A Brush With Death (5 page)

John must have called for his car earlier. It was waiting for us at the front door. In fact, I had a vague memory of seeing it there when I came in. We got in the car and he headed into the night traffic. St. Catherine's Street looked like a fairyland, with all the Christmas lights and decorations and shoppers. The stores were open late during this season. It brought vividly to mind Latour's condemnation of the money-spending spree. But he wanted his piece of the money too, enough to break the law to get it. He had added his cubit to the definition of humanity. And now someone had added a blacker one; someone had murdered Yves Latour.

In store windows, mechanical elves hammered on toys, and a fat, red Santa Claus's head nodded up and down as he patted his bulging stomach.

“It must have been Jan Bergma,” I said.

“That's what I figure,” John agreed. “He waited till Latour had done the ten paintings; then plugged him. He doesn't need Latour for the switch in Amsterdam. Now I'll have to tell the cops. Any hope of secrecy's blown wide open."

“I suppose Menard's called them already. Where are we going, to the police station?"

“Menard called me first. I want to have a look at Latour's apartment before the cops get there. If the paintings are gone, then it was Bergma for sure. But if by any chance they're still there ... Well, then it's a whole new ballgame. Latour might have been killed for some other reason. He could be dealing a bit of dope or something. I'll have to figure out a way to let Bergma think the pictures are safe, not discovered. I figure we could stash them some place at that Beaux Arts where Latour works—worked."

“You should call the police, John."

“I will. Waiting ten minutes isn't going to bring Latour back to life. If Menard's hanging around in front of the apartment building, it means nobody's reported the murder yet. If he's gone, then the cops are inside."

“How did Latour die? I mean you said murder, but was he shot or what?"

“Menard said a knife.” I felt a little wave of nausea rise up inside me. “Poor bastard,” John said. “Right before Christmas too. He was such a talented artist. If only he'd stuck to doing his own work. But no. I was talking to another forger in Amsterdam last week. He was good too, and I asked him why he copied. He said ‘Inspiration without skill can create art. Cézanne was a clumsy painter. But skill without inspiration is mere craftsmanship. A cruel joke of God. I lack the fire of inspiration. I am a craftsman, a forger.’ I guess Latour figured he was just a craftsman too. Of course it's the money that seduces them."

“Yes, and what it can buy,” I added softly. I was no anchorite myself. I loved luxuries. I, of all people, could not condemn them wholeheartedly. But at least I'd never hurt anyone else to get money. That was my tiny addition to the positive side of humankind. Not even an addition really. Just even. I should do something positive, to add my mite to the definition of humanity.

As we drew near to Latour's apartment building, we kept a lookout for flashing red lights and blue and white cop cars. The place looked peaceful. There were a few people entering, and we spied M. Menard loitering around the front of the parking lot. I decided that his anonymous appearance was an advantage for his work. Nobody'd ever take a second look at him. He didn't say a word, but just tossed his head for us to follow him, and we stayed a bit behind as he went into the building. We got inside on the coattails of another couple, and waited till they'd taken the elevator before we spoke.

“What's the setup?” John asked. His face was white and strained. I liked that he looked so sad. It told me that despite his rough job, he hadn't lost his concern for people, for life.

Menard pulled out a little book and glanced at it. “Latour returned to his apartment at five twenty-five.” He had quite a heavy accent and was unsteady in his verb tenses, but to reproduce the accent is distracting. “I check before he arrived. His apartment is on the north corner of the seventh floor. I see the lights go on. There were a lot of traffics in and out over the next hour, people coming home from work and going out for the evening. Anybody, he could have slip in. At six-thirty, his lights go out. I waited, thinking he'll come out soon. He didn't, so I thought he was visiting someone in the building. I just waited, and waited. It was getting damned cold, so I go inside, and decided to stroll up to the seventh floor. The door, she was ajar. People don't leave their doors open, even if they're in the building. I peek in, used my flashlight, and saw him laid out on the floor, with a knife in the back. So I run to the nearest phone and call you."

The elevator rattled down and John said, “We'll have a look. Why don't you wait in the car, Cassie?"

It was a temptation, but if my future was with John, I thought I might as well start to learn the ropes. I overrode John's strenuous objections and went with them. It was just like Menard had said. The door was ajar, the apartment dark.

“Don't touch anything,” John cautioned.

Then he quietly closed the door and turned on the lights, carefully, just touching the end of the switch. Latour was sprawled on the floor, with a little brass knife sticking out of his back. The edge on his purple shirt around the knife was darker than the rest. The blood had dried to a rusty brown. John tried Latour's pulse and said, “He's long gone."

“But no rigor yet,” Menard mentioned.

John knelt down and examined the knife closely but without touching it. I did the same. The handle was worked in arabesques, and there was an ornamental oval turquoise stone imbedded in it. John went straight to the bedroom. Through the open doorway I saw him lift the bedspread and look under the bed. The pictures were gone. He looked around the bedroom. “What happened to that gray tin box that was on his desk?” he asked me.

“I don't remember any box."

“I tried to open it when we were here before. I guess you were in the studio then. It was locked. I didn't want to tip Latour off, so I didn't pry it open, or take it. Damn. Take a look around the studio, will you, Cass?"

I darted to the studio. The box wasn't there. The pictures weren't there either. Nothing else looked disturbed. We did a quick search of the apartment, but the box and the Van Gogh pictures were gone. We didn't find anything that would indicate who his caller had been. Of course we already knew it was Bergma. He'd got what he wanted from Latour, the forgeries, then killed him, to keep all the money for himself.

John joined me in the studio. He flicked on the projector, and the familiar picture of Mademoiselle Gachet appeared on the wall. “He forgot one thing,” John said, and took the slide. “Let's split."

He turned off the lights and we went downstairs. At the car, Menard said, “I've got to report this, Mr. Weiss. I can keep your name out of it, but I don't want to lose my license. I'll have to tell them I was tailing Latour."

“Sure, you do that. You'll be hearing from me real soon, Menard. I'll be wanting your services tomorrow. And before you leave—was anyone coming out of the apartment just after six-thirty carrying a big, bulky parcel?"

“Lots of people,” Menard said, shaking his head. “It's near Christmas. People are delivering presents, taking stuff to parties, returning things to stores. There was hardly anybody coming out empty-handed. Sorry."

“Anybody stand out in your mind; anybody look different for any reason? Worried or stealthy, maybe running?” John persisted.

“In the cold, people huddle into their collars and walk fast. I didn't notice nothing."

“That's too bad. You might be asked to identify a guy tomorrow. Maybe when you see his face, you'll remember. Thanks, Mr. Menard."

Menard scuttled off to his car. It was a dark Toyota a couple of years old, as insignificant in appearance as himself.

“Now we go to the police?” I said.

“Menard said he'd report it."

“He doesn't know all the facts."

We drove away. John stopped at the closest corner store and darted in. When he came back, I said, “Do the police want us to go back there?"

“I called Parelli."

“You should call the Montreal police. We know it was Bergma. We can't let him get away.

He took my hand and squeezed it. “Haven't you heard, the world's a global village? Even if he leaves the country, he won't escape. I'd like to give him enough rope to hang himself, and get whoever he plans to sell those pictures to in the noose along with him."

“It doesn't seem right, withholding evidence. We'll be accessories to murder or something."

“Gino's going to meet us. The evidence is still there, in Latour's back. That was a strange-looking knife. There can't be too many like that around. I wonder why the murderer left it behind?"

We were still in the parking lot beside the convenience store. Driving in Montreal isn't conducive to conversation, of course, but it was cold and uncomfortable in the car.

“I imagine people lose their heads when murdering someone,” I said wanly.

“The murderer remembered to take the tin box. Now what the hell could have been in it? If Latour had a slide for the Gachet portrait, he must have had slides for the other nine, but I didn't see them in the apartment. Maybe there were slides in the box. There were papers too, from the heft of it. Probably his passport, insurance papers. He was using an alias, so Bergma might not want his real identity to come out. Parelli's supposed to meet us at ten tonight. He can give us a hand with all this."

John put the car in gear and we drove back downtown. “We have an hour to kill before Parelli gets here,” he said. “Do you want to eat?"

I shivered. “No, thanks. I seem to have lost my appetite."

“A shot of whisky would hit the spot. Are you still trying to cultivate a taste for Scotch?"

''I want something warm.''

“An Irish coffee. We'll have it at my hotel, if that's okay with you. Parelli's meeting me at the hotel."

“Let's have it at the bar,” I said. “I want to be around people. I feel so depressed."

“I'll leave word at the desk to page me there,” he said, and I went on ahead to the bar.

It was busy at Christmas. The buzz of conversation and eruptions of laughter were reassuring after just having seen death. The demoiselles looked as soignée and ravishing as usual, but I wasn't in the mood to admire or envy them. A steaming cup of Irish coffee, larded with whipped cream, helped fill the empty feeling inside. John took a shot of Scotch straight, and sipped the soda water while we talked.

“You know,” he said, frowning into his glass, “I'm coming to the conclusion that Latour wasn't actually stabbed."

I blinked in surprise. We'd both seen the knife sticking out of his back. “Are you giving me that old philosophical chestnut about projectiles slowing down at some rate so that they never actually reach their destination?"

“And Saint Sebastian died of fright,” he nodded. “No, I'm taking common sense here. What I mean is, Bergma didn't so much stab him as throw the knife, maybe from the doorway."

“I still say he stabbed the man in the back, literally."

“What bothers me is why Bergma left the knife? I think he wanted to kill Latour, but didn't have the guts to attack him. Latour was a pretty wiry guy. I bet Bergma's a scrawny, effete cultural snob. Maybe somebody was coming, so he hightailed it out of the apartment without recovering his weapon. And he was afraid to go back. The knife was still there when we arrived."

“Let's hope it's there when the police arrive. I hope it's got Bergma's prints all over it, and they arrest him."

John glanced nervously at his watch. “I hope they don't. Parelli should be here soon. I wonder if I should ... No, an unusual request will come better from a badge."

“Men are not badges, John. They're people, who happen to wear a badge."

He looked at me askance. “That means you don't like that I'm holding out on the people who wear badges, right? Look, Cassie, it may seem kind of cold to you, but I'm not paid to find whoever killed Latour. My job is to find out what Latour is—was up to, and stop him."

“Then I guess your job's over, huh? Latour isn't going to be painting any more forgeries."

“There are ten of them already on stream. My job just changed. Now it's to stop Bergma, and find out who his buyer is."

“There doesn't seem to be any insurance fraud involved in finding out who the buyer is."

“There'll be some insurance claim in it eventually. Bergma plans to stick the phonies in the gallery to sell as originals while the son-of-a-bitch, our third man, gets the real originals. When the museums that buy the fakes from the Rijksmuseum find out they're phonies, the pigment'll hit the fan. And some sharp-eyed expert will find out eventually. The Doerner Institute or somebody will discover it."

“I suppose what you really hope is that the company will be so impressed they'll give you Jeff Penderson's job in the Netherlands."

He looked a question at me. “I could see right away that idea wasn't a winner. What have you got against Holland?"

“It sounds boring."

“It isn't. Trust me. My main reservation about our settling there is that Amsterdam's probably the most sinful city in the Western world. Drugs, prostitution, crime."

“Sounds charming,” I said ironically. “I like glamour, not sordid crime."

“All crime's sordid, honey. I figured we'd live in the country, but close to town. Maybe on a little farm."

I fluffed my hairdo and tried to look sophisticated. “Does this look like a farmer's wife to you? I have lavish desires, John. I want to—live."

He patted my hand and grinned patronizingly. “According to
The Way of Lao Tzu,
‘There is no greater calamity than lavish desires.’”

“What does he know? Desires aren't something you have a choice about. I was born with them."

“I felt like that too when I was hot out of Nebraska. You think you're missing something when you grow up in a small town. We'll give you a few years of London and Paris to get it out of your system. I guess I can take it.” He suddenly turned sober. “Of course you realize, nights like tonight go with the territory, Cass. It isn't all swilling champagne and swanking at the Ritz."