The Knowledge: A Richard Jury Mystery (Richard Jury Mysteries)

by Martha Grimes

  “Well, there’s cheap everything. And I’m guessing you won’t be able to do that much longer, because there’s a very limited amount of tanzanite. They expect that in another decade, or two at the most, it’ll be gone. The mines depleted. Zane owns one of those mines. And there are very few big ones. Value has a lot to do with scarcity—”

  “You think that painting of Rebecca Moffit’s was one of them?”

  “No. That painting is too small to be of much use.”

  “But the artist must be in on it.”

  “The artists might have been kept in the dark. I mean there might have been one framer Zane used who of course would know.”

  They were nearing St. James’s and Jury asked Wiggins to continue on and drop him off in Chelsea.

  “Not going back to headquarters, then?”

  “Not unless it’s near Sloane Square. I’m going to have a talk with Claire Howard. She’s still at her daughter’s flat.”

  “Peter Jones is there.”

  Jury smiled. For some reason, Wiggins had a particular liking for this department store. “Peter Jones and Mrs. Howard.”

  Chelsea, London

  Nov. 9, Saturday afternoon

  40

  “I’ve just come from the Zane Gallery,” said Jury, after having been invited to take off his coat and sit down. He sat, but kept the coat on. “You said you’d never been there.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Her sigh was rueful. “Mr. Jury, you keep wanting me to have been there. I’ve told you before, twice, I have never seen Mr. Zane, nor been to his gallery. I’ve never been to the casino.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have no interest in gambling.”

  “But you do have an interest in art.”

  “Do you know how many small private galleries there are in London?”

  “Yes, and I particularly know the one where your daughter was murdered. Yet you show no interest in it. That’s why I said, ‘Why not?’ Because I’d think a parent might want to see the place where a child died.”

  Claire Howard’s expression didn’t change. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I would.” She turned to the drinks table in front of the window and poured herself a half inch of whisky. Then she turned back and said, “You don’t have children, do you?”

  He shook his head. “Does that nullify any opinion I might have on parenthood?”

  “No. But is it so impossible to believe that the scene of the crime might be the last place I’d want to see?”

  “Yes.”

  She sat down on the arm of the sofa. “Well, then, just count me as an unnatural mother.”

  He said, “It was the first place Paula Moffit went. Even before her hotel.”

  “That was her response. Is it conceivable that she’s less sensitive and can bear these things more stoically?”

  “No.”

  Claire gave a short laugh. “David’s mother has clearly evoked a sympathetic chord in you that I never did.”

  “On the contrary, the first time we met, I felt a great deal of sympathy for you.”

  “But not on subsequent occasions.”

  “You and your daughter seemed to be virtual strangers. You’ve said so little about her—”

  “We weren’t very close, that’s true.” Impatiently, Claire said, “What do you want of me?”

  “Nothing at all. I’m only trying to discover why Rebecca and David were killed.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “And asked nothing. Your lack of curiosity surprises me. Didn’t you wonder why they were shot in front of a casino?”

  “Given David’s love of gambling I expect it wasn’t surprising—”

  Wasn’t surprising? “And by a Kenyan. You didn’t say anything about the shooter’s being African. Who he is, what he was doing at that casino, why he murdered your daughter and son-in-law.” Jury frowned. “It’s not David’s penchant for twenty-one that’s the surprise. It’s that he was shot in the head.”

  Her reaction to that blunt account was to exhale a lacy stream of smoke and smile. “Mr. Jury, you’re determined that I’ve been to that gallery, that I know the owner because of that painting which you swear must have been acquired there, or this tanzanite ring which must have been bought there. But all I know of Leo Zane is his picture in the Times. He seems to be a handsome man with an interesting mind. Anyone who would combine a casino and an art gallery certainly sounds intriguing.”

  Jury just watched her. She seemed not to know what this was all about and kept talking as if in an effort to hit on it, to strike the right chord, to finally sort it. He stared at the wall but no longer at the Abasi painting. His eyes traveled to the grouping of silver-framed photographs on the desk. They had been rearranged and there were fewer in the group now. The one with the three of them—mother, daughter, father—was gone. The shot of the unidentified gallery was not there. Nor was the one of Claire Howard and one of her friends. He thought again of the album and the missing snapshots.

  “I remember there was a photo there—” He nodded toward the desk. “—of your husband. The three of you.”

  “I’m just packing them up.”

  “Some of them.”

  “Those I left out because they have some particular meaning.”

  No, thought Jury, it’s the others that do. Or one of them. “Could I see it again, the one of your husband?”

  She shrugged. “Harry? Certainly. I don’t see why—”

  “It’s my forensic pathologist. She always wants to know as much as possible about a victim’s family. Don’t ask me why.” Had Phyllis Nancy ever heard that, she would indeed have asked him why.

  Claire rose, walked into the little study and returned with the picture in its silver frame. “Here he is.”

  Jury looked at the enlargement of the snapshot: Rebecca, Claire, and Harry. His wife and daughter had been positioned by the photographer together on a love seat, father behind them.

  “I’ve always envied Rebecca’s eyes, I can tell you. My own are just an ordinary blue.”

  “Yours aren’t ordinary at all.”

  She laughed and again offered him a whisky, which he declined as he rose and handed the picture back to her. He had no interest in it.

  Yet he thought he’d been looking at everything but the one thing he should have been. The words of David’s mother: He saw in it unimaginable depths and brilliance. Everything else was the color of ice.

  Paula Moffit may not have remembered everything her son had said, but what she did remember, she remembered with extreme precision and clarity. Jury thought of the City official he’d mentioned to his cab driver: the remembrancer.

  Paula Moffit was a remembrancer. She was a mother.

  Which Claire Howard honestly did not seem to be.

  “One of those pictures was of some sort of gallery event, wasn’t it?”

  She frowned. “Oh? Oh, yes. Probably a showing. I go to quite a few of them.” But she did not move toward the study.

  “Could I see that again?”

  “It’s packed away. I’m not sure which box—”

  “I’ll help you look.”

  Having little choice, she said, “No bother. I’ll get it.”

  She was in and out of the study again in a minute. “I think this was several years ago, perhaps in Soho, but I’m not sure. There are so many galleries in London.”

  He looked at it, held it at arm’s length, brought it back. Certainly a much better representation than the snapshot and it would serve forensics better in blowing up the details. But in this larger picture, the painting on the wall behind Claire Howard was clearer. Without asking, Jury picked up the magnifying glass on the desk. He pulled the picture closer, frowned.

  “What is it?”

  When he said, “This painting—” and looked up at her, he thought she looked relieved. “It looks like a Masego Ab
asi.”

  “Does it? I wasn’t that acquainted with his work …” Relief ran into uncertainty.

  “That’s not the point. This is a gallery. But outside of the Zane gallery, the only place one can see his work is in Africa. You said you hadn’t been to Kenya.”

  “Well, I have been to Johannesburg.”

  “You haven’t mentioned that.”

  “South Africa isn’t Kenya, Superintendent.”

  “It’s pretty damned close, though, isn’t it?”

  Boring’s, London

  Nov. 9, Saturday night

  41

  Jury had been getting looks from Aubrey if not precisely suspicious, certainly baleful, so that after a half an hour of this he was glad to see Young Higgins had taken the place of the other porter and was carrying a tray through the Members’ Room to a party of three on the other side. When he was finished serving this party, Jury beckoned him over.

  The elderly porter was himself happy to see Jury. “Good evening, Superintendent. Another whisky?”

  “Higgins, I wish you would assure Aubrey over there that I am not a terrorist.”

  Higgins gave a muffled little laugh behind a gray-gloved hand.

  Jury went on: “And that I am indeed a friend of Lord Ardry and that it is he for whom I am waiting to have dinner.” Jury thought it better not to embroil Young Higgins in the Tweedears imposture, nor would it be necessary since Higgins himself could vouch for Jury. “And, yes, I’d like another whisky. A double. Thank you, Higgins.”

  Young Higgins bowed, scraped and departed.

  Not even Major Champs and Colonel Neame were around. Boring’s seemed bent on denying Jury citizenship this evening. It was just as well to set his back to it all and try to do this crossword puzzle that Melrose Plant could wrap up in fifteen minutes. He heard Higgins approach and happily reached up his empty glass, which was taken and placed on the tray. But no full one was set in his hand.

  “I’ll have that, thank you. You can fetch another for the Superintendent. Tweedears, old chap!”

  Jury smiled. “Why don’t you be quiet and sit down?”

  “Well, don’t expect me to thank you for pulling me away from the most convivial company I’ve had outside of the Jack and Hammer.”

  “What convivial company?”

  “At the Knowledge, of course.”

  Jury gaped. “You mean you’ve been back there? Again?”

  “You don’t seem to understand. I have a pass. I saved Patty Haigh.”

  “What do you mean, saved?”

  Melrose reflected. “Well, half-saved.” He told Jury about the leopard cub experience.

  Jury raised his glass, “Well done, my friend. That was courageous.”

  Melrose shrugged. “Just a reflex.”

  Jury smiled. “Funny how many people wouldn’t have that knee-jerk response to a leopard. But getting back to your newfound friends—It’s your Black Card that has the pass. And if that place is using credit cards, how can it stay off the map?”

  Melrose shrugged. “They don’t use them in the ordinary way.”

  “I’ll just bet.” Jury pulled out the snapshot and the enlargement of Claire Howard in the unknown gallery. “Look at this. You can keep the snapshot.”

  Melrose studied the pictures. “Where’s this gallery?”

  “I’m guessing it’s in Nairobi, although she says she’s never been there. Said that must have been in Johannesburg.” Jury went on. “Claire Howard called Leonard Zane ‘Leo.’” She said, ‘All I know of Leo Zane is his picture in the Times.’ A small point, but still … In the Times he was referred to as ‘Leonard.’ Dennis Jenkins said that was true of all the newspaper accounts. So, then, why the ‘Leo’ reference? I’ve only heard that from Maggie Benn and Trueblood.”

  “She was lying about knowing him, then?”

  “I think so. Why lie? There’s certainly nothing wrong with knowing Leonard Zane. There’s nothing wrong with having an affair with him, for that matter.”

  “You think she is?”

  “Or possibly was.”

  “There’s nothing wrong about it except she lied. As she lied about Kenya. Where is this leading, Richard?”

  “Nowhere very nice, I suspect. Did I show you this?” He handed over the account from the Reno newspaper. “Keep it; it’s a copy. I’m sure this Danny Morrissey is really David Moffit.”

  “My God, shot in two different casinos? That beggars coincidence.” Melrose frowned. “Moffit, with all of his gambling expertise, must have been the target for some reason; the wife surely must have been collateral damage.”

  “There was no collateral damage. I think they both had to die.”

  Melrose sipped his whisky. “Why?”

  Jury shook his head. “I’m still thinking.”

  “But Zane is the one who got the shooter, right?”

  Jury frowned. “I think so.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’m short on actual evidence.”

  Melrose shook his head. “Patty Haigh was putting herself at horrible risk.”

  “When do I get to meet Patty Haigh?”

  “Never, probably.”

  “Thanks. We really ought to do something about her situation. How she lives and so forth.” Jury sipped his coffee.

  Melrose frowned. “Do something—? What in hell are you talking about?”

  “Find her a good home, someone to take care of her. She’s a little girl, Melrose. She shouldn’t be spending her days at Heathrow, scanning for villains. She should be safe.”

  The other members who were awake turned wide-eyed stares at Melrose, who was laughing so hard he was doubled up in his chair.

  “Just what the hell is so funny?”

  “Take care of her. This is Patty Haigh you’re talking about. The same Patty Haigh who got through Heathrow security on a pinched boarding pass; who wangled her way into B.B.’s good graces and flew to Dubai; who outwitted police in London, Dubai and Nairobi; who carries in her backpack a full selection of costumes and wigs to meet any eventuality; who requisitioned strangers to be her aunts, uncles, parents; who roamed around that godless slum, Kibera, on her own; who got into the Hemingways Hotel without paying a penny; who crossed the dark veldt between Kibera and Mbosi Camp protected only by her wits. This is the person we should keep safe!”

  “I see your point.” Jury smiled. “Incidentally, Vivian’s here, too. They’re both—I mean Vivian and Diane—at the Connaught. I’m picking them up when I leave here to go to Zane’s casino.”

  “Viv in a casino? Can’t imagine her coming all the way here just to gamble. She’s no good at it, doesn’t even like it.”

  “Well, that’s not the reason she’s here, is it?” Jury tuned his careless tone to even greater carelessness. “She’s off on the Orient Express again.”

  The effect was electric. Melrose nearly strangled his whisky glass. “Orient Express? Venice? What the hell? We all sent Count Dracula packing years ago; he lies in his earth-filled coffin with a stake in his heart and no alarm clock.”

  In a quizzical tone, Jury said, “Who said Venice? The Orient Express does make other stops. You know: Shoreditch, Limehouse, Gravesend.”

  “Very funny. Where is she going?”

  “Paris.”

  “Taking the Orient Express just to go to Paris? That’s absurd. Meeting Franco Giopinno in Paris? Even more absurd.”

  “Who said it was Giopinno?”

  “What? What? Who else could it be?”

  “You’ve been in Kenya, remember. She met someone.”

  Melrose, who’d leaned down to search for his cigarette lighter, hit his head on the coffee table’s edge on the way. “What is this? I’m away for a week and she’s got someone new? What someone?”

  “A French someone. His name is Alain—” Jury searched his mind for a name. He nearly wrecked on Delon until a little rudder of memory told him no, Alain Delon was the actor, one of the handsomest actors who’
d ever lived. “Resnais, I think. Alain Resnais.” That sounded familiar too.

  But apparently not to Melrose, who just sat fuming.

  “We’re having a little breakfast party, a send-off in Victoria, in a couple of days. Orient Express leaves at ten A.M., I think. But you remember from last time. You’re free, aren’t you?”

  Melrose, free or not, went on fuming.

  “Care to join us tonight at the Artemis Club?”

  “No, thank you. I’m going back to my friends at the Knowledge.”

  So there.

  “How are you going to get there?”

  “With a certain driver and a blindfold.”

  Jury rose. “Before you go back to your mates, read that Reno paper column, study the picture and think.”

  “‘Think’?”

  “Something’s wrong with mine. My thinking, I mean. There’s something I’m just not finding.” Jury drank off his whisky. “Find it for me, will you? ’Night.”

  It didn’t make sense. Jury was sitting in a taxi at a stoplight in Victoria, thinking about this. If she’d been in Johannesburg, why not tell Jenkins? Or him? Why give the impression she’d never been to Africa? To distance herself from the killer?

  He was only a few minutes from the Yard.

  So was Sergeant Wiggins. “Thought you were going to the Connaught.”

  “I am. Just stopped by to have a look at the murder board. And I have an enlargement of that snapshot of Claire Howard. That’s definitely a Masego Abasi painting behind her. It’s an Abasi show, I’m almost certain. Send this blowup to Sammy in forensics. He thought the paintings were by the same artist. He can confirm it.”

  “And that gallery is in Kenya, boss. Nairobi.”

  Jury frowned, looking at the photo he’d taken from Claire. “I thought it might be.”

  Studying the two women in this gallery, he thought about Plant’s description of his visit to Masego Abasi’s studio. Little Rita. He thought about the children who had to work the mine Plant visited. He loves children, he himself had said about Inspector Buhari. Jury plucked a colored pencil from Wiggins’s cup and walked over to the whiteboard, where he wrote, under the Nairobi heading, the name of Marguerite Banado.