The Venetian Affair by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page A

yours?”
    “About twenty of eleven, when I went searching for a cigarette.”
    Carlson nodded, as if he found that reasonable, and fished out his pack of cigarettes for Fenner. He tossed it over. “Keep them. PX rates. I can afford to be lordly. And when did you discover the envelope?” Carlson was drawing out the two blank sheets of airmail paper.
    “I think they’re a blind,” Fenner suggested. “If anyone was making a quick search, these sheets would distract his attention from the secret pocket—it’s just underneath—”
    Carlson looked at him, raised an eyebrow. “When did you say you discovered the envelope?”
    “Later. You see, when I found the coat wasn’t mine, I checked with the porter’s desk downstairs. No dice. I thought I’d telephone Orly, and I started searching for some clue to the owner. My watch caught on a thread inside that pocket. Ipulled. It held. And—well, I wrenched at it.”
    “Forceful.” Carlson examined the opening that had come apart with the wrenched thread. He ran his finger along its edge; his eyes were thoughtful. “That was just about eleven?” he asked casually.
    “Five minutes past, to be exact.”
    “And you called Stanfield Dade at eleven-twenty-five.”
    Fenner couldn’t help admiring the technique. He explained what happened in that gap of time.
    “So that’s how you got Stan’s name—from Spitzer?” Carlson was amused. “He was sure you had remembered him. Set him up for the day.” He had taken out the envelope from the concealed pocket, and looked at its ripped flap. “You were getting madder by the minute, I see.” He nodded as if he sympathised thoroughly. “What did you tell Spitzer, by the way?”
    “Nothing about the envelope. Or the coat.”
    “Congratulations. Spitzer likes to know.” And then, at last, Carlson drew out the ten bills. His eyes opened wide; his face muscles froze.
    “I was waiting for that moment,” Fenner said with a wide grin.
    “Did it come up to expectations?” Carlson picked up one of the bills. “I’ve heard of them, but these are the first I’ve seen. Queer feeling, isn’t it, to handle a year’s pay in one small piece of paper?”
    Fenner pointed his cigarette at the bill’s engraved portrait. “Who was Chase? If Washington is on a one-dollar bill, Lincoln on a five, Hamilton on a ten—you really are slipping down the ladder if your head is only worth ten thousand.”
    “Salmon Portland Chase,” Carlson said crisply as he replacedbills and envelope in their hiding place. “Civil War Secretary of the Treasury, and a good one. He had a bankrupt country to prop up.” But he was thinking of something else. “May I use your ’phone?”
    He called Dade. “Definitely interesting. And very professional,” he reported. “Yes, I think the Embassy should take charge until we can find out more... No, no, it isn’t Consulate business: our American citizen here isn’t in any trouble.” He grinned across the room at Fenner. “Don’t worry. I’ll take the responsibility. After all, the brown suit may tie in with what Rosie told me this morning. You just alert the Treasury boys and Rosie. Do that for me, will you? Tell them I want to see them right away... In your office, why not? Just say we borrowed it. I don’t give a damn where we meet as long as it’s as soon as possible... Sure, tip off the French if that makes you feel better: get Bernard; he doesn’t think all Americans are morons... Fine. Do that now, will you? And save time. Yes, we’ll be with you soon. The quicker we get this little package back onto US territory, the happier I’ll be. I’ve got a feeling it should never have left there.” He glanced over at Fenner, who was staring at the raincoat as if he could strangle it. “By the way, did you get any reply from my call to Orly?” He listened intently. The news did not please him. “In that case, telephone Bernard first of all. We’ll need him.” He ended the call.
    “Well?”