Full Circle (23 page)

“Jesus.” Harry blinked, sat up straighter. “You’re telling me you turned Ned in because he looked at some other woman? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Beautiful people have their problems, too, you know. If you’re plain, you let it pass if a man’s eyes wander. You can’t afford to do otherwise, sometimes. But if you’re beautiful, and you’re rejected, especially in public, the pain can be unbearable. The only solace possible is revenge.”

“So you stuck Ned in a Mexican jail.”

She made no reply. Her expression revealed nothing.

“So what happened? How’d he get out of jail?”

“He made a deal with the FBI.”

“The FBI? In Mexico?”

“Pay the Mexican police enough, you get anything you want.”

“What was the deal?”

“The deal,” she said, “was illicit art—and illicit collectors.”

“DuBois.”

She nodded. “DuBois. The feds want him. Badly.”

“So—what—they got Ned sprung, and he came ringing your bell? Is that it?”

“That’s it.” She drained the highball glass for the last time, set it resolutely aside. She’d had enough.

“He didn’t know you turned him in?”

“I was never sure.” She spoke reflectively.

“So then what?”

“The word was out that Ned had copped, so no one would do business with him when he tried to set up shop again. And Ned had expensive tastes.”

“So you gave him money, and …” He let it go unsaid.

“He gave me a name. That’s all I needed. A name.”

“DuBois.”

She made no reply.

“So then you didn’t need Ned anymore. Good-bye Ned.”

Her smile was almost playful, almost a coquette’s smile.

“That party, with the dancing girls—that was Ned’s big mistake, I guess.”

Her smile widened almost imperceptibly.

A
S HE ALWAYS DID
afterwards, he kissed Paula gently on her forehead, lightly caressed her, all passion spent.

“Just think.” he whispered, “What if you’d decided to move to Cleveland instead of San Francisco?”

“Hmmm …” She stirred, snuggled, sighed.

“There never would’ve been the last five minutes. They never would’ve happened.”

“Hotels,” she murmured. “What is it about hotels? Fresh sheets. That must be part of it. The anonymity, and fresh sheets.”

“Then there’s also the guy you came with.” He kissed her again.

“Hmmm.”

He raised himself on one elbow, looked over her shoulder at the travel alarm he’d put on the nightstand.

“What time is it?”

“Almost one-thirty.”

“What time will it go off?”

“Six-thirty.”

She sighed again. Paula was not an early riser. Neither was she a night person.

“You don’t have to get up.”

“Let’s see what happens. How long’ll it take tomorrow, with DuBois?”

“It shouldn’t take long. After an hour or two, he runs out of energy.”

“Will you come back here afterwards?”

“I haven’t decided. A lot depends on how it goes with DuBois. If I get the inventory, I’ll want to take it to Graham, at the Hilton.”

“So—what—do C.B. and I wait here until you come back?” With the question, the pillow-talk muzziness in her voice cleared. Paula was thinking ahead. Questions would soon follow.

“I think one of you should stay close to a phone. Basically I’ve got no idea how tomorrow’s going to play out. Minimum, though, we’ve got to rent a house. And we’ve got to rent a van, too. Plus another car. The Accord Grace Campbell gave me is fine. But the Lincoln Powers rented for me is too conspicuous. I don’t want to drive that on Tuesday.”

For a long, reflective moment they lay silently side by side, both of them staring up at the ceiling. Finally Paula ventured, “There’s a sense of”—she broke off until she found the word—“of unreality about all this.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“It’s the money—all that money. It’s like astronomy. Light-years. Who can really comprehend a light-year? My God, the distance a beam of light travels in a year, going a hundred eighty-six thousand miles a second. That’s astounding enough in itself. But then the sun is—what—two hundred million light-years from the earth.”

“I don’t think so. I think that’s the most distant star. The sun is closer.”

She chuckled. “Here we are, talking about astronomy.”

He chuckled, too.

“Alan?”

He knew this new shading in her voice, this subtle shift of inflection. They were about to get serious.

“What?”

“It can’t be as simple as it sounds. Those paintings, worth all that money. It sounds like it’s an open secret that DuBois has the paintings.”

“I’m beginning to think so, too.”

“So if it’s an open secret, then who else knows? How many?”

“That’s not the point. The point is that—”

“Alan, for God’s sake. That’s the
whole
point. Here we are, you and C.B. and me. You’re one of the nicest, smartest, most sensitive men in the whole wide world. And C.B. is a big, black, overstuffed lamb, even though I’m sure he’s very tough, and very streetwise. And then there’s me. I—Christ—I still feel like I’m a little girl sometimes, being overprotected by my parents. We’re innocents abroad, Alan. Amateurs. And we’re playing at the same table with one of the world’s richest men.”

“But that’s DuBois’s problem. He’s got so much money that he can’t trust anyone. He’s got two divorced wives and no children. He hires Powers to front for him in business, and he hires Grace Campbell to run his house. But he doesn’t really trust either one of them. I think he trusts James, his bodyguard. But James can’t deal with these paintings. Which leaves me. For some reason, DuBois trusts me.

“That’s because you’re the nicest, smartest, most—”

He kissed her, laughed with her, said good night to her.

A
S HE’D DONE THE
previous day, James got out of the town car and walked around to open the rear passenger’s door. And, another repeat of yesterday, Bernhardt shook his head, opened the front right-hand door, got into the car. As soon as they were under way, Bernhardt said, “The reason I wanted you to pick me up, I want to talk to you.” As he’d done yesterday, he tried to project an aura of authority, of command.

With his eyes on the road ahead, James nodded. “Yes, I was sure that was what you wanted.”

“In a couple of days we’re going to be working together, you and me. Has Mr. DuBois told you about what we’ll be doing?”

“He’s told me that he’s selling some of his paintings, and you’re going to deliver them to the buyer.”

“Did he say who the buyer is?”

The other man shook his head. “No, sir. All Mr. DuBois said was that the paintings will have to be guarded, because of their value.”

“Have you ever done this before, guarded paintings on their way to customers?”

“No, sir. Never.”

“Why do you suppose you’ll be doing it now?”

“Because Betty Giles isn’t here, that was my thought.”

“Mr. DuBois buys and sells paintings frequently. How’re they usually handled? How’re they shipped?”

“Usually by United Parcel. Sometimes by Federal Express, or an ordinary truck line.”

“You said yesterday that you’ve been with Mr. DuBois for three years. What’d you do before that, James?”

“I worked for Carla Jeffries.”

“The movie star?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As her bodyguard?”

He nodded.

“How do you get a job like that?”

“I worked for a security agency. You know, rent-a-cop. I was assigned to Miss Jeffries after her bodyguard quit, and then she hired me permanently.”

“How was she to work for?”

“She was very—” He searched for the word. “Very unpredictable. And—” He glanced at Bernhardt before he decided to say, “She could be unpleasant when she drank. One night she threw a glass at me. After that, I quit.”

“How’s Mr. DuBois to work for?”

“Very fine. Very—” Once more, he hesitated, then said, “He’s very fair.”

“And very predictable, I imagine.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Do you carry a gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All the time?”

“Only when I’m on duty.”

“Are you carrying a gun now?” Bernhardt looked at the navy-blue blazer the other man wore. There was no apparent bulge of a shoulder holster.

Aware of Bernhardt’s appraisal, James answered, “I have a Colt Cobra in a holster at my belt.”

“That’s not a very serious gun.”

“I also have two nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistols and a forty-four-caliber Magnum.”

“That,” Bernhardt admitted, “is a serious gun.”

“Yes.”

“What about a fully automatic weapon?”

James hesitated, looked appraisingly at Bernhardt. Finally, with obvious reluctance, he said, “I have—we have—two machine pistols.”

“You say ‘we.’ Who else do you mean?”

“They belong to Mr. DuBois, really. But they’re registered to me.”

“Do you have a permit to carry them concealed?”

James shook his head. “No, sir. No private party has that kind of a permit.”

“Friday, when we were at the Huntington, did you have a machine pistol then?”

“Yes, sir. In the car. It’s an Uzi.”

“Have you ever shot the Uzi?”

“Two or three times, on a private range.”

“Are you any good with it?”

“I think so.”

Having passed through Beverly Hills, making good time in the early Sunday morning traffic, they were on the Canyon Drive, beginning the climb up the narrow, winding road that would lead to Benedict Canyon. In ten minutes, perhaps less, they would arrive at the DuBois estate.

“You grew up in Central America, Mr. DuBois told me.”

“Yes, sir. I was born in San Salvador.”

“But you spent your boyhood in the mountains. Your parents were guerrilla leaders.”

This time James made no reply. Neither did he look at Bernhardt. Impassively, expertly, he guided the Lincoln into a series of esses, with the thickly wooded canyon dropping away sharply on their downhill side.

“When we move these paintings, probably on Tuesday, I’ll want you to be armed. Fully armed, probably including the Uzi.”

“Are you expecting trouble?”

“No. But I’m
preparing
for trouble. We’ll be transporting art that’s worth a lot of money. Millions.”

“How far will we be taking it?”

“Not more than ten miles, probably. We’ll be taking the stuff to a private home, and meeting the customers. We’ll give them the paintings, and they’ll give us a suitcase full of money. Maybe two suitcases. We’ll take the money back to Mr. DuBois. And that’s it. The whole thing shouldn’t take more than an hour, once the paintings are crated.”

“You’ll need a van, I expect.” As he said it, James allowed the Lincoln to slow on the uphill grade, reached for an electronic wand clipped to the sun visor. Ahead, Bernhardt saw the gates to the DuBois estate. He looked at his watch: seven forty-five.

“I’ll have a van,” Bernhardt answered.

Nodding, James waited for the gate to open, then drove slowly ahead.

“You say you worked three years for Mr. DuBois. How long’ve you lived in the States?”

“About ten years.” James was guiding the big car through the gates.

“Is that your house?” Bernhardt pointed to a small bungalow on their right.

“Yes, sir. I’m closest to the gate, you see.”

“Stop here for a minute.” Bernhardt waited for the car to come to a stop, explaining, “We’re a little early, and I’ve got a few more questions.”

The other man made no comment. He simply sat as before, both hands on the steering wheel, eyes forward, as if he were still driving.

“There’s a woman named Andrea, very beautiful, from South America. Argentina, I think. She’s about thirty, tall, dark hair. Have you seen anyone like that recently? She’d be trying to contact Mr. DuBois about the paintings we’re selling.”

James frowned. “How recently?”

“During the last week.”

“No, sir. No one like that.” Pointedly the other man consulted his watch.

“Okay. Let’s go. Thanks, James.”

“You’re welcome.” James put the car in gear, drove slowly ahead. As the main house came into view, Bernhardt saw a black Jaguar sedan parked at the door.

“Visitors? At eight o’clock on a Sunday morning?”

“That’s Mr. Robbins’s car.” James pulled up behind the Jaguar.

“He’s Mr. DuBois’s lawyer. Right?”

“Right.” James reached for his door latch.

“Don’t bother. Please.” Bernhardt got out of the car, thanked his companion, strode across the flagstone entryway to the massive metal-sculptured door. As he was about to press the button, the door slowly, ponderously opened, revealing Grace Campbell. She greeted him briefly, gestured down the short hallway to DuBois’s study and the deck adjoining it.

“Mr. Robbins is with him,” she said as the door swung closed. “They’re on the deck. You’re to join them.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

She nodded, at the same time gesturing again. The message: at three minutes after eight o’clock, he’d already wasted three minutes of the great man’s precious time.

Two white plastic chairs had been drawn up to DuBois’s mechanical wheelchair, which was placed to face the view to the west, where the morning fog still lingered off the ocean. As Bernhardt stepped through the sliding glass door connecting the study to the deck, Albert Robbins rose to his feet and extended his hand as they exchanged names. Dressed for the golf course, Robbins was a tall, spare man in his mid-fifties. He was almost totally bald. His face was long and lean, his lips permanently pursed, his expression permanently pinched. Conforming to the dry, precise cast of his face, he wore small rimless glasses that might have come from an earlier era. After they’d shaken hands, with a proprietary air Robbins gestured Bernhardt to one of the white deck chairs while he took the other.

When they were seated, DuBois spoke first to Bernhardt: “I wanted you to meet Mr. Robbins. He is, as you know, my personal lawyer. Albert knows, in broad outline, of our, ah, negotiations with respect to the paintings. Therefore, I wanted you two to meet.” He turned to Robbins, saying, “Mr. Bernhardt has my personal trust, Albert. You understand.”