Vulture is a Patient Bird

"The ring was lost for four centuries. It turned up in the effects of a Florentine banker who died with his wife and family in a car crash a couple of years ago. His effects were sold. Fortunately, an expert recognized the ring and bought it for a song. It was offered to me." Shalik paused to tap ash off his cigar. "Among my various activities, I buy objets d'art and sell them to wealthy collectors. I knew of a client who specialized in Borgia treasures. I sold him the ring. Six months later, the ring was stolen. It has taken me a long time to find out where it is. It was stolen by agents working for another collector who has acquired, through these agents, probably the finest collection of art treasures in the world. This operation, Gentlemen, which I am asking you to handle, is for you three to recover the ring."

There was a long pause, then Fennel, sitting forward, said, "You mean we steal it?"

Shalik looked at Fennel with distaste.

"Putting it crudely, you could say that," he said. "I have already pointed out there is no question of police interference. This collector has stolen the ring from my client. You take it from him. He is in no position to complain to the police."

Fennel let his cigarette ash drop on the rich Persian carpet as he asked, "How valuable is this ring?"

"That doesn't concern you. It is, of course, valuable, but it has a specialized market." Shalik paused, then went on, "I will tell you a few details about the man who now has the ring. He is enormously rich. He has a compulsive urge to own the finest art treasures he can lay his hands on. He is utterly unscrupulous. He has a network of expert art thieves working for him. They have stolen many objets d'art from the world's greatest museums, and even from the Vatican, to fill his museum which is without doubt the finest in the world."

Feeling he should make a contribution to this discussion, Garry asked, "And where is this museum?"

"On the borders of Basutoland and Natal . . . somewhere in the Drakensberg mountains."

Kennedy Jones leaned forward.

"Would you be talking about Max Kahlenberg?" he asked sharply.

Shalik paused to touch off his cigar ash.

"You know of him?

"Who doesn't, who has lived in South Africa?"

"Then suppose you tell these two gentlemen what you know about him."

"He's the man who has the ring?"

Shalik nodded.

Jones drew in a long, slow breath. He rubbed his jaw, frowning, then lit a cigarette. As he exhaled smoke, he said, "I only know what is common knowledge. Kahlenberg is a bit of a mythical figure on which all kinds of weird rumours stick. I do know his father, a German refugee from the First World War, struck it rich, finding one of the biggest gold mines just outside Jo'burg. Old Karl Kahlenberg was shrewd and no fool. He invested well and milked his mine dry. From what I hear, he ended up with millions. He married a local girl when he was over sixty years old. He married because he wanted a son to carry on his name. He got his son: Max Kahlenberg. There was a real mystery about the birth. No one except the doctor and the nurse saw the baby. There was a rumour it was a freak . . . some even said it was a monster. Anyway, no one ever set eyes on the baby. The old man died in a hunting accident. Mrs. Kahlenberg moved from Jo'burg and built a house in the heart of the Drakensberg range. She continued to keep her son hidden, cutting herself off from all social contacts. She died some twenty years ago. Max Kahlenberg remains a recluse. He is supposed to be as clever as his father. He has enlarged the house his mother built. He has around one hundred square miles of jungle surrounding the house and he employs a number of trained Zulus to keep hikers, tourists and gapers away from the house." Jones paused, then leaning forward, stabbing his finger into the palm of his hand, he went on, "From what I've heard, getting near Kahlenberg's place would be like trying to open an oyster with your fingers."

Again there was a long pause, then Fennel crushed out his cigarette and looked at Shalik, his eyes narrowed.

"Is what he says right?"

Shalik lifted his fat shoulders.

"A fairly accurate statement," he said. "I have never said that this is an easy assignment. After all, I am paying very well. The approach to Khalenberg's house is not easy, but not impossible. I have a considerable amount of information which will help you."

"That's fine," Fennel said with a little sneer, "but suppose we get to the house . . . how do we get in?"

"Although Mr. Jones has a fair knowledge of Kahlenberg's background," Shalik said. "He has omitted — or perhaps he doesn't know — the fact that although Kahlenberg is a cripple, he is fond of beautiful women." He leaned back in his chair. "Every fortress has its soft underbelly if you know where to look for it. I have a woman who will act as your Trojan Horse. If she can't get you into Kahlenberg's house, no one can."

He pressed a button his desk.