Rex cadged a lift into Philipsburg in Brooklyn’s jeep, a newer Japanese model than Paul Winslow’s, though no more roomy inside.

“Where did you say you wanted to be dropped off?” Brooklyn asked on the way into the Dutch capital.

“The Stiletto Night Club.”

“The strip joint?” his roommate asked in surprise. “I don’t think it’s open at lunchtime. It’s not one of those seedy dives either. You have to wear a suit and tie to get in.”

Rex was wearing a casual short-sleeved shirt. “I’m not going for my own pleasure.” He had only ever been to one strip show, and that had been for a college friend’s stag night in Glasgow, a less than glamorous experience best forgotten. “I’m following a lead. Sounds like you might know where I can find the place.”

“It’s not far from the port.”

Rex thought it natural that a young bachelor of the world like Brooklyn would know The Stiletto, and tried not to hold it against him.

They entered the narrow streets of the commercial district and became ensnarled in stop-and-go traffic. Office workers and tourists with shopping bags crossed between the stalled cars. No one appeared to be in a hurry.

“What are the girls like there? I’m only asking because I heard one of them was murdered a few years ago.”

“Couldn’t really tell you as it’s been a while since I was there. That’s one of Bijou’s clubs and I tend to avoid him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I was dating a young woman called Gerry from this side of the island,” Brooklyn replied. “I even brought her to La Plage once or twice. That was two years ago. Anyway, I discovered she was two-timing me with that effeminate jerk Bijou.”

“So you ditched her.”

“I can’t remember who ditched who, but she went back to Europe. Ships passing in the night. It was no big deal.” Brooklyn pulled into a small parking lot by a government building. “I’ll have to drop you off here as I’m late for my meeting. The Stiletto is down that street all the way to your left. How will you get back to the resort?”

“I’ll call the hotel desk when I’m finished, or else get a cab. See you back there.”

He followed the directions Brooklyn had given him and arrived at The Stiletto, a whitewashed building wedged between two office blocks and displaying a black high-heeled shoe across the white double doors, which turned out to be locked.

Rex had not called in advance, not wishing to alert Bijou of his intention to nose around and question some of his minions. Coming later when people would be too busy to talk to him had not made sense either, so now he was pretty much stuck as to how to proceed—until he noticed a small side door for deliveries. He turned the handle and the door opened.

Following a corridor to the back of the building, he ended up in a kitchen equipped with gleaming stainless steel surfaces. A double swing door led into a restaurant decked out in elegant black-on-crimson décor, with spotlights focused on three daises for the dancers. A cherry wood counter extended the width of the back wall.

A bartender sat on a stool poring over a ledger. Rex coughed politely to announce his presence, and the man spun around.

“Are you lost?” he asked sternly, with a faint German or Dutch accent, no doubt assuming Rex had wandered in off the street, and annoyed at being disturbed.

Rex realized he must be the bar manager. “I’m not a tourist. I came to ask a few questions regarding Monsieur Bijou.”

“You are from the police?”

“No, I’m a lawyer pursuing an investigation.” Rex handed him his business card.

The man looked unimpressed.

“I just need to know one thing: where your boss was two weeks ago Tuesday.”

“He was here that night.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Actually, yes. I have him on security tape entering the building. You are quite welcome to see it.” The man glanced around him and, satisfied that they were alone, said in a low voice. “Look, I don’t owe Bijou any favours other than my paycheck. I’m not covering for the guy, if that’s what you’re thinking. Every other Tuesday he comes in at six o’clock, meets with the accountant, and stays for the show. In fact, he’s due here again this Tuesday, so I’m going over the books just to make sure they are in order. If there are any anomalies, he’ll find them. He has X-ray vision.”

“I know. I met him,” Rex said, hoping the tape would not exonerate the slippery bastard.

“How do I know you are not really a reporter?”

“Why would I be?”

“We get them sniffing around all the time. Bijou is newsworthy. He’s always doing something for the community or hanging out with the elite.”

“Aye, he seems to keep quite busy. He was telling me about his new nightclub in Marigot. Says it’ll rival anything in Paris.”

“He will make it happen. People will flock to Marigot.”

“I suppose The Stiletto was a big attraction when it first opened.”

“I wouldn’t know. I have been here less than two years. Monsieur Bijou tends not to keep his managers very long.”

“Why is that?”

“He doesn’t like people knowing too much about his business.”

“Is there something shady going on?”

The man stood up and rounded the bar. “Can I get you a soft drink?” he asked, spritzing soda into a glass for himself.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

The manager swept an arm around the mirrored walls and chandeliers of the cabaret lounge. “This is just show. His real money is in gemstones. Liquid assets. He has a flawless eye. He wears a million dollars on his fingers alone, including a rare Larimar of pure lagoon blue.”

“Hence the bodyguard.”

The bar manager scrutinized him across the polished wood counter. “He has many baboons. Oscar. Nito. Sergei. I cannot tell you anything more.”

“I understand. I’d just like to see the tape.”

The man shrugged. “Come with me.”

Rex followed him down the corridor into an office that doubled up as a storeroom. Extracting a cassette tape from a shelf, he ran it for Rex.

“Satisfied?” he asked as Bijou’s image on screen disappeared beneath the camera on his way through the entrance.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

He had hoped to rule out the resort guests as suspects. Now he was back at square one.