“Hotels don’t have alarm systems on individual units,” Curly said. He produced the key. “Now watch.” He inserted the key, and with a little jockeying, it worked smoothly. Curly pushed open the door. “After you, sir.”

Butch walked in and felt for a light switch; he found one that turned on all the living room lights.

“Jesus Christ!” Curly said, looking around. “I thought this was going to be a regular hotel suite! It looks more like the inside of a mansion!”

“Yes, it does.”

“What are we going to do, clean out the place?”

“Absolutely not,” Butch replied. “Don’t you take so much as a pair of cuff links. We’re looking for documents.”

“What kind of documents?”

“Bank correspondence, brokerage statements, anything that leads to money.”

“Where do we start?”

“In the study.” Butch got the lights on, and they searched the room. “The only thing here of value to us is the booze,” he said. “You want a drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Curly said.

Butch poured them a couple of large single-malt scotches, and they eased into leather chairs and sipped.

“I could get used to this life,” Curly said.

“Don’t. Remember, we’re transients here.” Butch washed the glasses and wiped them dry, then returned the scotch to the bar. “Let’s try the master suite.” He led the way into the big bedroom, then into the dressing room. “My sis sold him all this stuff in a single morning,” Butch said, showing him the suits, shirts, and shoes.

Curly began opening drawers. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the contents of one.

“English pounds sterling,” Butch replied. “We’ll take some, but not all. We can change it at a bank later.” He fished out three hundred pounds from the stack of notes. “I think what we need is to find his office.”

They went through the rest of the place and found an office off the kitchen, neat as a pin, everything in its place. Butch started opening drawers, but they were nearly bare; only the usual office tools and stationery. He tried some file drawers and found a file with the name of a trust company on it. The folder held some documents.

“Holy shit,” Butch said. “If I’m reading this thing right, it acknowledges the deposit of six hundred and twelve million, less than a week ago.”

“You must be reading it wrong,” Curly said. “There isn’t that much money.”

“What kind of a forger are you?”

“Prison-trained,” Curly replied. “What do you want forged?”

Butch handed him a document. “This signature,” he replied, “Laurence B. Hayward.” He handed Curly a blank sheet of paper and a pen.

Curly looked at the signature. “Make a copy of the document,” he said, pointing at a machine.

Butch did so.

Curly sat down at the desk, put the copy near his sheet and slowly drew the signature, copying every loop and twist.