River of Death by Alistair MacLean

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’il 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 Sexist. 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 in the world. The number of Brazilian millionaires who spend hours in their air-conditioned, humidity-controlled, burglar-proof deep underground cellars gloating over stolen Old Masters boggles the imagination. Ramon, there's a wet bar right behind you, and I'm developing a sore and thirsty throat from lecturing callow youngsters on the facts of criminal life.'

Ramon grinned, rose and brought a large whisky and soda to Hamilton and a soda each for himself and his brother — the twins never drank anything stronger.

Having eased his throat, Hamilton said: 'What did you get on Smith?'

'Nothing more than you expected,' Ramon said. 'The number of companies he controls is beyond counting. He's a financial genius, charming and courteous, totally ruthless in his business dealings and must by any reckoning be the richest man in the Southern hemisphere. A sort of Howard Hughes in reverse. About Hughes's early days everything was known in detail but the latter part of his life was so wrapped in mystery that many people who should have been in a position to know could scarcely believe that he had died on that flight from Mexico to the States, having been firmly convinced that he had died many years previously. Smith? Dead opposite. His past is a closed book and he never talks about it: neither do any of his colleagues, friends or supposed intimates — no-one really knows whether he has any intimates - for the good reason that none of them was around in his early days. Today, his life is an open book. He conceals nothing and operates in a totally straightforward fashion. Any one of the shareholders in his forty-odd companies can inspect the firm's books whenever they wish. He appears to have absolutely nothing to hide and I would suppose when you are as brilliant as he