Read Online The Curse by Harold Robbins - Free Book Online Page B

a smile.
    â€œI lied, of course. In fact, some of the experts who mentioned you inferred that you had, shall we say, more than average experience with stolen artwork—from a unique angle, of course. Since you have dealt with thieves before and have been instrumental in returning historical treasures to their proper domains, I’m sure you are the right person who can help me.”
    â€œThose experts who spoke of my unique relationship with looted artifacts probably forgot to mention that I was the one who went into the line of fire to return looted pieces while they did nothing.”
    â€œWhich is why I am here.” He leaned across the table, grabbing hold of my eyes with an intense gaze. “I have seen the scarab. I have even held it in the palm of my hand. I thought it was going to burn a hole in my flesh. It needs to be returned to my people, Miss Dupre. It won’t take much. We have the money. We—”
    â€œI would need data—pictures, exact measurements—”
    â€œWe have all that waiting for you in England.”
    I looked away and sighed, not from boredom but with a mixture of remorse and regret that I had to deal with thieves to pay the rent.
    â€œA short hop over the Atlantic,” he said, reaching into an inside pocket and pulling out an envelope and laying it on the table. “Inside is a ticket to London and your first payment. Twenty thousand in cash. Another twenty when it’s returned to us.”
    I stared at the envelope.
    For sure, I’d gone to more dangerous places than merry ole England for less money.
    â€œYou’ll have to add another zero to your figure if I succeed in getting the scarab returned to you.”
    â€œThat is satisfactory.”
    I reached across the table and took the envelope.
    I didn’t know why, but my hands were sweaty, as if my body knew something I didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. After all, Britain was a civilized country. What could go wrong?

14
    When we left the restaurant, Kaseem stepped into a cab waiting out front and I started walking toward the nearest subway. Even though I had the money for a taxi, I’d get home faster on the subway.
    Kaseem told me contact had been made with the thieves but no examination of the scarab arranged. I was to check into a hotel in London and wait until he called me with the details of the meeting.
    I was already nervous about meeting with the gang. For sure the meet wasn’t going to take place at a London equivalent of the Russian Tea Room. Being searched—everywhere—and blindfolded and shoved into the trunk of a car for a ride to a dark and lonely place was not just the stuff of movies, but the way paying ransoms to recover artifacts commonly came down.
    I couldn’t leave for England without getting a sitter for Morty—keeper or even guard was a more accurate description for what it took to handle him than “cat sitter.” He was a ten-pound feline who thought he was a four-hundred-pound tiger.
    I called my friend Michelangelo and told him I needed “someone to take care of my pussy.” Being in the chips, I invited him for dinner at my favorite Little Italy dive.
    I admit I was shameless in letting him think I was talking about sex, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do these days when even schoolkids are sexting.
    I stopped at a bank on my way to the subway station.
    I didn’t put the whole amount in my bank account, only a thousand of it; the rest was going home with me.
    The last time I put a big chunk of money into the bank, the government got their greedy little hands on it. I still owed them money, not for back taxes but for the criminally insane penalties and interest they levy when you can’t pay all your taxes at once.
    I wasn’t putting any more money into my account than necessary to meet current bills.
    I also wasn’t going to hide my cash in the refrigerator. That was a stupid mistake not to