by Josh Lanyon
He looked puzzled, and I didn’t blame him. “Forget it.”
He nodded.
I rose. “Let’s go talk to Natalie and get this settled.”
“Um, Adrien?”
“Hmm?”
“I guess I would like a sandwich.”
* * * * *
The Formosa Café started life as a trolley car on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. The last time I’d had lunch there, Paul Kane had broken it to me that he and Jake were lovers — and had been for at least part of the time Jake and I had been together. Indigestion and the Formosa were now synonymous in my mind, and probably always would be.
It was still a great place, though, with a lot of history, and it was hard to imagine a more suitable setting for meeting the old PI Harry Newman.
Newman was already seated and enjoying cocktails and hors d’oeuvres when we arrived.
He smiled unrepentantly as I sat down across from him in the red leather booth and said, “How are the folks back in Milwaukee?”
He offered his hand, and we shook. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“No, that’s generally left to the courts.”
He laughed. “I like you, English.”
“I’m so relieved.” I made more room for Jake on the leather bench. Our eyes caught, and he gave me that wry twitch of his mouth.
“Let’s order,” Newman said, “and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
He’d been busy familiarizing himself with the menu while waiting for us to show. When the waiter arrived he requested another mai tai to go with his calamari. Then he ordered rib-eye steak and wasabi mashed potatoes. The most expensive items on the menu. Jake went, predictably, for the Kobe-beef burger. I went for the salmon.
“You’re not drinking?” Newman said suspiciously. “I don’t trust a guy who doesn’t drink.”
I ordered a glass of red wine and sparkling mineral water. Jake ordered a mai tai.
“A mai tai? I’ve never known you to drink mai tais.”
“This is the new me,” he said. “See what a fun guy I am?”
“By the way,” Newman said, “I believe you have something belonging to me.”
“Like what?”
He pointed to the impossibly black strands coyly arranged on his head.
“The rug? It makes a great cat toy.”
He choked, but our drinks arrived then and he launched into his tale.
“You want me to start at the beginning? For me, the beginning was Louise Reynard.”
“That was Stevens’s girlfriend?” I asked. “The one who hired you to find him after he disappeared?”
“You got it. She taught art history at Immaculate Heart College. Pretty girl. Woman, you’d say. Hair the color of dark molasses and big, wide eyes. Very French looking. She used to always wear these silk scarves.” His index finger made a twirling motion next to his neck. “In fact, her grandfather had fought in the French Resistance, which is where the story really starts, I guess.”
Jake said, “She wasn’t a nun?”
“A nun?” I repeated.
“Immaculate Heart was a Catholic college. My mother went there.”
All this time and it hadn’t occurred to me there might have been a heavy dollop of Catholic guilt in Jake’s sexual hang-ups.
“Definitely not.” Newman took a sip of his drink. “Stevens was a thief. A high-class cat burglar.” He paused. When we expressed no surprise, he continued. “One night he robbed a house somewhere in Los Angeles. He never did tell Louise the location of the house or the name of the man he ripped off, so don’t ask. If she’d known, she’d have gone straight to the fuzz after Stevens disappeared.”
Instead she’d gone to Jinx Stevens, and Jinx had waited to go to the police. Not that it mattered if Jake was right and Stevens had been dead, already placed under the floorboards.
“Stevens only got away with one item that night, but it was a prize. A carved gold cross studded with rubies and agates and pearls. He didn’t know exactly what he had, but he knew it was old, and he knew it was special. So he made a sketch of this cross, and he took it to a college art department that seemed safely out of the way, and that’s how he met Louise. He was looking for information on the cross.”
“And she just happened to recognize this cross?” I was skeptical.
“You betcha. Right away. Louise knew exactly what he had. The Cross of Rouen.”
He was gazing at us expectantly. When neither of us spoke, he said, “That’s a place in France.”
“Je ne comprends pas.”
“The Cross of Joan of Arc.”
“Uh…” I looked at Jake. He looked blank. “You mean the Cross of Lorraine?”
“No.”
“I’ve never heard of the Cross of Rouen.”
“Well, the story I heard, it was the cross belonging to Joan of Arc. However, that’s sort of beside the point.”
“It is?”
“The point is that the Cross of Rouen was a priceless national artifact, and it was supposedly carted off by the Nazis during World War Two.”
“Supposedly?”
“Yep. Louise knew that this cross had disappeared when the Nazis occupied Rouen. Naturally she wanted to know how Stevens had got hold of it. She took it kind of personal, seeing that her grandmother died during the war, and her grandfather fought in the Resistance.”
“Stevens wouldn’t tell her?”
“No. Well, he promised he would tell her eventually. He said it was complicated.”
“He had an accomplice,” Jake commented.
“Sure he did, although he told Louise he didn’t.” Newman took another sip of his mai tai. There was a thin line of pink foam on his mustache. I watched it, fascinated, as he spoke. “Here’s the thing — and you can take it for what it’s worth, but I guarantee Louise believed this to be the truth — Stevens told her he was going to give her the cross to return to the French people on behalf of her grandparents.”
Jake and I exchanged looks. “That wouldn’t go over very well with the accomplices.”
Jake was more cynical — and practical. “Why would he?”
“That’s the funny part of all this. According to Louise, she and Stevens fell totally and completely in love at first sight. Not only was he going to give her the cross, he was going to go straight for her.” He snorted at what he read in our expressions. “I know, I know. But she believed it till the day she died, and I’ll tell you something else. She was a smart lady. Educated, sure, but she had street smarts too. She was nobody’s fool. And like I said, a good-looking dame.”
“When Stevens disappeared —”
He cut me off. “Louise suspected foul play from the first. See, Stevens disappeared the very night he was supposed to bring her the cross. When he never showed, she went straight to Stevens’s sister and then Dan Hale. Of course they both denied having any idea about what she was talking about. She always believed they were both in on it. On stealing the cross, I mean. Hale claimed Stevens took off for greener pastures. The kid sister did eventually go to the police to file a missing-persons report.”
“Did Louise believe Hale and Jinx killed Stevens?”
“She thought it was not inconceivable. Hale, in particular, was a pretty rough customer, for all the surface polish. She also thought there was another possibility.” He waited for us to connect the dots.
I said slowly, “That whoever Stevens stole that cross from figured out who took it and came after him?”
“Very good.” To Jake, he said, “Bright boy.”
“Like a shining star.”
I got sparkling-mineral-water bubbles up my nose.
“Right,” Newman said. “Because whoever had that cross sure as hell had no business having it. Louise thought this ex-Nazi war criminal might have come looking for Stevens. See, aside from the considerable monetary value of that cross, having the thing found in his possession was tantamount to a confession. You can see there would have b
een considerable incentive to get it back and silence the thief.”
“Oh yeah.”
Jake said, “But Stevens never told Louise where he recovered the cross?”
“No. But she had a theory about that.”
Louise sounded like a girl with a lot of theories. I liked her. “What happened to Louise?”
“Breast cancer. She died ten years ago.” It was clear he’d been fond of Louise.
Jake asked, “What was her theory as to the identity of this Nazi war criminal?”
“She believed him to be a friend of her grandfather. A Wilshire Boulevard art-gallery owner by the name of Guilliam Truffaut.” Newman said, “Truffaut was supposed to be another former member of the French Resistance. In fact, he’d built quite a reputation for himself as a slayer of Nazis.”
“Did you talk to Truffaut?” I asked.
“I talked to everyone.” Newman shook his head. “You won’t understand this, and I can’t quite explain it myself, but there was something about Louise that… You found yourself doing things, taking chances you’d never have dreamt of before.”
“I’ve known a Louise in my time,” Jake said.
A Louise?
I looked up, surprised. Jake was staring right at me. My heart skipped a beat — absolutely nothing to do with repaired valves.
The waiter arrived with our meals, and the extraordinary moment ended.
After our plates were set in front of us and the waiter had gone, I asked, “What did Truffaut have to say when you interviewed him?”
“He denied everything and threatened to sue me.” Newman shrugged. “Dead end.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No. No, I didn’t. But I never quite believed he killed Stevens either, although Louise remained convinced of it. Me, I always figured Dan Hale did Stevens in for trying to pull a double cross.”
I thought this over. “If Hale had killed Stevens, wouldn’t he have had possession of the Cross of Rouen? He seems to have died close to destitute.” I viewed Newman over the rim of my glass. “You already figured that out, which is why you tried to search the bookstore.”
Another of those unrepentant smiles. “Knew it was going to be my last chance. Like you say, if Hale had the cross, he’d have had the money to save that club of his — that was the only thing he ever really cared about. Well, and maybe Jinx Stevens ran a poor second. That doesn’t mean Hale didn’t kill him, though. Just that he couldn’t find the cross. Stevens could have hidden it.”
“Why did you wait so long to try to search the bookstore? Renovations started in May.”
He admitted ruefully. “I only noticed what you were up to a couple of weeks ago. I’d sort of forgotten about it, you see? Fifty years is a long time.”
More than my lifetime. More than Jake’s lifetime. Yes, I did see.
“Was there anyone else you suspected in Stevens’s disappearance?”
“Well, yes and no. Stevens was living with a bunch of dope dealers and thieves and whores in that hotel. It’s not impossible someone there might have knocked him off. Hell, someone might have knocked him off for his clarinet. Or his hat.”
Jake said, “The only problem with that theory is, it’s doubtful that kind of lowlife would know where or how to dispose of a valuable art object. It would have surfaced by now.”
“Probably.”
“You said you talked to everyone. Did you ever talk to the cop in charge of the case?”
“Argyle? Yeah. But he always insisted Stevens had skipped. I never did believe that. No one ever saw Stevens leave the hotel that night.”
“Is that surprising, though? It was pretty much of a roach motel by then, wasn’t it?” I sampled the salmon.
“Plenty of people saw Stevens getting visitors that night. I don’t know why they’d have missed him leaving.”
And of course, Stevens hadn’t left.
“What visitors did he get?” The sauce on the salmon was sweet. Not something I cared for. I pushed my plate aside.
“Hale, Jinx Stevens, the piano player from the band…”
Jake took my plate, slid his over. Absently, I picked up his burger. “Paulie St. Cyr?” I questioned and took a bite.
Newman nodded. “That was it. Paulie St. Cyr.”
The burger was pretty good. “If the Cross of Rouen was hidden in the building, someone would have found it by now. I guarantee my contractors would have uncovered it. They’ve been through the entire structure — and dismantled half of it.”
“I figured that much.” He chuckled. “I’m no fool. I know when to cut my losses.”
“What happened to the sketch of the cross?”
“Wondered if you’d remember to ask about that.” He reached into the pocket of his red Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a folded paper. “This is a copy. Louise kept the original. Look it up in the art books. You’ll see it’s genuine enough.”
“Thanks.” I took the sheet, unfolded it, and studied it. Jake leaned over to look.
It was a cross fleury, similar to the fleur-de-lis. The arm ends were carved in gem-studded flowers. The top arm passed right through the body of a dove, and the bottom fleur had a deadly-looking point at the top. Even in this rough black-and-white sketch, it was impressive.
I met Jake’s gaze. I could see what he was thinking. Plenty of motive for murder right there.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” I asked Newman.
“Nah. If you think of any more questions, I’ll be happy to answer them. We could have lunch again.”
We left him enjoying chocolate volcano cake for dessert.
“What do you think?” Jake asked as the valet opened the passenger door to the Honda.
“I think he’s telling the truth. I think he was in love with Louise Reynard.”
He glanced at me. “Same here.”
He tipped the valet, took his keys, and slid behind the wheel. He slammed shut the door and said, “So that’s it. You found Henry Harrison, and you know what he was searching for. Satisfied with that?”
I felt a jab of alarm as I looked up from the sketch of the cross. “We don’t know who killed Stevens. We don’t know what happened to the cross.”
“You don’t seriously think we’re going to find this Cross of Rouen?”
I didn’t, no.
“I don’t know. Look how much we’ve found out already. We’re halfway there.”
Jake’s head moved in denial. “Here’s what I think happened. I think Hale killed Stevens. I think the sister knew that, which is why she didn’t marry him. I think Stevens stowed the cross somewhere, maybe a locker in Union Station or someplace like that, and one day it’ll turn up, but we aren’t going to find it. And I don’t think we’re ever going to be able to prove that Hale killed Stevens.”
“If Jinx thought Hale killed Stevens, why did she pay for his medical care and his funeral?”
“Maybe she loved him anyway.”
I couldn’t think of a reply to that. At last, I said, “I’m not ready to give up.”
Silence.
Jake said carefully, “I…don’t see this going anywhere.”
“Maybe not.” Probably not. I nerved myself for rejection. “Will you give me a little more of your time?”
He expelled a long breath. “It’s your dime.”
I’d felt close to him in the restaurant. Physically close, yes, sitting with our thighs and shoulders brushing, but emotionally close too. In tune. Now I couldn’t read him. Did he want me to give up? Why? Or was I missing the obvious?
“One more week?” I stared out the window at the valets busily trotting back and forth, shouting friendly insults to each other.
I could feel his gaze. “One more week,” he said brusquely and turned the key.
Chapter Fourteen
It looked as though Jay Stevens had not held the attention of the CCHU for long. When I arrived back at the bookstore, the construction crew was at work once again on the other side of the building.
Over the buzz of sanders and the machine-gun rattle of drills, I could hear Natalie and Angus bickering quietly in the back of the store. I took a sec to enjoy the blessed normality. Lights were mellow, music was playing, customers were grazing peacefully. All was right in my world again.
I settled with my laptop in my office, where I could work and keep an eye on the kids.
I had found a site listing art treasures that had gone missing during World War II, when Natalie tapped on the door frame.
“Come,” I said absently.
“Can we talk?”
“Oh God. Please keep in mind that I’m a sick man.”
She sniffed. “You look pretty healthy these days.”
I felt pretty healthy too. I still got tired faster than I liked. I still found myself needing the occasional nap. My chest still felt like it was liable to separate when I laughed or coughed or sneezed. But overall, I did feel better than I’d felt in a long time. I even felt…younger.
“Is this about Angus?” I did my best to look forbidding.
It didn’t appear to work. Natalie wrinkled her nose and said, “He’s kind of weird.”
This from the woman who was considering plighting her troth to Warren — plight being the operative word.
“I’ve got two words for you.”
Her chin rose.
“Ms. Pepper.”
“Oh.”
“Do not scare him off, or there will be hell to pay. With interest.”
She made a face and departed.
I turned back to my laptop and the missing treasures of World War II.
There was plenty to read on the topic of Nazi plunder, and it was easy to get distracted by the many, many stories of families — often Jewish, though not solely — that had their art collections confiscated by the Third Reich or had to sell their valuables far below their worth to fund their escapes from arrest and execution. Then there was the systematic despoliation of museums and galleries and churches. The Nazis had stolen everything from the paintings of old masters to religious artifacts — and everything in between — and by the end of the war, they had amassed hundreds of thousands of priceless artworks and antiques. Some of those objects had been returned to their rightful owners; shockingly, most of them were still lost or hidden in private collections. Some of them were even in public collections; museums and galleries fighting to hang on to their sometimes-innocent — sometimes not — acquisitions.
