A Brush With Death (7 page)

“It's upper. Museum curators don't make much dough. It's kind of a prestige job, more class than cash. He's getting extra money from somewhere. I figure tonight's the time to break in."

“Remember, I'm with you."

He put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. His warm brown eyes brimmed with love. “That's not the kind of thing a guy forgets. Parelli tells me there's some kind of a party on that Bergma will be attending tonight. One of the volunteer ladies from the museum, a Mrs. Searle, also Upper Westmount, is throwing a preopening shindig tonight to congratulate the volunteer gang on this Art Nouveau show that's starting tomorrow at the museum."

“I'd like to see that show. I've been reading about it in the papers. They have some good Erté stuff. I love art nouveau."

“You like anything nouveau,” he teased.

“You mean nouveau riche?"

“I was thinking of cuisine."

“That's nouvelle, feminine ending."

“My favorite kind,” he said, sliding a hand along my hip. Because I had a mug of coffee in front of me, I asked John if he'd like one. He looked at the contents, not enriched by cream, but having the washed-out color given by milk, and declined.

“I'm meeting Gino for lunch—since you'll be busy,” he added hastily. “With luck, he'll know Bergma has no alibi for last night at six-thirty. He's put a tail on him."

“Doing Menard out of a job,” I said.

“I've got a job for Menard. He's supposed to be at the museum, seeing if he recognizes Bergma. If we can get a positive I.D., we're away."

I rubbed my hands in impatience. “I wish I didn't have this darned exam."

“What time's it over? I'll pick you up at McGill and we'll take a tour of the museum."

“It starts at one. I'll be out by three.” I told him where to meet me and he left.

I wasted ten minutes wondering if John was really over his snit, or just didn't want to upset me before my exam. He was thoughtful like that. The rest of the time was spent trying to straighten out the strands of the Existentialist dialectical materialism controversy. Understanding this arcane matter hardly seemed relevant to real life, and I resented every moment of it. I wanted to be with John, solving the case. I made a quick grilled cheese at eleven-thirty and headed out into the cold and snow to fight my way onto a bus. It was a beautiful winter day. The sky was azure blue, gleaming in the sun. The snow crunched underfoot. There hadn't been any thaw, and it was still white. The sun reflecting off it was blinding, and I put on my sunglasses. It would be a gorgeous day for skiing.

The exam was not an unqualified success. The d.m. controversy was worth twenty-five marks, and it was a compulsory question. I figure I got twelve, tops, and hoped the rest of the exam would pull my mark up. There was a flurry of exam talk and goodbyes outside the hall as students parted for the holidays. “Merry Christmas!” “Wasn't that exam a bitch! I knew Ritchie would put on the d.m. thing. I can hardly pronounce it.” “Gotta dash. My flight leaves in an hour.” “See you next year.” “Are you hitting the slopes?” “Did you do Maritain or Mauriac?” “Who the hell is Marcel? I never heard of him.”
"Joyeux Noel!"

“Merry Christmas,” I hollered, and flew out the door, unencumbered by books this time.

John was waiting patiently in the snow, wearing dark glasses, a red nose, and a white mustache. It had become frosted. He looked like a cross between Rudolf and Frosty the Snowman. He was beating his arms over his chest to keep from freezing solid. “How'd it go?” he asked.

“So-so. Why didn't you come inside and wait?” I asked.

“The crowd was just starting to come out. I couldn't stand the crackling. Aren't there any guys taking that course?"

“It's too tough for them,” I joked. We started walking through the crunchy snow toward the car.

“Sounds like a sexist slur to me. I should complain you're not surrounded by jocks! Want a coffee?"

“I'm torn between the desire for a hot drink and getting straight to the museum. Actually there's a coffee shop at the museum. We could have coffee there."

“We're not in that big a hurry. Gino suggested...” I looked around warily. “He's not with me. He's doing his Christmas shopping."

“That won't take long. A box of chocolates."

“That's just for the eighteen kids. He's getting his mom a dishwasher."

“Oh, that's nice. I didn't think he'd be so considerate."

“I told you he's okay,” John said earnestly.

“Sure, he didn't call you a hooker."

“Gino has the highest regard for hookers—as far as looks go, I mean. He recognized you right away, last night. That was just his idea of a compliment. He says women are usually flattered to be mistaken for hookers. The high-class ones aren't exactly dogs, you know."

“It's okay to think it. He shouldn't have blurted it out.” We reached the car. “What did Gino suggest?"

“Meeting at the museum coffee shop. We'll grab a few minutes in private first, since we won't have any time alone once Gino meets us. What's nearby?"

“I don't know offhand, but if you cruise west on Sherbrooke, I'll keep a lookout."

Montreal is exceptionally well-treed and well-greened for a big city. Sherbrooke Street is one of the greenest areas. It's lovely in spring and summer, with the mature trees giving welcome shade. Even in winter it was pretty. Snow was piled three or four inches thick on branches, falling off in chunks to pelt unwary pedestrians. Some of the older buildings have gargoyles that looked as if they were wearing white fur hats. Driving took all John's attention. Scanning the business towers for a coffee shop occupied me, so that we didn't talk much. John parked in a public lot near the museum, and we went to a little restaurant in an office building.

“I'm glad we're not eating here,” John said. “It smells like burned fish. These places have a captive audience. The coffee's bitter as hell too."

“At least it's hot. Did you find out anything else about Bergma?” I asked, after we were settled in.

He gave a weary sigh. “I've been waiting till we settled down to give you the bad news."

“You don't have to leave!"

His mustache lifted in pleasure, and his eyes glowed. “I said bad, not terrible. It's about the case. Bergma has an alibi."

“It's probably phony. He has to be the one who killed Latour. Who else had such a sterling motive? He got Latour to do the forgeries, and as soon as they were finished, he murdered him, so he could keep all the money himself."

“That's the way I read it too, but his alibi is genuine. The museum had its office party last night, in a hotel dining room. He was there, in full view of everyone."

“The party wouldn't start as early as six-thirty,” I pointed out. “He could have killed Latour first."

“Nope, he was one of the two organizers. He was at the Sheraton Hotel at six o'clock, apparently making his presence felt with various clerks and waiters and sommeliers. Besides, Menard went to the museum this morning and checked him out. He didn't recognize him."

“He wouldn't. He said all the people leaving the apartment were bundled up. He could have hidden his face with the pictures. Everybody was carrying presents and shopping."

“It's true Menard can't prove he
wasn't
there, but I was hoping he could prove he
was.
He can't. Gino says the alibi checks out. Menard got a Polaroid shot of Bergma for Gino to flash at the hotel. They all swore he was there. It'd take time to get his car out of the hotel garage, get up to Côte des Neiges, kill Latour, and get back. His absence for that long would have been noticed. We're on the wrong track. Have to go back to square one."

It was hard to give up this excellent suspect. He had the perfect motive. “Aristotle tells us a likely impossibility is preferable to an unconvincing possibility,” I said.

“I guess that must have been before they invented logic."

“Who else could it have been? Bergma must have a cohort."

“That's one possibility. ‘Evils draw men together.’ Aristotle said that too. A big help to mystery writers, Aristotle. If we find the forgeries in Bergma's house tonight, we can still pin him down. But if we don't...” He shrugged.

“If we don't, we start searching the museum."

“We find out who his helper is first. And if that turns up a blank, then we have to find the third man. The son-of-a-bitch, the buyer."

“The buyer was supposed to be getting the originals. He wasn't after the phonies,” I pointed out.

“Maybe he didn't trust Bergma—or Latour. If he got his own hands on the forgeries ... Well, it'd give him the upper hand. Bergma's still my first choice. It just isn't going to be as easy to pin it on him as I hoped."

“We've got to watch Bergma like a hawk. The Art Nouveau show opens tonight, John. Don't you think we should be there?"

“I plan to pick up the tickets when we're at the museum this afternoon. Would you like something with that coffee? I know your sweet tooth."

“Let's save that for the museum. They have nice desserts, and we're meeting Gino there."

We just had the coffee, and I used the quiet period to bring up Christmas again, before John could raise a less pleasant subject, like Chuck Evans. “We have to make plans for Christmas, John. Mom's dying to meet you. Would you be interested in coming home with me? We should make reservations. The airlines are really crowded at this time of the year."

“We could always drive. It's not that far. I'd like to go with you, but I can't walk away if this case is still up in the air, Cassie."

“I'm not going if it isn't solved!"

But I knew Mom would hit the roof if I didn't show up. Mom's a very matriarchal Italian. Our family is close. I really wanted to go anyway. I never spent Christmas any place but home. Maine would be lovely at this time of year, with glittering snow piled in mountains. Quite a bit like Montreal, really. The protective rise of Mount Royal watching over the city at the north always reminded me of Maine.

“Then I think maybe we'd better get shopping for a Christmas tree,” he suggested.

“You really think the case will last that long?"

“It's a possibility, but if you'd rather spend the holiday with your family..."

“I want to spend it with you and the family, in that order. If you stay, I stay. I'll call Mom tonight and let her know I might not be home."

“We can go for New Year's,” he suggested as a sop.

“It's still five days away. We'll solve the case. Let's go."

With white-knuckled hands clenched to the wheel, John snaked through the oncoming traffic at considerable risk to life and limb, and we soon found ourselves in front of the towering gray Museum of Fine Arts. A display case in front of the building advertised the Art Nouveau Grand Opening, at twenty-five bucks a head. One of the posters would help to liven up my apartment. It was a reproduction of an Erté design of a lady in a long red gown with sleeves like wings, spread out around her.

“I doubt if it'll be sold out at these prices,” John grouched.

“It's a money-raiser for the museum—for a good cause."

“I better get a ticket for Gino too."

“He'll be along, will he?” I asked, trying to control my spleen.

“If we want to get out of here by Christmas, he better be.” We went into the cavernous building, where a few antique bowls and statuettes on pedestals, backed by a tapestry, advertised the institution's wares and lured the clients onward. The east wing, where the Art Nouveau show was to be held, was closed, but we were free to wander around the rest of the exhibits. I had been there often, and John didn't appear particularly interested in old tapestries, porcelain, and old art.

“Any idea where the administrative offices are?” he asked, while ostensibly admiring a hanging Gobelin.

“No. I'll ask at the desk."

I once again used the ploy of working for the McGill student newspaper as an excuse to request an interview with one of the curators. “Ms. James is busy,” the clerk said, “but you might try Mr. Bergma."

She directed me upstairs and around the corner. I tossed my head and John came trotting after me. “What, exactly, are we going to say or do?” I enquired.

“We're not going to say anything. We're going to loiter, and listen."

“You can't loiter around the administration area without an excuse, John."

He wiggled his eyebrows. “That depends on whether the secretaries are friendly."

“And pretty,” I hmph'd. Chatting up pretty women is one of John's favorite ways of finding out secrets. This was to he discouraged at all costs. “I could ask Bergma for an interview for the university newspaper,” I suggested.

“That'll make a good excuse to get a look at him. We won't be together. Do you want to go first?"

I certainly wanted to he on hand when he hit on the secretary, and said, “Yes."

“I'll give you five; then join you. Remember, we don't know each other."

To display my acting ability, I looked right through him and said, “Excuse me, were you speaking to me, Sir?” I went on alone to the administration offices.

One look at the secretary guarding the executive door and I nearly swallowed my tongue. I recognized her at the first glance. Her hair was not arranged in seaweed strands as it had been for Latour's Pre-Raphaelite painting, but the face was remarkably similar. The nameplate on her desk said Ms. Painchaud, which literally translates to “hot bread.” How had a dainty morsel like this ended up with such a name? She looked more like a tart or, to he fair, a petit four. She was one of those dainty women, all pale skin and dark eyes, with hands about the size of a doll's. She must have been getting a preview of the Art Nouveau exhibit. Today she was done up like an Erté painting in a black dress with bat-wing sleeves, and her hair was twisted up like a jelly roll on the back of her head.

If she was Bergma's accomplice, as seemed probable, she certainly didn't look like a killer.

“May I help you?” she asked, in a dainty voice that matched her appearance. She had a delightfully seductive French accent. If a murderess had to be so attractive, she should have a voice like an unoiled hinge at least.

The phone rang. She excused herself and took the call. Mr. Bergma was busy, would the party like to call back?