Restrike

by Reba White Williams

  “No, I do not know if his parents are alive, nor do I know any of his friends. But there have always been women. As I did not care, I never raised the topic with him.”

  “How do things stand between you now?” Jonathan said.

  “When I believed he had stolen the Dürers from the Baldorean—I never doubted that you would return them, Mr. Bain—I was relieved. I thought I could ‘Get rid of Simon,’ and I confronted him. You see, if I can prove he is guilty of a crime, I can oust him from our partnership. If I cannot, he remains my partner, and is entitled to twenty percent of the gallery’s profits, whether he works at the gallery or not. But so far, my efforts to prove him guilty of any crime have failed.”

  Heyward was frowning. “But Mrs. Ransome, ‘Get rid of Rachel’ doesn’t necessarily mean that—that Simon would do anything to physically harm you. Perhaps he thinks that you’ve been guilty of something, and wants to use whatever it is to get you out of the partnership. Perhaps you’ve wronged him in some way.”

  Rachel’s eyes flashed. “No one thinks that I would do anything criminal, least of all Simon. If you doubt me, perhaps you should investigate: my reputation is unblemished. However, he recently attempted to make it appear that I had done something unethical, and once again, it involved a purchase for you, Mr. Bain.” She told the story of The Midget, and how, at considerable expense, she had blocked Simon’s efforts to blacken her reputation, and that of the gallery. “I have hired special auditors. They are now going over the books. A great deal of money is missing from the gallery’s accounts. It must be returned.” Her face looked as if it were carved from stone.

  Dinah felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Rachel would be a formidable enemy. Just as Marise had said, she was Medici-like.

  Quincy nodded. “The gallery has not received any of the money it should have for sales in the US.” He glared at Bain, who refused to meet his glance.

  “Have the police identified the bearded man who seems to have been the person who stole the Dürers?” Jonathan said.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Quincy said. “The car he drove turned out to have been rented by an American woman—”

  “What’s her name?” Dinah interrupted.

  Quincy looked annoyed at the interruption. “I’m not sure I was told, but she was never anywhere near the Baldorean. She was out with a tour group that day. The police checked her alibi thoroughly.”

  “Could you find out her name?” Dinah said.

  Quincy raised his eyebrows and stared at her. “I suppose so, although I cannot imagine why you want to know it, Mrs. Hathaway. Mrs. Ransome, may I use the telephone in your study?”

  Rachel nodded. “Of course,” she said.

  Dinah forced herself to smile at Quincy. (What a stuffy old crab he was. She might have known he wouldn’t own a cell phone.) “I’d appreciate it.”

  Bain was still frowning. “There’s nothing illegal about what Simon did—improving his looks and changing his name. I don’t understand why that’s an issue,” he said.

  “No, people do it all the time. But there’s something about Simon that makes us all uneasy,” Dinah said.

  “Yes, and rightly so,” Rachel said.

  Bain glared at Rachel. “Mrs. Ransome, what Simon did with The Midget was sharp business practice, but that goes on all the time. There are those who would say the seller was a fool, and deserved to be cheated. That you, the senior partner in the gallery, were criminally careless. In any case, what he did was not illegal. I can’t understand why you’re so determined to force him out of the gallery that has been his life’s work.”

  “You do not think it was unethical for him to have the gallery buy The Midget, and ask La Grange to pretend to be its owner to sell it for him, and then bid it up to get money from you?” Rachel asked.

  “Can you prove that he did that?” Bain said.

  “It is obvious to all who choose to see. How else could La Grange sell it, when the Ransome Gallery owned it?”

  Before Bain could reply, Quincy returned. The maid who’d admitted them followed him in. “Mr. Hathaway is wanted on the telephone,” she said.

  Jonathan left the room, and Quincy said, “The woman’s name is Delia Swain.”

  “Finally, a link!” Dinah said. “She’s the unpleasant young woman Coleman and I met in Virginia.”

  “You know this woman? How very improbable,” Quincy said, his bushy eyebrows almost touching his receding hairline.

  “We met her at the Harnett Museum, where the Rembrandt plates were stolen,” Dinah said.

  “But as I told you, she couldn’t have stolen the Dürers—” Quincy said.

  “No, I understand that,” Dinah said, “but—”

  Jonathan came back, his face ashen. Dinah stood up. “What is it? Has something happened to Coleman?”

  “No, but someone poisoned Baker—my dog,” he explained to the others. “Dinah, he may die. He’s a very old dog, and the vet says he probably won’t make it.”

  “How did it happen? Who called?” Dinah said, tears rolling down her face.

  “The office. They said the dog-sitter called them from the vet’s office.”

  Dinah sat down again, and Jonathan sat on the sofa beside her. He handed her his handkerchief. “I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Baker is such a good dog.”

  “Who would do such a terrible thing?” Rachel said.

  “Who indeed? They were walking in Washington Square Park, and the sitter didn’t see anyone feed Baker—but he got violently sick, and the vet said he had eaten poisoned meat. We tried to train him not to take food from strangers, but Baker is very trusting. He’s a golden retriever, maybe you know the breed, and how friendly they are.”

  Heyward Bain fidgeted in his chair. “Surely this has nothing to do with the Print Museum and its problems,” he said. “Can we get back to business?”

  Jonathan looked at him. “Of course not. It’s just a sad coincidence.”

  Dinah knew that Jonathan was as surprised as she was at Bain’s rudeness and indifference to their grief. Bain was beginning to annoy her. He had an inhuman quality. He didn’t react normally, or see events as others did.

  “Do not be too sure of that,” Rachel said. “I don’t believe in coincidences. When a series of evil events take place, they are usually connected. Simon hates dogs,” she added, “and they hate him. I always wanted one, but when he was here, that was impossible. Perhaps I will buy one now.”

  “Oh, really,” Bain said. He turned to Quincy. “Can we get back to Ms.—what’s her name again?”

  “Delia Swain,” Quincy said. “She was the American woman staying at the Randolph when the Baldorean was robbed. It was her rented car the thief drove.”

  Bain frowned. “Could her presence be a coincidence?”

  Dinah shook her head. “I think she’s a part of all this. Coleman and I both thought she acted suspiciously.”

  “She has an alibi,” Quincy said for the third time.

  Dinah grimaced. Quincy was annoying her even more than Bain. She must be jet-lagged. “So you’ve said, several times. She obviously had an accomplice. Her role was to rent the car, and to make sure it was available.”

  Jonathan looked at Dinah, and then at his watch. “It’s nearly eight o’clock. We should leave you in peace, Mrs. Ransome, and I should feed Dinah—she’s scarcely eaten a bite in the last twenty-four hours.”

  Dinah stood. He was lying. It was a white lie, but still, unusual for him. She knew he was worried about Baker, uncomfortable with Heyward’s behavior, and distressed by her impatience with Rachel’s solicitor, whom Dinah had mentally christened Quincy the Thick.

  “How shall we proceed?” Rachel said.

  “We’ll discuss all this over dinner, and I’ll call Rob Mondelli, the detective who’s working on this for us. I wish he could have come with us, but he thought he should stay in New York to protect Coleman,” Jonathan said.

  “Quite right, too,” Rachel sa
id. “I’m worried about that young woman.”

  “Can you explain why you’re worried about her?” Dinah asked.

  “It is as I said: I do not believe in coincidences. I am a student of history. During the past, when a series of events like these have occurred, they have been connected. Your cousin was attacked. She has offended someone, or she is in someone’s way. She should be very careful.”

  Bain looked as if he were going to say something unpleasant, but Jonathan intervened. “We’ll telephone you tomorrow. Thank you so much.”

  Dinah took Rachel’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Ransome. We’re all after the same thing—the truth, and punishment for whoever’s responsible for these terrible things—murders, spying, theft . . . it must be stopped.”

  Coleman looked at the clock on the wall of her office. It was nearly one o’clock—five hours later in London—and the group must have assembled at the Ransome Gallery. If she’d gone with them, she’d have met the fabled Rachel Ransome. And she might have had an opportunity to ask Bain why he’d quizzed Dinah about her private affairs.

  She no longer had any interest in Bain, except to find out why he was asking questions about her, and how he’d come by personal information about her. She didn’t believe he’d heard of her near-rape from one of the participants. They’d never have talked about it. On the other hand, if not from one of them, how could he have learned about it?

  The phone rang. “Coleman, a huge bunch of red roses just arrived for you, and there are some packages with it. Is it your birthday?” The receptionist sounded breathless with excitement.

  “No, it’s not my birthday, nor any other special occasion. I’ll be right out.”

  She counted the roses: four dozen, and what a delicious scent. Most hothouse roses had no fragrance at all—they might as well be lettuce. Someone had spent a bundle. “Gorgeous,” Coleman said, and looked at the card: “‘From your secret admirer.’ Well, that’s nice. I wonder who it can be? I’ll take the packages to my office. I’ll come back for the flowers.”

  Zeke appeared in the reception area and picked up the vase of roses. “I’ll bring them. Who’re they from?”

  Coleman handed him the card and, in her office, tore the wrappings off the packages. “Lots of doggie goodies for you, Dolly—and for me—wow! Coffee truffles, and chocolate-covered coffee liqueurs. Somebody knows I’m addicted to caffeine and chocolate.”

  “Coleman, don’t eat any of that stuff. Don’t give any of it to Dolly, either,” Zeke said, setting the vase of roses on Coleman’s desk. “Do you have a shopping bag? I’m going to pack everything up.”

  Coleman frowned at him. “Who’re you—the food police? I wasn’t planning to pig out,” she said, and leaned over to pick up Dolly, who was standing on her hind legs, begging, “but I think Dolly and I could each have one treat. I’ll have a truffle, and Dolly—”

  Zeke held up his hand. “No, Coleman! Don’t touch it. I’m taking all this stuff to my office, and we’ll ask Rob to come get it. If he says it’s okay, fine.”

  “Are you saying there’s something wrong with the food?” Coleman and Dolly were still staring at the boxes. Dolly was licking her chops, and Coleman could taste the chocolate.

  “Rob asked me to be on the lookout for threats to you, and I don’t like anonymous gifts. Will you call Rob, or shall I?” He poured the candies into the shopping bag, careful not to touch them. A Doggie Treat—Dolly’s favorite brand—fell to the floor and bounced across the room. Dolly scurried over to pick it up before Zeke could reach it. He watched, helpless, terrified that it might harm her.

  But Dolly stopped short several inches away from the treat, sniffed at it, growled, and backed away. Zeke sighed with relief. Coleman shrugged. “She usually loves those things, but they’ve been near the candy, and she doesn’t like chocolate or caffeine.” Zeke grabbed a piece of paper from the nearby wastebasket, used it to pick up the treat, and dropped it into the shopping bag. Coleman was on the telephone with Rob, explaining why she had called.

  Rob agreed with Zeke. “I’ll be there right away,” he told Coleman. “We’ll get everything checked, but it’s good you didn’t taste or touch anything. Would you like to have a late lunch? I’ll spring for a gooey dessert as consolation for your not being able to eat the candy.”

  Coleman smiled. “Absolutely! Could we go to Swifty’s? If I can’t have chocolate, I’ll settle for a cheese soufflé.”

  Coleman didn’t believe anything was wrong with the candy. She thought the presents were from Heyward Bain. He could afford roses like that. But she shouldn’t eat the candy anyway, and sometimes paranoid people were right. After all, she would never have believed that Chick would be murdered, or that someone had bugged ArtSmart.

  Forty-One

  Friday night

  London

  When the maid had closed the door behind Dinah and her escorts, Quincy said, “Mr. Bain is offensive. Why do you suppose he’s so determined to defend Simon?”

  “Two reasons, I think. The first is that Heyward Bain has, like Simon, recreated himself. He empathizes with Simon. He is uncomfortable about my unmasking of Simon, since he lives in fear of being unmasked.”

  “And the second?”

  “I shall keep the second reason to myself for a while, but it, too, has to do with secrecy and exposure. Would you like another drink?”

  He looked at his watch. “No, thank you, I’m expected at my sister’s for dinner. I must leave or I’ll be late. But may I telephone you tomorrow to learn what Mrs. Hathaway has to say, and what you plan to do next?”

  Rachel was amused at Quincy’s insistence on calling Dinah Greene by her married name. He was a traditionalist, and as slow as Dinah had found him. But she trusted him. “Of course. I will expect your call.”

  In their booth at Richmond’s on Duke Street, Dinah sipped Chablis while she waited for her grilled Dover sole. But she was seething, and decided to have it out with Bain. “Why did you come with us?” she asked.

  Bain looked at her, surprised. “It’s mostly my problem, and if Mrs. Ransome had anything helpful to say, I wanted to hear it. But all we learned was that Simon had been poor and unattractive, that she’d picked him up when he was just a kid, that he helped her establish the gallery—but she’s tired of him, and would like to be rid of him.”

  Dinah couldn’t believe her ears. “And The Midget?”

  Bain shrugged. “A misunderstanding, and as I said, sharp business practice.”

  “His going through her things, and using The Record?” Dinah said.

  He shrugged again. “They were partners. It was his right to look at documents important to the gallery’s future.”

  “And Ellen Carswell, and her theft of Coleman’s ideas?”

  “Silly of Ellen, but not serious. No permanent damage was done, was it? In any case, there’s no reason to believe that Simon knew about it.”

  Dinah’s blue eyes glittered. “I cannot believe I’m hearing you right. You’ll excuse and forgive Simon anything, won’t you? Ofcourse he knew about Ellen’s stealing from Coleman. They’re lovers. Did you never hear of pillow talk?”

  Bain flushed. “I don’t believe they are lovers. Maybe he spent a night with her, but that’s hardly being ‘lovers.’”

  “Does Simon have something on you?”

  “Dinah!” Jonathan said.

  Bain folded his napkin, pushed back his chair and stood up. “I won’t sit here and be insulted,” he said.

  “Aren’t you worried about Coleman? I thought you were in love with her.”

  He glared at her. “I never said that, you did. Since you’re wrong about my feelings for Coleman, don’t you think you could be wrong about other things? You shouldn’t leap to conclusions. Excuse me.” He stalked out, his back stiff, his head held high.

  Dinah covered her eyes with her hands and groaned. “Oh God, what have I done?”

  “Well, you were pretty rude, but I’m sure if you
apologize, he’ll get over it,” Jonathan said.

  “Apologize! Never! He’s horrible, and he can go to hell. I don’t give a damn about him. But I t-told Coleman he was in love with her, I was sure h-he was. She was so h-happy when I t-told her. Now I h-have to tell her I was wrong.”

  “There, Dinah, please don’t cry—Oh God, here’s the waiter with the fish,” he said.

  Dinah was sobbing, barely coherent. “I can’t eat. I want to go to home—I mean to the hotel—I wish I were in New York—poor Baker.”

  Jonathan’s cell phone rang, and several diners glared at him.

  “Dinah, calm down. Let the man serve the fish, wait here—I’ve got to take this—it’s Rob. I’ll step outside.”

  He was back in less than a minute, his face pale. “Dinah, brace yourself: someone tried to poison Coleman. No, no, she’s fine, don’t get hysterical. But when I told Rob about Baker, he said the person who tried to kill Coleman was probably practicing on the dog. Practicing on poor Baker, damn the evil bastard! Anyway, what with Coleman, and Baker, and this unpleasantness with Bain, I thought you’d want to go home as soon as possible. Is that right?”

  “Oh, oh, oh, yes.” Tears were pouring down Dinah’s face, and she was choking down sobs. He called for the check.

  “We’ll be at Claridge’s in minutes, and we’ll take the first available flight to New York tomorrow,” he promised.

  Dinah controlled her sobs, and wiped her face with her napkin. “You were right about Bain. He’s a terrible person. How could I have been so wrong about him?”

  Forty-Two

  Friday afternoon

  New York

  The crowd at Swifty’s had thinned, and Coleman was finishing her soufflé when Rob said, “Coleman, this business gets worse and worse. I think there’s a nut involved. I don’t know why someone wants to harm you, but someone does.”

  Coleman made a face at him. “Oh, Rob, we don’t know there’s anything wrong with that candy.”

  “Yes, we do. I examined a few of the chocolates before I sent everything to the lab, and there were tiny holes in the soft pieces, the kind a hypodermic needle would make. That candy has definitely been doctored. We’re waiting to learn what was in it. Maybe it’s just stuff to make you sick, but Jonathan’s dog was poisoned this morning. I think someone was testing the poison to see if it worked, and you were the intended victim.”