Bernhardt's Edge (25 page)

“And then,” she said, “I got a call from Justin Powers.”

Hearing the name, Bernhardt realized that he'd suddenly tensed. But if she'd noticed, she gave no sign. Once she'd found the strength to tell her story, the release that confession could confer had become its own impetus. Having started the story, she must now finish it:

“It was a Thursday afternoon, I remember, that he called. He asked me if I ever got to Los Angeles. I told him that I'd only been in Los Angeles three times in my whole life. So then he told me that he had an opening on his staff that he'd like to discuss with me. It was the same kind of work I'd been doing, he said. Which meant, of course, that he knew something about me. But I didn't want to ask him about it, I remember. I mean, he called me at my office, and I didn't want to talk about another job, not then. So he asked me if I'd like to come to Los Angeles some weekend, all expenses paid. I agreed to it, right on the spot. Which isn't like me, not really. I've always been cautious, slow to make up my mind. But he asked me if I could come the weekend after next, which meant that I'd have time to check him out, check out Powers, Associates. Which I did, with D and B. And I was impressed. Amazed, and impressed. And flattered, too. And, besides, he laid on the whole package: Friday night and Saturday night in a suite at the Century Plaza, a rental car reserved for me—everything. He was even smart enough not to send a limo to the airport, because that would've been too much, too soon.”

“He wanted something from you, then.”

“He wanted something from someone like me. Not me, necessarily.”

“But Powers, Associates isn't anything like Standard Oil. I mean, a two-million-dollar budget?” He let the skeptical question linger between them.

For the first time since she'd begun her story, she looked at him directly. “You know about them, then—about Powers, Associates.”

“I talked to Powers in Los Angeles, just before I came down here.”

Plainly curious, obviously tempted to question him further, she was nevertheless driven by some inner compulsion to continue: “I thought about that Standard Oil budget, too,” she said, “when we talked on Saturday, in Powers' office. But then I decided that he must be thinking of a philanthropy, establishing an endowment, something like that.”

“But that wasn't it.”

“No,” she answered, “that wasn't it.” Eyes hardening now, mouth tighter, she spoke grimly.

“It was DuBois.”

“Yes,” she answered, “it was DuBois. You knew.”

He shook his head. “No, I didn't know. You mentioned DuBois a few minutes ago. Is it the zillionaire? That DuBois?”

“One of the ten richest men in the world. Right. And Powers, Associates fronts for him, handles all his business dealings. Ostensibly, you see, Powers, Associates are investment bankers, venture capitalists, whatever. Actually, they're in the business of investing the DuBois billions.”

“They're a front, in other words.”

“Yes.”

“And DuBois is an art collector.”

“Yes,” she answered, still grimly. “Yes, DuBois is an art collector. I found that out on Sunday, when Justin Powers and I went to see him. He's got one of the finest collections in the world, as you might expect. And Powers was fronting for him, as you say—screening people until he found someone he thought was right for the job of curator.”

“And you got the job.”

She nodded. “I got the job. Powers left us together, Mr. DuBois and me. We spent hours, looking at his collection. And it was wonderful, seeing it—wonderful talking with Mr. DuBois, about art. He's seventy-six years old, and he's had two strokes. He's an invalid, in a wheelchair. His mind is alert, though—incredibly alert. But all he cares about, the only thing that means anything to him, is his art.”

“It seems strange, though, that he'd need a curator, just for a private collection.”

“I thought so, too. I told him that I doubted whether I'd find enough to do. But he explained that he did a lot of buying and selling. It was part of his passion—buying and selling, manipulating the markets, and the dealers. It was all that was left to him, you see. All those energies—that genius for timing and bargaining—everything that made him one of the ten richest men in the world, it was all concentrated on art, on collecting. And obviously, he can't get around, except with great effort. So it seemed reasonable that he'd need someone to act for him, especially at auctions. That's what it's all about for the collectors—the auctions. And, even if he could get around, he wouldn't want to go to the auctions. They'd see him—recognize him—and prices would soar. So that part of it made sense, allayed my suspicions. And, besides, the money he offered me was more than I made at Standard—a lot more. And there were bonuses, too. If I found something good, a bargain, and we turned it over at a profit, I got twenty percent. But if it happened the other way—if we lost—he absorbed it. So it—” Sadly, she shook her head. “It sounded wonderful, a dream come true. And it
was
wonderful, too. It
was
a dream come true. At least for a while.”

“So, what happened? What went wrong?”

“What happened,” she said, “was that a month or two after I started working for him, I began to suspect that he'd lied to me. Or, at least, that he hadn't told me the truth. Not the whole truth.”

Knowing that, now, nothing could keep her from finishing the story, Bernhardt decided to say nothing. He watched her as, visibly, she took the final decision, crossed her final bridge.

“There's a man named Edward Frazer,” she said. “Ned Frazer. And it's a known fact that Frazer deals in contraband art.”

“Contraband?”

She nodded. “Most of it comes from Mexico and Central America—Mayan statuary, primarily. Stuff that's smuggled out of the country illegally. Some of the pieces are actually national treasures. In Mexico, you see, if you bribe the right official, you can get anything.”

“So DuBois has a collection of contraband Mexican art?”

She shook her head. “No, not Mexican art. DuBois only collects painters. As far as I know, he'd never talked to Ned Frazer, never dealt with him. But when Frazer arrived, DuBois was expecting him. Someone had apparently called DuBois, and told him that Frazer was coming. That's the first suspicion I had, that something was going on behind my back. Frazer and DuBois talked for almost two hours, privately. They talked on the deck that adjoins DuBois' study. Later I learned that when DuBois wants absolute privacy, he goes out on the deck. I'm not really sure why, maybe he thinks there's less chance of electronic eavesdropping, out there. Anyhow, when Frazer left, DuBois sent for me. He was excited. He—” Incredulously remembering, she shook her head. “He seemed to glow from within, that's the only way I can describe it. His eyes—they were on fire, it seemed. Obviously, it had something to do with Frazer, with his visit. And, of course, I was terribly curious. But I'd learned not to question him—about anything. And, besides, it was clear that he was going to tell me about it, about what happened, with Frazer. And he
did
tell me—eventually. He started out by saying that he had something very important for me to do, a very important acquisition. There'd be a bonus, he said, for doing it—a huge bonus. Which made it pretty obvious that he was talking about stolen art—a very valuable piece of stolen art.” She broke off, let her eyes wander thoughtfully away. “I can still remember the thrill I felt, when I realized what was happening. I've often thought about that, about the thrill I felt. Part of it, certainly, was the thrill of actually coming into contact with a major work of art. Because that's what he was talking about, obviously—a major work of art. But I think there was also the thrill you feel when you do something illegal, something dangerous—that forbidden thrill a child feels when he steals a piece of candy from the candy store. I think it must be built in, that thrilling sense of sin—part of all of us, deep down.”

“I think you're right,” Bernhardt said, matching her speculative mood. “It's there, somewhere, in all of us.”

“And, of course, there was the bonus,” she admitted. “That's there, too, in all of us. It's called greed.”

Ruefully, Bernhardt nodded. “I agree with that, too.”

She sat silently for a moment, idly tracing a pattern on the tabletop with her forefinger. Plainly, she was recalling her meeting with DuBois, the meeting that must have taken place more than two years ago.

“As I look back,” she said, “it was obvious that he was manipulating me—the way he's always manipulated people. It's incredible, really, how he does it. He's like a—a wizard, an ancient wizard, a sorcerer. He seems to be able to see deep inside people. He knows what they're thinking before they know themselves. I've seen him do it, time after time. He knows just which buttons to press, like a—a consummate musician. He doesn't bully people, either. That's not it. He doesn't use fear, either—at least not at first. He's actually very polite. Almost courtly, in fact. But, of course, there's always the stiletto, hidden in the sleeve.” She paused, bitterly smiled. “Whenever I think of him, especially these last few days, I think of medieval imagery: wizards, Byzantine plots and counterplots—murders in dark castle corridors. And all of it's an extension of that wizen, corrupt little man in his electric wheelchair. He's a—a
presence.
An evil presence.”

“So you took the deal,” Bernhardt prompted. As he spoke, he looked at his watch. The time was eight-thirty; a moonless desert night had fallen. And somewhere in the night, a murderer could be waiting—watching—planning. Bernhardt had arrived late yesterday afternoon. Since then, he'd kept Betty Giles under constant surveillance—sometimes from across the swimming pool, sometimes at a distance, driving more than a mile behind her over the straight, flat, empty roads that led out from Borrego Springs into the desert. In all that time, he'd seen nothing suspicious—

—except the black man in the black Camaro.

Betty Giles' blue Nissan had been parked at a grocery store. He'd driven past the store and parked well beyond the entrance, so that he could see her car in the mirror when she emerged from the store, all according to accepted surveillance technique. She'd stayed in the store for more than a half hour—while he'd stayed in his car, baking in the afternoon sun.

About fifteen minutes into the stakeout, he'd seen the black Camaro approaching from the opposite direction, coming sedately toward him. As the Camaro drew even, he'd glanced at the driver—and then looked more sharply. Had it been the same black man he'd seen in Santa Rosa, following Betty Giles and Nick Ames as they left the Starlight Motel? He didn't know, could never be sure. If the witness at Santa Rosa hadn't said the murderer was black, he'd never have even speculated.

But he
had
seen a black man, following Betty Giles and Nick Ames.

And a witness
had
said the murderer was black.

And there
had
been a black man in a black Camaro, driving west on Palm Canyon Road yesterday evening.

“No…” She spoke slowly, pensively. “No, I didn't take the deal, not right then, not when we talked the first time. He's not as direct as that, it's not his style. He's a master of indirection, of timing. That first time, he just planted the barb, sowed the seed—” Impatiently, she gestured. “Whatever. Looking back, of course, I realize that he was far from calm. Because, behind that facade, he was possessed. Really possessed—a madman, almost, where art's concerned.”

Impatient now, anxious to hear the end of her story, then excuse himself and reconnoiter the motel grounds, he nevertheless realized that he must not press her too closely. Instead, he must continue to methodically prompt her: “You did buy the painting, though. Didn't you?”

As she'd done before, she looked at him for a long, resigned, deeply decisive moment before, trusting him, she finally nodded. “Yes, I bought it.” Another moment of silence passed before she said, “It was Renoir's ‘Three Sisters'. It had been stolen from the Louvre almost a year before Ned Frazer showed up.”

“My God—” As memory of the news stories slowly crystalized, he shook his head in amazement. “
Renoir
?”

Once more, solemnly, she nodded.

“But it—” He realized that he was leaning across the small Formica table, gripping the table's edge with both hands. “But it's worth a fortune. And it's
stolen
.”

She made no response. Instead, as if to punctuate the conversation, perhaps to demonstrate the release she felt, having revealed her secret, she rose, began clearing the table, putting the dirty dishes in the sink. “Coffee? I've got some instant. Decaffeinated instant, actually. I can't drink real coffee after four o'clock.”

“Wait.
Wait
—” On his feet, facing her as they stood a few feet from each other, he raised his hand, as if to physically compel her to stand still, pay close attention. “Are you saying that this—this whole thing is about that—the ‘Three Sisters'?”

“Partly that. And partly—”

“It's missing? Is that it?”

“No. It's hanging in DuBois' house right now—in a secret room, a room nobody's ever seen but him and me—at least, not after the first painting went up.”

“You mean—?” He realized that he was gaping. Helplessly gaping.

“Basically,” she said, “that's why he hired me. He didn't need a curator for the paintings he has all over his house. Everything I did was either make-work, or else I was essentially running errands for him. There wasn't anything I did for him that he couldn't have done for himself, or had his servants do—except take care of that room, that tiny gallery within a gallery. He'd done it for a while, even from his wheelchair. He even cleaned the room, and serviced the humidifier. But he knew it was a lost cause, a rearguard action. Because, when he acquired a painting—a masterpiece—there wouldn't be anyone to take it to the room, no one to hang it. That's what was happening when he decided to buy ‘Three Sisters', you see. Before he could buy it, he had to tell me about the room. There wasn't any other way.”