Heart of Lies by M. L. Malcolm Page B

leave the hotel in a way that would arouse suspicion. He whipped a razor across his face, put on a fresh suit, and threw the remainder of his things in his suitcase. Then he wrapped his blood-stained clothes in a towel and tossed that in, too. He would have to get rid of them later. He took a few more seconds to wipe down the gun, then the wash basin, the desk, the doorknobs, and anything else he might have touched during the one night he had stayed there.
    Before leaving he took an extra blanket from the closet, covered Károly’s body, and tossed two pillows over his head, so that anyone glancing in might not be tempted to investigate the rumpled bed linen immediately. He retrieved his coat, wallet, and passport from the floor, put the Ritz receipt in his wallet, and left the room, pulling on his gloves and then carefully locking the door behind him. Now, at least, the police would have to rely on eyewitness descriptions of him. Thank God he’d registered under an alias.
    The hopelessness of his situation struck him as he made his way downstairs. Any moment the police could be after him, for counterfeiting, for murder. He took out his wallet and examined its contents. He had enough money to get out of Paris, for he still had the better part of the thousand francs from the note he’d changed yesterday at the hotel where he’d stayed with Martha. Martha. He could not think of her now. It would break him.
    But where could he go? Not back to Budapest. Gombos’ men would kill him as soon as he returned to Hungary. Within hours, within minutes, he would be a hunted criminal throughout Europe. Where could he go, without proper papers, that would be far enough away for him to create a future that could still include Martha?
    And then, the solution came to him. But it meant retrieving the necklace.
    Moving as if in a trance, willing himself to walk forward, he made it to the Ritz. If word was out, if the concierge at the Ritz had connected his necklace with the one purchased with counterfeit notes at Cartier, the police would already be there waiting for him.
    Taking a deep breath, he strolled into the Ritz lobby, displaying a calmness he did not feel. He could not believe it that was just now nine o’clock. Luckily, the same concierge who had helped him yesterday was on duty this morning.
    “Ah, good morning Monsieur Bacso,” said the young man affably, gesturing to Leo’s luggage, “checking out, I see?”
    Leo nodded. He handed the receipt to the concierge, who politely excused himself. An eternity passed. The young man returned. He handed the velvet case back to Leo.
    “It’s an exquisite piece. Even around here, one is not privileged tosee jewelry of such magnificence very often.” Leo nodded again. Speech was beyond him. He left the hotel.
     
    At three o’clock that afternoon, a junior detective from the French Ministry of the Treasury was engaged in the monotonous chore of reviewing the concierge’s records at the Ritz to see whether, by chance, any of the establishment’s guests had stored a particular diamond necklace in the hotel vault. It was a tedious, dead-end task, but his supervisor had ordered him not to leave a single stone unturned, and Claude Boulanger was a man who obeyed orders.
    His heart began to race when he found an entry made the previous afternoon, checking in a diamond collar valued at fifty thousand francs. After quickly confirming with the front desk that the guest in question was still registered at the hotel, he placed a call to his supervising officer. By God, this would make his career.
    “Hello, Captain Bossard? Lieutenant Boulanger here. I’ve found something very interesting. I suggest you order the immediate arrest of Mr. Janos Bacso, a Hungarian national currently staying at the Ritz.”
     
    At five o’clock, a waiter at Angeline’s glanced repeatedly at the door, waiting for a particular girl to enter. He would normally have refused the role of courier, but the size of the