by Joan Smith
They discussed the late Jascha Heifetz. “A flawless intonation, dazzling performance, incredible dexterity,” the sheikh said.
“But a cold man,” Victor countered. Praise for another's work was anathema to him, unless he introduced the praise himself, in which case lukewarm agreement was all that was required.
“I never met him,” the sheikh said sadly.
“The Garbo of the violin,” Victor sympathized. “He valued his privacy. I always felt he considered playing a duty. Now I'll tell you who is coming on and he actually enjoys himself at it is young Cho-Liang-Lin—we call him Jimmy. An Oriental—Taiwan, I believe."
“Yes, we were fortunate enough to catch him in Paris. I put him in the first rank for his age. He'll be another Perlman or Zukerman. I read in the Strad that he studied with Dorothy DeLay."
“Ah, you read our Bible!" Victor beamed. He had a real expert by the toe here.
Seeing that the conversation might go on forever, I sidled over to Ayesha, who had got the ear (and eyes and arm and probably heart) of the TV actor.
“There's loads of work for actresses now,” he was assuring her. “They make all those romance videos here in Montreal, you know, some of them with very well known movie actors. My agent wants me to star in one. You'd be perfect for the female lead. She isn't cast yet."
“But I'm not a WASP!” she laughed.
His face melted at the sound. “No, you're a lotus flower.” She gave him a stunned look.
Gino sidled up to me and said, “How am I doing, Newman?"
“I don't see any wet marks on the ladies."
Ayesha left the actor and joined us. This surprised me. I thought she had found a useful partner. Apparently she considered romance videos beneath her. “Dreadful man,” she said. “He makes videos."
I presented Gino, explaining that he was “Sean's” assistant, in case she wondered at seeing him around the hotel.
“I hear you're a Shakespearean actress, Ms. Hejaz,” Gino smiled.
“I told him about your playing Juliet,” I explained.
“In what, if I may ask?” Gino said, trying to look suave.
She looked at me, stupefied. "Hamlet," I said.
“One of my own personal faves,” Gino nodded.
Even this scintillating conversation wasn't enough to keep her from Victor. She soon joined him and Rashid, and gazed as though mesmerized at my uncle. I didn't like to interrupt the bond Victor was forging with Rashid, but eventually I had to draw his attention to the other guests, some of whom could only stay half an hour. Most of them were on their way to another party. The last to leave were Rashid and Ayesha.
Rashid was gushing like a schoolgirl. That fatuous smile removed any aura of mystery or danger from him. “I can never tell you how much I regret that you didn't bring your Stradivarius with you,” the sheikh said. “I shall call on you in Toronto the next time I'm there and hear you play that transcription of the Emperor Concerto you promised me. You won't forget, my flat in Paris is always at your disposal. I'll notify my housekeeper to welcome you at any time. It has been an honor to meet you, Mr. Mazzini. A great honor. I wish I didn't have to leave, but business..."
A ski trip was hardly “business,” unless it involved the paintings too.
“Perhaps we can get together again before you leave town,” Victor said.
“Alas, this lady is dragging me up to the Laurentians for Christmas,” Rashid smiled wanly at Ayesha. “And till then, I'll be rushing to finalize this little real estate deal."
I tried not to give a jerk of surprise at the sheikh admitting to the ski trip, when Ayesha had hidden it.
“I'm thinking of taking a jaunt up to the ski hills myself,” Victor said. “Where are you staying?"
Rashid didn't hesitate a second before answering. “The Staynors, business friends, have invited us to their lodge. I wish I could ask you to come along, but it is not my party. We're dining with them this evening. We really must dash. We're late already."
They left, and the rest of us gathered in a clump on the chairs around the edge of the room.
“The sheikh admitted to the ski trip!” I told John.
“Yes, we know where they're going from here,” Victor said. “To visit the Staynors, unless he lied. He seemed pretty upfront, don't you think? Damned decent of him to put his Paris flat at my disposal."
“Nobody ever offers me a free holiday in Paris,” Gino said forlornly. “Oh by the way, Weiss, the sheikh did buy the girl a Rolls. White Corniche, a neat little convertible. Paid cash—a check I mean. It's supposed to be delivered on December the twenty-fourth, tomorrow, in time for Christmas. The trunk and everything else in it was clean. She just went down and picked it out, and hasn't been back since, not even to drool over it. Imagine, he's giving her a Rolls-Royce, and what does she do to earn it? As if we didn't know."
Victor shook his head. “I can't believe Rashid's mixed up in this business. A man who appreciates music like that. A refined, sensitive soul, and too rich to have to steal anything. Isn't there anyone else it could be?"
“Let's go somewhere more private to talk,” John suggested. It was so perishing cold out that we decided to have dinner in the hotel dining room. “Is this on you, Weiss?” Gino asked, before accepting an invitation to join us.
“It's the company's treat,” John told him.
“Did you remember to put in a word for me?"
“I will, when I get back to the office, Gino,” John promised. Over the crab legs Victor said, “You didn't answer my question, John. Don't you have any other suspects in this case?"
“We know Bergma's in on it,” John said, and explained his involvement in some detail, including Denise.
“Well, obviously he's your man,” Victor said. “He arranged with Latour to do the job; he's the one who can exchange the pictures at the museum in Amsterdam. Rashid couldn't do that. Besides, he has an alibi. It has nothing to do with Rashid."
“Except that Rashid was in the Netherlands at the time the deal was arranged, and he's here now,” John reminded him.
“Buying an office tower,” Victor pointed out.
“You didn't see the look the sheikh gave Bergma when he first saw him,” I said. “And the way Bergma turned to stone. There was definitely something in the air between them."
“The sheikh only looks as if he's glaring,” Victor said. “It's those dark eyes, a little hooded, you know what I mean? The man's shy. Some surprising people are. Prince Charles is shy, shyer than Di. A glare, is that all you have against him?"
“That and the coincidence of place,” John said. “And the fact that someone with Rashid's kind of money is obviously the buyer. Oh, and the Persian dagger that was used."
“He'd hardly leave behind such an obvious clue."
“We figure the guy had to leave in a hurry. Maybe someone was coming."
“He took time to get the pictures though, and the slides and so on,” I reminded John. “Or maybe Bergma took the slides."
“He'd do that first. That's why he was there,” Gino suggested. “He got the goods from Latour; then iced him."
Victor shook his head, unconvinced. “The sheikh's kind of money doesn't have to nickel and dime it."
Gino listened, and added, “Ayesha's beginning to look like a good suspect to me."
Again Victor talked it down. “She has a hand into one of the biggest bank accounts in the world. The sheikh would give her a couple of million if that's all she wants."
“He never gives her cash, just things. She wants to leave him,” I announced. “But if you've decided to consider a woman, how about Denise Painchaud?"
“I think she was just a fling, for Latour and Bergma,” John said. “They wouldn't trust an airhead in a deal of this size. If she suspected anything, she only knew the deal from this end. There's still a third man, the potential buyer. I don't want to let him get away. It's got to be somebody with a fat bank account. That lets Ayesha out. Rashid's only hold on her is money. He wouldn't give her cash and
let her get away."
Victor tossed up his hands in despair. “It doesn't make any sense. The thing can't be done without Bergma, yet the pictures were stolen from him. He's lying. He's got them."
“Who would he be telling they were gone, except the buyer?” John countered. “And why would he tell the buyer a lie? If he doesn't sell the paintings, he doesn't make his money. I don't see him lying about that, not to the buyer."
“Why would the buyer steal them?” Victor asked. “He can't do the exchange at the museum. He needs Bergma."
“That's exactly my point,” John said. “There's an extra person floating around. Who is he, and what's his game?"
“I need a drink,” Gino said, and lifted his glass to catch the waiter's eye.
We all puzzled silently over it for a minute. “What makes sense,” I suggested, “is that a third party, Ms. Painchaud, found out somehow and tried to cut herself in midway through the deal. She might have seen the pictures at Latour's studio. She wouldn't have to be a genius to recognize a Van Gogh and suspect something when she saw ten of them. She killed Latour, stole the pictures, and now she'll sell them to Bergma. He'll have to get the money from the third party, who probably is the sheikh, even if he is rich enough to buy originals. When Bergma warned the sheikh not to be in touch with him, he— Bergma I mean—kept in contact via letters or messengers or something. And this afternoon the sheikh had Ayesha smuggle a note to Bergma at the museum."
“But why would he use Denise as a go-between?” John asked.
“Maybe she overheard the call and intercepted the message when Ayesha arrived. Told Ayesha she was to take the note, something like that."
There was some deep frowning. Victor was the first to speak. “By George, she's got it."
I glowed all over. “John, what do you think?"
“Denise has an alibi for Latour's death. And she was with me when Bergma got that call from the third party."
“But it was the sheikh that Bergma was talking to,” I pointed out. “He told him the paintings were gone because they were gone. About her alibi, she obviously has a helper. She's through with Latour and Bergma. She has a new boyfriend."
“If she has, she isn't seeing much of him,” Gino announced. “She's been followed too."
“Her phone isn't bugged though,” John mentioned. “It's possible that Denise and a sharp boyfriend are behind it, but it's complicated. I like simple solutions."
I sighed wearily. “Sorry we can't oblige you."
“Admit it, Weiss. She's right,” Gino said. “What none of you seems to be worrying about except me is what was in that letter Denise intercepted. Maybe Rashid set a time to make the exchange—cash for the paintings. Only who'll show up is Hot Buns, not Bergma."
John said, “If you're right, we should be hearing soon.” He calmly took a bite of his roast beef. “The sheikh is being followed. If Denise meets him, we'll know. It just doesn't feel right to me. Denise isn't a bright girl. I doubt if she'd be smart enough to pull this off, a deal this size."
“All she'd have to do is air her suspicions to some sharp boyfriend. Maybe an art student, since she mixes with that crowd,” Gino suggested.
“But murder?” John tugged at his mustache. “She went to a convent. She has a crucifix in her apartment."
“With all those boyfriends, she can't be too religious,” I said.
“The woman's a tart,” Gino announced.
“All the fashionable French women look that way to WASPs,” Victor said.
“I'm not a WASP. The name's Parelli. I'm a Wop, same as you, Mazzini, and I say she looks like a tart."
“When can I meet her?” Victor asked, and laughed. “I have a sweet tooth, you know."
“What did you think of the sheikh's woman?” Gino asked.
“Beautiful, elegant, and cold as the north wind. Did somebody say she made blue movies?"
“I managed to get hold of one,” Gino said, with a lascivious grin. "Lotus Flower." I remembered Ayesha's stunned look when the actor at the cocktail party had used that phrase. “I haven't been able to see it yet. I'm visiting Ma for Christmas. I'll give you a buzz when we get back to Toronto."
Victor, the hypocrite, said, “You shouldn't take a thing like that into your mother's house, Gino. Bring it along to the hotel. I'll guard it for you."
“I checked it at the desk,” Gino grinned.
Shining Italian eyes exchanged a smile. You never saw two grown men gobble down the rest of a superb meal so swiftly. They soon darted off to get him the film.
“The rooms don't have VCRs,” I smiled, after they left.
“The concierge will get them one,” John said. “I really should go with them. There might be a clue in the movie."
I pinned him with a sapient eye. “Like a message tattooed on her naked body, perhaps? There won't be anything useful there. She did those movies before she met up with Rashid."
“I mean names—a producer—or maybe a face I'd recognize. Some kind of connection."
I took a long sip of coffee to give myself time to dream up a deterrent. Dare I mention giving a friend a call to pass the rest of the evening? He'd know I didn't mean female friend. No, I wouldn't resort to blackmail.
“I'll just go on up to bed then. I am pretty tired. I thought we might have an hour or so alone together, since we have to keep that adjoining door locked while Victor's here. But I don't want to be in the way of your work. You go ahead."
John sat, worrying his lip. “I guess Gino'd recognize any interesting names or faces as well as I would. Probably better."
“Are you sure? I really don't mind,” I said, with such convincing sincerity I even surprised myself.
John finished his coffee. His eyes were turning liquid with desire. “That's all right. As you said, we have to be on our best behavior when your uncle's around. And I can always have a look at the movie tomorrow morning."
My patience broke. “You pervert! You damned lecher! All you want is to look at those pictures of Ayesha cavorting around naked. Don't try to con me it has anything to do with the case!"
His lips stretched in a grin. “Gotcha! Don't you try to con me you don't give a damn. Come on upstairs. We're wasting valuable time."
CHAPTER 15
The next morning, affairs at the hotel had resumed their normal course. While Victor had breakfast, John and I read newspapers in the lobby. Then we reversed watching posts. The sheikh darted out of the hotel, briefcase in hand, at nine o'clock, into his waiting limo. At ten, Madame Feydeau arrived for Ayesha's daily session with the tarot cards. No one had to follow Ayesha that morning. She spent the next two hours in the beauty shop, getting her hair and nails done.
By noon, we were all impatient with waiting and were becoming edgy. It was a very unsatisfying way to spend the day before Christmas. I wanted to hop in that luxurious big Caddie and drive home to Maine with John. Outside, a few languorous snowflakes fell hesitantly to the ground. Just enough to give the Christmas look. Busy shoppers jostled along, encumbered with bags and boxes. The keepers of the red kettles rang their bells, and from shop doorways the nostalgic sound of carols sung by choirs wafted on the air.
No one was a bit hungry by lunchtime, but we went to the dining room anyway, to give ourselves an excuse to stay downstairs.
“Dammit, they've got to make their move soon. They're supposed to be spending Christmas with the Staynors in the Laurentians,” John worried.
“We'll just have to follow them up there,” I said.
Victor wasn't much good at biding his time. When he had finished lunch, he said, “If you don't need me, John, I believe I'll just step out and do my Christmas shopping."
John didn't try to detain him. We ordered yet another cup of coffee. “It's nice to see Victor again,” John said. “He's helped a bit too."
“He found out where the sheikh is going for his ski trip."
John pulled back his shirt cuff and looked at his watch. “One-thirty. How come Ayesha hasn't hit the
streets for more shopping?"
“Maybe she's wrapping Christmas presents or packing.” I found myself wondering what she would give Rashid for Christmas. What did you give a man who gave you a Rolls-Royce? And what would John give me? Whatever it was, I knew that darned Van Gogh book under my sofa would be inadequate. Victor had already given me my present, an envelope, containing a hundred of the most welcome dollars I'd ever seen. I wanted to get something more meaningful for John with part of it, say half. “Or maybe the Rolls is being delivered this afternoon. She wouldn't want to be away when it came. I wonder if they'll drive it to the Staynors."
“It looks like we're going to be stuck here for Christmas eve,” he said. “They may not be leaving till tomorrow. Rashid just said they're spending a Christmas holiday with the Staynors. Christmas is a Christian feast. It probably doesn't mean much to Rashid and Ayesha."
“Just another excuse for a present for her,” I nodded.
John set down his coffee cup in a way that suggested his patience had broken. “I'm going to call Gino,” he said.
“To get a location on Staynor's chalet?"
“Why the hell should we spend Christmas at some ski lodge? I thought we'd have all this wrapped up long ago. I'm going to call Bergma and try to get things moving, but first I should let Gino know. He said he was having lunch with his mother. I'll try him there."
He placed the call, then said to me, “Gino's coming over to discuss it."
“What will you say to Bergma?” I asked.
“That's what I have to talk to Gino about. I'd like to put it to him, point-blank. We know exactly what he's up to, and have enough evidence to get him barred from ever holding a museum post again, if not to put him behind bars. He might be willing to cut a deal, give us the paintings and the name of the buyer for immunity. I figure Gino'd go for that—providing Bergma isn't the one who arranged to have Latour iced. If he'll give evidence against Rashid, we can be out of here in a matter of hours."
“We could go home tonight! To my home, I mean. Oh do it, John. This is a lousy way to spend Christmas, with no tree or anything."
I never thought I'd hear myself describe a life of luxury at the Ritz as miserable, but that's the way I felt. Some things do take precedence over mere luxury. Christmas was definitely one of them.