African government had their bank notes printed in England as many Commonwealth countries do, as we print bank notes for Mexico and other places in the Americas.
And two years ago, two hundred thousand pounds—now worth almost six hundred thousand green U.S. dollars—had been lifted, all in five, and ten-pound notes, all hot off the presses.”
I said, “By now, those notes won’t worth be worth paper. The Zwahili government probably changed their currency.”
“Nope,” he said. “They figured they were solvent enough to stand the loss, if they had to. But they don’t figure on having to. Someday they expect those bills to start appearing.”
“But none have yet?” I was beginning to get excited now.
“I just called the Consulate,” he said. “So far, no soap. But Scotland Yard is on the case. So are private detectives. So is the Zwahili government. Give them time.”
They’d had two years already, I thought. I said, “If some smart moneyman has those bills, he can feed them into the various free markets all over the world—Switzerland, Tangier, Portugal—and probably net two-fifty on each pound, and be gone before anyone can put the finger on him.”
The boss nodded. “If,” he said, “this smart boy has a big enough organization.”
When he said “organization” I thought of Reese Fuller and of Arne and Ilona and Mr. Ghatt.
And of the packet of Zwahili bank notes in Arne’s desk.
XV
I SAID , “T ODAY J ODI R ASMUSSEN and I ran across some correspondence between Reese Fuller and the Zwahili government.”
The boss had a sure memory for his own business. He said, “Sure. Two years ago we wrote a special policy for Fuller and Rasmussen when they did that salvage job for Southeast Africa.”
I said, “And Fuller got paid off in Zwahili pounds?”
“What else?” the boss demanded. “Are you trying to tie Fuller into that robbery?”
I said, “I could answer that better after an interview with the blonde and her mustard-colored boy friend.” I reminded myself of something and reached for the telephone.
I called Maslin. He answered from his office. I identified myself. “Any luck on Emily Calvin?”
He sounded tired. “No, nor on her boy friend. Maybe they went on a honeymoon.”
“It’s more likely that he’s burying her somewhere,” I said. “What about Ilona and Ghatt?”
“Oh, them,” Maslin said, and I could have sworn I heard a faint undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “They’re registered aliens, so we have the information we need in our files. What do you want to know?”
“Know?” I yelled. “I want them picked up and held, damn it. I want to prefer charges of breaking and entering, assault, and maybe murder.”
Maslin said as if it didn’t matter, “We haven’t got them. We don’t know where they are.”
I wondered if he was paying me back for having held out on him. That would have been a dirty trick in my opinion. I said, “Well, what do you know? Who are they? Where are they from?”
He said in a jazzed-up British accent, “The lady is from Denmark and now a citizen of England. She’s a free-lance journalist, here living it up in the water wonderland of the Pacific Northwest. Ghatt is an East Indian by descent, but he comes from a place called Zwahili in Southeast Africa.”
I could feel my hand squeeze down on the phone. I almost started talking about the robbery of the African pounds, and then I realized that if I did, I’d have to bring in the notes I found in Arne’s desk and maybe bring in Reese and even Jodi. I wasn’t ready to do any of those yet.
I said, “When you find them, ask them if they killed Fenney,” and hung up.
He hung up. I looked sourly at the boss. I said, “Something smells at Maslin’s end now. He doesn’t give a damn whether he finds that pair or not. And after what they did to my clothes!”
The boss wasn’t interested in Maslin. He was back before my phone call. “Take it easy on Fuller. He and Arne
And two years ago, two hundred thousand pounds—now worth almost six hundred thousand green U.S. dollars—had been lifted, all in five, and ten-pound notes, all hot off the presses.”
I said, “By now, those notes won’t worth be worth paper. The Zwahili government probably changed their currency.”
“Nope,” he said. “They figured they were solvent enough to stand the loss, if they had to. But they don’t figure on having to. Someday they expect those bills to start appearing.”
“But none have yet?” I was beginning to get excited now.
“I just called the Consulate,” he said. “So far, no soap. But Scotland Yard is on the case. So are private detectives. So is the Zwahili government. Give them time.”
They’d had two years already, I thought. I said, “If some smart moneyman has those bills, he can feed them into the various free markets all over the world—Switzerland, Tangier, Portugal—and probably net two-fifty on each pound, and be gone before anyone can put the finger on him.”
The boss nodded. “If,” he said, “this smart boy has a big enough organization.”
When he said “organization” I thought of Reese Fuller and of Arne and Ilona and Mr. Ghatt.
And of the packet of Zwahili bank notes in Arne’s desk.
XV
I SAID , “T ODAY J ODI R ASMUSSEN and I ran across some correspondence between Reese Fuller and the Zwahili government.”
The boss had a sure memory for his own business. He said, “Sure. Two years ago we wrote a special policy for Fuller and Rasmussen when they did that salvage job for Southeast Africa.”
I said, “And Fuller got paid off in Zwahili pounds?”
“What else?” the boss demanded. “Are you trying to tie Fuller into that robbery?”
I said, “I could answer that better after an interview with the blonde and her mustard-colored boy friend.” I reminded myself of something and reached for the telephone.
I called Maslin. He answered from his office. I identified myself. “Any luck on Emily Calvin?”
He sounded tired. “No, nor on her boy friend. Maybe they went on a honeymoon.”
“It’s more likely that he’s burying her somewhere,” I said. “What about Ilona and Ghatt?”
“Oh, them,” Maslin said, and I could have sworn I heard a faint undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “They’re registered aliens, so we have the information we need in our files. What do you want to know?”
“Know?” I yelled. “I want them picked up and held, damn it. I want to prefer charges of breaking and entering, assault, and maybe murder.”
Maslin said as if it didn’t matter, “We haven’t got them. We don’t know where they are.”
I wondered if he was paying me back for having held out on him. That would have been a dirty trick in my opinion. I said, “Well, what do you know? Who are they? Where are they from?”
He said in a jazzed-up British accent, “The lady is from Denmark and now a citizen of England. She’s a free-lance journalist, here living it up in the water wonderland of the Pacific Northwest. Ghatt is an East Indian by descent, but he comes from a place called Zwahili in Southeast Africa.”
I could feel my hand squeeze down on the phone. I almost started talking about the robbery of the African pounds, and then I realized that if I did, I’d have to bring in the notes I found in Arne’s desk and maybe bring in Reese and even Jodi. I wasn’t ready to do any of those yet.
I said, “When you find them, ask them if they killed Fenney,” and hung up.
He hung up. I looked sourly at the boss. I said, “Something smells at Maslin’s end now. He doesn’t give a damn whether he finds that pair or not. And after what they did to my clothes!”
The boss wasn’t interested in Maslin. He was back before my phone call. “Take it easy on Fuller. He and Arne
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