Hidden Riches

merchandise.”
    “You think?” Finley said softly. “If you could think, Mr. DiCarlo, my merchandise would already be in my possession. However,” he continued when DiCarlo remained silent, “I’m willing to give you the opportunity to redeem yourself.”
    He rose then and ran a fingertip over the overly sweet female face of the statue. “An unfortunate piece of work. Quite hideous, don’t you agree?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And this man, this Ashworth, paid in good coin for it. Amazing, isn’t it, what people will find appealing. One has only to look to see the lines are awkward, the color poor, the material inferior. Ah well. ‘Beauty’s but skin deep.’ ” He picked up an unused marble white ashtray from his desk and decapitated the woman.
    DiCarlo, who had only hours before cold-bloodedlymurdered two men, jolted when the ashtray smashed the second head away. He watched, his nerves jumping, as Finley systematically broke away limbs.
    “An ugly cocoon,” Finley murmured, “to protect sheer beauty.” From inside the torso of the figurine he pulled a small object wrapped in layers of heavy bubble plastic. Delicately, he unwrapped it, and the sound he made was like that of a man undressing a lover.
    What DiCarlo saw looked like a gold cigarette lighter, heavily ornate and studded with some sort of stones. To him it was hardly more attractive than the statue that had hidden it.
    “Do you know what this is, Mr. DiCarlo?”
    “Ah, no, sir.”
    “It is an etui.” Finley laughed then, caressing the gold. For that moment, he was supremely happy—a child with a new toy, a man with a new lover. “Which tells you nothing, of course. This small, ornamental case was used to hold manicure sets, or sewing implements, perhaps a buttonhook or a snuff spoon. A pretty little fancy that went out of fashion toward the end of the nineteenth century. This one is more intricate than most, as it’s gold, and these stones, Mr. DiCarlo, are rubies. There are initials etched into the base.” Smiling dreamily he turned it over. “It was a gift from Napoleon to his Josephine. And now it belongs to me.”
    “That’s great, Mr. Finley.” DiCarlo was relieved that he’d brought the right figurine, and that his employer seemed so pleased.
    “You think so?” Finley’s emerald eyes glittered. “This bauble is only a portion of what is mine, Mr. DiCarlo. Oh, I’m pleased to have it, but it reminds me that my shipment is incomplete. A shipment, I might add, that has taken me more than eight months to accumulate, another two months to have transported. That’s nearly a year of my time, which is quite valuable to me, not to mention the expense.” He hefted the ashtray again and swung it through the delicate folds of milady’s gown. Thin shardsof porcelain shot like tiny missiles through the air. “You can understand my distress, can you not?”
    “Yes, sir.” Cool sweat slipped clammily down DiCarlo’s back. “Naturally.”
    “Then we’ll have to see about getting it back. Sit down, Mr. DiCarlo.”
    With an unsteady hand, DiCarlo brushed porcelain splinters off the buttery leather of a chair. He sat cautiously on the edge of his seat.
    “The holidays make me magnanimous, Mr. DiCarlo.” Finley took his own seat and continued to caress the etui in intimate little circles. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. You have plans, I imagine.”
    “Well, actually, yes. My family, you see . . .”
    “Families.” Finley’s face lit up with a smile. “There is nothing like family around the holidays. I have none myself, but that is unimportant. Since you’ve managed to bring me one small portion of my property, so quickly, I hate to take you away from your family at Christmas.” Keeping the etui trapped between his palms, he folded his hands. “I’ll give you until the first of the year. Generous, I know, but as I said, the holidays. They make me sentimental. I’ll want everything that is mine by January one—no, no, make it the second.” His smile spread and widened. “I trust you won’t disappoint me.”
    “No, sir.”
    “Naturally, I’ll expect progress reports, holiday or no. You can reach me here, or on my private number. Do stay in touch, Mr. DiCarlo. If I don’t hear from you at regular intervals, I’d have to come looking for you myself. We wouldn’t want that.”
    “No, sir.” DiCarlo had an uncomfortable image of being hunted by a rabid wolf. “I’ll get right on it.”
    “Excellent. Oh,