A Brush With Death (13 page)

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."

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.

“Don't feel bad. They're all deductible. Maybe the company will spring for them. If we crack this case, we'll
buy
you the coat."

“First marriage; then furs and sex."

I received some very envious looks from the saleswomen when John tipped his white Stetson and called me darlin', in his phony Texas drawl. I think he had a good time too. Christ-man would be an anticlimax after this afternoon. Winning a lottery would hardly outdo it...We're talking heaven here. We finally drove back to the hotel, and Menard toted our parcels up to our suite. Not only the back seat but the trunk too of the Caddie (unstretched) was full to overflowing, and Caddies have big trunks. Export A called before I had time to take things out of their packages and admire them some more.

“Your friends have just gone into the bar. Thought you might like to know,” he said. “We can't do their rooms now, but you might overhear something if you feel inclined to have a cocktail."

I hung up. “How would you like a drink, John?” I asked, and gave Export A's message.

I made a quick change into my new mauve cashmere sweater and white flannel slacks. John suggested some glittery jewelry. I explained sparkling jewels and slacks didn't hit it off, but we compromised on a little fake diamond pin in the shape of a treble clef pinned to my sweater.

Ms. Hejaz looked bored and beautiful and still slender in a bulky white Irish string sweater. Her jet hair was arranged in careful abandon around her face and shoulders. The only jewelry she wore was an emerald the size of a grape on her right hand. We got a seat as close as possible to them. The bar was crowded, and we sat at one of two tables vacant, so it didn't look suspicious. She wasn't drinking champagne with whipped cream. What she held was a glass of clear, colorless liquid. The sheikh was having a Scotch on the rocks.