A Brush with Death

by Joan Smith

  He gave an understanding smile, and squeezed my fingers. “I'll jawbone Gino into it; don't worry. Since your uncle's out, shall we sneak upstairs and enjoy his absence?"

  We enjoyed a few minutes’ togetherness, which was soon interrupted by Gino's arrival. He had reverted from last night's relative elegance back to his Eskimo parka.

  “Boy, did you miss a doozer last night, Weiss!” he exclaimed. “That Ayesha, she's got a pair of—"

  “Would you like a drink, Gino?” John asked hastily. He knew the magic words to shut him up.

  “My veins could do with some alcohol. It might get the blood flowing again. Oh, by the way, I got a fix on the Staynors’ place. It's miles from the Searles', where Bergma's going. You practically can't get there from here. There's nothing commercial for miles. It's tucked into the mountains. I don't know how they ever got the place built."

  “There must be a road, or how do the Staynors get there?” I asked.

  “There's a private road, but what excuse can we come up with for being on it?” Gino asked. “It's got ‘No Trespassing’ signs posted all over."

  Cross-country skiing came to mind, only to be suppressed. Our aim was to convince Gino to finish the case today. John and I exchanged a secret smile behind his back.

  John said, “Then we better take care of it before the sheikh leaves."

  Gino nodded. “That might be best. I knew a free trip to a ski lodge was too good to be true. He could toot out of there in a chopper, hop on his private jet, and be gone before we ever found out what happened. So you'll call Bergma and put a firecracker under his butt?"

  “I was thinking of a bomb,” John grinned, and reached for the phone.

  John has an excellent memory. He had memorized the unlisted number. The phone rang, and rang, and rang again—eight times in all. “He's not home,” John said in disgust, and hung up. He tried the museum. He wasn't there either.

  “If he was doing anything he shouldn't, I'd have heard from my man,” Gino said. “Patience, Weiss.” He eyed the Johnnie Walker, but apparently thought he'd need his wits about him and didn't touch it.

  John repeated the call at ten-minute intervals for a while. At two-thirty, he finally got an answer. I was bursting with curiosity to hear how he'd handle the call. It was kind of an anticlimax.

  “You don't know me, but my name's Weiss, John Weiss,” John said. The charade was over then. He was no longer Sean Bradley, oil tycoon. “I'm calling about a set of slides and some notes that have come my way. Does the name Vincent mean anything to you?"

  There was a splutter from the other end of the line. “Forget it, Bergma, you're in it up to your eyeballs, and if you want to get out with your skin in one piece, you better listen to me. We'll meet at the bar of the Ritz in twenty minutes.” Another splutter, more subdued this time. “So take a cab,” John said, and hung up.

  He turned to us. “His battery's shot. Left the lights on last night."

  “No, he didn't. It's an excuse,” Gino said.

  “Probably. He didn't sound real happy to hear from me. Or with the watering hole I chose for the meeting. I wonder why he's afraid to let Rashid see him."

  “That is funny,” I said. “He's the one who told Rashid not to get in touch with him. Maybe he's afraid the sheikh will say something..."

  “He knows we know about the forgery now,” John mused. “The only thing he can be trying to hide is how Latour died. Murder is more serious than art fraud. That's what he's jumpy about. Rashid must know, and it must involve Bergma. Let's speak to Export A and have him notify us if the sheikh gets any calls. This might be enough to rattle Bergma into indiscretion."

  I asked Export A to come up, and before long, he was at the door. “Merry Christmas, folks,” he beamed. “What can I do you for?"

  “Fifty bucks, if you bring us good news,” John said, and pulled a couple of bills from his wallet.

  “For that kind of bread, I'll make up news.” John outlined the situation. Export pocketed the money and left.

  It wasn't five minutes before he was back. “You must be a mind reader, man,” be said, shaking his head. “A dude called Bergma called the sheikh's room. Ayesha told him the man was out. Expected back in an hour. She'd have him call."

  “Bergma won't be at home for an hour. He'll be here!” I exclaimed. “He's up to something, John."

  He smiled benignly. “That was the general idea."

  “It's nearly twenty minutes. You'd better go down to the bar to meet him. Is Gino going?"

  The men exchanged a look. “Do we really want this to be official?” John mused. “He doesn't know the cops know. I should do some fishing first. If he believes I'm working alone, he'd be more talkative."

  “As an insurance investigator?” Gino asked.

  “Sure, why not? I gave him my real name. I have to have some reason for knowing and for being involved. I'll hint I might keep quiet if he gives me the forgeries and drops the deal. And of course tells me who the buyer is. It's worth a shot."

  “Then how are we going to get any evidence against him?” Gino demanded.

  “If he has those forgeries, that ties him to Latour's murder,” John said.

  “He better have, because the slides and box and notes were clean, except for your prints."

  “He'll holler if he thinks he can save his own skin,” John said.

  “It's known as honor among thieves,” I added. “But what if he doesn't have them? I still favor Hot Buns. She—"

  “If he doesn't have them, he has a damned sight better idea who does have them than we have,” John said. “He's the key. Nobody can substitute the forgeries for the originals but Bergma. We'll follow him and see what he does, and who he does it with."

  John straightened his tie and said, “Wish me luck."

  I suddenly felt as if the bottom had fallen out of my stomach. “What if he has a gun?” I asked.

  “Murder isn't allowed at the Ritz,” Gino said.

  John laughed and lunged out of the door.

  “Gino, follow him,” I said. A hysterical lady had suddenly invaded my body. “Bergma might pull a gun on him and force him into a car or something. We can't let him go alone."

  “Don't worry. Weiss can handle himself."

  “If you're not going, I am,” I said. I snatched up my purse and ran wildly toward the door.

  Gino grabbed my arm. “Do you want to screw up the whole deal?"

  “Yes!"

  I was in the hall, with Gino running after me. My legs were longer. I reached the elevator first. He followed me in, still dissuading.

  “We'll just sit at a table near them and watch,” I said.

  “Bergma'll recognize you."

  “I'll wear dark glasses.” I fumbled in my purse and put them on.

  “Oh jeez, that'll just call attention to you. You can't wear dark glasses in a bar. It's as dark as night in those places."

  “Then he won't be able to recognize me.

  “Christ, I thought John said you were bright."

  Bergma hadn't arrived yet when we entered the bar. John was there, waiting for a waiter, or his order. There were quite a few people already enjoying the happy hour. John didn't speak, but he spotted us and gave a chilling stare. Gino tossed his shoulders in apology and headed for a far corner. I let him go ahead, but I sat at the table closest to John's, with my back to him. Gino eventually came back and sat with me.

  “Are you nuts? This is too close, Newman."

  “All he'll see is my hair. I want to be close in case you have to shoot Bergma."

  The waiter came. “Two Perriers,” Gino said.

  “I believe I'll have a—a daiquiri instead.” I needed some false courage, and wanted it in a small glass, to make rapid consumption easier.

  The waiter nodded and left. “I thought we all agreed on soda water,” Gino grouched.

  But now that Gino was here, I thought he was glad. He watched the door like a hawk. Bergma arrived about five minutes after the daiquiri,
which was now no more than a memory and a burning sensation in my throat. I heard John's chair scrape as he got up to signal him to the table.

  “Mr. Weiss?” Bergma asked. I couldn't see him, of course, but I recognized the lightly accented, polite voice.

  “That's right. Have a seat. You and I are going to have a little talk.” John's voice sounded friendly enough, but there was a steely edge to it that meant business.

  Gino grinned at me. “Bergma's seen the light. Now he's going to feel the heat. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes."

  “Are you a cop?” Bergma demanded.

  I assumed John had flashed his insurance I.D. Bergma said, “Oh, I see.” There was a noticeable sound of relief in his voice. “What's on your mind, Mr. Weiss?"

  “Saving my company money, any way I can."

  “But there's no insurance fraud ininvolved."

  “We can speak quite frankly, Mr. Bergma,” John said. “I know the deal.” He outlined it succinctly, omitting any mention of Denise. Bergma didn't confirm it, but he didn't bother denying it either. “You might get clean away with it. On the other hand, it'll probably come to light sooner or later that the museum sold forgeries. That's when my company takes a scalding. And that's why I want you to hand Latour's forgeries over to me. Now you wouldn't want me to give you to the cops instead, would you?"

  Bergma's reply sounded strangled and very sincere. “I don't have them!” he croaked. “They were stolen from Latour's apartment the very day I was supposed to pick them up."

  “And deliver them to..."

  “That's irrelevant,” Bergma said, voice firming again.

  “The hell it is. I want a name, Bergma, or I hand you over, now. Who was the buyer?"

  Bergma's reply was too low to hear. “That's what I figured,” John said. “A suspicious coincidence, Rashid being in Amsterdam at the right moment, and now showing up here."

  “But he wasn't supposed to come here! He was supposed to meet me in Amsterdam in January. I'm beginning to think he killed Latour and stole the paintings himself. The brass knife, that seems his style. I read about it in the papers. Poor Yves. He was a gentle man, a good man. He wouldn't harm a fly. Killing him wasn't necessary. And who's next? Me? It must have been Rashid—except that he can't finalize the deal without me. And he certainly isn't interested in keeping the copies."

  “What did he say when you told him?” John asked.

  “We haven't discussed it.” I thought John would mention the note Ayesha took to the museum, but perhaps he wanted to keep that from Bergma. “He read of Latour's murder in the papers, of course,” Bergma continued. “There was no mention of the paintings. We met at the Art Nouveau show, but you know that. You were there, with a young lady. I wanted time to think, to try to recover the paintings before meeting with Rashid. After I thought about it for a while, I realized there couldn't be anyone else who could have done it. He was the only one who knew that Latour was doing the forgeries."

  “What about Ms. Painchaud? I understand she used to see Latour."

  “That little fool? She wouldn't recognize a Van Gogh if she saw an original.” When he continued speaking, he had begun to change his mind about Hot Buns. “Unless Latour told her— I doubt if she could have done it alone. Maybe she's got a new boyfriend."

  “Nobody's been in touch with you, trying to sell the forgeries back?"

  “Not a word. I've been on thorns, expecting a call. It was almost a relief when you phoned. You've got to help me, Mr. Weiss. I'll do anything. Anything you say. If the museum ever found out, I'd be ruined. Art is my life. I don't know why I ever let myself be talked into this. My life has been hell. Latour kept raising the price for his part in it—he was furious when Denis stopped seeing him, of course. It must be Denise— Denise or the sheikh."

  Even without looking, I knew Bergma was ringing his white hands. His sensitive face would be haggard. I wanted to look, but restrained myself.

  “How much was he giving you?” John asked.

  “Ten mi1lion."

  “That much!"

  “The originals are worth twenty times that! It's a gift."

  “You mean a steal, don't you?"

  “Very funny!"

  “I wonder why neither of us is laughing,” John said ironically.

  “Well, what should I do? Are you going to tell the police?"

  “Not yet. But I suggest you cancel that ski trip you mentioned."

  “Ms. Newman—she's a friend of yours?"

  “I know her slightly. I'm afraid I picked the poor girl's brains to learn what you'd told her. She's not involved. Where was it you planned to stay in the Laurentians?"

  “With the Searles."

  “I see. Do you happen to know the Staynors?"

  “Slightly. They have some inaccessible lodge. They're not sociable at all, but they donated some old Wedgwood to the museum. You're not suggesting they—"

  “I'm not suggesting anything—except that you cancel your ski trip. And call me if anyone else gets in touch with you, or if you think of anything that might help."

  “It's all so bloody senseless!” Bergma exclaimed, in deep anguish. “Those paintings are no earthly good to anyone but me. I begin to think Latour was killed by an ordinary burglar."

  “The burglar didn't take anything but the forgeries."

  “Yes, that's the whole problem."

  “How did you know they were gone, since it wasn't in the papers?"

  Bergma answered in a weak, confused voice. “Latour called me the afternoon that the paintings were ready. I was to pick them up that evening. I went as soon as I left work at six-thirty. When I got there, the door was open and Latour was dead. I went in to grab the paintings. He kept them under his bed. They were gone. I got my slides and notes. Nothing else had been disturbed. After I thought about it, I began to realize it must have been Rashid."

  So Bergma had got there before us, unnoticed by Menard. “That's all for the moment,” John said. “You'll be hearing from me. Oh, and thanks for the drink. You won't forget the bill?” I heard Bergma's chair scrape. “Merry Christmas,” John called.

  Bergma lacked either the heart or the courage to tell him to go to hell. I thought we might join John, but he got up and walked out without acknowledging our presence, and we followed him up to our room a moment later.

  John exploded when he saw us. His wrath was directed mostly at Gino. “Why the hell did you bring Cassie down there?"

  “Bring her? Wild horses couldn't hold her back! I followed to try to keep her from wrecking the whole show."

  “It's my fault,” I confessed.

  Now it was my turn. “You could have queered the deal,” John said, trying to glower, but his heart wasn't in it. I clung to his hands and batted my eyelashes shamelessly. “I can't have you pitching yourself into my business like this, Cassie. It could have been dangerous."

  “I know. That's why I had to go. I thought he might have a gun. And we didn't know then that Bergma's such a wimp."

  The argument fell to the ground. “You said it,” Gino sighed. “I was afraid he was going to start blubbering. We can strike him off our list of murder suspects. He wouldn't have the guts to kill a marshmallow."

  John's eyes narrowed. “He had the wits to engineer this deal."

  “Did you get the impression he was playacting?” I demanded. “We couldn't actually see him. He sounded sincere."

  “He sounded scared shitless,” Gino modified, in his own inimitable way.

  “That's exactly the way he looked,” John said. “I don't think he's a violent man. I don't think he even condones violence. He was appalled at Latour's murder."

  “We're no further ahead than when we started,” Gino said wearily.

  John considered it a moment. “We're pretty sure Bergma hasn't got the forgeries. We have our corroboration that Rashid was the third party. Ten million—maybe even the sheikh would kill for that much money. I figured two, three tops. What we haven't got is the paintings. Rashid mus
t have them, but sooner or later he has to contact Bergma to make the switch. He can't handle that alone. We just have to be patient."

  “You'll have to be patient without me;” Gino said, picking up his hooded jacket. “I promised Ma I'd help make the stuffing for the turkey. I'm supposed to be taking home three loaves of stale bread. You can reach me there if you need me, John. And if I don't see you guys tomorrow, Merry Christmas, eh?"

  “Oh, I have a feeling we'll be seeing you before then,” John said.

  CHAPTER 16

  Export A was on the qui vive belowstairs. He phoned up around four-thirty and said, “She just arrived—in a brand-new Rolls-Royce Corniche. She drove it herself and had it parked in the hotel parking garage. That means the parking valet has the keys. Want I should frisk the wheels?"

  “Yes, please. Especially the trunk. Let us know right away.” The pictures could have been put in since we had it checked.

  “You got it, Mama."

  I told John. “She drove it? I thought it was supposed to be delivered."

  “If she'd stopped off at Bergma's place, Menard will know."

  “Right. He should be phoning any minute now."

  Menard must have run to the closest phone. He called within minutes. John spoke to him, hung up, and said, “Ayesha took the new car for a little cruise around town, that's all."

  “She didn't cruise toward the museum or Bergma's place?"

  “No, Menard said she just drove around without stopping. She didn't go near Westmount. In fact, he thinks she was lost. He says she drove east of St. Laurent. Mean anything to you?"

  “The French district. Really French, I mean. It's a joke that the Anglos who were born in the city have never been east of St. Laurent."

  John shrugged his shoulder. “It's easy to lose your bearings in a strange city. Rashid should be returning soon. He can't be doing anything interesting or we'd have heard."

  Export A would let us know when Rashid returned. Gino had spoken to the switchboard operator and arranged to have any calls to the sheikh's rooms recorded as well. It was Export A, however, who phoned us about fifteen minutes later.