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"We've checked every apartment from the main floor to the roof," said Pottle. "They're all leased by live-in tenants."
"What about the one directly below Rummel?" asked Gaskill.
Pottle thumbed through a sheaf of computer papers. "Sidney Kammer and wife, Candy. He's one of those highlevel corporate attorneys who saves his clients from paying a bushel of taxes."
Gaskill looked at Pottle. "When was the last time Kammer and his wife made an appearance?"
Pottle scanned the log they maintained of residents who entered and left the building during the surveillance. "No sign of them. They're no-shows."
"I bet if we checked it out, the Kammers live in a house somewhere in a plush suburb and never set foot in their apartment."
"They could be on vacation."
The voice of agent Beverly Swain broke over Gaskill's portable radio. "I have a large moving van backing into the basement of the building."
"Are you manning the front security desk or checking out the basement?" asked Gaskill.
"Still in the lobby, walking my post in a military manner," Swain answered pertly. A smart little blonde, and a California beach girl before joining Customs, she was the best undercover agent Gaskill had on his team and the only one inside Rummel's building. "If you think I'm bored with watching TV monitors depicting basements, elevators, and hallways, and on my way out the door for a flight to Tahiti, you're half right."
"Save your money," replied Pottle. "Tahiti is nothing but tall palms and exotic beaches. You can get that in Florida."
"Run tape on the front entrance," ordered Gaskill. "Then trot down to the basement and question the movers. Find out if they're moving someone in or out of the building, what apartment,
and why they're working at this ungodly hour."
"On my way," Swain answered through a yawn.
"I hope she doesn't meet up with a monster," said Pottle.
"What monster?" asked Gaskill with raised eyebrows.
"You know, in all those stupid horror movies, a woman alone in a house hears a strange noise in the cellar. Then she investigates by going down the stairs without turning on the lights or holding a kitchen knife for protection."
"Typical lousy Hollywood direction." Gaskill shrugged. "Not to worry about Bev. The basement is lit like Las Vegas Boulevard and she's packing a nine-millimeter Colt Combat Commander. Pity the poor monster who comes on to her."
Now that Rummel's penthouse was dark, Gaskill took a few minutes away from the binoculars to knock off half a dozen glazed donuts and down a thermos bottle of cold milk. He was sadly contemplating the empty donut box when Swain reported in.
"The movers are unloading furniture for an apartment on the nineteenth floor. They're ticked off at working so late but are being well paid for overtime. They can't say why the client is in such a rush, only that it must be one of those last-minute corporate transfers."
"Any possibility they're smuggling artifacts into Rummel's place?"
"They opened the door of the van for me. It's packed with art deco style furniture."
"Okay, monitor their movements every few minutes."
Pottle scribbled on a notepad and hung up a wall phone in the kitchen. When he returned to Gaskill's position at the window, he had a cagey grin on his face. "I bow to your intuition. Sidney Kammer's home address is in Lake Forest."
"I'll bet you Kammer's biggest client turns out to be Adolphus Rummel," Gaskill ventured.
"And for the bongo drums and a year's supply of Kitty Litter, tell me who Kammer leases his apartment to."
"Got to be Adolphus Rummel."
Pottle looked pleased with himself. "I think we can safely shout Eureka."
Gaskill stared across the street through an open curtain into Rummel's living room, suddenly knowing his secret. His dark eyes deepened as he spoke. "A hidden stairway leading-from the foyer," he said, carefully choosing his words as if describing a screenplay he was about to write. "Rummel walks off the elevator, opens a hidden door to a stairway and descends to the apartment below his penthouse, where he spends forty-five minutes gloating over his private store of treasures. Then he returns upstairs, pours his brandy, and sleeps the sleep of a satisfied man. Strange, but I can't help envying him."
Pottle had to reach up to pound Gaskill on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Dave. Nothing left now but to obtain a search warrant and conduct a raid on Rummel's penthouse."
