A Brush With Death (12 page)

When the Arab and his partner went for their coats, Gino darted off to John for the keys.

“I'm going with you,” John said.

I guess he was afraid Bergma would follow and kill me or perhaps subject me to a fate that he not so fondly imagined to be worse than death.

Gino stood in front of the museum watching to see which way the Arab's car went while John and I flew to get his wheels. The car proved easy to follow. It was a chauffeur-driven white stretch Lincoln limousine. It didn't go far either, just down the street to the most exclusive hotel in the city, the Ritz Carlton. As the chauffeur helped the lady alight, I noticed she was swathed in a floating wolf coat I would die for. John drove on a few blocks till he found a place to park.

“The guy sure isn't trying to lay low,” Gino said. He was in the back now, breathing garlic fumes over our shoulders. “The car'll be easy to check out. There's a place rents them downtown. That'll be better than questioning the chauffeur. No point tipping our hand. I'll put a man at the Ritz."

John sat silent a moment, thinking. “I'll take the Ritz, Gino,” he said. “I've got to stay somewhere. Why not be on the spot?"

“Suit yourself,” Gino replied, “but it'll cost you an arm, a leg, and both balls. Did that guy look familiar to you? Those dusky foreigners all look alike, but I think I've seen that guy before. Or maybe just a picture."

“Denise said he's Sheikh Rashid something or other, from one of the United Arab emirates. Oil money,” John said.

“That's it!” Gino crowed. “His mug was all over the papers yesterday. He's here to buy up some apartment buildings. Those oil sheikhs have more bread than Christies has cookies. Jeez, I could sure think of something more fun than buying buildings.

“Did the papers say anything about the woman with him?” I asked.

Gino screwed his face up to aid memory. “Secretary, Ms. LeeChee nut or something like that. Whether she ever personally met a typewriter is a mute
[sic]
point. There was a picture of her, too, trying to look sexy and innocent at the same time— like you, Newman. The only difference is, she succeeded."

“In which category did I fail?"

“Both,” he answered without hesitation.

“Cut to the quick. Better read another
Playboy.
Your charm is slipping."

“Just kidding. You know my humor, Newman."

“To know it is to hate it."

“He's in the right income bracket to be the buyer of the Van Goghs,” John said. “Can you do a run on him and see if he's been to the Netherlands in the last year or so, Gino?"

“Can do, Weiss. I'll run the girl too."

“Good, let's cover all bases. She could be in on it."

“I'm freezing my butt off,” was Gino's next speech. “Since you're moving to the Ritz, let's go to your place, Weiss. We'll kill that Johnnie Walker while you pack. It's already badly wounded. You drink too much, you know that?"

“Especially when you're around,” John agreed blandly.

While John stuffed his belongings into a set of luggage that would not disgrace the Ritz, we picked his brains to hear what else he'd learned from Denise.

“She's a regular soap opera heroine,” he told us. “She got her job through a boyfriend who taught at the Beaux Arts. I didn't tip my hand by asking for a name, but when she said he was murdered this week, I figured I knew who she was talking about."

“So she was Latour's girlfriend. Imagine her partying already!” I huffed.

“She's been through with Latour for a long time. Once she laid her baby blues on Bergma, she forgot about Latour."

I emitted a long sigh and breathed, “Naturally."

John gave me a look that would sour cream. “She had a fling with Bergma, but that seems to be all over too. Selfish, she called him. A womanizer. Are you listening up, Cass?"

“To every word. She seems to know all the right people, by which I guess I mean wrong people, but does she have anything to do with the Van Gogh business? Did she mention the portrait Latour did of her?"

“I didn't like to ask. I doubt if she's in on the scam. I think she just happened to be socially involved with Latour and Bergma."

“She's man's plaything,” Gino decided. “Where'd she meet Latour?"

“They're neighbors."

I nearly jumped from my seat. “You mean she lives right there, in his building?"

“Like I said, they're neighbors. She lives on the floor below. They met on the elevator."

“Then she might have killed him!"

John didn't look convinced. “She was at the hotel with Bergma, arranging the party when he was murdered. My gut feeling is that she's all right. What her story
does
confirm is that Latour and Bergma were old friends. She met Bergma through Latour. Once she started going out with Bergma, he didn't want her seeing Latour—at all. A fiend of jealousy, she called him, but I imagine Bergma just didn't want to risk her learning anything about the Van Goghs."

“Did she see Latour again?” I asked.

“Only to nod to, according to her story."

Gino gave a bah of disgust. “She's in a perfect position to know what was going on. If Bergma didn't blab to her, Latour probably did—in spite or bragging. She had a grudge against Bergma."

“But not against Latour,” I pointed out.
"She
left
him,
and
he's
the one who's dead."

“And we know Hot Buns didn't off him,” Gino agreed, “but a woman like that wouldn't have any trouble finding a new guy to do her dirty work for her. If that's the scenario, she's got Bergma right where she wants him, hasn't she? She's got the hot pix. She calls the shots."

John gave a very doubtful look. “I don't like to brand myself as an MCP, but from her talk, I don't think Denise is a deep thinker. More gossip than conversation, if you know what I mean"

“It's easy for smart people to act dumb. She bears watching,” Gino insisted.
"Cherchez la femme.

John's mind had moved on to the other
femme
now in the case, Sheikh Rashid's lady. “You won't forget to find out whatever you can about the sheikh's secretary too, will you, Gino?"

“She'll be an international harlot,” he decided, apparently unconcerned at being recognized as a dyed-in-the-wool MCP. “A freeloader, tagging along for the ride. A good looker though."

In about fifteen minutes, Gino rose. “We'll be in touch tomorrow. Are you using your own name at the Ritz, Weiss? Or will I be calling for Sean Bradley, the name you used in Toronto last summer?"

“Not a bad idea,” John said, tugging pensively at his ear. “A Texas oil man and a sheikh should have something in common. Yeah, I'll be Sean Bradley. Do you happen to know where I could pick up a Stetson, Cass?"

I shrugged. “Somewhere in Place Ville Marie probably."

“That's the underground shopping mile, where they take you to the cleaners,” Gino added. “I gotta buzz.
Au revoir."
In an uncharacteristic fit of gallantry, he performed a bow in my direction, thanked me for a lovely evening, and left, slamming the door behind him.

I tried to look irresistible because I had a plan to involve myself more deeply in the case and had a feeling John wasn't about to oblige me. “You're all set,” I mentioned, looking at his luggage. “I guess it's time for us to go to my place while I throw a few things into a bag."

John looked alarmed. “You're not going home!"

“Home is where the heart is. Didn't you say it was too dangerous for me to be alone, with Jan knowing my address? You were going to stay with me. Well, you're going to the Ritz. Whither thou goest...

“Oh jeez.” John looked thoroughly frustrated. “We can't check in together. If your mother ever found out..."

I had fully impressed on John when we first met that my mother was of the old school. First marriage; then sex. All right, so nothing happened last night! John is a few years older than I—about a decade older actually. He seems to feel he would be taking advantage of a minor if he did more than kiss me. I fully appreciate his strength of character and gallantry; it's a refreshing change, but that is not to say I could allow it to get in the way of our case.

“How could she find out? She's in Maine. That handsome, murderous lecher Bergma, on the other hand, is right in Montreal, with my phone number in his pocket.” I played my trump card and added, “Of course he won't be able to reach me if I'm not at my apartment. Maybe I better stay there."

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."