Restrike (12 page)

Dinah did as she was told. Coleman switched off the conference room lights, locked the door to the hall, and crawled under the table to join Dinah. Dinah reached for Coleman’s hand.

“Listen,” Coleman whispered. “Whoever it is just opened the door from the elevator corridor into the reception room. He has a key card or the access code.”

Footsteps approached the conference room and the door handle rattled. They froze at the sound of someone entering the code that unlocked the conference room door. The overhead lights came on. All Dinah could see was a pair of black-trousered legs, and feet in highly polished black shoes. Oh, my God, she knew those feet and legs.

Dinah shot out from under the table. “Jonathan? What in heaven’s n-name are you d-doing here? You scared me half to d-death.”

Coleman crawled out, her green velvet pantsuit rumpled and covered with carpet lint, her cheeks red, her eyes glittering. “What the hell are you doing here? How’d you get in? What happened to the guard downstairs?”

Jonathan, immaculate in his tuxedo, looked down his nose. “Why are you under the table? You look like escapees from an insane asylum. I came to find you, Dinah. The guard told me you were here. I tried to call but couldn’t get through to
ArtSmart
, and your cell phone doesn’t answer. And Coleman, I’ve always had keys and codes to get in here. I’m one of your emergency contacts, remember?”

Dinah enunciated each word, “Jonathan, I do not want you following me around. You’re—you’re nothing but a stalker.”

Coleman rubbed her forehead. “If I knew you had access, I’d forgotten it. I’m headed for the ladies’ room to wash up and cool off. Right now I could bite nails, I’m so furious. You two go ahead and fight it out. Don’t bother about me—I just work here.”

Jonathan paced the floor. “I heard about Chick’s death, and I knew Coleman would poke her nose into it. Listen to me, Dinah: it’s dangerous involving yourself in a murder investigation. I insist you stay out of this.”

“You listen to
me
, Jonathan. I
will
help Coleman, and if
you
don’t help her, I’ll never speak to you again. Coleman’s involved because Chick worked for her, and I am
not
going to desert her. And stop telling me what to do. I’m not a half-witted child. You may be my husband, but you are
not
the boss of me. And I’ve left you. Remember?”

The muscle in his cheek twitched. “I’ll help you both, if just to keep you from getting killed. But don’t blame me if you’re unhappy with the outcome of my investigations. I am confident that your beloved Bain is behind all this.”

Coleman returned from the ladies’ room, her hair combed, and the lint brushed off her suit. Ignoring Jonathan, she sat down and doodled on the pad in front of her. “I’ve always thought La Grange was someone’s tool, and Simon is the most obvious person to have used him,” she mused.

Dinah nodded. “But even if La Grange was fronting for Simon when he sold the prints, I don’t see how Simon’s role can be proved. He bought the prints publicly and legally. I guess La Grange could have been forced to testify against him, but with La Grange dead—”

“Exactly,” Coleman said. “With La Grange dead, we may never know what happened to him, or what Simon’s relationship with him was. I think Simon made sure of that. But maybe we can find out what happened to Chick.”

“Well, we can’t do it tonight. I’m exhausted,” Dinah said. “Let’s get out of here. I can hardly wait to get to my quiet little room at the Creedmore Club.”

“Tom’s waiting downstairs with the car. I’ll take you home, Coleman, and you to the Creedmore if that’s where you insist on going, Dinah,” Jonathan said.

“No need,” Dinah said, not looking at him. “I hired a limo. It’s waiting downstairs.”

“No, it isn’t. I let it go. You know I don’t like you riding around in strange cars with strange drivers,” Jonathan said.

Dinah closed her eyes. “Dear God, give me strength,” she said through clenched teeth.

Coleman sighed, collected the dirty coffee mugs, and put them on the tray by the coffeemaker. They could wait till she was next in the office. She turned out the lights and followed Dinah and Jonathan to the elevator.

After they dropped off Coleman and were crawling up Park Avenue, Dinah said, “Who was the sexy blonde in the red dress you were talking to at the Print Museum?”

“Judy.”

“Your ex-wife?” Dinah stared at him. “What was she doing there?”

“She said she was Bain’s date. She also said she’s a freelance writer writing a story on the opening.”

“You never told me she was so beautiful.” Dinah had always been curious about Judy. She was much more attractive than Dinah had imagined.

“I don’t want to discuss Judy,” Jonathan said, his tone curt.

He was angry again. Fine. So was she. She was silent during the rest of the drive.

Coleman was unlocking her apartment door when the telephone rang. She groaned. Would this day never end? Before she ran to answer the phone, she scooped up Dolly and hugged the little dog to her chest. Dolly licked her face.

Zeke didn’t bother to say hello. “Is it true? I heard at the opening tonight that Chick was killed?”

“Yes, it’s true. He’s dead. They think the people who killed Jimmy did it. If he was the leak to the
Artful Californian
, it’s over. Whatever he did, he didn’t deserve to die.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure it’s over, Coleman. Maybe it’s the spy bit that got Chick killed. Remember how we calculated how much money an unethical person could make if they could take over
ArtSmart
?”

Coleman rolled her eyes. “Nonsense, that’s ridiculous.
ArtSmart
is my whole life, but I wouldn’t kill for it. Even if we’re right about why it’s happening—that it’s about money—no one would do anything so drastic. I’m sure Chick was killed because he discovered something about Jimmy’s death.”

“Yes, but we still don’t know why Jimmy was killed. This all could be tied together,” Zeke said.

“A conspiracy theory? Please!”

“Coleman, John Buchan wrote that
civilization
is a conspiracy. Conspiracies are not all that uncommon. How about humoring me: give Chick’s partner a call, and ask him about Chick’s relationship with the
Artful Californian.
”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Zeke, I can’t do that. Chick has been murdered, and I’m responsible. You want me to call David and ask him if Chick was spying? Right this minute, I don’t give a damn. I’m interested in who killed Chick.”

“But don’t you see, Chick’s death may be linked to the leak. It might be dangerous to ignore that possibility,” Zeke argued.

Coleman rubbed her forehead. She
had
to get off the phone. “I’m too tired to talk. I’ll think about it tomorrow. I’ll call when I can. Good night, Zeke.”

She took a hot shower, put on a flannel nightgown, and crawled into bed. But her head ached and she couldn’t sleep, so she got up, swallowed a Tylenol PM, made herself a cup of diet cocoa, and gave Dolly a Milkbone. She tried to reach David again, but he still didn’t answer. She didn’t go back to bed, but lay on the sofa with a blanket over her, and Dolly snuggled by her side. She fell asleep with the television droning in the background.

Rachel, in a violet wool suit and pearls, was ready to leave when George Quincy arrived. Her mink coat and alligator carryall were lying on the bench in the entryway, and a hired Jaguar waited. The driver knew her destination, and the car pulled away from the curb as soon as they were settled in the back seat.

“We are going to visit the Baldorean Collection. Do you know it?”

“It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“It is in a house near Oxford, not far from Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons, the restaurant and inn. The house and the collection belong to the Greshams. An ancestor of the present Lord Gresham assembled the
objets.
One sees the collection by appointment. The collection is generously endowed, and it’s in an unbreakable trust. Nothing can be sold.”

Even in her fur coat, and with the car heater on high, Rachel felt chilly. She wished she had brought a thermos of coffee. They’d be offered it at the Baldorean, but it would be undrinkable. “There is a curator, a well-known scholar. He is in his late eighties. He was a friend of Professor Ransome’s.”

Quincy wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “And it’s here that you think we’ll find the evidence that Simon stole?”

“The evidence will be that the Dürers—which Heyward Bain recently bought in the United States—are missing,” Rachel said.

In less than two hours they pulled into the courtyard of an unpretentious gray stone house. Rachel rang a bell. After a long wait, an untidy-looking middle-aged woman in a mud-colored twinset, rumpled tweed skirt, and sagging heavy stockings, appeared.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ketcham. Mr. Yeats is expecting us.”

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Ransome, come in.”

She led them through a dark hallway into an equally dark and cluttered library, as hot and stuffy as the hall was cold and drafty. The room smelled of wood smoke and ancient paper. A shrunken old man sat behind a massive desk, a shawl around his shoulders. He rose as they came in, but he tottered, and leaned against the desk for balance.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Yeats. We will sit, too,” Rachel said. “Mr. Yeats, Mr. Quincy.”

“Good morning, good morning,” Yeats said, and lowered himself back into his chair. “Come close to the fire, it’s chilly in here.” He rubbed his shriveled hands together. “What about coffee, eh? Too early for sherry, I think. I never drink sherry before one o’clock.”

Mrs. Ketcham returned, carrying a tray. She served tepid instant coffee, passed a plate of limp-looking biscuits, and left.

“What brings you here, Mrs. Ransome?” Yeats asked, his mouth full of biscuit, crumbs spraying over the papers on the desk.

“I should like to show Mr. Quincy the Dürers. I have told him of their exceptional condition,” Rachel said.

“Of course, of course, I’ll get them.” He rose again, and selected a large folio from a stack of similar folios on a nearby table. He placed it on his desk, dangerously near his half full coffee cup.

Rachel rose, removed the cup and the biscuit plate, and put them on another table. She remained standing near Yeats while he opened the folio.

It was empty, except for the tissue paper that should have separated the prints. The old man looked at Rachel. “They’re not here,” he whispered, his face gray.

“I was afraid of that. I suspect they have been stolen, and sold in New York. But calm yourself, we will get them back.”

Yeats opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Quincy helped the old man sit down and replaced the shawl around his shoulders. He picked up a lap robe that lay on the floor and spread it over Yeats’s knees.

“We should have this folio fingerprinted. It is probably useless, but one should never overlook the obvious,” Rachel said.

She pulled an old-fashioned bell cord, and Mrs. Ketcham reappeared.

“Mrs. Ketcham, the Baldorean has suffered a theft. Will you please bring me a case for this folio? I want to take it to London to be checked for fingerprints. And will you bring me your ledger? And the photographs?” She turned to Quincy. “When I first moved to England, I visited this collection. I could see that it would be easy for an unscrupulous person to steal objects. Visitors sit at the table in the alcove out of sight of Mr. Yeats’s desk. Mr. Yeats is usually concentrating on his reading or his writing. But most of the works are stamped with the Baldorean stamp. It looks like this.”

She selected a book from a nearby shelf, and handed it, open, to Quincy. The inside of the back cover had been stamped with a seal. “Stamps like this are not easy to remove, and nothing in the Baldorean Collection has ever been sold. Removing the stamp would require great effort, and it would be impossible to disguise its removal. This is a deterrent to theft. But the missing Dürers were not identified in any way as being a part of the Baldorean Collection.”

Yeats nodded, shuffling papers on his desk. “It was my folly, my folly. I could not bear to mark them. Everyone said I should, but I simply could not, could not do it,” he said, his voice barely audible, his hands trembling.

“Yes, it was folly, but understandable. Never mind, I am sure they will be returned. But not unmarked, I fear,” Rachel said in a quiet aside to Quincy. “I suspect the new ‘owner’ will have stamped them.”

Mrs. Ketcham returned with a large suitcase, a pair of gray suede gloves, and a tapestry carryall. She donned the gloves, put the folio in the suitcase, and set the suitcase by the door. She opened the tapestry bag. “The ledger and the pictures are in here. Here is the latest picture.” She handed a Polaroid to Rachel, who held it out to Quincy.

He stared at it. “It’s you and me. Where was it taken? The window above the door?”

“Yes. Mrs. Ketcham took the photograph before she opened the door. It is part of the security system she and I devised for the Baldorean. Mrs. Ketcham keeps a guest list with all the names of those who visit here, the dates, how long they are here, what they asked to see. Each guest must sign a register. But as it is easy to use a false name and produce false identification, she also photographs visitors.

“We shall look at the photos of everyone who was here in the last year,” she said, accepting a small stack of Polaroids from Mrs. Ketcham and running quickly through them. “Thank you. Yes, here is Simon,” she said to Quincy, passing a photo to him. “Disguised, but clearly recognizable if you know what to look for.” The bearded figure in the photograph wore horn-rimmed glasses, and long dark hair partly obscured his face.

Quincy shook his head. “I’d never have known that was Simon. In fact, I don’t recognize him even now that you’ve identified him,” he said.

They looked at the name written on the back of the photo: “Ravenscroft” in Mrs. Ketcham’s writing. “I took the name from the register, of course,” she said.

“The shape of that long boney head is unmistakable,” Rachel said.

“Well, I suppose the use of the name Ravenscroft settles it. Very few people know that was your name,” Quincy said.

“I noticed the name when he signed the register, but I didn’t recognize him,” Mrs. Ketcham said. “He wore jeans, an American sort of pullover, and a cap. He spoke with an American accent. I only saw Simon twice, and his clothes were so splendid, one hardly noticed anything else, except his fair hair, his beautiful teeth, and his Oxbridge accent.”

Rachel turned the pages of the guest register. “I am sure he did not expect anyone to notice for a long time that the Dürers were missing. He tried to implicate me by using my name: he signed the register ‘R. Ravenscroft.’ Is there anything else can you tell us, Mrs. Ketcham? He did ask to see the Dürers?”

“He did, and no one has asked to see them since he was here. He,” she spoke softly now, and nodded toward the old man, “said he’d checked them when he put the portfolio away. I photographed ‘Ravenscroft’s’ car and the registration plate, as I always do.” Mrs. Ketcham handed another Polaroid to Rachel.

“It is a rental car—look at the plates. Perhaps he rented it at Heathrow—it is the logical place. He may have rented it in his own name, even charged it to the gallery. He would have been confident no one would check. That should be easy to determine,” Rachel said. She turned to Quincy. “Will you handle whatever needs to be done to prosecute him? Get in touch with the authorities? And Lord Gresham? Someone will have to call this man Bain. Will you do that as well?”

“Certainly. I think we should start back to London now, don’t you? We have quite a lot to do.”