by Joan Smith
“Looks like a pâté to me."
“Yuck. It tastes like lard. I thought Angelina's was bad. And look at all these high-class people gobbling it up.” He put it in a handkerchief and slid it in his pocket.
The Minister of Culture met up with some noteworthy folks and abandoned Bergma. I came to attention to see what Bergma did, now that he was free. He was busy greeting assorted socialites, mostly female. The men didn't seem crazy about him, but the women were fawning. No handshakes for them; they pushed their powdered and rouged cheeks forward for a kiss. I discovered, or imagined, that he was nervous. That was the only thing I could come up with. I stuck close enough to hear what was being said, and it was all perfectly innocent stuff about how marvelous and fantastic and exquisite the exhibition was, and what a treasure they had in dear Jan. A few mentioned Mrs. Searle's party and other holiday festivities to which he was bid.
It all seemed like a waste of time, except for the pleasure of watching Jan's matchless face and form. My eyes were glued to him when he suddenly gave a leap like a wounded animal. His head shot up, his body turned rigid, and his pale face suffered a sudden infusion of blood. I followed the line of his eyes and saw him staring at an Arab.
At least I think the man was an Arab. He wasn't dressed in a burnoose or anything, but his skin was swarthy and he had those impenetrable, black eyes, like Jan himself. His hair was black, combed straight back. He looked about fifty years old, stocky of figure. He was wearing an impeccably tailored dark suit, and on his arm hung a highly ornamental young lady. I had an impression he was glaring at Jan in a meaningful way. He turned his head, spoke to his partner, and they moved on.
My next interest was in the partner. I decided he had either robbed the cradle or was with his daughter. The shy, wilting violet air suggested a daughter on her best behavior. She too had that dusky skin and black eyes; her mane of hair was long and curled, but the color matched her partner's. The eyes had a slightly oriental cast though—maybe his wife was an Oriental. As to the rest of her, she was just plain sexy, beautiful. One of those dainty women who appeal to men's chivalrous instincts. Beside her, even Hot Buns would look like a Clydesdale. She wore a deep-blue clinging gown that reeked of Paris. I thought the blue-and-white stones around her neck would be the real McCoy. There'd be a sable or some expensive fur parked at the coat check.
“It wouldn't take a Don Juan to fall for that lady!” Gino exclaimed. Odd how he gave that illusion of slavering without actually drooling. “More curves than a corkscrew. I wouldn't mind snuggling up to that.” Only his physical repulsiveness saved him from promiscuity, I fear.
My eyes flew back to Jan. He had more or less recovered. The pink in his face was receding. I found it significant that he purposely turned his head directly away from the newcomers. Agatha Christie used the tingling of her thumbs to alert her to mystery. With me, it was more like the gang from Chorus Line doing kicks in my stomach. I had to notify John. I caught his eyes and gave him a wildly imperative toss of my head. Hot Buns was by his side, but chatting to someone. He spoke to her and nonchalantly weaved his way to me. “What's up?"
“The old guy in the dark suit, the one with the siren in blue. I think he's our third man. Jan nearly croaked when he came in. He seems to fill all the requirements. He's an Arab; therefore he's probably floating in money. He's interested in art, since he's here. And he glared at Jan. Jan leapt when he saw him. What do you think? Can you work the Bic-Pic on them?"
John studied the man as he mingled with the crowd. The Arab seemed to know an awful lot of people, but none of the ones I recognized from newspapers. It wasn't politicians or actors or singers he was talking to; therefore it must be the social set. And that suggested contacts in the world of high finance.
“Get a load of the lady!” Gino said, a piece of advice that was hardly necessary.
“I wonder who she is,” John said, eyeballing her with the keenest interest.
“Aren't two at a time enough for you?” I snipped.
“More than enough. It just happens I enjoy a better rapport with women. I'll tell you later what I've learned from Denise.” His hand went into his pocket and he drew out the lighter-camera, but there really was no excuse to use it in this room. There were signs plastered all over the entrance forbidding smoking.
“Better not use it here,” I said. “He might just notice a flame being lit for no reason. We don't want to make him suspicious."
“Here, use my pen,” Gino said, and pulled out a ballpoint, one of the cheapest ever manufactured.
“Is that a camera too?” I asked in a low voice.
“Are you nuts? It's a pen. I always use a lighter to heat up the ink when it doesn't work. Lots of people do. Here, I'll give you one of my cards, John, and you pretend you're trying to write something.” The card said Joe's Quick Lube. Fast, Cheap, Good.
That was what they did, after first edging close to our third man and taking careful aim. Neither the man nor his partner was paying the least attention to us. The man was deep in conversation with other businesspeople, and the woman was ogling all the celebrities. She smiled prettily at the TV show host and the conductor of the local symphony orchestra. John took pictures of them both; then tried to scribble something on the card with Gino's pen, which still didn't work.
“Okay, we've found out what we came for,” Gino said. “Can we split now?"
I looked at John. “Have you decided whether you're taking Denise home?"
“Not yet,” John said. “We want to be around if Bergma's friend makes contact. The friend will have to be followed when he leaves."
“You're the only one with a car. We'll all go,” I said.
He rubbed his chin. “The thing is, I think I can learn more from Denise if I can get another couple of glasses of champagne into her. You and Cassie better follow the Arab, Gino. Make sure Cassie gets home safe, huh?"
“Does Hot Buns have wheels, or will you be taking a cab?” I asked.
“I don't know. The subject hasn't come up. I'll call you tomorrow, Cassie."
“Sure,” I said airily, and cast a sheep's eye at Jan Bergma in retaliation. He actually noticed me, and smiled. “See you tomorrow then,” I said, and wafted toward Jan to join the carnivorous matrons gathered around him.
“Good evening,” he smiled. Every tooth a pearl. “I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Miss—"
“Newman,” I said, and took his hand.
“I didn't think you were one of the museum's volunteers. I wouldn't forget anyone so lovely."
I could feel myself glow. “Actually I've been wanting to join. I'm a student at McGill. I wasn't sure the museum would be interested in someone who doesn't live in the city all year."
“Summer is not the busy season. We have several students from McGill.” He went on to name the crème de la crème, all women. I knew some of them to speak to, and claimed friendly intimacy with them all, so he'd think I was somebody too.
“I'll certainly be in touch after the holidays then,” I said.
“Excellent. I may not be here myself. I'm just on sabbatical. I'll be leaving in January, but don't let that deter you. Mrs. Searle is in charge of the Volunteer Committee. I'll speak to her."
“Oh you're leaving!” I said with a moue. “Not too early in January, I hope?"
“My term expires the thirty-first of December. I plan to return very soon after. Just a little ski trip to the Laurentians first. Do you ski, Ms. Newman?"
“I love it. I may still be at Tremblant at the New Year myself. Where will you be staying?” Any tidbits might prove useful.
“With friends—the Mrs. Searle I mentioned earlier. They have a chalet there. Perhaps we'll meet on the slopes?"
“At the top of the Minute Mile,” I said gaily, and left, as he was beginning to show signs of impatience. One of the matrons had clamped a prehensile hand on him and was tugging. I didn't want John to see him walk away from me.
“Oh Ms. Newman!” he called after me, nice and
loud. “Perhaps I could get your phone number?"
“I'm in the book,” I assured him, with a come hither look.
His smile was extremely dashing and flirtatious. “So am I,” he said.
This was great! Not only was I showing John how attractive I was, but in case of necessity, I had an excuse to phone Jan and dig for information. Best of all, John was scowling like a gargoyle. I walked unconcernedly back to the Erté exhibition, where he soon joined me.
“You realize that guy's dangerous,” he said through clenched teeth.
“That's probably part of his charm."
“I hope you haven't given him your phone number!"
“He asked me for it, but I just told him I'm in the book— like him."
“He's not in the book. He's unlisted. I wish you hadn't given your real name. Remember what happened to Latour."
That sent a little chill scuttling up my spine. I was in the book. “We know Jan didn't kill him,” I pointed out.
“He probably gave the order. We know he's in it up to his bedroom eyes. You're staying with me tonight."
“Will this be a ménage à trois or à quatre? You forget I'm with Gino."
He gave me a look that would freeze fire. “I knew I should never have told you anything about this business. Now I can't take Hot Buns home. I'll get back to her now. And I don't want you to leave Gino's side."
I smiled enigmatically. I was glad to hear “Denise” had become “Hot Buns.” She seemed less of a threat when he called her that. While John induced Denise to tank up on the cheap domestic champagne, Gino and I watched all our suspects. We could vouch that Jan and the Arab hadn't exchanged a word. The lady in blue had managed a few flirtatious words with him, but I imagine she mistook him for a movie star. And anyway, they said only a few words.
When the Arab and his partner went for their coats, Gino darted off to John for the keys.
“I'm going with you,” John said.
I guess he was afraid Bergma would follow and kill me or perhaps subject me to a fate that he not so fondly imagined to be worse than death.
CHAPTER 9
Gino stood in front of the museum watching to see which way the Arab's car went while John and I flew to get his wheels. The car proved easy to follow. It was a chauffeur-driven white stretch Lincoln limousine. It didn't go far either, just down the street to the most exclusive hotel in the city, the Ritz Carlton. As the chauffeur helped the lady alight, I noticed she was swathed in a floating wolf coat I would die for. John drove on a few blocks till he found a place to park.
“The guy sure isn't trying to lay low,” Gino said. He was in the back now, breathing garlic fumes over our shoulders. “The car'll be easy to check out. There's a place rents them downtown. That'll be better than questioning the chauffeur. No point tipping our hand. I'll put a man at the Ritz."
John sat silent a moment, thinking. “I'll take the Ritz, Gino,” he said. “I've got to stay somewhere. Why not be on the spot?"
“Suit yourself,” Gino replied, “but it'll cost you an arm, a leg, and both balls. Did that guy look familiar to you? Those dusky foreigners all look alike, but I think I've seen that guy before. Or maybe just a picture."
“Denise said he's Sheikh Rashid something or other, from one of the United Arab emirates. Oil money,” John said.
“That's it!” Gino crowed. “His mug was all over the papers yesterday. He's here to buy up some apartment buildings. Those oil sheikhs have more bread than Christies has cookies. Jeez, I could sure think of something more fun than buying buildings.
“Did the papers say anything about the woman with him?” I asked.
Gino screwed his face up to aid memory. “Secretary, Ms. LeeChee nut or something like that. Whether she ever personally met a typewriter is a mute [sic] point. There was a picture of her, too, trying to look sexy and innocent at the same time— like you, Newman. The only difference is, she succeeded."
“In which category did I fail?"
“Both,” he answered without hesitation.
“Cut to the quick. Better read another Playboy. Your charm is slipping."
“Just kidding. You know my humor, Newman."
“To know it is to hate it."
“He's in the right income bracket to be the buyer of the Van Goghs,” John said. “Can you do a run on him and see if he's been to the Netherlands in the last year or so, Gino?"
“Can do, Weiss. I'll run the girl too."
“Good, let's cover all bases. She could be in on it."
“I'm freezing my butt off,” was Gino's next speech. “Since you're moving to the Ritz, let's go to your place, Weiss. We'll kill that Johnnie Walker while you pack. It's already badly wounded. You drink too much, you know that?"
“Especially when you're around,” John agreed blandly.
While John stuffed his belongings into a set of luggage that would not disgrace the Ritz, we picked his brains to hear what else he'd learned from Denise.
“She's a regular soap opera heroine,” he told us. “She got her job through a boyfriend who taught at the Beaux Arts. I didn't tip my hand by asking for a name, but when she said he was murdered this week, I figured I knew who she was talking about."
“So she was Latour's girlfriend. Imagine her partying already!” I huffed.
“She's been through with Latour for a long time. Once she laid her baby blues on Bergma, she forgot about Latour."
I emitted a long sigh and breathed, “Naturally."
John gave me a look that would sour cream. “She had a fling with Bergma, but that seems to be all over too. Selfish, she called him. A womanizer. Are you listening up, Cass?"
“To every word. She seems to know all the right people, by which I guess I mean wrong people, but does she have anything to do with the Van Gogh business? Did she mention the portrait Latour did of her?"
“I didn't like to ask. I doubt if she's in on the scam. I think she just happened to be socially involved with Latour and Bergma."
“She's man's plaything,” Gino decided. “Where'd she meet Latour?"
“They're neighbors."
I nearly jumped from my seat. “You mean she lives right there, in his building?"
“Like I said, they're neighbors. She lives on the floor below. They met on the elevator."
“Then she might have killed him!"
John didn't look convinced. “She was at the hotel with Bergma, arranging the party when he was murdered. My gut feeling is that she's all right. What her story does confirm is that Latour and Bergma were old friends. She met Bergma through Latour. Once she started going out with Bergma, he didn't want her seeing Latour—at all. A fiend of jealousy, she called him, but I imagine Bergma just didn't want to risk her learning anything about the Van Goghs."
“Did she see Latour again?” I asked.
“Only to nod to, according to her story."
Gino gave a bah of disgust. “She's in a perfect position to know what was going on. If Bergma didn't blab to her, Latour probably did—in spite or bragging. She had a grudge against Bergma."
“But not against Latour,” I pointed out. "She left him, and he's the one who's dead."
“And we know Hot Buns didn't off him,” Gino agreed, “but a woman like that wouldn't have any trouble finding a new guy to do her dirty work for her. If that's the scenario, she's got Bergma right where she wants him, hasn't she? She's got the hot pix. She calls the shots."
John gave a very doubtful look. “I don't like to brand myself as an MCP, but from her talk, I don't think Denise is a deep thinker. More gossip than conversation, if you know what I mean"
“It's easy for smart people to act dumb. She bears watching,” Gino insisted. "Cherchez la femme.
John's mind had moved on to the other femme now in the case, Sheikh Rashid's lady. “You won't forget to find out whatever you can about the sheikh's secretary too, will you, Gino?"
“She'll be an international harlot,” he decided, apparently unconcerned at being recogn
ized as a dyed-in-the-wool MCP. “A freeloader, tagging along for the ride. A good looker though."
In about fifteen minutes, Gino rose. “We'll be in touch tomorrow. Are you using your own name at the Ritz, Weiss? Or will I be calling for Sean Bradley, the name you used in Toronto last summer?"
“Not a bad idea,” John said, tugging pensively at his ear. “A Texas oil man and a sheikh should have something in common. Yeah, I'll be Sean Bradley. Do you happen to know where I could pick up a Stetson, Cass?"
I shrugged. “Somewhere in Place Ville Marie probably."
“That's the underground shopping mile, where they take you to the cleaners,” Gino added. “I gotta buzz. Au revoir." In an uncharacteristic fit of gallantry, he performed a bow in my direction, thanked me for a lovely evening, and left, slamming the door behind him.
I tried to look irresistible because I had a plan to involve myself more deeply in the case and had a feeling John wasn't about to oblige me. “You're all set,” I mentioned, looking at his luggage. “I guess it's time for us to go to my place while I throw a few things into a bag."
John looked alarmed. “You're not going home!"
“Home is where the heart is. Didn't you say it was too dangerous for me to be alone, with Jan knowing my address? You were going to stay with me. Well, you're going to the Ritz. Whither thou goest...
“Oh jeez.” John looked thoroughly frustrated. “We can't check in together. If your mother ever found out..."
I had fully impressed on John when we first met that my mother was of the old school. First marriage; then sex. All right, so nothing happened last night! John is a few years older than I—about a decade older actually. He seems to feel he would be taking advantage of a minor if he did more than kiss me. I fully appreciate his strength of character and gallantry; it's a refreshing change, but that is not to say I could allow it to get in the way of our case.
“How could she find out? She's in Maine. That handsome, murderous lecher Bergma, on the other hand, is right in Montreal, with my phone number in his pocket.” I played my trump card and added, “Of course he won't be able to reach me if I'm not at my apartment. Maybe I better stay there."
