Coleman shook her head. “No way! Chick and David have lived together since college, and they never went out with anyone else, never went to gay bars. I have Chick’s notes from before Christmas, including a list of the bars he planned to visit. He checked some of them out in November, but he got the flu and then he went to California and didn’t cover them all. He must have planned to finish the list Friday.”
Coleman crossed to the coffeemaker again. She raised her eyebrows at Dinah, who shook her head.
Coleman refilled her own mug and sat down. “I insisted that La Grange’s death was connected to the Print Museum story. If I hadn’t been such a know-it-all, Chick would be alive today. Even the New York Times gave up on the story. They couldn’t connect his death to the art world, and they have access to sources I don’t. Damn it all, why didn’t I keep ArtSmart out of it?”
Dinah knew better than to argue. “I think I’ve figured out Chick’s notes. This says ‘Dürers too perfect, no stamps, why?’ And this one says ‘Rembrandt? Restrike?’ And under that, three names: Strauss, Valentine, and Parker. Chick is questioning why those Dürers were in such pristine condition. Good question. They tend to get a little banged up after five hundred years of handling, and it’s unusual to find sixteenth-century prints without a collector’s mark.”
“I know what ‘Rembrandt restrike’ means—he thinks someone got hold of one of Rembrandt’s etching plates and made a print with it. Is that possible?” Coleman asked.
“There were Rembrandt restrikes in the nineteenth century, but as I recall, they were a mess. Bain’s Sleeping Kitten isn’t one of those. According to the press, it’s a superb impression. A lot of Rembrandt’s plates still exist, and maybe you could still make prints from them, if they were accessible. But I think they’re in a museum.”
Coleman ran her fingers through her rumpled hair. “If somebody got the plate, the right paper, and all that, and made an acceptable-looking restrike, how much would it be worth?”
Dinah shook her head. “Not much, if it was identified as a contemporary restrike. What makes a print an original work of art—and valuable—is that the artist was involved in making it. If somebody used Rembrandt’s plate to produce impressions hundreds of years after Rembrandt died, they’d have little value, no matter how good they looked. Sleeping Kitten fetched a big price. If it’s a restrike, Bain was cheated. Tomorrow I’ll find out if the plate for Sleeping Kitten still exists, and where it is.”
“Suppose we learn that the plate for Sleeping Kittendoes exist? If there’s been a recent restrike, the plate has to be missing, right? Someone had to remove it from wherever it’s supposed to be to make a print. That means it’s been stolen, and would be evidence of an art crime that can be firmly tied to Jimmy La Grange.”
Dinah shook her head. “Even if the plate is missing, we’d have to prove Sleeping Kitten was made recently. That would require analysis of the paper and ink.”
“Okay, but a missing plate would be like finding a trout in the milk. Why do you suppose Chick thought it was a restrike?”
“Maybe because Sleeping Kitten is so rare? And it’s odd that it was sold in an unknown auction house in Boston. It fetched nearly a million dollars, but I’m sure it would have sold for more at a major auction house in New York or London,” Dinah said.
“Chick thought selling these rare prints in offbeat locations was strange, too. Let’s go back to the phone numbers. Can you make them out?”
“Yes, I’ll read them to you, and you dial them. Let’s assume they’re 212 area codes. The first number is 744-1600,” Dinah said.
Coleman put the phone on speaker, punched nine for an outside line, and the number. “Carlyle Hotel,” a voice answered.
“Sorry, wrong number,” Coleman said, and terminated the call. “That’s where Simon lives. I know he’s involved. What’s the other number?”
“477-3600.”
She punched in the numbers, and a gruff male voice said, “Blackbeard’s.”
“Is this a restaurant?”
“No, girlie, it’s a bar. You got the wrong number.”
Coleman hung up and grabbed the Manhattan telephone directory from the book shelves. “Blackbeard’s is on Christopher Street. I bet it’s one of the bars Chick visited. Maybe it’s where he met his killer. But it’s not on the list of bars he gave me.”
“Maybe he didn’t learn about Blackbeard’s till he was in the Village,” Dinah said.
Coleman shook her head. “No, he knew about it when he left the office, or the number wouldn’t have been on his calendar. How did he hear about it? Maybe from someone on the phone? And what about the names in Chick’s notes? Do they mean anything to you?”
“Strauss is probably the Rembrandt scholar, Walter Strauss. I’ll try to find out who the others are when I can get to my art books tomorrow. ‘Valentine’ isn’t familiar, but if ‘Strauss’ is the person I think he is, the other names probably have something to do with Rembrandt, too,” Dinah said.
Coleman cocked her head and cupped her hand behind her ear. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.
Dinah looked up. “What?”
Coleman put her finger to her lips. “Shh. The elevator. It stopped on this floor. Nobody should be coming here this time of night.”
“One of the staff? A cleaning crew?”
Coleman shook her head. “On Sunday night? I’ve never seen anyone cleaning here on a Sunday during the day, let alone at night. The guard downstairs knows we’re here. He should have called me to tell me someone was coming up. The switchboard’s off, but security has my cell phone number. Whoever it is must have sneaked past the guard. But why didn’t the elevator man stop him? I don’t want to scare you, but it must be somebody up to no good. I’ll turn off the lights. If it’s a burglar—or worse—I’d rather he not know we’re here. Take your things, and get under the table. I’ll lock the door to the conference room.”
Dinah did as she was told. Coleman switched off the conference room lights, locked the door to the hall, and crawled under the table to join Dinah. Dinah reached for Coleman’s hand.
“Listen,” Coleman whispered. “Whoever it is just opened the door from the elevator corridor into the reception room. He has a key card or the access code.”
Footsteps approached the conference room and the door handle rattled. They froze at the sound of someone entering the code that unlocked the conference room door. The overhead lights came on. All Dinah could see was a pair of black-trousered legs, and feet in highly polished black shoes. Oh, my God, she knew those feet and legs.
Dinah shot out from under the table. “Jonathan? What in heaven’s n-name are you d-doing here? You scared me half to d-death.”
Coleman crawled out, her green velvet pantsuit rumpled and covered with carpet lint, her cheeks red, her eyes glittering. “What the hell are you doing here? How’d you get in? What happened to the guard downstairs?”
Jonathan, immaculate in his tuxedo, looked down his nose. “Why are you under the table? You look like escapees from an insane asylum. I came to find you, Dinah. The guard told me you were here. I tried to call but couldn’t get through to ArtSmart, and your cell phone doesn’t answer. And Coleman, I’ve always had keys and codes to get in here. I’m one of your emergency contacts, remember?”
Dinah enunciated each word, “Jonathan, I do not want you following me around. You’re—you’re nothing but a stalker.”
Coleman rubbed her forehead. “If I knew you had access, I’d forgotten it. I’m headed for the ladies’ room to wash up and cool off. Right now I could bite nails, I’m so furious. You two go ahead and fight it out. Don’t bother about me—I just work here.”
Jonathan paced the floor. “I heard about Chick’s death, and I knew Coleman would poke her nose into it. Listen to me, Dinah: it’s dangerous involving yourself in a murder investigation. I insist you stay out of this.”
“You listen to me, Jonathan. I will help Coleman, and if you don’t help her, I’ll
never speak to you again. Coleman’s involved because Chick worked for her, and I am not going to desert her. And stop telling me what to do. I’m not a half-witted child. You may be my husband, but you are not the boss of me. And I’ve left you. Remember?”
The muscle in his cheek twitched. “I’ll help you both, if just to keep you from getting killed. But don’t blame me if you’re unhappy with the outcome of my investigations. I am confident that your beloved Bain is behind all this.”
Coleman returned from the ladies’ room, her hair combed, and the lint brushed off her suit. Ignoring Jonathan, she sat down and doodled on the pad in front of her. “I’ve always thought La Grange was someone’s tool, and Simon is the most obvious person to have used him,” she mused.
Dinah nodded. “But even if La Grange was fronting for Simon when he sold the prints, I don’t see how Simon’s role can be proved. He bought the prints publicly and legally. I guess La Grange could have been forced to testify against him, but with La Grange dead—”
“Exactly,” Coleman said. “With La Grange dead, we may never know what happened to him, or what Simon’s relationship with him was. I think Simon made sure of that. But maybe we can find out what happened to Chick.”
“Well, we can’t do it tonight. I’m exhausted,” Dinah said. “Let’s get out of here. I can hardly wait to get to my quiet little room at the Creedmore Club.”
“Tom’s waiting downstairs with the car. I’ll take you home, Coleman, and you to the Creedmore if that’s where you insist on going, Dinah,” Jonathan said.
“No need,” Dinah said, not looking at him. “I hired a limo. It’s waiting downstairs.”
“No, it isn’t. I let it go. You know I don’t like you riding around in strange cars with strange drivers,” Jonathan said.
Dinah closed her eyes. “Dear God, give me strength,” she said through clenched teeth.
Coleman sighed, collected the dirty coffee mugs, and put them on the tray by the coffeemaker. They could wait till she was next in the office. She turned out the lights and followed Dinah and Jonathan to the elevator.
After they dropped off Coleman and were crawling up Park Avenue, Dinah said, “Who was the sexy blonde in the red dress you were talking to at the Print Museum?”
“Judy.”
“Your ex-wife?” Dinah stared at him. “What was she doing there?”
“She said she was Bain’s date. She also said she’s a freelance writer writing a story on the opening.”
“You never told me she was so beautiful.” Dinah had always been curious about Judy. She was much more attractive than Dinah had imagined.
“I don’t want to discuss Judy,” Jonathan said, his tone curt.
He was angry again. Fine. So was she. She was silent during the rest of the drive.
Coleman was unlocking her apartment door when the telephone rang. She groaned. Would this day never end? Before she ran to answer the phone, she scooped up Dolly and hugged the little dog to her chest. Dolly licked her face.
Zeke didn’t bother to say hello. “Is it true? I heard at the opening tonight that Chick was killed?”
“Yes, it’s true. He’s dead. They think the people who killed Jimmy did it. If he was the leak to the Artful Californian, it’s over. Whatever he did, he didn’t deserve to die.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure it’s over, Coleman. Maybe it’s the spy bit that got Chick killed. Remember how we calculated how much money an unethical person could make if they could take over ArtSmart?”
Coleman rolled her eyes. “Nonsense, that’s ridiculous. ArtSmart is my whole life, but I wouldn’t kill for it. Even if we’re right about why it’s happening—that it’s about money—no one would do anything so drastic. I’m sure Chick was killed because he discovered something about Jimmy’s death.”
“Yes, but we still don’t know why Jimmy was killed. This all could be tied together,” Zeke said.
“A conspiracy theory? Please!”
“Coleman, John Buchan wrote that civilization is a conspiracy. Conspiracies are not all that uncommon. How about humoring me: give Chick’s partner a call, and ask him about Chick’s relationship with the Artful Californian.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Zeke, I can’t do that. Chick has been murdered, and I’m responsible. You want me to call David and ask him if Chick was spying? Right this minute, I don’t give a damn. I’m interested in who killed Chick.”
“But don’t you see, Chick’s death may be linked to the leak. It might be dangerous to ignore that possibility,” Zeke argued.
Coleman rubbed her forehead. She had to get off the phone. “I’m too tired to talk. I’ll think about it tomorrow. I’ll call when I can. Good night, Zeke.”
She took a hot shower, put on a flannel nightgown, and crawled into bed. But her head ached and she couldn’t sleep, so she got up, swallowed a Tylenol PM, made herself a cup of diet cocoa, and gave Dolly a Milkbone. She tried to reach David again, but he still didn’t answer. She didn’t go back to bed, but lay on the sofa with a blanket over her, and Dolly snuggled by her side. She fell asleep with the television droning in the background.
Twenty-Five
Monday
London
Rachel, in a violet wool suit and pearls, was ready to leave when George Quincy arrived. Her mink coat and alligator carryall were lying on the bench in the entryway, and a hired Jaguar waited. The driver knew her destination, and the car pulled away from the curb as soon as they were settled in the back seat.
“We are going to visit the Baldorean Collection. Do you know it?”
“It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“It is in a house near Oxford, not far from Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons, the restaurant and inn. The house and the collection belong to the Greshams. An ancestor of the present Lord Gresham assembled the objets. One sees the collection by appointment. The collection is generously endowed, and it’s in an unbreakable trust. Nothing can be sold.”
Even in her fur coat, and with the car heater on high, Rachel felt chilly. She wished she had brought a thermos of coffee. They’d be offered it at the Baldorean, but it would be undrinkable. “There is a curator, a well-known scholar. He is in his late eighties. He was a friend of Professor Ransome’s.”
Quincy wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “And it’s here that you think we’ll find the evidence that Simon stole?”
“The evidence will be that the Dürers—which Heyward Bain recently bought in the United States—are missing,” Rachel said.
In less than two hours they pulled into the courtyard of an unpretentious gray stone house. Rachel rang a bell. After a long wait, an untidy-looking middle-aged woman in a mud-colored twinset, rumpled tweed skirt, and sagging heavy stockings, appeared.
“Good morning, Mrs. Ketcham. Mr. Yeats is expecting us.”
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Ransome, come in.”
She led them through a dark hallway into an equally dark and cluttered library, as hot and stuffy as the hall was cold and drafty. The room smelled of wood smoke and ancient paper. A shrunken old man sat behind a massive desk, a shawl around his shoulders. He rose as they came in, but he tottered, and leaned against the desk for balance.
“Sit down, please, Mr. Yeats. We will sit, too,” Rachel said. “Mr. Yeats, Mr. Quincy.”
“Good morning, good morning,” Yeats said, and lowered himself back into his chair. “Come close to the fire, it’s chilly in here.” He rubbed his shriveled hands together. “What about coffee, eh? Too early for sherry, I think. I never drink sherry before one o’clock.”
Mrs. Ketcham returned, carrying a tray. She served tepid instant coffee, passed a plate of limp-looking biscuits, and left.
“What brings you here, Mrs. Ransome?” Yeats asked, his mouth full of biscuit, crumbs spraying over the papers on the desk.
“I should like to show Mr. Quincy the Dürers. I have told him of their exceptional condition,” Rachel said.
“Of course, of course, I’ll ge
t them.” He rose again, and selected a large folio from a stack of similar folios on a nearby table. He placed it on his desk, dangerously near his half full coffee cup.
Rachel rose, removed the cup and the biscuit plate, and put them on another table. She remained standing near Yeats while he opened the folio.
It was empty, except for the tissue paper that should have separated the prints. The old man looked at Rachel. “They’re not here,” he whispered, his face gray.
“I was afraid of that. I suspect they have been stolen, and sold in New York. But calm yourself, we will get them back.”
Yeats opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Quincy helped the old man sit down and replaced the shawl around his shoulders. He picked up a lap robe that lay on the floor and spread it over Yeats’s knees.
“We should have this folio fingerprinted. It is probably useless, but one should never overlook the obvious,” Rachel said.
She pulled an old-fashioned bell cord, and Mrs. Ketcham reappeared.
“Mrs. Ketcham, the Baldorean has suffered a theft. Will you please bring me a case for this folio? I want to take it to London to be checked for fingerprints. And will you bring me your ledger? And the photographs?” She turned to Quincy. “When I first moved to England, I visited this collection. I could see that it would be easy for an unscrupulous person to steal objects. Visitors sit at the table in the alcove out of sight of Mr. Yeats’s desk. Mr. Yeats is usually concentrating on his reading or his writing. But most of the works are stamped with the Baldorean stamp. It looks like this.”
She selected a book from a nearby shelf, and handed it, open, to Quincy. The inside of the back cover had been stamped with a seal. “Stamps like this are not easy to remove, and nothing in the Baldorean Collection has ever been sold. Removing the stamp would require great effort, and it would be impossible to disguise its removal. This is a deterrent to theft. But the missing Dürers were not identified in any way as being a part of the Baldorean Collection.”
Yeats nodded, shuffling papers on his desk. “It was my folly, my folly. I could not bear to mark them. Everyone said I should, but I simply could not, could not do it,” he said, his voice barely audible, his hands trembling.
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