“Sometimes my clients are so preoccupied with evading their own export restrictions that they forget we have Swiss import regulations too. That is their own affair, but naturally I want no trouble with the authorities here.”
“I understand your position,” said the Saint, understanding very little.
“Worse still,” Galen said talkatively, “there are people who try to offer me stolen things. That is why it is so pleasant to meet someone who is recommended like yourself. Aside from the risk involved with stolen property, it is so much trouble to sell, and the prices are bound to be miserable. It is not worth it.”
Simon nodded sympathetically, while his brain seemed to flounder in an intangible quicksand. So the eccentric assortment of treasures in Ravenna’s briefcase were supposed to be his own legitimate property, which finally disposed of one theory but at the same time cut away one possible piece of solid ground. Why, then, all the secrecy and mystery?
The Saint said conversationally, “So your clients come from all over Europe, do they?”
“From everywhere between the Iron Curtain and Portugal — every country where there are these annoying restrictions on foreign exchange and the free movement of wealth. What a pity there have to be so many barriers in this primitive civilization! However I have a nice central location, and Swiss money is good anywhere in the world. Also, I am very discreet. There is no law here against me buying anything I choose, and not a word about our transaction will get back to Italy from me. Other people’s problems are my business opportunity, but I prefer to think of myself as a kind of liberator.” He laughed genially. “Now, what do you have to sell?”
Simon gave him the chamois bag.
Galen took out the pink pearl necklace and held it up to the light.
“It is beautiful,” he said admiringly.
He studied it more closely, and then pondered for several seconds while he carefully evened the ash on his cigar.