by Kay Hooper
“I thought they did catch you,” Wolfe said slowly.
“No. They knew I was there, and they weren’t very happy about it, but they didn’t seem too worried either. It was after they’d gone that I was tied up. Quinn did that. I . . . uh . . . made a fuss when he decided to steal the dagger, so he tied me to the display case.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No, he was wearing a ski mask. He wouldn’t tell me what he’d come there to steal originally, he just said that when he discovered he wasn’t the only thief in the building—and was outnumbered—he decided to stay out of their way.”
Wolfe looked at her steadily for a moment, then said, “You seem to have had quite a conversation with him.”
Morgan flushed a little but continued to meet his gaze. “I can’t really explain, except that I didn’t feel threatened by him. I mean, I wasn’t afraid of him at all. He was even sort of charming—and don’t remind me he’s no better than the others. I know that, believe me. It’s just that if I’d told the police, it only would have complicated things and, besides, it sounded so improbable. It doesn’t make a difference, does it? The only item he took was the dagger, and if he fences that it’s bound to surface, so—”
“You know better than that. If the dagger does surface, it could well lead the police off on a wild-goose chase. It could indicate to them that all the other items could be fenced as well, so they’d concentrate on the wrong assumption.”
“Common thieves versus collectors.” Morgan nodded with a sigh. “I know, I know. I obviously wasn’t thinking straight.”
Wolfe eyed her thoughtfully, then shrugged. “It probably won’t make all that much difference in the end. The police have to follow standard procedure in robbery cases, which means they’ll keep an eye on known fences. Not really much else they can do without a solid suspect. If the dagger surfaces alone, they’ll try to follow that lead as a matter of course—but they won’t go off track for long.” He paused for an instant, then added, “If you had blown the whistle about Quinn being there, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference in the way the police work the case. If Quinn’s in this country, the police’ll know about it soon enough.”
“I guess our police would know about him, wouldn’t they? But they wouldn’t know any more than the information Interpol provides on their watch list.”
“Probably not. They’ll know his M.O., the alias he uses, the sort of artworks and gems he tends to go after.” Wolfe spoke rather absently, his frowning gaze fixed on Morgan’s desk.
“Wasn’t a journalist in England responsible for that alias? I mean, didn’t the journalist start using the name Quinn to describe this particular thief because it meant wise and intelligent, or something like that?”
“If I remember rightly, the journalist claimed he’d received a note from the thief after a big robbery, and it was signed Quinn. The police were never sure it actually came from him, but the name stuck. It was later on that somebody decided he’d chosen the alias because of what it meant.”
“Do you think he did?”
“I doubt the note was from him at all. Stupid to claim responsibility for a robbery and give the police a chance to start building a file on him. And I’ve never heard he was stupid.”
“The journalist—or someone else—trying to get more newsprint out of a robbery?”
“Maybe. Probably. In any case, it was the beginning of all the . . . smoke and mirrors around Quinn and his activities. I always figured the myth got a lot bigger than the man.”
Morgan wasn’t so sure about that, but wasn’t about to say so. Instead, she said, “He is supposed to be good, though. Very, very good at what he does.”
“Being active and at large for ten years, he damned well has to be good.”
After a slight hesitation, Morgan said, “There haven’t been any reported robberies by Quinn in the States until now; I checked. He came here, Wolfe. Straight here, to San Francisco. And he knew I was the director of Max’s exhibit. I don’t know what he was doing at the other museum last night—but I think we should assume the Bannister collection is his ultimate target.”
“Great,” Wolfe said a bit grimly. “That’s just great.”
“It isn’t a totally unexpected problem,” Morgan pointed out. “We’ve known all along the exhibit would be a target. And it certainly is a big enough target to tempt even an international thief like Quinn. But it doesn’t change anything. You said it yourself; all we can do is make it as difficult as possible for any thief, or group of thieves, to get to the exhibit. And you said Max gave us full authority to do whatever it takes.”
“Yeah, but I wish he’d consider canceling. I’m more than a little inclined to call him again and try my hand at persuading him to.”
“You know him better than I do,” Morgan said. “But from all he’s said to me, I don’t think it’s an option.”
“No, probably not.”
“Besides, he’s on his honeymoon. He’ll be back in a couple of weeks, still well before the collection is moved from the vault and long before the exhibit is due to open. Maybe by then we’ll have something a little more definite to tell him.”
“You saw Quinn, Morgan. Talked to him. How more definite could that be?”
“He only told me that’s who he was. Maybe he was lying.”
“Is that what you think?”
She hesitated, then swore under her breath. “No. I think it was Quinn. But we still don’t know for sure that he’s after the collection. We can assume, but we don’t know for sure. He could decide to take advantage of all the attention being focused on the exhibit to rob somebody else.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, chances are good he’s after the collection.”
Wolfe stared at her.
“More than good,” she admitted reluctantly.
“I’d say pretty damned certain.”
Morgan sighed. “Yeah.” She gathered her copies of police reports and various notes and stacked them neatly on her blotter. “Well, I’m getting on the horn to the security company right now. If their bright boys and girls know any tricks we haven’t planned for security here, I want to know what they are. If we have to, we’ll turn this place into Fort Knox.”
“I hear that.”
Carla Reeves delivered the information he demanded. It didn’t take her long, since she had complete access to everything he wanted, and making copies of the schematics was easy. It was also easy to get them out of the office, because she’d developed the sterling reputation of working late and the night guard was accustomed to locking up after her.
She met her blackmailer where and when he’d instructed, and handed over a zip disk.
“These are the most recent diagrams?”
Carla nodded. “Yeah.”
“Thank you, Carla.”
She eyed him. “So . . . we’re done now?”
“We’re done . . . for now.”
It was what she’d expected, though it certainly didn’t make her happy. “Look, I can’t keep nosing around in the system, making copies of stuff for you. There are safeguards built in, firewalls I might not see until it’s too late.”
“Then if I were you,” he said, “I’d be very, very careful.”
“Please, I can’t—”
“You’d better. And do try not to get caught, Carla. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be happy about that. Not happy at all.”
Carla Reeves felt a chill and it had nothing at all to do with the cool night air.
Morgan ran into Wolfe just outside the hallway where the office spaces were located, and even though the scowl on his face didn’t invite discussion or even greetings, she happily waded in where even angels would have been wary.
“You called Max again, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I called him.”
“And he refused to even consider canceling the exhibit.”
Wolfe’s scowl deepened. “He won’t even consider delaying the opening.”
&nb
sp; “And you’re pissed.”
Since she was more or less barring his way, Wolfe was forced to reply. “Of course I’m not pissed at Max,” he replied.
Morgan lifted an eyebrow.
“All right, so I’m pissed. He’s hidebound about keeping his promises, even when it might be better—” Wolfe sighed explosively. “Never mind. It isn’t my collection, I just work for the people who insure it.”
“Ours not to reason why?”
“Something like that. Anyway, at the moment I’m more . . . irritated . . . by the computer nerd back there. I think he’s in over his head and won’t admit it.”
“If you keep calling him the computer nerd, I’m not surprised he won’t admit anything to you. His name is Jonathan.”
“It is?”
Morgan sighed. “Yes, it is. And no matter how young and . . . um . . . addled he sometimes seems to be, he’s an expert.”
“Yeah. Supposed to be one of the best Ace Security has, but you can’t prove it by me.”
“Do you know enough about computers to be sure he’s screwing up?”
“I know enough to recognize bravado when I see it. And he’s worried too.”
“So what’re you going to do about it?”
“Not much I can do, for the moment. Max wanted Ace Security, and Lloyd’s approved. Ace says this kid is one of their best. Fine. But that doesn’t mean I can’t demand somebody higher up the food chain than he is come in and check his work.”
“You’re probably just making him nervous.”
“Who, me?”
Morgan grinned at him. “Yeah, you. Mind you, I enjoy the show whenever you’re breathing fire and raining brimstone, but I imagine it isn’t all that conducive to exacting technical work.”
“If he can’t take a little heat,” Wolfe retorted, “he doesn’t belong in the job. Security is not a business for wimps.”
“Gotcha. Um . . . Wolfe? You’ve been in security awhile, right?”
“Ten years, or thereabouts. Why?”
Morgan hugged her clipboard and tried her best to look only mildly curious. “I was just wondering if you’d run into Quinn before now.”
Wolfe looked at her steadily, his face peculiarly unexpressive. Then, in a voice that was also rather impassive, he said, “Couple of years ago. I was staying in a private home in London. Got up in the middle of the night looking for something to read, and caught Quinn with his hand in the safe.”
“Jesus.” That was rather more than Morgan had expected. “What happened?”
With a short laugh, Wolfe said, “Nothing much. He got away. It wasn’t what I recall as one of my finer moments.”
“Well . . . he’s pretty slippery, by all accounts. I mean, you can’t blame yourself for not being able to catch him when Interpol hasn’t been able to all these years.”
“Thanks,” Wolfe said dryly.
“Didn’t make you feel any better about it, did I?”
“No, but don’t worry about it. Morgan . . . if you’ve got the idea that Quinn is some kind of romantic figure—”
Feeling her face get hot, she instantly said, “No, of course not. I know he’s a thief.”
“And not a Robin Hood sort of thief,” Wolfe reminded her. “He’s not robbing the rich to feed the poor.”
“I know. I know that. I’m just curious, that’s all. Meeting him the way I did . . .”
“I hear he can be pretty charming when he wants to. But think about why he might want to, Morgan. You’re the director of the Mysteries Past exhibit. The one person who knows just about everything there is to know about it.”
“A valuable source of information,” she murmured.
“For a thief, the absolute best source. You pointed out yourself that he came straight here, straight to San Francisco. Straight to the future home of Max’s collection.”
Morgan squared her shoulders and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Maybe it’s not such a coincidence that you ran into him last night.”
That did surprise her. “I don’t see how it could have been anything else. He was in the museum long before I got there, he had to be. And no one knew Peter would take me there after hours. I didn’t even know, until we were in the car.”
Wolfe shrugged. “Okay, maybe so. Just keep in mind that there aren’t too many coincidences with somebody like Quinn on the scene. From all I hear, he has the knack of manipulating people and events to suit his own purposes.”
“I’ve heard that,” she admitted.
“Believe it. He wouldn’t have been so successful for so many years if he hadn’t learned to turn any situation to his own advantage. And if he’s good enough, you’ll never know he’s pulling the strings. Things aren’t always the way they appear to be.”
“Does that go for people too?”
Wolfe’s smile was wry. “Definitely for people. Most people have their own agenda, you’ve lived long enough to know that. We both know what Quinn’s agenda has to be. All I’m saying is, don’t get caught up in the myth of him. At the end of the day, a thief is a thief. Period.”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “I know.”
Several days passed. The slow process of converting an outdated security system continued; Wolfe was in and out, sometimes clearly harassed but usually his rather laconic self, and Morgan dealt briskly with the myriad details of her job.
On Thursday, Wolfe asked Morgan if she would attend a party with him the following evening. It was being hosted by a friend of Max’s, a man who was a very influential patron and collector in the art world. The party was a benefit to raise money for a struggling art school in the city, and according to the society pages the elite of San Francisco were expected to attend.
Morgan had done administrative work for another art museum as well as for a foundation based in San Francisco, so she tended to be on the guest list for the benefits and parties connected to the art world, but she had pretty much decided not to go until Wolfe asked her.
If he was interested enough in the party—or the guests—to want to attend, then she wanted to be there as well.
After what he’d said, she was reasonably sure Wolfe was convinced that the gang of thieves led by the charming Ed had behind them at least one art collector, and possibly several of them. So it made sense he’d want to get a good, close-up look at as many collectors as possible, all conveniently gathered together under one roof as if for his inspection.
As for Morgan being his “date,” she understood that as well. Not being at all his usual type—long-legged blondes—she wouldn’t distract him from business. And if, by chance, he met someone there who did distract him, Morgan would be sure to understand. And take a cab home.
“I even brought the fare with me,” she told him cheerfully on Friday evening as he drove them to the party.
“Morgan, I’m not planning on abandoning you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re not. But just in case you decide to later, I thought you should know I’m prepared.”
Wolfe shook his head but didn’t bother to argue with her. “I want to talk to some of these collectors. It’s a purely business evening for me.”
“If you say so. Does Leo know you and Max are half brothers?”
“I doubt it.” Wolfe shrugged. “Since I wasn’t raised here, and Max doesn’t really talk about family, I doubt many people know. Not that it’s a secret, it just hasn’t come up.”
“I only know because Max told me why he trusted you more than any other representative of Lloyd’s to handle security for the exhibit. He said you’d been raised by your fathers and hadn’t gotten to know each other until about fifteen years ago.”
“True enough.”
“He also said your mother was an amazing woman and that he was terrified of her.”
Wolfe grinned faintly. “Also true. She could command armies, our mother. You’d never know it to look at her, but she brings the term ‘iron hand in a velvet glove’ to a whole new level. And has about five different kinds of charm.
I’ve seen some of the most powerful men in the world following along behind her like besotted idiots.”
“Max said your father and his had both remained friendly with her after the divorces.”
“Mother never makes enemies, especially husbands.”
Morgan had to laugh. “She sounds fascinating. I’d love to meet her one day. Max said she travels?”
“Yeah. Last I heard, she was either in Australia or New Zealand.”
“Any chance she might be heading this way?”
“God knows.”
Perceptively, Morgan said, “You don’t want her here, do you?”
“While Max’s collection has the potential to draw every villain in the country to our doorstep? No.”
“You know, I hadn’t thought about it quite that way.”
“I had,” Wolfe said, turning his rented sports car into the long driveway of Leo Cassady’s Sea Cliff mansion. “I had.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
* * *
San Francisco was famous for a number of things, including the Golden Gate Bridge, but since Quinn’s interest was professional, what interested him were portable treasures—and the security systems that protected them.
Very good security systems.
It probably wasn’t surprising, considering how long the city had housed some very wealthy people, that San Francisco boasted some of the newest and toughest security systems in existence. Leo Cassady, for instance, lived in a mansion whose security system would have shamed most banks.
From his vantage point on the roof of a building nearly half a block away, Quinn watched the cream of San Francisco society arriving. His infrared binoculars gave him a close-up view of everyone, and he caught himself mentally calculating the dollar worth of some of the jewels adorning some of those sleek, well-toned bodies.
The staggering total he arrived at was immensely tempting, but even more so when added to the probable value of what else he knew the mansion contained: Leo Cassady’s private collection of artworks and artifacts.
