Full Circle (16 page)

He inclined his head gravely. Yes, he knew.

“The reason we’re having this conversation,” she said, “is because I’m in my fifties, and I’ve got nothing to show for it. I’m a servant, really—a very well-paid servant. I spend my days trying to keep a dying man alive. But when he dies, I’m out of a job. I’m not even sure whether I’m in DuBois’s will.”

He could think of nothing that wouldn’t sound irrelevant, empty.

“Mr. DuBois has an incredible mind.” Now she was speaking objectively, clinically, in what Bernhardt had come to believe was her essential manner. “He has an uncanny ability to go right to the core of things. A person, a business deal—a painting—he makes his evaluation instantly, and he’s almost always right. He acts on his judgments, too. Instantly. Without hesitation. He only has one flaw—one weakness.” As she said it, she looked at him expectantly.

“Am I supposed to guess?”

“If you like.”

He considered, then ventured, “Arrogance?”

She nodded gravely. “Arrogance. Exactly. He’s so incredibly sure of himself, his own infallibility, that he doesn’t think ordinary people could possibly get the best of him, ever. It’s the emperor without his clothes, that kind of thing. It’s understandable, certainly. Everywhere he looks, every decision he makes, he sees proof of his own infallibility. He can’t conceive that he’s made a mistake.”

“Except,” he said, prompting her, “he
did
make a mistake. One very big mistake.”

Holding his gaze, she spoke gravely: “You know, then.” Another silence drew taut between them before Bernhardt said, “Yes, I know.”

“H
ERE.” GRACE CAMPBELL HANDED
Bernhardt a plastic ID plaque embedded with a magnetized strip. “This opens everything: the outside doors, the elevators, this door—” She swept Betty Giles’s office with a wave of her hand. “There’s a bathroom next door.” She gestured to the desk and the telephone console. “There’s all the house numbers on the index.”

Bernhardt nodded, stepped behind Betty Giles’ desk, tried the drawers. They all slid open; they were filled with detritus: writing paraphernalia, papers, brochures. The right-hand top drawer contained a sizable assortment of cosmetics. In the center drawer he found a corporate checkbook and ledger, together with stationery and business cards. The checkbook, letterheads, and business cards were all imprinted “E.J. Giles, Inc.” Across the bottom of the business card, “Elizabeth Giles” was embossed. There were two telephone numbers, one domestic and one international, plus a fax number. The domestic phone number on the card corresponded to the number on Betty’s phone. Pulling out the center drawer to its stop, he searched in vain for an address book or personal checkbook. All he found was a magnifying glass and a scattering of stamps.

“She apparently took her address book,” Grace offered. “And some other things. Personal things. But the files seem pretty much intact.”

“She left in a hurry, apparently.”

She shrugged. “I’d say she decided to leave one day, and left the next.” She pointed to the cosmetics: “She didn’t want to take anything she couldn’t carry in her purse.”

“What about her ID plaque? Did she take that?”

“Yes. But the next day everything was reprogrammed.”

“Did you see her the day before she left?”

She nodded. “Yes. Briefly.”

“Did she seem agitated that last day?”

“I didn’t really have a chance to form an opinion. We just exchanged a few words.” She consulted her watch. “I’d better check in. Knock on my door about five minutes to two.” Once more she gestured to the phone. “Anything you want, I’m zero-two.”

“Will I see you after I’ve talked to DuBois?”

As if they shared some special secret, she smiled into his eyes. Saying: “Oh, yes, Mr. Bernhardt. You’ll see me.” She let the look linger, then left the office.

Bernhardt drew up an executive armchair and sat down behind the desk. He lifted the phone, but heard nothing. Neither did “0” produce anything. He debated punching out “0-2,” but instead tried “9”. Yes, he got a dial tone. Experimentally he touch-toned his office number. Moments later he heard his own voice on the tape. He cradled the phone, looked around the room. Designed to conform to the rest of the mansion’s architecture, Betty’s office was a combination of natural wood and glass. There was a leather sofa and a matching visitor’s chair. One entire wall, floor to ceiling, was bookshelves. Only half the shelves were filled, primarily with art books. The desk was placed facing away from the sliding glass doors that led out to a small private deck. With each level going down the canyon wall, the view from the decks had become less dramatic, until here, on the fifth level, treetops blocked off almost everything.

Except for the phone console and the computer, the desktop held only a magnificently tooled leather folder. He sat down, pulled the folder closer, flipped it open. The single word “Pending” was inscribed inside. He went through a half-dozen letters. Each letter had been opened and paper-clipped to its envelope. Two began “Dear Betty”; the remaining four were addressed formally to “E.J. Giles, Inc.” All six letters were dated during the same week in October—the week before Nick Ames was murdered.

One of the “Dear Betty” letters read:

You said you might be in New York the second week in November. If it happens, please let me know in time so that I can arrange for you to meet Joe McCarville. Dinner at Pierre’s, followed by an after-hours tour of the gallery? Joe’s table manners need polishing, but I do think, at 32, he’s someone you should seriously consider. Really.

I’ll give it a week or so, and if I haven’t heard from you I’ll call.

Ciao,

Randy

The letterhead read simply, “Randolph Portman, Dealer in Fine Art,” followed by a 57th Street address and phone/fax numbers. The stationery was improbably thick.

The other “Dear Betty” letter, also written on expensive stationery, was a simple handwritten note.

“Angelica” and “Shadows #8” went off today, by air. Documents follow. They’re each insured for a half million. You’ve got a great eye, Betty. Congratulations.

Michelle

The letter had been sent from Paris.

A cursory scan suggested that the other four letters were of a piece, all business related. Bernhardt returned them to the folder, returned the folder to its corner of the desk.

The checkbook was next. During the six months preceding Betty’s sudden departure, she’d written only fourteen checks. Two were for amounts in the high six figures, one to Sotheby’s and one to Christie’s. Others were written to companies, for nominal amounts. None had been written for cash. He rose, went to the steel files. Most of the drawers were empty. Only two had been used to file old correspondence, auction catalogs, and articles clipped from magazines and newspapers. One of the articles, dated a year ago, was a
Time
piece on DuBois:
His Hunch Transforms a Country.
Bernhardt remembered reading the article, which described the creation of a jet-set resort mecca on the coast of Belize.

He closed the drawer, returned to the desk, sat eyeing the phone. Was it tapped? Somehow he doubted it. Was the office itself bugged? Almost certainly. Meaning that, whoever he called, he must assume that his part of the conversation would be taped.

The time was twelve-thirty.

At two o’clock, DuBois would be waiting for his decision.

His Hunch Transforms a Country …

Raymond DuBois, whose slightest whim could change the course of world events.

Raymond DuBois, a shrunken little man imprisoned in his wheelchair who had, incredibly, placed himself at Bernhardt’s mercy.

Or so the little man said.

Two o’clock…

Hardly aware that he meant to do it, he was reaching for the phone, once more touch-toning his own number in San Francisco. Three rings, and the recorded message came on. When he heard the beep, Bernhardt said, “Paula, if you’re there, pick it up.” When there was no response, he said, “Paula, it’s about twelve-thirty Saturday. I’m at the client’s. I’ll be here probably until about three-thirty. Then I’ll go back to my hotel. I want you to call me at the hotel between five and five-thirty. Also, I want you to contact C.B. Tell him to call me during that time, too, at my hotel. Then I want you to call John Graham, at the Fairmont. Give him the same message. Oh, and Mrs. Bonfigli, too—talk to her about Crusher. I’ll talk to you soon.” He broke the connection. Then, recasting in his thoughts the phone message he’d just left, he shook his head, smiling ruefully. How was it possible? How, on the one hand, could he make plans to pull off a multimillion dollar art deal while, on the other hand, he must concern himself with the welfare of an Airedale?

T
HEY WERE, ONCE AGAIN
, on the small deck adjoining DuBois’s study. Both men were at the railing, looking out at the view to the west. Clouds were gathering on the horizon as the sun began to sink. The tops of the clouds were brushed with a delicate orange; beneath them the distant ocean was purpling. Overhead, a small airplane was flying toward them. Was it possible, Bernhardt wondered, that the occupants were spying on them, perhaps taking pictures? Could it be that—

“Once we’ve concluded our negotiations,” DuBois said, “assuming that we come to an agreement, then we will go to the gallery. It’s essential, I think, that you see the paintings.”

Bernhardt felt the words register, a hollow sensation, lost and lonely. Nick Ames had died because of the paintings. How many others would die—or had died?

Tentatively he cleared his throat. “I have an associate—a woman. We’re, ah, involved, the two of us. I have to talk to her about this. I can’t decide, make a final decision, until I talk to her.”

“The grand jury meets Thursday, five days from now. According to my information it’s possible that the state will ask for an indictment against me at that time. A search warrant will surely follow. Therefore, time is of the essence. By Wednesday, this matter has to be settled.”

“I understand. But I can’t—”

“Mr. Bernhardt, I’ve put my trust in you. I don’t think of you as a man of action, particularly. You have no instinct for the jugular. Temperamentally, you’re an artist. However, I also believe you to be a person of integrity. Therefore, I am, literally, trusting you with my reputation. Not to mention trusting you with the successful divestiture of art worth millions.”

There was only one answer possible, one protest remaining: “We haven’t discussed terms—haven’t agreed on anything.”

The reply came instantly, plainly preprogrammed: “Mr. Powers has given you a check from Powers Associates for ten thousand dollars. That’s in addition to your expenses. Additionally—” DuBois produced an envelope from the folds of the blanket that covered his legs and handed it over. “That’s a check for twenty-five thousand. Ostensibly you’re a security consultant for Powers Associates. By mail, you’ll receive the contract covering the entire thirty-five thousand. However, until our transaction is consummated, that’s all the payment you’ll receive from Powers. The rest of your fee—” He paused, for emphasis. “The rest will come out of the money you collect from Mr. Graham. That money, as we’ve discussed, will be in cash. When you deliver the money from the sale of the paintings here, in cash, you will deduct ten percent—cash. At that point, our business will be concluded.”

“You’ll sell the whole collection to Graham. Is that it?”

The old man nodded. “That’s it. One transaction, no loose ends.”

“And the price?”

“We will first invite Mr. Graham to make an offer, then we will probably counter. But for your information, your ears only, I will not accept less than twenty-five million. That’s roughly one quarter of what the collection would bring at auction.”

Bernhardt swallowed, blinked, cleared his throat. Saying finally: “Twenty-five million.”

“Or more. Not less, however.”

“So my end would be—” Suddenly his throat closed. He couldn’t pronounce the words.

“Two million five,” DuBois said. “Less, of course, your expenses.”

“Of course.”

A
S SHE COLLAPSED THE
antenna and put the recorder on the floor of the BMW, she realized that she was smiling. It was a broad, spontaneous burst of pleasure, something she’d never before experienced, not like this.

Raymond DuBois, one of the richest men in the world.

Raymond DuBois, a prisoner of his own misshapen body, at bay.

Raymond DuBois, vulnerable.

Cannibals, she’d once read, ate of their victim’s hearts so that they might possess the fallen enemy’s courage.

Was that the source of this feeling, this ultimate high? To take down Raymond DuBois—would that finally release her, free her from the need for more, always more?

“Thursday,” DuBois had said. Meaning that, in five days, her whole world would change. And for that, give the devil his diabolical due, she must thank Ned Frazer. Therefore, rest in peace, Ned. With thanks for this glimpse from the heights, this breathtaking view of her future.

It had, in fact, begun with a view—the view from the rooftop bar of the Rio Hilton. She’d been sipping Glenfiddich and watching the lights come on far below as a soft dusk fell over the city. She’d been dressed in a simply styled natural linen dress, square cut at the bosom. Among all her cocktail dresses, it had been the one that pleased her most, her can’t-miss dress. Except for two emerald clips at the corners of the neck and matching earrings, she’d worn no jewelry. Uncharacteristically, Wilhem had been late—and she’d been on time. Her first glimpse of Ned Frazer had caught him in a typical gesture, slipping the captain a bill for a good table. Although Ned was sophisticated enough to do it subtly, he was gauche enough to leave the bill unfolded, on display.

“
Watch carefully how someone deals with a servant
,” her father had once admonished. “
It’ll tell you a lot
.”

Her father—that urbane fop, that meaningless man who’d almost succeeded in getting through life with nothing more than a gigolo’s smile and manners to match.