De Jersey had watched them arrive. He opened the door almost immediately and handed them pairs of surgical gloves. The two men followed him toward the table, and he gestured for them to sit. Driscoll sat to one side. De Jersey took them through their duties and the getaway details. They listened attentively, asking relevant questions, to which de Jersey always had answers. They knew the risks they were taking, but the authoritative manner of the Colonel eased their fears, and after the instructions were clarified both men tried on their uniforms and tested the bikes. If they had any doubts they did not voice them.
De Jersey took pains to ensure that the men realized their importance. They were all dependent on each other to pull it off, he told them. Every one of them was an essential part of the heist, and one mistake could bring the rest down. When the two left, he turned to Driscoll. “What do you think?”
“They’ll do the business. It’s just his lordship we’ve got to watch out for. He’s very jittery and well drugged up.”
“I know. If he gets to be too much of a liability, we might have to lose him.”
Driscoll licked his lips and changed the subject. “What about deactivating those panic buttons?”
“Working on it.”
“Want to look over the guns?”
They had been under pressure for a considerable time now, so de Jersey suggested they take a few days’ break. Christina was expected home from Sweden, and he was worn out; they all needed time to recharge their batteries. It was March 15; they could stand back and review the plan for any weak spots they had missed-there was still time.
De Jersey returned home, but although he needed a rest he didn’t take one. Things at the estate needed his supervision, for although his staff worked diligently when he was absent, some issues had to be solved by the boss. There was a stack of paperwork that needed his attention, but the financial pressure was uppermost. He wondered if he could sell the Moreno house yet. He was still in the office after midnight when Fleming tapped and entered.
“Brandy?” de Jersey asked.
Fleming shook his head no. “You owe me the cash we agreed on,” he said softly, not meeting de Jersey’s eyes.
There was a long pause. De Jersey unscrewed the top from the brandy bottle, opened a drawer, and took out a glass.
“My son and an old lad helped me out. They’re both trustworthy. My son won’t say anything, and if the lad had a notion of what we were up to, he didn’t let on. I gave him a couple hundred quid.”
De Jersey gulped the brandy. “How did my boy do?”
“Fine. So now we wait. I’ve put him in the far stall. We’ll push his training up and see how he behaves, but we’ve risked a hell of a lot.”
“I know.” De Jersey was hardly able to speak.
Fleming changed his mind about the brandy, and the two men sat drinking quietly. They were both ashamed of the subterfuge and worried that they might have damaged Royal Flush’s concentration and thus his chance of winning the biggest race of his life. Eventually Fleming stood up and buttoned his coat. He nodded to the racing diary displayed on the office wall. “We’ll see what effect it’s had when he races at Lingfield.”
Two days later Christina arrived home, and de Jersey took her in his arms. “I’ve missed you so much,” she said, as they hugged.
“I’ve missed you too, darling. Let me carry your cases upstairs.”
“No, they can wait but I can’t. Let’s just go upstairs,” she said coyly.
He smiled. “Whatever you say.”
“How’s everything been?” she asked.
“Not too bad. I’ve had to sell a few more horses, but Royal Flush is in great shape. It’s been very quiet here without you,” he said.
“It’s such a comfort to be back here with you. This place is so precious to me,” Christina said.
De Jersey didn’t reply as he followed her up the stairs. So much was riding on him pulling off the heist.
19
Sylvia had taken a taxi straight from JFK Airport to the InterContinental Hotel because of its proximity to Central Park and easy walking distance to Moreno’s apartment block. She had decided that since she had time to kill before her appointment with Matheson, she would do some research of her own. She’d taken Matheson off the case before he had had a chance to check out Moreno’s apartment. Maybe she could discover something there that would help them. She had slept badly on the plane, so she decided to have a nap until midday, but she was still sound asleep when the chambermaid woke her at three. She showered and changed, and left the hotel at four.
The doorman at Moreno’s apartment was none too friendly until Sylvia slipped him twenty dollars. Then he told her he remembered Moreno well, a pleasant enough man, but he’d kept to himself.
“Did he warn you that he was leaving?”
“No. One minute he lived here, the next he didn’t.”
“But did you see him leave?”
“No. He might have gone when I wasn’t on duty. All I know is, the apartment changed hands. You need to talk to the agents. They handle the leases. The guy living there now is German, but I don’t see much of him either.”
“Is he at home?”
“No. Leaves early, comes back late. Days can go by and I don’t see him, but he uses a limo company.” He passed her a card. “They’re good. I know one of the drivers. Mr. Goldberg is a regular customer, like I said.”
“You’ve been most helpful, but I really did need to speak to Mr. Moreno. It looks like I’m out of luck, though.”
“Afraid so.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a nice evening.” He hovered for another twenty dollars, but she pulled her collar up around her face and walked off.
She had gone no more than twenty yards when she saw a limousine draw up. An immaculate gentleman climbed out of the backseat. He was wearing dark glasses and carried a slim briefcase. She heard the doorman address him. As he headed into the apartments, she hurried after him. “Mr. Goldberg! Excuse me.” He turned and stared at her. “I wonder if I could possibly have a few moments of your time?”
“Do I know you?”
“I’m trying to trace Mr. Moreno. He lived in your apartment before you.”
“I’m sorry I cannot help. I did not know him. He has nothing to do with me. Excuse me.”
“Please-if I could just ask you a few things?” she persisted.
“I did not know Mr. Moreno. If you want any details about him, I suggest you contact the agents for the property. Excuse me.”
She stood helplessly as the door swung closed after him and the doorman took up his position outside again. “If you want the agents, they’ve got an office in the next block up across Eighty-sixth Street. Dugdale and Martin. Mr. Dugdale handles this place.” Sylvia handed him another twenty-dollar bill and headed for the Gothic-style block he had indicated.
Dugdale and Martin had a small office on the ground floor of the plush apartment block. The thickset doorman said he thought she might be too late; their office closed at four thirty. He hovered at her side as she tapped on the door and waited. She was about to walk away when it opened.
“Good evening, my name is Sylvia Hewitt. I wondered if I could speak to someone concerning Mr. Moreno’s apartment?”
“He’s no longer a tenant there,” said a stern, white-haired man.
“Yes, I know, but perhaps I could tell you my reasons for contacting you. I’ve come all the way from England.”
“Come in.” He opened the door wider. He was already wearing his overcoat. “I’m off home, Jacob. Can I leave this with you?” he said to another man, then walked out and closed the door.
Sylvia took out one of her business cards as the man at the window turned. “Sylvia Hewitt. I’m an accountant. I’m inquiring about a Mr. Moreno, who lived in-”
“Come in and sit down. I’m Jacob Martin. So, you are Mr. Moreno’s accountant?” he asked.