A Brush With Death (14 page)

They hardly spoke at all. I read in something of Balzac's that “In a couple, there is always one who suffers and the other who is bored.” I don't like to disagree with a genius, but it looked to me as if they were both bored to tears, though not otherwise suffering. When Rashid finally broke the silence, we were presented with a new problem. We hadn't counted on their speaking Arabic, which they were. At least I assume it was Arabic. It wasn't any language either John or I recognized.

John gave a defeated look. “They understand English,” I said,
sotto voce.
“Maybe if we talk about something they're interested in, like oil or tarot, they'll start talking to us. They certainly look bored to finders with each other."

I looked at John and said, “I wish I could arrange a reading. I'm really worried about your merger, John. We should have a tarot session before you decide."

John squirmed uncomfortably, perhaps not wanting the sheikh to think he put any faith in such things. “The hotel might be able to put you on to someone,” he said.

“I don't want just anyone. There are so many phonies around. That woman in New York—I'm sure she didn't know what she was doing. She dealt the cards from the right."

“Really?"

“And she didn't concentrate while she was shuffling and preparing the spread. She gabbed all the time, and just flung the cards on the table, without spacing them. Her aura was very poor. I don't trust her. Besides, she said you aren't good for me,” I said, gazing dreamily at him and holding his hand. I felt Ayesha's black head turn in my direction. She didn't say anything, but I had caught her interest. Or John had. That was always a horrendous possibility. He was ten times as handsome as Sheikh Rashid.

“I think I better call Texas,” John said, and lifted his hand for a phone.

He kept the button pushed down and pretended to make a call. He did a bit of loud talking about the price per barrel and capping his wells if that's all he was offered. The sheikh didn't move a muscle. He looked perfectly impassive, like a Buddha. He ordered another Scotch, and Ayesha settled for a Perrier, which seemed a strange restraint for a lady who takes whipped cream in her champagne. The waiter looked very impressed with his tip.

They left soon after. Pretty as Ayesha was, I noticed she was rather broader in the beam than I had thought, or than was desirable in a mistress. The woman had no self-control. Her spending showed that. The desk clerk met the sheikh at the door and gave him a message. Ayesha looked back at us, and on an impulse, came to our table.

She smiled rather shyly and spoke with a trace of an English accent, which surprised me. “I couldn't help overhearing you just now,” she said. “If you're looking for a good tarot reader, I can give you a lady's phone number. Madame Feydeau. I have her card here somewhere."

She drew out the card. I thanked her effusively and wrote the number down. Madame Feydeau was of very limited use to me. I wanted to cement a bond with Ayesha and said, “It's so fascinating, isn't it? I'm studying the art myself. My last teacher felt I had the gift."

“Really? That's wonderful."

Then she looked nervously toward the sheikh and darted off before we could introduce ourselves. He was glaring, as he had glared at Bergma at the museum. But I had made contact. I could speak to Ayesha next time, Export A alerted me she was in the coffee shop or bar. In fact, I could even “lose” Madame Feydeau's phone number.

John, the incurable romantic, had noticed Rashid's glare and come up with a novel idea. “I begin to wonder if Ayesha is traveling with him by choice, or compulsion,” he said.

“A lady in distress for you to rescue?” I asked. “She did seem a little nervous, but if he's a tyrant, he's a generous one. I bet she spends ten thousand a day. I see why he hires a stretch limo. John!” A new idea had assaulted me, and I sort of shrieked his name.

“Sean,” he reminded me in a low voice.

“The limo! He could have the pictures in the trunk!"

“By God, you're right!"

We dashed straight up to our rooms and John left a message for Menard to call him. While we waited, he said, “Rashid didn't use the little brass knife himself, and I doubt if he'd send his hit man in such a noticeable car, but the trunk would make a damned good hiding place."

“Yes, and I've just had another brainwave."

“I should take you out drinking more often."

“What I'm thinking is, you hired Menard to play chauffeur. Who's to say Rashid doesn't travel with a hired assassin, a general man of all dirty work? Can Menard find out who his driver is?"

John was excited at the possibility. “Gino could do it easier.” He started making phone calls. For the next half hour he played telephone Ping-Pong with Menard and Gino. When Gino called back, the conversation seemed to dull John's interest. “Oh, hired the chauffeur here, huh? It's still possible he brought a henchman along with him. Can you get on to customs and find out? There's got to be a third man. Yeah, we'll be here till dinnertime I guess."

He hung up. “The chauffeur was hired locally. You don't trust a stranger in dirty business like this. It seems kind of funny Rashid doesn't have a real secretary along, now that I think of it. The kind of business he's transacting, he should have a whole phalanx of lawyers and accountants."

“He took a batch to look at the apartment building with him."

“All local, Of course he'd need lawyers who know the Canadian laws for buying in Canada."

“He's probably not interested in that building at all. It's just an excuse to come to Montreal and steal the pictures,” I suggested.

“It's a damned awkward way of doing business. If stealing the pictures was to cut out Bergma, as well as Latour, why not handle Bergma after he makes the exchange at the museum in Amsterdam? When a case gets too complicated, I always wonder if I'm not on the wrong track. This one's got more twists than the Paris subway."

“Could Bergma have convinced Rashid that the forgeries are the originals?” I ventured.

“They weren't even aged yet. Some of Van Gogh's paintings are quite badly faded. The ones we saw looked brand new. The paint on the last one was still a bit soft. No, what makes good, simple sense is that Bergma meant to age them and substitute them when he returns to Amsterdam."

We thought and talked a little more. “Maybe it's time to rattle Bergma's cage a little,” John said. “I could call him and make some threatening mention of the slides and notes I took from his house. That might nudge him into calling his partner at least, and we'd find out who the third man is."

“Or woman,” I added, thinking of Hot Buns.

Menard had no success with getting into the trunk of the Lincoln limo, and John told him to forget it. He'd have Gino handle it. He called Gino and arranged it. Export A called at five and told us the sheikh and Ms. Hejaz were going to a Christmas performance of the
Nutcracker Suite
at the Place des Arts. “Should be out of their rooms for several hours,” he added meaningfully. “Will it be convenient for me to call on you folks at eight-thirty?"

“That'll be just fine, Export.” I smiled, hung up, and told John.

“Good. Gino should call before then. If the paintings are in the trunk of the limo, we won't have to bother your friend. What do you figure 1 should pay him for this?"

“I think we're talking a C note here, John."

He gave a weird look. “What have you been reading?"

“I don't read. I'm a scholar. I watch the late shows on TV."

“When you're not out dating other men."

Gino called back before our discussion degenerated into an argument. The pictures weren't in the trunk of the limo, so the search was on.

Curious to see how Ayesha dressed for an evening at the ballet, I went down to the lobby at eight-fifteen on the pretext of buying a newspaper. The wolf coat hid most of what she had on, but diamonds glittered at her ears and throat, and a bit of something red and chiffony showed when she walked. She looked right through me, as if she'd never seen me before. I may not possess one of the world's fabulous faces, but was I that forgettable? She didn't look happy or as if she was looking forward to her glamorous evening at all. I began to wonder if John was right, and the sheikh was holding her in some diamond and velvet prison. Was she afraid to speak to me?

It's easy to despise a woman like Ayesha, who is living high off the hog without working. In my deepest heart, I did despise her, yet if that was the life she had freely chosen, why was she so—unexcited with her success? I can't use the word unhappy. She didn't look unhappy. She didn't look anything, except bored. Or maybe just a tinge frightened?

I had no conception of how a woman became what she was. I didn't even know her nationality. Perhaps she was one of those pitiable third-world girls, sold into white slavery while still a veritable child. You read of horror stories like that from time to time. Maybe she didn't realize there was a different kind of life open to her. I determined that I'd get through to Ayesha, and I was beginning to realize that it would have to be done when the sheikh was busy elsewhere. He usually had business meetings in the morning. Tomorrow morning I'd phone her, and try to ingratiate myself. She must be lonesome. Surely she'd welcome the chance to make a friend. Her superficially glamorous life must be a kind of hell really, with only that taciturn, sullen sheikh for company. And who knew what freakish sexual practices he inflicted on her?

I bought a copy of the
Gazette
and went back upstairs. Export A came to the door a little later, while John and I were looking through the paper. I could tell Export A's nerves were jangling. He kept wiping his palms on his trouser legs, and moistening his lips.

“We'll go down on the elevator together and see if the coast is clear,” he said. “The suite next door is empty, so it's just the rooms across the hall we have to worry about."

The hall was empty. We scuttled along and Export A let us in. The rooms were even fancier than ours, and quite a bit larger. The dull gleam of well-polished mahogany and glint of brass set the tone. Underfoot, Persian carpets had faded to dignified middle age.

“She keeps the parcels in there,” Export A said, tossing his head toward the adjoining door.

“You check her boxes and bags, Cass,” John said. “I'm going to have a quick look through his briefcase."

We were all on edge, as though we were robbing a bank or something. I didn't know just how influential the sheikh was, but a powerful man like that could probably make it very hot for us if we were caught. A quick glance showed us the living arrangements were the same as John's and mine: a bedroom for Ayesha, a sitting room that the sheikh appeared to be using for an office, and his bedroom next to it. Export A kept his eye glued to the peephole while John and I rifled.

The first surprise was that there wasn't a single bag or box in her bedroom, or anywhere else. She had already packed her purchases then, and the servants had taken away the wrappings. I was looking for luggage, I figured, and found mountains of it in the closet. A matched set of Vuitton that looked brand new but had plenty of airport tags on the handles. That must have cost the sheikh several thousands. I took the bags to the bed, one by one, and soon learned there were no canvases in them. What there was was enough clothes to last a whole family a lifetime. Everything—fancy hand stitched silk lingerie, sweaters, blouses, slacks, suits, gowns, bikinis, scarves, gloves. There was another fur coat hanging in the closet. The sable had a Paris label.

I took a quick look under the bed, on closet shelves, and in the desk and dresser drawers. No pix, just a copy of the
National Enquirer
and a bunch of movie magazines, which was rather pathetic. In the top dresser drawer there was a not so little velvet traveling case full of assorted bijoux that should have been in the hotel safe.

I went into the next room and called to John in a loud whisper, “She's clean. How are you doing?"

I saw he was examining passports, and went to have a look at them. “They're the most peripatetic pair since what's his name went around the world in eighty days. Look at this—Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Turkey, all across Europe and the States."

They, or at least Ayesha, reminded me more of that bird that could never land, because it had no feet. Huma, was it? Something small and vulnerable.

John's finger pointed to one stamp. Netherlands, it said. They'd been there thirteen months ago, both of them. I was a little surprised they'd been together that long.

“Just the right time for them to have met with Bergma and arranged the deal,” he said. “He left Amsterdam a year ago. It looks like more than a coincidence they were there just before Bergma left, and arrived here in Montreal just before he goes home. The logical thing would be for Rashid to meet him in Amsterdam. Why did he come here, if not to grab the pictures?"

“It looks suspicious all right,” I admitted.

John glanced at a pile of papers on the desk. “He really is buying the office tower,” he said. “For sixty-five million cash. You have to wonder why a guy that rich would diddle Bergma out of his pay."

“Maybe that's how Rashid got so rich."

“No, it's oil money. Bergma can't be charging him anything near what those paintings would bring on the open market. I'd be surprised if he's getting more than a couple of million for the lot. That'd be chicken feed for Rashid. It just doesn't add up."

Export A called softly over his shoulder, “You guys nearly done? I can't stay here all night. I have duties downstairs."

“All done,” John said, and we slipped out the door.

There was no one else in the elevator. I mentioned all the movie magazines. “I think she's another airhead, like Denise,” I said.

Export A laughed. “Ms. Hejaz is an actress, or was, in the kind of movie where the women don't wear any clothes, if you know what I mean."

“How do you know that?” I demanded.

“One of the guys recognized her. Tommie's into erotica. He rents all the blue movies. That's why Ms. Hejaz is always asking if any movie stars have checked in. She wants to get into legit movies. She is one real celebrity hunter. We get twenty bucks if we call her when any movie stars are checking in.