‘Speed and secrecy. Those are guaranteed, sir.’
‘And a perfect print?’
‘If the negative is perfect so will the print be.’
Hiller couldn’t think of how else he could threaten the now thoroughly apprehensive assistant so he nodded and left.
Another ten minutes later and Hiller and Serrano were in the drawing-room of the Villa Haydn. Serrano was seated, as were Tracy, Maria and a fourth and as yet unidentified man. Smith talked somewhat apart with Hiller—‘somewhat apart’ in that huge drawing-room meant a considerable distance—glancing occasionally in Serrano’s direction.
Hiller said: ‘Of course, I can’t vouch for him. But he knows an awful lot that we don’t and I can always see to it that he’ll make no trouble. Come to that, so would Hamilton. Hamilton has a rough way of dealing with people who step out of line.’ Hiller went on to tell the sad tale of Serrano’s mugging.
‘Well, if you say so, Hiller.’ Smith sounded doubtful and if there was one thing Smith didn’t like it was being doubtful about anything. ‘You certainly haven’t let me down so far.’ He paused. ‘But your friend Serrano seems to have no history, no past.’
‘Neither have most men in the Mato Grosso. Usually for the simple reason that they have
too
much of a past. But he knows his jungle—and he knows more Indian dialects than any man except maybe Hamilton. Certainly more than any man in the Indian Protection Service.’
‘All right.’ Smith had made up his mind and seemed relieved for that. ‘And he’s been close to the Lost City. Could be a useful back-up man.’
Hiller nodded towards the unidentified person, a tall, very heavily built, darkly handsome man in his mid-thirties.
‘Who’s that, Mr Smith?’
‘Heffner. My chief staff photographer.’
Hiller said: ‘Mr Smith!’
‘Hamilton would think it extremely strange if I didn’t take a staff photographer along on this historic trip,’ Smith said reasonably. He smiled slightly. ‘I will confess, though, that he can use one or two instruments other than his cameras.’
‘I’ll bet he can.’ Hiller looked at Heffner with even closer interest. ‘Another with or without a past?’
Smith smiled again but made no answer. A phone rang. Tracy, who was nearest to it, picked it up, listened briefly and replaced the receiver.
‘Well, well. Surprise, surprise. The Grand Hotel has no one registered there under the name of Hamilton. Not only that, no member of the staff can recall ever seeing a man answering to the description.’
Hamilton, at that moment, was in a lavishly furnished suite in the Hotel Imperial.
Ramon and Navarro, seated on a couch, were admiring Hamilton, who was admiring himself in front of a full-length mirror.
‘Always did fancy myself in a fawn seersucker,’ Hamilton said complacently. ‘Don’t you agree? This should knock Smith for six.’
‘I don’t know about Smith,’ Ramon said, ‘but in that outfit you’d terrify even the Muscias. So no trouble with getting the invitation?’
‘None. When he saw me flashing those gold coins in public he must have panicked in case someone else would step in fast. Now, I’m pleased to say, he’s convinced he’s got me hooked.’
‘You still think that gold hoard exists?’ Navarro said.
‘I’m convinced it
did
exist. Not that it
does.’
‘Then why did you want those coins?’
‘When this is over they will be returned and the money reimbursed—all except the two that are now in the possession of Curly, the head barman at the Hotel de Paris. But those were necessary: the shark, as we know, took the bait.’
‘So, no hoard, huh?’ Ramon said. ‘Disappointing.’
‘There is a hoard and a huge one. But not of those coins. Perhaps melted down, although that’s unlikely. What is likely is that it’s been split up into private collectors’ hands. If you want to dispose of an art treasure, be it a stolen Tintoretto or a Penny Black, then Brazil is
the
place
‘And a perfect print?’
‘If the negative is perfect so will the print be.’
Hiller couldn’t think of how else he could threaten the now thoroughly apprehensive assistant so he nodded and left.
Another ten minutes later and Hiller and Serrano were in the drawing-room of the Villa Haydn. Serrano was seated, as were Tracy, Maria and a fourth and as yet unidentified man. Smith talked somewhat apart with Hiller—‘somewhat apart’ in that huge drawing-room meant a considerable distance—glancing occasionally in Serrano’s direction.
Hiller said: ‘Of course, I can’t vouch for him. But he knows an awful lot that we don’t and I can always see to it that he’ll make no trouble. Come to that, so would Hamilton. Hamilton has a rough way of dealing with people who step out of line.’ Hiller went on to tell the sad tale of Serrano’s mugging.
‘Well, if you say so, Hiller.’ Smith sounded doubtful and if there was one thing Smith didn’t like it was being doubtful about anything. ‘You certainly haven’t let me down so far.’ He paused. ‘But your friend Serrano seems to have no history, no past.’
‘Neither have most men in the Mato Grosso. Usually for the simple reason that they have
too
much of a past. But he knows his jungle—and he knows more Indian dialects than any man except maybe Hamilton. Certainly more than any man in the Indian Protection Service.’
‘All right.’ Smith had made up his mind and seemed relieved for that. ‘And he’s been close to the Lost City. Could be a useful back-up man.’
Hiller nodded towards the unidentified person, a tall, very heavily built, darkly handsome man in his mid-thirties.
‘Who’s that, Mr Smith?’
‘Heffner. My chief staff photographer.’
Hiller said: ‘Mr Smith!’
‘Hamilton would think it extremely strange if I didn’t take a staff photographer along on this historic trip,’ Smith said reasonably. He smiled slightly. ‘I will confess, though, that he can use one or two instruments other than his cameras.’
‘I’ll bet he can.’ Hiller looked at Heffner with even closer interest. ‘Another with or without a past?’
Smith smiled again but made no answer. A phone rang. Tracy, who was nearest to it, picked it up, listened briefly and replaced the receiver.
‘Well, well. Surprise, surprise. The Grand Hotel has no one registered there under the name of Hamilton. Not only that, no member of the staff can recall ever seeing a man answering to the description.’
Hamilton, at that moment, was in a lavishly furnished suite in the Hotel Imperial.
Ramon and Navarro, seated on a couch, were admiring Hamilton, who was admiring himself in front of a full-length mirror.
‘Always did fancy myself in a fawn seersucker,’ Hamilton said complacently. ‘Don’t you agree? This should knock Smith for six.’
‘I don’t know about Smith,’ Ramon said, ‘but in that outfit you’d terrify even the Muscias. So no trouble with getting the invitation?’
‘None. When he saw me flashing those gold coins in public he must have panicked in case someone else would step in fast. Now, I’m pleased to say, he’s convinced he’s got me hooked.’
‘You still think that gold hoard exists?’ Navarro said.
‘I’m convinced it
did
exist. Not that it
does.’
‘Then why did you want those coins?’
‘When this is over they will be returned and the money reimbursed—all except the two that are now in the possession of Curly, the head barman at the Hotel de Paris. But those were necessary: the shark, as we know, took the bait.’
‘So, no hoard, huh?’ Ramon said. ‘Disappointing.’
‘There is a hoard and a huge one. But not of those coins. Perhaps melted down, although that’s unlikely. What is likely is that it’s been split up into private collectors’ hands. If you want to dispose of an art treasure, be it a stolen Tintoretto or a Penny Black, then Brazil is
the
place
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