To Catch a Thief Read online

  Bellini said, “I was hoping you would call, Mr. Burns.” He took off his glasses, mopping his wet face. “This heat is savage. I am losing weight through my pores.” He chuckled, patting his belly. “I have a bit of news for you.”

  “Paige?”

  “You saw him leave, of course. Yes. He has been talking to Lepic, the commissaire divisionnaire. He wants to put récompense proportionelle advertisements in the newspapers. You know the police do not like them because they increase the market value of stolen goods. He knows it, too, and was surprised when he asked Lepic for authority and Lepic told him to go ahead, without growling about it. He gained the impression that Lepic did not think newspaper advertisements would make a difference one way or the other, as far as recovery of the jewelry is concerned, which is generally true enough. But Lepic sounds much too amiable. He has something up his sleeve. Expect something unusual from him.”

  “Something unusual just happened.”

  He told Bellini about the bombshell Francie Stevens had exploded in his face.

  Bellini, characteristically, began to wheeze with laughter. Between giggles, he said, “Forgive me, John. The curse of my life is a sense of humor,” then giggled again.

  When he had caught his breath he said cheerfully, “So all of our work, all the planning, the careful disguise, were not enough even to deceive an idle girl with an imagination. But I warned you against her, didn’t I? We were only lucky that it was she and not the police who discovered you first. At least you are not in prison yet, and with luck I can still get you away. I will send you down to Marseilles tonight, after dark.”

  “I have an appointment to meet her at eight o’clock. I’m going to keep it.”

  Bellini blinked owlishly. John said, “She complicates things, but she isn’t fatal to what we’re doing. She wants to help me steal her mother’s jewels.”

  “Not seriously?”

  “Seriously. If she didn’t have a reason for existence before, she has one now. She wants to be a thief.”

  Bellini giggled again. John said, “She’s after excitement, a thrill. I’m giving her a thrill. As long as I can continue I’m convinced she won’t give me away. If I try to run now, she can have me picked up before I get out of the country. There’s nothing for me to do but stay and hope that we accomplish something before I begin to bore her.”

  “But the police, John. If she could see through your camouflage so easily—”

  “I’ve considered that, too. I don’t think I have to worry any more about the police than I did yesterday. They’re logical. She isn’t. The whole line of reasoning she followed to decide that I was Le Chat was false. Actually she had only one real point to work from, the fact that I’m not up to date. I don’t talk about the right things for a man who has been living in the United States. But no French police agent will realize that, and for the rest of it, she invented things, or made facts out of nonsense. She doesn’t know that I’m wearing a camouflage, or that I’ve changed the color of my hair. She hasn’t read anything that came out during my trial. She thinks I deliberately cultivated her mother’s acquaintance. She thinks Le Chat is a fake, a misdirection, and that the thefts are done by a gang. She believes I planted Danielle on Lady Kerry.”

  “To steal the Kerry jewels?” Bellini wheezed again. “Poor Danielle. The whole world must know about the Kerry jewels.”

  “The flics do. That’s my point, Bellini. They can’t follow her line of reasoning. It’s a series of mistakes, all the way.”

  “Have you tried to point out the errors?”

  “I can’t, without telling her the truth. Besides, she cabled New York and had me checked there.”

  “No Mr. Burns in the insurance business?”

  “Several. All on hand.”

  “So you confessed and threw yourself on her mercy.”

  “No. I’m humoring her. Playing games. Cloak and dagger business.”

  Bellini shook his head, looking as nearly serious as it was possible for him to look.

  “I don’t like it. She sounds unpredictable. You can’t rely on her.”

  “I can’t do anything else. I have no choice.”

  “We could have her”—Bellini hesitated, choosing the right word—“quarantined, briefly. If you would take her for a walk along the beach after dark—”

  “I thought of that, too. I tried to bring her here, but she’s too alert. And you know what would happen if a rich American girl was kidnapped in Cannes. The mobiles would be patrolling the streets, checking identification papers at every corner.”

  “You are probably right. But I am afraid for you, John.”

  “I’m afraid for myself,” John said flatly. “I’ve been afraid for myself ever since I started this thing. She hasn’t changed that.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “I’m in it, and I can’t get out. I’ve just got to keep going. Have Le Borgne and Coco and the others on hand at seven o’clock sharp. I’ve got to see the girl at eight.”

  “What does she want with you at eight o’clock?”

  “We’re going to plan the theft of her mother’s jewels, I suppose. Or maybe she’ll have a hoop for me to jump through. I don’t really know.”

  Bellini chuckled automatically, although he did not think the joke was funny.

  John tried to sleep during the heat of the afternoon. He put the Do Not Disturb sign on his door, drew the window blinds, stripped, took a cool shower, made all the preparations to rest, and lay awake, sleepless.

  He could not get over the feeling that Francie held him on a leash. It was almost a physical thing, as if there were a collar on his neck and he had only to turn his head or lift a hand to feel it. She hadn’t tugged hard at the collar yet, but it was there. He had to go where she led him.

  If he knew what was good for him, she had said. Mr. Burns would be on hand for cocktails at eight o’clock, if he knew what was good for him. Mr. Burns would provide excitement to order. Mr. Burns would steal her mother’s jewels when she told him to, but would be careful not to take the diamond and emerald dog. It was on a leash, too, and it was worth five thousand dollars. Mr. Burns was only good for twenty years at La Maison Centrale.

  He could not sleep. He got up, pulled the mattress from the bed to the floor, and used it as a tumbling mat for half an hour. He was streaming sweat before he finished, but he felt better for the exercise. After he had bathed, he reconstructed Mr. Burns with particular care; the harness, the padded shoes, a touch of dye at the hair roots, a razor for the balding temples, one of his new American neckties. On the leash or off, Mr. Burns had to survive.

  The daylight was fading when he reached the house on the Rue Georges Clemenceau. It was seven o’clock exactly. He saw no one in the street, a good sign that Bellini had sent him good men. He used his key, turned on several lights, found a radio, and tuned in a Paris musical program. Someone pulled the cord of the old-fashioned doorbell almost immediately.

  The six men came in singly, a few minutes apart. Coco and Le Borgne were among the last.

  He did not recognize any of the other men. Le Borgne was heavier and grayer than he had been in the maquis, and had a respectable glass eye instead of a patch over the empty eye socket. Coco had not changed at all. He was a small man with a wide, lipless mouth, tight and mistrusting. His eyes were suspicious. All the men were suspicious, except Le Borgne. They looked at the corners of the room, and at the windows, and at each other, and at John, saying nothing. They did not know why they were there, and they did not like being there.

  He passed cigarettes. He held a match, first for Le Borgne, then for Coco, while the other men lit their own. Neither Le Borgne nor Coco gave any sign of recognition, nor thanked him for the light.

  He said, “Not even merci for an old friend, Coco?”

  Coco’s cigarette jutted from the corner of his tight mouth. Without removing it, he said belligerently, “Who are you to call me Coco?”

  John looked to Le Borgne. “How about you, One Eye?”

&nb
sp; Le Borgne nodded.

  “Bellini told me,” he said. “I would not have come otherwise. Still, it is a good get-up. The face is much the same, but in a different frame it is a different picture. I wouldn’t see you on the street.”

  “What are you talking about?” Coco said, still truculent.

  “Le Chat, nut-head. Look at the face, not the belly.”

  John saw recognition come into Coco’s eyes. Coco said, “No,” doubtfully, and then “Yes!” He took John by both arms. “Le Chat! John the Neck-Breaker! But what a barrel you’ve put on, man. Give me your hand so I can make sure, and not too much with the fingers. I am no boche sentry, remember.”

  They shook hands. Someone else said, “Le Chat!” in a different tone, and he heard it repeated. It was a bad name in le milieu. Even Coco took his hand back quickly. His eyes grew hard again, after his first enthusiasm.

  John said, “The Cat you knew, Coco. Not the one the police are hunting.”

  “There is only one Cat,” Coco said. “I read the papers.”

  “There are two.”

  A throaty female voice on the radio sang several bars of a chanson. No one moved. Coco’s suspicious expression did not change.

  Le Borgne broke the silence. He said, “Talk some more, John.”

  Another man, young and dark, with an evil gypsy face, threw his cigarette on the floor.

  “Merde for talk!” he said violently. “One Cat or two, it is too many for me. The flics had me in the tank for two weeks because the Cat came into my neighborhood. I say—”

  Coco whirled on him.

  “Who are you to say merde to a man who fought in the maquis?”

  The gypsy was not expecting an attack from his own side. He flared back.

  “I am a citizen of the Republic, as good as the next one. I fought in the maquis myself. It is my right.”

  Coco sneered. “A citizen of the Republic! Pah! Dirty gypsy. Dirty Arab. I spit in your face, citizen.”

  The gypsy’s dark face paled. He stood frozen, motionless. Coco stared at him for a moment, inviting trouble, then turned his back, deliberately and contemptuously.

  The gypsy’s hand flashed inside his coat the moment Coco’s eyes left him. John, expecting the movement, was quicker. He had the gypsy by both elbows, his arms pinned to his sides, before the hidden hand could come into sight again. He held the man that way, helpless, and tightened his grip on the gypsy’s thin arms until the knife dropped free of the coat and fell to the floor.

  By then Coco had the casse-tête in his hand, and was moving in with his arm cocked to strike at the gypsy’s head with the limber, shot-loaded leather. John released the gypsy, pushing him out of the way and stepping between the two men before the blow could fall.

  “You asked for it, Coco,” he said, picking up the knife. “Put the skull-cracker away. Next time you want to pick a fight, do it on your own time.”

  Coco hesitated, then shook his head and put the black-jack in his pocket.

  “The citizen had more under his shirt than I expected of him,” he said, without animosity. “I retract the spit, citizen. Although it was in the face and not between the shoulder blades.”

  The gypsy scowled, rubbing his elbows.

  Le Borgne said, “You should learn to think first and spit afterward, Coco. Tell us why we are here, John.”

  “Sit down. It will take time.”

  They sat down. The scuffle had cleared the air.

  He talked for half an hour. He used Bellini’s name more often than was necessary, for the value it had with these men, while he explained the scheme, what he had done, and what he hoped to accomplish. He passed around his sketches of the two houses they were to watch, and pointed out probable points of entry into them. He showed on the sketches where shrubbery would give cover for them to watch the points of entry, and where they could make a safe rendezvous. He explained the household routines, the habits of the householders, where they slept and at what hours. He said, “Both women generally wear most of their jewels when they go out in the evening, so if the thief makes an attempt he will do it when they are at home and the jewels are in the house. I don’t expect anything to happen at the Combe d’Or before the gala next weekend, but you’ll have to be ready just the same. Be most alert during the two or three hours after the lights go off, when they are in their first sleep. The thief will pick a night when they have been out late and are tired. If he comes, don’t try to take him as he goes in, unless he steps on you. You won’t see him in time, and you can’t be certain you have the man we want unless you take him with the jewelry. Get him on the way out. He’ll come back the same way he went in.”

  The gypsy said skeptically, “You say he will do this and that and the other thing. How do you know? How do you know he will come back the same way he went in? How do you know we will not sit on our hands while he flies out another window, eh?”

  Coco said, “You are listening to Le Chat, citizen of—”

  “Be quiet, Coco. I know he will come out the same way he goes in because it’s the only safe route for a thief working in the dark. He maps his way as he goes. Unless he is surprised and has to jump for it, he follows the map back. Three of you can cover the whole house to watch where he goes in, but afterward you must all be waiting for him together. He’s strong and agile, too much for one man to be certain of handling alone. Take no chances with him. Quiet him down as quickly as possible, and get him to Bellini. He will take care of the rest of it. Do you all have casse-têtes?”

  They all nodded except the gypsy, who smirked unpleasantly. John said, “No knives. He is no good to us dead.”

  “Remember that, citizen of the Republic,” Coco said from a corner of his tight mouth. “No knives. Get yourself a skull-buster or I will see to you myself.”

  The gypsy stopped smirking.

  Another man said, “All right. We know what you want from us. What do we get out of it?”

  “You get the thief. The Sûreté will take the pressure off when they have him. You can go on about your business again.”

  “It’s not enough. The flics have not interfered with my business. If I am going to sit out on my tail all night every night under a bush, someone will have to pay for it.”

  Another man said, “That goes for me.”

  John had not considered the possibility that others would have a lesser personal interest than his own in the capture. While he hesitated, Le Borgne said, “He’s right, John. You and I and Coco have our necks to save. It’s different with the rest of them.”

  “What did Bellini promise you?”

  The spokesman for the bargainers said, “Something if we catch him, nothing if we fail. It’s fair enough. But we want to know what the something will be.”

  “He has stolen jewelry worth a hundred million francs, and none of it has been shopped off yet. Bellini won’t hand him over to the Sûreté without squeezing him first.”

  “How can Bellini hold it back?” the spokesman asked, practically. “Naturally the thief will talk.”

  “Let him talk. A large London insurance company has insured most or all of it. Their man is offering récompense proportionelle for the recovery, no questions asked, and Bellini should be able to get twenty per cent out of him. Twenty per cent of a hundred million to divide around will pay for several nights of sitting under a bush.”

  He let them work out the arithmetic for themselves. They seemed satisfied. No one asked for a more concrete guarantee. The practical man said, “Good enough. When do we start?”

  “Tonight.”

  He divided them into two groups—the gypsy, the practical man, and Coco to watch the Brazilian couple, Le Borgne and the others for the Combe d’Or. Coco would keep the gypsy in check, and the practical man, whose name was Michel, would balance Coco’s impulsiveness. Le Borgne’s level head was enough for the other crew. John gave them the sketches, told them how best to approach the houses without being observed, not later than midnight, and warned them to stay unde
r cover from then until dawn, and to leave carefully.

  “It will be like the maquis again,” he told them. “Patience, caution. He may not come for days, he may not come at all, but we have to be ready from now on. If he’s had time to explore he’ll be ready to rob, and if he isn’t ready to rob he’ll be looking over the ground. Keep under cover, and don’t move around. You won’t need blankets, the nights are too warm, but take something to sit on. Don’t doze. Sleep during the day. Don’t smoke. If you feel the need for a cigarette, think of twenty per cent of a hundred million francs instead.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” Coco said. “Next time you hear from us, we’ll have this imitation Cat in a basket. Eh, there, citizen of the Republic?”

  He dug the gypsy in the ribs. The gypsy said something that was obscene even for a gypsy.

  John said, “I have to hear from you every day. One Eye, you and Coco report to Bellini once each morning, and leave a message if anything unusual happens. But report every day, even if there is nothing to report, because if something slips, if the flics pick you up, if anything keeps you off the job, I have to know about it and find somebody else to put on. Our only chance of staying out of prison is to catch this thief before we’re rounded up. Jean-Pierre says he has already been warned. It is only another kind of pressure, but they might take him as an example.”

  “I have been warned myself,” Le Borgne said.

  “So have I,” Coco said. “I spit in their faces. Come along, citizen of the Republic. We have work ahead of us.”

  The gypsy said, “Wait a minute. What about you?” He was talking to John. “What will you be doing while we squat all night under a bush without cigarettes, eh?”

  “I have a trap of my own to watch. I think he will come to me first, if he comes.”

  “Do we share alike, regardless?”

  “You share in everything. Bellini gave you his word. I give you mine.”