Diamonds Aren't Forever

by Connie Shelton

  She stepped out and closed the door behind her, wanting nothing more than to get out of this hotel. Now.

  I’m getting too old for this, she thought as she practically race-walked to the elevator.

  Chapter 51

  Gracie’s arm looked awful the next morning as a big purple bruise now covered her entire forearm and had spread across the elbow. She insisted, however, it felt much better. The throbbing was gone, she said, although Pen noticed she still held it gingerly across her body and was very careful not to touch it to any hard surface.

  Pen had glossed over her close call in Morrell’s hotel room, supposing that another guest got the wrong room or a hotel employee had come up, although that person would have knocked before trying the door. Police would have announced themselves and probably would not have walked away. It wasn’t Frank’s voice and as far as they knew he didn’t speak fluent German. It was still a mystery.

  They’d gone back and forth the previous evening about reporting both the attack and the stolen necklace to the local police.

  “Do we really want to get bogged down in another legal system in a foreign country?” Gracie questioned. “I mean, after all, we’d planned on catching this Frank Morrell and stealing the necklace back.”

  True, taking action themselves was appealing. If police found the jewelry, it would end up in custody somewhere, potentially tied up for months or years as evidence in a criminal case. Still, they had valuable information and should at least report Frank Morrell’s information and what they knew about this Anton van der Went who was supposed to meet him.

  Pen watched Gracie over their room-service breakfast, wondering if her friend was feeling up to a trip to the police station. She’d come to the conclusion she would simply phone in the report, unless the police insisted they come in person, when she received an incoming text message.

  Amber: Don’t bother with Anton at airport. He pulled a switch and came in earlier. Will try for more info. Stay tuned.

  Pen held up the phone but Gracie had received the same message on hers.

  “Now what? I had hoped to meet the KLM flight at eleven and trail Anton van der Went to the meeting place with Frank.” Pen’s disappointment was palpable.

  Gracie spread honey on a toast triangle. “I suppose we do as she said and wait for more info. Unless we can come up with a way to figure out where they might be planning to meet.”

  Pen thought of the computer in Morrell’s room and wished now that she’d simply stolen it. The man had taken far more from her. It wouldn’t truly be wrong, would it?

  “Well, we could sit outside his hotel and wait for him to leave, track him to the meeting spot,” Gracie suggested.

  “I doubt he stayed there last night. He knows we know he’s in the city. He has to be thinking we would have reported his assault on you. My guess is that he watched the hotel from some distance and once the coast was clear—maybe the middle of the night—went in and took his most important things away. If this Anton came to town earlier this morning, odds are good they’ve already met.”

  Gracie’s expression mirrored Pen’s own discouragement.

  “Okay,” said Gracie, wiping her fingers on her napkin. “Before this message came we were all set to tell the police what we know about Morrell and report the attack. Let’s do that much. If we can’t locate him afterward, we’ll just have to get ourselves on a flight back home. Although I still want to see at least one castle or something.”

  Her decisive words and light tone buoyed Pen a bit. They’d donned coats and gathered purses when Pen’s phone rang.

  “I’ll make this quick—I know it’s expensive,” said Amber.

  “If you have new information, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Sandy’s with me, helping monitor some … stuff.”

  Pen smiled at the way Amber tried to minimize the fact she’d hacked into off-limits sources.

  “She spotted a text message exchange sent ten minutes ago between that van der Went guy and Frank Morrell. Here, I’m putting her on.”

  Sandy’s voice sounded jubilant. “Pen? So good to hear your voice again! I can’t believe it’s midnight here, and I’m completely jazzed about being able to help out.”

  Pen put her phone on speaker for Gracie’s benefit.

  “Here’s what I found,” Sandy said. “This comes from Anton: ‘Meeting time changed. Be there at ten.’ Then Morrell answers back: ‘Where the hell is clock museum?’ Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yes!” Gracie practically shouted. “I saw a clock museum on the map. It’s just a few blocks from here, an easy taxi ride, I’m sure.”

  Pen looked at the time. “It’s already a little after nine. We’d better hurry.”

  “Good luck,” came the response from the American side of the line.

  Pen took a moment to ring the front desk and asked them to flag down a cab. Five minutes later, they were rolling.

  “I’m a little worried about confronting both Morrell and the other man together,” Gracie confided as the taxi negotiated the winding streets. “We know Morrell isn’t above striking out at a woman, and this other guy could be even more dangerous.”

  Pen’s mind raced. Of course, Gracie was right. An idea came to her and she pulled a small notebook from her purse. She jotted a note the next time the cab halted at a traffic light. Gracie smiled approval when she saw it.

  Chapter 52

  Frank woke with a pounding head and his scratchy throat was worse this morning. He’d slept badly, worrying over the fact that he’d left his computer behind at the other hotel. Everything had a sense of unreality after yesterday’s bizarre turn.

  From his lavish suite at the Grand Cayman Regent to this small motorway hotel room with bland gray walls, a lumpy mattress and inadequate duvet, his accommodations had decidedly gone downhill. The upside to the uncomfortable room was he had no desire to linger in bed. He needed to get back to Zurich, retrieve his computer and meet with Anton van der Went at noon. Once he sold the necklace he would hop on the next flight back to Vegas and start enjoying the money he’d banked there. In his book, this particular adventure had overstayed its welcome.

  He showered and put on the only clothes he had with him. Not wanting to do anything memorable, he quietly checked out and walked the two blocks to Pfäffikon Station. The only thing offered for breakfast was a hard roll and some cheese. He made do with that and a large cup of coffee. Frank finished the snack and kicked back on one of the benches in the waiting area, wanting to catch a crowded train where he would be hard to spot in the rush-hour throng. They ran frequently this time of morning so he wasn’t worried about getting to his meeting on time; mainly he wanted to be calm, collected and thinking clearly before facing the diamond cutter.

  He didn’t need the extra cash, exactly, but pride wouldn’t allow him to give the other man the better deal. He decided on a second cup of coffee, taking his mobile phone out to see how his battery was holding up while the purple-haired girl whipped the espresso.

  He spotted a new message from Anton. Shit. It must have come through while he was in the shower. Meeting time changed …

  His heart raced. A glance at the station’s huge overhead clock told him he would barely make it to Zurich by nine-thirty, and he still had to find the damn meeting place. He texted back: Where the hell is clock museum?

  Dammit! He’d planned to get there early, stake out the place. He hated not being in control. It was the secret to every great con—the master ran the show. Only the mooches didn’t know what was going on.

  “Forget the coffee,” he called over his shoulder to the barista. She shot him the evil eye.

  He snatched a tourist map from a rack beside the coffee place and raced through the station, found the platform where the next train for Zurich was already boarding, walked too quickly through the security screening and had to do it over. Damn the Swiss and their pride of precision timing. He barely made the train before the doors slid shut.

  W
ith nothing else to do during the thirty-minute ride, he spread his map and stared at the lengthy Germanic names until his head began to pound. He couldn’t spot any word resembling ‘clock’ or ‘museum.’ He crumpled the map and threw it on the floor, drawing attention from the otherwise-bored morning commuters.

  Okay, Frankie, not smart.

  He took a deep breath and talked himself down from his agitated state. He had the necklace. He was in control. No way would he let this Dutchman and his screwy moves dictate to him. He would arrive on time, but certainly not early. He would name his price. Screw the guy. He began to breathe easier, forcing his hands to be still, his expression bland.

  He’d planned to walk to the clock museum and leisurely scope out the area, but that was out. He pushed to the front of the line and took the first cab, ignoring muttered comments about the rudeness of Americans. At least the driver knew where this silly museum was. Frank ignored the man’s attempts at chit-chat along the way.

  When they pulled to a stop in front of yet another tall gray building, this one with white trim, Frank said, “It looks like a jewelry store.”

  “Ja, it is. Museum is on the lower level inside.”

  Frank paid his fare and got out, blatantly ignoring the shop front as he strolled past a row of benches under some trees along the sidewalk. A coffee shop across the street would have made the perfect lookout spot but he was running late enough now, odds were good van der Went was already inside, watching for his arrival. Damn—he hated when things didn’t go his way.

  He rounded the corner, pretended to browse the displays of jewelry, turned and strolled back, again taking his time to observe reflections in the glass while he pretended an interest in watches.

  A female voice interrupted his thoughts, a young woman in shop girl attire who stood at the open front door. “Excuse me, sir? Are you Mr. Morrell?”

  Frank didn’t have time to form a response. Who wanted to know, he wondered.

  The girl stepped forward with something in her hand. “This note was left for you.” She handed it over and turned back to her job before he could ask where she’d gotten this.

  The slip of paper was folded in on itself, forming its own little envelope of sorts. His real name was written across the outside. He unfolded the sheet, which was about six inches square.

  Museum too crowded with tours this morning. Come to lobby of Carlton Hotel. 10:15. Anton

  “What is this shit?” Frank muttered. Was the guy going to play games all day?

  He studied the handwriting, not that it would help. He’d never seen anything handwritten by Anton. This was a firm hand, slightly slanted. Well, hell. He had twenty minutes to get to this new place and there wasn’t a cab in sight.

  He leaned into the jewelry store and caught the attention of the clerk who’d handed him the note.

  “Where is the Carlton Hotel?”

  “Em, not far.” She gave directions—two blocks up this same street and one block to the left. He would see it on the right. “It’s not a large place. You’ll see a blue awning.”

  He rushed out, hoping her directions were accurate. There was no time to get lost and do it over.

  Chapter 53

  With an hour to prepare, Pen debated how to handle the meeting. Frank would likely bolt if he recognized either of the ladies before he entered the trap. Anton van der Went had neatly fallen for the note he’d received, making an impatient gesture but heading off toward the Paradeplatz, where “Frank’s” note had insisted upon a more open space for their meeting than the confines of the museum where security cameras would record the whole transaction. Pen had no idea if that was true, but it sounded good.

  Twenty minutes later, Frank Morrell showed up and followed his set of directions as well. From her seat in the coffee shop, Pen phoned Gracie to let her know their target was on his way. As soon as Frank rounded the corner, Pen pulled on the wide-brimmed hat and large sunglasses she’d purchased this morning and followed him.

  Gracie couldn’t help favoring her injured arm but she’d taken off the sling. Wearing a very short skirt, low-cut blouse and come-hither high heels, she hoped Frank Morrell would have his eyes elsewhere but her face. She’d pulled her dark hair back into a sleek bun and wore distractingly large earrings.

  All she had to do was lure him to the secluded alcove off the main lobby at the Carlton, a spot with four upholstered chairs and a small coffee table, the kind of place colleagues might use for a quiet coffee and to talk business. Pen would be close behind their quarry as he came into the hotel and she would block the alcove opening once Frank took Gracie’s enticing bait. Much of the rest of the plan depended upon bluffing and Gracie prayed it worked.

  She saw Frank Morrell as he passed the hotel’s front windows. A deep breath, a perky set to her shoulders and she was ready.

  “Mr. Morrell?” she called out using her best imitation of a Dutch accent. “Mr. Morrell, dis vay please.”

  She jutted her bosom toward him as she stood, indicating an empty chair. A leather portfolio sat on the table in front of one of the others.

  “So sorry, Mr. van der Went, he is in the gentlemen’s room. He vill return in a moment, I’m sure.” She made a show of crossing her legs as the two of them sat down. “I am Sophie, Mr. van der Went’s, em, secretary.”

  Gracie sent an engaging smile his way, watching the hotel’s entrance in her peripheral view. Pen’s large hat caught her attention—her cue had arrived.

  “Ah, Mr. van der Went—here is your client now,” she said loudly enough for Pen to catch it.

  When Frank turned around, there stood Penelope blocking the narrow pathway to the rest of the lobby.

  “Mr. Stone,” she said coldly. “Or should I say Mr. Morrell?”

  The shock on his face was priceless. Gracie almost smiled behind his back as he spun to look at Pen.

  “I believe you have something of mine. I’d like to collect it now.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t what? Have it with you? Sorry, that won’t fly. You were ready to sell it to Anton van der Went five minutes ago. Don’t know what I’m talking about? That’s utter bullshit, if you’ll pardon the crude language.” She stood with arms spread wide. He would have to actually attack her to get through.

  “Don’t think about trying anything,” she bluffed. “Both the local police and Interpol are on alert about this meeting. If I don’t walk out of here with my necklace in my possession, the authorities are waiting right outside the door.”

  Morrell’s eyes darted back and forth as he considered her threat. A moment later his shoulders slumped.

  “Okay, you got me. You know what? I’ve done well enough off this trip anyway … sure, you can have the necklace. It’s in my money belt. I’ll just slip into the men’s room to take it off.”

  “Huh-uh,” Gracie said, joining Pen to block him. “Just lift your shirt right here. You’ve got nothing we haven’t seen before.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe. But I’m also carrying quite a bit of cash and I don’t want somebody outside those windows to get a look at it.” He spread his arms. “You don’t want anyone seeing you receive the necklace either, right? Some thug sees you, that baby’s worth knocking a lady over the head to steal it.”

  Both women gave him hard stares.

  “Not me! I don’t work that way.” He glanced toward the empty lobby, where only one desk clerk was working across the room. “Come on. I do have it—take a look.”

  He raised his shirt tail, exposing the money belt.

  “So? A money belt proves nothing,” Pen said.

  “Feel it. You’ll recognize the shape of your necklace.”

  He ran his fingertips over the fabric belt, inviting Pen to do the same. Sure enough, she knew the outlines of the necklace. Her hopes soared—at last she would get her beloved piece back.

  “Let me just …” he tilted his head toward the sign across the way where the bathrooms were.

  “I’m coming with you
,” Pen said, taking his arm casually as he started to pass. “Gracie? Coming?”

  They flanked him as he walked, each woman with an iron grip on one of his arms. At the door to the men’s room, he paused.

  “Alone, please. A little privacy, ladies.” Before they could answer, he’d shaken loose their hands, walked in and pushed the door closed behind him. The lock clicked into place.

  Pen and Gracie exchanged a glance.

  “Thirty seconds, Mr. Morrell,” Pen called out through the door.

  “Just a minute, the zipper’s stuck,” he muttered.

  “Twenty seconds.”

  A shuffling sound.

  “Ten seconds, Morrell.”

  Silence.

  “Five seconds.”

  Gracie grabbed Pen’s hand. “Don’t announce the time,” she whispered. “He’s pulling something.”

  She ran to the front desk and summoned the clerk. “Our friend went into the restroom and seems to be having some sort of attack. Can you unlock the door? Quickly!”

  The man fished around in a drawer and came up with a keyring, then followed Gracie back to the closed bathroom door.

  “Quick, he may have had a heart attack,” Gracie said.

  The clerk unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping in ahead of the ladies.

  “Madam, I’m afraid there’s no one here.”

  Pen and Gracie followed. It was true. The restroom was empty.

  Chapter 54

  Bill Caplin took a cab from his hotel to Zurich’s Kantonspolizei station, refreshed after a solid night’s sleep. He’d made contact upon arrival with a Detective Manheim, identified himself over the phone and set an appointment for this morning.