False Impression

ing her even when I knew where she was.”

“The local police were the first to admit,” said Tom, “that she was unconscious at the time.”

“Fill me in on the details,” said Jack impatiently.

“It seems, and reports were still coming through when I left the embassy, that Krantz was involved in a quarrel with a taxi driver, who was found to have five hundred dollars in his possession. The driver had his throat cut, while she ended up with a bullet in her right shoulder. We don’t yet know what caused the fight, but as he was killed only moments before your flight took off, we thought you might be able to throw some light on it.”

“Krantz would have been trying to find out which plane Anna was on, after she made such a fool of herself in Tokyo, but that man would never have told her. He protected her more like a father than a taxi driver, and the five hundred dollars is a red herring. Krantz doesn’t bother to kill people for that sort of money, and that was one taxi driver who never kept the meter running.”

“Well, whatever, Krantz is safely locked up and with a bit of luck will spend the rest of her life in jail, which may not prove to be that long, as we’re reliably informed that half the population of Romania would be happy to strangle her.” Tom glanced back down at his file. “And it turns out that our taxi driver, one Colonel Sergei Slatinaru, was a hero of the resistance.” Tom took another sip of his drink before he added, “So there’s no longer any reason for you to worry about Petrescu’s safety.”

The waiter reappeared to accompany them into the dining room.

“In common with most Romanians, I won’t relax until Krantz is dead,” said Jack. “Until then, I’ll remain anxious for Anna.”

“Anna? Are you two on first-name terms?” asked Tom, as he took his seat opposite Jack in the dining room.

“Hardly, though we may as well be. I’ve spent more nights with her than any of my recent girlfriends.”

“Then perhaps we should have invited Dr. Petrescu to join us?”

“Forget it,” said Jack. “She’ll be having dinner with Lady Arabella at Wentworth Hall, while we have to settle for the Wentworth Arms.”

A waiter placed a bowl of leek and potato soup in front of Tom and served Jack a Caesar salad.

“Have you found out anything else about Anna?”

“Not a lot,” admitted Tom, “but I can tell you that one of the calls she made from Bucharest airport was to the New York Police Department. She asked them to take her name off the missing list, said she’d been in Romania visiting her mother. She also called her uncle in Danville, Illinois, and Lady Arabella Wentworth.”

“Then her meeting in Tokyo must have gone belly-up,” said Jack.

“You’re going to have to explain that one to me,” said Tom.

“She had a meeting in Tokyo with a steel tycoon called Nakamura, who has one of the largest collections of Impressionist paintings in the world, or so the concierge at the Seiyo informed me.” Jack paused. “She obviously failed to sell Nakamura the Van Gogh, which would explain why she sent the painting back to London and even allowed it to be forwarded to New York.”

“She doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up that easily,” said Tom, extracting another piece of paper from his file. “By the way, the Happy Hire Company is also looking for her. They claim she abandoned one of their vehicles on the Canadian border, minus its front mudguard, front and rear bumpers, with not one of its lights in working order.”

“Hardly a major crime,” said Jack.

“Are you falling for this girl?” asked Tom.

Jack didn’t reply as a waiter appeared by their side. “Two steaks, one rare, one medium,” he announced.

“Mine’s the rare,” said Tom.

The waiter placed both plates on the table and added, “Enjoy.”

“Another Americanism we seem to have exported,” grunted Tom.

Jack smiled. “Did you get any further with Leapman?”

“Oh yes,” said Tom. “We know a great deal about Mr. Leapman.” He placed another file on the table. “He’s an American citizen, second generation, and studied law at Columbia. Not unlike you,” Tom said with a grin. “After graduating, he worked for several banks, always moving on fairly quickly, until he became involved in a share fraud. His specialty was selling bonds to widows who didn’t exist.” He paused. “The widows existed, the bonds didn’t.” Jack laughed. “He served a two-year sentence at Rochester Correctional Facility in upstate New York and was banned for life from working at a bank or any other financial institution.”

“But he’s Fenston’s right hand?”

“Fenston’s possibly, but not the bank’s. Leapman’s name doesn’t appear on their books, even as a cleaner. He pays taxes on his only known income, a monthly check from an aunt in Mexico.”

“Come on—,” said Jack.