar. We could land in jail.”
Kendrick silently agreed, but he put the replica in his briefcase, straightened his wig and made for the door.
“Relax, chéri. Think of the money you will be making.”
He left the Gallery and drove to the Spanish Bay hotel where he found Ed Haddon sunning himself on the terrace.
“Let us go to your apartment, Ed,” Kendrick said after the two men had shaken hands.
In Haddon’s luxury apartment, the door closed and locked, Kendrick produced the replica.
“Your man is good,” Haddon said, taking the replica and examining it. “This is just what I want.”
“Let us sit down. I have found a possible solution to get the original to Switzerland. If this doesn’t work, nothing will. There is a risk, of course, but I think a minor one,” Kendrick said as he sat down in a comfortable chair.
Haddon grinned and rubbed his hands.
“I felt sure you would come up with an idea, Claude. How is it to be done?”
“First, you are certain you can get the icon?”
Haddon sat by Kendrick’s side.
“Don’t let’s waste time. I said you will have the icon Tuesday,” Haddon said irritably. “You’ll have it! How do you get it to Switzerland?”
Kendrick told him about his cousin, Roger Maverick.
“By the sheerest luck, the wife of a police officer came to Roger’s shop to buy clothes. She has inherited money. She and her husband, Lepski, are going to Europe on vacation. They go to Paris, Monte Carlo and Switzerland. This means they will go through the French and Swiss customs controls. My cousin has sold her suitcases and a vanity box. My cousin will take the vanity box to pieces, insert the icon and put the box together again. What do you think?”
Haddon stared at him.
“You mean you are using a cop to smuggle the icon out?”
Kendrick nodded.
“What better and safer person? Who would suspect a first grade detective on vacation smuggling the icon out of the country? Lepski is well known to the customs’ officials at Miami airport. They will wave him through. He has only to show his shield for the French and the Swiss officials also to wave him through. Do you like the idea?”
Haddon brooded for a long minute, then grinned.
“Looks like you and I, Claude, are going to make a great deal of money. I love the idea!”
“Yes.” Kendrick shifted uneasily, “but there are still problems.”
Haddon gave him a sharp look.
“What problems?”
“We are handing Lepski’s wife six million dollars, Ed,” Kendrick said. “Of course, she doesn’t realize that, but nevertheless, she will have charge of six million dollars. I know nothing about her. She may be a pea-brain. She may be one of these women who leave things behind, lose things, forget things. Suppose she left the vanity box somewhere? You follow my thinking?”
“She would leave her pants behind, but she’s not going to leave a valuable vanity box behind.”
“All the same... women do do awful things like even leaving their diamonds behind.”
Haddon nodded.
“You’re right. Okay, Claude, I’ll fix it.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll fly up to Washington and talk to Bradey. We must arrange for someone to be with the Lepskis until they reach Switzerland. Bradey will take care of that.”
Kendrick relaxed.
“That’s it, Ed. Someone who will never let her or Lepski out of his sight, but warn Bradey that Lepski is a smart cop. They will have to be tailed with care.”
“Leave it to me. I’ll personally deliver the icon to your Gallery around five o’clock Tuesday and I will let you know what I have arranged. Don’t worry, Claude, this is going to work.”
Four hours later, Haddon was talking to Lu Bradey, still disguised as a clergyman. They were sitting together in Bradey’s motor hotel room.
Bradey nodded approval when he heard of Kendrick’s plan to smuggle the icon to Switzerland.
“That’s real smart,” he said.
Then Haddon explained Kendrick’s fears.
“This is where we have to help, Lu,” he said. “I will check that the Lepskis get through the Miami customs. When they reach Paris we will need someone to tail them and stick with them, making sure the vanity box remains in their possession. Any ideas?”
Bradey thought, then nodded.
“No problem. Pierre and Claudette Duvine. They are my French agents and smart. You can leave this to me, Ed. It’ll cost, of course, but they will stick to the Lepskis like glue all the way through the Swiss frontier.”
“Sure?”
Bradey smiled.
“My dear Ed!”
Haddon nodded, satisfied.
In a comfortably furnished duplex apartment on rue Alfred Bruneau in the 16th arrondissement, Paris, Pierre Duvine was counting the remaining money he had in his wallet, and in the world.
Duvine, dark, around thirty-seven years of age, was often mistaken for Alain Delon, the French movie actor. He was an expert in antiques, jewellery and 18th-century paintings. Working on a profitable commission, he kept Lu Bradey informed of sound, possible steals.
As everyone knows, Paris is a dead city during the month of August. It was only just coming alive in this first week in September. Even now, there were plenty of parking places, and the best restaurants were only just beginning to stretch their limbs for yet another profitable season.
Usually, Pierre and his wife spent August in the Midi where the action was, but Pierre had had an unpleasant motoring accident, and was only just out of hospital. Claudette, his wife, who was devoted to him, had stayed in their Paris apartment so she could visit him in hospital every day.
He fingered the bank notes and frowned.
Claudette came in from the bathroom.
“Money?” she asked, looking at the bank notes Pierre was fingering.
Claudette, five years younger than Pierre, even at ten o’clock in the morning, even having just rolled out of bed, presented a charming picture. She was tall, slender, with Venetian red hair and emerald-green eyes. Long legged with a superb, lithesome body, she played an important part in Duvine’s machinations. Time and again, she had sexed some rich old man into inviting her to his home, noted with expertise anything; worth stealing, allowed the old man to take her to bed, then returning home, gave Pierre a detailed description of the articles worth stealing, the kind of locks, the alarm system and so on. This information was passed to Lu Bradey who then organized the steal.
The Duvines had been happily married now for five years, and although there were times when Pierre was moody, and sometimes bad tempered, Claudette, recognizing the signs, soothed and sexed him into a good mood. Not once had they quarrelled, due to Claudette’s calming influence.
“We are getting short of cash,” Pierre said gloomily. “After paying that awful hospital bill, we’ll be down to practically nothing.”
Claudette stroked his face lovingly.
“Never mind, my treasure, something always turns up. Give me five minutes, and I’ll have coffee for you.”
Pierre patted her bottom and smiled.
“Sugar, you are my heart and my life.”
She ran off to the bedroom while Pierre recounted his money. He had a little over ten thousand francs. He grimaced. Among his many talents, he was an expert pick-pocket. Since working with Lu Bradey, he had dropped dipping into pockets, but maybe, he thought uneasily, he would have to begin again until the rich returned to Paris. He didn’t like the thought. There was always a risk, and he was out of practice.