Plunder Squad p-15

by Richard Stark

  “If he had one,” Devers said.

  Parker said, “If he was that tight for cash, he had a way to turn those paintings over right away. At least some of them.”

  Mackey said, “What about the bank accounts? We’ve got the passbooks.”

  “Not a chance,” Parker said.

  Devers said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  The three of them moved next door to the bedroom, where Devers switched on the overhead light. Mackey said to Parker, “Why not? I’m a pretty good hand with signatures. I could do a fine Leon Griffith before the bank closes this afternoon. And I walk in with Griffith’s ID.”

  Parker said, “He opened the accounts three days ago. A man comes in with fifty thousand in cash to open a savings account, they’re going to notice him at the bank. They’ll remember him three days later. You don’t look like Griffith.”

  “All that money,” Mackey said. “Wasted.”

  “All our work wasted, too,” Devers said. “Unless we can find a buyer.”

  “And soon,” Parker said. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”

  Devers said, “I’ll start in here.”

  The three of them separated into different parts of the house, and spent the next hour searching. There was no note, and no clue to Griffith’s buyer—if he had a buyer—in any of the obvious places: his office, his bedside table. But they kept searching anyway, as outside the day got brighter, and soon they didn’t have to turn lights on any more when they entered a room.

  Parker and Mackey met near the front hall. They both had fingertips black with dust, and Mackey was even more irritable than before. “Not a goddam thing,” he said. “And where the hell else is there to look?”

  “The basement.”

  “That’s a goddam waste of time, and you know it.”

  “We’ll do it anyway,” Parker said.

  Mackey grimaced. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Just so we can say we did everything.”

  “Come on.”

  They walked down the hall together. Mackey said, “Lou isn’t gonna be happy when he hears about this.”

  “Nobody’s happy about it,” Parker said.

  Devers was coming the other way, a piece of paper in his hand. He looked excited, but in a muted and guarded way. He said, “Take a look at this.”

  Parker took the paper, and he and Mackey read it together. It was lavender stationery, thick, good quality, with a purple letterhead in Edwardian script:

  Jacques Renard

  302 CPW

  The letter was handwritten, in clear but rather overly fancy printing. It was dated a month earlier, and it read:

  Leon, dear,

  So lovely to hear from you. Unfortunate, of course, the news your letter brought. Dear boy, we are all of us biting the bullet these days, and praying for happier times.

  Although a direct transfusion just wouldn’t be possible from these limp old veins, it might be that some sort of business arrangement might be worked out between us, if you’re interested. Should you be traveling in these woods, why not rap upon my trunk?

  As ever,

  Jack

  Doubtfully, Mackey said, “Maybe. Sounds more like a brush-off. Like Griffith tried to tap this guy, and the guy didn’t want to be tapped, but was letting Griffith down easy.”

  Parker said to Devers, “Why do you think this is it?”

  “Because it was in the kitchen,” Devers said. “Hidden in a cookbook.”

  Mackey said. “Hidden? Maybe he just used it for a bookmark.”

  Parker said, “I saw other letters from Renard in the office.”

  “That’s right,” Devers said. “In the office. Not in the kitchen.”

  Mackey looked at the letter again. “That’s some address,” he said. “Three-oh-two CPW. What the hell is CPW?”

  “Central Park West.” Parker said. “Renard is in New York.”

  Four

  The man who opened the door was tall and flabby, an unhealthy-looking combination. He was wearing white slacks and a white peasant blouse with yellow and red decorations around the scoop neck and short sleeves. He was barefoot and standing on the balls of his feet, as though he were a ballet dancer prepared at any instant to go up on point. Parker said, “Jacques Renard?”

  The man looked at Parker and Mackey and Devers, the three of them practically filling the small foyer in front of the elevator doors, and he gave a little smile which combined sardonic humor with a touch of nervousness. “I’m not at all sure how I should answer that,” he said. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  Parker said, “Friends of Leon Griffith.”

  “Leon?” Wariness came into the man’s eyes. “I must say you don’t look like friends of his.”

  Mackey, as usual, was made irritable by impatience. He said, “Let’s get off the dime. If you’re Renard. we want to talk about some paintings. If you aren’t him, tell him we’re here.”

  The man gave Mackey a jaundiced look. “My, my,” he said, “aren’t we impulsive. Leon usually talks about paintings himself.”

  Mackey said, “He couldn’t come this time.”

  “Pity. I’d rather speak to friends of mine than friends of his.”

  Parker said, “He’s dead. You want us to stand here in the hall and tell you about it?”

  The man looked startled. “Dead?” Then fright showed on his face, and his left hand gripped the edge of the door as though he might slam it. “Did you—?”

  “Suicide,” Parker said. “Slit his wrists in the bathtub. Money worries. Are you Renard or not?”

  “Good God. I never thought he’d—” Releasing the door, the man stepped back a pace, saying, “Come in, come in.”

  The three of them stepped into the apartment, and the man shut the door. They were in a square vestibule hung with paintings. An arched doorway on the right led to a room full of Early American furniture; beyond it, a terrace could be seen, filled with plants.

  “I am Renard, of course,” the man said, turning toward them from the door. “I knew Leon was troubled about money, but—” He gestured toward the room on the right. “Won’t you go in? Do sit down.”

  They all went into the room. Mackey and Devers sat down, but Parker and Renard remained on their feet. Parker said, “We were getting some paintings for Griffith. Now that he’s dead, we’d like to find the buyer he had in mind.”

  “Ah, I see.” Renard smiled around at them, having gotten his composure back. “May I offer you anything to drink?”

  Parker said, “The main thing is the buyer. We had the idea maybe you were him.”

  Renard looked doubtful. “A buyer? I deal in art, of course, but I’m only marginally a collector.”

  “The idea we have,” Parker said, “is that you and Griffith had a business deal together, where he’d get these paintings for you and maybe you’d sell them to somebody else.”

  Renard smiled vaguely, as though trying to think. “That does seem unlikely,” he said. “So many intermediaries. I normally do my purchasing myself. If you could tell me exactly what paintings we’re talking about, perhaps it would refresh my memory.”

  Mackey said, “Come on, Renard, you know what we’re talking about.”

  Renard lifted an eyebrow at him. “Do I, Mr.—?” He glanced smilingly at Parker. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”

  “I’m Edward Latham,” Parker said.

  “Mr. Latham.” Renard bowed his head.

  Parker pointed first at Mackey, then at Devers. “That’s Mr. Morrison, and Mr. Danforth.”

  “Gentlemen.” Renard smiled around at them all.

  Parker said, “The paintings we’re talking about are twenty-one pictures that weren’t available until this week.”

  “Well, I just don’t know.” There was some mockery now in Renard’s puzzled frown. “It really doesn’t ring any sort of bell at all.”

  Parker frowned back. Renard acted as though he were lying, and enjoying doing it—but why?
To get more specific about the stolen paintings could be dangerous, if Renard turned out after all not to be Griffith’s buyer. Parker believed that Renard was the one they wanted, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure, and there was no way to make himself sure other than to get the story from Renard. Why was Renard being so coy?

  Devers suddenly said, “Well, maybe we made a mistake. Anyway, there’s other buyers.”

  Parker knew that Devers’ idea was to push Renard into making up his mind, but he doubted it would work. He wasn’t surprised when Renard turned a bland face to Devers and said, “That is a fortunate thing, isn’t it? That there are always other buyers. And other sellers, as well.”

  Parker said, “Maybe you weren’t the buyer Griffith had in mind, but you might be interested anyway.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Renard said. Behind all his expressions—puzzlement, friendliness, and now polite regret—lurked the same glint of mockery.

  Parker said, “You’re a dealer in paintings, aren’t you? How do you know you don’t want to buy these before you find out what they are?”

  Renard gave him a sudden flat look, as though to say there’d been enough fooling around. He said, “Do you have photos of the merchandise?”

  “No.”

  “Reputable dealers carry photographs of the paintings they wish to sell. Are these paintings on display anywhere?”

  Mackey said angrily, “You know damn well they aren’t.”

  Renard turned an unfriendly face Mackey’s way. “I don’t know anything at all,” he said. “My ignorance is utterly invincible. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me—”

  All at once, Parker understood what was wrong. He said, “Renard, we aren’t law.”

  Renard was amused at that. “Really?” he said.

  Mackey frowned at Parker. “What the hell?”

  Parker told him, “Renard thinks we’re cops. He thinks we came here to trap him into talking about his deal with Griffith.”

  Mackey pointed at himself in disbelief. “Me a cop? Nobody’s that stupid.”

  “Perhaps I’m the one who isn’t stupid,” Renard said. “The three of you come here full of hints and suggestions, without ever saying anything out in the open. And there are three of you, one to ask the questions and two to witness my answers. Now who’s stupid?”

  “You are,” Mackey told him.

  “Wait a minute,” Parker said. To Renard he said, “We aren’t law. We’re the ones who hijacked the truckload of paintings.”

  “Hey,” Mackey called. “Take it easy.”

  Parker told him, “Renard doesn’t have any witnesses.”

  “But you still do,” Renard said. “Why on earth should I believe you?”

  Parker said, “Will you talk to me alone?”

  Renard looked very suspicious. “I’m still not sure we have anything to talk about.”

  ”We’ll see.” Parker turned to the other two. “You wait downstairs. Give me ten minutes.”

  “Good,” Devers said, getting to his feet.

  Mackey stayed seated. “Anybody with a brain in his head could see we aren’t cops,” he said.

  Devers grinned at him. “You did a pretty good imitation the other night,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Grumbling, Mackey got to his feet. He and Devers left the room, and Renard went with them, to make sure they got into the elevator. Parker strolled over to the open terrace doorway and stood looking out at Central Park far below.

  Renard came back a minute later. “Why don’t we go out there?” he said. “The air is better.”

  The two of them stepped out onto the brick floor of the terrace, and Renard gave Parker an arch look, saying, “You wouldn’t have a tape recorder hidden on your person, would you?”

  “No.”

  “Nevertheless . . .” Renard switched on a small plastic radio sitting on the window sill, and Vivaldi rippled out amid the plant leaves. Renard turned the radio up, and spoke over it: “You don’t mind if I’m cautious, do you?”

  “Just let me know when you feel safe enough to talk.”

  “Why don’t you stand near the radio, and I’ll stand over here.”

  They shifted positions, and Parker said, “You satisfied now?”

  “I think so.” Renard looked sharper and less playful now. “I want you to know,” he said, “I still think you’re a policeman.”

  “I’m not. We have the paintings. You were the buyer, weren’t you?”

  Renard pursed his lips. He said, “Didn’t Griffith pay you ahead of time? Are you trying to collect twice?”

  “Griffith was to pay us when we delivered. He killed himself when he read about the two that were caught.”

  “Premature, eh? But Leon was around looking for cash just recently. Why did he need it beforehand if he wasn’t going to pay you till afterward?”

  “We needed proof he had the money.” Parker took the three passbooks from his jacket pocket and handed them across. “Take a look.”

  Renard frowningly studied the passbooks, and finally looked up with hesitant belief on his face. “Rather clever,” he said. “I take it the idea was he’d withdraw the money when you gave him the paintings.”

  “Right.” Parker reached out for the passbooks.

  Renard handed them over. “These are useless now, of course.”

  “I know.” He put them away in his pocket again.

  “The next question, naturally, is how you happened to come to me. Surely Leon didn’t mention my name.”

  Out of another pocket Parker took the letter Devers had found and handed it over. “We searched Griffith’s house and found this.”

  Renard read the letter as though he’d never seen it before. “Hmmmm,” he said, as though acknowledging the seriousness of something he’d been ignoring up till now. “This could be somewhat incriminating, couldn’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s the original, I see.” Renard smiled brightly. “You don’t mind if I keep it.”

  “No. I’m not law, like I said.”

  “I must admit I’m beginning to believe you.” Renard started ripping small pieces from the letter and throwing them over the terrace railing. “You see? I’m littering in front of you.”

  “All right,” Parker said. “So now let’s talk. We’ve got the paintings, and you’re the buyer.”

  “Not precisely.” Renard was still ripping the letter, throwing one small piece at a time out into the air; a fitful breeze took the pieces this way and that. “I was the buyer for six of the paintings,” he said. “Only six. What Leon planned to do with the others, I really couldn’t say.”

  ”What were you going to pay for the six?”

  Renard hesitated slightly, then said, “Fifty thousand.”

  “No. You were going to pay more.”

  “Was I?”

  “You’ll pay me more.”

  “I doubt it,” Renard said. Only a third of the letter remained in his hands.

  Parker said, “You saw those passbooks. Griffith was going to pay us one-fifty for the whole batch. We’ll make the same deal with you.”

  Renard shook his head. “Definitely not.”

  “They’re worth more than twice that.”

  “But I don’t want them. I only want the six.”

  Parker considered pushing the issue, but something in Renard’s manner told him the man wouldn’t budge. He really didn’t want the other fifteen paintings, not at any price.

  But he did want the six. Parker said, “All right, we’ll sell you the six. Which ones?”

  “Have you paper and pencil?”

  “Yes.” Parker took out a notebook and ballpoint pen. Renard gave him six titles, and he wrote them down, then put the notebook and pen away and said, “Sixty thousand. That’s still less than you were going to pay Griffith.”

  Renard offered a faint smile. “Is it?” He shrugged. “I always have been too generous,” he said, “that’s my great failing. Very well. In honor of poor L
eon’s memory, sixty thousand.”

  Five

  Lou Sternberg met Parker at O’Hare International. He had a disgusted look on his face, but he gave the standard greeting: “Have a good flight?”

  “Yes.” Parker meant nothing by the word; it was simply a sound that ended that topic.

  They walked down ramshackle corridors forever, as though in somebody’s troubled dream, and came out at last to a rainy night, with small lights reflecting off the wet blacktop. Sternberg opened his black umbrella, and pointed: “I’m parked over that way.”

  It was still a fairly long walk. In addition to his umbrella, and his usual raincoat and cap, Sternberg was wearing rubbers on his shoes and a gray scarf around his neck. It was impossible to tell if he was disgusted by the job going sour or by the rain.

  The car was a rental Chevrolet. Sternberg unlocked it, and Parker got in. Sternberg backed in, closing the umbrella as he came, and maneuvered awkwardly to get the umbrella into the back seat without poking anybody’s eye out.

  Neither of them spoke till Sternberg had the car moving cautiously toward the terminal exit. Then he said, “You see where Tommy got off?”

  Parker looked at him. “When?”

  ”Heard it on the radio coming out.” Sternberg grinned and shook his head. “The advantage of being a hippie,” he said. “So many organizations came out on Tommy’s side, so much talk about police harassment, they had to let him go. If they’d had him in there for running a red light, they could have beat on him for a month. But a felony gets too much publicity.”

  Parker frowned and said, “What about the troopers’ ID?”

  “Who’s going to believe two cops against one long-hair kid? You look at Tommy, now; would you believe he was a heist-man?”

  “The girl, too?”

  Sternberg nodded. “Both of them, free as air.” Ahead of him, a taxi failed to yield the right of way; Sternberg had to hit the brakes hard, and the rear end would have skidded on the wet pavement if he hadn’t moved the wheel slightly. “They let any damn body drive,” he said.

  Parker waited till they were clear of the terminal before saying, “Our situation is bad.”

  “I got that idea from your call. Trouble with Griffith?”

  “He’s dead. Killed himself when he thought we’d been caught.”