“That you are out of your tiny mind,” Kendrick said. “You haven’t the first idea how much this gallery is worth. You? You couldn’t even run it without me.”
“Oh, I might.” Louis’s rat-like eyes hardened. “I’d be prepared to take the risk. How about half a million, pet?”
“This room alone is worth more than that,” Kendrick said, making a sweeping movement with his hand towards the pictures and the antiques. “Now, stop it, Louis or I will get cross with you. I have no intention of selling the gallery to you or anyone else. Tomorrow, I have to fly to Zurich. How I hate flying!”
“Have you made a will?” Louis asked, his expression cunning. “You must have! Think of all the dreadful accidents! Every day I read of air crashes!”
“If you don’t get out of this room immediately, I will throw something at you!” Kendrick exclaimed, his fat face flushing.
“I’m only trying to be helpful. There is no point in you getting into a tizz. You mustn’t excite yourself. It’s bad for your liver.”
As Kendrick reached for a heavy paperweight, Louis scuttled to the door and disappeared, slamming the door behind him.
Kendrick glowered at the door, then lighting a cigar, he thought of tomorrow. He had had reassuring news from Haddon. The Lepskis’ vanity box had passed through the French customs: The Lepskis and the Duvines were now in Monaco, and in another three days, they would be at the Montreux Palace hotel. Haddon had said that Lu Bradey would be at this hotel and he would get the box from Duvine, then would go to Zurich as soon as he could, meeting Kendrick at the Eden hotel. So far so good, but Kendrick was a pessimist. He never believed in infallibilities. Maybe the Swiss customs would check the box and find the icon. Maybe Bradey would have a car accident on his way from Montreux to Zurich. Maybe, and here Kendrick broke out into a cold sweat, his plane might plunge into the Atlantic. Life was never free of problems. Then maybe that dreadful man Radnitz might try to gyp him out of the three million dollars. When dealing with Radnitz, anything could happen. He took out his silk handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He would have been even more uneasy if he could have transported himself to the entrance to the Montreux Palace hotel right at that moment.
The uniformed porter ran down the steps to open the door of an Opel Rekord car as it pulled up outside the Montreux Palace hotel.
A tall, thin man with straw-coloured hair looked at the porter through the open car window.
“My bag’s in the boot,” he said curtly. “Do I park over there?”
“If you will, sir,” the porter said, went around to the back of the car and took out a large suitcase which was surprisingly light for its size.
Sergas Holtz drove into a parking slot, then getting out of the car, climbed the steps and walked over to the reception desk.
His uncle had given him a false passport in the name of Hans Richter which he handed to the reception clerk.
“Glad to have you here, sir,” the clerk said. “You are staying a few days?”
“Yes,” Holtz said curtly as the clerk filled in the police card which he handed to Holtz with a pen. Holtz signed his false name. “Friends of mine, Mr and Mrs Lepski, are arriving the day after tomorrow. What is the number of their room?”
The clerk consulted the register.
“Room 245, sir. You have room 249. It’s quite close.”
Once in his room, he locked the door, put the suitcase on the bed, opened it and took the vanity box from it. This he put in a closet, locked the door and dropped the key into his pocket.
He crossed to the window and looked down at the busy street below, then across the lake and to the range of mountains.
Well, he thought, I have arrived. Two days to wait, then action!
The drive down to the South of France on the long, monotonous autoroute du Sud had bored the Lepskis, although Carroll was too polite to say so, realising how the Duvines were trying to please, but Lepski made grumbling noises until she told him firmly to be quiet. They both had expected better things than this continuous flat countryside, the traffic congested, narrow-streeted towns and the dreary, dirty-looking little villages. Even the *** Pic hotel at Valence where they spent the night, Lepski found too goddamn fussy, and this time, after listening impatiently to Pierre who enthusiastically translated the luxe menu, he declared firmly he would have a steak, and gave Carroll his cop stare, challenging her to say otherwise. Seeing the danger signal, Carroll didn’t argue.
They had arrived at the Metropole hotel, Monte Carlo, the following afternoon. Here again, they were disillusioned. Carroll had read so much about the South of France with its constant sunshine, its villas, casinos, smart shops and quaint old towns. She found to her dismay Monte Carlo was cramped, over-built with half-empty high-risers and mainly fat old people moving along the sidewalks. The shops proved an anti-climax after the Paris shops.
In spite of Pierre working desperately, they found Monte Carlo a drag. By now even Carroll had had enough of the rich French cuisine, and she and Lepski would only eat BBQ chicken or steaks. This depressed the Duvines who were always prepared for an elaborate meal.
Lepski was amazed to find the streets of Monte Carlo deserted, except for parked cars, by 21.00. The only apparent nightlife was at the Casino. There, he found the aged fat women, gambling, with fat men hovering around them, depressing. There wasn’t a sexy-looking girl to be seen. Pierre had explained that the season was nearly over. Had Lepski come a month earlier, he would have seen plenty of glamour. Lepski didn’t believe him.
On the last night of their stay at the Metropole hotel after dining in the roof restaurant of the Hotel de Paris, Lepski and Carroll lay in the twin beds in their room. They had been so bored with the Casino which Pierre and Claudette had suggested after dinner, that they had opted for an early night as they would be driving to Montreux the following morning.
The Duvines, born gamblers, had gone to the Casino where they had lost, between them, over a thousand francs.
“Are you enjoying this trip?” Lepski asked abruptly.
Carroll hesitated. She believed in always telling the truth.
“Well, Tom, I thought it was going to be more exciting,” she said finally. “I loved Paris, and I’m glad to have come this far. I wouldn’t have known what it really is like if I hadn’t come, would I?”
“Yeah.” Lepski moved restlessly, “but if we hadn’t come, think of the money we could have saved.”
“It is my money, and I spend it how I like!” Carroll snapped.
“Sure, sure,” Lepski said hurriedly.
“You wait until we get to Switzerland. I’ve seen photos of the mountains and the lakes... marvellous!”
“Any night life there?”
“Of course!” Carroll said firmly, hoping there would be. “A place like Montreux will be alive with night life. There’s one thing you are forgetting, Tom, we have found two real, lovely friends. Claudette promised to write when I get home. She will be a pen pal.”
“Oh, yeah? There’s something about those two that bothers me.”
Carroll sat up.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a touch of the con-man about Pierre. He’s too goddamn smooth. I keep asking myself why he is taking all this trouble, spending money on us, driving us: two Americans out of the blue. I get a feeling before long he’ll try to sell us a gold-mine.”
“Lepski! You are utterly impossible! You have a horrid cop mind! If someone is nice and friendly to you, you immediately think he’s a crook! I’m ashamed of you!” Carroll declared furiously. “How do you imagine people make friends? Because they like each other! The Duvines like us, so they are our friends. Can’t you get that into your narrow cop mind?”