“Sure.”
They strolled to a rear corner of the lobby among the oriental rugs on both floor and walls, and Eppick said, “As far as I’m concerned, you know, bygones are bygones.”
“That’s nice,” Dortmunder said.
“Fortunately,” Eppick said, “my insurance covered almost everything.”
“That’s nice.”
“And it was a good learning experience, to know where I had to beef up security.”
“That’s nice.”
Eppick peered closely into Dortmunder’s face, still holding, though not tightly, Dortmunder’s left elbow. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“No.”
“That’s fine, then,” Eppick said, and released his elbow to give him a friendly, if perhaps slightly hostile, whack. “Let’s go up and have Mr. Hemlow give us the good news.”
There was a new extraneous green-uniformed operator hovering over the controls in the elevator. Dortmunder nodded at him. “Harya.”
“Sir.”
“The other guy go on to pilot’s school?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I’m new here.”
“You’ll get the hang of it,” Dortmunder assured him.
The doorman leaned his head in to tell the newbie, “The penthouse.”
“Yes, sir.”
So, to the penthouse they went, and there in his wheelchair was Mr. Hemlow, about whom the best you could say was that he probably didn’t look any worse. Or not much worse.
“Welcome to you both,” Mr. Hemlow said, nodding that head that looked as though it might roll off the medicine ball at any minute. Below, the busy leg tangoed.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Hemlow,” Eppick said, and Dortmunder contented himself with a nod, deciding to let Eppick have spoken for both of them.
“Well, come along.”
Apparently, everybody was friends again, because the speeding wheelchair led them back to the view and the two chairs side by side. Once they were there, Mr. Hemlow said, “May I offer you two something to drink?”
This was something new, a level of sociability heretofore unknown. Dortmunder might have tried his luck on a bourbon request, but Eppick said, “Oh, we’re fine, Mr. Hemlow. So things worked out well for Fiona, did they?”
“Very well indeed.” That head might be beaming, in grandfatherly pride. “It seems that Mrs. Livia Northwood Wheeler,” he said, “the person Fiona improperly approached, blamed herself for Fiona’s being fired, sought her out to be sure she’d be all right, and, in a word, hired her as a personal assistant.”
“No kidding!” Eppick loved it.
Mr. Hemlow chuckled, or something. “At an actual increase in pay,” he said. “Not much, but some.”
“That’s great, Mr. Hemlow.”
“But that’s only the beginning,” Mr. Hemlow told him. “Although I’d assured Fiona, and it was the truth, that I had no further interest in the stolen chess set, she now felt she might be in a position to help us all lay our hands on it.”
“That would be something,” Eppick said.
“Yes, it would. Not wanting to risk her reputation even further, Fiona operated very slowly and carefully, gradually inculcating in Mrs. Wheeler’s mind the idea that there just might be something not entirely on the up-and-up about that chess set.”
Interested, Eppick said, “How’d she work that, Mr. Hemlow?”
“There was the difference in weight between the rooks,” Mr. Hemlow said. “Also, the lack of provenance from before its appearance in Alfred Northwood’s possession. Northwood had no family, no money, no discernible background, all matters of supreme significance to a woman like Mrs. Wheeler. Where had this supposedly so valuable object come from?”
Admiring, Eppick said, “Fiona got that point across, did she?”
“She was aided, I have no doubt,” Mr. Hemlow said, “by Mrs. Wheeler’s natural paranoia. But yes, she did become convinced there was something dubious, shall we say, about that chess set, and now she’s given Fiona the task of establishing the set’s bona fides.”
Eppick gave a single bark of a laugh. “Those bona fides are gonna be tough to come by,” he said.
“I don’t doubt,” Mr. Hemlow said, “that a diligent researcher could trace the set back to Sgt. Northwood’s arrival in this city in 1921 on the train from Chicago. He wouldn’t have announced the set’s existence at that time, wouldn’t have brought it out at all into public view until twenty-seven years later, when he felt secure enough, respectable enough—”
“Rich enough,” Eppick suggested.
“That, too.” Mr. Hemlow tremored a nod. “Solid enough, let us say, that he dared to put the set on display in the lobby of his real estate offices. Announcing without ever quite saying so that this elaborate toy of kings was the source of the Northwood fortune.”
Eppick said, “What about before . . . when was it? 1921? When he brought the set on the train from Chicago?”
“Yes, 1921.” Various parts of Mr. Hemlow, squeezed as they were into the wheelchair, tremored and tangoed and fidgeted and possibly even shrugged. “Before that date,” he said, “there is no trace. We three in this room know the actual owner a little prior to that time would have been Czar Nicholas II, but even there the property rights are clouded, since apparently Nicholas never actually received the gift. Nor can we ever know the gift-giver’s identity or ultimate intention.”
“Good for us,” Eppick said.
“Possibly.” Mr. Hemlow nodded and said, “We can only assume the chess set reached Murmansk sometime in 1917, just as the First World War and the Russian Revolution were both breaking out. The set could move no further, since all the land between Murmansk and St. Petersburg was being fought over, and all trace of it, all paperwork connected to it, even the identity of the sender, all were lost in the double turmoils of war and uprising. By 1918, Nicholas and his entire family had been slaughtered by the Bolsheviks, leaving the question of ownership, if it would ever even arise, further and further in doubt. Surely the Bolsheviks could not be thought to have inherited.”
“Not from their own crime,” Eppick said.
“Exactly. By 1920, when the American platoon stumbled across the set in a pierside warehouse in Murmansk, who was the rightful owner? If ever there were such a thing as legitimate spoils of war, that chess set is it. So I suppose it would be permissable to say, if there are any potential claimants to ownership of the set, they are the descendants of the ten men in that platoon, including of course myself and my granddaughter.”
Dortmunder said, “And the Livia Northwood Whatever. Her.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Hemlow said. “Not all of Mrs. Wheeler’s worth is ill-gotten, only ninety percent of it.”
Eppick barked that laugh again. “We’ll leave them a couple pawns,” he said.
“Amusing,” Mr. Hemlow said, “but I think not.”
Dortmunder said, “How’s your granddaughter gonna try to find out where that thing come from if she already knows where it come from but can’t tell anybody?”
“Well, you see,” Mr. Hemlow said, perking up as though Dortmunder had just put his finger on a very positive and a very strategic point, “that’s the beauty of it, John. Since she knows the answer, she knows what to avoid. She knows to provide Lydia Northwood Wheeler with clues and evidence that lead firmly in some opposite direction.”
Dortmunder said, “Which opposite direction?”
“Whichever direction,” Mr. Hemlow said, “will lead Mrs. Wheeler to demand the chess set be taken out of that vault—”
“Now you’re talkin,” Dortmunder said.
“—and examined by experts.”
Eppick said, “Mr. Hemlow, this is great news.”
“Yes, it is.” Was that a smile of satisfaction down there in the blubber somewhere? “I wanted you both to know this situation is brewing,” he went on, “because I will want you both available when the time comes. But let me remind you of the ground rules.”
> “Keep away from your granddaughter,” Eppick said.
“Exactly so. She survived the previous danger, but I don’t want it to happen again.”
“Fine by us,” Dortmunder said.
“At this point,” Mr. Hemlow said, “Fiona is on her own, attempting to steer events. Whatever news may develop, she will communicate it to me, I will communicate it to you, Johnny, and you will communicate it to John.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Eppick said.
A beady eye from out of the folds focused on Dortmunder. “Is that clear to you as well, John?”
“I don’t need to chitchat with granddaughters,” Dortmunder told him. “When that thing comes up outa that vault, just tell me where it is. That’s all I need.”
“We’re all business,” Eppick assured Mr. Hemlow, “all the time. Aren’t we, John?”
“You bet,” Dortmunder said. He was wondering about suggesting he be put on Mr. Hemlow’s payroll this time, next to Eppick, but decided not to waste his breath. He knew what the answer was.
“Well, gentlemen,” Mr. Hemlow said, and down inside there he might have been smiling. “It would seem, once again, the game’s afoot.”
35
JACQUES pERLY WAS the only private detective Jay Tumbril knew, or was likely to know. A specialist in the recovery of stolen art, frequently the go-between with the thieves on the one side and the owner/museum/insurer on the other, Perly was a cultured and knowledgeable man, far from the grubby trappings associated with the term “private eye.”
Tumbril had known Perly slightly for years, since the Feinberg firm had more than once been peripherally involved in the recovery of valuable art stolen from its clients, and now, although Fiona Hemlow could not fairly be described as either “stolen” or “art,” Jacques Perly was the man Jay Tumbril thought to turn to when there were Questions to be Asked.
They met at one that Monday afternoon for lunch at the Tre Mafiosi on Park Avenue, a smooth, hushed culinary temple all in white and green and gold, with, this time of year, pink flowers. Perly had arrived first, as he was supposed to, and he rose with a smile and an outstretched hand when Tony the maître d’ escorted Jay to the table. A round, stuffed Cornish game hen of a man, Jacques Perly retained a slight hint of his original Parisian accent. A onetime art student, a failed artist, he viewed the world with a benign pessimism, the mournful good humor of a rich unmarried uncle, who expects nothing and accepts everything.
“Nice to see you, Jacques,” Jay said, releasing Perly’s hand, as Tony seated him and Angelo distributed menus and Kwa Hong Yo brought rolls, butter, and water. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it has. You’ve been fine?”
“And you?”
Menus were consulted, food and wine were ordered, and then Jay leaned forward over the display plate, made a steeple of his hands over the plate, and leaned back as Kwa Hong Yo removed the plates. He then leaned forward again, made another steeple, rested chin on steeple like golf ball on tee, and said, “In complete confidence.”
“Of course.”
“Let’s see. How do I begin?”
Perly knew better than to offer advice on that score, so after a minute Jay said, “A client of ours, a valued client of some years standing, is a very wealthy woman.”
“Of course.”
“She was introduced, not by me, to a young woman, a young attorney with the firm.” Jay picked up a roll and watched himself turn it over and over, as though searching for a secret door. “The young woman had gone outside the normal channels to force a meeting with this client,” he told the roll. “That was against the firm’s rules.” With a quick glance at Perly, he said, “It would be against most firms’ rules.”
“I can see the security implications,” Perly agreed.
Jay dropped the roll onto its bread plate, a little disappointed in it. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I was a bit impetuous. In fact, I fired the young woman in the client’s presence.”
“Who took the young woman’s part,” Perly suggested.
“Worse,” Jay said. “She hired the young woman as her personal assistant.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Exactly.”
Perly considered. “The softer sex,” he suggested.
“Possibly,” Jay said. “The more willful sex, in any event.”
“Speaking of sex,” Perly said, now studying his own roll, “is there any chance . . . ?”
“What? No, no! That’s not the issue at all!”
Fortunately, the soup arrived at that moment, and when they continued the conversation it was from a slightly different angle. “This young woman,” Jay said. “Her manner of forcing herself on the client made me suspicious. What was her motive?”
“To be hired by the client?”
“I don’t think so, not at first.” Jay shook his head. “I doubt she could have guessed that turn of events in a million years.”
“Then what did she have in mind?”
“That’s the question,” Jay said, fixing Perly with a meaningful stare. “That’s the question in a nutshell.”
“The question that brings us to this lunch.”
“Exactly. What is the young woman’s ulterior motive? What, if any, risk is there to my client?”
“Yes, of course. And how long ago did this happen?”
“I fired the young woman in December.”
“Ah. In time for Christmas.”
“That was not ad rem.”
“No, of course not.” Perly smiled, man to man. “A pleasantry,” he said.
“It happened to be when I learned the facts,” Jay said, feeling faintly defensive but firmly strangling the feeling in its crib. “As I say, I acted impetuously.”
“And what has happened in the three months since?”
“She—the young woman—is ensconced in my client’s apartment—not living there, working there, living somewhere else—and every time I phone my client only to hear that young woman’s voice and have to leave a confidential message for my client with her, it gives me a twinge, a sense of foreboding.”
“Yes.”
“Finally,” Jay explained, “it seemed to me I had to act on my instincts, if only to assure myself there was no real . . . problem here.”
Perly nodded. Surreptitiously he looked around for the arrival of the entrée while saying, “Just the level of attention and concern I’d expect from you, Jay. But you have no specific fears or doubts in connection with this young woman.”
“I know nothing about her,” Jay complained. “She filled out the usual applications and took the usual tests. I’ve brought copies of all that for you.”
“Good.”
“She has a decent education, comes so far as I know from a decent family, has no previous link that I can find with my client at all. But it was that client and no other that the young woman went after.”
“Wherever there’s an action, there is always a motive,” Perly said. “What is her motive? That is what you want me to find out.”
“Yes.”
Perly nodded. “How will I be billing this?”
“To me, at the firm,” Jay said. “I’ll pass it on to the client’s account.”
“We are acting on her behalf, after all,” Perly agreed. “Even if I don’t come up with anything . . . reprehensible.”
“Whatever you come up with,” Jay told him, “if it at least answers my question about her reasons, I’ll be content. And so will the client.”
“Naturally.”
From within his sleek dark jacket, Perly withdrew a slender black notebook that contained within a strap its own gold pen. Drawing this pen, he said, “I’ll need names and addresses and some little details concerning these two ladies.”
“Of course.”
Seeing Jay hesitate, Perly leaned forward into his arriving main course, smiled, and said, “Confidentiality, Jay. It’s considered my greatest virtue.”
36
WHAT bRIAN MISSED most was the ev
enings alone. It had been fun, in those days, to come back to the apartment from the cable station before six, futz around with his music, browse in his cookbooks, prepare tonight’s dinner in a slow and leisurely fashion, and know that, probably after ten o’clock, he’d get that call: “I’m on my way.” He’d turn up the heat under the pots or in the oven, bring out tonight’s wine and a couple of glasses and be ready when she walked in the front door.
Being fired from Feinberg had been bad for Fiona but ultimately it had been worse for Brian, because she was over it by now but he was never going to be. He’d never have those evenings to himself, ever again. Or the sense of freedom they had given him, in more ways than one.
As he well knew, it was the irregularity of her days that had made the regularity of his own easier to stand. What had attracted him to both cartooning and cooking in the first place was that both were art, not science. He could cook but he couldn’t bake, because baking was chemistry; get one little thing wrong and you’ve ruined it. The same with cartooning; he couldn’t do an exact face or even an exact building, but he could give you the feel of it, and that’s what made it art.
What he liked about art was that there were no rules. He liked living with no rules. The regularity of his mornings and evenings struck him as too uncomfortably close to living within the rules, so he’d been lifted by Fiona’s goofy hours; they’d freed him from the temporal rules by osmosis. But he would of course never tell her that her being fired had taken that pleasure out of his life.
Besides, he was happy for her. She had a better job now, which meant not just more money and better hours but more entertaining things for her to talk about over dinner, Mrs. Wheeler being an endlessly diverting character. He wished sometimes he could figure out a way to turn her into a cartoon and sell it to the station, or maybe some other channel further up the animation food chain. He was creative in some ways, but not in that way, and he regretted it.
Now that they had these longer evenings together, another question was what to do to fill the time between getting home and actually sitting down to dinner, which couldn’t possibly happen until two or three hours later. Much of the time was spent with Fiona detailing Mrs. W’s latest follies while he worked on dinner, and the rest of the time they’d been filling in with games: Scrabble, backgammon, cribbage.
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