False Impression

“And before you say anything else,” added Tom, “my department has neither the financial resources nor the backup to find out if this aunt even exists.”

“Any Romanian connection?” Jack asked, as he dug into his steak.

“None that we’re aware of,” said Tom. “Straight out of the Bronx and into a Brooks Brothers suit.”

“Leapman may yet turn out to be our best lead,” said Jack. “If we could only get him to testify—”

“Not a hope,” said Tom. “Since leaving jail, he hasn’t even had a parking ticket, and I suspect he’s a lot more frightened of Fenston than he is of us.”

“If only Hoover was still alive,” said Jack with a grin.

They both raised their glasses, before Tom added, “So when do you fly back to the States? I only ask, as I want to know when I can return to my day job.”

“Tomorrow, I suppose,” said Jack. “Now Krantz is safely locked up, I ought to get back to New York. Macy will want to know if I’m any nearer to linking Krantz with Fenston.”

“And are you?” asked Tom.

Neither of them noticed the two men talking to the maître d’. They couldn’t have been booking a table, otherwise they would have left their raincoats in reception. Once the maître d’ had answered their question, they walked purposefully across the dining room.

Tom was placing the files back in his briefcase by the time they reached their table.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the taller of the two men. “My name is Detective Sergeant Frankham, and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Ross. I’m sorry to disturb your meal, but I need to have a word with you, sir,” he said, touching Jack on the shoulder.

“Why, what have I done?” asked Jack, putting down his knife and fork. “Parked on a double yellow line?”

“I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that, sir,” said the detective sergeant, “and I must therefore ask you to accompany me to the station.”

“On what charge?” demanded Jack.

“I think it might be wiser, sir, if we were not to continue this conversation in a crowded restaurant.”

“And on whose authority—,” began Tom.

“I don’t think you need to involve yourself, sir.”

“I’ll decide about that,” said Tom, as he removed his FBI badge from an inside pocket. He was about to flick the leather wallet open, when Jack touched him on the elbow and said, “Let’s not create a scene. No need to get the Bureau involved.”

“To hell with that, who do these people think—”

“Tom, calm down. This is not our country. I’ll go along to the police station and sort this all out.”

Tom reluctantly placed his FBI badge back in his pocket, and although he said nothing, the look on his face wouldn’t have left either policeman in any doubt how he felt. As Jack stood up, the sergeant grabbed his arm and quickly handcuffed him.

“Hey, is that really necessary?” demanded Tom.

“Tom, don’t get involved,” said Jack in a measured tone.

Tom reluctantly followed Jack out of the dining room, through a room full of guests, who studiously carried on ch

atting and eating their meals as if nothing unusual was going on around them.

When they reached the front door, Tom said, “Do you want me to come with you to the station?”

“No,” said Jack, “Why don’t you stick around. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be back in time for coffee.”

Two women stared intently at Jack from the other side of the corridor.

“Is that him, madam?”