‘So how’re we doing, my friend?’ Lanigan asked.

‘I’m worried that Pollock’s been too quiet.’

‘Maybe he popped a sleeping pill?’ Cobb ventured. ‘People do that to counter jet lag.’

‘I don’t care how strong a pill I’d taken. If I was about to make two million pounds – sorry, three million dollars – I don’t think I’d be sleeping in on a Monday morning,’ Grace retorted.

Pat Lanigan sauntered over to the front desk, and spoke to the woman behind it. Grace followed him, and saw him flash his NYPD badge. ‘Can you double-check for us that there’s been no activity from suite 1406 this morning? I’d appreciate your checking with room service, housekeeping, the concierge, anyone else who might take a call from one of your guests.’

‘Of course, sir. Give me a few moments.’ She picked up her phone.

A few minutes later she reported that there had been no requests from suite 1406, and a staff member she had sent up there had reported there was a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the door.

By 9.10, Roy Grace had a bad feeling. ‘I think we should have someone go in,’ he said to Lanigan. ‘We need to know he’s still there.’

The detective agreed and spoke to the front desk again, this time formally commandeering the hotel’s manager.

Five minutes later Grace, Lanigan and the manager, an elegant woman in her late-forties, rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, then walked along the maze of corridors. The DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the handle, along with a black bag containing today’s New York Times.

The manager rapped hard on the door, waited several seconds, then rapped again. Then she rang the number on her phone. Through the door they could hear the warbling of an unanswered phone. Grace’s heart was sinking.

Finally, she opened it with her pass key, calling out a cautious, ‘Hello, Dr Alvarez? Hello? Good morning!’

Silence greeted them.

A silent room with two sofas, and a dining table on which sat a solitary empty champagne glass.

Grace and Lanigan followed her through into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the television on, the sound muted, a white towelling dressing gown lay on the floor. Those were the only clues that the suite had ever been inhabited. Its occupant had gone, along with his luggage and toiletries, as the empty bathroom confirmed.

106

The rather tired black Lincoln Town Car the hotel had procured for Gavin Daly pulled up on Madison Avenue, close to a Panerai watch dealership, he noticed. The driver jumped out and opened the door for him, and pointed at the number on the door.

‘Excellent,’ Daly said, jamming the tip of his walking stick onto the sidewalk, then levering himself out of the limousine, into the hot sunshine. As he stood upright he was conscious of the heavy weight in his trouser pocket. He was tired and jet-lagged, and had slept badly, but was running on adrenalin. ‘You’ll wait for me here?’

‘Yes, sir. If I’m not here when you come out, just wait right here – I may have to go around the block if I get moved on.’

‘Of course.’

‘An hour, you think?’

‘An hour, give or take. Thank you.’ He stifled a yawn.

‘A pleasure, sir. I’ll be right here, sir!’

Gavin Daly had arrived early, as Julius Rosenblaum had advised. It was 9.45 a.m. and Eamonn Pollock’s appointment with the rogue dealer was for 10.30. He made his way to the doorway sandwiched between two smart shops, and studied the names on the bell panel. Then he pushed the bell for J. R. Nautical Antiquities, conscious of the camera lens above it.

Moments later he heard Rosenblaum’s voice. ‘Come on in, Gavin. Take the elevator to the third floor.’

‘I remember!’ he replied. And he did, very clearly, although it had been ten years, at least, since his last visit here.

It was a tiny, old-fashioned lift, with a sliding metal gate. He pressed the button and ascended to the third floor. A few moments later it jerked to a halt. He opened the door and stepped out into a narrow corridor; the door directly in front of him had a spyhole and bore the name, in gilded lettering, J. ROSENBLAUM NAUTICAL ANTIQUITIES.

Almost immediately it opened and one of his oldest and best customers stood there, beaming, tall and erect, with a military posture Daly had always admired.

Well into his eighties, with finely coiffed white hair and smelling of strong cologne, Julius Rosenblaum looked distinguished, if a little flash and raffish. He had a hooked, Semitic nose, hooded eyes, and a rich, full smile. He was dressed immaculately in a three-piece chalk-striped suit and a flamboyant tie, and wore an extremely ornate and showy Vacherin Constantin watch on his wrist.

‘So good to see you, Gavin!’ He looked him up and down. ‘You look terrific, wow! You haven’t changed, you know!’

‘Nor you!’

‘Come on in. We’ve time for a coffee, and we have a lot to catch up on.’

Daly entered, stepping onto plush eau de nil carpeting so deep his feet sank into it. Recessed showcases lined the hallway, displaying ship’s clocks, a nautical hourglass with a brass top embossed with the wording ROYAL NAVY, and a mounted ship’s bell. He followed Rosenblaum into a small room with an antique Georgian table that served as a reception desk. An elegant, elderly woman sat behind it, typing on a keyboard; a pile of antiques magazines lay beside her.

‘Marjorie, you remember Gavin Daly from England?’

‘Indeed I do!’ She smiled at him.

‘Would you bring us some coffee, please?’

Then they went into his office. It was furnished with a circular conference table and a large desk, with two leather-covered chairs for visitors on one side, and a large, black leather chair with buttoned cushioning behind it. The walls were lined with fine oil paintings, and the room had the aura of a museum. Daylight entered through a large, frosted glass window. It was quiet in here, well insulated from the traffic down in the street below.

Rosenblaum ushered him to one chair in front of the desk, then sat in the other, shot his cuffs, leaned back and folded his arms. ‘So?’

‘I really appreciate you informing me about this, Julius.’

On the desk sat a large, silver cigar box, several photographs in silver frames, a huge glass ashtray and a computer terminal. ‘What the hell does money matter at our age, Gavin? You know? I need to offload a three-million-bucks stolen watch like I need a hole in my head. I just want a quiet life now – do a few little deals, keep my hand in, and keep me out of the house; otherwise I’d sit at home going nuts with boredom.’

Daly nodded in agreement. ‘Still got a yacht?’ Rosenblaum, who had served in the US Navy during the Korean War, had always been a keen sailor. Once, many years ago, on a fine summer day, Rosenblaum had taken him on a memorable 360 degrees circumnavigation of Manhattan Island.

‘Yeah, but I keep her out in St Barts. Too damned chilly, the waters around here for me these days.’

Rosenblaum opened the lid of the cigar box and pushed it towards him. ‘Help yourself.’

‘It’s a little early, thanks.’

‘Okay, later. We’ll have a glass or two and a smoke. Come to my club this evening, if you’re free.’

‘I’d like that.’

Rosenblaum shrugged, then grinned, almost sheepishly. ‘Had my prostate removed. Can’t screw any more, so what’s left but a fine cigar and fine wine?’

‘I’m right with you – same problem.’

‘I look on it as a pleasure, Gavin. I used to have these goddamn urges; it felt like I lived much of my life chained to a wild monkey that had some kind of will of its own and just wanted to screw all the time, and wasn’t happy when it didn’t. Now – hey, you know, I don’t miss it. You?’

‘I still look, though.’ Daly grinned.

Julius Rosenblaum broke into a grin. ‘The day I stop looking, I want them to take me out into a field and shoot me. But you didn’t come all this way to talk about useless dicks.’ He looked at his slim, vintage watch. ‘Half an hour until he shows – if he shows.’