The Fifth House of the Heart (3 page)

The same nurse emerged from her place of concealment beneath the bed. She was holding a sawed-off shotgun. She was a tiny figure compared to the enormous Russian now pressed up against the wall. He was clutching at his groin, and from there a vast crimson stain was spreading. He raised his bloody hands and bent them into claws, snarling at the nurse. She cocked and fired the weapon all in one convulsive gesture. The Russian's face imploded, his nose and jaws gone, blown into the back of his head.

But he didn't die. He threw himself at the small woman instead. She fired the gun again and a dark red peacock's tail leapt out of the Russian's back, all over the walls and ceiling. Then the Russian collided with her and both figures fell on the bed, bearing down suddenly on Nilu's legs. The intravenous bottle toppled and shattered on the floor. The pain was such that Nilu thought her head was tearing free of its foundations; she wanted to die.

The combatants rolled off the end of the bed, and Nilu was slipping toward the floor. She gripped the sheets and hung at an angle, as afraid as if she might fall ten miles, not two feet.

Shoes clattered in the hallway. People were coming. There was another bang, another flash. The Russian rose to his feet and roared, a gurgling cry of rage and pain made shapeless because he had no features, no lips to make the sounds, only a single rolling eye beneath his tattered forehead. The woman had shot him point-blank in his face a second time. He swung his head, drunk with wounds, first at the door, where fists hammered on the other side of the panel, then around to look with his single red eye at the window.

The nurse was on her feet, now injured herself, swiping a hand at the braid of blood that spilled from her nose. She got her back against the wall and shoved herself along it, away from the Russian. She pulled a second weapon from its concealment behind the green curtain, a long-handled bludgeon with a spiked hammerhead. The Russian saw this thing and lurched for the window.

The nurse charged with a hiss of rage and swung the weapon. Nilu could not see it strike the Russian from her skewed, upside-down angle. He hulked on the edge of her vision as a blur of struggling darkness. But she heard the brutal spike go into his back, and she heard his bubbling scream of agony. The window shattered. The Russian ripped the entire sash out of its frame and flung it into the room, tearing the curtain down. Traffic noise clamored in again, and exhaust fumes.

Andronov was gone through the window. The nurse leaned out to see down into the street below. One of her feet rose into view as she flipped it up for a counterbalance: she was shod in military canvas boots with toothy rubber soles. Not proper footwear for hospital personnel. Then she was looking down into Nilu's face, a finger to her blood-jellied lips.

Silence
, the gesture said. But Nilu understood what was really meant:
Say nothing
. Nilu saw that the woman was North Asian, Chinese perhaps, or Japanese. She had lost the small, stiff nurse's cap. Her black hair was cut short.

Moments later, the nurse crossed to the door and opened it, and doctors and orderlies rushed in. Questions were flung around, arms waved. A tremendous cacophony of voices filled the hot, blood-­stinking air. Several pairs of hands found Nilu at once and worked to stabilize her on the bed; through the gaps in the crowd she saw the nurse, bloody faced, against the wall, shaking her head as a doctor demanded to know what had happened. Then the crowd shifted, there was confusion, and when Nilu could see again, the doctor's attention was elsewhere. The nurse had gone.

2

New York City

Sax paid Wesson's Auctioneers a visit, then Sotheby's, Craine Bros., Swann Galleries, Christie's, and a couple of others. It took him the entire day. He could have telephoned or sent e-mails, but his business was entirely based on personal relationships, upon which he sometimes put considerable strain. So he never missed an opportunity to appear in person, accepting a drop of tea or a splash of spirits, depending on the venue.

The awful days when all the young, overgroomed assistants would ply him with bottled water were thankfully past now. Besides the cellular telephone and saddle shoes, Sax thought there was no more unpleasant accessory than water in a plastic bottle. Especially the bottles with pop-up nipples on the end. Ridiculous, a nation of adults suckling at polyethylene tits. What with the economy and the discovery that bottled water was identical to tap water, this indignity had fallen out of vogue, and he could get proper beverages again.

Sax's final visit of the day was to Woodbride, Barron Auctioneers, who specialized in European and Japanese collections. He was ush
ered in by an obsequious young fellow named Stoate dressed in horsey tweeds, a spotted ascot, and saddle shoes. One of those creatures that affected homosexuality to advance his career but would be frightened out of his wits at the touch of a real mustache. Tragic, Sax thought, but at least it would keep him out of the gene pool for a while.

He followed Stoate down the dim corridor that ran along the upper floor of the Woodbride, Barron warehouse, past rows of dark, glass-fronted offices with Victorian racing prints on the walls. Business was terrible these days. Twenty years before, every one of these offices would have been occupied by valuation specialists, schedulers, insurance experts, and all the rest; now most functions were handled in the front office, into which Stoate ushered Sax.

The place used to smell of cigars and leather. Now it stank of copy machine toner. The water cooler glugged dismally and the shaded ceiling lamps gave off a hospital light. None of the employees looked up to note who had arrived. It was as subdued as a library. Sax hated to see the business in this condition, but the whole antiques trade had suffered. Sax himself had taken to stockpiling entire estates he'd bought for the price of haulage with a single bid, knowing that someday, when times were richer, he could portion it out a piece at a time for obscene profit. Probably to the Indians or the Chinese, whoever gentrified first.

His old friend and sometime rival Jules Amies emerged from a corner office with his hand extended. Jules, a distant relative of the famous British haberdasher Sir Hardy Amies, was a tall, thin man, gray of face, suit, tie, and hair, with heavy black plastic spectacles that appeared to be bolted onto his nose. His one element of plumage was a brilliant scarlet pocket square. Jules had dozens of the things in every imaginable color and pattern. His usual loud greeting was this time muted, affected as he was by the somber atmosphere. Still, Jules shook Sax's hand and clapped him on the arm as they retreated into his office.

Sax took the green leather guest's chair. Jules sat in his incongruous new Herman Miller chair, one of those modern contrivances that appeared to be made of baling wire and showgirl's stockings. Stoate brought them bottled water, then departed with a bow. Jules opened the bottom drawer of the desk and produced a pair of pony glasses and a liter of Cragganmore whiskey.

“Sax,” said Jules.

“What's left of him,” Sax agreed.

“Ratio? Business to pleasure?”

“Half each, dear. It's my pleasure to come see you—call it an excuse—but there is a matter of some interest I wish to discuss.”

“Who have you already talked to?”

“Don't be vulgar,” Sax said. “You're always top of the list.” And then, “Everyone. They think I'm mad.”

“You
are
mad,” Jules said, without humor.

“Still, I do have fun. Listen, Jules. I've come up against a buyer. European, I think. Works through proxies. Bids outrageous sums for things. Been active the last few months here in New York.”

“Does this have to do with that clock of yours?” Jules was interested. His drink hung in the air halfway between desktop and lips.

“That bloody ormolu? Yes. Talk of the town, I know. Cheers.”

“Twenty thousand, I heard.”

“Twenty thousand two hundred. Salt the wound, Jules, salt the wound. I have my reasons, as you know.”

“Everyone has his reasons.”

“Not often. But
I
do. Here's what I want to know: Who wanted the thing so much? And don't tell me it's that dreadful acquisitions person from Daimler or the Barclay's woman. It's nobody I know, you know? But it's someone who knows what I know, if you know what I mean. A player.”

“Someone inside your own network?”

“Someone that shares the same network,” Sax said. “But unknown to me.”

“Or someone familiar to you who has decided to remain anonymous, of course,” Jules said.

Sax shook his head. There was a hand-colored steel engraving of a long sausage-shaped horse running across the wall behind Jules's head; the jockey was as small as a monkey, and the horse's legs were stretched out fore and aft as if it was diving into the sea.

Sax said, “Most of the people in the, ah, network or circle I'm talking about are either dead, retired, or enjoy the notoriety. Anonymous just isn't their style. And I should think after about a million years in the business, I could detect the fingerprints of someone known to me. One comes to recognize their appetites. This person, this
nemo incognito
, has entirely new and eccentric tastes, in my experience. I have here a list of purchases attributable to this party—and it's eclectic, to say the least.”

Jules swirled the fluid in his glass.

“I don't know,” he said.

“You don't know who it is? Or you can't tell me?”

“It's a favor.”

“Yes yes yes,” Sax said, impatiently frothing the air with his hand.

“I didn't tell you,” Jules added.

“I was never here,” Sax said, in jest. But Jules, it seemed, wanted to hear the words. His shoulders relaxed and he tossed back his drink, exhaled, then leaned across his desk conspiratorially.

“A woman,” Jules said.

“That narrows it down,” Sax replied. The last thing he needed was a slow reveal.

“Her proxy bidders are always attractive young women, right? There's a blonde, and a gorgeous brunette with legs like a Queen Anne console.”

“Spoon foot or ball-and-claw?”

“Don't joke with me, Saxon. I'm telling you what I know.”

“You haven't told me her name.”

“I don't know it. It's just shop talk. We've seen the weird buying pattern, too. It was the blonde that bid against you for the clock. Twenty grand for that thing—nothing personal, but Jesus Christ. We think there's also a redhead working for the mystery woman, which has a certain symmetry to it. London side of things, sometimes Italy. I know a guy at Brunelli Casa d'Aste—he picked up on the same pattern. Incredibly high prices for good stuff, but not great stuff. Real random kinds of things: sometimes art, sometimes furnishings, glass, ceramics. No common theme. We figured there must be some provenance we don't know about, right? Like that fake Holbein that went for two thousand pounds a while back, and turned out to be a real Holbein worth millions.”

“Don't remind me.” Sax had been at that auction, looking for porcelain, and had failed to spy the masterpiece, a portrait of the Dutch scholar Erasmus. He studied Jules's face and decided he should give something up, see if it yielded further information.

“If you
must
know, I had some information about the clock,” Sax confessed. “It has a bit of history that wasn't in the catalog, if one knows where to look for it. But it's not worth an extra six thousand, of course. I kept bidding because I must know who this mystery buyer is. I was hoping she'd make me a better offer out in the hallway, or try a gazump, to be frank. I didn't want to pay the money. But now I'm stuck with the thing, and I'm determined to find out who my rival is.”

Gazumping was a practice that originated in real estate auctions—the fine art of making a better offer to the seller after a deal had ostensibly closed. Sax knew it was too much to hope. He could then have initiated a lawsuit and found out who his opponent was. He didn't
think the unknown bidder often found herself on the losing end. It was disappointing that she gave up so readily.

“You may be the first person to outbid her,” Jules said, startling Sax. They had been following identical trains of thought. “She might yet approach you.”

“One hopes as much, certainly,” Sax said. “So: The buyer is a woman, and her familiars are known. A Neapolitan selection of ice queens—vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. So far, so good. I have admitted to you that the clock, at least, had some value beyond its book price; in my researches today I've identified a few other pieces that probably went to the same party. Also at outrageous prices.”

“The girls write checks against different accounts,” Jules said. “Always from LLCs or holding companies. The checks are always good. No personal paper. Dead end there. But I can tell you a couple other things. The companies are in Europe, for one. French, English, and Swiss. And the stuff we know about, all the stuff she's bought, has one thing in common. Every single piece disappeared during World War Two, then showed up again in the nineteen sixties. So there's this gap. That's everything I know.” Jules leaned halfway across his desk. “Anything else you find out, let
me
know. Because she sure as hell got the attention of us hammers.”

S
ax turned his steps toward the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. The shadows were deepening; the sun had already sunk to the bottom of Forty-Second Street. There was only an hour until closing time. He moved reverently between Patience and Fortitude, the stone lions sculptured by Edward Clark Potter, and passed beneath the familiar portico into the building. He knew the library well and referred to it as his “personal Internet”; in fact, a vast quantity of written matter had not yet—and would never be—transcribed into digital
form. With thirty million volumes in the New York City library system, plus another hundred million documents, he could find things recorded there that mere digerati could not hope to discover. It was all in knowing how to refine the search, and to do so swiftly. Besides, he loved the spicy smell of old books.

Sax could have called the library's telephone reference system, but he didn't trust intermediaries. Better to find the thing oneself. There was instinct in it. The right information might not be the thing he sought, but the thing next to it on a page. It was almost a matter of echolocation, like bat flight.

He made his way through the recently renovated stacks, first pulling certain volumes of general reference. Consulting these, he jotted down the names of some histories and biographies. Those books yielded further subjects for discovery.

After fifty minutes of diligent exploration that left him perspiring and weak, he had what he needed. It was dreadful being so old, Sax thought. Everything was tiring. Even enthusiasm. He could scarcely carry the few books he checked out for closer study. What had happened to the strong young man who carried walnut armoires on his back down stair and street? Even his bones lacked the spring they once had. A fossil, that's what he was. A fossil engaged in archaeology. Queen of the Stone Age. Ridiculous.

The taxi back to his roost overlooking Gramercy Park cost ten dollars, including the peak-time surcharge and tip (Sax was generous with tips, to be fair). The distance covered was precisely one and one-third miles. It required two left turns and two rights to make the trip. Sax didn't know how people of ordinary means survived in the city. Everybody walked or took the bus, certainly, even Sax, but
everything
was that expensive. His sparrow's luncheons cost fifty dollars, even without wine. He couldn't get a shirt laundered for less than two dollars, and he possessed dozens of shirts. In 1973, when he bought his apartment—or,
to be precise, the building in which his apartment was located, although the other tenants didn't know the old bird in 301 was also their landlord—it was because owning was cheaper than renting. Now the place was worth an astronomical sum, despite its narrowness and unimproved character. Even with vacancies in every commercial building in town, people still had to live somewhere. Sax told his friends the only reason he kept his key to the residents-only Gramercy Park was so that he could grow potatoes when he ran out of money. Not that he would ever run out of money. He just didn't like it running.

Sax ate dinner in, something he usually avoided, and alone, which was worse. But he needed to finish his project. His meal was a simple one: tinned
foie gras aux truffes
from Harrods, spread thickly on crisp, dry toast. A few lambs' ears of endive with herbed salt, balsamic vinegar, and pumpkin-seed oil. Champagne to clear the palate, an '88 Veuve Clicquot. Lean, with a substantial structure. Hint of spice in there, dried fruit, flowers; some toast in the nose, then off to an assured finish with smoke and mineral, amongst other things.
Toast in the nose
, Sax thought, sieving a mouthful through his teeth. The more rarefied a thing became, the more absurd. The language of wine, for one thing. Himself, for another.

He swept the crumbs out of the books and filled pages of a calfskin diary with notes. Details of alliances and betrayals during World War II. Which distinguished continental families suffered, and which didn't. Who was in sympathy with Axis or Allies, and what they did about it. Fortunes that vanished and reappeared, or vanished entirely. The movement of wealth. The allegiances of title and privilege with brute power. Something Jules Amies said had gnawed its way into Sax's calculations—that everything the mystery bidder sought to buy had disappeared around the time of the war, then came back into circulation. Of all the random bits of information Sax had gleaned, that was the most important.