Inheritance (67 page)

Laura listened to his receding footsteps. Then she turned: the caterer's staff was loading the last of the dishes and extra chairs onto a trolley, to roll it down the same passageway through which Currier had gone. She said goodnight to them, spoke briefly to the caterer, and then closed and locked the door behind them.

Her house was clean. And silent. Not a sound came from the great city beyond the court. She walked through her neat, shadowy rooms; she stood in the roof garden where the sounds of traffic reached her and reminded her she was in New York, with work to do and her own empire to build. Then she went downstairs again and into her bedroom. The last flames were lazily dancing in the fireplace, and she sat on the crewel-worked chaise, watching them.

Starting again; alone and beginning a new time in my life. Isn't it amazing, she mused, though no one was there to answer, how many times in a lifetime a person staits again?

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Chapter 25

THE fourth theft was in Carlos Serrano's apartment high above the pounding surf of Acapulco's beach. It was widely known that he had amassed one of the world's great collections of Mexican impressionists, and six of those paintings, neatly cut from their frames, were gone when he returned in November from visiting friends in New York, Miami, and Palm Beach. The police found no sign of forced entry, nor were there any clues. They interviewed Carlos Serrano's personal staff, everyone who worked in the building, and vendors who delivered goods to its wealthy residents, and got nowhere. But by then diey were not alone in the investigation: a special insurance investigator had been brought in months earlier, after the robbery of Britt Farley's apartment.

Sam Colby had retired four years earlier, at sixty-five. Long-since divorced, his children grown, he had moved to a retirement conmiunity in Phoenix, looking for sunshine and companionship. But he was bored and witili every month that passed he felt a year older, he'd even begun talldng to himself. He was tired of seeing nobody but his own generation, and he boiled with pent-up energy, envying everyone who was still nmning around the world doing things. And since the insurance business still talked about his legendary career in tracking down stolen art, saving companies from paying millions of doUars in claims, he cadled a former assistant of his, now an executive, and said he'd like an assignment now and

Judith Michael

then, to keep from shriveling up and blowing away like dried mushroom. It wasn't long before he got a telephone call from the director of a consortium of insurance companies, asking him to come to New York.

Once there, he was given two files: one on the theft of three Toulouse-Lautrec paintings from Ravia Guameri's New Yoiic apartment and the other on the theft, more than a year later, of Remington sculptures from Britt Farley's apartment in Paris. "You gotta be kidding," Colby said, thumbing through them. "A year and then some apart, an ocean apart, paintings in one, sculptures in the other—what the hell have I got to go on?"

"Nothing but the method," the director said.

"Method? You mean no clues? That's a method? That's a couple smart cookies who know their business."

"Could be. But if we're dumb enough to pay you to look into it, are you going to thumb your nose at us?"

Colby grinned and gave a small salute. "You'll be hearing from me."

He was small and hunched, his fingers gnaried from arthritis, his face a map of fine lines from which his sharp black eyes looked out at a world he was sure was filled with potential lawbreakers kept honest only through fear of people like him. Each night he prayed that this case wouldn't fade away to nothing, ttmt it would be big enough to keep him busy, and that he would solve it with the brilliance of his most glorious years and thus get more cases, and be busy until the day he died.

He interviewed Havia Guameri, and the maid and butler she had fired, and then he tried to interview Britt Fariey. But Farley was distracted by a concert tour he was giving and a film being made about him, so Colby waited until both were finished. While he was waiting, he received another call from New York. A major theft of early twentieth-century paintings had occurred in the Palm Springs home of Sid and Amelia Laughton. And the method was the same.

Fbr the first time, Sam Colby felt the familiar thrill of the hunt. There might be something here after all. Paris, New Yotky Pahn Springs: that wouldn't be a problem for real professionals. What was even more interesting were the dates: the Farley theft had been in June, and the Laughton theft in Sep-

Inheritance

tember. Four months' elapsed time instead of a year and a half. Whoever it was—a ring or a couple of guys or even a solo—either they were getting cocky or desperate for money. And for an investigator, that was a major break.

Two months later, in November, Carlos Serrano's Acapulco apartment was robbed. Then Sam Colby knew for sure that he was blessed in the eyes of the Lx)rd. He'd thought he was going to waste away in that danmed desert, and instead he'd been given what could be one of the major stories of the art world, and one of the biggest jobs of his life.

It was supposed to be a holiday for just the two of them, but at the last minute Judd caught a cold and Allison wanted to stay with him, so Ben went to New York alone. He traveled so much for Salinger Hotels that it wasn't a novelty, but this time he was almost glad to be alone: he could shop at leisure for Allison's Christmas present, and he wanted to visit the studios of some young artists he'd been hearing about.

Art had become a passion with Ben. He had begun buying paintings soon after he and Allison were married, when he watched her buy for pleasure and as an investment. When she decided to open an art gallery in Boston, his buying speeded up, partly so he could share her interests but also because he wanted possessions that he bought simply because they I pleased him. All his life Ben had taken care of his needs, but he had never bought something just because it gave him a good feeling to look at it.

And he was a good buyer. He found that he had an instinct about which artists would last; he bought carefully and unemotionally; and already some of the painters whose works he I had bought only a year or two earlier for modest sums were [being "discovered" by gallery owners and art critics. Ah-eady Ben was worth considerably more than when he'd started collecting—which was what had to happen if he ever hoped to pail his own weight in his wife's family.

Shopping for Christmas presents on his trip to New York, be went to Fortunoff and bought a slender diamond necklace for Allison, with a sapphire heart suspended from it. Then, at Ruth Blundca's, he found a rock crystal teapot for Leni. As he filled out the mailing form for it to be shipped to his house on

Judith Michael

Beacon Hill, he felt a strange melancholy. He wanted Leni*s love, or at least her approval, and as far as he could tell he*d never gotten either one. In all the time he had been part of that family, Leni had been friendly, carefully proper in remembering Christmas and his birthday, interested in his work and his opinions when the family was at dinner ... but Ben never stopped feeling that she was wary of him. He told himself it was ridiculous, but still it seemed to him she was watching for him to say something or do something, as if she were waiting to find out why he was there. He didn't worry about it as much as he had the first year, when he kept expecting some kind of bombshell, but it still bothered him.

His work and his shopping done for the day, he strolled through the city. It was mild for December, and the sun was shining, and with a wry pleasure he walked the streets he had once scouted for burglaries or places to hide from possible pursuit. He walked them now with an easy stride. He knew what he was doing, he had most of what he wanted, and New York held no threats for him. It was still his favorite city, and he felt at home there.

It was almost five when he turned down Rfty-eighth Street and saw a white canopy he didn't remember seeing before. Then he saw the brass plate beside the entrance that said "Beacon Hill." The New York Beacon Hill, he thought. He remembered it, when it was the New York Salinger, as a sooty, narrow building indistinguishable from thousands of others in the city. Now the brick exterior glowed a soft red, the street level was faced with glass and white marble polished i to a satin finish, and the white canopy stretched to the curb from a lofty entrance bordered in brass.

On impulse, Ben walked into the small lobby and stood in i the center of it, beneath a crystal chandelier, amid groups of people returning from shopping and sightseeing, stopping at i the concierge's antique desk for their messages or to pick up ) theater and concert tickets. The lobby was hushed and serene ; in pale gray, violet, and green, with a fleur-de-lis pattern in i the carpet and an iris print in the draperies; the few pieces of f furniture were baroque and heavily carved. To the side was the; lounge, its tables all filled, with a small string orchestra in a far comer, playing Viennese waltzes. Just outside the door to

Inheritance

the lounge a young woman stood behind a long table, wrapping Christmas presents for the guests.

rd like to stay here, Ben thought. And he knew, as the words came to hhn, that he had paid Laura the highest compliment of all.

He wondered if she was there. It would be easy for him to find out, even to see her. But he couldn't do it. He wasn't ready to tell the Salingers about the two of them, and if Laura didn't already despise him, she certainly would when he told her he couldn't bring her into his family, at least not yet. I just can't take the chance of upsetting everything, he thought; maybe of losing everything. I don't feel secure enough to unload all my secrets, especially Laura. I trust Allison, but. . .

But he didn't know how much he could trust her. Or whether she trusted him enough to have it withstand a barrage of secrets.

I'll think about it, he said to himself; I'll figure it out. There had to be a way to bridge the gap of years of silence. Was it ever too late to patch a family together again? He didn't know. He didn't even know if Laura wanted it.

He turned to leave the lobby, pausing to take a last look into die lounge. He recognized a number of the guests: a senator who frequently stayed at the Boston Salinger, the owner of a famous ski resort, and the wealthiest developer in Hawaii, Albert Inouti, whom Ben had talked to about building a Salin-Plger hotel in Honolulu. Inouti always stayed at the Carlyle; if he had changed hotels, it was a major coup for Laura.

Inouti saw him and waved, and Ben returned the greeting, but he did not want to talk to any of them, and so he went on. Outside, the street seemed even noisier and more frenetic after the serenity of the Beacon Hill. Beiicoit HiT/. F6r the first time be understood the name. A great hotel becomes a home to the peison who creates it, and Laura had named her hotels after the home she most loved and probably still thought of as hers. If that was true, he had taken her home away. And that wcnild make h hatdo' than ever, or impossible, for them to patch up anything.

Ife strode away, puttmg distance between himself and Aat k)vely hotel. At fiie Plaza, a block from the Beacon Hill, he

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Judith Michael

turned to go inside. He had two hours before his dinner with the architect on the new Salinger hotel; time for a leisurely drink and then a walk back to Leni's and Felix's townhouse, where he was staying, to shower and change. But as he crossed the lobby, he came to an abrupt halt. Leni Salinger was standing at the bank of elevators, waiting to go upstairs.

What the hell, Ben thought. Felix said she was visiting friends in Virginia. And what's she doing in the Plaza Hotel when she has her own house on Fifty-first Street? He started toward her and then stopped again. She was not alone.

It might not have been clear to everyone, but it was obvious to Ben that the tall young man standing slightly behind her was in fact with her. He never took his eyes off her, his hand hovered near her elbow, he stayed close to her as someone jostled him. Leni looked straight ahead, but something in her stance suggested a slight leaning back. She wore a dark dress with a mink coat over her shoulders, and she carried a Coach Musette bag: a purse large enough to double as an ovemi^t bag.

The elevator doors opened, and Leni and the young man stepped aside, waiting for it to empty. Without thinking, Ben strode forward and put his hand on her arm.

She spun around, ready to cut down this stranger who dared touch hist, and then saw who it was. Her eyes closed €«' a brief, agonizing second. *'Ben," she said without inflection. **I didn't Imow you were in town."

^Felix said I could use your house; he said you were in Virginia."

She nodded. *1 changed my plans."

Ben looked pointedly at the young man who was staying at the side while others pushed past to fill the elevator. F^ a long moment the three of them stood th^e, until Leni made a gesture of resignation. **Will Baker, Ben Gardner," she said.

Ben did not take the young man's outstretched hand. *'If you'll excuse us, I'd like to take my mother-in-law to tea."