His sleek grey hair was taken straight back, and his military moustache bristled. In his immaculate clothes he had an arrogant air of confidence and authority that impressed Dallas, who wasn’t easily impressed.
They passed Dallas without noticing him, and went down the hotel steps to the street. Dallas slid out of his chair and went after them. He was in time to see them get into a big black LaSalle, driven by a smartly uniformed Filipino chauffeur, and which moved away so quickly that Dallas saw he hadn’t a hope of following it.
He memorised the licence number and signalled to a passing taxi.
‘Police Headquarters,’ he said urgently, ‘and imagine you’re driving to a fire!’
Three minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside the concrete and steel building that housed the city’s police. As Dallas paid off the driver he saw Lieutenant Olin get out of a police car and start up the stone steps leading to the main entrance of the building. He ran after him.
‘Hi, George,’ he said, joining Olin. ‘Too busy to do me a favour?’
Olin frowned at him.
‘I’m pret y busy,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but I guess I can spare you a minute. Come on in. Have you heard Jean Bruce has been knocked off?’
Dallas’s eyes popped.
‘You mean she’s been murdered?’
‘That’s what I mean.’ Olin walked quickly along the passage to his smal office, kicked open the door, entered and sat down behind a small battered desk. ‘A stick-up job with a couple of my boys sunning themselves within yards of it. The guy got away with an emerald and diamond bracelet worth five grand. He hit the girl on the side of her jaw – broke her goddamn neck.’
‘Jeepers!’ Dal as whistled. ‘Any idea who?’
Olin nodded.
‘Yeah, but never mind that. What do you want?’
‘Checking up on a black LaSal e, licence number AO 67. I want to know who owns it.’
Olin accepted the cigarette Dallas pushed at him, and then a light.
‘Working on something?’
‘A fifteen-year-old robbery,’ Dallas said. ‘Want to hear about it? It’s a good story.’
Olin shook his head.
‘Robbery isn’t my line. Besides, who cares about a fifteen-year-old robbery?’
‘The insurance companies – when the amount involved is four million,’ Dal as said seriously.
Olin looked startled.
‘Is that right? Four mil ion?’
‘Yeah. The insurance companies were caught for the lot. They paid up, but they’re stil trying to find the jewellery.’
Olin squinted at his cigarette end.
‘I think I remember something about that job: wasn’t it a Rajah’s col ection?’
‘That’s right. The Maharajah of Chit abad. He lent the whole of his family heirlooms to the Purbright Museum. That was fifteen years ago. The museum was staging an exhibition of the world’s most famous gems. The Maharajah had his collection flown to New York. They never arrived, and they’ve never been seen since. A year later a fence in Holland was approached by Paul Hater with some of the stuff.
Remember Hater? He was the smartest jewel thief of them all. The fence shopped Hater because Hater wouldn’t agree to his price. Hater was arrested, but he wouldn’t tell where he had cached the collection.
He got twenty years: he’s still serving his sentence, and is due out in a couple of years time. Old man Purvis is representing the insurance companies, and we’ve been trying to find the stuff ever since. Our one hope now is to wait until Hater comes out and then stick to him like leeches in the hope he’l lead us to the hiding-place. There’s four hundred grand in it for us if we get the stuff back, as well as a yearly retainer.’
Olin blew smoke down on to his grubby blotter, then waved it away irritably.
‘Did Hater do the job alone?’
Dallas shrugged.
‘No one knows. The pilot and the crew of the plane were never found: nor was the plane, for that matter. We figure they must have been working with Hater, but he wouldn’t finger them. We’re pret y certain the stuff’s never come on the market. Hater’s the only one, as far as we know, who knows where it’s hidden.’
Olin pushed out his aggressive jaw.
‘I guess my boys would have made him talk,’ he said sourly.
‘Don’t kid yourself. They worked over him until he looked as if he had been fed through a mincer.
Nothing anyone did to him – and they did plenty – could make him open his trap.’
‘Aw, the hel with this!’ Olin said impatiently. ‘I’ve got me a murder to solve. What do you want this car owner for?’
‘A couple of years back, the Maharajah died,’ Dal as explained. ‘His son came into the estate. This guy has his own ideas of how to live, and he’s been throwing his father’s money around like a drunken sailor. Rumour has it he’s
