The Capitalist

by Peter Steiner

  “My attorney has instructed me to direct everyone to the SEC,” said Lorraine.

  “I understand,” said Dimitri with a smile. He turned and left. All he had really wanted for now was to know where she was. When the time was right, he would find out from her where Larrimer was. Then he would extract the money from Larrimer—including interest and expenses. He would probably kill Larrimer and his accomplices. Usually Dimitri left that sort of thing to his underlings, but when it came to situations like this—in a foreign country with vast sums of money at stake, Dimitri preferred to do the job himself. He didn’t know whether this Usher woman was an accomplice. But she was a witness, so either way she had to go.

  From that day on, Dimitri Adropov or an associate sat in his car and kept watch on Lorraine Usher’s house. Dimitri saw Louis arrive, and he watched him leave some hours later. This man was old. But in Dimitri’s business (not the oil part of his business) he had learned to judge men, and there was something about this man he did not like.

  * * *

  As Louis got out of the cab in front of his hotel, the sun came out from behind the clouds. A passing shower had swept the air clean. The light was golden and clear, and the air, despite the humidity, was cool and invigorating. Such light and air were like a magnet for Louis, drawing him outside to walk, no matter what else he had to do.

  Walking was not just a passion for Louis. It was part of who he was, a central aspect of his disposition, a quality of his being. He walked the way most people breathed. He walked to put things in perspective, to figure out what needed to be done, but also, as he saw it, to stay alive. He had walked the length and breadth of France. One of the things he loved best about that country was that it had given him walking.

  Louis had long made it a habit to wear only good walking shoes, no matter what the venue. He had two pairs of such shoes—the broken-in pair he was wearing now and the newer pair he was breaking in back home, lug-soled leather lace-ups that came to his ankles. Without even thinking about it, Louis set out up Fifth Avenue, went a block east, and continued up Madison. He moved at a brisk pace. He liked seeing the shops. They were, to his mind, part of an exotic landscape.

  Just above Ninetieth Street, he turned west and headed into the park. He followed the meandering paths where they led. He stopped at the reservoir and leaned on the fence, looking west to the apartment buildings on the other side. They were perfectly reflected in the mirror surface of the reservoir. A pair of mallards skidded onto the water, and the reflection broke into pieces.

  Louis turned and continued in a southerly direction. Once he left the reservoir, the paths meandered west then east then west again. He came upon a quartet of musicians playing. A saxophone case lay open in front of them. He dropped some money into the case and sat down on a bench to listen. It was an unseasonably warm day. He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. There was a thin film of perspiration on his arms.

  Louis did not usually pause like this when he walked. The rhythm of the walking, the steady pounding of his feet, the swinging of his arms were part of what he loved. But when he was being followed—as he was fairly certain was the case now—an instinct from his earlier life broke into his consciousness like a discordant note and turned it in a more vigilant direction. His attentiveness shifted from the park and pathways to the configuration of people around him.

  The large, well-dressed man following him seemed not to care whether Louis noticed him or not, which made Louis careful not to give any indication that he had. Toward the south end of the park, Louis turned back toward Fifth and then went north until he came to the spot where he had gotten out of the cab.

  He went into the office tower beside his hotel. The lobby ran perpendicular to the street for fifteen meters, then made a ninety-degree left turn to the concierge’s desk. Louis rounded the corner and approached the concierge’s desk, then turned abruptly, as though he had changed his mind. He walked back toward the blind corner, which he and Dimitri Adropov—the other man—reached at exactly the same moment. They collided, and Louis staggered backward and fell. Dimitri instinctively reached out to catch Louis by the arm, as Louis hit the floor.

  “Sorry, very sorry,” said Dimitri. And he looked sorry. The concierge rushed from behind his desk, and together he and Dimitri helped Louis to his feet. Louis wobbled a bit and leaned on Dimitri while the concierge brought a chair from behind his desk. Dimitri lowered Louis gently onto the chair. “You are all right?” he asked. He wanted to get away as quickly as he could, but to be too hasty might seem suspicious. Thankfully, Louis came to his rescue.

  “Go on,” said Louis with a wave of his hand. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just sit here another minute. I came in the wrong door. I thought this was the Park East Hotel.”

  “The Park East is next door,” said the concierge.

  “Should I go with you?” said Dimitri.

  “No, really, I’m fine,” said Louis. He stood up, steadier this time. He brushed off his clothes a bit. “Seriously, you go on. I’ll be fine. It was my fault; I’m sorry.” He offered Dimitri his hand.

  “All right then,” said Dimitri. “I go now.” He shook hands with Louis, thanked him, thanked the concierge, and left.

  Louis waited a moment, and when by his calculation Dimitri had left the building, ran to the revolving door, much to the concierge’s astonishment. Louis watched as Dimitri hurried to a black Chevrolet Suburban and sped off.

  From his room Louis called Lorraine’s number, but there was no answer. He called Renard at home. “Do you know what time it is?” said the policeman.

  “Midnight. You weren’t sleeping.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  Renard gave up. “Okay. What do you want?”

  “I’ve learned some interesting things about Larrimer. I’ll tell you all about him when I get home.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “But here’s something more important. I was followed by a Russian, a mobster, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “He was carrying a large pistol.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We bumped into each other. Do you think you could find out who he is?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “So, how am I supposed to—”

  “We had our picture taken. Arm in arm: the security camera at the concierge desk, 1012 Fifth Avenue. Today’s date, about five-fifteen.”

  “What is it?” said Isabelle after Renard hung up the phone. She was smiling. She knew it would be a good story.

  XXIV

  LOUIS DIALED THE CIA SWITCHBOARD in Langley, Virginia. He gave his name and said that he wanted to speak to Peter Sanchez. No one else. Peter Sanchez. He was put on hold. He had helped Peter out of a bad spot a couple of years earlier and, as uncomfortable as it was for Peter to admit it, he owed Louis his career. He would not be pleased to hear from Louis, but he could not afford to ignore his call. The next voice Louis heard said, “This is the duty officer, Mr. Morgon. Please give me your contact information.”

  Louis was fairly certain Renard would never get anywhere near that security film. But he was also certain he would try, driven by the need to watch over Louis, and probably also out of curiosity. Louis also knew that once Peter Sanchez knew that Renard had tried, then Peter would have to go after it himself, if for no other reason than to find out what Louis was up to.

  Louis did not know who the Russian was or why he was following him. But he thought that it must be connected to the Larrimer case (in his mind it was now the Larrimer case), and he could only have found Louis by way of Lorraine Usher. Louis tried her number again, and this time she answered. She recognized Dimitri as soon as Louis began describing him. “He was here. He didn’t give his name, so I don’t know whether he’s on the list of people that lost money or not.”

  “Do you remember anything about his visit?”

 
“I remember it very well. I referred him to the SEC, and he went away.”

  “He didn’t insist or protest or ask any questions?”

  “No. I was surprised that he didn’t. But he left quickly, got in his car and drove away.”

  “His car?”

  “A big black car. I didn’t get the license number. I wasn’t thinking that way then.”

  “New York, HBN-646?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “If things get … tricky, do you have somewhere you can go, someone you can stay with?”

  “Tricky?”

  “Dangerous. My guess is this guy wants to find Larrimer pretty badly, and if he doesn’t by other means, he will probably come back to see you. And he might not leave as easily this time. So is there somewhere you can go?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “What about your brother-in-law, Bruno?”

  “Renee—my sister—and their kid are both allergic to cats, so what do I do about Arthur? Do you think this really could get dangerous?”

  “It could.”

  “Should I have a gun?”

  “Have you ever used a gun?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Lorraine. But I may have a place you could go; I’ll see what I can set up. Listen, Lorraine, one last thing before we hang up. Where did Larrimer buy his paintings and prints?”

  “He bought at all the auction houses—Christie’s, Sotheby’s, sometimes smaller places.”

  “He had accounts with them?”

  “Yes. They’d all send stuff over for him to look at. If he didn’t like it after a few days, they’d take it back.”

  “And what about private dealers? Did he buy from any galleries or private dealers?”

  Lorraine thought for a minute. “Sometimes. There was one guy. He called the office occasionally. Mr. Jones. No first name, just Mr. Jones.”

  The next morning after breakfast, Louis walked over to Sotheby’s. At the entrance he was asked to sign a visitors’ registry. He wrote “Mr. Jones.” He took the escalators up to the fifth floor, where the pieces were being assembled for the upcoming auction. He found a wall of works by Picasso—three etchings, a lithograph, a painting. It was not long before a staff member, an identity card around her neck, was by his side. She was young and pretty and tall.

  “It’s a wonderful late work, don’t you think?” she said, brushing her hair back with one hand. She stood admiring the painting before turning her head and smiling at Louis.

  “Yes, it certainly is.” Louis gestured vaguely with his hand toward the canvas. “This passage here…”

  “Yes,” she said. “The brushwork, the mix of colors. We can see the master in full and total control of his medium. He has reached the summit of the art universe and is now free to paint as he wants.”

  “Yes,” said Louis. He leaned in to look at the ticket. “Nine million minimum,” he said.

  “Please let me know if I can be of any help,” said the young woman. She turned to walk away.

  “Actually,” said Louis, “I have a client who may be interested in this painting. He can’t be at the auction; he will want to bid by phone.”

  She was by his side again; her smile had returned. “Of course, sir. That can easily be arranged.”

  “He’s bought from you before.”

  “His name?” She tapped her tablet and prepared to search for the client’s name and account information.

  “That’s the thing,” said Louis. “He’ll want to bid anonymously.”

  “That can be arranged as well.”

  “In the past he’s bought under his own name. It would be well known to you. The thing is he wants to remain anonymous to Sotheby’s as well. Not only for his protection, but for Sotheby’s.”

  “I think,” said the young woman, “you should probably speak with our accounts manager.” Louis gave the Picasso painting one last look and followed the young woman across the exhibition space to a heavy door. She poked at the small keypad and the door lock clicked. Louis followed her inside and down a short hall. She knocked on an unmarked office door and they went in. The accounts manager rose to greet them. He wore stylish eyeglasses with thick black frames, a black suit, a gray tie, and a plaid pocket square. The young woman began, “Mr.…”

  “Jones,” said Louis.

  “Mr. Jones would like to make arrangements for an anonymous bidder for the November auction.”

  “I see,” said the accounts manager. He gestured toward a chair and waited until Louis was seated before he sat down. The young woman left the office. “Now, Mr. Jones, please tell me what I can do for you.”

  Louis explained that he had been engaged as a consultant for a certain collector—a major client of Sotheby’s and a frequent bidder at auction, particularly for works by Picasso, Matisse, and Bonnard. “He had in fact been expecting to have his print collection exhibited at the Met, that is until…” The accounts manager smiled and raised his hand to indicate that he already knew whom Louis was talking about.

  “We understand … the situation,” the accounts manager said, knitting his manicured fingers together. “We are of course aware of matters. I am delighted to learn that he wants to continue building his already formidable collection. In fact, I had thought of your client in connection with The Lovers, the Picasso you were looking at just now, but despaired that he would be in no position to acquire it. As you must know, it has been in a private collection for the last fifty years. It hasn’t been seen since then. Of course Sotheby’s must remain very discreet in this matter. Still, The Lovers would make a wonderful addition to his collection. A cornerstone work, really.”

  The accounts manager paused to tap on his computer keyboard. “Will he be bidding, or will someone be bidding on his behalf?”

  “I feel certain he will want to bid himself.”

  “We will need his newest information in order to proceed. Including banks for payment purposes, that sort of thing.” The accounts manager touched the keyboard, and the printer behind him began humming. “Of course we will need to verify everything once we receive the completed forms.” He slid the papers across the desk to Louis.

  “If he manages to acquire The Lovers,” said Louis, “there is also the matter of delivery. As you can imagine his American assets have been—”

  The accounts manager raised his hands again. “We will leave those matters to you. I’m sure the highest discretion is in everyone’s interest—yours, your client’s, and ours. When the time comes, we will direct you to insurance underwriters and shipping companies we work with on a regular basis, who are known for their reliability. And their discretion. It is all really quite manageable, Mr. Jones. I assure you.”

  “Thank you for your help.” Louis stood up, the two men shook hands, and Louis left the office. On his way out he found the young woman and asked to take some digital photos of the Picasso. He took five or six while she watched. He thanked her and left the building.

  Christie’s did not have any Picassos consigned for their next auction. There was an excellent Georges Braque, which the young assistant thought might interest Mr. Jones’s client. Louis met with the Christie’s accounts manager, and the same scenario repeated itself until the accounts manager looked at Larrimer’s account information.

  “Ah,” he said, “here you are. Hamilton Jones. I see you’ve been Mr. Larrimer’s agent for some years now, Hamilton. And you also represent … well, you already know who you represent, don’t you?” He gave a great bellowing laugh Louis guessed was meant to draw attention away from his small stature.

  “I think so,” said Louis, laughing and leaning forward. “Let me see. Do you have everybody?”

  The Christie’s manager turned the screen around, and Louis was offered a look not only at Hamilton Jones’s clients but at his complete contact information. Louis studied the screen.

  “That’s almost everyone; just one missing,” he said. “Good show!”

&nb
sp; The manager’s face fell. “Oh, dear.”

  “No, no, don’t worry. He’s new. You couldn’t have known. He’s an American collector living in France since the seventies. I found him quite by accident only recently. He has an extraordinary collection of paintings—Matisse, Picasso, Derain, Bonnard. All bought from private dealers, never at auction. He’d be interested in your Braque, except, like I said, he never buys at auction. I’ve tried to convince him to, but he won’t budge. Once in a while he sells something.”

  Louis suddenly stopped himself. “Oh, my. I’m afraid I’ve already said too much. Of course I can’t give you his name. He would never forgive me.”

  XXV

  LOUIS CALLED LORRAINE USHER. “Was Larrimer’s art buyer named Hamilton Jones?”

  Lorraine thought for a moment. “That name sounds familiar. Maybe it was.”

  “Do you remember whether there was a Hamilton Jones listed among Larrimer’s clients?”

  Louis could hear Lorraine reciting the J’s to herself. “No,” she said. “No Hamilton Jones.”

  Louis called the number he had gotten from the Christie’s computer.

  “This is Hamilton Jones.” The voice was nasal and resonant and had the suggestion of an aristocratic English accent.

  “Mr. Jones, this is Louis Morgon calling. I’m going to be liquidating my painting collection and I need some professional help in that regard. I understand you are in that business.”

  “Louis…?”

  “Morgon, Louis Morgon. M-o-r-g-o-n.”

  “How did you hear about me, Mr. Morgon?”

  “I would rather not say. Let’s just say I heard good things.”