Gunther Hartog.
Ernestine Littlechap, back at the penitentiary.
“You’re friends of Monsieur Arendt?”
An Englishman had sat down beside Tracy and started talking. It took her a moment to remember where—and who—she was: Annie Crick, loyally devoted wife of Brian Crick. A rich housewife from Ohio.
“Not friends exactly. My husband knows him,” she answered shyly. “He’s come for the cards.”
“Well, he’s come to the wrong place if he wants to make money,” the Englishman said, eyeing Tracy’s enviable figure appreciatively. Even dressed down as Annie in a pair of wide-leg trousers and a taupe, high-necked blouse, she was easily the most attractive woman in the room. “Gustav Arendt’s the richest man in Megève for a reason. He never loses.”
Annie Crick laughed. “Everyone loses sometimes, Mr. . . . ?”
“Davies. Peter Davies.”
They shook hands.
“Arendt doesn’t. If your husband’s smart he’ll stay well away from that chalet tomorrow night.”
THE NEXT DAY DAWNED bright and clear. Tracy spent the morning hiring skis and poles and organizing her lift pass. Jeff flitted around town as Brian Crick, buying watches and overpriced jewelry, flashing his money around, and generally having as many loud and obnoxious conversations as he could about poker, Gustav Arendt and his plans for the evening.
He met Tracy for lunch at a fondue restaurant up the mountain. It was deserted enough for Jeff to lower his voice and slip out of character for a moment.
“I’m exhausted,” he grumbled.
“Shopped till you dropped, eh?” Tracy teased.
“I’m serious. Making yourself a target for Group 99’s not as much fun as it sounds. I’ve spent half the morning shouting and the other half spending a fortune on crap I don’t want.”
“My heart bleeds.”
“Plus I slept badly,” Jeff added pointedly. Annie Crick had spent a very comfortable night in the couple’s king-size bed. Brian had fared less well on the sofa. Not that it wasn’t comfortable—Jeff had slept soundly on far worse—but lying so close to Tracy, unable to touch her or put his arms around her, was pure torture. He’d barely closed his eyes all night.
“Did you find out anything more?” Tracy asked.
Jeff nodded, taking a long sip of the cold beer he’d ordered.
“Firstly, your friend Peter was right. Gustav Arendt wins big, and often. So much so he rarely gets the same players up at the chalet twice. It’s a case of once bitten twice shy. Rumor has it he has cameras hidden up there someplace, to spy on his opponents’ hands.”
“He cheats?”
Jeff shrugged. “Who knows? That’s what they say. Secondly, I’m not sure if Drexel’s gonna show tonight.”
Tracy’s face fell. “Why not?”
“I didn’t say he isn’t. I said I’m not sure. From what I hear, none of tonight’s victims sound like our man. The players are supposed to be me; another rich energy guy, from Rome; our friend Johnny; and three others.”
“Go on.”
Jeff took another sip of beer. “One’s a fine-art dealer from Geneva. Lars Berensen. Do you know him?”
Tracy shook her head. But it was interesting. Another art dealer couldn’t be coincidence. Unless . . .
“Couldn’t that be Drexel?”
“I don’t think so,” Jeff said. “Berensen’s in his sixties, apparently. That’s a stretch.”
Tracy agreed. “What about the other two players?”