1980 - Try This One on For Size Read online

  Table of Contents

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  Try This One On For Size

  James Hadley Chase

  1980

  chapter one

  Claude Kendrick, owner of the Kendrick Gallery, back from his August vacation, sat at his desk making plans for another prosperous season.

  The heat and the humidity that turned Paradise City, the billionaires’ playground, into a dead city was now in the past. September had arrived, and the city was coming alive with the rich, the jet set and the tourists.

  Recognized as a character in the city, Kendrick was a tall, enormously fat queer who resembled a dolphin without, it had been said, the amiable expression of a dolphin. There were times when he resembled a man-eating shark.

  Although immaculately dressed at all times, Kendrick, bald as an egg, wore an ill-fitting orange-coloured wig and pale pink lipstick. When he met a lady client on the street, he would raise his wig as if it were a hat. In spite of his enormous bulk and his eccentricities, he was considered in the art world as an expert in antiques, jewellery and modern paintings. His gallery was known and patronised by the world’s collectors. What was not known was that Kendrick was one of the most important and active fences in the United States, and was in constant touch with all the expert art thieves where art treasures were to be found.

  Many of Kendrick’s clients had their own private museums for their eyes only. It was with these clients that Kendrick did most of his lucrative business. A client would see some art treasure in some museum or in some friend’s house and would covet it with that lust only fanatical collectors have. Eventually, unable to control the gnawing urge to possess this particular treasure, he would come to Kendrick and drop a hint: if the so-and-so museum or Mr. so-and-so would sell this particular treasure, money would be no object. Knowing the treasure was not for sale at any price, Kendrick would discuss a price, then say he would see what he could arrange. The collector, knowing from past dealings with Kendrick that the affair would work out to his satisfaction, would return to his secret museum and wait.

  Kendrick would alert one of his many art thieves, discuss terms and also wait. Eventually the art treasure would mysteriously disappear from the so-and-so museum or from Mr. so-and-so’s collection and arrive at the collector’s secret museum. A large sum of money would arrive in Kendrick’s Swiss bank in Zurich.

  Having spent the month of August on his yacht, sailing the Caribbean sea, in the amusing company of male ballet dancers, Kendrick, refreshed, heavily suntanned, took pleasure to be, once again, seated at his desk, turning his expertise and his crooked mind to making money.

  Louis de Marney, Kendrick’s head salesman, slid into the vast room with its picture window and its antiques in which Kendrick worked.

  Louis was thin and could be any age from twenty-five to forty. His long thick hair was the colour of sable. His lean face, close-set eyes and pinched mouth gave him the appearance of a suspicious rat.

  “Surprise!” he exclaimed in his high-pitched voice. “You’ll never guess! Ed Haddon!”

  Kendrick stiffened.

  “Here?”

  “Waiting!”

  Kendrick laid down his gold pencil. His fat face moved into his shark-like smile.

  Ed Haddon was the King of art thieves: a brilliant operator who appeared to live the immaculate life of a retired businessman, paying his taxes, moving to his various apartments in Fort Lauderdale, the South of France, Paris and London.

  Although he had been operating for some twenty years, organising some of the biggest art steals, he had so covered his tracks that the police of the world had no suspicions of his nefarious deals. He was the mastermind who planned, organised and directed a group of experts who did his bidding.

  It was seldom that he worked with Kendrick, but when he did, the profit for Kendrick was always substantial.

  “Hurry, stupid,” Kendrick said, lumbering to his feet. “Send him in.”

  Louis fluttered away, and Kendrick - at the door to greet Haddon, his smile oily, his hand thrust out.

  “Ed, darling! What a lovely surprise! Come in, come in! You are looking splendid, but then when don’t you?”

  Ed Haddon stood in the doorway and regarded Kendrick, then he took and shook the offered hand.

  “You don’t look so lousy yourself except for that god-awful wig,” he said, moving into the room.

  “It’s my trademark, Ed, dear boy,” Kendrick tittered. “No one would recognise me without it.” Still holding Haddon’s hand, he led him to a big comfortable chair. “Sit down. Perhaps a glass of champagne?”

  Haddon could have been mistaken for a Congressman or even a Secretary of State. His appearance was impressive - tall, heavily built, with thick iron-grey hair, a florid, handsome face, steel-grey eyes and a benign smile which would have earned him a mass of votes had he considered running for Congress. Behind this facade was a razor-sharp brain and a ruthless and cunning mind.

  “Scotch on the rocks,” he said, taking out a cigar case and selecting a cigar. “Want one of these? Havana.”

  “Not this early,” Claude said, pouring the drink. “I am really delighted to see you after all this time. It’s been too long, Ed.”

  Haddon was looking around the vast room. His eyes examined the various pictures on the silk-covered walls.

  “That’s nice,” he said, pointing to a picture above Kendrick’s desk. “Nice brushwork. Monet, huh? A fake, of course.”

  Claude brought the drink and set it on a small antique table by Haddon’s side.

  “Only you and I know that, Ed,” he said. “I have an old trout, with too much money, nibbling.”

  Haddon laughed.

  “After Monet, huh? Just to cover yourself.”

  “Of course, dear boy.” Claude made himself a dry martini, then went behind his desk and sat down. “It’s not often you come to our fair city, Ed.”

  “Not staying long.” Haddon crossed one leg over the other. “How’s business, Claude?”

  “A little slow. It’s the beginning of the season. The antiques will be moving soon. The rich will be back next week.”

  “I mean . . . business,” Haddon said, his steel-grey eyes probing.

  “Ah!” Claude shook his head. “Nothing right now. As a matter of fact I could handle something if it came my way.”

  Haddon lit his cigar and puffed smoke for a long moment.

  “I’ve been trying to decide: whether you or Abe Salisman.”

  Claude flinched. The name Abe Salisman was always like a drop of acid on his tongue for Salisman was without doubt the biggest fence operating in New York. Many a time he had beaten Kendrick to a big deal. The two men hated each other as a mongoose hates a snake.

  “Come now cheri,” he said. “You don’t want to deal with a cheap shyster like Abe. You know you can get a better price from me. Have I ever cheated you?”

  “You’ve never had the chance, nor has Abe. This is a matter of big, fast cash. It’ll run to six million.” Haddon puffed smoke. “I want three.”

  “Six million isn’t impossible,” Claude said slowly, his shark-like mind active. “Depends on the goods, of course. There is a lot of money around for something special, Ed.”

  “There’s not all that money right now in New York. That’s why I’m giving you the first offer.”

  Claude put on his dolphin smile.

  “Appreciated, dear boy. Tell me.”

  “The Hermitage exhibition.”

&n
bsp; “Ah!” The look of greed faded from Kendrick’s eyes. “Very nice. I have the catalogue.” He opened a desk drawer and produced a thick, glossy brochure. “Yes, very nice. Beautiful items. A gesture of detente. The Russian government lending some of its finest exhibits for the citizens of the United States of America to admire.” He flicked through the pages of coloured illustrations. “Magnificent. Thousands taking advantage of this splendid cooperation between two of the most powerful countries.” He looked up and eyed Haddon who was smiling. “Yes, but strictly not for you and strictly not for Abe and strictly not for me.” He sighed and laid down the catalogue.

  “Have you finished shooting off with your mouth?” Haddon asked.

  Claude took off his wig, stared at it, then slapped it crookedly back on his head.

  “Just thoughts, dear Ed. I often think aloud.”

  “Look at page fifty-four,” Haddon said.

  Claude licked his fat thumb and turned the pages of the catalogue.

  “Yes. Very nice. What does it say? Icon, date unknown, thought to be the earliest icon in existence. Known to be Catherine the Great’s most treasured possession.” He regarded the illustration. “Made of wood, painted, showing some unknown Russian saint. Excellent state of preservation. Size 8 by 10 inches. Not everyone’s choice. The mob would pass it by. Very interesting as a collector’s piece.”

  “In the open market, it would be worth twenty million dollars,” Haddon said quietly.

  “I’ll accept that, but obviously the Russians wouldn’t sell, dear boy.”

  Haddon leaned forward, his steel-grey eyes like the points of ice picks.

  “Could you sell it, Claude?”

  Kendrick found that in spite of the air-conditioning, he was sweating slightly. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.

  “It is possible to sell anything, but this icon could cause trouble.”

  “Never mind the trouble. It’s yours for three million,” Haddon said.

  Kendrick finished his martini. He felt in need of another.

  “Let me refresh your drink, Ed. This needs a little thought.”

  He plodded over to the liquor cabinet and made two more drinks, his mind very active.

  “I haven’t much time,” Haddon said, accepting the drink. “The exhibition closes in two weeks. It’s either to be you or Abe.”

  Claude returned to his desk and sat down.

  “Let’s look closely at this, Ed,” he said, “I visited the Fine Arts Museum when I was in Washington a year ago. It seemed to me then that their security precautions were impressive. I understand from what I’ve read that the security precautions for this exhibition have been tightened and the chances of a steal there are nil.”

  Haddon nodded.

  “Oh, sure. I’ve gone into all that. Not only have the museum guards been increased, but the Feds and the CIA and plainclothes cops are swarming all over. Not only that but the Russians have supplied five of their own cops to add to the merry crowd. All visitors are checked. No man nor woman is allowed to take in a bag or a handbag. All visitors go through the electronic screen. Yeah, I admit they have done an impressive job.”

  Claude lifted his fat shoulders.

  “So . . .”

  “Yeah. I like handling impossible steals, Claude. I have never failed to get what I want, and I’m telling you if you can sell the icon and pay me three million bucks into my Swiss account, the icon is yours.”

  Claude thought back on the various big steals Haddon had organised. He remembered the five-foot high Ming vase that disappeared from the British Museum. That had been a masterpiece of organisation, but he hesitated. This was something different: the political angle would be dangerous.

  “Let us suppose you get the icon, Ed,” he said cautiously. “I don’t have to tell you this will cause an international incident or let us say an explosion. The heat will be very fierce.”

  “That’s your funeral, Claude. Once I give you the icon, you cope with the heat, but if you don’t want to handle it, say so and I’ll talk to Abe.”

  Kendrick hesitated, then the thought of a three-million dollar profit overcame his caution.

  “Give me three days, Ed. I must talk to a client or two.”

  “Fair enough. I’m at the Spanish Bay hotel. Let me know not later than Friday night. If you can find the right client, you’ll get the icon the following Tuesday.”

  Kendrick wiped the sweat off his face.

  “Just to reassure me, dear Ed, tell me how you are going to get it.”

  Haddon got to his feet.

  “Later. You get the client first, then we’ll have a talk about ways and means.” He stared long at Kendrick. “I’ll get it. You don’t have to worry about that. See you,” and he left.

  Kendrick sat thinking, then he opened one of the desk drawers and took out a leather-bound book in which he kept the names and addresses of his richest clients, all of them with secret museums.

  Louis de Marney came fluttering in.

  “What did he want, darling?” he asked. “Business?”

  Kendrick waved him away.

  “Don’t bother me,” he said. “Don’t let anyone bother me. I have to think.”

  Knowing the signs, Louis left silently, closing the door. Big money was in the pipeline, and as Louis had a fifteen percent share in Kendrick’s illegal operations, he was content to wait until his assistance was required.

  It took Kendrick well over an hour to decide which of his clients he should approach. He needed someone interested in Russian art and who could raise six million dollars at short notice. Discarding name after name for one reason or another, principally because of their lack of interest in Russian art, he finally turned to the R’s.

  Herman Radnitz!

  Of course! He should have thought of him at once.

  Herman Radnitz had once been described by a journalist working for Le Figaro as follows: “Radnitz is Mr. Big Business. Suppose you want a dam built in Hong Kong. Suppose you want to launch a car-ferry service between England and Denmark. Suppose you want to install electrical equipment in China. Before you even begin to make plans, you consult Radnitz who would fix the financial end. Radnitz is in practically everything: ships, oil, building construction, aircraft, and he has strong connections with the Soviet government, and he is on first name terms with the President of the United States of America. He’s probably the richest man, outside Saudi Arabia, in the world.”

  Yes, Radnitz, Kendrick thought, but this would have to be handled very carefully.

  After more thought, he put through a call to the Belvedere hotel where he knew Radnitz was staying. After talking to Gustav Holtz, Radnitz’s secretary, Kendrick was granted an interview at 10.00 the following morning.

  * * *

  During the month of August, crime in Paradise City had been practically non-existent. Apart from a few stolen cars and old ladies reporting the loss of their dogs, the police in this humid, sweaty city had little to do.

  Chief of Police Fred Terrell was on vacation. Sergeant Joe Beigler, left in charge of the Cop house, spent his time in Terrell’s office, drinking coffee and chain-smoking. Being an active man, he would have liked nothing better than a big jewel robbery or some such thing, but the thieves and the conmen didn’t arrive until the rich and the jet set returned towards the middle of September.

  In the Detectives’ room, Detective 1st Grade Tom Lepski, tall dark and lean, had his feet on his desk while reading the comics. At another desk, Detective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby, four years younger than Lepski, dark and powerfully built, hammered out a stolen car report on his ancient typewriter.

  The activity in the Detectives’ room, compared to six weeks ago, was as animated as the city’s morgue.

  Jacoby yanked the paper and carbons from his typewriter and sat back.

  “That’s that,” he said. “What else is there to do?”

  “Nothing.” Lepski yawned. “Why don’t you go home? No point in both of us s
itting around.”

  “I’m doing the shift until 22.00, worse luck. You go home.”

  Lepski gave a sly grin.

  “Oh, no. I’m not that crazy in the head. If I go home now, Carroll will insist I cut the lawn, and who wants to cut a goddamn lawn in this heat?”

  Jacoby nodded agreement.

  “You have a point. Phew! This heat kills me. We should have air-conditioning here.”

  “Talk to the Chief. You could persuade him. Anyway, it’ll be cooler in another few days.”

  “How about your vacation, Tom? You’re off next week, aren’t you? Where are you going?”

  Lepski released a laugh that would have frightened a hyena.

  “Me? I’m going nowhere. I’m staying home. I’m going to sit in the garden and read a book.”

  “A book?” Jacoby gaped. “I didn’t know you read books.”

  “I don’t, but what the hell? It’ll make a change. I want to find out if I’m missing anything. From the look of the pictures on some of the books, I just could.”

  Jacoby thought for a long moment, brow rung.

  “How about Carroll?” he asked finally.

  Lepski looked shifty.

  “There’ll be a little trouble, but I will handle it,” he said, unease in his voice. “You know something? Carroll has crazy ideas. Right now, she is reading travel brochures. She wants us to tour California in a coach. Imagine! You know what these travel thieves want to take you all over California? Three weeks for three thousand dollars! Crazy! Anyway who wants to travel

  with a load of finks in a lousy coach? Not me!”

  Jacoby considered this.

  “Well, it’s a way of seeing the country. I wouldn’t mind it. Carroll would have a ball. She likes chatting up people.”

  Lepski released a snort that fluttered the newspaper on his desk.

  “Listen, Max, no can do. I’m up to my eyes in hack payments. Every time I walk into my bank the teller stares at me as if I were a heist man. Tonight, I’m going to explain the situation to Carroll. I’ve got out a balance sheet. Okay, she’ll scream the house down, but figures are facts. She’ll have to sit on the lawn and read a book like I’m going to do.”