Full Circle (24 page)

Robbins nodded somberly. “I understand.”

“Good.” The pale ghost of a smile touched DuBois’s lips. “With that in mind, then, having graven Mr. Bernhardt’s face on your consciousness, you are now free to join your foursome.”

Robbins’s answering smile was prim. Plainly he disdained any irony directed at him. He rose, said his goodbyes, and left them.

“I’d like to ask a question,” Bernhardt said.

With a nod, DuBois granted permission.

“What does ‘broad outline’ mean?”

DuBois smiled benignly as he said, “It means that Albert knows enough to be of help in a crisis—but no more.”

“Does Mr. Robbins know about the gallery?”

“No. No one knows but you.”

“I’m flattered, Mr. DuBois. And curious, too. Why do you think you can trust me? I’d like to know.”

“After you saved Betty Giles from certain death it appeared for a time that Justin Powers might be accused of hiring the man who killed Nick Ames and tried to kill Betty. In that event, I thought it prudent to have you checked out. You seemed to me a remarkable man, an intriguing man—and probably an honest man. My face-to-face evaluation seemed to confirm the impression I got from the background check. I don’t think you’re greedy, Mr. Bernhardt. And the absence of greed is the single most important prerequisite of honesty. Don’t you agree?”

Bernhardt made no reply, and after a moment DuBois said, “In my desk in the study, you’ll find paper in the left-hand drawer and pens on top of the desk. If you’ll get them, I’ll dictate the descriptions Mr. Graham requires.”

Bernhardt went into the study, found pen and paper. After a moment’s deliberation he selected an outsize book on Etruscan art to write on. Fifteen minutes later, on two sheets of paper, the descriptions of the paintings and ceramics were complete. Clearly the effort required to dictate the descriptions had tired DuBois. Bernhardt returned the book to its place on the shelf, then returned to the deck. Sitting on the other man’s right, with DuBois’s un-numbed face in profile, Bernhardt ventured, “Graham also wanted pictures of the paintings. Polaroids.”

“No. No pictures.”

“I’d like to know why not. I told Graham I’d provide pictures.”

“There will be no pictures. When you make the exchange, you will offer to uncrate one painting that Graham may select at random. That’s all.”

“But, my God, the others could be fakes.”

“Think of Russian roulette, Mr. Bernhardt.” The other man considered, then said, “Two paintings, chosen at random by Mr. Graham. No more.”

Reluctantly Bernhardt agreed to the compromise. Whereupon, matter-of-factly, DuBois said, “When I die, my will provides for disposition of all my works of art, including those in the concealed gallery. My net worth is almost five billion dollars, as you know if you read the newspapers. Most of that goes to establish two art museums, one in California, one in New York, where I was born. I fully intend that they will be the best museums in America, if not the world. Mr. Robbins will be my executor. He’s very capable. And if something happens to him, his law firm will provide oversight for the museum.”

“Mr. Robbins strikes me as very dependable. Very honest.”

“Mr. Robbins has a very handsome income, with or without the money I pay him. Aside from a first-class collection of classic cars, including a 1954 Ferrari Testarossa and a 1927 Bugatti, his only vice is golf.”

“Powers, though …” Bernhardt let it go elliptically unfinished.

“We’ve already discussed Powers. In the capacity for which he was intended, he served admirably. True, he’s a coward. But in my experience, cowards don’t often steal from those who’re in a position to ruin them.” He paused, then added, “In fairness, Powers’s failure of the spirit was my fault. I never should have involved him in, ah, the matter of Nick Ames. He just wasn’t up to the job. I should’ve made other arrangements, difficult though that would have been.” DuBois allowed his eyes to close as he spoke with a note of finality: “Anything else, Mr. Bernhardt?”

“Well, yes, there’s the question of money—of John Graham’s people, and their demands.”

“Ah—Graham. Yes. He has, I assume, made additional demands beyond those we’ve already conceded.”

“It’s not a demand, exactly. He says, though, that he’s absolutely certain his company won’t pay more than ten million for the whole collection. He says twenty-five is out of the question.”

“From which I infer that he knows about the grand jury.”

“I think he does, yes.”

“Well…” DuBois touched a button on the arm of his mechanical chair, which buzzed as it slowly rotated in a half circle to face the study. “Do the best you can, Mr. Bernhardt. Keep in mind, though, that your share will be ten percent of whatever I get.” With a soft mechanical whirring, the chair moved across the deck and through the sliding glass doors leading to the study.

P
ARKED IN HER CAR
on Benedict Canyon Drive, she smiled as she switched off the radio receiver and removed the lightweight headset, then finger-fluffed her hair.

Never before had she experienced this particular sensation, this feeling of elation, of separation, this utter triumph, this ultimate possession of power.

A fortune, literally a king’s ransom, soon to be neatly packed in fourteen crates. Current owner, Raymond DuBois. Future owner, Andrea Lange.

To excel, her grandfather had often said, that was the one true gift life offered. The triumph of supremacy, of looking down on the hordes of others. Now, for the first time, she could sense what her grandfather must have felt, standing on the reviewing stand just behind the Fuehrer.

O
NCE MORE, SLOWLY, GRAHAM
read the list of paintings. Each with a cup of coffee before him, Graham and Bernhardt were sitting across from each other at a glass-topped patio table beside the pool of the Beverly Hilton. Across the poolside lanai, C. B. Tate and Paula toyed with tall drinks as they stole covert glances at John Graham.

“Can I keep this?” Graham asked.

Bernhardt shook his head, extending his hand for the two sheets of paper. “Sorry.”

“Ah.” Graham nodded approval. “Right. Nothing in your own handwriting. Very prudent.” As he spoke, he took a sheet of paper from his own pocket, raised his head to accommodate his bifocals, and studied the paper, periodically comparing Bernhardt’s list with a sheet of paper he drew from an inside pocket.

“What’s that?” Bernhardt asked. “A list of stolen paintings?”

Still reading, Graham nodded. Finally he refolded his paper and returned it to the pocket of his natural linen jacket. When he met Bernhardt’s gaze fully, his expression was thoughtful, speculative. He said nothing.

“And?” Bernhardt asked. It was an impatient question. With half the Sunday gone, he had yet to rent a house and a van.

With seeming nonchalance, Graham shrugged. “As far as I can see, our two lists correspond. Every painting on your list has been stolen within the last ten years, and none of them have surfaced. Of course, as the poet says, what’s in a name? I’d much rather see Polaroids before I talk to my people.”

“Suppose they were forgeries? From pictures, how could you know?”

“That’s true,” Graham admitted.

“Earlier today,” Bernhardt said, “I talked to Mr. DuBois. I told him you probably won’t offer more than ten million for the whole lot.”

“I said I didn’t think my
people
would go any higher.”

Waving the distinction aside, Bernhardt said, “Let’s assume that all the paintings are authentic. At a guess, according to your list”—he pointed to Graham’s jacket pocket—“how much would you say the paintings would bring at Sotheby’s? A hundred million? Two hundred? More?”

“The answer, probably, is ‘more.’ However—” Graham smiled, a subtle, quizzical smile. “However, this is distressed merchandise.”

Expecting the gambit, Bernhardt was able to keep his expression bland, revealing nothing.

“I’m referring, of course,” Graham said, “to the government’s case against DuBois for receiving stolen property. Then there’s the state of California, which is looking to collect property taxes. Not to mention the fun
Sixty Minutes
would have at DuBois’s expense.”

“That’s not my concern. I’m selling art for Mr. DuBois. Period. And if we take two hundred million as fair market value, then ten million is only five percent of the total. That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Graham’s expression hardened—then turned ironic. “When we first talked, it was pretty obvious that you were awed by the numbers those paintings represent. Now you’re pooh-poohing a mere ten million dollars.”

“I’m a quick study, John. Didn’t you know?”

“What you are,” Graham answered, “is a middleman. And a middleman has a thankless job. You’d save yourself a lot of trouble if you got DuBois and me together tomorrow, let us do the bargaining.”

“I’d save
you
a lot of trouble. But you aren’t the one who’s paying me.”

“Indirectly, though, I
am
paying you.”

Bernhardt shook his head. “Wrong. Your company’s paying. Which makes you a middleman, too.”

Once more Graham’s smile crooked affably. “We’re wasting time. I’ll call New York at six tomorrow morning, California time. By noon, I should know something. Shall I call you at the Prado?”

“I’m going to find a more secure location. I’ll call you. Noon.”

“Fine.”

“What about security? You said your people will wire money to your bank, with an authorization that’d let you turn it into cash. You certainly don’t plan to walk around with that much money without protection.”

“I’m working on it.” Graham pushed back his chair. “Don’t worry. You tell me where to be, and I’ll have the money there on Tuesday. Assuming, that is, that my people authorize ten million.”

Bernhardt rose, waited for the other man to rise. Then he smiled, extended his hand. “Twenty million. Not a quarter less.”

“Let’s see what my people say.”

“I’m surprised you can’t talk to someone you work with on weekends. Don’t you have home numbers, for something as big as this?”

“Actually,” Graham said, “I’ve got calls in to two of the three people that’ll have to approve this. But they haven’t called back. The third one—the big boss—is actually in the air as we speak. He’s been in Rome for three days.”

“What if this were a billion-dollar loss? A natural disaster?”

“Natural disasters get on the TV news, and everyone drops their golf clubs or their mistresses, whatever, and flocks to the office. This deal, the last thing we need is publicity.” Graham smiled, flipped his hand. “I’ll talk to you at noon tomorrow.” He turned away, walked across the pool-side patio and into the cabana that led to the hotel’s main lobby. Head-high indoor plantings flanked the entrance to the cabana. Graham stepped behind the screen of plants and looked back at the poolside scene. Bernhardt had left the table, doubtless gone to collect his car. And, yes, the big black man wearing the Ralph Lauren polo shirt and the small, attractive brunette, certainly C. B. Tate and Paula Brett, were preparing to leave. Graham smiled to himself. Amateurs were so predictable, so careless, essentially so trusting. He turned away, entered the lobby, and crossed to the bank of telephones next to the check room. He deposited a quarter in the first phone in the row, and waited through the required four ring bursts before Powers came on the line.

“Can you talk?”

“To a degree,” Powers answered.

“I think it’ll take twenty.”

“But you said ten, maybe fifteen. Now you say twenty.”

In the words Graham could hear the other man’s petulance and, therefore, his fear. Clearly Justin Powers had come to the end of his inner resources.

“Originally they said twenty-five, remember.”

“I know. But—”

“Tomorrow afternoon, that’s the cutoff. You understand.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Yes.”

“Tuesday, that’s when it all comes together. So by Monday, we’ve got to be ready. Completely ready.”

“Yes.”

“Twenty.”

There was no response.

S
TANDING IN FRONT OF
the meticulously clean fireplace, Tate nodded approval as he surveyed the spacious living room. “Very nice, considering it’s basically a tract house. What’s the rent?”

“Twelve hundred a month.” Bernhardt picked up the telephone and put it to his ear. Nothing. He flipped a nearby light switch. Yes, there was electricity.

“So,” Tate said, “twelve hundred plus deposit. Does that come out of your front money?”

“I already told you, C.B. No. All I do is send the receipt to Powers. Quit worrying.”

“You already said this Powers is a flake. So it figures that—”

“He’s not a flake. He’s a—a lightweight.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Come on.” Bernhardt hefted his suitcase in one hand and Paula’s in the other. “Let’s put our stuff away and—”

“The stove works,” Paula called from the ranch-style kitchen. “The gas is on. And the water, too.”

In the hallway leading back to the bedrooms, Bernhardt pushed open a bathroom door. Two sets of mismatched washcloths and towels were hung neatly on chromium racks. The ad had read “Lightly Furnished.”

“I’m going to stow our suitcases,” Bernhardt called back. “Then let’s get something to eat. It’s almost six, and there’s still lots to do.”

“I’ll take this one.” Tate pushed open the door to one of the three bedrooms. “Leave you guys with the master bedroom.” He raised the case containing the guns. “Let’s take these with us. I don’t want to leave them here.”

“Right.” Bernhardt went down the hallway to the master bedroom. There were linens on the bed, and the room smelled fresh and clean. He put their suitcases on the floor beside one of two bureaus, and went to the sliding glass door that opened on a small private patio surrounded on three sides by a head-high cinder-block wall. The patio was furnished with a low white plastic table and two matching chairs. The chairs, Bernhardt saw, were identical to the two chairs on DuBois’s deck.

In the hallway, both Paula and Tate were going toward the living room, Tate carrying the gun case. Bernhardt quickened his pace, came up behind Paula, patted her bottom. She gave him a quick, bright, over-the-shoulder smile. How would she feel, Bernhardt wondered, making love tonight with Tate sleeping just down the hallway?