She shrugged, but he didn’t for a second believe her look of nonchalance and ignorance. “It’s a legendary diamond. I’ve never seen it and have no proof it exists, but I grew up in the diamond business. I’ve heard stories. If it could be located and successfully cut, it would be worth millions.”

And what would Phillip Bloch do with that much money? He was a retired army sergeant. “Why do people think you have it?”

“I don’t know that people do think that. Do you?”

“It’s a damn good guess.” He saw that his dark looks weren’t inspiring her to talk. Another Peperkamp trait. “What about your sister?”

“Achh, she bakes cookies. She always could cook. In the war, she would come up with so many ways to stretch what food we had. Here, I’ve some coffee made. I don’t know why Juliana doesn’t have a regular coffeepot, but-” she shrugged “-one adapts.”

“Your sister doesn’t like to talk about the war, does she?”

“No.”

Stark nodded. “I can understand that.”

“Yes,” Wilhelmina said, “I believe you can. For me, it’s more difficult to understand, because I think we cannot afford not to talk. But Juliana’s never pushed.”

“Good for her.”

The coffee maker, Stark noted, was top-of-the-line. He took a seat with her at a high-gloss rectangular oak table and watched without expression as she added two tablespoons of canned evaporated milk to her coffee. Aunt Willie’s coffee was strong enough to kill a horse, but he drank it anyway.

“Do you want to tell me about Hendrik de Geer?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“You knew him during the war?”

“Yes, but that’s of no consequence.”

“At this point, probably not,” Matthew agreed. “What’s important right now is getting you three out of the reach of the man I think de Geer’s been working for. I’ll help you get somewhere safe, then I’ll figure out a way to stop these guys.”

“Is this man someone you know?” Wilhelmina asked, interested.

Stark grinned. “Tit for tat, Ms. Peperkamp. You tell me about de Geer and the Minstrel, and I’ll tell you what I’ve got on my end.”

“Maybe you have nothing,” she said with a grunt, drinking some of the coffee, “and then where would I be?”

“Whichever way you want it. I have a call to make. Mind if I use the phone?”

“And if I do mind?”

Stark laughed at her combativeness. “Hell, Juliana can afford it.”

“Who are you calling?”

“The Gazette.” Wilhelmina Peperkamp followed him into the living room, making no attempt to give him any privacy, but Matthew didn’t care. Ziegler picked up on the first ring. “Working hard, Aaron? Good. Got anything for me?”

“Zip,” Aaron said, sighing. “I got in touch with most of the men whose names you gave me, but none had heard from or about Phillip Bloch in a number of years-or were too keen to hear his name. They also hadn’t heard from Otis Raymond. I checked the wires, too, and the morgue, but no luck.”

“Stay on it, see if anything comes up,” Stark said, and before hanging up, he gave Ziegler the number on the telephone next to the goldfish tank. Given the general disarray of the rest of the place, it was cleaner than he’d have expected, but he had to admit to a certain satisfaction that beautiful, talented, wealthy Juliana Fall didn’t worry about maintaining the standard Central Park West opulence.

“Did he have anything?” Wilhelmina asked, her frustration with her own inactivity mounting.

“No.”

“Bah. I hate waiting.”

“Ready to knock heads together, are you?” Matthew grinned. “We could have used you in ’Nam.”

“A terrible war,” she said.

“Name me one that wasn’t.”

She pursed her thin lips thoughtfully. “A good point. Where are you going?”

He was zipping up his coat. “See if I can find some heads to knock together. Sit tight, Aunt Willie. I won’t be long.”

Catharina pulled out a length of delft-blue ribbon; it was real ribbon, not paper. The Minstrel. Of course. She wasn’t surprised-or, after forty years, frightened. She’d known someone would come, not this man, perhaps, but someone.

“And why do you want the Minstrel?” she asked, nominally curious.

“I don’t like to waste time, Mrs. Fall. The stone, please.”

“As you wish.”

With a few deft movements, she tied the ribbon around the box, which she tucked under her arm, nodding toward the kitchen. They would use the rear exit-less likely to run into any well-intentioned rescuers that way. This, Catharina thought, was what she had to do-and it was going to be easier than she’d envisioned. She hated only to worry Adrian, to sadden him…

No, she wouldn’t think of those things now.

“Come with me,” she said, hearing the resolve in her own voice.

The two men followed her into the kitchen as her mind raced. Where should she take them? Johannes had led his merry chase to Amsterdam. She considered Rotterdam, the Hague-no, she thought. Switzerland. She would tell them the Minstrel was in a safe-deposit box in a Swiss bank. Her husband being a banker and herself a member, if a somewhat eccentric one, of the Park Avenue elite, she could name several. She would pick one, and they would go.

In the front of the shop, the doorbell tinkled again, and Catharina held her breath.

“Mother?”

No! “Juliana-no, get out! Quickly!”

But Bloch was already swinging back around toward the kitchen.

Muttering in Dutch, Catharina grabbed a knife and sent it slicing toward the big gray-haired man. He dodged, swearing, as the knife stuck in the doorframe inches to his left. The younger man lunged toward her. Catharina began pulling pots and baking pans off their hooks and throwing them in their path.

“Juliana,” she screamed, “run! I don’t need you!”

Catharina kicked a stack of baking trays onto the floor, blocking the younger man’s path, and snatched up another knife, an eight-inch Sabatier. She flung it at the sergeant, who was circling around the cooking island toward her. The blade nicked his wrist as he put up a hand to keep the knife from striking his neck. Catharina felt herself going wild, as her wispy white-blond hair hung in her face. She’d never before felt as if she could kill someone.

“Feisty, aren’t we?” Bloch said, grinning as he carelessly shook a spurt of blood from his hand.

“If you touch my daughter, Phillip Bloch,” Catharina yelled hoarsely, “I’ll kill you. Nothing will stop me!”

“Get the girl,” Bloch said calmly to the younger man. “I’ll take care of this one.”

Juliana appeared in the doorway, her face pallid with fury and terror as she held a wooden shoe above her head as a weapon. Catharina felt a surge of pride at her daughter’s courage, but also a sinking sense of despair.

Doing as he was told, the younger man kicked his way over the baking pans, pulling out a gun in a holster over his kidney. Juliana wasted no time. As he swung toward her, she lunged at him and smashed the wooden shoe down on the side of his neck, clearly not expecting to have a second chance. The impact of the shoe on flesh and bone made a sickening sound. The man sank to his knees. His gun flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor.

Catharina was sobbing, adrenaline pumping painfully through her. “Good for you, Juliana! Now for God’s sake, run!”

But the blow had only stunned the younger man, and he recovered enough to whip around and grab Juliana by the knee, toppling her over. Her head struck the doorframe, and she landed awkwardly, in a sprawling heap. Catharina saw that her daughter had instinctively protected her hands.

“Juliana!”

Catharina reached for another knife, but Bloch bounded over to her and smashed it from her hand, ignoring his flesh wound. He grabbed the baker’s wrist and twisted it behind her, and she cried out in agony as she heard the snap of her own bone.