Lepski visibly brightened, but Carroll would have none of it.
“It is on us!” she said firmly. “We insist.” She ignored Lepski’s faint moan.
There was a friendly argument as they walked to their rooms, but Pierre, knowing what the check for the following evening would come to, graciously accepted that they would be the Lepskis’ guests.
While Lepski was protesting in their room, telling Carroll she was out of her mind to throw their money around in this way, the Duvines, in their room, regarded each other.
“I had a terrible feeling,” Claudette said, “they would let you pay for tomorrow. We must save our expenses, my treasure.”
Pierre patted her.
“I knew she would insist. I wouldn’t have suggested the Grand Vefour if I hadn’t been sure.” He smiled lovingly at his wife. “Are you enjoying all this?”
“If we could only live like this forever!” Claudette began to undress. “Have you been thinking?”
“Of course. We can’t do a thing until we get to Montreux. I am still wondering how I can contact Radnitz. This is the problem, sugar.”
“We have six days. Are you tired?”
“Not too tired,” Pierre said, looking at her nakedness with adoring eyes, and began hurriedly to undress.
At Zurich airport, a tall thin man with straw-coloured hair, neatly trimmed to his collar, wearing a dark blue business suit, carrying a suitcase, moved with the passengers just off the New York flight towards the Swiss passport control. As the queue moved forward, he saw there were two men in plain clothes standing behind the passport official, and guessed they were security police.
When his turn came, he presented his passport. The three men eyed him.
“Are you here on business, Mr Holtz?” The passport official asked.
“No. I am visiting friends,” Sergas Holtz replied in his cold, clipped German, “I will only be here for a week.”
“Have a pleasant visit.”
Sergas Holtz moved into the customs shed. There was a long queue of exasperated passengers, waiting while several grey uniformed customs men dealt with their baggage.
With a sardonic little smile, Holtz waited patiently. He thought all this effort and delay for nothing slightly amusing. Finally, his turn came. He opened his suitcase and watched the official search, his fingers tracing around the inside of the case, and Holtz was thankful he hadn’t had to bring the vanity box through this customs’ check.
“Thank you, sir,” the official said, and leaving Holtz to replace his things into the case, moved on to the next passenger.
Holtz walked to the Hertz desk. With his Hertz credit card, he was quickly provided with a Ford Escort. He asked for a street guide of the city which was handed to him.
His uncle had given him two addresses. Sitting in the rented car, he tracked down the addresses on the map, then headed for the centre of the city.
The first address was a shabby apartment block not far from the airport. He found parking space with difficulty, then entered the building, took the creaking elevator to the third floor and rang the bell of a heavy oak front door.
The door opened, after a delay, and a small bearded man in his late sixties, dressed in a grey flannel shirt and dark brown corduroy trousers, peered suspiciously at him from behind thick-lensed glasses.
“Mr Frederick?” Holtz asked.
“Yes.”
“You are expecting me.” Holtz offered his passport.
Frederick examined the passport closely, grunted and handed it back. He stood aside.
“Come in, Mr Holtz.”
Holtz entered a dark lobby, then followed Frederick into a large living room, furnished with heavy, ugly furniture.
“I am here to serve you,” Frederick said. “I have had many pleasant dealings with your uncle. What can I do for you?”
“A pistol,” Holtz said. “A Beretta if you have one.”
“Ah! That’s a beautiful weapon, only weighing ten ounces and only four and a half inches long.”
“I know that!” Holtz said impatiently. “Have you one?”
“Yes. It is almost new, and in perfect condition. It costs...”
“I am not interested in what it costs. You will charge it to my uncle,” Holtz said curtly. “Let me see it.”
“In a few moments.”
Frederick left the room, closing the door behind him. Holtz went to the window, drew aside the net curtain and looked down into the street. His hard eyes surveyed the passing people, the crawling cars. He saw nothing suspicious, but suspicion was ingrained in his nature. He dropped the curtain and moved to the centre of the room as Frederick came in, carrying a cardboard box.
“There are twenty five rounds of ammunition,” he said, setting the box down on the table. “I fear I have no more.”
“They will be enough.” Holtz opened the box, took out the gun, lying in cotton wool, and examined it. His examination was searching and expert.
“I see you understand guns,” Frederick said, watching. “You will find it in perfect order.”
Holtz ignored the remark. Satisfied with the gun, he opened the box of ammunition, and after scrutinising each bullet, he loaded the gun.
“I’ll take it,” he said. “Now, I want a hunting knife.”
“Certainly, Mr Holtz. I will fetch my best selection.”
Again Frederick left the room and returned some minutes later with a large box which he set on the table. Removing the lid, he said, “Please make your selection.”
Holtz took nearly half an hour examining the collection of knives before he made his choice.
“This one,” he said, holding up a murderous-looking knife with a flat ebony handle and a razor-shape blade some four inches long.
“An excellent choice. The best knife I have in my collection,” Frederick said. “There is a sheath to go with it.” He rummaged in the box and produced a soft sheath in deerskin with straps.
Holtz put the knife into the sheath, then pulling up his right trouser leg, he strapped the knife into place. After a little adjustment, he found the knife lay snugly against the fleshy part of his calf. Pulling down the trouser leg, he walked around the room, then nodded.
“I’ll take it. Charge it to my uncle,” and with barely a nod, he walked out of the living room, opened the front door and took the elevator down to the entrance of the apartment block, the Beretta in his hip pocket, the box of ammunition in his jacket pocket, the knife strapped to his leg.
Since he had left New York, completely unarmed, Holtz had felt naked, but not now. He walked with an assured step to his car, got in, paused to check the map, then set off to the second address.
He had some difficulty with the one-way streets and the heavy, slow-moving traffic, but eventually he came upon a pair of gates with a plaque bearing the number he was seeking. He drove into the yard.
A few minutes later, he stood in a handsomely furnished office, shaking hands with a tall, balding Swiss who introduced himself as Herr Weidmann.
“Your uncle telephoned, Mr Holtz. It is always a great pleasure to do something for him. The box is ready. I can assure you everything is as your uncle has ordered.”
Holtz nodded.
“I am pressed for time,” he said curtly. “Give me the box.”
Weidmann’s smile slipped. He wasn’t used to such abrupt treatment, nor did he like the look of this tall, thin man with his hard, probing eyes.
“Certainly, certainly.” He went to a cupboard, unlocked it and took out the blue vanity box. “It is a perfect replica. You will see from the photographs...”
“Have it wrapped!” Holtz barked. “I am in a hurry!”
Weidmann took the box and left the office. What an uncouth fellow, he thought as his secretary wrapped the box. Who would believe he was Gustav Holtz’s nephew?