A Brush With Death (21 page)

“Nobody's been in touch with you, trying to sell the forgeries back?"

“Not a word. I've been on thorns, expecting a call. It was almost a relief when you phoned. You've got to help me, Mr. Weiss. I'll do anything. Anything you say. If the museum ever found out, I'd be ruined. Art is my life. I don't know why I ever let myself be talked into this. My life has been hell. Latour kept raising the price for his part in it—he was furious when Denis stopped seeing him, of course. It must be Denise— Denise or the sheikh."

Even without looking, I knew Bergma was ringing his white hands. His sensitive face would be haggard. I wanted to look, but restrained myself.

“How much was he giving you?” John asked.

“Ten mi1lion."

“That much!"

“The originals are worth twenty times that! It's a gift."

“You mean a steal, don't you?"

“Very funny!"

“I wonder why neither of us is laughing,” John said ironically.

“Well, what should I do? Are you going to tell the police?"

“Not yet. But I suggest you cancel that ski trip you mentioned."

“Ms. Newman—she's a friend of yours?"

“I know her slightly. I'm afraid I picked the poor girl's brains to learn what you'd told her. She's not involved. Where was it you planned to stay in the Laurentians?"

“With the Searles."

“I see. Do you happen to know the Staynors?"

“Slightly. They have some inaccessible lodge. They're not sociable at all, but they donated some old Wedgwood to the museum. You're not suggesting they—"

“I'm not suggesting anything—except that you cancel your ski trip. And call me if anyone else gets in touch with you, or if you think of anything that might help."

“It's all so bloody senseless!” Bergma exclaimed, in deep anguish. “Those paintings are no earthly good to anyone but me. I begin to think Latour was killed by an ordinary burglar."

“The burglar didn't take anything but the forgeries."

“Yes, that's the whole problem."

“How did you know they were gone, since it wasn't in the papers?"

Bergma answered in a weak, confused voice. “Latour called me the afternoon that the paintings were ready. I was to pick them up that evening. I went as soon as I left work at six-thirty. When I got there, the door was open and Latour was dead. I went in to grab the paintings. He kept them under his bed. They were gone. I got my slides and notes. Nothing else had been disturbed. After I thought about it, I began to realize it must have been Rashid."

So Bergma had got there before us, unnoticed by Menard. “That's all for the moment,” John said. “You'll be hearing from me. Oh, and thanks for the drink. You won't forget the bill?” I heard Bergma's chair scrape. “Merry Christmas,” John called.

Bergma lacked either the heart or the courage to tell him to go to hell. I thought we might join John, but he got up and walked out without acknowledging our presence, and we followed him up to our room a moment later.

John exploded when he saw us. His wrath was directed mostly at Gino. “Why the hell did you bring Cassie down there?"

“Bring her? Wild horses couldn't hold her back! I followed to try to keep her from wrecking the whole show."

“It's my fault,” I confessed.

Now it was my turn. “You could have queered the deal,” John said, trying to glower, but his heart wasn't in it. I clung to his hands and batted my eyelashes shamelessly. “I can't have you pitching yourself into my business like this, Cassie. It could have been dangerous."

“I know. That's why I had to go. I thought he might have a gun. And we didn't know then that Bergma's such a wimp."

The argument fell to the ground. “You said it,” Gino sighed. “I was afraid he was going to start blubbering. We can strike him off our list of murder suspects. He wouldn't have the guts to kill a marshmallow."

John's eyes narrowed. “He had the wits to engineer this deal."

“Did you get the impression he was playacting?” I demanded. “We couldn't actually see him. He sounded sincere."

“He sounded scared shitless,” Gino modified, in his own inimitable way.

“That's exactly the way he looked,” John said. “I don't think he's a violent man. I don't think he even condones violence. He was appalled at Latour's murder."

“We're no further ahead than when we started,” Gino said wearily.

John considered it a moment. “We're pretty sure Bergma hasn't got the forgeries. We have our corroboration that Rashid was the third party. Ten million—maybe even the sheikh would kill for that much money. I figured two, three tops. What we haven't got is the paintings. Rashid must have them, but sooner or later he has to contact Bergma to make the switch. He can't handle that alone. We just have to be patient."

“You'll have to be patient without me;” Gino said, picking up his hooded jacket. “I promised Ma I'd help make the stuffing for the turkey. I'm supposed to be taking home three loaves of stale bread. You can reach me there if you need me, John. And if I don't see you guys tomorrow, Merry Christmas, eh?"

“Oh, I have a feeling we'll be seeing you before then,” John said.

Export A was on the qui vive belowstairs. He phoned up around four-thirty and said, “She just arrived—in a brand-new Rolls-Royce Corniche. She drove it herself and had it parked in the hotel parking garage. That means the parking valet has the keys. Want I should frisk the wheels?"

“Yes, please. Especially the trunk. Let us know right away.” The pictures could have been put in since we had it checked.

“You got it, Mama."

I told John. “She drove it? I thought it was supposed to be delivered."

“If she'd stopped off at Bergma's place, Menard will know."

“Right. He should be phoning any minute now."

Menard must have run to the closest phone. He called within minutes. John spoke to him, hung up, and said, “Ayesha took the new car for a little cruise around town, that's all."

“She didn't cruise toward the museum or Bergma's place?"

“No, Menard said she just drove around without stopping. She didn't go near Westmount. In fact, he thinks she was lost. He says she drove east of St. Laurent. Mean anything to you?"

“The French district. Really French, I mean. It's a joke that the Anglos who were born in the city have never been east of St. Laurent."

John shrugged his shoulder. “It's easy to lose your bearings in a strange city. Rashid should be returning soon. He can't be doing anything interesting or we'd have heard."

Export A would let us know when Rashid returned. Gino had spoken to the switchboard operator and arranged to have any calls to the sheikh's rooms recorded as well. It was Export A, however, who phoned us about fifteen minutes later.

“A call just came in for the sheikh,” he said in an excited voice. “Ayesha took the message. Said he'd be back at five. The guy asked him to call 487-8321."

When I told John, his face glowed like a tropical sunrise. “That's Bergma's unlisted number,” he said softly. “It's starting to break. I'd better give Gino a buzz and get him over here. We don't want him stuffing a turkey when the shooting begins."

He made the call, trying to sound cool, but anyone who knows him well could hear the suppressed excitement.

When Sheikh Rashid entered the hotel about half an hour later, Export A called to tell us. John came to rigid attention. “This could be it. If Bergma was telling the truth, Rashid should call him as soon as Ayesha gives him the message."

“Export A will tell us if he returns Bergma's call."

We sat, watching the minutes tick away on our watches. “It shouldn't have taken him this long,” John worried.

“Rashid will want time to think, make plans. He may not even phone from here."

In nine and a half minutes, there was a tap at the door, sending us both up from our chairs as if a high-powered charge of electricity had gone through them. It was only Gino.

“This better be important,” he scowled. “If I don't get that stuffing made, we'll be eating a dry bird tomorrow."

“It's important,” John assured him, and filled him in. “It's a good thing we kept you out of it, Gino. Bergma would have suspected the phone was bugged if he'd known the cops were involved."

The phone rang again. This time three of us were lifted from our seats. I answered. “Hello."

“Cass, Victor here. You'll never guess who I ran into in Ogilvy's. Charlie Hunter, out doing his last-minute shopping."

“Who's Charlie Hunter?"

“The A and R man for Cosmos records. He wants to discuss a deal with me. He suggested we do dinner tonight. You and John can get along without me?"

Getting along without him seemed a superb idea. “Of course. You just enjoy yourself."

I hung up as soon as decently possible. We didn't want the line tied up. “Just Victor,” I explained.

We waited some more, as the last rays of afternoon faded and night set in, early at the end of December. By five o'clock, it was completely dark outside, except for the reflection of streetlights. It was a strange way to spend Christmas Eve. If we left right now, we'd be home by midnight, but it was becoming increasingly clear we wouldn't be leaving at all soon. I hadn't got John's new present or even picked up the old one in my apartment. Of course he'd understand.

At five-fifteen the phone rang again, shattering the uneasy tedium of our vigil. John took it this time. It was Export A. He listened and said, “Good work. Keep it up."

As he set down the receiver, his eyes lifted. They were radiant. “Twelve midnight, on top of the mountain,” he said. “I hope one of you knows where that is."

“Whereabouts on top of the mountain?” Gino demanded.

“He means the hill in Mount Royal, where kids ski and sled,” I interpreted. “It should be thoroughly deserted at midnight on Christmas eve."

“So, what's going down?” Gino demanded.

“The sheikh and Bergma are meeting. Export A says Ayesha gave the message. The sheikh was taking a shower."

“Cool bastard,” Gino grumbled. “Did she mention the pictures?"

“She said, and I quote, ‘Rashid wants you to bring the items. He'll want to see them.’ Bergma got all flustered, but they must know he has them. ‘Bring them,’ she said, and hung up.

“He certainly conned us!” I exclaimed.

“It isn't the first time,” Gino admitted. “I once let a dame convince me she was rushing a sick kid to a hospital. What she was doing was hustling a load of contraband cigarettes over the border—in a school van yet, half full of kids on a field trip. Cigs are about half price in the States. Taxes. A good thing I gave her a siren escort, or she'd have got away. A big, busty blonde, she was. Well, midnight. That gives me time to go home and finish my stuffing. I'll be back here at eleven. Which means I'll have to miss midnight mass. Jeez, I love midnight mass. But I'll be here. Eleven suit you, Weiss?"

“That suits me just fine, Gino. If there's any change of plans, you'll hear."

“Don't stuff the bird till tomorrow,” I added. “The stuffing can get tainted if you put it in the day before."

He looked deeply wounded. “I know that! I always stuff the bird. No oysters though. Shellfish make Ma sick. I use apples and celery and onions, along with the breadcrumbs and stuff. Oh, and raisins. Very tasty, if I do say so myself."

He left, and John and I relaxed, for about two minutes. “Victor's away for the evening,” John said contentedly. “We've got four or five hours to ourselves. Got any ideas?"

“Shopping,” I announced. “I haven't finished my Christmas shopping."

He looked dumbfounded. “The stores will be closed."

“Not if I hurry."

I went to my room and began scrambling into my coat. John followed, grumbling. “You left it kind of late, didn't you? I've heard of last-minute shopping, but this is ridiculous."

“I just have to get one thing."

“Oh, you hadn't planned on Victor's being here. Well, I'll go with you."

“No!” I exclaimed loudly.

“Is it for me? Look, Cass, we agreed, just a token. If you haven't got around to it, it doesn't matter. Just being here with you is the best present I could have."

“I didn't forget your present! It's at my apartment. This is something else."

“Gino? I don't think he's planning on exchanging gifts with us. I got him a bottle of Black Label, but—"

“It's not for Gino, silly."

“Who, then? Who else are you going to be seeing between now and Christmas?"

“Never mind."

“I'm going with you. I don't want you out on the streets alone after dark."

“You better stay here and mind the phone."

“Damn, you're right. Let me call Menard. He can go with you."

“I won't go far. I'll be fine, John. Do you think I never go out alone at night when you're not here? Don't be so protective. I'll walk softly and carry a big purse.” I lifted my shoulder bag to show him how big.

He pulled me into his arms. “I can't help it. If anything happened to you..."

I gave him a fond smile and a light smack on the mustache. “I know. You can't live without me. Except for the ninety-nine percent of the time we're on opposite sides of the ocean."

“I made a mistake, urging you to go on with your studies. No reason a lady couldn't study French at the Sorbonne..."

I gulped in delighted surprise. “I better go,” I said, and went, mind reeling with delightful images of the only Paris I know, that seen in movies and magazines. The Eiffel Tower, l'Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, and last but not least, Maxim's.

In a French mood, I bought John a bottle of Yves Saint Laurent eau de toilette for men. The drugstore was closing when I went in, and they didn't have a wrapping service, so I had to get paper and ribbon too. Then, with the clerk jiggling impatiently, I remembered Victor. He hadn't mentioned receiving my present. I'd sent him a rather nifty pen and pencil set. The clerk outstared me, and I decided one present for my uncle was enough.

John was pacing the floor like an expectant father when I returned. His worried frown faded into a smile of welcome. “What do you say we order dinner in?” he asked.

“What do you mean, pizza?"

“On Christmas Eve? I meant room service. Wine, turkey, the works."