“Certainly, señorita.” The jeweler talked as he wrote a name and address on a piece of paper. “It is quite possible that El Duque may have something interesting ...”
Vicki’s heart leaped into her throat and for a moment almost choked her.
“Did you say El Duque?”
“Sí, señorita,” the jeweler said, giving her the piece of paper. “Among his friends in Habana, Señor Garcia is known affectionately as El Duque.”
El Duque! The Duke! Vicki’s head was spinning.
“I—I wonder if Mr. Garcia—El Duque—is the same man we met at the hotel last night, Louise. You remember he said he was an importer too.”
“Why, I don’t remember meeting ...” Louise began.
Vicki cut her short. “Is Mr. Garcia a short man,” she asked the jeweler, “not quite as tall as you, with a bald head and a goatee?”
The jeweler laughed. “It is plain that you did not meet El Duque, señorita. Señor Garcia is quite tall, quite thin, with dark hair and a small mustache. No, no. That was not El Duque.”
Suddenly all the crazy notions that had been spinning around inside Vicki’s head, like the flashing colors of a kaleidoscope wheel, exploded into a great sunburst of light, and little bits and pieces settled into place and put themselves together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.