by Joan Smith
“I call going out with another guy dating."
“I just went to college functions. Concerts, lectures, out for coffee...” His tense face relaxed noticeably. In a small voice, I added, “Dances."
“Dances!"
“Dance—one dance."
A foursome of college classmates chose that most inauspicious of moments to spot me and stop for a chat. “Oh, your dad's spending Christmas with you!” Tillie Jeffreys exclaimed, smiling politely at John, before I got around to introducing them. It was that slightly receding hairline that fooled her. Of course she's not hard to fool. I worked a few years before going to college, and I'm older than a lot of the students, but younger than John.
Things went downhill from there. My friends reminded me of the Christmas formal, and bragged about how much they had drunk, and how late they got home. Tillie didn't get home till the next afternoon. “Are you visiting Chuck for Christmas?” Tillie asked me. I was only out with him twice!
John refrigerated a smile at her and said, “I'd like to be alone with my daughter, if you don't mind."
“I thought Cassie said you weren't her father."
“She has a faulty memory."
They left, in confusion, whispering among themselves and looking at us askance.
“You didn't have to be so rude,” I snipped. It was one of those occasions when offense is the best defense.
“I didn't have to be gullible and faithful either. Who's this Chuck?” He enunciated the name with disgust, as if it were excrement.
“Just a quiet, scholarly little guy who helped me with my French."
“How little?"
“Six foot two—but thin. Well, thinnish. The Christmas formal is the first dance I went to. If you'd phoned, I would have asked you if you minded."
“Oh sure, it's all my fault."
“It's not a question of fault. We're civilized adults. When we're apart for so long, we can have a few dates without compromising our relationship."
“I'm glad to hear it. I've been damned lonesome all these months."
What future catastrophe was I creating here? “If you like, we'll both agree not to have dates,” I suggested hastily.
“This is going to take some thinking."
I never thought I'd be glad to see Gino Parelli, but I was. I believe there is some height requirement for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Gino Parelli obviously escaped it. He is about five feet four inches of repulsive ugliness. His crinkly reddish hair is thin on top. His white, doughish face looks as if it had been modeled with a rolling pin, the roller dragged along those slack cheeks, with the extra buildup of jowly mass around the edges. His stocky body, just verging on fat, was encased in a blue suit that might possibly have some historical value. It looked as old as time. If you banned vulgarity from his vocabulary, he'd be mute. Oh yes, and he's an M.C.P. to the nth degree. I figured he must be good at whatever he did, or John wouldn't have been so eager to see him.
He joined us in the bar, pulling off a fur-hooded coat that made him look like an Eskimo. John welcomed him and reminded him who I was. “Oh yeah, I remember you now,” he said, running his eyes over me. “I thought at first you were a hooker. No offense. You're the violinist's niece or something, right? Toronto, the Carpani case. How's your uncle?"
“Fine."
“I read in the papers he's back from his European tour. Did he manage to steal any more Stradivariuses?"
I squelched the urge to say, “You can read?” I did, however, say, “My uncle did not steal the Carpani Strad. He bought one that he didn't know was stolen."
“And kept it, as I recall."
“With the owner's permission.” It isn't an indictable offense to sweet-talk a gullible countess into a lengthy loan.
That was the extent of his scintillating conversation with me. “So what's up, Weiss?” he asked, turning to John.
John outlined the situation succinctly. Parelli nodded, gave an occasional grunt, and then said, “I'm starved. Let's go somewhere and chow down."
“It's getting late. The dining room here is probably closed,” I pointed out, hoping he'd finish up his beer and his business and go home.
“This place?” he asked, as though I'd suggested he dine in a sewer. “You gotta be kidding. This is a clip joint. We're going to Ben's Deli. The best smoked meat in the country."
John's eyes lit up with delight. “No kidding! I love smoked meat."
My taste in food is catholic, but as it happens, I hate smoked meat, even from the famous Ben's. It looks raw, and too much like a cow. I, decked out in my fancy hairdo and wearing Sherry's borrowed coat and Giorgio, ordered fattening fries and a piece of cheese cake and listened while the men talked.
I think Parelli noticed the perfume. “What's that stink?” he asked once, sniffing in my direction. “You smell like an expensive whore."
“When did you ever come close to an expensive one?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? I arrested one today—dope dealing on the side. She smelled just like you."
“You must have a sharp nose—to smell perfume over all the garlic,” I replied, looking at his garlicky dill pickle as big as a squash. He held it in his hand, like an ape eating a banana, and chomped on it.
Over coffee, they began to sort out what was to be done. “So you want me to horn in on the case and see what the fuzz found in this Latour case?” Gino asked.
“I'd really like to know."
Parelli kept chomping on the pickle. “Can do, Weiss. No sweat. If what you say is right, this isn't just a local case. The RCMP'll be involved. They'll be glad for an extra badge willing to work the holidays. I'm on holidays myself, but what the hell. Christmas is a crock, right? Squealing kids, noisy toys."
“How many children do you have, Gino?” I asked, amazed that he'd ever found a woman undemanding enough to marry him.
“Me? None that I know of. I'm not married. It's my sisters—Maria, Theresa, Angelina, Gina—a dozen and a half between them. Oh and my brother Tony. He has four or five. They all come home for Christmas. Poor Ma. She'll be baking her butt off all week. Week? Did I say week? She starts in August. What the hell, it's Christmas, right? I should buy the little buggers a present."
“That's a lot of presents,” I said, feeling some sympathy for the man.
“A box of chocolates. It's more than they deserve. I hope it makes them puke. Anything else I can do for you, John?"
“There are a few things. I'd like to get Bergma's address and phone number. He's not listed. Maybe you could throw a little weight around with Ma Bell. And if I'm caught searching his place, I could use some federal help."
“No sweat. I'll let you know if the knife has any prints. You don't want Bergma to know we've got our eye on him, right? No direct police questioning."
“I'd rather not tip him off yet."
“It's going to be tricky finding out where he was tonight at six-thirty without questioning him,” Parelli pointed out.
“I know where he was. He was at Latour's place."
Gino shook his head. “What you got is all circumstantial. You got diddley-squat till we find some witnesses, or the pictures in his possession. if he's as smartass as he sounds, he'll have stashed them somewhere."
“That's why I want to search his place,” John replied.
“They might be at the museum where he works. Finding pictures in a museum, that's like looking for spaghetti at a pasta house."
“But we've seen the pictures,” I reminded him. “We'll recognize them."
Parelli turned a sharp, weasely eye on me. "We'll recognize them? Since when did you include yourself in, lady?"
“Cassie's with me,” John said. I couldn't quite figure out whether that was an apology or what, but Parelli accepted it with no more than a disgusted shake of his head.
Gino grunted and said, “About these pictures—Van Goghs— he's the crazy guy that sliced off his ear, if I'm not mistaken?” John nodded. “Cripse, who's nuttier, him or the guys t
hat are forking over millions for his stuff?” That last was a rhetorical question.
Hope springs eternal. I thought Gino would go home when we left Ben's. He stuck like a burr. He came back to the hotel with us after a thoroughly disappointing supper at Ben's Deli. Disappointing for me, I mean. The men loved it. I could see John was impatient to ditch him and continue our fight, but didn't like to be rude since he needed his help. At about eleven o'clock my patience gave out and I said I was leaving.
“I'll drive you home,” John offered.
“Let her take a cab,” Parelli said. “We got plans to discuss."
“There's no point your having the car hauled out again,” I agreed. “I'll see you tomorrow.” John came with me to the desk to call the cab.
“I guess you'll be cracking the books in the morning?” he asked. I thought he'd continue the argument.
“To make up for lost time tonight. And I do mean lost."
“I'm sorry about Gino, but he'll be a big help. The man's a rough diamond. He really knows his stuff, and I'm a complete outsider in this city. He's doing it on his own time too. I can't just dump him. I'll call you tomorrow morning to wish you luck."
I accepted this peace offering. “John, I'm sorry about—you know. Those dates didn't mean anything. I just got bored, sitting around every night."
“I guess I was pretty unrealistic to expect it."
He had defrosted enough to give me a quick kiss before the cab left.
John called in person at about ten-thirty, which was a pleasant interruption in my studies. He was wearing city clothes, a suit and shirt and tie, and still looked wrong in a suit.
“It's colder than a penguin's tail feathers out there,” he said, batting his arms against his body. “How about warming me up?"
I warmed him up only to the extent of one kiss. There was too much to talk about, and too little time. We went to my little living room, more or less a shambles during this exam period, with books piled on any surface that wasn't littered with notes. Even without the mess, it was only a so-so room. Sherry and I hired it furnished—cheap brown wall-to-wall carpet, uninspired beige drapes, tweedy sofa, spindle-legged coffee table, poor lighting.
“So this is where you hang out,” John said, looking around, storing up pictures of me for future thoughts, I figured. “No wonder you're so eager to get out of it. It isn't exactly luxurious.” That was the only reference to the argument.
“A rat's nest, but my own. Well, half my own. Have you had any news from Gino yet?"
John was grinning, which meant success. “The guy's a wizard. He found out half the stuff I wanted to know already. There were no prints on the knife. It's a fairly valuable piece, nineteenth-century Arabian. He got me Bergma's address and phone number. No answer, but of course he'd be at work. He lives in a rented house in Westmount. Gino says it's a real class address."
“Upper Westmount is the Nob Hill of Montreal. The lower end of it's nothing special."
“It's upper. Museum curators don't make much dough. It's kind of a prestige job, more class than cash. He's getting extra money from somewhere. I figure tonight's the time to break in."
“Remember, I'm with you."
He put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. His warm brown eyes brimmed with love. “That's not the kind of thing a guy forgets. Parelli tells me there's some kind of a party on that Bergma will be attending tonight. One of the volunteer ladies from the museum, a Mrs. Searle, also Upper Westmount, is throwing a preopening shindig tonight to congratulate the volunteer gang on this Art Nouveau show that's starting tomorrow at the museum."
“I'd like to see that show. I've been reading about it in the papers. They have some good Erté stuff. I love art nouveau."
“You like anything nouveau,” he teased.
“You mean nouveau riche?"
“I was thinking of cuisine."
“That's nouvelle, feminine ending."
“My favorite kind,” he said, sliding a hand along my hip. Because I had a mug of coffee in front of me, I asked John if he'd like one. He looked at the contents, not enriched by cream, but having the washed-out color given by milk, and declined.
“I'm meeting Gino for lunch—since you'll be busy,” he added hastily. “With luck, he'll know Bergma has no alibi for last night at six-thirty. He's put a tail on him."
“Doing Menard out of a job,” I said.
“I've got a job for Menard. He's supposed to be at the museum, seeing if he recognizes Bergma. If we can get a positive I.D., we're away."
I rubbed my hands in impatience. “I wish I didn't have this darned exam."
“What time's it over? I'll pick you up at McGill and we'll take a tour of the museum."
“It starts at one. I'll be out by three.” I told him where to meet me and he left.
I wasted ten minutes wondering if John was really over his snit, or just didn't want to upset me before my exam. He was thoughtful like that. The rest of the time was spent trying to straighten out the strands of the Existentialist dialectical materialism controversy. Understanding this arcane matter hardly seemed relevant to real life, and I resented every moment of it. I wanted to be with John, solving the case. I made a quick grilled cheese at eleven-thirty and headed out into the cold and snow to fight my way onto a bus. It was a beautiful winter day. The sky was azure blue, gleaming in the sun. The snow crunched underfoot. There hadn't been any thaw, and it was still white. The sun reflecting off it was blinding, and I put on my sunglasses. It would be a gorgeous day for skiing.
The exam was not an unqualified success. The d.m. controversy was worth twenty-five marks, and it was a compulsory question. I figure I got twelve, tops, and hoped the rest of the exam would pull my mark up. There was a flurry of exam talk and goodbyes outside the hall as students parted for the holidays. “Merry Christmas!” “Wasn't that exam a bitch! I knew Ritchie would put on the d.m. thing. I can hardly pronounce it.” “Gotta dash. My flight leaves in an hour.” “See you next year.” “Are you hitting the slopes?” “Did you do Maritain or Mauriac?” “Who the hell is Marcel? I never heard of him.” "Joyeux Noel!"
“Merry Christmas,” I hollered, and flew out the door, unencumbered by books this time.
John was waiting patiently in the snow, wearing dark glasses, a red nose, and a white mustache. It had become frosted. He looked like a cross between Rudolf and Frosty the Snowman. He was beating his arms over his chest to keep from freezing solid. “How'd it go?” he asked.
“So-so. Why didn't you come inside and wait?” I asked.
“The crowd was just starting to come out. I couldn't stand the crackling. Aren't there any guys taking that course?"
“It's too tough for them,” I joked. We started walking through the crunchy snow toward the car.
“Sounds like a sexist slur to me. I should complain you're not surrounded by jocks! Want a coffee?"
“I'm torn between the desire for a hot drink and getting straight to the museum. Actually there's a coffee shop at the museum. We could have coffee there."
“We're not in that big a hurry. Gino suggested...” I looked around warily. “He's not with me. He's doing his Christmas shopping."
“That won't take long. A box of chocolates."
“That's just for the eighteen kids. He's getting his mom a dishwasher."
“Oh, that's nice. I didn't think he'd be so considerate."
“I told you he's okay,” John said earnestly.
“Sure, he didn't call you a hooker."
“Gino has the highest regard for hookers—as far as looks go, I mean. He recognized you right away, last night. That was just his idea of a compliment. He says women are usually flattered to be mistaken for hookers. The high-class ones aren't exactly dogs, you know."
“It's okay to think it. He shouldn't have blurted it out.” We reached the car. “What did Gino suggest?"
“Meeting at the museum coffee shop. We'll grab a few minutes in private first, since we won't have any time alone once
Gino meets us. What's nearby?"
“I don't know offhand, but if you cruise west on Sherbrooke, I'll keep a lookout."
Montreal is exceptionally well-treed and well-greened for a big city. Sherbrooke Street is one of the greenest areas. It's lovely in spring and summer, with the mature trees giving welcome shade. Even in winter it was pretty. Snow was piled three or four inches thick on branches, falling off in chunks to pelt unwary pedestrians. Some of the older buildings have gargoyles that looked as if they were wearing white fur hats. Driving took all John's attention. Scanning the business towers for a coffee shop occupied me, so that we didn't talk much. John parked in a public lot near the museum, and we went to a little restaurant in an office building.
“I'm glad we're not eating here,” John said. “It smells like burned fish. These places have a captive audience. The coffee's bitter as hell too."
“At least it's hot. Did you find out anything else about Bergma?” I asked, after we were settled in.
He gave a weary sigh. “I've been waiting till we settled down to give you the bad news."
“You don't have to leave!"
His mustache lifted in pleasure, and his eyes glowed. “I said bad, not terrible. It's about the case. Bergma has an alibi."
“It's probably phony. He has to be the one who killed Latour. Who else had such a sterling motive? He got Latour to do the forgeries, and as soon as they were finished, he murdered him, so he could keep all the money himself."
“That's the way I read it too, but his alibi is genuine. The museum had its office party last night, in a hotel dining room. He was there, in full view of everyone."
“The party wouldn't start as early as six-thirty,” I pointed out. “He could have killed Latour first."
“Nope, he was one of the two organizers. He was at the Sheraton Hotel at six o'clock, apparently making his presence felt with various clerks and waiters and sommeliers. Besides, Menard went to the museum this morning and checked him out. He didn't recognize him."
“He wouldn't. He said all the people leaving the apartment were bundled up. He could have hidden his face with the pictures. Everybody was carrying presents and shopping."