Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  That had to be it. What else could they have in common?

  I didn’t care if all Neves and the gang had in mind was trying to pinch some of Earl’s artefacts but I needed to make sure that was all it was. I was here anyway, so I might as well find out what was going on.

  I tried peering in the front window of Novo but a full-length green velvet curtain, serving as backdrop to three oil paintings, cut my view. The landscapes were Dutch masters, framed in carved, gold-painted wood.

  This was a big-money shop.

  I assessed my bib-and-brace overalls. There was a smear of dirt along both knees where I’d knelt to get out the gang’s back window and another on my left shirtsleeve. My reflection in the glass said I had a smudge on my cheek as well. I needed a change of clothes but didn’t want to waste time.

  I glanced over at the shop next door … Champs-Elysées it was.

  The dress shop was so exclusive it didn’t have any clothes in it. You walked straight off the street into a cream carpeted reception area. It was bare except for an immaculately made-up woman sitting behind a counter, which held a glass vase full of cream roses.

  She took one disparaging glance at me and said, ‘The service entrance is in back,’ then continued reading her fashion magazine.

  I unzipped the pocket in the front of my bib and brace. I had two grand left in there in hundred-dollar bills, as well as my gun. I spread a grand out into a fan and slowly passed it between her nose and the magazine.

  The woman went beetroot then snapped her face up to mine so fast she must’ve given herself whiplash.

  ‘My apologies, ma’am.’ She stood and opened the door behind her. ‘Come this way, please.’

  Thirty minutes later I was brand new from head to foot.

  Paris fashions were chartreuse this spring so I had a new, sleek skirt suit in green that actually fitted me, with all the matching accessories. I carried my other clothes and the gun in a paper carry bag. The shop owner had put my hair into a smooth chignon and touched up my face with powder, mascara and some lipstick.

  I walked into Novo and a world away from the Dutch masters in the front window. There were two imposing Chinese vases on carved wooden pedestals sitting on either side of the doorway. Once through them, a bulky red-and-black lacquered cupboard forced me to turn to my left, where a four-panelled screen guided me into the centre of the shop. Here a black Chinese box-bed, hung with red silk curtains, dominated the room. Beyond, I could see more Chinese furniture and wall hangings. The only other door was at the back of the room.

  A woman my age, wearing a yellow hibiscus masquerading as a hat, and a more conservatively dressed man stood next to the bed. They were arguing. Neves’ shop assistant hunched nearby, distinctly unappreciative of their presence. He had the same swarthy complexion, dark hair and long sideburns as his boss.

  ‘I won’t fit in there, Mildred. I’m six foot tall.’

  ‘But you said I could buy whatever I wanted as a honeymoon souvenir …’

  ‘What I had in mind was an ashtray or a nice painted cookie jar. How would I get this all the way back to Iowa? And how will it fit in Mama’s sewing room?’

  ‘Well you’re the one that wants to live with his parents. I told you that I didn’t …’

  The argument wasn’t going anywhere fast, so the small dark man turned to me. He read the name of the dress shop on the paper bag and then ran a knowledgeable eye across my outfit.

  He gave me a toothy smile. ‘Yes, madam, how may I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Bonifacio Neves. Is he here?’ I scanned the back of the shop but Neves was nowhere in sight.

  ‘My apologies, madam. Bonifacio is out at the moment. But he should be back soon.’ The shop assistant had a thick, presumably Portuguese, accent.

  He flicked the couple a less than amicable glance and said, ‘Perhaps I could help you. Were you looking for anything in particular?’

  The woman, sensing the loss of a potential ally, grabbed his arm. ‘Now you said that this could be sent by train …’

  The shop assistant gave the new wrinkles in his sleeve a distasteful perusal.

  She ignored it to fire off another round at her husband. ‘We can catch the same train …’

  ‘I’ll just wait over here,’ I said. ‘You go right ahead.’

  I took a closer look at the merchandise and wondered at the array. Dutch Masters and Chinese antiques? It seemed a bizarre mix.

  The back door opened and Neves came through. He went straight to the desk at the back of the store and began rummaging through a tray of papers.

  I scooted over. Close up I could see the family resemblance with his assistant. They were brothers maybe, cousins at least.

  ‘Mr Neves.’

  He glanced up, irritated, then saw the brand on the bag I was holding. ‘My apologies, madam. Duarte will be with you in a moment.’

  His English was accented but precise, educated. Neves bent over the tray again.

  I slapped the half-burnt business card down in front of him. ‘Last night four men attempted to illegally enter one of your client’s homes.’

  His face went rigid at the implied accusation.

  ‘It was a Mr Earl Curtis,’ I said. Neves froze mid-paper shuffle, eyes slightly bulging. That’d definitely struck a nerve. ‘I’d like to talk to you about this incident.’

  Neves squinted past me at the couple. ‘Madam, I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Then let’s go some place where I can educate you, Neves. Unless you want to discuss it here?’

  He could tell I was trouble.

  ‘I have an apartment upstairs.’

  ‘Lead on.’

  I tucked the business card away again and followed him.

  The back door led onto a stairwell with another closed door on the other side of the stairs. We climbed the stairs. The upper level was his living quarters, with whitewashed walls, arches set on spiral columns, hand-woven rugs on polished wood floors and dark wooden furniture.

  Neves offered me a seat on a hard leather couch and sat in the matching chair opposite.

  ‘Now, Miss …?’

  ‘Dupree.’

  He huffed, full of indignation. ‘I have no idea why you would want to link me with a set of burglars. I am outraged.’ I had clearly impugned his Portuguese honour.

  Maybe so, but I’d seen that flicker of fear when I mentioned Earl Curtis. He was hiding something.

  Neves puffed his chest out, matador style. ‘And could you please tell me who you are to make such accusations?’

  ‘I’m Mr Curtis’ personal assistant.’

  Neves blinked at that, no doubt still wondering why I was here asking these questions. If I was male it would’ve been an entirely different matter …

  ‘Mr Curtis wants to deal with this matter without any publicity,’ I said. ‘But if I don’t get my questions answered here and now, then the LAPD will be here asking them next.’

  Neves stifled a gulp. ‘I still don’t understand. What is it that you think I have done?’

  ‘I found your business card in the keeping of the four men who broke into Earl’s house. They arrived only an hour or so after you’d been there. Now that’s a coincidence that requires an explanation, don’t you think?’

  A genuine emotion flickered across his face, a truthful micro-expression. Neves actually seemed puzzled.

  ‘I know nothing about these burglars, Miss Dupree, or their actions. I was at Ceiba House last night on legitimate business.’

  ‘What did you see Earl Curtis about?’

  His eyes became slits. ‘If you are here on Mr Curtis’ behalf then he would’ve told you.’

  I leant in. ‘Look, Neves, Earl’s working on a closed set today so I can’t ring him. If you make me get in my car and drive to the studio then back here again, I’m just going to give up and put it all in the hands of the police.’

  His guilty conscience lit up like a neon sign.

  Hmm.


  That weird mix of Dutch Masters and Chinese objets d’art downstairs made me wonder about his international connections … The Nazis harvested their enemies like fruit trees and the Japanese were now doing the same as they pushed into China.

  Was downstairs full of illegal war booty?

  ‘Come on, Neves, tell me what you were doing at Earl’s place.’ I followed my hunch. ‘Do you really want the cops to start asking questions about how you procure your … merchandise?’

  The word ‘merchandise’ had a satisfyingly electric effect on him.

  Neves fidgeted, on edge. ‘I was there on business to do with Mr Curtis’ collection.’ He equivocated for a second then volunteered, ‘I asked Mr Curtis to sell me back the last item I’d found for him … a Civil War desk.’

  The Redbud desk again …

  ‘And?’

  ‘He refused.’

  I waited, tapping one finger on my now crossed arms. He was stalling.

  ‘I … I have another buyer … the Hope Foundation. They’re putting together a special set of pieces from American wartime history … for a gala charity auction that will be held …’

  ‘And why do they specifically want Earl’s desk?’

  He blinked. ‘Because it’s the famous Redbud desk, of course!’

  The subtext was I had to be an idiot not to get that. I didn’t take the implication kindly so he shifted back into nervous cooperation.

  ‘It would be an enormous publicity coup for the auction,’ he said, seeking to appease. ‘George Montfort was one of the greatest military strategists of the Civil War … His family has been a part of American martial history since the colonies. Montfort was named for his ancestor, George Monck, the Duke of Albemarle, Lord Proprietor of the new Province of Carolina … Monck was called The Kingmaker because he put Charles II on the English throne. The Montforts have always been important historical figures, both here and in Europe …’

  Something niggled. A memory, or maybe several …

  ‘Wait a minute, Neves, you said the Hope Foundation wants to auction off the Redbud desk. Exactly which charity are they raising money for?’

  He was bemused by the change of direction. ‘Er … the auction is to garner aid for refugees … from Europe.’

  That gave me a jolt. The photo of Susan in The New York Times flashed back.

  ‘Is it in aid of the Refugee Relief Fund?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  31

  BACK AT THE BEVERLY

  HILLS HOTEL

  It was late afternoon by the time I made it back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. The bungalow was empty so I rang the front desk and asked if Honeycutt had left any messages.

  ‘No, but Mr Devereaux called to see if you were back yet …’ He stopped to count through his notes. ‘Seven times, Miss Dupree.’

  ‘Did you give him my message?’ I said sharply. I’d rung after I left the gang’s house.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I told him you would be at that address in Santa Monica.’ He coughed. ‘He rang five more times after that.’

  Hmm. Honeycutt sure was stressing out about me being on the loose.

  I’d really have to watch what I told him. Absolutely nothing about the slashed tyres and the doll figure scratched into my car door, and definitely no hint about the attack by the LAPD detective and his goons on the bridge at Venice. Honeycutt’d be reaching for my transponder and I’d be back at Union Square before I could suck in enough breath to tell him to back off.

  That just wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘When was the last time Mr Devereaux rang?’

  ‘About half an hour ago.’

  Honeycutt had been away for that long? When I left this morning he was just going to see what he could prise out of Selznick about the gangster, Lewis Renfrow, and his relationship with his wife, Ruby.

  But was Lewis Renfrow still the right lead to pursue?

  How on earth did Susan Curtis fit into all this? My treacherous client had fed me a pile of outright lies about her whereabouts and her relationship with her soon-to-be-murdered husband.

  And why did the Refugee Relief Fund and Earl’s damned desk keep cropping up?

  Aaggh! Frustration and panic fought each other for domination.

  Earl was due to die tomorrow night … and I still didn’t have a clear picture of what the hell was going on!

  Sure, I could wait for the murderer to appear, but what if they were hired and I couldn’t trace the real instigator?

  I just couldn’t face Troy without the real story … He needed to know why his family had collapsed in on itself. Even if it only helped him find a way out from under the wreckage.

  So, come hell or high water, I was going to get to the bottom of this damned mystery.

  I grabbed the Champs-Elysées bag, hauling out the two copies of The New York Times …

  The bungalow door burst open. Honeycutt charged through.

  His expression careened from tense to relieved to furious, then back to relieved.

  My eyes widened.

  He immediately covered this display by making an appreciative perusal of my new Parisian outfit. ‘And here I was imagining you were having a busy “break and enter” kind of day.’ By the end of the sentence he’d made it back behind a relaxed facade. ‘Did the gang like your new dress?’

  ‘They wanted the name of my stylist.’

  Honeycutt stretched out next to me, now genuinely relaxed. ‘Did you find anything?’ he said, checking over my arm.

  ‘A couple of things.’ I scowled down at the newspapers. ‘But I’ve absolutely no idea how they fit together.’ I showed him the photo of Susan and Floyd Nugent at the charity gala. ‘I found this in the gang’s kitchen.’

  He whistled. ‘Your client does crop up in unusual ways, darlin’.’

  ‘The boys had a pile of newspapers next to the stove … papers from all over the US and Canada. Guess they were using them for kindling. But this newspaper was in amongst them, open at this article.’

  ‘The New York social pages eh? So Otis likes to keep up with the East Coast gossip scene. No wonder they liked your dress, darlin’ … Damn, my cases are never like this.’

  ‘You mean deceitful clients who lie to you?’

  ‘Darlin’, I work for the government. They just don’t ever tell me everything I need to know.’

  I grunted.

  I was too busy reading the article that went with the photo. ‘It says here that two days ago Susan Curtis and some charity honcho called Floyd Nugent were attending a philanthropic event organised by Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia. A $500 a plate supper to raise money for the Refugee Relief Fund.’

  I skimmed further down the page. ‘All it says is that the Fund was started to assist refugees trying to escape Nazi persecution in Europe. The Fund gets them out of Europe and brings them to the USA.’ I read further. ‘To either New York or Los Angeles.’

  We both sat there digesting that piece of information.

  ‘Well.’ I flicked the paper onto the table and reached for the other copy. ‘I have no idea how that could connect to Earl’s murder.’

  The next paper covered many different topics, from Hitler’s latest atrocities through to a knifing at the Cotton Club in Harlem, but there were no more pictures of Susan Curtis.

  On the social page there was a photo of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt at a function for the Refugee Relief Fund, also presided over by LaGuardia.

  ‘Do you know anything about Mayor LaGuardia?’ I asked.

  I showed him the picture. ‘Both papers have an article on this charity he’s supporting — the Refugee Relief Fund.’

  ‘LaGuardia? Well, he’s a Republican. He …’

  ‘But President Roosevelt is a Democrat, isn’t he? What’s he doing supporting the opposition?’

  ‘It’s not surprising. LaGuardia did a lot of deals across the parties and that kind of charity seems in line with President Roosevelt’s politics.’

  ‘Hold on, it gets m
ore complicated. This was in the gang’s stove.’ I plunked the half-burnt business card down on the tabletop. ‘I’ve just come back from that address. It turned out to be Bonifacio Neves’ antique shop. Neves is Earl Curtis’ antique dealer.’

  ‘Really?’ Honeycutt chuckled. ‘Now that’s interesting. Antiques and social pages … Oh how I underestimated Otis’ cultural depths. So how’s Neves connected to Otis and the gang?’

  Good question and one I didn’t have the answer to …

  Yet!

  ‘When I confronted Neves he denied all knowledge of the gang, but he was scared witless at the mention of the LAPD. I think he must be dealing in illegal antiques.’ I explained my theory. ‘How that could relate to Earl, I have no idea.’

  ‘But it does seem very convenient that the gang breaks into Ceiba House an hour after Neves was there. How did he explain his visit?’

  ‘He was there to try to buy back something he’d just sold Earl. General Montfort’s desk. Neves had a new buyer …’

  Honeycutt jerked from a slouch to zealous attention. ‘Earl Curtis has the Redbud desk? But it was supposed to have been lost when Montfort’s plantation was burnt.’

  ‘Well, Neves reckons he found it for Earl.’ Big deal. ‘So it belonged to Monfort … I still don’t see what all the fuss is about this damned desk.’

  ‘Darlin’, you gotta learn your American history!’ Honeycutt was simmering with excitement. ‘After Robert E. Lee, George Montfort was the most powerful man in the Confederacy.’

  Hmm. ‘But what about Jefferson Davis? Wasn’t he the Confederate president?’

  ‘Davis was more of a political figurehead, Montfort was the real power behind the throne. In the final years of the war the Redbud desk became one of the key rallying symbols of the Confederate government … The newspapers would print statements sent from the Redbud desk.’

  ‘Okay, okay, now I get it. The Redbud desk was like a mobile version of the White House.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s why Montfort sent it from Richmond back to his plantation in South Carolina for safekeeping. They didn’t want it in enemy hands.’