The French Kiss (19 page)

She gazed at me blandly—a sociable, aristocratic expression.

“They certainly do,” she said. “Of course it's only a first impression—you realize this is the first time I've seen them—but I think they're beautiful, marvelous. I'm very surprised, I must admit.”

“Then you're going to buy them?”

“
Buy
them?” She seemed to enjoy the idea. “No, I should think not.”

“How come? Is the price too high?”

“Not at all. The truth is: I haven't had to pay anything for them. Not one sou. You see, they're a gift.”

“A gift? Who from?”

“Why, from all these people,” she said, gesturing magnanimously. “But most particularly,” turning to him, “from my dear husband.”

I couldn't make out the slightest irony in her voice. The joke, it seemed, if there was one, was on me.

I stared across at Binty and Lascault.

“I'm glad to hear at least that you haven't paid for them,” I said, fixing them. “The way I understand it, they may be fakes.”

I like to think I saw the nerves jump in Binty's cheeks. At least that. But Bernard Lascault didn't so much as swallow. I wondered if, like Al Dove, they'd known all along. Or only suspected.

“Fakes?” Cookie Lascault echoed to my left.

“That's right. Painted by a man called William Rillington.”

“Well then,” she went on without a quaver, “hats off to the painter!”

It was my turn to be surprised. She'd straightened out of her habitual drooping posture, but without any of the stiffness of the dame in the portrait or the shrew I'd seen in action. Her gaze now had scorn in it mingled with commiseration, the look of someone who's got the upper hand and knows it.

“I wonder how well acquainted you are with the history of Art, Mr. Cage. Not a great deal, I'd suppose. Otherwise you would know that history is full of works that have been re-identified and re-attributed at one time or another: the Cranachs, the Watteaus, the whole
school
of Rubens, for example. But does that lower their value in any way? Do the museums take them off their walls? A great painting is a great painting, Mr. Cage, no matter who painted it.”

The lesson, I thought momentarily, was over, but she was only warming to her subject.

“You called these fakes, Mr. Cage. But what does that mean? Fakes of what, after all? They're not
copies
, are they? Of course not. John … John Blumenstock could never have painted them. Not if he'd lived a hundred years. But your artist … what was his name …?”

She snapped her fingers, searching for it.

“Rillington,” I supplied.

“Rillington.
Rillington
painted them, Mr. Cage. With his own two hands, starting from raw canvas. At the most he worked in the style of,
à la manière de
. But since when is it wrong or bad for one artist to be inspired by another? Where is the fakery in that?”

The shrill had come back, but different from the one I knew, full of gaiety and triumph. I didn't get it in so many words, but the reason for it may have had nothing to do with art history. She'd said it herself:
John Blumenstock could never have painted them
. In her weird cracked way, maybe she was getting even at last.

Besides, they hadn't cost her a centime.

“Where is the fakery, Mr. Cage?” she repeated loudly.

“Well,” I said, “there's the little question of attribution. I'd say …”

“Attribution?” she interrupted. “Ah yes. Who painted them. I see what you mean. But that's only money, Mr. Cage, crass money. The market. Right now a Blumenstock may be worth a fortune, while your Rillington is unknown. But who is to say that a hundred years from now, when posterity judges, the positions won't be reversed? In any event, all that has nothing to do with the paintings or their real value. It's paltry, ephemeral, of no importance. The sickness of our times, if you will. People make a great commotion over nothing. Art is eternal, Mr. Cage. But the people who make the commotion, the promoters, the dealers …,” this with a nod at the company present, “even the collectors …,” with a self-mocking laugh. “We're nothing but fools, Mr. Cage. Here today and gone tomorrow. A pack of fools.”

She seemed to have finished. I glanced at the others. They had nothing to add. On the contrary, they were perfectly happy to let her say it for them. I looked at the paintings, then out past Johnny Vee at the sun-swept grounds, and the message came across loud and clear: all was well in Chantilly and the world, and the only one out of step was yours truly.

“I'm glad to hear you taking such a lofty, long-range view, Mrs. Lascault,” I said. “The only trouble is that in all the commotion that's been going on over these pictures, a lot of people have been getting pushed around. I happen to be one of them, but that's the least of it. Two of them are dead, and a third would be but for a matter of a couple of centimeters. Maybe that's of no importance either, but …”

“I wouldn't know anything about that,” she interrupted coldly.

“No?” I said. “Well, maybe you wouldn't at that, the world has a way of protecting you rich folks. But I'd venture to say your husband here does, even though he mightn't admit it. And Mrs. Dove too. Not to say the celebrated art dealer on my right.”

I could feel the vibrations of hostility coming from him. I paid them no attention.

“There's also the question of the police, paltry and of no importance as they may be, but they're also making a commotion and this time they may not be so ready to stop. What's more, if I'm not mistaken the shooting's not yet over. Far from it. I can't figure out what else our friend the Alligator's doing this far from home. I mean, Vegas is a lot more his style than Chantilly, and I don't imagine he came all this way just to peddle some pictures. Tell me, Johnny boy,” I said, turning to him finally, “who's on your hit list besides me? Al Dove? Helen Raven? What about Binty here, maybe she's on it too?”

He was halfway out of his chair, and his face had gone white. Maybe mine had too.

“You're all washed up, Cage,” he snarled.

I couldn't help laughing at him.

“Fuck it, Johnny,” I said. “Why in hell do you guys always have to come on like a bad Cagney movie?”

“Shut up!” Cookie Lascault shrilled behind me. “Both of you!”

He did, but I turned on her.

“No, maybe you don't know about all that,” I said, “but your husband sure as hell does, and either way it doesn't add much luster to your reputation.” I pointed at him across the table. “What was it you said, Mr. Lascault? That Paris isn't Chicago? But if that's true, all you've got to do is bring Chicago in, right? It's as old as the movies: the hitmen from out of town. You buy off your wife with a couple of worthless paintings, you buy off the police too, and then you bring in your imported muscle to take care of anybody who squawks. It's a costly affair maybe, and you've blown your Blumenstock racket in the bargain, but at the same time you've eliminated the middle man, right? Now it's just you and your silent partner here. Tell me, Johnny boy,” I said, turning back to him, “what's your percentage of next year's take?”

This time the Alligator only laughed at me from his chair. But Binty and Bernard Lascault didn't so much as crack a smile, and as for Cookie, I realized that I'd misread her pretty badly. Whatever she knew, it was pretty clear she didn't give a damn.

As long as she got hers.

It was very quiet in the room. I felt like I'd been throwing punches in a plastic bag. A regular old windmill. I had one left, call it the Yakima Haymaker, and though I didn't suppose it would bring the fans cheering to their feet, I threw it anyway, just for the hell of it.

“One other thing, Mrs. Lascault,” I said. “There's the question of the portrait. The so-called fake Blumenstock, which turns out to be the only genuine one. It's only a Blumenstock though, and from what you've just said about posterity, I take it you're no longer interested?”

“On the contrary,” she replied, drooping again and fixing me with that cool aristocratic stare. “It's a lovely painting in my opinion. I'm still very much interested.”

“And your offer still holds?”

“My offer?”

“The last time we met, you mentioned a certain figure.”

I detected a flicker of interest on Bernard Lascault's part.

“Yes, I did,” she replied. “But circumstances have changed. In addition, that offer was for three paintings. Now there is only one.”

“That doesn't sound very fair to William Rillington.”

“Fair?”
She snorted, tossing her head. “But artists have never had decent compensation for their work! Although, under different circumstances, I would be happy to talk to Mr. Rillington about his future.”

What is it about the rich
? I began in my mind. But she broke in on the refrain, saying:

“As far as the portrait is concerned, I would consider twelve thousand dollars more than adequate now.”

Twelve thousand dollars. A little more than fifty thousand francs, but not much more. It was the old auction price. Al Dove had huffed and puffed, but now the air was coming out of the balloon and Cookie Lascault was exacting her last revenge.

“I know where it is, Mrs. Lascault,” I said. “I can get it for you.”

I made a mistake before. I said I never saw her smile again. But there it came, right then, folding her skin into hard and gleaming creases.

Bernard Lascault started to answer for her, but she waved him off.

“That won't be necessary,” she answered. “In fact I'm afraid I've no longer any need of your services, Mr. Cage. You see, the … the present owner has been in touch with me herself. We are already in the process of negotiating the sale.”

The Yakima Haymaker had missed. I was flat on my ass, and the referee was counting. I had no particular wish to get up either, and the spectators were already heading for the exits. Binty Dove, the love of my life, had her eyes averted, maybe she couldn't stand the sight of blood, and Johnny Vee, the fight promoter, was motioning to some of his muscle to come scrape the loser off the canvas.

They broke out of the landscape and came for me. One was black and the other white, which only goes to show how public-spirited the mob's gotten, but otherwise there wasn't much to choose between them. They were big and dumb-looking, and even in my better days I wouldn't have wanted to take either of them on without an elephant gun.

They led me back across the lawn to one of the outbuildings and stuck me inside with the dead wood. There weren't any windows in this one and little furniture, only a miscellany of gardening equipment and enough cut timber to keep the Lascaults warm for the next decade or so, if ever the Allah-worshippers started tinkering with the oil spigots again. The rich, I guess, think of everything.

I pulled up a log and sat down, and it was there that I had the first of several distinctly unmemorable conversations with the Alligator.

SIXTEEN

Chances are he has his qualities, and I'm sure he loves his mother. But he was a lousy judge of human psychology—mine to begin with—and he couldn't resist shooting his mouth off.

He started in on Al Dove. Dove, he called him. Dove had him choked up to the windpipe, he wanted Dove in the worst way. Dove, he said, had crossed the Organization for the last time. The Organization had decided to write him off.

“Where is he, Cage?” said Johnny Vee.

“I don't know.”

He chuckled, a hard rattlely sound.

“At least that's an improvement on your subway story,” he said.

“What subway story?”

“The one you told the French Law. That he was locked in the Paris subway. Maybe you can get away with that cockamamie bullshit on the French Law. I want the truth.”

There, if you see what I mean. A small disclosure maybe, but the only people I'd told about the métro were Police Judiciaire. The Police Judiciaire at least knew that it wasn't cockamamie bullshit. But maybe what the Police Judiciaire knew and what they were letting on these days to their brothers in the other branches were two different things.

“What are you going to do to get it, Johnny boy?” I said. “Rearrange my knuckles for me?”

He looked at me a minute. Then the look turned into a sneer.

“What is it that makes punks like you stick together?” he asked.

He turned to the muscle.

“D'you know what Dove did to this punk?” he asked them.

The muscle shook their heads from side to side, and back.

“This punk used all his suck with the Law to help Dove beat a rap. Dove was peddling dope in Westwood—can you imagine that?—and the Law nailed him. And this punk stepped in and made a deal for him, even though it meant embarrassing some people who didn't want to be embarrassed. And d'you know how Dove paid him back?”

He waited for the muscle to shake their heads again.

They did.

“Dove stole his snatch!”

Johnny Vee thought this punchline very funny. He gave it the big alligator laugh. So did the muscle. Then Johnny Vee stopped laughing, and so did the muscle.

“So how come, Cage? How come punks like you always stick together?”

“It seems to me you ought to know better than me,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, maybe he took me once, if you want to look at it like that, but how many times has the mob … excuse me, the Organization … gone to the wall with him? Let me see, there was dope all right, and then the Rancho del Cielo deal—that was a beaut, wasn't it?—and now there's Art. Either somebody upstairs must be pretty dumb, else the … Organization is having a hell of a time recruiting competent personnel. Present company excepted, of course.”