First Gravedigger (21 page)

She pushed me away. “Don't be insulting, Earl.”

“Insulting? I tell you I want you to stay and that's insulting?”

“You think I'm so weak-headed I'd give up a partnership for the pleasures of going to bed with you? I think that's insulting.”

Seemed to me she wasn't the only one being insulted. “All right, June. If you're determined to go, I can't stop you. But we've been close—you just can't pretend that's never happened. So on the basis of that I'm going to ask you to do something for me. Before you go, tell me how I can get Wightman. You've helped him—now help me.”

Her face was a study in innocence. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Think a moment before you say no. If I can discredit Wightman, that would leave you in control of his gallery. You'd like that, wouldn't you? I can help you. Just give me a line on how I can get to him.”

She looked at me in frank amazement. “You can't hurt my partner without hurting me too. And Earl, I'm not going to cooperate in my own destruction. I've got a good opportunity and I'm going to take it. There's no way you can talk me out of it.”

The bitch. “You overestimate your own value, June,” I said coldly. “Your ambition exceeds your capabilities. You must have something on Wightman yourself. It's blackmail, isn't it? That's the only way Wightman would give
you
a partnership.”

“Why don't you leave, Earl? This isn't getting us anywhere.”

“You're the one who's leaving. Now. This minute. Get your things, June. I'm going to escort you out myself.”

That
got to her, but she couldn't do anything about it. She'd already made a start at cleaning out her desk, so it didn't take long to gather up her personal belongings. I didn't help her carry them. I took her down to the front entrance and made sure she heard me instruct the security guard that one June Murray was to be denied entrance to Speer's hereafter.

“Good boy, Earl,” she said dryly, and left.

Granted, it was an act of petty spite, but it made me feel a lot better. I stood behind the glass doors and watched her make her way down the street. A man spoke to her, but she hurried by without answering. The man was Lieutenant D'Elia, and he had four other men with him. One of them was Sergeant Pollock. Now what.

“A search warrant,” D'Elia said, holding up a legal-looking paper. “And I have another for your home.”

“What the hell for?” I exploded. “What do you expect to find?”

“The genuine Duprée,” he said, and gestured to his men to get started.

I put one hand against the wall to support myself. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “Search and be damned,” I said weakly.

“Could we go to your office?”

“Can I stop you?” We went to my office.

“I've been doing some reading about antique furniture,” D'Elia said when he'd settled himself. “Especially about how to spot fakes. Quite ingenious—the faking, I mean. Like the books say always test the screws. If they loosen easily, then they're not very old. But there's a way around that. All you have to do is put a little water in the screw hole first, and the screw just rusts into place. Won't budge—and it makes the chair appear older than it is. Is that what happened with the Duprée?”

“There are no screws in a Duprée chair.”

He looked disappointed. “Well, whatever was done was good enough to fool Amos Speer. And from what I hear he didn't fool easy. Or maybe the chair he bought wasn't a fake. Maybe the fake was put together later. Like during the year between Speer's death and the time you announced the auction.”

I just stared at him, so disgusted I could hardly speak. “You think I substituted a fake Duprée for a genuine one.”

“That's what I think.”

“And then what? Put an ad in the paper—stolen Duprée for sale?”

“There are always buyers for stolen works of art if you know how to find them. And you're in a position to know. Maybe one of those rich eccentrics who hide their treasures in underground vaults.”

“If you'd just stop to think, Lieutenant, you'd see how absurd that is. Why would I risk exposing myself and the galleries to ridicule by offering a chair for auction I knew was a fake? Do you have any idea what a setback this is for us?”

“Maybe you don't care about the galleries as much as you claim you do. A private deal on the side would put a lot of change in your pocket. I talked to the Frenchman, ah …”

“Guicharnaud.”

“Yeah. He said he was authorized to go as high as six hundred thousand. The man from the Metropolitan wouldn't tell me what he was going to bid. But six hundred thousand—that's enough to tempt anybody.”

“And you're seriously suggesting I would risk ruining Speer's for six hundred thousand dollars?”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“Listen, you dumb cop, you've got it exactly backwards. I would risk six hundred thousand dollars to help Speer's any day of the week, but never the other way around. Never.”

“That sounds very noble,” D'Elia said sarcastically. “Too bad I don't believe a word of it. Ever since this thing started a year ago,
you've
always been the one to cash in. Nobody else profited, nobody else had anything to gain. Just you. I think you had Speer killed, Sommers. You hired somebody to do it while you were in your office establishing an alibi for yourself. I don't know whether your wife knew about it or not, and I don't much care.
You
were behind it, and I'm going to nail you for it.”

“Threats? Intimidation? Does your search warrant grant you Gestapo powers?”

“It was the Duprée chair that had me stumped,” he plodded on, unhearing. “All I had to go on was Wightman's suspicions, and he's such a vindictive man I couldn't really trust his opinion. But then you put the chair up for auction and it turns out to be a fake. Then it all started to make sense. Were you hoping it was good enough to fool the experts? Either way, you still stood to make a bundle. Sommers, you're a murderer and a thief, and somewhere there's evidence to prove it. All I have to do is find it. And you can be damned sure I will.”

I started to reach for the phone to call Peg McAllister; this mule-headed policeman scared me and I wanted my lawyer with me. But then I changed my mind. D'Elia's men weren't going to find a genuine Duprée because there wasn't any to be found. D'Elia couldn't charge me without evidence. What he thought and what he'd said didn't have to go beyond this room. The less Peg knew about my troubles the better.

The police were still hard at it when I left for the day. I got home to find Nedda virtually shaking with outrage.

“Police,” she said in a voice people usually use when talking about cockroaches. “Police crawling all over my home, prying into everything. They even sounded the walls, looking for concealed rooms.”

It wasn't exactly welcome-home-darling-how-was-your-day, but it was the first time Nedda had spoken to me since our showdown about the divorce. “I know. It was that way at the gallery too.”

“
Police
searching my home! Everything's disintegrating—and now my privacy is violated. Earl, you're the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life. You damage everything you touch.”

“Oh, it's
my
fault those idiot police are looking for a chair that doesn't exist? That's my fault?”

“Who else's? They suspect you of something, Earl. There's got to be some reason a squad car full of men waving search warrants roars up to my front door. If they suspect you, they're probably wondering about me. How dare you bring this on me? How dare you?”

So Queen Nedda's dignity was offended; tough. “You really have a lot of sterling qualities, Nedda. Courage, loyalty, grace under pressure—”

“Don't be sarcastic with me,” she snarled. “We're both past that now. Look, I can't hang around here and watch this happening. I've got to get out of here for a while. I'm going to New York for a week or two.”

“A week or two?” I raised an eyebrow at her. “Will his wife let him out for that long? Well, have fun with your screwing and scheming. It won't do you any good, you know. The price is still Speer Galleries.”

She looked at me with something like regret. “You really are hopeless, aren't you?” she said softly.

I didn't answer her. She didn't deserve an answer.

CHAPTER 14

The security guard's records showed the police hadn't left until 4
A
.
M
. I hoped they all had trouble staying awake during the day.

Peg McAllister was waiting in my office for me. She looked miserable.

“Sit down, Peg. Why the long face?”

She sat on the edge of a chair, looking depressed as hell. “Earl, this is difficult for me. I have something to tell you.”

“Then tell me.”

“It's not easy.”

“Say it, Peg.”

“I've decided to retire.”

So. Another one walking out on me. Well, I'd wanted Peg to retire. So why did I feel betrayed? “I see. Too much heat in the kitchen?”

Her face was pinched and drawn. “Try to understand, Earl. Speer Galleries has been my life. I always knew leaving would be agony. But the time has come. And I did stay until the Wightman mess was cleaned up, just as I said I would.”

“You also said you'd be here until the cows come home, if I remember right.”

“You remember right.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Earl. I know how this must look. Like desertion under fire. Especially after the disappointment of the Duprée chair. But when that policeman came into my office yesterday with a search warrant, I had to face up to the fact that things were getting worse every day. We're losing money, the phony Duprée made us a laughingstock. And now the police think Speer's knowingly participated in an attempt to defraud. It's all too much.”

I got up and went to look out the window, my back to her. Damned if I'd make it easy for her.

“You can build Speer's up again,” Peg said to my back. “People will forget about the Duprée eventually. So will the police. Nobody can ruin a firm like Speer's in only one year—I know you'll find a way to build profits and regain Speer's good reputation. But it will take time, Earl. Maybe more time than I've got left. I went through the building process once—Amos Speer and I saw some pretty rough years before the galleries were established. I just don't think I could go through that again. I don't think I should have to.”

Stony silence from me.

“I'll stay until you've found a new attorney, of course. I'll find one for you, if you like.”

I looked out the window.

“Earl?”

I kept my back to her.

“Oh, Earl.” I could hear the pain in her voice. “I was hoping you wouldn't take it this way. I wish you'd try to see what this means to me.”

I said nothing.

“All right,” she said in a resigned voice. “If that's the way you want it. I'll start looking for my successor.”

I kept my back turned until I heard the door close behind her. Exit one meddling old crow, and good riddance.

If Amos Speer had had this trouble, Peg would have charged in and told him in no uncertain terms what he should do about it. But she'd had no suggestions for me at all. Maybe she was right—maybe it was just age catching up with her. The Peg McAllister who'd helped build Speer Galleries wasn't the defeated old woman who'd just left my office.

My pride had suffered a small blow, but that was nothing to the advantages gained. Of the three troublesome women in my life, two were gone or going and the third was out on a limb. Lieutenant D'Elia might be making threatening noises, but he was on a wild-goose chase. Money was the one real problem I had left; but as Peg said, nobody could ruin a firm as good as Speer's in only one year. (No, I didn't miss the implication that I'd made a good run at it.) Somehow Speer's would absorb the loss and slowly build up its profits again. It would take some doing, but we'd make it. I was sure we would. I was going to survive.

I knew I should leave well enough alone, but I couldn't resist. I punched out a number on the phone.

“Lieutenant D'Elia speaking.”

“Find any six-hundred-thousand-dollar chairs lately, Lieutenant?” I gloated.

Silence.

“Oh, come now, Lieutenant, don't pout. Maybe you didn't look in the right places.”

“We'll find it,” he said grimly. “That chair has to be someplace. You might think you're safe because you've already sold it. Don't count on it.”

“Well, keep looking. Anything's better than admitting you made a mistake,” I said cheerfully and hung up.

Two days later I was reading a report from the new rare books expert at the London branch (prognosis: poor to fair) when the phone buzzed.

“Long distance on line two,” my secretary said.

“Who is it?”

“Sorry, I didn't ask. Should I—?”

“Never mind, I'll take it.” I punched the button. “Sommers.”

“Right where he's supposed to be, nose to the grindstone and all that. Your conscientiousness is impressive, old chap. Of course, the new boy-type secretary could use a few basic pointers about screening callers. The June-bug told me all about him. She's just arrived here, by the way.”

She didn't waste much time. “Glad to hear it, Wightman. You two deserve each other.”

A whinny came over the line. “Enough chitchat—I call for a purpose. Perched on my scarred Gropius desk is a piece of porcelain you will be glad—nay, eager—to know about.”

What gall. “You really think I would buy anything from you?”

“Who said anything about buying? Listen, dear boy, listen very carefully. Summon your fading cerebral faculties and concentrate. Try to visualize a graceful feminine figure, flowers in her hair, garbed in an exquisitely ornamented robe. She sits lightly atop a magnificent swan with powerful outstretched wings—”