A Brush with Death Read online

  “It's true Menard can't prove he wasn't there, but I was hoping he could prove he was. He can't. Gino says the alibi checks out. Menard got a Polaroid shot of Bergma for Gino to flash at the hotel. They all swore he was there. It'd take time to get his car out of the hotel garage, get up to Côte des Neiges, kill Latour, and get back. His absence for that long would have been noticed. We're on the wrong track. Have to go back to square one."

  It was hard to give up this excellent suspect. He had the perfect motive. “Aristotle tells us a likely impossibility is preferable to an unconvincing possibility,” I said.

  “I guess that must have been before they invented logic."

  “Who else could it have been? Bergma must have a cohort."

  “That's one possibility. ‘Evils draw men together.’ Aristotle said that too. A big help to mystery writers, Aristotle. If we find the forgeries in Bergma's house tonight, we can still pin him down. But if we don't...” He shrugged.

  “If we don't, we start searching the museum."

  “We find out who his helper is first. And if that turns up a blank, then we have to find the third man. The son-of-a-bitch, the buyer."

  “The buyer was supposed to be getting the originals. He wasn't after the phonies,” I pointed out.

  “Maybe he didn't trust Bergma—or Latour. If he got his own hands on the forgeries ... Well, it'd give him the upper hand. Bergma's still my first choice. It just isn't going to be as easy to pin it on him as I hoped."

  “We've got to watch Bergma like a hawk. The Art Nouveau show opens tonight, John. Don't you think we should be there?"

  “I plan to pick up the tickets when we're at the museum this afternoon. Would you like something with that coffee? I know your sweet tooth."

  “Let's save that for the museum. They have nice desserts, and we're meeting Gino there."

  We just had the coffee, and I used the quiet period to bring up Christmas again, before John could raise a less pleasant subject, like Chuck Evans. “We have to make plans for Christmas, John. Mom's dying to meet you. Would you be interested in coming home with me? We should make reservations. The airlines are really crowded at this time of the year."

  “We could always drive. It's not that far. I'd like to go with you, but I can't walk away if this case is still up in the air, Cassie."

  “I'm not going if it isn't solved!"

  But I knew Mom would hit the roof if I didn't show up. Mom's a very matriarchal Italian. Our family is close. I really wanted to go anyway. I never spent Christmas any place but home. Maine would be lovely at this time of year, with glittering snow piled in mountains. Quite a bit like Montreal, really. The protective rise of Mount Royal watching over the city at the north always reminded me of Maine.

  “Then I think maybe we'd better get shopping for a Christmas tree,” he suggested.

  “You really think the case will last that long?"

  “It's a possibility, but if you'd rather spend the holiday with your family..."

  “I want to spend it with you and the family, in that order. If you stay, I stay. I'll call Mom tonight and let her know I might not be home."

  “We can go for New Year's,” he suggested as a sop.

  “It's still five days away. We'll solve the case. Let's go."

  CHAPTER 6

  With white-knuckled hands clenched to the wheel, John snaked through the oncoming traffic at considerable risk to life and limb, and we soon found ourselves in front of the towering gray Museum of Fine Arts. A display case in front of the building advertised the Art Nouveau Grand Opening, at twenty-five bucks a head. One of the posters would help to liven up my apartment. It was a reproduction of an Erté design of a lady in a long red gown with sleeves like wings, spread out around her.

  “I doubt if it'll be sold out at these prices,” John grouched.

  “It's a money-raiser for the museum—for a good cause."

  “I better get a ticket for Gino too."

  “He'll be along, will he?” I asked, trying to control my spleen.

  “If we want to get out of here by Christmas, he better be.” We went into the cavernous building, where a few antique bowls and statuettes on pedestals, backed by a tapestry, advertised the institution's wares and lured the clients onward. The east wing, where the Art Nouveau show was to be held, was closed, but we were free to wander around the rest of the exhibits. I had been there often, and John didn't appear particularly interested in old tapestries, porcelain, and old art.

  “Any idea where the administrative offices are?” he asked, while ostensibly admiring a hanging Gobelin.

  “No. I'll ask at the desk."

  I once again used the ploy of working for the McGill student newspaper as an excuse to request an interview with one of the curators. “Ms. James is busy,” the clerk said, “but you might try Mr. Bergma."

  She directed me upstairs and around the corner. I tossed my head and John came trotting after me. “What, exactly, are we going to say or do?” I enquired.

  “We're not going to say anything. We're going to loiter, and listen."

  “You can't loiter around the administration area without an excuse, John."

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “That depends on whether the secretaries are friendly."

  “And pretty,” I hmph'd. Chatting up pretty women is one of John's favorite ways of finding out secrets. This was to he discouraged at all costs. “I could ask Bergma for an interview for the university newspaper,” I suggested.

  “That'll make a good excuse to get a look at him. We won't be together. Do you want to go first?"

  I certainly wanted to he on hand when he hit on the secretary, and said, “Yes."

  “I'll give you five; then join you. Remember, we don't know each other."

  To display my acting ability, I looked right through him and said, “Excuse me, were you speaking to me, Sir?” I went on alone to the administration offices.

  One look at the secretary guarding the executive door and I nearly swallowed my tongue. I recognized her at the first glance. Her hair was not arranged in seaweed strands as it had been for Latour's Pre-Raphaelite painting, but the face was remarkably similar. The nameplate on her desk said Ms. Painchaud, which literally translates to “hot bread.” How had a dainty morsel like this ended up with such a name? She looked more like a tart or, to he fair, a petit four. She was one of those dainty women, all pale skin and dark eyes, with hands about the size of a doll's. She must have been getting a preview of the Art Nouveau exhibit. Today she was done up like an Erté painting in a black dress with bat-wing sleeves, and her hair was twisted up like a jelly roll on the back of her head.

  If she was Bergma's accomplice, as seemed probable, she certainly didn't look like a killer.

  “May I help you?” she asked, in a dainty voice that matched her appearance. She had a delightfully seductive French accent. If a murderess had to be so attractive, she should have a voice like an unoiled hinge at least.

  The phone rang. She excused herself and took the call. Mr. Bergma was busy, would the party like to call back?

  When I had her attention again, I said, “I'd like to know if it's possible to have a few minutes of Mr. Bergma's time.” I smiled insincerely, and gave my excuse.

  She shook her head. “I'm afraid that's impossible. You've come at a bad time."

  My nose quivered in excitement. “He's out, is he?"

  “No, but he's very busy this morning, completely booked up, I'm afraid. He doesn't want to be disturbed. Perhaps Ms. James...” The phone rang again. She took the call and talked for two minutes with some dress shop about picking up a dress.

  When it was settled that she would have the dress picked up by a taxi and pay for it tomorrow, she excused herself and looked at me. “Ms. James suggested I see Mr. Bergma,” I lied glibly. That might make him more available.

  “It's the opening tomorrow night,” she explained. “There are so many last-minute details to attend to. Mr. Bergma's handling it."

 
The little box on her desk buzzed and an accented voice said, “Will you bring in the caterers’ file, Denise?"

  I duly noticed that she was on a first-name basis with her boss. Denise tripped to the filing cabinet on spiky heels and trim nyloned legs, shapely little tush wagging, and took in the file. One glance at her and I felt like an ugly, uncouth Amazon. Before she came out, John arrived. “What's up?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Bergma is hors de combat, but wait till you see his secretary."

  “I'll try my hand with...” He looked at the nameplate on the desk. “Ms. Painchaud. What does she look like?"

  “Like the redhead Latour had a painting of."

  His eyebrows lifted an inch in surprise. I could almost hear the gears grinding inside his head. “The plot thickens,” he said. “I figured Bergma's accomplice would be a man."

  “Trust me, she's a woman. We got the sex wrong. And her name's wrong too. It should be hot buns."

  I hated the anticipatory grin that split his lips. “I'll wait downstairs,” I said.

  “Try the coffee shop. Gino should be there by now. With luck, me and Hot Buns will be along soon."

  “Hot Buns and I,” I said curtly, and strode away.

  In the coffee shop Gino sat with his elbows on the table, ripping into a prune Danish. “Hi, Cassie,” he said, with his mouth full. “Where's the boyfriend?"

  “Hello, Gino. He'll be along shortly. He's hitting on Bergma's secretary at the moment."

  His beady brown eyes lit with interest. “Do I smell trouble in loveland?” he asked, and laughed. “Is this serious with you and John? Are you two shacking up, or what?"

  “We're engaged."

  He looked at the naked third finger on my left hand. “I notice you haven't got a diamond out of him. If it doesn't pan out, give me a call.” He flashed a wicked wink at me. “I'm not dumb enough to go out with a friend's fiancée. No bang for the buck there, but if you two split, and you find yourself overcome with an irresistible urge..."

  “The only urge I feel is to wipe your nose in that prune Danish."

  “Ha ha.” He waggled his lecherous head. “I like a sense of humor. I once dated a chick called Pruin. Annabelle Pruin. With friends like that, I don't need enemas I used to tell her."

  “You old smoothie, you."

  “Ladies appreciate a sense of humor. It topped looks in the survey about what ladies look for in a man."

  “What survey was that?"

  "Playboy. I buy it for..."

  “I know, the editorials."

  “Are you nuts? I buy it for the centerfolds. Which is not to say I don't read the articles too. I read a lot."

  In a thoroughly cranky mood, I said, “Really? What do you think of the dialectical materialism controversy, Gino?"

  “I'm against it. There's too damned much materialism in society. Buy, buy, buy.” He took another bite of his Danish and said, “So do you want one of these or not?"

  “No thanks."

  “I hate ‘em, but they keep me regular. What's John up to with the secretary?'

  “Trying to find out whatever he can."

  “He won't get anywhere with that tight-assed little redhead. I already tried."

  “I can't imagine why you didn't succeed."

  He threw up his hairy little hands. “Women! Go figger. It's probably my size."

  “She's short too,” I said unthinkingly.

  “Short? I'm not short! I'm small, like Napoleon. Us Parellis are all compact."

  I told him that Hot Buns was the same lady Latour had a painting of in his apartment. We discussed that for about ten minutes, and then John led Hot Buns into the coffee shop. She smiled at me and Gino. John looked as though he'd never seen us in his life before, and seated her at the table across from us. I thought he'd take her to the farthest corner so I wouldn't hear him hitting on her. I felt hot acid burning me inside.

  “Oh I love Paris,” Hot Buns was gushing. Of course being French, she called it Paree, and batted her eyes so hard she nearly knocked off a few layers of mascara. I assumed John was boasting about his intercontinental life-style to incite her interest.

  “I hope your boss—Mr. Bergma is it?—won't mind my taking you away from your desk,” he said, in a good, carrying voice.

  “Not when you have a Gobelin tapestry you might be interested in donating!” she smiled. “And you think it's from the fifteenth century?"

  “That's what the Doerner Institute tells me."

  What possible explanation could he have fabricated to have given himself a priceless tapestry that he was willing to give away? The mind boggled at his ingenuity for mendacity.

  “I'd really like to discuss it with Bergma. But you said he would probably be leaving in a quarter of an hour, I think?"

  Gino nudged my elbow. “That's our clue. Menard's skulking around the old dishes downstairs. We'll warn him to follow Bergma."

  I rose and went out with Gino, though I was longing to remain and listen to John's performance. We made a stop at the administrative offices, as they were on the way. As Hot Buns wasn't there, we decided to let on we were waiting for her, to give us an excuse to tarry around Bergma's office for a few minutes. Gino thought whoever he was meeting might call for him. I jumped a foot when the phone on her desk rang.

  “He'll have to answer it himself. I wonder how this thing works,” Gino said, looking at the assortment of buttons on Ms. Painchaud's phone.

  It had stopped ringing. “He'll hear you if you lift it now,” I cautioned.

  “He'll think his secretary came back,” Gino said, and found the right button.

  I heard the same voice that had asked Hot Buns for coffee, so I knew who was speaking. “No!” Bergma said in a low, urgent tone. “Don't come here. We can't be seen together. They're gone, I tell you. Whoever killed him took them. Somebody's on to us. Don't come, and don't call again. I'll be in touch with you.” Then he slammed down the receiver.

  “The paintings!” I whispered.

  “Shit,” Gino scowled. “We didn't get to hear the other voice.” He hung up the phone.

  There was a sound of movement in Bergma's office. Gino, that dumpy little dwarf, was extremely agile and swift as a cheetah. He had us out of there before I knew what was happening. We went downstairs to wait for John.

  Of course we were both thinking the same thing. “They're gone” referred to the forged Van Goghs, and it sounded as if Bergma hadn't taken them.

  “This is a new twist,” I said. “Either Bergma's helper double-crossed him, or John's hypothetical third man got the paintings. Bergma sounded surprised that the paintings were gone. I don't think he was in on stealing them. And therefore he wasn't in on the murder."

  “We knew Bergma wasn't in this alone, but he's in it up to his snout. He's the only one who knew what pictures were going to be sold. I'm going to find Menard and warn him not to lose Bergma. I want him closer than Velcro to that guy's coattails. He'll have to meet up with his friend eventually."

  Before Gino returned, John came downstairs, smiling from ear to ear. I was almost glad to have some bad news to wipe that smirk off his face. “That was well worthwhile,” he said. “Denise says Bergma is running around like a chicken with his head chopped off today. She's never seen him this nervous before a show. The guy must be sweating bullets in case the cops catch on to him."

  “Funny she'd blab on her partner in crime."

  “You think she's involved just because Latour did her portrait?"

  I stared. “Oh no. Obviously not. The fact that she knew Latour and is on a first-name basis with her boss, Bergma—why should I let little things like that affect my judgment?"

  He frowned judiciously. “Can you really see those little white hands plunging a knife into a big guy like Latour?"

  “Last night you decided the knife was thrown,” I reminded him, and gave the news about Bergma's phone call.

  John wiped his chin with his fingers. “You didn't get a sound of the caller's voice? N
ot even to know if the voice was foreign?"

  “Not a syllable. Bergma just laid down the law and hung up."

  “It wasn't Denise. She was with me at the time."

  I grudgingly granted the point. “It's somebody who knows what's going on, a helper. But the helper is supposed to have killed Latour. In that case, Bergma would hardly have to tell him he was dead, would he?"

  “There could be some falling-out among thieves here. Maybe the helper double-crossed Bergma, killed Latour, and snatched the paintings. Or it could be an outsider is pulling the rug out from under both of them. Someone might have got on to them."

  “Somebody like Hot Buns, who knows all the gang members,” I suggested.

  His grin was far from dissatisfied. “I'll have to keep a real sharp eye on Denise. Latour's murder hasn't hit the news yet, so how did Bergma know? He must have been there."

  After five minutes or so, we spotted Gino scuttling forward. “Let's blow,” he said. “I could use a beer right about now. Or something stronger. Got any booze in your room, Weiss?"

  “I have some Johnnie Walker."

  “Red or black?"

  “Black. When I have to bribe a Mountie, I go whole hog.” We drove in John's car back to the Bonaventure Hotel and went to his room. “Do you want Scotch, Cass, or do you want to order something from room service?” John asked.

  What I wanted was for Gino to leave, but I ordered a half-bottle of white wine to reward myself for having to put up with him, and for John's flirting with Hot Buns.

  “There's not much more we can do right now,” Gino said. “Menard will let us know where Bergma goes and who he talks to. I can put a listening device in his office. You might put one in his house tonight when you go, John. You'll still go, even if he says he doesn't have the paintings?"

  “I'll be there. No reason to believe he was telling the truth to whoever called him. I wonder if he'll go to Searle's party, with all this hanging over his head. Maybe he'll stay home and meet his cohort there."

  “Is Hot Buns going to this party?” I asked.

  “She didn't say,” John answered.

  Gino had wandered to the counter, and poured about four inches of Scotch into his glass and added a drop of water. “By the way, I'm officially on the case now,” he said. “I talked to the office. It saves me wasting my holidays by being here. Kills two birds with one stone, you know what I mean. Are you seeing Hot Buns tonight, John?"