“Krantz would have been trying to find out which plane Anna was on, after she made such a fool of herself in Tokyo, but that man would never have told her. He protected her more like a father than a taxi driver, and the five hundred dollars is a red herring. Krantz doesn’t bother to kill people for that sort of money, and that was one taxi driver who never kept the meter running.”
“Well, whatever, Krantz is safely locked up and with a bit of luck will spend the rest of her life in jail, which may not prove to be that long, as we’re reliably informed that half the population of Romania would be happy to strangle her.” Tom glanced back down at his file. “And it turns out that our taxi driver, one Colonel Sergei Slatinaru, was a hero of the resistance.” Tom took another sip of his drink before he added, “So there’s no longer any reason for you to worry about Petrescu’s safety.”
The waiter reappeared to accompany them into the dining room.
“In common with most Romanians, I won’t relax until Krantz is dead,” said Jack. “Until then, I’ll remain anxious for Anna.”
“Anna? Are you two on first-name terms?” asked Tom, as he took his seat opposite Jack in the dining room.
“Hardly, though we may as well be. I’ve spent more nights with her than any of my recent girlfriends.”
“Then perhaps we should have invited Dr. Petrescu to join us?”
“Forget it,” said Jack. “She’ll be having dinner with Lady Arabella at Wentworth Hall, while we have to settle for the Wentworth Arms.”
A waiter placed a bowl of leek and potato soup in front of Tom and served Jack a Caesar salad.
“Have you found out anything else about Anna?”
“Not a lot,” admitted Tom, “but I can tell you that one of the calls she made from Bucharest airport was to the New York Police Department. She asked them to take her name off the missing list, said she’d been in Romania visiting her mother. She also called her uncle in Danville, Illinois, and Lady Arabella Wentworth.”
“Then her meeting in Tokyo must have gone belly-up,” said Jack.
“You’re going to have to explain that one to me,” said Tom.
“She had a meeting in Tokyo with a steel tycoon called Nakamura, who has one of the largest collections of Impressionist paintings in the world, or so the concierge at the Seiyo informed me.” Jack paused. “She obviously failed to sell Nakamura the Van Gogh, which would explain why she sent the painting back to London and even allowed it to be forwarded to New York.”
“She doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up that easily,” said Tom, extracting another piece of paper from his file. “By the way, the Happy Hire Company is also looking for her. They claim she abandoned one of their vehicles on the Canadian border, minus its front mudguard, front and rear bumpers, with not one of its lights in working order.”
“Hardly a major crime,” said Jack.
“Are you falling for this girl?” asked Tom.
Jack didn’t reply as a waiter appeared by their side. “Two steaks, one rare, one medium,” he announced.
“Mine’s the rare,” said Tom.
The waiter placed both plates on the table and added, “Enjoy.”
“Another Americanism we seem to have exported,” grunted Tom.
Jack smiled. “Did you get any further with Leapman?”
“Oh yes,” said Tom. “We know a great deal about Mr. Leapman.” He placed another file on the table. “He’s an American citizen, second generation, and studied law at Columbia. Not unlike you,” Tom said with a grin. “After graduating, he worked for several banks, always moving on fairly quickly, until he became involved in a share fraud. His specialty was selling bonds to widows who didn’t exist.” He paused. “The widows existed, the bonds didn’t.” Jack laughed. “He served a two-year sentence at Rochester Correctional Facility in upstate New York and was banned for life from working at a bank or any other financial institution.”
“But he’s Fenston’s right hand?”
“Fenston’s possibly, but not the bank’s. Leapman’s name doesn’t appear on their books, even as a cleaner. He pays taxes on his only known income, a monthly check from an aunt in Mexico.”
“Come on—,” said Jack.
“And before you say anything else,” added Tom, “my department has neither the financial resources nor the backup to find out if this aunt even exists.”
“Any Romanian connection?” Jack asked, as he dug into his steak.
“None that we’re aware of,” said Tom. “Straight out of the Bronx and into a Brooks Brothers suit.”
“Leapman may yet turn out to be our best lead,” said Jack. “If we could only get him to testify—”
“Not a hope,” said Tom. “Since leaving jail, he hasn’t even had a parking ticket, and I suspect he’s a lot more frightened of Fenston than he is of us.”
“If only Hoover was still alive,” said Jack with a grin.
They both raised their glasses, before Tom added, “So when do you fly back to the States? I only ask, as I want to know when I can return to my day job.”
“Tomorrow, I suppose,” said Jack. “Now Krantz is safely locked up, I ought to get back to New York. Macy will want to know if I’m any nearer to linking Krantz with Fenston.”
“And are you?” asked Tom.
Neither of them noticed the two men talking to the maître d’. They couldn’t have been booking a table, otherwise they would have left their raincoats in reception. Once the maître d’ had answered their question, they walked purposefully across the dining room.
Tom was placing the files back in his briefcase by the time they reached their table.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the taller of the two men. “My name is Detective Sergeant Frankham, and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Ross. I’m sorry to disturb your meal, but I need to have a word with you, sir,” he said, touching Jack on the shoulder.
“Why, what have I done?” asked Jack, putting down his knife and fork. “Parked on a double yellow line?”
“I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that, sir,” said the detective sergeant, “and I must therefore ask you to accompany me to the station.”
“On what charge?” demanded Jack.
“I think it might be wiser, sir, if we were not to continue this conversation in a crowded restaurant.”
“And on whose authority—,” began Tom.
“I don’t think you need to involve yourself, sir.”
“I’ll decide about that,” said Tom, as he removed his FBI badge from an inside pocket. He was about to flick the leather wallet open, when Jack touched him on the elbow and said, “Let’s not create a scene. No need to get the Bureau involved.”
“To hell with that, who do these people think—”
“Tom, calm down. This is not our country. I’ll go along to the police station and sort this all out.”
Tom reluctantly placed his FBI badge back in his pocket, and although he said nothing, the look on his face wouldn’t have left either policeman in any doubt how he felt. As Jack stood up, the sergeant grabbed his arm and quickly handcuffed him.
“Hey, is that really necessary?” demanded Tom.
“Tom, don’t get involved,” said Jack in a measured tone.
Tom reluctantly followed Jack out of the dining room, through a room full of guests, who studiously carried on chatting and eating their meals as if nothing unusual was going on around them.
When they reached the front door, Tom said, “Do you want me to come with you to the station?”
“No,” said Jack, “Why don’t you stick around. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be back in time for coffee.”