‘I think I remember something about that job: wasn’t it a Rajah’s collection?’
‘That’s right. The Maharajah of Chittabad. 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’ll 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 pretty 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.