by Joan Smith
These thoughts receded to the bottom of my mind when I put on my rented ocelot coat and swooshed down to the waiting Caddie limo, to be driven to the restaurant.
Gino was deep into a plate of spaghetti by the time we arrived. How one man could make such a shambles of a table was a mystery. It looked as if he had assaulted a loaf of crusty bread and pounded it to smithereens. The whole table top was littered with crumbs, liberally sprinkled with splashes of tomato sauce.
He gave a look of surprise and ran his beady eyes from my head to my toes when we met him. His next assault was on the Queen's English and good taste. “Are you wearing anything under that pelt, Newman, or are you starkers?"
“Dream on,” I said, and removed the coat.
Gino turned to John. “Santie Claus came early this year. You sprung for a fur, huh? This is beginning to look serious. Next she'll be after you for a diamond to go with it."
John said, “How's it going, Gino?” and I, with great restraint, said nothing. What can you expect from a man whose only vehicle of culture is Playboy?
I studied the menu while they talked. Did I want linguine with clam sauce or chicken cacciatore? I wanted both, and a loaf of that bread that crumbled so divinely. I wanted a salad as big as Mom's soup tureen—oh, and minestrone! The mind boggled at such a plethora of choices. I settled for good food instead of chic and had the chicken cacciatore, while still listening to the men.
“I don't suppose you've had time to check out if the sheikh brought a man or men along with him?” John asked.
“I did, and it wasn't easy, Weiss. You'd think Rashid was a head of state or something."
“He is, in a way."
“He's not the big cheese in his country, just a lesser sheikh. His dad was top man. Rashid was ousted. He took a couple of billion dollars and avoided a bloody coup. He's done bugger-all for his country. He's one of the international jet set playboys."
John listened politely. “But did he bring any men with him?"
“He has his own pilot. The guy's a Yankee, just hired last month. He was laid off one of the big airlines for what they called ill health. Probably either drugs or booze, but he has no record. The guy's over sixty. He has a terrific pension. I doubt if he'd suddenly take up a life of crime. Anyway he took straight off for the ski slopes after they landed.” John and I exchanged a look. “Before Latour was knocked off,” Gino added.
“I was thinking more on the lines of a business associate,” John said.
“The sheikh travels alone, except for his so-called secretary. Oh I found out something about the tart. She used to make porno movies."
I glared. John said, “Yes, we heard about that."
“Get any titles?” Gino asked, with a lecherous light in his eyes.
“No, but I did learn something else interesting.” He told Gino about the passports, and the sheikh's being in the Netherlands last year.
“If we needed a clincher, that's it,” Gino said. “It all comes down to figuring out who actually killed Latour. Not Bergma, not Rashid, and probably not Ms. Painchaud. Her alibi isn't cast iron, but she's only a woman.” I glared again; Gino grinned, knowing he was getting to me. “Rashid's never been in Canada before, and he wouldn't trust a stranger. It must be a friend of Bergma's we're looking for. Whoever he is, he's gone into deep hiding. Not a phone call, not a visit, nothing. Zip."
“And whoever did it must be holding the paintings,” John added.
“Right,” Gino said. “That's all you're really interested in. How much will you make if you find them and block that claim, Weiss? A million bucks, something like that?"
John just laughed and shook his head. “Rumors of our bonuses are greatly exaggerated."
“Sure, and that pelt Ms. Newman's wearing is bought on the installment plan."
“It's rented, actually,” John told him.
“When guys start talking down how much dough they've got, I know they're loaded. How much do you figger Bergma will get for the pix?"
“Probably a couple of million."
“And they say crime doesn't pay."
“It's the worst bargain since Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage,” John said.
Gino blinked. “Who?"
“Esau, in the Bible. Don't you read the Bible?"
“No, I'm a Catholic. Who'd he sell it to?"
John frowned. “Jacob,” I told him. “And the pottage was lentil soup."
“No kiddin'. You're a mine of useless information, Newman. That what they teach you at McGill?"
“That, and how to use a knife and fork,” I retaliated.
“I know all about manners. It's just these tables—they're too close together. They got us sitting bumper to bumper. Or do I mean bum to bum? Heh heh. That's a pun, Newman."
The chairs were uncomfortably close. Gino used it as an excuse to nudge his chubby little thigh against mine. “No, it's a solecism,” I said, and moved my chair.
Gino was invulnerable to slights. “How would I go about getting into your company?” he asked John. “Could you put in a good word for me?"
“Are you serious?"
“Do skunks molt?"
“No, snakes molt,” I told him.
“You're right. Skunks piss,” he said, and returned his attention to John. “Of course I'm serious. Do you think I want to be poor all my life? Christ, I'm thirty-nine, Weiss, and I don't even own a piece of land. A guy like me, if I can't even offer a woman a roof over her head, what have I got to offer? I got fifteen thousand bucks in a retirement savings plan and my pension. That's what I've got to show for my years on the force. That and flat feet."
Now I had to feel sorry for Gino too, and for the sharp digs I'd been giving him. “But you have an interesting job, Gino,” I pointed out. I was getting a case of pre-Christmas depression. Latour was dead, Ayesha was locked into a terrible emotional prison, Gino was too ugly to find a girlfriend, and poor Van Gogh was long gone. It was hard to be happy for all my own good fortune when others were so sad.
Maybe I was just missing the excitement of Christmas at home. Mom would be elbow-deep in flour now. The tree would be in its usual corner, decked with all the bulbs and lights and tinsel, with the fading angel on top. People would be making mysterious and secretive trips into the house, hiding bulky parcels in closets and warning each other not to look. Neighbors would be dropping in. I didn't want to go to the Laurentians, not even if I could wear the fur coat. I wanted to go home.
When I listened into the conversation again, John was suggesting giving Bergma a call about the slides.
“For what?” Gino asked.
“It might force his hand, rattle him a little so he'd get in touch with whoever he plans to get in touch with,” John explained.
“Leave it to the pros, Weiss. Patience is what we need. We'll follow all our suspects to the Laurentians. That's where they're planning to meet. Oh the Searles—their chalet is near the Pinetree Lodge. I'll pull rank and get us in there. One of the few perks of wearing a badge. Some yuppie hotshot will find himself out on his keister in the snow.” He laughed with ill-natured glee.
“I wonder where the sheikh is staying,” I said. “He doesn't happen to know the Searles, does he?"
“I dunno,” Gino answered. “He isn't booked into any of the commercial lodges. He must know somebody. We'll just have to stick on his tail."
I didn't want John turning all protective and macho on me, but I intended to become friendly with Ayesha and find answers to some of these questions. Our pasta arrived, and we temporarily dropped the case.
CHAPTER 12
That evening, John and Gino arranged their next morning's work before Gino left. They would be doing such dull and routine things as investigating Rashid's business deals and business associates. I didn't tell them, but I intended to attack the affair from a different angle. Ayesha lived with the sheikh, after all. He wouldn't tell her any criminal details, but if I could get chummy with her and win her confidence, she might let so
mething slip. A name, a place where he could have hidden the forgeries. It seemed worth a try at least.
John mistook my silence for Christmas blues, and said, “Why don't you see if your uncle can come down and spend Christmas with us? That'd be some family for you at least."
“He's probably all booked up."
“Tell him it's on me; that might change his mind. Victor likes luxury too. It runs in the family."
“Terrific! And then I can ask him about a job for Ayesha. Oh thanks, John. I'll call him right now."
Victor is one of those kinetic people who goes to bed late and rises early, even if he doesn't have to work. By the time John left at nine, Victor would be up.
“Merry Christmas!” I chirped into the phone.
His answering voice dripped with aspartame. “Andrea, is that you? How sweet of you to call me. I meant to ring you later this morning. Did you receive the roses?"
“Victor, you old lech! It's me, Cassie!"
“Cassie! Are you in town?” The phony sweetness disappeared, replaced by genuine pleasure.
I was touched that he sounded so thrilled. “No, I'm in Montreal. What are you doing for Christmas?"
“Trying, but not too hard, to evade the clutches of a beautiful divorcee."
“Roses don't sound like evasion to me."
“For past pleasures,” he said.
“What happened to Contessa Carpani?"
“The affair continues by long distance. It's costing me a fortune, but no price is too high to pay for the continued loan of the Strad."
“There ought to be a word for men like you."
“There is. Genius. Dear Maria's a charming lady, but somewhat encumbered with virtue, as Byron would say. We continue on excellent terms, however. Are you not going home for Christmas?"
“I don't think I'll make it."
“Then you must join me,” he answered at once.
Christmas, the season of goodwill toward all men, was getting to him. He was lonesome for family, which was excellent. “I can't, Victor, but couldn't you join me in Montreal?"
He shivered audibly. “I hear you have subzero temperatures and yards of snow, at the moment."
“You'd never know it, here at the Ritz."
“What are you doing at the Ritz?"
I enticed him with tales of adventure and excitement and high living. It was Ayesha who finally caught his interest and won him over.
“John's company would foot the bill, you say?"
“It was his suggestion. We'd both love to see you."
“I admit I'm tempted. It could be only a short visit. I wouldn't tackle the drive, and you know I hate trains. I'll call the airport. If I can get a seat, I'll be there. I'll call you back."
Victor is very close to the top of his profession, a violin virtuoso nearly as good as he thinks he is. He could be truly great, but he caters somewhat to the squalid taste of the masses. Mom says he'll end up the Liberace of the violin. With his connections, he soon arranged a seat on a plane, even at this busy season. I arranged a room at the hotel, not on our floor. When I remembered the one next to the sheikh was empty, I took it. John and I would meet him at Dorval that afternoon.
My next move was to figure out a way to get to Ayesha. It was too close to the hour for Madame Feydeau's tarot session to call her now. I took my tarot book down to the coffee shop to watch for Madame's arrival and, more importantly, her departure. Export A said her standing appointment was for ten. When Madame still hadn't arrived at ten-fifteen, I figured she had canceled and went upstairs to Ayesha's room.
When I tapped on the door, she came to open it herself, decked out in a white satin peignoir edged in marabou, and looking as if she had just escaped from a Jean Harlow movie. She examined me with a pair of cold, black eyes and a slight frown. She really didn't remember me.
“Good morning.” I smiled, and introduced myself, reminding her where we'd met. “I lost Madame Feydeau's card, and I'm desperate for a reading. I was wondering if you have her number.” We talked at the door, she didn't invite me in.
“She's ill today,” Ayesha said, rather curtly. She was either extremely unfriendly or frightened. I soon decided it was the latter.
The door was already beginning to close. I played my trump card. “What a nuisance! And my poor uncle is flying in from Toronto. In this weather, I wanted to have a reading to make sure his flight, would be safe. My uncle, Victor Mazzini,” I added nonchalantly. The name obviously didn't register. “The famous violinist,” I added.
The expression that claimed her features can only be described as hungry. “The Great Mazzini?” she exclaimed. “The man who was kidnapped last summer? I read of the case in Zurich. Something about a Stradivarius violin.” Her voice, tinged with that classy English accent, always surprised me.
“Yes, that's the man. Such a sweetheart. I'd die if anything happened to him."
The door opened. “Come in,” she smiled, wearing a whole new expression. She was eagerly excited now. I'd found the magic key to give her strength to defy Rashid. “How did you know my room?"
“Oh, everyone knows you and the sheikh,” I laughed gaily.
A breakfast tray was still standing on her bedside table. “I'd like a reading too,” she said. “Shall we try the yellow pages and see who we can find?” While her blood-red fingernail, an inch long, coursed down the page, I took a surreptitious look around the room. She had two or three outfits tossed on the bed, apparently making her selection for the day.
“Do you read the cards at all?” I asked.
Her black mane of hair tossed a negative.
“Too bad. I was just thinking, I could read yours, and you could read mine."
“You read?” she asked, interested.
“Just an amateur."
“Why don't you give me a reading, just for fun?” she asked.
“I'd be happy to."
“Good, I'll join you in half an hour. What's your room number?"
I gave her the number and left, smiling to myself. It didn't escape my notice that the woman was self-centered, but a life of having to look out for herself could account for that. I had gone to her because I wanted a reading; she didn't care about my not getting one. She was getting what she wanted, an introduction to Victor Mazzini. Naturally I couldn't expect to peel away the result of all those years of ill treatment in five minutes. Her shyness might be part of it too. Shy people sometimes sounded curt.
I dashed back to my room and spent the interval studying the tarot book and scheming. I couldn't just blurt out a batch of questions about the sheikh the minute she sat down. He'd have to show up in the cards. The Lovers, from the Major Arcana, seemed a likely possibility. The Hanged Man would be useful too. He could be interpreted as foretelling large changes in one's life, a bettering of one's condition, a getting rid of difficulties. In short, ditching the sheikh and becoming an actress.
I thought Ayesha was the kind of woman who would spend hours at her toilette, and fully expected she'd be late. She caught me off guard by arriving fifteen minutes early, and of course looking gorgeous. She was all in subtle taupe suede with a tailored silk shirt the dusty brown shade of powdered cocoa.
She smiled broadly, but it was only a lip smile. Her luminous black eyes were busy scanning the room. “Is your John out?” she asked.
“Yes, on business, but his name's Sean.” Oh my God, did she know who he really was?
She blinked, and in that blinking of an eye I realized my error. She was speaking hookerese. I laughed uneasily. “My John's not here. I guess we can call a spade a spade, since we're alone."
“For small mercies,” she said, and lounged at her ease on the bed, where she kicked off a pair of alligator pumps. “Where did you meet yours?"
That “small mercies” I found revealing. She really disliked her work. Naturally she talked like a hooker; she was one, but that didn't mean she was all bad. I decided to stick to the truth as much as possible, to avoid verbal difficulties. “Toronto, l
ast summer."
“What are you going to do with him when Mazzini arrives?"
“Oh, my uncle knows about Sean."
“Really?” She blinked again, and looked confused. “Is he really an uncle then, or do the three of you..."
“He's my uncle."
She looked more confused than ever. “I just wondered. Some men like—well, you know. Awful what some women have to put up with.” She gave a little shiver, and suddenly looked about twelve years old. What had this child had to put up with that had turned her into a zombie?
She smiled wanly. “A man like Mazzini must lead an interesting life, travel a lot. Is he—nice?"
“He's charming. He travels mostly on his concert tours.” I could almost hear her gears grinding. She'd like to ditch Rashid and join up with Victor. Nobody could be as rich as Rashid. What did he do to her that she'd be so eager to switch? “He mingles with all the performing crowd—actors, directors, TV producers. Are you not happy with the sheikh?” I ventured, chummily, as one hooker to another.
She tossed her shoulders. “I've been with him over a year. He's generous—very generous, but the man's a demon of jealousy! He wouldn't even like my seeing you. What's yours like?"
“Not as wealthy as the sheikh, of course, but generous within his means."
“I notice he gave you a nice fur,” she said calmly. I felt soiled, talking to her. “What does he do?"
“He's a businessman,” I said vaguely. “Oil—Texas."
She examined her long nails. “It's nice in the States, but I hope you don't have to live in Texas. New York, L.A., I wouldn't mind that. I'm trying to get Rashid to buy a condo in L.A."
My emotions went on a roller-coaster ride as they switched from pity to disdain. What had I expected? That a woman who'd been living in the lap of luxury for a few years would be like an ordinary teenager? “Are you interested in movie work?” I asked casually.
