A Brush with Death Read online

  “Diamonds are a man's worst enemy. Nobody but an idiot wastes money on real diamonds. They don't pay interest, and they don't keep pace with inflation."

  “We rented a Caddie limo too,” I said. That suited Victor right down to the ground.

  “Since I'll be arriving in style,” he decided, “why not call the press and create a little stir in the lobby? It might impress your Dragon Lady."

  He bobbed off and made a few calls. Publicity is a part of any performing artist's career, I suppose. With Victor, it was a mania. He was always good copy. A skirt-chasing, cigar-smoking, wine-drinking famous violinist with a temperament slightly wilder than Maria Callas's makes a lively story.

  Not only the newspapers but the TV cameras were outside the Ritz to greet him as we stepped forth from the limo. As if the whole thing had been arranged by a producer, Ayesha was just returning from one of her shopping binges. She stopped and stared at all the cameras. I noticed her adjust her silken ebony hair artfully over her shoulders and arrange a smile before she went into camera range. She soon singled out the cause of the small furor and examined Victor.

  When she spotted me, she came swanning forward. “The Great Mazzini?” she asked.

  “Yes. I can't imagine how the press found out he was coming. He must have told someone in Toronto before he left. He'll be annoyed."

  Her obsidian eyes strayed to John. I read the message glinting in them, beneath her lowered lashes. Her smile, when I introduced them, was shy but provocative. John, being very human, was not unmoved by the look. His mustache curved in pleasure.

  “So you're Sean Bradley,” she said, in that high-class accent. “I've heard so much about you, Sean."

  He gave his boyish smile, teeth slightly overlapping in front to add a guileless air, and said, “Not the truth, I hope."

  A low croon gurgled in her throat. “You lucky woman, Cathy,” she said, sparing a glance at me. Her blood red fingernails had strayed to John's arm, where they rested lightly.

  “The name's Cassie, actually,” I reminded her.

  Before sterner measures, like maybe a half nelson, were called for, she turned her attention to Victor. “Is Mazzini giving a concert?” she asked over her shoulder. “How I'd love to hear him play."

  “No, it's just a family visit,” I told her.

  “I caught him at Avery Fisher Hall last year—Mozart. The Violin Concerto, no. 3 in G, I believe it was—it caused goose bumps all over.” She squirmed her shoulders and batted her eyes at John. Even I could picture her lovely naked body, covered in nothing but gooseflesh. What had made me think she was shy? And how had she suddenly become an encyclopedia of music? She had implied earlier that Rashid forced her to go to concerts. She must have been picking his brains to impress Victor.

  We all squeezed into the lobby and the reporters began firing questions at Victor, while bulbs popped and cameras whirred. Victor was in his element: a world-class hotel, an exotic beauty drooling all over him, and mega-press to record it all for posterity. He was in no hurry to leave, and neither was Ayesha. No introduction was made, but she said before leaving, “What time is your little party, Cassie?"

  “Six-thirty. We've hired a parlor here in the hotel. Will the sheikh be coming?"

  “We're both looking forward to it."

  She blew a kiss at the party in general and strode away, her wolf coat swaying behind her like an emperor's robe.

  John got Victor's key from the desk, and we went upstairs to wait for him. I spent the time arranging details for the party. It was nothing elaborate, just the few friends and colleagues Victor could scrape up in a hurry. When Victor came upstairs, he began making the necessary calls to the guests, and John and I went to our rooms to hide any evidence of mutual visits. Export A soon came and peeked his head in.

  “What's shaking, folks?” he asked.

  “You tell us,” John said. “Is the sheikh in?"

  “Not ‘less he came down the chimney. He hasn't been through the lobby. I hear you folks are having a party."

  “I wonder where Ayesha went this afternoon,” I said, looking a question at him.

  “I don't know where else she was, but since you're interested, I took a look at the bag she was carrying. It said the Museum of Fine Arts. They have a little shop there—sell books, reproductions of paintings and artworks. Stuff like that. Nothing very valuable."

  I gave John a meaningful look.

  “It was a real small bag,” Export A added. “Maybe one of their arty calendars. Gotta go now, folks.” He left.

  “Or maybe she was carrying a letter,” I suggested.

  John's eyes narrowed and his mustache bristled with eagerness. “We'd better have her followed in future as well. Not that she'd be up to anything herself. She looks kind of—vulnerable, doesn't she?” His approval of the woman had the curious effect of making me suspect her of heinous crimes. “Rashid could be using her to carry messages though. He and Bergma certainly aren't communicating in person or by phone. If Gino can't come up with another man, I'll have Menard tail her. In a pinch, I can always drive the limo myself. I wouldn't mind getting behind that wheel."

  “You harbor a death wish, do you?"

  “Gino's supposed to phone at five. I'll ask him if his man at the museum saw Ayesha speaking to Bergma."

  Instead of phoning, Gino decided to call in person. His nose was red and his eyes were watering. “Christ, I wish I'd get transferred to Victoria, B.C.,” he said, swatting at his body with his arms. “Try to get a cab in this town. My dad needed his car. I've been busting my bunions standing on street corners waiting for a bus while the polar wind blows through me. If God had meant for me to walk, he would have given me longer legs. And if He'd meant for us to live in the arctic, he'd have given us pelts. You got a drink, Weiss? My veins are frozen solid."

  “Can't you get an RCMP car?” I asked.

  “They're already ticked off that I was parachuted in on them. They're being about as helpful as a cellophane hankie. All they have available, they tell me, is marked cars."

  “Hire a car,” John suggested.

  “It isn't worth the paperwork.” He took the proffered glass of Scotch and belted it down straight. When his veins had defrosted, he said, “The sheikh's lady turned up at the museum, this afternoon."

  “So I hear,” John said. “Did she speak to anyone interesting?"

  “Not Bergma. He was taking some bunch of blue-haired ladies through the Art Nouveau show. She hung around a while, not paying any special attention to him. I don't think they exchanged a single glance. Then she went up to the coffee shop, had a coffee—alone—went to the little art store, and bought a pen."

  “Did she use it?” John asked swiftly.

  “If she did, she used it in the can. That was her only stop before she left. Bergma's secretary was in there at the same time.''

  “Hot Buns!” I exclaimed, adrenaline pumping. “Who went in first, Ayesha or Hot Buns?"

  Gino wrinkled his brow. “Hot Buns. Ayesha could have followed her and passed along a message from Rashid."

  John dealt a blow of frustration to his own knee and said, “Damn! Now we'll never know what was in it."

  I felt a eureka feeling coming over me. “We're fools! They could have been corresponding by letter all along. Is their mail searched, Gino?"

  “No, we figured at Christmas, the mail's so slow they wouldn't resort to letters."

  “There's always messenger service,” John pointed out. His face was red, which meant he was cursing himself for this oversight. “Cassie, would you mind calling Export A and see if Rashid has used any messenger service since he's been here, and if so, which one?"

  I made the call immediately. Export A said he'd look into it and get back to me, which he did, with astonishing promptitude. “Loomis, nine times!” is all he said.

  Gino bounced up from his chair as if he was on a spring and darted downstairs, presumably to dash off to Loomis Messenger Service and flash his badge to get addresses
.

  I arranged myself comfortably on John's bed and said, “Bergma or Hot Buns might have been using a messenger service too, John."

  “We can't very well demand their records without blowing the whole thing. There must be dozens of messenger services in Montreal. It'll take days to check it out. They've put one over on us. While we've sat on their tails and monitored phones, they've been corresponding by messenger. They could even have sent the paintings on ahead somewhere by messenger or mail. They sure as hell haven't turned up in any of the places they should have."

  “They could even have sent them on to the sheikh's villa on the Riviera."

  John grabbed the phone and placed a call to a real estate agent in Cannes. He spoke in reasonably good French for about five minutes, sometimes just waiting impatiently for a minute or so, and then hung up. “Just checking to see that Rashid does have a villa on the Riviera,” he explained. “I know a real estate agent there, Henri Villiers. He says Rashid does own a little place, a three-bedroom cottage he visits about a week a year. It doesn't seem a likely spot to hold a famous collection of paintings. He doesn't have a housekeeper. The place is empty fifty-one weeks a year. No renovations were done when he bought it from a schoolteacher. Rashid's been feeding Ayesha a line, Cassie. Now isn't that interesting."

  “Or maybe she was feeding me one. And she did it after spilling coffee, all over my new slacks and looking at the slides, the bitch. She knows all about Rashid's business."

  “That's possible,” John admitted reluctantly, pulling at his mustache to hide his shame at being temporarily blinded by her beauty. “Either the Mounties or I will definitely have to spring for another tail. She's been running loose all the time. Rashid must have had her dump the paintings somewhere."

  “I followed her part of the time. She certainly didn't mail anything then. I wonder what they'd use. Either the post office or a messenger. Ayesha didn't mention going skiing before they left Canada, but they have skis. She said they're going to London. I wonder if the pictures have been shipped to whatever ski chalet they plan to visit."

  “That'd be why she claimed London as the next stop. Maybe Victor could get something out of them."

  “Did I tell you Rashid bought her a Rolls for Christmas?"

  “Three times."

  “I'm not hinting. I just wondered if she'd actually got it yet. I haven't seen her drive it."

  “Maybe it's just ordered, or maybe it's being prepped."

  “That wouldn't prevent her from stashing a few pictures in the trunk, would it?"

  He lifted the phonebook. “There wouldn't be more than one Rolls dealer in town."

  “This looks like another job for super-Gino."

  “I'll lend him the limo. Poor blighter, he'll freeze his tail trying to hail a cab in weather like this."

  When Gino returned, he said, “Rashid made plenty of use of messengers all right, all for business stuff. Lawyers and real estate people. Nothing to Bergma or the museum."

  “Maybe he used his own private messenger—Ayesha,” John said. “She'd do it if he told her to. She's scared stiff of him.” He discussed with Gino what we'd been talking about.

  Gino shook his head. “I'm dipping pretty heavy into the Mounties’ personnel pool already. They won't go for lending me another man."

  “Ever driven a Caddie limo?” John asked.

  Gino looked at the ceiling and smiled. “Only in my dreams."

  “You can tell Menard he has a new job, tailing Ayesha, and you take the Caddie down to the Rolls dealer. See if Rashid bought the woman a Rolls, and if he did, check it out, especially the trunk."

  “Caddies, Rolls, jeez, this sounds like fairyland. You got it made in the shade, Weiss. Wouldn't I love to get my hands on a Rolls-Royce and the women that drive them. That Ayesha, what a dish. Did you ever notice the way she tosses her head, with all that black hair flying around? And the fingernails—an inch long I swear. Never a chip out of them. Makeup all in place, shiny as a new Rolls herself."

  “But the upholstery's more like a Caddie,” John grinned.

  “You said it. In another ten years, she'll be all ass. I like well-upholstered women."'

  He tossed a disparaging eye over my meager frame, reached for the Scotch bottle, and poured himself a shot. “I guess you don't want me hanging around for the violinist's party, eh? Not classy enough for you guys."

  “Why not?” John asked. I knew he was feeling sorry for Gino. “But keep a low profile, huh?"

  Gino looked from his toes up along the short length of his body and said, “Do I have any choice? Don't be afraid that I'll disgrace you. I'll make sure I spit into the spittoon. I wouldn't want to get the ladies’ legs wet.” Every day, in every way, he became grosser and grosser. “I'm getting myself a new blazer for Christmas. Crest, brass buttons, the works."

  Awful visions of Gino in a fifty-five dollar blazer, gleaming with brass, flashed through my head. For some reason, I saw him in a captain's hat, which was ridiculous. He probably would wear brown shoes though, and polyester trousers.

  “If my profile becomes too high and anybody actually notices me, you can say I'm a poor relation,” he said, and left.

  “Speaking of relations,” I said, “I'd better give Victor a call. And remember, John, this door is kept severely locked till he leaves."

  “Just so I get to keep the key;” he grinned.

  About ten minutes later, I escaped reluctantly from his arms and went to get ready for the cocktail party and to call Victor.

  CHAPTER 14

  I am not really so empty-headed that I crave nothing but glamour in my life. Family is important, love, learning, doing good deeds upon occasion. I have a social conscience. I have been known to write letters to newspapers and congressmen and congresswomen. I sign those petitions with whose aims I agree, and have even stood on street corners, pen and paper in hand, soliciting signatures. Which is not to say I don't love glamour. I do. For me, it is the icing on the cake, and tonight's cake promised to hold lavish icing indeed.

  I would be in my element and would dress for the part. I opted for the white cocktail dress, a nifty little crepe spaghetti strap number that hugged the body tight all over, only relenting with a burst of ruffle at the bottom, to allow a stride longer than six inches. It would have looked better with a tan, but tans are no longer compulsory, since the surge in skin cancer. With three or four ounces of good imitation jewelry clinging to my neck and wrists, I was ready to take on the international world of crime.

  Victor always looks super, especially when he's out for a night on the town. I didn't mind a bit that he'd gone whole hog and wore a black formal suit with ruffled shirtfront. We could always say he was dining out later. And John—gorgeous in his formal suit too. He'd come a long way from Plains, Nebraska. Even Gino looked decent. Heff would have been proud of him. The blazer wasn't made-to-measure, but it must have undergone extensive alterations. The cuffs weren't too long, the hem didn't ride below his tailbone, and the crest wasn't that gaudy. Best of all, he'd bought new gray flannels and black shoes. I didn't know they made men's oxfords in such a small size. You could see his yellow sox only when he sat down.

  He tossed his coat on the bed and did a pirouette for us. “Does it meet with your approval, Ms. Newman?” he asked. His proud little face assumed a positive, indeed an enthusiastic response.

  I gave him thumbs up. “Aces, Parelli. Santa Claus did you proud."

  “Santa my ass. This rig set me back a hundred and fifty bucks. Can you imagine, a hundred and fifty bucks for a jacket? If Ma knew, she'd have me committed."

  “Then we won't tell her. Gentlemen, shall we go down?” To enter a lobby surrounded by a phalanx of gentlemen, two-thirds of whom look downright distinguished, is an experience never to be forgotten. For about two minutes, I felt the way Liz Taylor must feel all the time. Envied, gaped at, and knowing I looked great. The hormones and adrenaline and other beneficial chemicals rushing through my veins gave me a natural high.
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br />   Black-coated waiters bowed and said, “This way, Ms. Newman,” and cast darting smiles at Victor. Export A stood in the background, greeting me with a big wink and an OK sign. In the center of the small parlor a bar had been set up. There wasn't much else in the room except some chairs along the walls, but it was a classy room with big gilt-framed paintings and a Persian carpet.

  Victor was in his element, behaving like a Parisian boulevardier, kissing ladies’ hands and smiling with silken insincerity at their husbands. I got to be the hostess, greeting guests and shaking hands and saying in my most polite accents, “So glad you could come on such short notice.” As I didn't actually know the celebrities whose hands I was pumping so warmly, Victor made me acquainted. Symphony conductors, other musicians, several reporters, a glamorous lady or two who turned out to be from CRC, and their escorts, one of whom I recognized from TV.

  I felt I had strolled right into an evening soap opera. When at last the sheikh and Ayesha arrived, a breathless hush fell over the party. The sheikh hadn't dressed for the occasion, but Ayesha had decided to set off her oriental charms in some glowing drapery akin to a sari, and looked fantastic. She was in white too, which showed me how much better the tan actually set it off than my wanly tinted skin. She was dripping in emeralds and had her hair pulled back. I hadn't realized before that her neck was so long and swanlike. The flowing robes hid her one flaw, the wide stern.

  She introduced Sheikh Rashid to us. He gave a slightly bored look that was perhaps meant as a smile and bowed his head in a regal way. I felt he was present under duress and would make a hasty exit. There I was mistaken. He liked Victor's work; Victor liked his money and woman. With these natural attractions going for them, they got along like a house on fire. He got Victor aside and for half an hour I heard crumbs of conversation featuring such technical details as “Nothing like a Stradivarius for tone,” “left-hand technique,” “bow speed and pressure,” and “the magical enamel has never been matched,” “speed patterns,” “Oh yes, the Carpani Strad, from Italy."