by Joan Smith
John's mustache bristled. “You realize this is blackmail?"
“I would call it that, yes."
“How long will it take you to pack?"
“About five minutes. I already have my things set aside for going home. All I have to do is put them in a bag."
“Let's go then."
“You better see if they have a room at the Ritz first."
“Two rooms,” he countered.
“Oh, a suite! Nice! You're an awful grouch, but you do travel first class."
“Two rooms,” he glared. He went to the phone and ordered a suite for himself, and an adjoining room for his secretary. “If a sheikh can travel with his secretary, a Texas oilman can do the same,” he said firmly.
We went down to the lobby, John checked out, left our forwarding address for Menard, and we went to my apartment, where I hastily gathered up what I thought I'd need for our stay. It wasn't till we were in the car that I remembered John's Christmas present, still under the sofa. While we drove to the Ritz, we discussed future plans.
“Tomorrow I'll ditch this car and hire us a limo,” he said. I gurgled for joy. “Menard can drive for us. We'll need more than an ordinary chauffeur. He seemed like a bright enough guy."
“Do you plan to meet the sheikh or just be around to follow him?"
“Whatever. It won't be easy to strike up an acquaintance with a sheikh."
Knowing who he would get along better with, I quickly claimed the lady in blue for my own. “Maybe I can meet his secretary. She must have time on her hands while he's out wheeling and dealing."
That pleased him. He thought I'd be safely and busily out of his way, and out of danger. I felt like a pampered darling when we pulled up in front of the canopy of the Ritz and a doorman in a great coat and cap hopped to open our door and assist me out. The Ritz is a small hotel, discreetly elegant rather than opulent. It's where people like the sheikh and Liz Taylor put up when in Montreal. The service was extremely gracious. A porter was summoned by a nod of the head to tote our bags. A bell would be too intrusive. Things don't ring at the Ritz. They hum.
I nearly swallowed my tongue when I recognized our porter, and worse, he recognized me. It was a classmate from the university, a black exchange student from Africa, who apparently worked there part time to subsidize his allowance. I didn't know his last name, but everyone on campus knew Export A. It was the style to call him “Export, eh?” Canadians have the verbal idiosyncrasy of ending every second speech with “eh?” Export A was his middle name. His first one was hard to pronounce. He said he was named after a cigarette his dad's boss smoked. He had a younger brother called Atari.
Export A was a tall, very well built young man who wore a perpetual smile. He schooled his smile to polite proportions, pretending he didn't recognize me, when he saw me with John. I felt like two cents, realizing my reputation was being sluiced down the toilet. Then it occurred to me that Export A might be very helpful. An insider—he might know useful things about the sheikh. Once we were safely installed in the elevator, I let him know
he could recognize me. “Not going home for Christmas, Export?” I asked.
“Flying isn't cheap. You're staying too, huh?” he grinned. He arrived in Canada with an English accent and vocabulary, but had a quick ear for dialect. He watched a lot of TV, and within a month he began to sound like an American black.
“Yes, I'm working. This is my—boss, Mr. Bradley,” I said. John nodded and smiled his innocent smile.
I waited till we were in our rooms before saying more. The rooms were old-world, laidback elegant, which frankly is not my own first choice of elegance. If you've got it, flaunt it. I have nothing against the modem luxury of whirlpool baths and duvets and deep-pile carpets, even if they're not Persian. I had a whispered colloquy with John, while Export A arranged the luggage and drew the drapes and things, and got his permission to ask my friend's help.
“Have you got a minute to spare, Export?” I asked.
He gave a deep, mock bow, and a grin that lit up the whole room. “I'm here to serve, Ma'am."
“Do you, by any chance, serve Sheikh Rashid and his secretary?"
“Do I? Man, we have knock-down-and-drag-out fights for the honor. That dude tips twenties."
“What rooms are they in?"
“Right below you—the royal suite,” he said, and quoted the price per diem, which was staggering.
“How long have they been here?” John asked.
“Arrived Sunday, three days ago, in a stretch limo big enough to hold a pool table. They say he flew in on his own Lear jet. I wouldn't know, but I don't have any reason to doubt it.''
“Have they had callers?"
“Oh yeah, the sheikh has full-time dibs on the executive boardroom. He has lots of meetings. Goes out a lot too."
“What about his secretary?” I asked eagerly.
“Ms. Hejaz? She's a buy-till-you-die lady. One of the rooms is chockful of her bags and boxes. Man, she had sixteen pairs of shoes delivered yesterday. I didn't realize secretaries were so well paid! We figure the sheikh must give her ten grand of pin money a day. When she's not out buying, she has the stores bring stuff here for her to look at. That's about all she does— buy and eat and drink. Champagne with whipped cream on top.” He screwed up his face in distaste. I thought it sounded lovely.
“Where is she from?” John asked.
Export A shrugged. “Citizen of the world, I guess. Oh yeah, one more thing. Ms. Hejaz is into tarot. She has a session every morning in her room with Madame Feydeau, a local fortuneteller. Some of the girls who work here know her. They say she's good, if you believe that kind of stuff. Ayesha—that's Ms. Hejaz—told the room maid that Madame is a high mistress of tarot. I bet Madame is lining her pockets real good."
John seemed uninterested in this line, although I saw a possibility of striking up an acquaintance with Ms. Hejaz. I didn't personally own a set of tarot cards, but I'd had a few amateur sessions in the coffee shop at the university. Or at least I could hire Madame and pick her brains.
“Would you happen to know, or could you find out, where the sheikh was at six-thirty the night before last?” John asked.
Export A looked suspicious. “What's going down here, folks? Do I smell cop?"
John hesitated a moment, and decided to take Export A fully into his confidence. He explained who he was, and why he was interested.
Export A was incensed. “The dude that sliced off his ear? Oh man, that's bad. I like Vincent van Gogh. My momma had his Sunflowers in her kitchen at home. Not the original,” he added, rather unnecessarily. “But I don't think the sheikh did it. I'll double-check, but I seem to recall he had a meeting all that afternoon. Went on till seven-thirty or eight. Yeah, that's right. I didn't work Monday. I studied all day for Psych One, and came in Tuesday at three. All the staff were talking about the big tips floating around. We all wanted to get to serve the boardroom dudes. They had sandwiches sent in at six, and worked till eight. Then the sheikh and Ms. Hejaz ate in the hotel dining room at about nine."
“You're sure about that?” John asked.
“Sure as bees make honey, Sir. But last night he and Ms. Hejaz ate out. They left at six-thirty. Had reservations at Le Jardin restaurant, and tickets for the symphony."
“Last night's no good,” John said. “It's the night before we're interested in.” John slid a bill into Export A's fingers and said, “There's lots more where this came from if you keep us informed."
I judged by Export A's smile that the bill was of a substantial denomination. “Yes, Sir!” He left, and John began pacing.
“A boardroom full of witnesses. It looks like we can strike the sheikh off our list of suspects,” he said. “You're sure we can trust Export A?"
“What reason would be have to lie? He's just a student."
“He should be okay. Lucky you know him. This won't do your reputation at school any good, will it, being shacked up at a hotel with a man?"
“I'm a
ruined woman,” I smiled. “A good thing I'm wearing red. The A on my dress won't show up."
“I wouldn't want your classmates getting the idea you do this often."
“For heaven's sake, John, they're not nuns. My roommate seldom sleeps at home on weekends."
“What! You mean you're there alone. You are alone?"
“Just me and my telephone, which sometimes doesn't ring for weeks at a time."
It rang then, while I was speaking. “Gotta be Gino,” John said, and picked it up. I listened while he told Gino what Export A had told us.
“He'll call again in the morning,” John said when he hung up. “Now you and I better get some shut-eye."
I heard him lock the adjoining door behind me. He hadn't even kissed me goodnight. He was either still angry about my dating, or I was so irresistible he was afraid if he kissed me, he wouldn't be able to stop.
“Make sure your door's locked,” he called through the door.
“You just took care of that, didn't you?"
“I mean your door to the hall."
“Say goodnight, John."
“Sleep tight."
CHAPTER 10
There was a message for me at the desk next morning from Export A, saying he came on duty at three in the afternoon, but if I wanted to speak to a waiter named Ronald Stack, he could be trusted. John didn't like the name Ronald, and nixed that idea. The note also said that the sheikh and Ms. Hejaz had ordered breakfast in their room at nine-thirty.. That left me time to dash off to a book store after breakfast and pick up a set of tarot cards and a book explaining the mysteries of the procedure. John suggested I read it in the breakfast parlor with a view of the lobby so I could follow Ayesha if she left. I'd take my coat with me in case I had to follow her outside.
“What will you be doing?” I inquired suspiciously.
“Hiring our limo, and seeing if Gino has learned anything. He's supposed to call. He's got a man set to follow the sheikh if he leaves. I want to know if Bergma and the sheikh meet. I also want to see who they talk to. Since neither of them personally plunged the knife into Latour's back, one of them hired someone to do it."
“What about Hot Buns?” I asked.
“We'll have to go over her apartment too."
“Gino thinks she's a good suspect."
“I wonder if that could be because she thinks he's a creep. You wouldn't believe the crude line he used on her."
“Wouldn't I? What makes you think he didn't try it on me?"
“He hit on you! The bastard.” He was more amused than concerned.
“Not to worry, John. He's so short, he only hit my ankle."
“If I hear of him buying a ladder, I'll take care of him."
“What time will you be back?” “For lunch, I hope. Take care."
He left, and I immersed myself in the extremely complicated business of learning tarot. What I had was a book on the Rider— Waite method. There are seventy-eight cards in the deck, for crying out loud. It was suggested the student sleep with them under his or her pillow for five days to set up the proper vibes. That advice had to be ignored, along with the bothersome suggestion of keeping the cards under lock and key. I struggled with Major Arcana and Minor Arcana, and finally discovered there's a shortcut. Although my book said the full deck should be used, it was possible to give a reading using only the Major Arcana, with a manageable twenty-two cards. The cards were enormous, incidentally, and very pretty, with all sorts of symbols as well as the pictures.
I was still hard at it when a rather bizarre-looking lady arrived. She was about six feet with hair dyed jet black, which looked strange around her withered, painted faces I figured any lady wearing a turban with a fizz of black hair below it and decked out in an embroidered cloak had to be into the occult. By loitering around the desk, I heard the clerk call her Madame Feydeau. About five minutes later, the sheikh came down and got into his white limo. I knew he was being followed, so I went back to my cards and my umpteenth cup of coffee. In a place like the Ritz, they don't give you dirty looks for lingering an hour over your coffee.
The tarot session with Ms. Hejaz lasted three-quarters of an hour. I ordered yet another cup of coffee and waited to see if Ms. Hejaz hit the bricks for her daily shopping spree. She did, wearing the wolf coat, and by luck, she didn't take a cab either. I followed behind her and spent a very boring morning waiting around outside the most exclusive shops in Montreal. After she had emptied the shelves of Gucci, she strolled along to Benetton's. Ms. Hejaz always came out empty-handed, but I knew that only meant her goodies were being delivered.
This was beginning to be not only a bore, but a dreadful waste of time. The only thing even slightly unusual that she did was to make a phone call from Murray's Restaurant, where she stopped for lunch. Murray's was a family restaurant, not her style at all. Was I ever glad to get in out of the cold! She paid absolutely no attention whatsoever to me, so I felt I could safely follow her in. The lunchtime crowd offered good cover. Her phone conversation was brief. I figured she was calling the sheikh to let him know she was eating out. Not that it matters, but she ate only a salad. I also phoned the hotel and left word for Mr. Sean Bradley that I was eating out.
When Ms. Hejaz started shopping again in the afternoon, I went back to the hotel. A red-faced John was pacing the floor of his room, tearing his hair.
“Where were you?” he hollered. “I didn't know what had happened to you when I got that message!"
“I told you, I was eating out. I was following Ms. Hejaz. Boy, talk about shop till you drop! She makes Ms. Marcos look like an amateur. What did you do?"
He begin to simmer down. “Don't scare me like that, okay? We frisked Denise's place. It was clean. I got the limo. Gino says Rashid went to a real-estate agent downtown. A platoon of briefcases and the sheikh went to a high rise and spent the morning tapping walls and whatnot. It seems he really is buying the building."
“Tell me about Denise's apartment. What's it like?"
A telltale flush colored his neck. “Just an ordinary apartment,” he said vaguely.
“She was there, wasn't she, John?"
“Of course not! She was at work."
“Then why are you blushing?"
“Blushing!” The blush deepened to beet.
“You didn't happen to drop in at the museum, by any chance?"
“I spoke to Denise,” he admitted, attempting an air of nonchalance. “Didn't learn much. Bergma seems to be carrying on business as usual. He's going on a ski trip in the Laurentians before he leaves the country."
“I could have told you that. He'll be staying at Mrs. Searle's ski lodge."
“Where's that?"
“Someplace in the Laurentians. Will we have to follow him?” I asked hopefully. “Jan and I sort of have a date to meet at the top of the Minute Mile."
He gave me another of his cream-curdling looks. “There's one thing we might check out,” I said. “Ayesha made a phone call at lunch. When Export A comes in, I'll have him find out if she called here, leaving a message for the sheikh."
“What we've got to do is find the paintings. They're not at Bergma's or Denise's place. If the sheikh has them, they could be in his room, maybe in one of those boxes Ms. Hejaz is storing up."
“Export A might be able to sneak us in."
At two-thirty, before he went on duty, Export A tapped at the door. “Hi, folks. What's shaking?” he asked.
“How's chances of getting us into the sheikh's room for a quick search?” I asked.
He looked very doubtful. “Man, that could cost me my job. Maybe my visa if the hotel found out and reported me."
“You're right,” John said. “Too risky.” Still, I thought the gentlemen exchanged a somewhat conniving look. It might be arranged at some time Export A knew for sure they were gone for a few hours. Right now, we didn't know when they were expected back.
I asked him to check the switchboard. Ms. Hejaz hadn't called, but that didn't mean much. She might have
been calling any of the stores she visited.
“The parcels are beginning to arrive,” Export A said. “Skis, snowsuit, stuff like that."
John and I exchanged a startled look at this coincidence. Bergma was going skiing too. John dashed to the phone and called Gino. He wasn't in, but he called back shortly after Export A left, and John asked him to find out exactly where Mrs. Searle's ski lodge was. The wilds of ski country might provide a fine and private place for their business.
“Maybe we should shop for skis too,” I said.
“We'll rent them Do you ski?"
“I'm from Maine, remember” Of course I ski—badly, but I ski."
“Actually we have some shopping to do ourselves. You mentioned Place Marie, where I might pick up a Stetson.” He looked at my gray wool slacks and added, “You could use a few glad rags too, Cass. We've got to keep up with the Sheikh Jones's."
I imagine my face glowed like a Christmas tree. Visions of fur coats and diamonds danced in my head. But that was too much. I'm esurient, but I'm not without principles. I couldn't take furs and jewelry, not even from John. “You can rent furs,” I said. “And who can tell paste jewelry at a glance?"
We had a perfectly delightful afternoon. Export A was paid to tell us what went on back at the hotel. John and I went on a shopping spree that challenged Ms. Hejaz's. I liked my rented ocelot coat better than her wolf. It had a big swaying back as full as a blanket and ten times as warm. My “jewels” were only imitations, but very good ones, and very expensive too. John enjoyed spoiling me as much as I enjoyed being spoiled. I exhorted regularly that he was spending too much money. I didn't need two cocktail dresses, although I was glad I didn't have to make a choice between the white and the gold lame. One cashmere sweater would have been enough. Two was extravagant, and the third, a lovely mauve pullover, was downright decadent. I firmly forbid him to buy the most expensive of them all, a white turtleneck.
“They can be Christmas presents,” he said, the dear uxorious man.
“Some token!” I cringed to think of that measly Van Gogh book, gathering dust under the sofa.