City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (33 page)

She asked it casually. “Mind if I smoke one of my own? The case is in my pocket.”

He looked up alertly, raising the gun. “No tricks, Miss Corbie. We must come to an agreement. An understanding.”

She nodded, took out the gold cigarette case and opened it, careful to shield the view of the Baby Browning from Jasper. Plucked out a Chesterfield, left the case open a crack and slid it carefully back in her jacket pocket.

“What about Mexico?”

Shot in the dark.

He pivoted toward her, voice high, sharp and staccato.

“What do you know about Mexico?”

“Your base is there, isn’t it? The focal point and personnel for the smuggling operation.”

“Collecting.” The word was automatic. He stared at her for a few seconds, moistening his lips again.

“You—you know more than I thought. How much more remains to be seen. Perhaps … perhaps we can make a deal, Miss Corbie. Perhaps your employer would provide some protection for me, in payment for services rendered. And for your continued health and safety, of course.”

Sweat was dripping down his long neck and the Mauser trembled, scar on his hand ice-white against flushed skin.

“We can try, Jasper. Help me fill in the blanks first. Tell me why you think someone would want to kill you—why you need protection.”

“What is there to know?” The words came in a rush, almost a babble. “I began by trading. My European associate has been able to secure paintings and objets d’art from some of the richest collections in Poland—that
Mercury and Argus
you’ve uncovered, for example. Underneath it is another original, again from Poland—
Time Exposes Beauty.
A lesson for you, perhaps. Each seventeenth- or eighteenth-century painting was worth two or three modern pieces, thanks to the ‘degenerate art’ devaluation—”

“So you stole artwork from Poland while she was being raped by the Nazis and Reds—”

Jasper held up a long, thick-knuckled finger in admonition. “Not steal. Collect.”

Miranda took a long drag on the Chesterfield, exhaling out the side of her mouth.

“I don’t see a difference, Doctor.”

He stood taller, fear momentarily forgotten, Mauser still cradled in his hands.

“Tell me, Miss Corbie—what would the Jews and the Poles do with their precious art? Scrape off the oil for heat or food in a concentration camp? They have no country anymore, no culture. Between the Soviets and the Germans, there is no Poland and there will very soon be no Jews. I make shrewd deals—and yes, sometimes I do pay—because the Germans have degraded Poland and foolishly undermined the value of modern art and overpriced the kitsch that so appeals to Hitler. Am I to blame because I make a bargain? Is that not something the Jews themselves would appreciate?”

Miranda tapped ash into the glass.

“You sound like your Nazi friends, Jasper. From what I read, the Jews aren’t in a position to appreciate anything but survival. So who is trying to kill you—and why? The Reds? Competition?”

He licked his lips again, eyes focused on the window, fear etching itself on his skin.

“I’m worried, terribly worried. Holland is being dismantled as we speak. All the Rembrandts, De Hooch, the Hals … in hiding, transferred from one location to the other, or dragged through God knows what kind of filth in a misguided attempt to secure them from the Nazis.”

He flicked a glance at her. “It won’t work, Miss Corbie. The conquerors will conquer and the Dutch will starve. Selling them to sympathetic collectors is the only option left, both for the owners and the art. And don’t you see what’s next? France—France, with all her glories, with all the collectors, so many of them Jews, all the galleries … France will make Poland and Holland look like a pauper’s field. France, Miss Corbie, France.”

Miranda inhaled once more before crushing out the cigarette with a vicious twist.

“You’re playing a dangerous game. Someone’s going to get wise, if they aren’t already—someone who wants a cut, or who wants a painting you’ve … ‘collected.’ Maybe it’s time you came home to stay. Get out while you can.”

“I have one more delivery to make in Chicago. Then—then I would like to retire to Mexico permanently, where this is both Right and Left and a continual sense of the disorder that makes my business possible. I have friends there already, as you know. Dr. Huntington Jasper will disappear, a sad victim of Chicago violence, perhaps, and I shall sit out the war in Mexico City, continuing to save as much art as I can. The government—your superiors—can help keep me safe.”

He looked up at her expectantly. “That is my proposal, Miss Corbie. I suggest you accept it.”

Miranda’s fingers closed around the gold cigarette case in her pocket. “I’ll have to contact them in Reno.”

Jasper glanced at his watch and stood up, raising the point of the Mauser. “Eight-thirteen. We’re a little over two hours away. Ample time for you to tell me exactly what you know about Mexico.”

The fear and exhaustion seemed to have dissipated from his body. The pistol was steady, aimed at her chest. Miranda clenched her stomach, lips curled in a sardonic smile.

“You just said you ‘save’ art, Jasper. ‘Collecting,’ ‘saving’ … pretty words for stealing and smuggling.”

He looked out the window, pupils lit rhythmically by the lights along the track, voice soft and resonant.

“What is art, after all? A unique combination of shapes and lines, drawn by a genius, a mind possessed … I understand art as I understand how life exists, how the interplay of positive and negative energy creates all matter in the name of God himself. Does it not belong best to the man who truly appreciates it, a man who understands its significance? Think of what we have lost, from Alexandria’s library to Louis’s silver, melted down to make war for the French. No, Miss Corbie, I am Elgin reborn, and I will save the art … save the so-called
entartete Kunst
from burning in Hitler’s bonfires. Save it from the Jews and the Germans, the Reds and the Slavs. Save it for all time.”

“And keep it for yourself, Jasper. For yourself. Funny thing—I always thought art was more than the expression of one man. I thought it belonged to a nation.”

Jasper’s eyes refocused. He nodded thoughtfully, as if she’d posed a question in a seminar.

“And if the nation belongs to Hitler?”

Her fingers curled around the Baby Browning, still in her pocket. A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Porter, sir.”

Jasper turned toward Miranda with the Mauser held high. “In there.” He gestured toward the tiny bathroom with the nozzle of the gun. “Not a sound. I’ll get rid of him.”

The professor shoved a hand against her back, pushing her into the small space and shutting the door. Miranda flattened against the wall in the dark, Baby Browning in her palm. Her thumb slid the safety catch back.

Jasper’s voice sounded muffled. “Just a minute, Porter.”

One Mississippi, two Mississippi …

Rattle of the door opening, Jasper’s voice, high-pitched. The train was climbing through a tunnel, engines shrill and straining, clack and clatter of the tracks …

Pop.

Miranda gave a sharp intake of breath.

Goddamn it, she knew that sound.

A silencer, smaller caliber, probably .32.

Thud.

That would be Dr. Huntington Jasper, slumped on the floor.

Dead.

Elgin fucking reborn.

She pressed back against the wall, the small Browning slipping against sweaty palms, breath shallow, too fast, too goddamn fast …

Johnny and Spain, Rick and Gonzales, Bente and Gladys and all the fucking Glenn Miller tunes and the Stork Club and Fireside Chats, the piece of paper, sacred, holy, Sally and the girls, Allen and his lemon drops, Meyer’s starched shirts and ebony cane, and, goddamn it, no, Miranda Corbie was not going to die, not on the
City of San Francisco,
namesake to her town, her home.

Her mother.

She wasn’t going to die.

Not now, not here.

Not today.

Slow exhale. The killer was moving around the cabin. Ripping sound of cardboard covering the paintings. More thuds and a bump, this time of luggage lowered and carefully searched.

In and out, breathe in and out, no noise, no movement.

Itchy wool, sweat dripping down her back and under her bra, and goddamn it, she wanted to scream.

Vanity mirror opening, across from her door and five feet away. Too bad she hadn’t kept the straight razor. Extra weapon. She’d have to aim for the head.

You’re a good soldier, Randy, a good soldier …

Rattle again, outside door open, shut again.

She waited.

Counted one hundred Mississippis and listened to the train level off, start to descend in the darkness, climb down from the mountaintop, hallelujah, trust in God and keep your fucking powder dry …

Nothing.

No noise, no breath, no sound except the train, steady and sure, winding down through the Sierra Nevada toward Reno, passing ghost towns and gold towns, the infamous Donner Lake, six thousand and more feet up …

The Baby Browning clenched in her hand, pointing at the darkness. What if Jasper wasn’t dead?

Miranda took a deep, shuddering breath, closed her eyes for a moment, opening them to the blackness of the small, confined toilet room.

Had to try.

She reached out her left hand to turn the knob … slowly, agony of waiting.

Crack.
Sliver of light dazzling, eyes comforted in the dark, blinded by light.

Didn’t see him, didn’t hear him.

She fell back into the black, razors slicing her head, mother’s voice crooning in her ear …

Sleep, baby dear … sleep without fear …

Mother is with you forever.

Twenty-nine

The first thing she felt was the rumble of the engine through the floor, her body shaking like an overweight woman in a reduction belt. The second thing she felt was pain.

Back of the head, side of the face.

Whole goddamn body.

Pain was good. Meant she was alive.

Her eyes opened, blurred vision.

Train compartment.

Miranda tried to stand up, too wobbly, and she landed back on her ass, legs apart in an ungainly pose, as a fleeting image of Dianne Laroche winked in front of her, Dianne telling her how to stand, how to sit, how to cross her legs …

“You look like you just came back from war and lost. You’re not a soldier, Miranda, you’re a woman, remember? And in my house, you’ll act like a lady…”

Dianne … Dianne and Edmund.

Edmund.

She opened her eyes wide, pulled herself up with her left hand and the help of the Formica table.

Memory.

Her right hand felt too heavy. Miranda stared at her fist as if it were detached. No Baby Browning.

Her fingers were clutching a Colt 1903 .32 ACP semiautomatic with a silencer still neatly fastened to the end of the barrel.

The train whistle shrieked and she jumped, dropping the gun with a clatter, pain at the back of her head making her wince, spasm in her hand and arm. Her eyes drifted downward, back to the table.

Propped up on the floor beside it, eyes still open and glazed.

Huntington Jasper.

A red splotch spread in uneven, jagged lines around the pulping hole in his skull.

He’d been shot dead.

And she was being framed for it.

She bent forward, palms on knees, fighting the bile in her throat. Coughed, tried to breathe, in and out, in and out.

Her eyes flicked over the compartment as the train ran over a trestle, roaring down the night, bars of light and shadow in a macabre dance, all twisted corners, odd angles, an old silent movie, Dr. Caligari and his somnambulist.

Head was aching, vision still unclear, pulse shaking her already shaky eyesight.

Thump-bob, thump-bob, thump-bob …

Goddamn it, she had to get off the
City of San Francisco.

She felt her pockets. Gloves were in her handbag, back in her compartment. She moved as quickly as she could to the bathroom, stumbling once but catching herself on the wall. Opened the cellophane-wrapped, flat package of toilet tissue, shoving the cellophane in her pocket and wrapped the tissue in her palm.

Not much, but it would have to do.

More breath, in and out, in and out, fighting the pain in her head. Looked around again, eyes falling back to Jasper.

She glanced at her watch. 9:03. She’d been out for over thirty minutes. The train was less than an hour and a half from Reno.

She sat gingerly on the Nantes blue armchair, trying to think, tissue starting to get damp from her palm. The killer hadn’t alerted the train officials already—why? Not an airtight frame, and …

Miranda twisted her neck suddenly to the right, a spasm of pain making her regret the haste.

No. No paintings. He’d taken them and he knew she’d be able to identify them, maybe stir up enough murkiness to hold him for questioning. He was banking on her being out until the real porter knocked on the door or until someone else wondered what happened to Dr. Huntington Jasper … or until he could make an anonymous call from the Reno train station.

Her eyes darted to the door of the compartment.

The killer was still on the train.

Waiting for her.

Miranda swallowed hard, wishing for a cigarette to stop the shakes, no time to light up, no time. She bent down, almost blacking out again, and picked up the Colt with the tissue in her hand.

One sheet gone.

She pulled out another and wiped the prints off as best she could, then stooped down next to Jasper’s body, fighting the knives at the back of her head.

He already smelled dead, blood coagulated, drying at the edges, bits of skull and brain splattered around what was left of his forehead and the side of his head.

One shot. A clean, professional kill.

She positioned the pistol in his scarred left hand, his fingers still pliable enough to make an impression. Sat back on her heels and studied the layout.

The killer was right-handed and maybe didn’t realize Jasper wasn’t. Bullet hole was off center, on Jasper’s left … near where he’d hold a gun to his own head, if he was aiming for the front and not the side.