Full Circle (9 page)

Justin Powers could profitably learn from Grace Campbell, because he had lost his way, somehow slipped his moorings. During eight of the past nine years, he had made himself indispensable. Powers had been, in fact, the perfect second-in-command, the ultimate functionary. He ran complicated, far-flung financial operations with precision and, yes, a certain imagination, a certain creativity. But like all bred-in-the-bone assistants, Powers had no appetite for risk.

All this DuBois could abide. Could, in fact, turn to his own advantage.

But Powers was a coward.

And cowards, DuBois had learned, couldn’t be trusted.

As he once more allowed his eyes to close, he realized that, in the next several minutes, he must make his decision. At age seventy-eight, doubtless with less than a year to live, he’d come to the last crossroads. Would he turn toward the battle? Or, for the first time—the last time—would he turn away?

The Mercedes was slowing. He opened his eyes. It was a traffic jam, doubtless an accident. Would Bernhardt wait? Unless he could be contacted by phone, a remote possibility, the question was unanswerable, therefore must be dismissed in the interest of efficiency. Dominion over other, lesser men, DuBois had learned, was essentially a question of who could think most effectively. And the secret of efficient thought was not to allow trivialities to intrude. While lesser men fretted as a hurricane approached, DuBois would sell insurance stocks short.

Now the car was inching forward, inexorably impacted in traffic until they reached the next freeway off-ramp. Once more, DuBois allowed his eyes to close.

Seventy-eight years…

In financial histories still unwritten, his name would figure prominently. But to what end? He’d gratified uncounted whims. He’d ruined a succession of adversaries, and rewarded a like number of allies. He’d demolished whole city blocks and built skyscrapers in the rubble. He’d once cornered the copper market, a coup that would never be equaled. He’d dined with heads of state, and turned down Cabinet posts. He’d married twice, both times because he wanted children—sons to carry on his name, daughters to cherish.

But there’d never been children. And the wives had taken the millions he’d given them and left the country.

In the next moment, his heart could falter. But there was no doctor with him, no nurse. No help could reach him in time.

Billionaire Dies in Freeway Traffic Jam.

At the thought, the right side of his mouth twisted in a grotesquerie of a smile. It was, after all, a news bulletin with a Los Angeles twist. In the whole world, there was nothing to equal the role of the freeway in the lives and the loves—and, yes, the deaths—of Angelenos.

Then, weeks later, perhaps months later, there would be another headline:

Stolen Masterpieces Discovered.

And under that a subhead:
Billionaire’s Secret Gallery Contained Priceless Art.

Alive or dead, his seventy-eight years were coming down to the last headlines. The jackals were beginning to circle, beginning to take his measure. Ned Frazer, the weakest link, had snapped. The DuBois case file, he’d been warned, was on the United States Attorney’s desk. Meaning that his options were narrowing. If he didn’t move his collection, he would be vulnerable. But, strapped to a wheelchair, he could hardly lift his right hand to push the chair’s control buttons, much less lift a painting. Meaning, therefore, that he must have help, someone he trusted.

But who?

Betty was in Europe, fearful that he would have her killed.

Powers? No. During the months since Nick Ames had died, Powers had been disintegrating, no more than a husk now.

Leaving, incredibly, only one possibility: Alan Bernhardt, the failed actor-cum-playwright who now supported himself as a private investigator.

Because, yes, Bernhardt was an honest man. Whatever his shortcomings, he was probably trustworthy. Meaning that he could be DuBois’s only hope.

He felt the car changing directions. Opening his eyes, he saw that they’d finally reached the off-ramp.

Soon he would know.

“F
IRST OF ALL,
Mr. Bernhardt, I hope to gain your trust. So if you’ll permit me, I’d like to address the matter of Nick Ames and Betty Giles. I’m going to be completely honest with you. Usually, especially in matters of business, it’s unwise to be completely honest. In fact, it’s usually stupid, at least in the opening game. However, I find myself in an unusual position. That’s to say, I find myself in a situation I can’t control.”

Bernhardt’s response was a slight, noncommittal smile. He was biding his time.

“The problem, basically,” DuBois was saying, “is time. Or, more precisely, infirmity. Without assistance, as you know, I can’t get out of this chair. Which means that I’m incapable of dealing with the problems that began when Nick Ames started blackmailing me, several months ago.”

“The problems began when you bought your first stolen painting,” Bernhardt said. His manner, his inflection, everything suggested that Bernhardt had come to collect his pound of flesh.

“If that’s your conclusion, Mr. Bernhardt, I can but agree.”

Grimly Bernhardt nodded. “Thank you.”

“I suppose,” DuBois said, “a writer of another era might have described me as a mighty stag at bay, surrounded by a slavering pack of wolves. It’s an image that used to stir my boyhood imagination: a huge, majestic stag, wild-eyed, rearing and bucking in the blood-flecked snow while the wolves, desperate for food because of the snow, are lunging at the stag.”

Bernhardt made no response. He was sitting on a marble bench beside a pedestrian path that led through a small grove of olive trees and up a slope to the Huntington Library. DuBois had positioned his chair on the grass beside the path. From where Bernhardt sat he could see two of DuBois’s bodyguards. Dressed in identical dark blue suits, white shirts, and regimental ties, they might have been IBM salesmen from an earlier era. Each man wore a shoulder holster so bulky that the amply cut suit jackets failed to conceal the bulges. Each man wore sunglasses. Each carried a walkie-talkie small enough to be concealed in the palm of his hand. Doubtless by prearrangement, one guard kept his gaze on Bernhardt while the other continually scanned the surrounding terrain. Since DuBois had arrived, fifteen minutes ago, perhaps a dozen sightseers had come down the path.

“In my case,” DuBois went on, “the wolf pack includes law enforcement, various members of the insurance industry, several politicians, and perhaps the underworld.”

“I know.”

“That implies that they’ve contacted you.”

Bernhardt made no response.

“I instructed Powers to give you five thousand dollars, plus expenses,” DuBois said. “You accepted it, I assume.”

“That’s why I’m here. Because I accepted it.”

“Have others offered you money in connection with my, ah, problems?”

Impassive, Bernhardt made no reply as he studied the small, frail man strapped in his high-tech wheelchair. Like his bodyguards, DuBois was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and tie. A blanket covered his shrunken legs. After they’d gotten him out of the Mercedes and into his wheelchair, one of the guards had put a small electrical device in his lap, then covered it with the blanket. If Bernhardt were wearing a wire, the device would blank out reception.

“Will you answer the question?” DuBois asked. Then, obviously with great effort, he added, “Please?”

“Money has been offered.” Bernhardt spoke cautiously.

“But you haven’t accepted.”

“Not yet.”

With an effort DuBois inclined his head as he said, “You might accept later, though. Is that correct?”

“No comment.”

Now DuBois spoke softly, from the depth of what was certainly a weariness that penetrated his very being: “My strength is usually limited, Mr. Bernhardt. After an hour or two, especially if there’s stress, I must rest. So, if you’ll allow me, I’m going to put my proposition to you as concisely as possible. Do you understand?”

Bernhardt realized that, in spite of himself, he was drawn into the web of DuBois’s confidences. Because he believed they
were
confidences: the gift of truth, offered by one of the most powerful men in the world. Never during his lifetime, Bernhardt realized, would the drama of this moment be surpassed.

“I’m aware,” DuBois began, “that the FBI has questioned you. I’m also aware that you’ve been approached by a man—a civilian—as you were leaving the Federal Building on Wednesday. I know this—” As Bernhardt moved as if to interrupt, DuBois slightly shook his head, a mute request for permission to continue without interruption. “I know this because I ordered Powers to contact Herbert Dancer, the man for whom you were working when this all began, about seven months ago. I contacted Dancer because I’d learned that the FBI might be about to question you, and I wanted to verify that possibility. They did question you, twice. Their purpose was to get to Betty Giles through you. They’ll charge her with receiving stolen goods, then offer to drop the charges if she testifies against me. As for the civilian who contacted you, and who you later visited at the Fairmont, I assume he—” Suddenly DuBois broke off. Startled, Bernhardt saw the frail head fall back against the wheelchair’s contoured cushions, saw DuBois’s eyes close, saw his right index finger touch buttons on the chair’s arm. Moments later the bodyguard who’d stayed with the car was coming fast down the walkway. Beside his employer now, the bodyguard, obviously the man in charge, took a medicine vial from his pocket and shook out two pills, one white, one red. Now he touched DuBois’s flaccid cheek. In response, DuBois’s eyelids fluttered, and the pale purple lips parted. The bodyguard put the two pills on the old man’s tongue while one of the two drivers arrived with a glass of water. Three spasmodic gulps, a cough, a momentary convulsion of the rattled cords of the throat, and the pills were swallowed. Moments later, DuBois’s eyes opened, then came into focus, fixed on Bernhardt. DuBois coughed again, then began speaking in a low, clogged voice:

“I don’t trust Dancer, and I’ve instructed Powers to terminate him. And, in fact, I no longer trust Powers. He’s greedy, and he’s lost his nerve. So—” His misshapen mouth stirred in the pale shadow of a smile. “So I’m left with you, Mr. Bernhardt. You and Betty Giles. I have no wife, I’ve had no children. There are no close relatives. There’s only you and Betty.” The gargoyle’s smile widened, revealing tightly clenched teeth. The teeth looked false.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it,” DuBois murmured, “that of all the hundreds who would leap to do my bidding, there’s no one I trust enough to save me. There’s only you, a stranger, someone I’ve only seen once, a few months ago.” He broke off as he seemed to nod over what he’d just said. Then, softly: “By my standards, Mr. Bernhardt, you’re nobody. I’ve had you checked out. You’re in your middle forties, and you’ve got a net worth of less than a hundred thousand dollars. But I think you’re an honest man. Therefore, I propose to make you rich. In return, you will save me from possible arrest and public disgrace.”

“How?”

“You’ll contact Betty, and tell her to come back. Then, together—with suitable security—the two of you will dispose of my art collection. There are fourteen paintings and three ceramic pieces. I want them all returned to their rightful owners, in most cases major museums.”

“You’re out of your mind. You tried to have Betty killed for what she knew. And now you expect me to tell her to come
back?
” As if he were baffled, Bernhardt shook his head. “It’ll never happen.”

“You’re not acquainted with the dynamics of the problem, Mr. Bernhardt. You see, during the previous two administrations in Washington, I enjoyed considerable influence. But in politics nothing is forever, and now there’s a new administration. The current administration, naturally, will do anything to punish people like me for our previous allegiance. That’s the background situation. Then come the players. Some months ago, a man named Ned Frazer was arrested in Mexico.” As he said it, DuBois saw the flicker of recognition in Bernhardt’s face. Yes, Bernhardt recognized the name. “To save himself, anything to get out of the Mexican jail, Frazer offered to testify for the authorities that he’d sold a stolen Renoir painting to Betty Giles, who worked for me. The deal was struck, and the gears began to turn. However, the United States Attorney was reluctant to ask for an indictment based solely on the unsupported word of a felon. The solution, of course, was to find Betty, and that’s what the FBI is desperately trying to do. If they can get a confession from her, they’ll certainly proceed against me. Meanwhile, they still had Ned. But then Ned was killed, in Manhattan. It happened just last month, and the authorities believe the killing was done by a professional. They—”

“A professional you hired,” Bernhardt interrupted. “You had Nick Ames killed when he threatened you. And you tried to have Betty killed. Why wouldn’t you have Frazer killed?”

DuBois answered calmly. “Because I would have to tell Powers to handle it, as he handled the Ames matter. But Powers is no longer reliable. He sees the possibility that he could be indicted for conspiracy to commit murder, and he’s terrified.”

“You had Ned Frazer killed,” Bernhardt repeated doggedly.

“No.”

“You
did
have Ames murdered, though. You admit that.” The statement came in a flat, uncompromising voice. Bernhardt would not be denied.

“Mr. Bernhardt …” DuBois considered, then drew a long, weary breath. “I told you I meant to tell you the truth. And the truth is that, for someone in my position, it’s sometimes necessary to have people killed. At the highest echelons, murder for gain is a lot more common than most people realize. Sometimes murder is the only possible resolution of a problem. When Nick Ames threatened me, I had no choice. He couldn’t be trusted with a secret that could ruin me, so he had to be killed. It’s as simple as that. But then Betty became distraught at the murder of her lover—the only lover she’d had in years, I suspect. She called, and threatened to betray me. Probably she wouldn’t have done it, but I couldn’t be sure. So I ordered her killed. Then, on reflection, I changed my mind. I simply couldn’t order Betty killed. But by that time it was too late to recall Dodge. And you know the rest.”