Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing (12 page)

Next morning, Gemma was back at Minkie Montreau’s mansion, still feeling unhappy about her conflict with Kit,
and the angry parting of last night, but she was soon immersed in the case at hand. She looked hard at her hostess, whose pale face and cat-like eyes now seemed untouched by grief. I’m not going to say anything about your young man just yet, Gemma thought to herself as she followed Minkie up the magnificent staircase on the way to Benjamin Glass’s study, noticing the sphere of diamonds at the back of her neck, like a miniature mirror ball, that formed the clasp to the South Sea pearls. I might need something over you, Miss Minkie M, she thought. Better at this stage to gather more intelligence, and not warn you that I know one of your secrets. Minkie had stopped on the wide landing outside a set of handsome timber panelled double doors, her hand on an amber crystal knob. Very fancy, thought Gemma, thinking of her own humble office and the cassette recorder across the hall chattering away when she was alone with a client.

‘I never go in here,’ said Minkie, opening one of the doors. ‘It was his territory.’

For a second, Gemma thought she saw a chink in the woman’s cool façade. But it was back to business within a second.

‘Please excuse me,’ she said. ‘As you can imagine, I have a lot to attend to.’ She drew back, almost as if something in there might jump out and bite her. Then she hurried away, leaving Gemma at the threshold of the room.

She stepped in, looking around at the green velvet curtains draped across the tall windows, the large antique map over the marble fireplace, the rows of books in the leadlight bookcases, and the deep pile of the luxurious rug on the parquetry floor. With the harbour visible in slices through the cedar blinds, soft grey light fell gently on row after row of more beautifully bound books on the left-hand side of the room. On the right towered a full-length portrait of Minkie in a cream evening dress, her right hand holding a book, almost obscured by the billowing folds of the dress. Gemma walked up to the mantelpiece, checking out the photographs. They were mostly shots of the wealthy pair at various functions and Gemma couldn’t help but notice that in every picture, the couple faced away from each other, or one was deep in conversation with a third party, while the other stared out at the photographer, or smiled tightly to no one in particular. Benjamin Glass was an angular man with irregular, squinting features. In one photo his thick white hair was all that could be seen of him, taking up much of the foreground, his wife elegant and poised with a small group of equally well-dressed people to the right. In this photo she had her hand on the arm of a young man in the sort of gesture that said, ‘Listen, I just
have
to tell you this,’ while the young man’s beautiful companion smiled up at him. Gemma picked up the photo, studying it but it was impossible to tell if it was the same man she’d seen with Minkie in the coffee shop and the BMW. All she’d really been able to get was an impression, certainly not enough for her to identify him in a photograph.

She put the picture down and looked around. Dominating the room was the huge desk, or rather, table of highly polished cedar, wide and low, clear of anything except a ritzy crystal and gold desk set and a carved, delicately painted babushka doll. Gemma sat down in Benjamin Glass’s heavy leather chair and leaned back, studying the room from this perspective. The room had the hush of a cathedral sacristy, or vacant, panelled court room; the skittle-shaped wooden doll, with its intricate high gloss features, wide eyes and flowery robes seemed very out of place in such a masculine shrine. Minkie’s face looked dreamily out of the framed portrait, the cat-green eyes staring out at Gemma.

Gemma turned her attention away from her hostess’s painted face and, using the keys Minkie had given her, tried the first drawer under the desk top. It opened easily and she looked through its contents. Insurance policies, business papers, a list of the charities and institutions that Benjamin Glass supported with his philanthropy, clippings and photos of him opening hospitals he’d endowed.
The man’s practically a saint,
Gemma remembered. The second drawer held accounts books and bank statements. And two large rolls of cash held together with rubber bands. Gemma picked one up and tried to estimate the amount. They were bundles of hundred dollar bills. She put the roll down and flicked through the accounts books, noticing the huge amounts of money that passed through the Glass’s several accounts. It’s another world, she thought to herself, the world of the wealthy. She made a mental note to ask Minkie’s permission for an independent audit, in case the figures revealed something unseemly. She felt overwhelmed by all this useless information. The third drawer seemed to have collected odds and ends, loose photographs and a set of jade or azurite worry beads. She sat there staring at them for a moment, then got up and went over to the mantelpiece, collecting the framed photographs and returning with them to the desk. She seated herself back in the boss’s seat. With great care, she prised each from its frame to check that there was nothing hiding behind them. There wasn’t. She refitted them and replaced them, returning them to their positions under the antique map.

She knew from past experience that books often held secrets and her heart sank when she considered how many books there were in the room and how many potential hiding places in every volume. She would need Spinner, Mike and Louise to come in with her and go through them. To find what, she asked herself? She opened the drawers in an elegant sideboard, finding only more rare books and liquor. She pulled up the rug under the desk and patted it down underneath where she couldn’t lift it, also tapping the parquetry underneath it. It all sounded solid. There didn’t seem to be any hidey-holes in the flooring. It’s hard searching for something unknown, she thought. Maybe I’m looking straight at it, and not recognising it. She got under the desk and lay on her back, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. She felt around the underside. From her experience she knew that men sometimes taped things there but there was nothing here, nor the housing for any secret drawer. She crawled back out. I’m looking for something, she thought, that will put a dent into the pure-as-the-driven-snow image of Benjamin Glass, philanthropist and all-round thoroughly decent man.

She gathered up the loose photos that still lay on the desk and was putting them back in the drawer when she noticed something right at the back, almost out of sight. She reached in and pulled out a boxed deck of cards. She picked them up, opened the pack and tipped them out. Just common blue-etched playing cards, the sort that are handed out by cabin crew during long flights. She took the deck out and started shuffling the cards, remembering the games of solitaire she’d played by torchlight in lonely stake-outs when it was too risky to watch a portable television. Gemma was handy with cards and slapped them and halved them, splicing the two halves together like a fancy gambler in a western. She imagined the missing man had sat here like her, doing this. Cards were soothing to play with, she thought, a bit like Middle Eastern worry beads. Is that what he did with them? Were they just an old-fashioned executive toy? Where are you, Benjamin Glass? she asked.
Who
are you?

Gemma put the cards down and pulled the babushka doll over, admiring the delicate silver and gold filigree paint of its body, the refinement of its pretty face. She opened it and found, not unsurprisingly, the next one. She opened the second one and there was the third, not quite so detailed in its decoration. There were still more to go, she knew, but she turned her attention back to the cards. She halved the deck, turned one half, then holding each half with her thumbs on the top, bent them a little to get the right tension then let them go, watching the blur as the two halves whizzed, straightened and interleafed with each other, splicing back into one deck again. She idly repeated the motion, enjoying the purr and snap of the cards as they combined. She was repeating this again when something odd caught her eye. This time, she slowed the action and repeated it with much more attention. As the cards whizzed past, it seemed that the etched back design was moving and changing in a manner that reminded her of primitive animation. Little dots of white danced in front of her eyes. Gemma frowned. This was very peculiar. Puzzled, she cut and spliced the cards again. She repeated the trick three times and each time, tiny white spots danced, in exactly the same sequence as before. Very interested now, Gemma slowed down the action, and one by one, let each card go. She brought the cards right up close and studied each one. I don’t believe it, she thought as she realised why the white spots danced. She’d seen this once a long time ago. She repeated the action, stopping the whizz at a white spot. She pulled the card out and studied it.

Suddenly Gemma stood up, experiencing the rush that she always felt when she was on the point of discovery. Her mind raced through the possibilities. Perhaps they were just a novelty, a party trick. Or did they indicate something more? Like the babushka doll, the cards pointed to something unusual, something unexpected in the man’s study and in his life, although Gemma could hardly imagine anything less sinister than a nest of painted wooden dolls. She reached over and unscrewed the third rosy-cheeked figure. And the fourth, and the fifth. But when she came to the last one, instead of the little solid doll who lives in the middle of her hollow sisters, she found a tiny security key. Aha, she thought, here’s something. She put all the dolls back inside each other again, and placed the key in an envelope. Then she picked up the deck of cards and the envelope, closed the drawers and walked out of the room.

Gemma descended the grand, curving staircase, wondering where Minkie might be.

‘Minkie?’ she called, feeling a little silly as the nickname echoed in the empty space of the atrium. From somewhere, the sound of a chair scraping indicated that her call had been heard and in a second or two Gemma heard the tip-tap of her Italian shoes on marble floors.

‘I need to speak to you,’ Gemma called. She heard the sound of a door opening and her hostess suddenly looked out from one of the rooms opening off a corridor that led from the atrium.

‘Down here, Gemma.’

Gemma walked past paintings on the walls and treasures in glass cases.

‘Come in,’ said Minkie, stepping back as Gemma followed her into a private sitting room. This space was feminine and soft, quite different from the formal elegance of the downstairs living room they’d first spoken in and the strongly masculine study of timber and baize green. On a dainty table, creamy pink camellias swam in a glass bowl, the water and the glass magnifying the impossibly perfect blooms. Gemma remembered the meaning of camellias from a book she read long ago on the language of flowers—beautiful, but cold. Are they an omen, she wondered?

‘I need to ask you about these,’ Gemma started to say, holding up the deck of cards. I found them in your husband’s desk.’

Minkie Montreau looked away as if busy finding a suitable place for the folder she was holding, but not before Gemma noticed the sudden blanching of her face, closely followed by an angry red blush. Gemma waited, letting the pressure of silence build between them. Minkie turned back to face her, her colour almost normal again, and licked her painted magenta lips.

‘Ah, those,’ she said, as if for a moment she hadn’t understood to what Gemma was referring. ‘Yes. Benjamin enjoyed card games very much.’

‘I’m sure he did,’ Gemma said. ‘Especially with this deck.’

‘What do you mean?’ Minkie frowned.

‘Are there any other decks around?’

‘Quite possibly,’ said Minkie. ‘Benjamin enjoyed a weekly card night with friends. I never attended them. They were only social games anyway.’

‘I’d like to see the other decks,’ said Gemma, alerted by the woman’s defensiveness. ‘May I look around?’

‘But of course,’ said Minkie. ‘It’s why you’re here.’

Gemma searched drawers and cabinets in the formal living room and soon found four more decks. She cut and checked each deck, whizzing them past her eyes. Minkie stood watching her until the phone rang. She picked up in a corner of the room, turning away from Gemma, speaking softly and in monosyllables. Gemma was hardly surprised to find that all four decks provided her with the dancing white spot show. In the corner, Minkie was replacing the handset.

‘Minkie,’ Gemma said. ‘I think you’d better tell me about Benjamin and his interest in playing cards.’

Minkie Montreau came over and sank into the upholstery of the grand lounge. The normal pallor of her face had become ghostly.

‘Benjamin had this weakness for card games,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mention it because I really didn’t think it would have any bearing on what’s happened.’

‘Tell me.’

‘He loved
winning.
Whether it was the share market or a race horse—not that he went to the track often. But when he did, he absolutely had to win. He became very, very upset if he lost.’ She looked up at Gemma. Today, the cat eyes were shaded with a deep charcoal, making them look larger and darker, if somewhat bruised. ‘It was his only character defect really. I found it rather amusing at first. But I’m pleased to say he hardly ever lost. He has—he had—the most unbelievable luck. Incredible luck. He was a legend among his friends. Benjamin always won.’

‘I’m sure he did,’ said Gemma, ‘with these.’ She pushed the five packs of cards into the centre of a little alabaster and bronze table. Minkie looked at them and then back at Gemma.

‘Why do you say that?’ she said.

Gemma laid half a dozen cards face down on the table. She held the first one up to Minkie, with the face pointing away from her. ‘Do you want me to tell you what that is?’ said Gemma. ‘It’s a three of clubs.’ She picked up another one, also with its back to her. ‘And that’s a four of hearts.’

Minkie stared.

‘That’s the queen of hearts,’ Gemma said, lifting another card face up towards the other woman. ‘And I can tell you the others if you want me to.’