Zuckerman said eagerly, "Sure, chief. Not to worry."
"I do worry," Armand Grangier said slowly. "I worry a lot about you, Professor."
Armand Grangier did not like mysteries. The sunken-treasure game had been worked for centuries, but the victims had to be gullible. There was simply no way a con artist would ever fall for it. That was the mystery that bothered Grangier, and he intended to solve it; and when he had the answer, the woman would be turned over to Bruno Vicente. Vicente enjoyed playing games with his victims before disposing of them.
Armand Grangier stepped out of the limousine as it stopped in front of the Hotel du Palais, walked into the lobby, and approached Jules Bergerac, the white-haired Basque who had worked at the hotel from the age of thirteen.
"What's the number of the Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly's suite?"
There was a strict rule that desk clerks not divulge the room numbers of guests, but rules did not apply to Armand Grangier.
"Suite three-twelve, Monsieur Grangier."
"Merci."
"And Room three-eleven."
Grangier stopped. "What?"
"The countess also has a room adjoining her suite."
"Oh? Who occupies it?"
"No one."
"No one? Are you sure?"
"Oui, monsieur. She keeps it locked. The maids have been ordered to keep out."
A puzzled frown appeared on Grangier's face. "You have a passkey?"
"Of course." Without an instant's hesitation, the concierge reached under the desk for a passkey and handed it to Armand Grangier. Jules watched as Armand Grangier walked to-ward the elevator. One never argued with a man like Grangier.
When Armand Grangier reached the door of the baroness's suite, he found it ajar. He pushed it open and entered. The living room was deserted. "Hello. Anyone here?"
A feminine voice from another room sang out, "I'm in the bath. I'll be with you in a minute. Please help yourself to a drink."
Grangier wandered around the suite, familiar with its furnishings, for over the years he had arranged for many of his friends to stay in the hotel. He strolled into the bedroom. Expensive jewelry was carelessly spread out on a dressing table.
"I won't be a minute," the voice called out from the bathroom.
"No hurry, Baroness."
Baroness mon cul! he thought angrily. Whatever little game you're playing, cherie, is going to backfire. He walked over to the door that connected to the adjoining room. It was locked. Grangier took out the passkey and opened the door. The room he stepped into had a musty, unused smell. The concierge had said that no one occupied it. Then why did she need--? Grangier's eye was caught by something oddly out of place. A heavy black electrical cord attached to a wall socket snaked along the length of the floor and disappeared into a closet. The door was open just enough to allow the cord to pass through. Curious, Grangier walked over to the closet door and opened it.
A row of wet hundred-dollar bills held up by clothespins on a wire was strung across the closet, hanging out to dry. On a typewriter stand was an object covered by a drape cloth. Grangier flicked up the cloth. He uncovered a small printing press with a still-wet hundred-dollar bill in it. Next to the press were sheets of blank paper the size of American currency and a paper cutter. Several one-hundred-dollar bills that had been unevenly cut were scattered on the floor.
An angry voice behind Grangier demanded, "What are you doing in here?"
Grangier spun around. Tracy Whitney, her hair damp from the bath and wrapped in a towel, had come into the room.
Armand Grangier said softly, "Counterfeit! You were going to pay us off with counterfeit money." He watched the expressions that played across her face. Denial, outrage, and then defiance.
"All right," Tracy admitted. "But it wouldn't have mattered. No one can tell these from the real thing."
"Con!" It was going to be a pleasure to destroy this one.
"These bills are as good as gold."
"Really?" There was contempt in Grangier's voice. He pulled one of the wet bills from the wire and glanced at it. He looked at one side, then the other, and then examined them more closely. They were excellent. "Who cut these dies?"
"What's the difference? Look, I can have the hundred thousand dollars ready by Friday."
Grangier stared at her, puzzled. And when he realized what she was thinking, he laughed aloud. "Jesus," he said. "You're really stupid. There's no treasure."
Tracy was bewildered. "What do you mean, no treasure? Professor Zuckerman told me--"
"And you believed him? Shame, Baroness." He studied the bill in his hand again. "I'll take this."
Tracy shrugged. "Take as many as you like. It's only paper."
Grangier grabbed a handful of the wet hundred-dollar bills. "How do you know one of the maids won't walk in here?" he asked.
"I pay them well to keep away. And when I'm out, I lock the closet."
She's cool, Armand Grangier thought. But it's not going to keep her alive.
"Don't leave the hotel," he ordered. "I have a friend I want you to meet."
Armand Grangier had intended to turn the woman over to Bruno Vicente immediately, but some instinct held him back. He examined one of the bills again. He had handled a lot of counterfeit money, but nothing nearly as good as this. Whoever cut the dies was a genius. The paper felt authentic, and the lines were crisp and clean. The colors remained sharp and fixed, even with the bill wet, and the picture of Benjamin Franklin was perfect. The bitch was right. It was hard to tell the difference between what he held in his hand and the real thing. Grangier wondered whether it would be possible to pass it off as genuine currency. It was a tempting idea.
He decided to hold off on Bruno Vicente for a while.
Early the following morning Armand Grangier sent for Zuckerman and handed him one of the hundred-dollar bills. "Go down to the bank and exchange this for francs."
"Sure, chief."
Grangier watched him hurry out of the office. This was Zuckerman's punishment for his stupidity. If he was arrested, he would never tell where he got the counterfeit bill, not if he wanted to live. But if he managed to pass the bill successfully...I'll see, Grangier thought.
Fifteen minutes later Zuckerman returned to the office. He counted out a hundred dollars' worth of French francs. "Anything else, chief?"
Grangier stared at the francs. "Did you have any trouble?"
"Trouble? No. Why?"
"I want you to go back to the same bank," Grangier ordered. "This is what I want you to say..."
Adolf Zuckerman walked into the lobby of the Banque de France and approached the desk where the bank manager sat. This time Zuckerman was aware of the danger he was in, but he preferred facing that than Grangier's wrath.
"May I help you?" the manager asked.
"Yes." He tried to conceal his nervousness. "You see, I got into a poker game last night with some Americans I met at a bar." He stopped.
The bank manager nodded wisely. "And you lost your money and perhaps wish to make a loan?"
"No," Zuckerman said. "As--as a matter of fact, I won. The only thing is, the men didn't look quite honest to me." He pulled out two $100 bills. "They paid me with these, and I'm afraid they--they might be counterfeit."
Zuckerman held his breath as the bank manager leaned forward and took the bills in his pudgy hands. He examined them carefully, first one side and then the other, then held them up to the light.
He looked at Zuckerman and smiled. "You were lucky, monsieur. These bills are genuine."
Zuckerman allowed himself to exhale. Thank God! Everything was going to be all right.
"No problem at all, chief. He said they were genuine."
It was almost too good to be true. Armand Grangier sat there thinking, a plan already half-formed in his mind.
"Go get the baroness."
Tracy was seated in Armand Grangier's office, facing him across his Empire desk.
"You and I are going to be partners,
" Grangier informed her.
Tracy started to rise. "I don't need a partner and--"
"Sit down."
She looked into Grangier's eyes and sat down.
"Biarritz is my town. You try to pass a single one of those bills and you'll get arrested so fast you won't know what hit you. Comprenez-vous? Bad things happen to pretty ladies in our jails. You can't make a move here without me."
She studied him. "So what I'm buying from you is protection?"
"Wrong. What you're buying from me is your life."
Tracy believed him.
"Now, tell me where you got your printing press."
Tracy hesitated, and Grangier enjoyed her squirming. He watched her surrender.
She said reluctantly, "I bought it from an American living in Switzerland. He was an engraver with the U.S. Mint for twenty-five years, and when they retired him there was some technical problem about his pension and he never received it. He felt cheated and decided to get even, so he smuggled out some hundred-dollar plates that were supposed to have been destroyed and used his contacts to get the paper that the Treasury Department prints its money on."
That explains it, Grangier thought triumphantly. That is why the bills look so good. His excitement grew. "How much money can that press turn out in a day?"
"Only one bill an hour. Each side of the paper has to be processed and--"
He interrupted. "Isn't there a larger press?"
"Yes, he has one that will turn out fifty bills every eight hours--five thousand dollars a day--but he wants half a million dollars for it."
"Buy it," Grangier said.
"I don't have five hundred thousand dollars."
"I do. How soon can you get hold of the press?"
She said reluctantly, "Now, I suppose, but I don't--"
Grangier picked up the telephone and spoke into it. "Louis, I want five hundred thousand dollars' worth of French francs. Take what we have from the safe and get the rest from the banks. Bring it to my office. Vite!"
Tracy stood up nervously. "I'd better go and--"
"You're not going anywhere."
"I really should--"
"Just sit there and keep quiet. I'm thinking."
He had business associates who would expect to be cut in on this deal, but what they don't know won't hurt them, Grangier decided. He would buy the large press for himself and replace what he borrowed from the casino's bank account with money he would print. After that, he would tell Bruno Vicente to handle the woman. She did not like partners.
Well, neither did Armand Grangier.
Two hours later the money arrived in a large sack. Grangier said to Tracy, "You're checking out of the Palais. I have a house up in the hills that's very private. You will stay there until we set up the operation." He pushed the phone toward her. "Now, call your friend in Switzerland and tell him you're buying the big press."
"I have his phone number at the hotel. I'll call from there. Give me the address of your house, and I'll tell him to ship the press there and--"
"Non!" Grangier snapped. "I don't want to leave a trail. I'll have it picked up at the airport. We will talk about it at dinner tonight. I'll see you at eight o'clock."
It was a dismissal. Tracy rose to her feet.
Grangier nodded toward the sack. "Be careful with the money. I wouldn't want anything to happen to it--or to you."
"Nothing will," Tracy assured him.
He smiled lazily. "I know. Professor Zuckerman is going to escort you to your hotel."
The two of them rode in the limousine in silence, the money bag between them, each busy with his own thoughts. Zuckerman was not exactly sure what was happening, but he sensed it was going to be very good for him. The woman was the key. Grangier had ordered him to keep an eye on her, and Zuckerman intended to do that.
Armand Grangier was in a euphoric mood that evening. By now, the large printing press would have been arranged for. The Whitney woman had said it would print $5,000 a day, but Grangier had a better plan. He intended to work the press on twenty-four hour shifts. That would bring it to $15,000 a day, more than $100,000 a week, $1 million every ten weeks. And that was just the beginning. Tonight he would learn who the engraver was and make a deal with him for more machines. There was no limit to the fortune it would make him.
At precisely 8:00, Grangier's limousine pulled into the sweeping curve of the driveway of the Hotel du Palais, and Grangier stepped out of the car. As he walked into the lobby, he noticed with satisfaction that Zuckerman was seated near the entrance, keeping a watchful eye on the doors.
Grangier walked over to the desk. "Jules, tell the Baroness de Chantilly I am here. Have her come down to the lobby."
The concierge looked up and said, "But the baroness has checked out, Monsieur Grangier."
"You're mistaken. Call her."
Jules Bergerac was distressed. It was unhealthy to contradict Armand Grangier. "I checked her out myself."
Impossible. "When?"
"Shortly after she returned to the hotel. She asked me to bring her bill to her suite so she could settle it in cash--"
Armand Grangier's mind was racing. "In cash? French francs?"
"As a matter of fact, yes, monsieur."
Grangier asked frantically, "Did she take anything out of her suite? Any baggage or boxes?"
"No. She said she would send for her luggage later."
So she had taken his money and gone to Switzerland to make her own deal for the large printing press.
"Take me to her suite. Quickly!"
"Oui, Monsieur Grangier."
Jules Bergerac grabbed a key from a rack and raced with Armand Grangier toward the elevator.
As Grangier passed Zuckerman, he hissed, "Why are you sitting there, you idiot? She's gone."
Zuckerman looked up at him uncomprehendingly. "She can't be gone. She hasn't come down to the lobby. I've been watching for her."
"Watching for her," Grangier mimicked. "Have you been watching for a nurse--a gray-haired old lady--a maid going out the service door?"
Zuckerman was bewildered. "Why would I do that?"
"Get back to the casino," Grangier snapped. "I'll deal with you later."
The suite looked exactly the same as when Grangier had seen it last. The connecting door to the adjoining room was open. Grangier stepped in and hurried over to the closet and yanked open the door. The printing press was still there, thank God! The Whitney woman had left in too big a hurry to take it with her. That was her mistake. And it is not her only mistake, Grangier thought. She had cheated him out of $500,000, and he was going to pay her back with a vengeance. He would let the police help him find her and put her in jail, where his men could get at her. They would make her tell who the engraver was and then shut her up for good.
Armand Grangier dialed the number of police headquarters and asked to talk to Inspector Dumont. He spoke earnestly into the phone for three minutes and then said, "I'll wait here."
Fifteen minutes later his friend the inspector arrived, accompanied by a man with an epicene figure and one of the most unattractive faces Grangier had ever seen. His forehead looked ready to burst out of his face, and his brown eyes, almost hidden behind thick spectacles, had the piercing look of a fanatic.
"This is Monsieur Daniel Cooper," Inspector Dumont said. "Monsieur Grangier. Mr. Cooper is also interested in the woman you telephoned me about."
Cooper spoke up. "You mentioned to Inspector Dumont that she's involved in a counterfeiting operation."
"Vraiment. She is on her way to Switzerland at this moment. You can pick her up at the border. I have all the evidence you need right here."
He led them to the closet, and Daniel Cooper and Inspector Dumont looked inside.
"There is the press she printed her money on."
Daniel Cooper walked over to the machine and examined it carefully. "She printed the money on this press?"
"I just told you so," Grangier snapped. He took a bill from his pocket. "Look at
this. It is one of the counterfeit hundred-dollar bills she gave me."
Cooper walked over to the window and held the bill up to the light. "This is a genuine bill."
"It only looks like one. That is because she used stolen plates she bought from an engraver who once worked at the Mint in Philadelphia. She printed these bills on this press."
Cooper said rudely "You're stupid. This is an ordinary printing press. The only thing you could print on this is letterheads."
"Letterheads?" The room was beginning to spin.
"You actually believed in the fable of a machine that turns paper into genuine hundred-dollar bills?"
"I tell you I saw with my own eyes--" Grangier stopped. What had he seen? Some wet hundred-dollar bills strung up to dry, some blank paper, and a paper cutter. The enormity of the swindle began to dawn on him. There was no counterfeiting operation, no engraver waiting in Switzerland. Tracy Whitney had never fallen for the sunken-treasure story. The bitch had used his own scheme as the bait to swindle him out of half a million dollars. If the word of this got out...
The two men were watching him.
"Do you wish to press charges of some kind, Armand?" Inspector Dumont asked.
How could he? What could he say? That he had been cheated while trying to finance a counterfeiting operation? And what were his associates going to do to him when they learned he had stolen half a million dollars of their money and given it away? He was filled with sudden dread.
"No. I--I don't wish to press charges." There was panic in his voice.
Africa, Armand Grangier thought. They'll never find me in Africa.
Daniel Cooper was thinking, Next time. I'll get her next time.
27
It was Tracy who suggested to Gunther Hartog that they meet in Majorca. Tracy loved the island. It was one of the truly picturesque places in the world. "Besides," she told Gunther, "it was once the refuge of pirates. We'll feel right at home there."
"It might be best if we are not seen together," he suggested.
"I'll arrange it."
It had started with Gunther's phone call from London. "I have something for you that is quite out of the ordinary, Tracy. I think you'll find it a real challenge."
The following morning Tracy flew to Palma, Majorca's capital. Because of Interpol's red circulation on Tracy, her departure from Biarritz and her arrival in Majorca were reported to the local authorities. When Tracy checked into the Royal Suite at the Son Vida Hotel, a surveillance team was set up on a twenty-four-hour basis.