“Have you finished shooting off with your mouth?” Haddon asked.
Claude took off his wig, stared at it, then slapped it crookedly back on his head.
“Just thoughts, dear Ed. I often think aloud.”
“Look at page fifty-four,” Haddon said.
Claude licked his fat thumb and turned the pages of the catalogue.
“Yes. Very nice. What does it say? Icon, date unknown, thought to be the earliest icon in existence. Known to be Catherine the Great’s most treasured possession.” He regarded the illustration. “Made of wood, painted, showing some unknown Russian saint. Excellent state of preservation. Size 8 by 10 inches. Not everyone’s choice. The mob would pass it by. Very interesting as a collector’s piece.”
“In the open market, it would be worth twenty million dollars,” Haddon said quietly.
“I’ll accept that, but obviously the Russians wouldn’t sell, dear boy.”
Haddon leaned forward, his steel-grey eyes like the points of ice picks.
“Could you sell it, Claude?”
Kendrick found that in spite of the air-conditioning, he was sweating slightly. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.
“It is possible to sell anything, but this icon could cause trouble.”
“Never mind the trouble. It’s yours for three million,” Haddon said.
Kendrick finished his martini. He felt in need of another.
“Let me refresh your drink, Ed. This needs a little thought.”
He plodded over to the liquor cabinet and made two more drinks, his mind very active.
“I haven’t much time,” Haddon said, accepting the drink. “The exhibition closes in two weeks. It’s either to be you or Abe.”
Claude returned to his desk and sat down.
“Let’s look closely at this, Ed,” he said. “I visited the Fine Arts Museum when I was in Washington a year ago. It seemed to me then that their security precautions were impressive. I understand from what I’ve read that the security precautions for this exhibition have been tightened and the chances of a steal there are nil.”
Haddon nodded.
“Oh, sure. I’ve gone into all that. Not only have the museum guards been increased, but the Feds and the CIA and plainclothes cops are swarming all over. Not only that but the Russians have supplied five of their own cops to add to the merry crowd. All visitors are checked. No man nor woman is allowed to take in a bag or a handbag. All visitors go through the electronic screen. Yeah, I admit they have done an impressive job.”
Claude lifted his fat shoulders.
“So...”
“Yeah. I like handling impossible steals, Claude. I have never failed to get what I want, and I’m telling you if you can sell the icon and pay me three million bucks into my Swiss account, the icon is yours.”
Claude thought back on the various big steals Haddon had organised. He remembered the five-foot-high Ming vase that disappeared from the British Museum. That had been a masterpiece of organisation, but he hesitated. This was something different: the political angle would be dangerous.
“Let us suppose you get the icon, Ed,” he said cautiously. “I don’t have to tell you this will cause an international incident or let us say an explosion. The heat will be very fierce.”
“That’s your funeral, Claude. Once I give you the icon, you cope with the heat, but if you don’t want to handle it, say so and I’ll talk to Abe.”
Kendrick hesitated, then the thought of a three-million-dollar profit overcame his caution.
“Give me three days, Ed. I must talk to a client or two.”
“Fair enough. I’m at the Spanish Bay hotel. Let me know not later than Friday night. If you can find the right client, you’ll get the icon the following Tuesday.”
Kendrick wiped the sweat off his face.
“Just to reassure me, dear Ed, tell me how you are going to get it.”
Haddon got to his feet.
“Later. You get the client first, then we’ll have a talk about ways and means.” He stared long at Kendrick. “I’ll get it. You don’t have to worry about that. See you,” and he left.
Kendrick sat thinking, then he opened one of the desk drawers and took out a leather-bound book in which he kept the names and addresses of his richest clients, all of them with secret museums.
Louis de Marney came fluttering in.
“What did he want, darling?” he asked. “Business?”
Kendrick waved him away.
“Don’t bother me,” he said. “Don’t let anyone bother me. I have to think.”
Knowing the signs, Louis left silently, closing the door. Big money was in the pipe-line, and as Louis had a fifteen per cent share in Kendrick’s illegal operations, he was content to wait until his assistance was required.
It took Kendrick well over an hour to decide which of his clients he should approach. He needed someone interested in Russian art and who could raise six million dollars at short notice. Discarding name after name for one reason or another, principally because of their lack of interest in Russian art, he finally turned to the R’s.
Herman Radnitz!
Of course! He should have thought of him at once.
Herman Radnitz had once been described by a journalist working for Le Figaro as follows:
“Radnitz is Mr Big Business. Suppose you want a dam built in Hong Kong. Suppose you want to launch a car-ferry service between England and Denmark. Suppose you want to install electrical equipment in China. Before you even begin to make plans, you consult Radnitz who would fix the financial end. Radnitz is in practically everything: ships, oil, building construction, aircraft, and he has strong connections with the Soviet government, and he is on first name terms with the President of the United States of America. He’s probably the richest man, outside Saudi Arabia, in the world.”
Yes, Radnitz, Kendrick thought, but this would have to be handled very carefully.
After more thought, he put through a call to the Belvedere hotel where he knew Radnitz was staying.
After talking to Gustav Holtz, Radnitz’s secretary, Kendrick was granted an interview at 10.00 the following morning.
During the month of August, crime in Paradise City had been practically non-est. Apart from a few stolen cars and old ladies reporting the loss of their dogs, the police in this humid, sweaty city had little to do.
Chief of Police Fred Terrell was on vacation. Sergeant Joe Beigler, left in charge of the Cop house, spent his time in Terrell’s office, drinking coffee and chain-smoking. Being an active man, he would have liked nothing better than a big jewel robbery or some such thing, but the thieves and the con-men didn’t arrive until the rich and the jet set returned towards the middle of September.
In the Detectives’ room, Detective 1st Grade Tom Lepski, tall dark and lean, had his feet on his desk while reading the comics. At another desk, Detective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby, four years younger than Lepski, dark and powerfully built, hammered out a stolen car report on his ancient typewriter.
The activity in the Detectives’ room, compared to six weeks ago, was as animated as the city’s morgue.
Jacoby yanked the paper and carbons from his typewriter and sat back.
“That’s that,” he said. “What else is there to do?”
“Nothing.” Lepski yawned. “Why don’t you go home? No point in both of us sitting around.”
“I’m doing the shift until 22.00, worse luck. You go home.”
Lepski gave a sly grin.