Vulture Is a Patient Bird Page 3

  Fennel let his cigarette ash drop on the rich Persian carpet as he asked, “How valuable is this ring?”

  “That doesn’t concern you. It is, of course, valuable, but it has a specialized market.” Shalik paused, then went on, “I will tell you a few details about the man who now has the ring. He is enormously rich. He has a compulsive urge to own the finest art treasures he can lay his hands on. He is utterly unscrupulous. He has a network of expert art thieves working for him. They have stolen many objets d’art from the world’s greatest museums, and even from the Vatican, to fill his museum which is without doubt the finest in the world.”

  Feeling he should make a contribution to this discussion, Garry asked, “And where is this museum?”

  “On the borders of Basutoland and Natal… somewhere in the Drakensberg mountains.”

  Kennedy Jones leaned forward.

  “Would you be talking about Max Kahlenberg?” he asked sharply.

  Shalik paused to touch off his cigar ash.

  “You know of him?

  “Who doesn’t, who has lived in South Africa?”

  “Then suppose you tell these two gentlemen what you know about him.”

  “He’s the man who has the ring?”

  Shalik nodded.

  Jones drew in a long, slow breath. He rubbed his jaw, frowning, then lit a cigarette. As he exhaled smoke, he said, “I only know what is common knowledge. Kahlenberg is a bit of a mythical figure on which all kinds of weird rumours stick. I do know his father, a German refugee from the First World War, struck it rich, finding one of the biggest gold mines just outside Jo’burg. Old Karl Kahlenberg was shrewd and no fool. He invested well and milked his mine dry. From what I hear, he ended up with millions. He married a local girl when he was over sixty years old. He married because he wanted a son to carry on his name. He got his son: Max Kahlenberg. There was a real mystery about the birth. No one except the doctor and the nurse saw the baby. There was a rumour it was a freak… some even said it was a monster. Anyway, no one ever set eyes on the baby. The old man died in a hunting accident. Mrs. Kahlenberg moved from Jo’burg and built a house in the heart of the Drakensberg range. She continued to keep her son hidden, cutting herself off from all social contacts. She died some twenty years ago. Max Kahlenberg remains a recluse. He is supposed to be as clever as his father. He has enlarged the house his mother built. He has around one hundred square miles of jungle surrounding the house and he employs a number of trained Zulus to keep hikers, tourists and gapers away from the house.” Jones paused, then leaning forward, stabbing his finger into the palm of his hand, he went on, “From what I’ve heard, getting near Kahlenberg’s place would be like trying to open an oyster with your fingers.”

  Again there was a long pause, then Fennel crushed out his cigarette and looked at Shalik, his eyes narrowed.

  “Is what he says right?”

  Shalik lifted his fat shoulders.

  “A fairly accurate statement,” he said. “I have never said that this is an easy assignment. After all, I am paying very well. The approach to Khalenberg’s house is not easy, but not impossible. I have a considerable amount of information which will help you.”

  “That’s fine,” Fennel said with a little sneer, “but suppose we get to the house… how do we get in?”

  “Although Mr. Jones has a fair knowledge of Kahlenberg’s background,” Shalik said. “He has omitted — or perhaps he doesn’t know — the fact that although Kahlenberg is a cripple, he is fond of beautiful women.” He leaned back in his chair. “Every fortress has its soft underbelly if you know where to look for it. I have a woman who will act as your Trojan Horse. If she can’t get you into Kahlenberg’s house, no one can.”

  He pressed a button his desk.

  There was a long pause, then the door behind Shalik opened and the most sensational, beautiful woman any of the three men, gaping at her, had ever seen, came slowly into the room and paused by Shalik’s desk.

  Chapter Two

  Some ten years ago, Armo Shalik, sick of his small way of life, let it be known by a discreet advertisement in an Egyptian newspaper that he was prepared to undertake for a reasonable fee any assignment that presented difficulties. He received only one answer to his advertisement, but it was enough, since his client was an Arabian Prince who wished to have inside information concerning a future oil deal between a rival of his and an American oil company. By using the Prince’s money and his own brains, Shalik obtained the information. The deal netted him $10,000, a modest enough fee, but the Prince was grateful, and he passed the word around that if you were in difficulties, if you wished for inside information, Shalik was the man to consult.

  The following year with the capital he had saved, Shalik moved to London. He acquired a small list of extremely wealthy clients who continually consulted him. Money, of course, was no object. Shalik’s fees rose sharply, but he always delivered. Among his clients were three Texas oil millionaires, four Arabian princes, two enormously wealthy American women, a Greek shipping tycoon and a number of British, French and German industrialists.

  He was often to say, “Nothing is impossible with unlimited money and brains.” He would pause to stare at his client. “You will supply the money… I the brains.”

  Armo Shalik prospered. In the early days, he considered whether to have a permanent staff to work under him, but he decided this was economically unsound. Shalik never wasted a dime. To keep a staff of experts on his payroll would mean half of them most of the time would be drawing on his money and doing nothing. He decided to fit men and women to the job when the job arrived. He discovered a not too scrupulous Detective Agency who were prepared not only to recommend likely applicants without asking awkward questions, but also to screen them, giving him intimate details of their background. It was in this way that he had found Lew Fennel, Kennedy Jones and Garry Edwards.

  His permanent staff was small: consisting of Natalie Norman who acted as his receptionist and personal assistant, and GeorgeSherborn who was his private secretary and valet.

  But Shalik soon found that his assignments became more complicated and therefore more lucrative, he needed a woman in the field to be permanently at his disposal: a woman who had to be trained to work with and for him: a woman of exceptional talents and exceptional looks. Such a woman could be more useful to him than a dozen male experts. During the past years, he had hired a number of women to work with his experts, but more often than not they had failed him: either losing their nerve at a crucial moment or becoming sentimentally attached to the men they were working with, and this was something Shalik abominated.

  So he set out to find a woman he could train to become his ideal woman operator. She had to be beautiful, perfectly built, talented and to be prepared to dedicate herself to his work.

  Shalik travelled extensively, and while visiting the major cities of the world, he was constantly on the look-out for the woman he needed. He came across several likely applicants, but when he approached them, they either would have nothing to do with his proposition or proved to be beautiful but brainless. After some six months, he began to despair, wondering if he had set his sights too high.

  Then one day he had a letter from one of his rich, spoilt women clients, living in Tokyo, who asked him to buy her a leopard skin coat, a mink stole and a broadtail coat for evening wear. He was to get these furs from Finn Larson, a Copenhagen furrier who had her measurements and knew exactly what she required. Since the woman paid Shalik $21,000, a year as a retaining fee and since he charged fifteen per cent on all purchases made on her behalf and since he was in need of a brief vacation, he was happy to oblige.

  Natalie Norman telephoned Finn Larson in Copenhagen to alert him that Shalik was coming and what he wanted. She was told that there was to be a lunch held at L’Angleterre Hotel for a number of Larson’s special clients when models would display his furs and the clients would eat interesting Danish food, Larson hoped Mr. Shalik would attend.

  Shali
k arrived at the hotel the following day and went to theprivate room that Larson used for his excellent lunches and was welcomed by Larson, a balding, heavily-built Dane who gripped his hand and led him to a table before hurrying away to welcome yet another of his clients.

  While Shalik was eating his lunch, girls came in to display Larson’s beautiful furs.

  Then suddenly, as a girl swept in, wearing a magnificent leopard skin coat, Shalik paused in his eating. After six months of searching, this was his moment of truth. He was certain this time this was the girl he was looking for.

  Above average height, with tawny hair, hanging in silken waves to her shoulder blades, this girl — possibly twenty-six or so years of age — was the most sensationally, sensually beautiful feminine creation he had ever seen. Her jade green eyes, her full lips that gave promise of sexual excitement, her long tapering legs, her slim lovely hands made a picture of a male dream of desirability.

  Shalik lost interest in his lunch as he watched her move with the arrogant walk of a trained model to the end of the room. She turned and walked back past him. He scarcely glanced at the leopard skin coat. When she had gone, to be replaced by another girl, wearing a seal skin coat, Shalik beckoned to Larson who came over.

  “I’ll take the leopard skin coat,” Shalik said. “It is for Mrs. Van Ryan.” He paused, then looked up and asked, “Who is the girl who modelled the coat?”

  Larson smiled.

  “Almost as magnificent as my coat, don’t you think? She is Gaye Desmond… An American freelance model who comes here from time to time. I use her for my leopard skins… no other girl has such flair to show off leopard.”

  Shalik took out his wallet, extracted his card and handed it to Larson.

  “Would you be so kind as to give her my card?” he asked. “I believe I can employ her should she need employment. You might mention to her who I am.” Shalik regarded Larson. “You know, Mr. Larson, I am always serious. This is strictly business. You will be doing the girl a favour.”

  Larson, who knew Shalik, had no hesitation.

  Later, while Shalik was sitting in his suite, reading a complicated legal document, the telephone bell rang.

  He lifted the receiver.

  “This is Gaye Desmond.” He liked her rich contralto voice. “You sent me your card.”

  “Thank you for ringing, Miss Desmond. I have a proposition I would like to discuss with you. Could we have dinner together at the Belle Terresse, Tivoli, at 21.00 hrs?”

  She said yes, and hung up.

  She arrived punctually which pleased Shalik, and together they went to a table on the terrace that overlooked the lighted pool and the flowers that make Tivoli famous.

  “It is a pity we didn’t meet in Paris, Miss Desmond,” Shalik said as he began to examine the menu. “The food here is indifferent. In Paris I could have offered you a meal worthy of your beauty.”

  She was wearing a simple blue dress with a mink stole. Diamonds glittered at her ears as she tossed her tawny coloured hair back from her shoulders.

  “I believe in eating what a country offers,” she said. “Why yearn for better food in Paris when you are in Copenhagen?”

  Shalik liked that. He nodded.

  “So what will you have?”

  She had no hesitation, and this also pleased Shalik. Women who stare vacantly at a menu and can’t make up their minds bored him.

  She chose Danish shrimps and the breast of duck in wine sauce.

  Having taken a little longer to examine the menu, Shalik decided her choice was not only safe, but sound. He ordered the same.

  “Miss Desmond,” Shalik said when the waiter had gone. “I am looking for a woman to help me in my work. I am a rather special agent who looks after extremely wealthy, spoilt people, clever business men and even princes. I boast that nothing is impossible. Nothing is impossible if you have money and brains.” He paused, regarding her. “However, I believe my work would be made easier if I had a woman like yourself working for me permanently. I must warn you it would be exacting work: sometimes dangerous, but always within the law of the country in which I operate.” This statement was untrue. Recently, Shalik had pulled off a number of illegal currency deals in London that could have landed him in jail had they been discovered, but Shalik’s philosophy was that so long as he wasn’t found out, any deal was within the law. “The pay will be good. You will have your own apartment at the Royal Towers Hotel in London, paid by me. You will have many opportunities to travel.” He regarded her with his black, beady eyes. “And I assure you, Miss Desmond, this will be a strictly business association.”

  The tiny, pink, delicious shrimps now arrived with slices of toast, and there was a pause.

  While Gaye buttered her toast, she asked, “What makes you imagine I am suitable for such a post, Mr. Shalik?”

  Shalik nibbled at his shrimps. He regretfully avoided the toast. He was four kilos overweight and was determined to make a sacrifice.

  “Instinct, I suppose. I think you are just the woman I am looking for.”

  “You say the pay will be good… just what does that mean?” He ate another three shrimps before saying, “Suppose you tell me about yourself. I can then make a valuation.”

  She sipped the chilled Hock and regarded him with her green eyes: thoughtful, shrewd, calculating eyes that pleased him.

  “Well…” She suddenly smiled and her smile lit up her face, making it gay and charming. “As you can see, I am beautiful. I am intelligent. You will discover this. I speak French, Italian and Spanish fluently. I can get along in German. I was practically born on a horse. My father bred horses in Kentucky. I ski well. I can handle a sailing boat and, of course, any kind of motorboat. I have been a racing driver and there is nothing I don’t know about cars. I understand men and what they what. Sex doesn’t frighten me. I know how to please men if… and only if… I have to. I earn a comfortable living modelling specialized clothes, but I like money and want to make more.”

  Shalik finished his shrimps and then stroked his thick nose.

  “Is that all?”

  She laughed.

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  “Yes, I think so. Can you handle firearms?”

  She lifted her eyebrows.

  “Why should I need to?”

  “Since you are otherwise so well equipped, I think you should have weapon training and also training in self-defence. This I can arrange. When a woman is as beautiful as you and when she may have to mix with dubious types of men, it is sound for her to understand the art of self-defence.”

  They paused while the waiter served the duck and poured a Margaux ’59 which Shalik had ordered in a moment of recklessness. The price was outrageous, but the wine excellent.

  “Now it is your turn,” she said. She cut into the duck and grimaced. “It’s tough.”

  “Of course. What did you expect? This is Copenhagen, not Paris.” He looked at her across the candle-lit table. “My turn… . for what?”

  “Your turn to make a valuation. I’ve told you about myself. Value me.”

  Shalik liked her direct approach.

  “If you are prepared to do exactly what I tell you, Miss Desmond,” he said as he began to cut the duck into small pieces. “If you are prepared to be at my beck and call for eleven months in each year… the remaining month will be yours to do as you wish. If you are prepared to take a course in self-defence, then I will pay you $10,000 a year with a one per cent cut on whatever I make on assignments you help me with. At a rough guess this should net you $25,000 a year.”

  She drank a little of the Margaux.

  “At least the wine is good, isn’t it?”

  “It should be, at the price they charge for it,” Shalik said sourly. He hated wasting his money. “What do you say?”

  She toyed with her glass as she considered his proposal, then she shook her head.

  “No… I am not interested. I could become an old man’s mistress for twice that sum. You are asking me t
o hand myself over to you as a slave for eleven months, leading no life of my own during those months, to be entirely at your beck and call.” She laughed. “No, Mr. Shalik, that is no kind of a price for what you are offering.”

  Shalik would have been disappointed if she had said otherwise.

  “So… suppose you tell me under what conditions you will work for me?”

  He was pleased she told him without hesitation.

  “$30,000 a year whether I work or not, and five per cent of whatever you make in the deals in which I am concerned.”

  Shalik shook his head slowly and sadly.

  “Then I’m sorry, Miss Desmond. I must look elsewhere.” They looked at each other and she gave him a charming smile, but he saw there was a jeering light in her eyes.

  “Then I’m sorry too. So I must also look elsewhere.”

  Shalik now knew she was the woman he was looking for and he settled down to bargain, but here he found his master and this pleased him. He hated to be defeated, but he realized if she could defeat him, the men she would have to mix with at his bidding would be as pawns in her hands.

  At the end of the meal, and after Shalik had paid the outrageous bill, they had come to an agreement. A basic salary of $30,000 a year, plus four per cent of Shalik’s earnings which involved her cooperation, to be paid into a Swiss bank, tax free, which Shalik decided ruefully would net her at least seven per cent of his take.

  Once this was agreed, she came to London and went through a self-defence course that Shalik arranged for her. Her instructors were delighted with her.

  “This woman is now highly proficient in defending herself,” they told Shalik. “She can cope with any emergency.”

  Completely satisfied with his find, Shalik installed her in a small suite on the floor below his at the Royal Towers Hotel, and within two months she had quickly proved her worth.