Full Circle (7 page)

“First, because the police lose interest. And second, because the art collectors get
more
interested. Don’t forget, fine art usually increases in value over time. But finally, of course, there’s a ransom demand. If he’s smart, the crook makes the demand on the insurance company, not on the original owner. That’s why it’s so important that I get the word out that I’m in the game.”

“Why wouldn’t the crooks contact the owner?”

“Because,” Graham answered, “if it’s a museum, the director always has to contact the police. If he didn’t, his board of directors would have his head on a platter. But, the police don’t have credibility. A lieutenant will make a deal in good faith, but then his captain will make another deal on his own. And so on, up the line.”

“So what about the Renoir and the Rembrandt?”

“In some ways,” Graham said, “it started out following the standard script. A highly disciplined gang of smart-as-hell, high-tech thieves, probably five of them, disabled the multiple electronic alarm systems and got into the museum through a common wall to the parking garage. It took three hours minimum, the experts said, to get through the wall. There were three guards. They were disarmed and gagged and bound with duct tape. Then each guard was taken to a different part of the museum and handcuffed to a water pipe. And then, surprise, two wires were attached to each guard. There was a hand grenade at the end of each wire. The grenades were placed at twelve o’clock and six o’clock, if you visualize the face of a clock, and were rigged so that, if a wire was pulled, the pin would come out of one of the grenades. It turned out that the grenades were dummies, but the guards didn’t know that.”

“Jesus …” Imagining the guards’ night of terror, and the toll it must have taken, Bernhardt shook his head. Then, reflectively: “Very ingenious.”

“Art thieves are very inventive, no question, though your average eighteen-year-old car booster from the ghetto probably has about as much imagination as a large mollusk.”

“So these guys got away clean, I gather.”

“Oh, yeah.” Graham finished the Scotch and water, fondly clinking the ice cubes in his empty glass. He glanced at Bernhardt’s wine glass, still half full. “They got away clean,” he repeated. “Which is all the more remarkable because both paintings were taken intact, still on the stretcher bars. Most paintings, sad to say, are cut out of their frames and rolled up. What’s more, the hole in the wall was just large enough to take the Renoir, which was the larger of the two. With exactly an inch clearance.” Graham shook his head appreciatively. “You’ve got to admire good workmanship.”

“So what happened next?”

“For the mandatory year,” Graham answered as he reluctantly set his empty glass aside, “absolutely nothing happened. No phone calls, no ransom notes, nothing. Of course, I kept one finger on the cobweb, bought a lot of four-star lunches, did a lot of theorizing. Inevitably I wondered whether the paintings had been stolen on order and went right into someone’s secret collection.”

“That actually happens?”

“It makes sense. Let’s say DuBois has an absolutely unquenchable passion for the Renoir and the Rembrandt. And let’s say he hires someone to steal them. Let’s say he pays a crook five million to do the job. He’d get merchandise worth maybe fifty million. That’s a pretty good deal, wouldn’t you say?”

“But he’d be guilty of receiving stolen property. And if he ever sold them, the penalty would be even worse. He’d go to jail.”

Graham shrugged. “Guys like DuBois, they don’t turn up in holding cells. Not unless they go soft in the head. Which, of course, happens.”

“What if he tried to sell the paintings? He’d put himself in jeopardy.”

“You’re assuming he’d sell them legally. To a museum, or a legitimate collector. Or you’re assuming he’d consign them to Sotheby’s. But he’d never do that.” Graham leaned forward, dropped his voice, brought his clear blue eyes into sharp focus beneath their spiky ginger eyebrows. “Don’t forget, Raymond DuBois is a member in good standing of the world’s most exclusive club.”

This, Bernhardt knew, was a test. He considered, then guessed: “Black market art collectors, you mean.”

Graham looked pained. “That’s not a very elegant way of putting it. Especially since two members of the club own their own castles.”

“How many members are in this club?”

“Four, now. DuBois and three others. The fifth member died several months ago. And DuBois, as you know, isn’t in the best of health.”

“And these men are known to have collections of stolen art?”

“They’re known to people like me. But they obviously aren’t known to the general public.”

“What about the police? Interpol?”

“Now,” Graham said, “you’re talking about blindman’s buff. Because if Interpol admits to knowing about the club, then politicians are going to ask the police to start making arrests. Except that other politicians—a
lot
of other politicians—are in hock to these guys. They are, in fact,
owned
by these guys. Therefore, arresting someone like Raymond DuBois gets very, very complicated.”

“So what about the Renoir and the Rembrandt?”

“I believe,” Graham said, “that they were held somewhere in the Middle East for the first year. At the end of that time the leader of the gang contacted Ned Frazer.”

Caught by surprise, Bernhardt blinked, dropped his eyes.

Ned Frazer…

Betty Giles had dealt with a man named Frazer, who brokered stolen art. Was it Ned Frazer? Yes, almost certainly.

“I can see,” Graham observed dryly, “that the name rings a bell.”

Struggling to keep his expression noncommittal, Bernhardt made no reply.

“Ned Frazer,” Graham said, “was the world’s smoothest, smartest, slipperiest dealer in illicit art. He grew up dirt poor in Ireland, but he was rich by the time he turned twenty-five. He was never seen wearing anything but Savile Row suits. Unless, of course, he was sunning himself on the Riviera, stretched out beside a beautiful woman. Ned had an absolutely unassailable reputation for complete integrity. A handshake from Ned was better than a bearer bond, and just as bankable. But we all have a fatal flaw, and Ned’s flaw was women. He simply couldn’t manage his women, and eventually it cost him. I won’t go into the sordid details, but he made the mistake of jilting an incredibly beautiful woman named Andrea Lange. She was born in Argentina. She was just as smart as Ned was—and not nearly so ethical. She set him up—stung him—and he got caught fencing a set of four Cellini gold goblets. That was eight, nine months ago. He was arrested in Mexico, where Andrea knew the ropes. He was arrested and, in effect, held for ransom, which is what Mexican justice is all about.” Graham shook his head sympathetically. “Poor Ned. He’d never been locked up, and the experience devastated him. There he was, wearing denims, eating slop, and brooding about the gorgeous women being screwed by others. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He got word to the FBI that if they’d spring him, he’d talk to them about some very, very big numbers involving some very, very big fish. A deal, in other words. The FBI jumped at it. But, as always, Ned had an angle, a way to stay ahead of the game. First, he told the state’s attorney, and later the FBI, that he would testify that he’d brokered the sale of two stolen art treasures that ultimately ended up in the secret collection of an enormously wealthy man—an American. He would, of course, identify the paintings. He would also identify the person with whom he’d done business. The cutout, in other words. But, predictably, there was a condition. Before he named names, Ned wanted to talk to me in an environment that I could guarantee was bug-free. After a lot of negotiating, it was agreed that Ned would be allowed to dress in newly purchased Savile Row clothes that were custom-made according to the measurements his tailor already had. Then, accompanied by four FBI agents, who kept their distance, he was taken to Manhattan, where he called me on a pay phone. I’d made reservations at the Four Seasons, and while we lunched the four FBI guys stayed out in the lobby, a fact that did wonders for Ned’s morale. Then we cabbed it to Central Park, where we found a bench. I had a pocket radio, of course, and we played Mozart while Ned gave me the deal. First he would name names, for the FBI. Then, when he was cut loose, he would tell me where to find a stolen Picasso sketch that we’d insured for ten million and which had been stolen two years previously. Of course, I knew about the Picasso. It was stolen on order for a Japanese real estate tycoon, but the tycoon died during the year’s cooling-off period that Ned always demanded. Then, for God’s sake, the thief got his throat slit when he was caught cheating in a game of cards. Result: only Ned knew where to find the Picasso. The standard deal is fifty percent, and that’s what we agreed on. With the proceeds, Ned said, he could retire, live on the interest.”

“And is that what happened?”

Morosely Graham shook his head. “Unhappily, no, that’s not what happened. As always, Ned kept to his word. He told the feds that Raymond DuBois was the collector, and he named Betty Giles as the cutout who gave him the money—ten million, he said—in exchange for the Renoir and the Rembrandt. And, for once, the feds kept their word. About a month ago, they turned Ned loose. He gave me a call as soon as he got settled, and we started working on the Picasso deal. But then, Jesus, he got killed, shot on the street in Manhattan. Almost certainly it was a professional job. Rumor has it that he was on his way to meet Andrea when he was killed.”

“So he didn’t know she’d set him up in Mexico.”

Graham shrugged. “We’ll never know.”

“When was Frazer killed?”

“Three weeks ago. In Manhattan.”

“What about Andrea?”

“She was questioned and released. The story was that when she arrived in Manhattan South for questioning, it was as if the whole squad room was rendered helpless. She even had her shih tzu with her, for God’s sake. Plus, of course, three lawyers. It was the grandest, sexiest entrance in squad room memory.”

“What about the Picasso?”

“I’m still working on it.”

“When did Frazer tell you about DuBois?”

“He never actually
told
me about DuBois. That wasn’t part of our deal. But he dropped a few hints. And, of course, the underworld has a fantastic intelligence network. A lot of people—art thieves and their minions—suspected that DuBois had a secret collection. They also suspected that he had the missing Renoir and the Rembrandt.”

“Do these people know Betty Giles? By name?”

“I don’t think so. Ned told me, but only to take out a little insurance, I think. He was contemplating retirement; that’s probably why he did it. Also, he didn’t trust the FBI to do the right thing.”

“So why’re you telling me all this?” Bernhardt asked.

“Have you ever done business with DuBois? Face to face?”

Bernhardt considered, then decided to nod. “Once.”

“When was that?”

“A few months ago.”

“Does he trust you?”

“I think so.”

“All right—good.” Once more, Graham dropped his voice, all business now. “What I want,” he said, “is to get in touch with DuBois, face to face. Of course—” He paused, for emphasis. “Of course, it’d be worth something to me if you could set it up.”

“Why do you want to see him?”

Graham countered with another question: “Do you think DuBois knows the feds are on his trail?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“If I can convince DuBois that the FBI is about to get a warrant to search his premises for contraband art, then he might take a few million to divest himself of whatever he’s got—including the Renoir and the Rembrandt.”

“Is that what you think will happen? Will the feds try for a warrant?”

“Not as matters stand now. I have sources in the state attorney’s office. And, in fact, I have a mole or two inside the FBI. And the word is that the state’s attorney won’t take action against someone as powerful as DuBois on the secondhand information from a deceased art fence. However, if the feds find Betty Giles …” He let it go meaningfully unfinished.

“Ah.” Looking away, Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I see.”

“Which is why,” Graham said, “I’m willing to offer you ten thousand dollars if you arrange matters so that I can meet with DuBois face to face, in a suitable environment. I’ll pay five thousand now, and five thousand once I’ve had the meeting, no matter how it turns out.”

“You’re kidding.”

Gently, Graham shook his head. “No, Mr. Bernhardt, I’m not kidding.”

“I
S HE KIDDING?”

“No,” Bernhardt answered, “I don’t think he’s kidding. Whatever else he’s doing, he’s not kidding.”

“He’ll pay ten thousand,” Paula said, “just to set up a meeting for him with DuBois?”

“The way Graham operates, ten thousand is pocket money.”

“Alan …” She put down her fork, reached across the table to touch his hand. “There’s something wrong. You’ve got to be careful.”

Lying on the floor beside the dining room table, reacting to the new note of concern in Paula’s voice, Crusher raised his head, frowned as he looked at her. Then, sighing, the Airedale lowered his head again to the floor, allowed his eyes to slowly close.

“This Ned Frazer,” she said. “How long has he been dead?”

“Not long. A month, maybe.” Bernhardt took a second helping of rice pilaf, and helped himself to the salad. Tonight they’d had swordfish steak broiled with lemon sauce on a hibachi.

“The way you tell it—this Graham, with all the money he throws around—it all sounds very civilized, very urbane. But the truth is, he deals in stolen art. And there’re two people dead. The FBI is threatening to throw you into bankruptcy. You’re taking money for services rendered to DuBois, who could be arrested at any time. Then someone named Graham suddenly appears, and offers you a lot of money to make a phone call.” Exasperated, she sharply shook her head. “My God, can’t you see the red flags flying?”

Once more Crusher raised his head, this time whining anxiously.

“Listen, Paula, all I’m doing is—”

“It’s the money. Isn’t it? All the money, it’s blinding you to the danger.”