Picture This (5 page)

A few minutes later, I left to go to the washroom. On the way, I passed the rack where we had hung our coats—it had been raining outside. I suppose cell phones were on my mind. Victor’s coat hung on the rack like a limp dishrag, and I saw where the pocket bulged. I looked back. A big post blocked the view from our table; Victor couldn’t see me. I slipped my hand into the pocket of his coat and felt the old cell phone he normally used. Taking it, I ducked into the washroom.

I pressed Recent Calls.

Nine calls had been made to someone called “T. Crowder” at a number here, in Los Angeles.

T. Crowder? Who could he be?

There was an easy way to find out. I pushed Call.

From the washroom, the signal was pretty weak, but the phone started ringing. A female voice answered. “The Crowder residence. Good evening.”

“Is that Mrs. Crowder?”

“No, sir. It’s Maria, the maid.”

“Thank you.”

I pushed End Call.

T. Crowder, it seemed, was rich enough to live in a “residence” rather than a house. He could also afford a maid.

On my way back to the table, I slipped the phone back into Victor’s coat pocket. I was smiling as I sat down. All my questions, I thought, had been answered.
Victor
, I said to myself,
what a wicked fellow you are
.

Dollars for Art

Victor’s exchange plan was a scam, a big lie. I’ll give him credit, though—it
sounded
good, it
looked
good.

Supposedly, Victor was driving all over Los Angeles, talking to the insurance company. Supposedly, he was telling them where they should take the money and where they should pick up the paintings. This way, he said, when we picked up the money, we wouldn’t be picked up ourselves by the police. All that stuff with the cell phones made the story convincing. But in fact, I felt pretty sure Victor was sitting in some coffee shop, reading his newspapers.

Why didn’t I say anything?

I was taking Victor’s advice, keeping my mouth shut, being discreet. He was playing a game. I was playing along. Winning, for me, meant staying out of jail... and Zena. My share of $600,000? I told you in the beginning, I didn’t care about the money at all.

Victor’s game ended in Los Angeles, in Union Station. It’s the old train station, which opened in 1939. You can see it in black and white movies. The outside is like a Mexican palace, with a huge clock tower. To one side, there’s a beautiful garden. Inside, the tile floors have patterns like Navajo Indian rugs. Some of the ceilings are as high as a five-storey building. As for the trains, you can travel from here to anywhere in the United States, or you can just go across Los Angeles on the Metro Rail lines.

The next afternoon, at two o’clock, I was sitting in a big padded leather chair in the station’s waiting room. Beside me was a suitcase. Victor had given it to me. It was locked with a combination lock. Inside were the paintings.

I was sitting on the left side of the waiting room.

Zena was also sitting in one of those comfortable chairs, over on the right side. I couldn’t quite see her.

At 2:14 a tall man with short grey hair walked down the centre of the hall. Wearing a blue business suit and a tan raincoat, he pulled a red suitcase behind him. He looked around, stopped beside the ninth seat on the right-hand side, and sat down. Two minutes later, he stood up and casually walked away without the suitcase. A minute after that, Zena appeared. Without stopping, she took the suitcase... and the $600,000 in it. Pulling the suitcase behind her, Zena walked away, down the hall. She gave me a look—and one little smile.

Was it a trap? Were the police going to jump out and arrest her? Victor said no—because we still had the paintings. Zena was now out of my sight, but I knew where she was going. She would head through the station to the Metro Rail platform. She’d board a Gold Line train and ride to the next stop on the line, Chinatown. There, she’d get off and walk to the Thien Hau Temple. The temple was one of the important
sights in Chinatown. Crowds of tourists would be all around it, snapping pictures.

Victor had arranged for a taxi to pick Zena up at the temple and take her to a fancy hotel, the Beverly Hills. After all this, if Zena was sure she hadn’t been followed, she was to telephone me. Then I would put my suitcase, holding the paintings, on a train to San Diego. Someone from the insurance company would pick up my suitcase there.

Complicated? Sure. But the train to San Diego takes two and a half hours. Even if the company called the police after they got the suitcase, we’d have lots of time to get away.

That’s what we were supposed to do. Except it was all a game, a scam—Victor’s scam. And I’d decided to stop playing along.

As soon as Zena disappeared, I arose from my comfortable chair. Carrying my suitcase, I walked over to the information counter.

“I’d like to page someone,” I said.

“What name, sir?”

“T. Crowder.”

“
T
. Crowder?”

“I don’t know his first name.”

“Okay, anything you say.”

A moment later, the public address system came on with a crackle. “T. Crowder... T. Crowder... would T. Crowder meet his party at the information counter.”

I stepped back from the counter.

Two minutes later, a man hurried up. He was dressed in a tan raincoat and a blue business suit; his hair was grey and cut very short. It was the man who’d been pulling the suitcase, no doubt about it. Now, he looked very worried.

“Mr. Crowder?” I said.

For a second, he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit it. Then he frowned and said, “Yes, I’m Thomas Crowder.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Crowder, I’m not a policeman.”

His expression grew even more worried. “A policeman?”

“That’s right. I’m
not
a policeman... just like you’re not from an insurance company. Of course,” I added, “it
is
a crime, receiving art works and knowing them to be stolen.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Wasn’t that you, pulling the suitcase? The red one? With $600,000 in it?”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s your game?” he said.

“No, no. You’re playing the game. Maybe we should go over here and talk about it.”

Thomas Crowder was frightened. For a moment, he thought of running away—I could see it in his eyes. But I held up the suitcase with the paintings in it, and he followed me.

When we were back in the waiting room—sitting in those comfortable, padded chairs—I set the suitcase on my lap, across my knees. I fiddled with the combination lock and said, “I only want to get a few things straight. In your pocket, you have a ticket to San Diego.”

“Perhaps I do.”

“When you got off the train, you were going to pick up this suitcase. And of course you know the combination to the lock.”

He licked his lips nervously. “You seem to know everything.”

“Not
quite
everything,” I said. “That’s why I want you to open the suitcase.”

“What if I refuse?”

“I won’t give it to you.” I sat back. “Mr. Crowder, I don’t think you’re going to call the police and complain that somebody stole your nice red suitcase with $600,000 in it.” I tapped my suitcase with my finger. “If you want what you paid for, you’ll have to open this up.”

He licked his lips again, but then he nodded.

I held the suitcase toward him but kept both hands on it as he worked the lock.

When the lock popped open, I lifted the lid.
Two
paintings, neatly wrapped, lay inside. I smiled. “Well, well,” I said.

“Yes,” said Crowder. “And I’ve paid for them.”

“So you have. The Wilfredo Lam... and the two hummingbirds?”

“Yes, damn you. Give that case to me.”

I held it out to him—but kept hold of the handle. “One thing more, Mr. Crowder. Do you know what discretion means? Do you know how to be discreet?”

“I suppose I do.”

I’m a nice guy, don’t you think? But the look I gave Crowder wasn’t so nice. “Keep your
mouth shut. Don’t call Victor.
Don’t
. That way, you’ll have no trouble from me.”

He nodded and took the case. Down the hall, two old ladies were hurrying along. “Come on, Ethel, come
on
! We’ll miss our train.” I watched Thomas Crowder pass through the crowd. He was going home to his “residence,” where his maid, Maria, would probably bring him a drink. When he was gone, I walked out of the station and found a taxi to take me to Victor’s hotel.

Victor Talks

Victor wasn’t in his room.

I should have guessed.

At the front desk, I asked, “Is there a coffee house near the hotel? Not a Starbucks, something special. Maybe an older place...”

The clerk frowned but then broke into a smile. “You must mean the Last Drop!”

I found the Last Drop two blocks away. Victor was sitting at a table by himself, newspapers spread all around him. He frowned as I came over.

“It’s okay,” I said, sitting down. “Mr. Crowder has his paintings.”

His expression was blank, then furious. “I see.”

“No, Victor,
I
see.”

He grunted. “You’re such a bright boy, Paul.”

“We came to Los Angeles because this is where Crowder lives. You never intended to do a deal with the insurance company, did you?”

“No, no. That would have been much too dangerous. We certainly would have been caught.”

“Besides,” I said, “you’re a
dealer
. You bring buyer and seller together. There was something to sell. You knew who wanted to buy.”

“Exactly.” He brightened. “And like all dealers, I try to create satisfaction, good feeling. True, Harold Green has lost his paintings. But he will receive $3,000,000 from the insurance company. Thomas Crowder has long wanted paintings by those great artists. Now he has them, and at a very cheap price. As for us, well, $200,000 each is a reasonable fee, don’t you think? So, you see—something for everyone.”

I rested my hand on my chin and stared at him, slowly shaking my head. “Victor, I made Crowder open the suitcase.
Two
paintings. You
sold him only
two
paintings. You kept the third one, the Tom Thomson, for yourself. I suppose you’ve lined up a buyer? Back in Toronto?”

When people smile, they show their teeth. But a dog shows its teeth when it snarls. Victor’s smile was a snarl. “What if I have?”

“How much is he willing to pay?”

“$50,000.”

“Victor, do you really expect me to believe that? The Tom Thomson is a great painting and has to be worth—”

“All right, all right,” he interrupted. “$300,000. Cash.”

“Good. You keep that for yourself. Zena and I will split the $600,000 from Crowder. Equal shares.”

“That is hardly fair. For one thing, I advanced each of you $10,000.”

I waved my hand. “Okay, we’ll pay you back.”

Now his smile was really a smile. “Do you think you can speak for your beautiful lady friend?”

His tone was mocking, making fun of me. “What do you mean, Victor?”

“You think you’re so smart, Paul.”

“I’m smart enough. Smart enough to figure out your little scam.”

“Yes, but have you figured out the beautiful Zena’s? Haven’t you felt, all along, that our mysterious lady was up to something, playing a game of her own?”

I didn’t say anything. Of course, he was right. From the very first time I’d seen her, I’d guessed that something was going on that I didn’t understand. Who was she? What was she doing? How had she become involved with Victor Mellish? Why had she become a thief? Why did she hate Harold Green? With Zena, I’d only ever had questions... and adored those wonderful eyes.

Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out.

“Paul? This is Zena. Everything is all right. No one followed me.”

She
believed Victor, she was still playing
his
game. But I knew Victor was right. She was playing a game of her own.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“So what should I do? You will give them the paintings?”

“Sure,” I said, “don’t worry.”

I think she heard something in my voice because now she was silent. Then she said, “Is everything all right?”