Armand Grangier stepped out of the limousine as it stopped in front of the Hôtel du Palais, walked into the lobby, and approached Jules Bergerac, the white-haired Basque who had worked at the hotel from the age of thirteen.
“What’s the number of the Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly’s suite?”
There was a strict rule that desk clerks not divulge the room numbers of guests, but rules did not apply to Armand Grangier.
“Suite three-twelve, Monsieur Grangier.”
“Merci.”
“And Room three-eleven.”
Grangier stopped. “What?”
“The countess also has a room adjoining her suite.”
“Oh? Who occupies it?”
“No one.”
“No one? Are you sure?”
“Oui, monsieur. She keeps it locked. The maids have been ordered to keep out.”
A puzzled frown appeared on Grangier’s face. “You have a passkey?”
“Of course.” Without an instant’s hesitation, the concierge reached under the desk for a passkey and handed it to Armand Grangier. Jules watched as Armand Grangier walked to-ward the elevator. One never argued with a man like Grangier.
When Armand Grangier reached the door of the baroness’s suite, he found it ajar. He pushed it open and entered. The living room was deserted. “Hello. Anyone here?”
A feminine voice from another room sang out, “I’m in the bath. I’ll be with you in a minute. Please help yourself to a drink.”
Grangier wandered around the suite, familiar with its furnishings, for over the years he had arranged for many of his friends to stay in the hotel. He strolled into the bedroom. Expensive jewelry was carelessly spread out on a dressing table.
“I won’t be a minute,” the voice called out from the bathroom.
“No hurry, Baroness.”
Baroness mon cul! he thought angrily. Whatever little game you’re playing, chérie, is going to backfire. He walked over to the door that connected to the adjoining room. It was locked. Grangier took out the passkey and opened the door. The room he stepped into had a musty, unused smell. The concierge had said that no one occupied it. Then why did she need—? Grangier’s eye was caught by something oddly out of place. A heavy black electrical cord attached to a wall socket snaked along the length of the floor and disappeared into a closet. The door was open just enough to allow the cord to pass through. Curious, Grangier walked over to the closet door and opened it.
A row of wet hundred-dollar bills held up by clothespins on a wire was strung across the closet, hanging out to dry. On a typewriter stand was an object covered by a drape cloth. Grangier flicked up the cloth. He uncovered a small printing press with a still-wet hundred-dollar bill in it. Next to the press were sheets of blank paper the size of American currency and a paper cutter. Several one-hundred-dollar bills that had been unevenly cut were scattered on the floor.
An angry voice behind Grangier demanded, “What are you doing in here?”
Grangier spun around. Tracy Whitney, her hair damp from the bath and wrapped in a towel, had come into the room.
Armand Grangier said softly, “Counterfeit! You were going to pay us off with counterfeit money.” He watched the expressions that played across her face. Denial, outrage, and then defiance.
“All right,” Tracy admitted. “But it wouldn’t have mattered. No one can tell these from the real thing.”
“Con!” It was going to be a pleasure to destroy this one.
“These bills are as good as gold.”
“Really?” There was contempt in Grangier’s voice. He pulled one of the wet bills from the wire and glanced at it. He looked at one side, then the other, and then examined them more closely. They were excellent. “Who cut these dies?”
“What’s the difference? Look, I can have the hundred thousand dollars ready by Friday.”
Grangier stared at her, puzzled. And when he realized what she was thinking, he laughed aloud. “Jesus,” he said. “You’re really stupid. There’s no treasure.”
Tracy was bewildered. “What do you mean, no treasure? Professor Zuckerman told me—”
“And you believed him? Shame, Baroness.” He studied the bill in his hand again. “I’ll take this.”
Tracy shrugged. “Take as many as you like. It’s only paper.”
Grangier grabbed a handful of the wet hundred-dollar bills. “How do you know one of the maids won’t walk in here?” he asked.