Ben sat very still. The chatter and bustle of the room had faded away; there was just the two of them. And my whole future, he thought. He started to shake his head, to tell Leni it wasn't true, he had never thought of revenge. But he didn't do it. If he lied now, Leni would never accept him. Her suspicions would grow and fester and eventually sway Allison; she was too close to her mother not to be affected by them. It was better to take a chance with the truth, at least part of it.
"I thought about it," he said cautiously. Leni stiffened and pushed back her chair. "Wait, please listen. It wasn't planned, my meeting Allison. In fact, I'd forgotten about revenge. There was a time"—he shook his head, remembering—^'Vhen I thought of putting spiders in your car; that was the most damaging thing I could think of to make Felix sorry for what he'd done. But then I got older and it all seemed so far away; I was in Europe, I was doing work I liked. . . . But then I met AlUson and of course I remembered; I remembered everything. The people she talked about—Owen and Felix and Asa—were names my father had taught me. And you were right: when we flew back to Boston for the wedding, I wasn't
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in love with Allison; I just wanted to get into your family. But DOW I am. I am in love with her.**
He stopped, as if that explained everything. Leni looked at him icily. "How convenient. Now that you*re part of the family and the company, you've decided you love your wife.'*
•That's not true." He glared at her, angry that his simple explanation wasn't enough. "I would have gone on living with AUison without loving her, and I would have made her as happy as I could, because I needed her, to be part of Felix's company. But I fell in love with her. I don't know when it happened; all I know is, the day I sat with her in the hospital, wton Judd was being bom, I knew I loved her. I knew she was my whole life."
"Very pretty," Leni said. Her chair was still pushed back fixMn tfie table. "But I don't know why any of us should ever believe you again."
•^Because it's true," he lashed out, and once again Leni diought he sounded very young. "And because I'm faithful to her. Fm not screwing in hotel rooms— **
••Oh, my God," she said wearily.
"You don't like my talking about it? Well, I don't like you telling me I don't love my wife. Look, I can't force you to believe that I love Allison, but you know danm well she believes it. She doesn't know about the past, but she knows about today; she knows that she and Judd are the center of my world. I wish you'd believe that and let me be part of your femily; I want diat more than anything.'*
*l*m sure you do.*' Leni brought her chair closer to the table. She watched the waiter bring fresh drinks in response to Ben*s signal. "I'm drinking far too much.**
*1'11 escort you home," Ben said formally. "And if you doo*t want me to stay in the guest room tonight, I'll go to a hotel.**
She broke into laughter, and suddenly the tension was bro-kiBa, **0f course you'll stay there; we bought that house so everyone could use it." She fell silent. "We,** she murmured. "Felix and I. Do you know, we*ve been married for twenty-eight years. I married him five months after Judd sent me away. I didn't know what else to do, and my parents thought it would help me redeem myself and that seemed so important at
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the time . . ." She turned her glass within her fingers. "I have to think about Felix. About what I'll do."
"You don't have much with him," Ben said. "Isn't that why you"—he paused—^'*needed others?"
She smiled faintly at his new carefulness. "I needed others because I don't sleep with Felix and I miss it, and young men give me pleasure and make me feel young. That's what you've been wanting to know, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry," Ben murmured. "They make you feel like you're nineteen again? And with my father?"
Leni gazed at him. "I don't know. That's either very clever or very true. I don't know."
"But maybe that was it. And maybe I felt the same way: that it was like being with my father again if I could get back at Felix. We both got caught in the past." He stared at his hands. "Maybe, if we believe each other, we can get beyond it."
They sat quietly. "I'm glad you loved my father," Ben said suddenly. "I'm sure he loved you. I'm sure he did from things he said."
Leni smiled. *Thank you." She felt tired and old, and Ben seemed very young. *Thank you, my dear. And thank you for stopping me today. It had gone on much too long. It was becoming absurd. And hard to live with."
"So is loneliness," Ben said.
She studied him: so hard one minute, so tender the next. "I'd rather live with the loneliness," she said.
Ben reached across the table and took her hand. "We'll help you, if you'll let us."
Leni put her other hand over his. He was very strong, she thought. "Of course I'll let you. I'm so glad you're part of us."
They sat for a moment. The bar was almost empty, and for the first time silence enclosed them. Then Ben smiled broadly. "Since we're both free for the evening, will you have dinner with me? Suddenly I feel very hungry."
Louie answered when Sam Colby called. "You can't talk to Mr. Farley for a couple of weeks," he said. "We're negotiating a new television series, and he gets upset if he's interrupted when things are iffy. I'm sure you understand."
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*Te got a few iffy things on my plate, too,** Colby muttered, but he didn't push it; he had other people to talk to. "I'll call again in two weeks and we'll set up a time. He'll be in this country, I assume."
"Until March. Then Paris for a week; a documentary film on his life is entered in a film festival there.'*
**Ah, I've heard about that film. The director followed him around and such?"
Taul Janssen. Works out of L.A. You've heard of him, of course.**
Colby hadn't, but he wouldn't admit it. He wasn't much for doGwnentaries; he preferred James Bond movies and west-ons, and once in a while something about space travel. "So he's going to Paris to see himself on the screen.**
Tartly."
**Ht hasn't seen itr
*'hk), die agreement with Janssen was diat we wouldn't ask to see it before it was released. Is all this relevant to the theft frwn Mr. Farley's apartment?**
*%verything is relevant.** Colby tilted back his chair, prepared to explain. "In an investigation, every bit of information k Uke a s^. Some of them sprout, some are duds, but a good investigator never ignores any of them or tosses any out, sinoe he never knows which might be a live one that— **
tSood, that*s fine,*' Louie said. ^'You call in a couple, three wedo; we'll cooperate all we can.**
O^ hung up slowly. He should have known better man- | ageiB were bu^y people; they didn*t have time to learn the fine points of investigating a crime. They pnbebly didn*t care, eitfier; most people weren't nearly curious enough. The trouble was, he had no one to talk to. All the men he used to woik wtth had retired or died; die young meo in tfie insurance offices around town wanted to get home to their wives and kids, not sit in a bar with Sam Colby and chew the fitt to get through the hows until it was time to go to sleep. The worst time had been three weeks ago, when he had to get through Christmas and New Year*s alone, but even now it seemed the evenings were kmg^ than a year ago; they got longer the older he got. He ooold always go to his hotel room and watch television, but the shows were either about families, which made him
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even more lonely, or about detectives, which made him snort, because he knew more than all those macho actors put together.
ril interview somebody, he thought. After all, that's what Tm here for, and I don't mind woiicing at night: long hours don*t scare a good investigator. But he soon found that Flavia Guameri was in Italy until February; Sid and Amelia Laughton were in Palm Springs for a week; Carlos Serrano was in Mexico—and, of course, Britt Farley was upset because things were iffy.
**^11, then, this Paul Janssen," Colby said aloud. "He probably can tell me more about Farley than Farley can." But Paul was in Los Angeles. "
How about I come out, then,'* Colby said on the telephone when Paul said he wouldn't be in New York for several weeks. "I'll leave tonight, and I can see you in the morning."
"I don't know how I can help you," Paul said. "Or how much time I can give you; I'm editing a film on a tight deadline. I'll tell you what: if you're flying aU night, come for breakfast." He gave his Bel Air address, and Sam Colby ended the conversation hununing a happy tune. He had a lot to do; it was going to be a busy time.
He was at Paul's house at seven the next morning and found him dressed and sitting on the deck. At that hour, the air was spaikling, and Colby stood admiring the view. "Makes a man ^ad to be a man and not a bird; they see all this but don't appreciate it the way we do."
Paul smiled. "Coffee? And help yourself to the rest."
There were cinnamon rolls and almond croissants, a basket of raisin muffins and a bowl heaped high with fruit. Everything but a Mrs. Janssen, Colby thought, and wondered, as he filled his plate, if there was one.
"How can I help you?" Paul asked.
"Ah." Colby settled back, ready for a long chat. "I'm interested in Britt Farley. I'm told you've be^ foUowing him around, talking to him, observing him, that sort of thing, and it occurred to me you'd be able to tell me, for one thing, if he's as broke as they say he is."
"I can't answer that," Paul said shortly. "I'd think you'd want to ask him direcdy."
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"Directly doesn't always work. Fm an insurance investigator, Mr. Janssen, and what I'm wondering is, what do you think are the chances that Farley faked the theft of his Remingtons?"
"For the insurance," Paul said. Colby nodded, beaming at being so quickly understood. "I don't know. I hadn't thought of it. He seemed furious that they were gone, and even angrier, if that's possible, that a stranger invaded his apartment, especially without having to break in. He'd thought the place was secure."
Colby nodded. "But that doesn't really rule out a bit of play acting, does it? You see—^" He finished his cinnamon roll, surreptitiously licked his fingers, and picked up a muffin. "We always have to treat that possibility very seriously. I don't like being cynical about people—the good Lord knows I'd like to love my fellowman and be charitable to each and every one of his failings, but that's not so easy for somebody in my business. Now, I am charitable, don't misunderstand me; it's just that I'm also cynical because otherwise I would have been out of work a long time ago instead of being the best in the business."
"Are you?" asked Paul, amused.
*The best," Colby declared. "Ask around; they'll tell you. I've got awards and letters of appreciation, and somebody even put me in a book once, about art forgeries. That was glorious, to read my name in a book. It's immortality—if you don't thiiik I'm blaspheming."
"I don't at all," Paul said and refilled Colby's cup.
"So I'm asking, you see, could he have faked it. Did he need to. Was he smart enough. Did he act like it. That sort of thing."
"I don't think Britt faked that theft."
"My other questions," Colby prompted.
"You should ask him."
"If he's smart enough?"
"If I said yes, you'd think I was suggesting something."
"Smart fella." Colby grinned. "Good muffins. Your wife make them?"
Paul chuckled at the idea of Emily in the kitchen. "No. In any event, she's out of town." He looked at his watch. "Is there anything else you want to ask?"
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Colby saw the morning loom ahead, with nothing to do. "Well, now, there are a number of things. Could you tell me ..." He pulled out all the questions he thou^t Paul might be able and willing to answer. He asked about Farley's schedule when he was at home in Paris and when he was on the road, the people who came to see him most frequently and those who were hangers-on, Lx)uie's access to his apartment and his hotel rooms when they were traveling, the kinds of parties Farley had given during the tour, how much money was raised for the hungry and how much payment Farley had taken for his time.
**None,*' said Paul to the last question. He stood. "Fve enjoyed talking to you, but I should have been at my studio an hour ago.**
"Might I come along?'* Colby asked. "Fve never seen a fihn edited.**
Paul shook his head. "No, Fm sorry. My partner and the PBS executives who are funding it are the only ones who see it before it's released."
"And it's going to be in a film festival? Louie Glass mentioned it. Like the Academy Awards?'*
"Not quite; the Cinema du Reel is just for documentaries.'* He held out his hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you."
"How about dinner? Fm taking the red-eye back, so I have plenty of time, and Fd appreciate the opportunity to buy you a dinner and hear about the film business. And since your wife is away, you might like some company."
Involuntarily, Paul smiled. But when Colby reddened, he felt sorry for him. "Fd like that. Why don't you come to the studio about seven? We'll go from there." He wrote on a pad of paper. "Here's the address. I'll see you then. And you can tell me what it's like, being an insurance investigator.**
"1*11 do that. It always helps to talk things out; you might have some ideas for me."
"Fve told you all I can about Britt.**
"Understood, understood. But Fm talking about something else. You see, I'm not only looking into Mr. Farley's robbery; Fve got four on my mind. His and three others. Very similar. Very, very similar. And what I'm looking for is a thread. Now there might not be one; we can't assume . . .** Paul was
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walking away and he was following. "Well, can't fritter away the morning; we've both got a lot of woiic to do. We'll talk tonight. Maybe you can help me find my thread. Because, by God, there's some connection between all these robberies, even though they're scattered all the hell over the worid—^I didn't mention that—but there's a connection. Fifty years of experience tells me there is, and, by God, I'll find it."
Paul led the way through the living room and down the stairs to the garage while Colby followed, still talking. "People tend to underestimate Sam Colby when they first meet him, but after a while they find they're wrong. That's p*ut of my success. I'll tell you about that tonight, too."
Paul opened his car door, and Colby was forced to turn to his rented car. "But the main thing is, I stick with things. I don't let go. If there's a connection here, I'll find it, and then I'll find who's behind it. You can be sure of that."
Paul waved as he drove away, smiling to himself. He will find it, he reflected; he probably can find anything he sets his mind to. He thought about him as he merged with the morning traffic on the freeway. An impressive man. Because beneath the talkativeness and the desperate reaching out for companionship, there had been glimpses of the professional tracker— dogged, shrewd, and implacable—and also a man stuck in retirement who would bring every skill he had to this case, because solving cases was the only way he felt alive.
I wouldn't want him hunting me, Paul thought with another smile. He found himself looking forward to dinner. He wanted to know more about Sam Colby and the whole shadowy business of art theft: who does it and how, where stolen worics end up, how often they're recovered, how often the thieves are caught. . . .
Excitement began to build inside him. A colorful, garrulous old man with a lifelong, fascinating career, the whole worid of art and money and international connections; a con^)licated case of four robberies just unfolding . . .
He had his next film.
Chapter 26
THE pla2:a in front of the Centre Pompidou slopes gently downward, forming a kind of amphitheater in front of the art museum where jugglers, jazz bands, clowns, and street theater groups perform beneath the Parisian sun. Ginny and Laura stopped to watch a group of circus performers in a tumbling act, then strolled over to a fire-eater who had attracted a crowd of children. **In Texas we*d ask him to do it with a branding iron," Ginny murmured as they moved on. **What would you like next? I made reservations for lunch,
but we can skip it and do the museum instead. Or something else you haven't seen."
**Is there anything I haven't seen?** Laura asked with a laugh. "We've been on the move ever since we got here."
"And we're leaving tomorrow, so we ought to be moving faster. The more you walk in Paris, the bigger it gets, have you noticed? But we'll come back another time. Now that I've talked you into one vacation, you'll take others: I predict it."
"You're very good to me, Ginny. Have I told you how gratefullam?"
"You have. And here we are at I'Escargot, so I guess we're about to have lunch. Is that all right?"
"Fine. Vm hungry and I need to sit fn' a while."
''That makes two of us."
The restaurant was built in 1832, and Laura tilted back her head to admire the elaborately painted ceUing white Ginny
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chattered in Texas-accented French with the waitress. In one of the huge mirrors spaced about the room she saw Ginny and herself as if they were in a painting: two American women, similarly dressed in beautifully cut wool suits and silk blouses, fine leather walking shoes, and shoulder bags. They looked prosperous, well-groomed, and poised, but what Laura saw most of all was the affection between them. Ginny had given up trying to be motherly, which made them even better friends, and the two of them were close and comfortable together. "-
And I'm very lucky, she thought, as Ginny finished ordering and turned back to her, switching to Texas-accented English. "Now, where were we?"
"I was telling you how grateful I am for all the things you do for me."
"So you were. Well, I'll tell you, I'm grateful, too. I love taking people around Paris because it makes me feel like it's my city, but mosdy I love doing things for you because you're grateful without overdoing it. I've always had more money than I know what to do with, even before I took Wylie to the cleaners—a poor form of revenge for all that humiliation, but we use whatever weapons we have—and I've noticed that when people have a lot of money, other people tend to be ridiculously grateful for simple things. They can't stop saying thank you, or you've made tiieir life worthwhile, or you're the next thing to a saint; and you don't have to be brilliant to figure out that what they really mean is they want more of your money and your attention, and so they're laying it on you to keep giving. It's all bullshit, and I can't abide it. But you're never anything like that; you mean what you say and you don't say it too often. Which is why I'm having a good time. Also, I might add, I'm getting an education. How many times have I come to Paris and checked out hotels, even poking into linen closets? How many times have I cut down my shopping to look at drapery fabrics? Never. And eating three-star dinners and thinking of new menus for back home . . . You haven't stopped woridng all week."
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