“What’s it concern?”
“It concerns Mr. Raymond DuBois.”
“I don’t believe I know you.”
“That’s true, you don’t.”
Amused, Bernhardt nodded to himself. Andrea Lange was quick with a quip, cool with a comeback.
“Does it concern Mr. DuBois? Or some of his property?”
“It concerns property. I’d like ten minutes of your time. I’ll be in the bar downstairs. The Carnelian Room.”
“How’ll I know you?”
“You don’t have to know me. I know you.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Her reply was amused: “I’m not quite thirty. I’m a brunette, and tall. Shoulder-length hair. I’m wearing safari slacks and a madras blue-checked shirt. I’ll be the best-looking woman in the bar.”
“Ten minutes.”
“White wine,” Bernhardt said to the waiter. “Chardonnay.”
“I’m fine,” Andrea said, dismissing the waiter. She raised a half-full glass of Glenfiddich on the rocks, saluted Bernhardt, sipped the Scotch appreciatively.
“I don’t have much time,” Bernhardt said.
She put her drink aside, leaned across the small round cocktail table, dropped her voice.
“The first thing you should know,” she said, “is that you’re involved in a three-sided game—at least.”
“Oh?” Bernhardt studied her face. In a lifetime, he imagined, in the natural course of things, a given man met perhaps three truly beautiful women. Even during his years in the theater, and later on the fringes of Hollywood script-writing, he’d seldom seen anyone to match the beauty of the calm, completely assured woman he was facing. “Beautiful all over” was the phrase meant for Andrea Lange.
“You said ten minutes,” she began, “so I’ll get to it.”
He nodded. “Good.”
“I know bits and pieces about how you fit into this. But I don’t—”
“Excuse me, but when you say ‘this’ what’re we talking about, exactly?”
She smiled into his eyes, an appreciation. It was, he suspected, a moment he would long remember. When she spoke, the rich contralto of her voice matched the muted provocation in her eyes. “We’re talking about art, Mr. Bernhardt. Contraband art, worth millions.”
“And?” He was pleased with his response, not too coy, not too fatuous. Mr. Cool.
“And Raymond DuBois is a player. In fact, he’s probably the world’s most important player. But now he’s old. Dying, some say. And the authorities are after him. He’s got to get out. Fast. And he’s hired you to help him.”
The waiter arrived with a chilled glass of chardonnay, placed it before Bernhardt, smiled discreetly, withdrew.
“You said a three-cornered game. What’s that mean?”
“It means that there’s DuBois in one corner, with the paintings. And there’s John Graham, with money from the insurance carriers. And then—” Once more she sipped her Scotch. The drink, Bernhardt could see, was almost finished. Watching her handle her cut-crystal glass, he decided that Andrea Lange understood about drinking.
“And then,” she said, “there’s me.” The slow, subtle smile returned. “To be concise, I represent a syndicate of businessmen who, frankly, see a possibility for profit here.”
“Ah.” Bernhardt nodded appreciatively, returned the smile. It was an acknowledgment of Andrea Lange’s nearly perfect sense of timing. Had she ever done any acting? What was the origin of her slight accent? “Yes, I see.” He, too, sipped his drink. Then, trying for a casual nonchalance, he decided to say, “That accent. I can’t place it.”
“I grew up in Argentina.”
He nodded again. “Yes, I see.”
“My maternal grandfather managed to get out of Germany after the war. My mother made money—a lot of money—in export-import. She’s utterly self-centered, and she has no sense of humor. She’s very beautiful, though—and she collects young men. Boys, sometimes. My father is an Argentinian playboy. He’s very handsome, very urbane—and utterly useless, except for drinking and playing polo. He collects women. Girls, too.”
“That,” he said, “is a truly remarkable thumbnail autobiography.” Then, even though it was a cliché, he added, “You should write.”
She smiled.
“So why’re you telling me all this? What’s the bottom line?”
“The bottom line is money. As always.”
“This syndicate—how big is it? How much money does it have?”
“There’re three men, two European, one Japanese. I’m not prepared to tell you how much money there is. However, like Mr. DuBois, all three are entrepreneurs, speculators. Each one has far-flung interests. This operation is merely one of many for them—a diversion, one could say, a little excitement, a change from buying and selling stocks and bonds and real estate. Some speculators form pools to buy racehorses. They do it purely for fun, excitement. That’s the thinking of these three men, the motivation. Quite simply, they’re bored.”
“Are they collectors?”
Her smile suggested that she found the question amusing. “They collect money. Not art, especially. Money. Power. However, for men like that, the unique has great appeal. To possess something of great value that no one else can ever have, that’s almost irresistible.” She considered for a moment while she signaled their waiter for another round. Then: “At another level, however, my clients think of this as an ordinary distress sale. DuBois has to get rid of this stuff, and quickly. Therefore, he’s got to sell at a loss. That creates a profit opportunity—the free market at work. Buy low, sell high.” She raised her shoulders in a graceful shrug, spreading her hands. The fingernails, Bernhardt noticed, were natural, polished but not colored. The cloth of her madras blouse drew taut across her breasts.
“Do your people know the art we’re discussing is contraband?”
“Of course. Remember, though, it’s contraband according to U.S. law.”
“So you intend to buy the paintings here and ship them abroad.”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
“What happens if you get caught?”
“Then I’ve lost my gamble. But it’s a gamble for which I’m being very well paid.”
“Up front?”
“Some of it.” She waited for fresh drinks to be placed before them, at the same time asking the waiter for the check. Bernhardt thanked her, sipped chardonnay as he looked appraisingly at her over the rim of his glass. She met his gaze squarely, frankly appraising him. Her eyes were a dark brown, alive with speculation—and something else. Could the something else, Bernhardt wondered, possibly be sexual?
Feeling his way, he said, “I’m still thinking about your biographical sketch—on very short acquaintance. How come?”
“I believe in knowing something about whoever I do business with. Naturally, I assume others feel the same.”
“What d’you know about me, Andrea?”
“Not much, really. I know Raymond DuBois has enough confidence in you to give you the job of selling his paintings. That’s all I need to know, really. Of course—” Once more her eyes shifted speculatively, boldly. “Of course, anything you care to tell me, I’d be happy to listen.”
“I figure the less I tell, the better position I’m in.”
“I suppose that depends on what you might’ve told me.”
“What d’you know about John Graham?” he asked.
“I know he’s basically an ordinary insurance adjuster who happens to specialize in very expensive claims, a lot of them involving larceny. Maybe
all
of them involve larceny. I’ve never met the man, but I hear he’s very smooth, very urbane.”
“It sounds like you and Graham are working the same block, on opposite sides of the street.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Bernhardt checked the time. In fifteen minutes, give or take, he should return to his suite and wait for C.B. and Paula to call from the airport.
“Obviously,” he said, “I’ve got to run this past DuBois. Maybe I can get through to him tonight, maybe not. Otherwise, I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning. Where can I reach you? Which hotel?”
“I’ve got an apartment. I’ll call you.”
“Ah.” He nodded knowingly. “It’s like that, eh?”
“I’ve learned to be careful.”
“I’ll bet.” He sipped the chardonnay. Then, trying for an easy, offhand air, he said, “This apartment—do you have a garage?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Is it secure?”
Her smile was playfully inscrutable. “As in secure enough to store some very valuable art? That kind of secure?”
Watchfully he waited.
“The answer is that, yes, it would probably work. But only for a few hours, until the exchange is made.”
They drank in silence, each covertly assessing the other. Then, with an air of finality, he said, “If you won’t give me a phone number, then you’d better give me some figures, some guidelines.”
“I’d have to know which paintings we’re talking about.”
“And I’d have to clear that with DuBois.”
“How soon does Graham expect to have an offer ready?”
“Not until Monday. Everything in New York is closed until then.”
She frowned. “He told you that?”
Bernhardt decided not to answer the question. Instead, he finished his second glass of wine and shifted restlessly in his chair, a signal that he was about to leave. How would Paula react if she could see him now?
“I think,” Andrea said, “that Graham is lying. If he wants to get some answers from his people over the weekend, he can.”
“I’m just telling you what he told me. Hell, I basically don’t have any idea what’s really going on. I’m just the goddam go-between.”
She regarded him quizzically for a moment, then said, “I figure you for someone who only resorts to profanity when you’re frustrated. Am I right?”
Caught off balance, Bernhardt chuckled. “You might have a point there. I’ll have to listen to myself.”
“I also figure you for an intellectual.” She pointed to his empty glass, an invitation. “One more?”
He shook his head, moved his chair back. “Sorry. I’ve got to get to my phone.”
“If it’ll help, I can come up.” She said it quietly, looked directly into his eyes.
I’m not quite thirty
, she’d said. Meaning that, for more than a decade, she’d been fending off sexual advances, most of which had certainly begun as this one was beginning: with the particular eye-to-eye, woman-to-man challenge that conveyed only one possible message: the elemental urge to copulate.
Holding eye contact, she began a slow, knowing smile. The message: she knew exactly what he was thinking. And she was amused.
He realized that, without knowing that he meant to do it, he was shaking his head. Then, dropping his eyes, he said, “This isn’t the time.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” As, yes, the smile held between them. Signifying that the offer was still open.
“I, ah, I’ve got make some calls. And I’ve got to meet people at the airport. My, ah, colleagues.”
“Ah.” Now, still amused, she nodded. “I see. Or, anyhow—” Her eyes shifted obliquely. “Anyhow, I think I see.”
“If you’ll give me a phone number …”
The smile faded; the sexual game was played out, and it was once more time to do business. She shook her head. “No, no phone numbers. I’m sure Graham is handling this very differently. Exchange cards, my people’ll be in touch with your people, that whole routine. But my situation is, ah, unique.”
“Yes …” Speculatively Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I can see that.” About to leave her, give himself time to think, make plans, he decided instead to improvise, follow the random pattern of his own thoughts: “You say you want an inventory, you want guarantees. Well, I’m sure DuBois is going to want guarantees, too. These three guys you’re fronting for—I’m sure DuBois’ll want their names. He’ll want—”
“That’s no problem,” she broke in. “I’ll gladly give the names to Mr. DuBois. But I won’t give them to you.”
“Which, translated, means that you want to meet with him.”
She shrugged. “You said it yourself: you’re a go-between. I think it’s time for principals. Don’t you?”
“You’re a go-between, too, Andrea.” He watched her eyes, looking for shift, some hint of vulnerability. There was nothing. “
Aren’t
you a go-between?” He accented the question delicately, a suggestion that he was just one step ahead of her. “Or are you in business for yourself? These three guys—what are they, Andrea? Straw men? Props?”
Suddenly her eyes went cold. Her mouth tightened, the ligatures of her face and neck drew taut. Her voice roughened, dropped to a low, angry note of accusation. “You’re calling me a liar.”
He considered her accusation, then decided to shake his head. He would try for a casual response, a change of pace, keep her slightly off balance: “I’m not really calling you a liar. I’m saying that you’re probably a pretty good poker player. And good poker players—good gamblers—bluff.” He tried a smile. It was a mistake.
“You talk about poker,” she said, her voice dead level. “Well, I’ll tell you this, Alan: I’ve got a lot invested in this game. And I’m not going to walk away with money on the table.”
“But you aren’t going to name your three guys.”
“Not to you. I give you the names, you get on the phone, make your own deal—where’s that leave me?”
“You’re suggesting that these high rollers are readily accessible. That’s not been my experience. If it’s that easy, you’d have called DuBois.”
“Honor among thieves,” she quoted bitterly. “Christ, any thief I know, he’s more trusting than you are.”
“Now
you’re
swearing.”
Plainly struggling to control her anger, she looked away, said nothing.
“I’ll tell DuBois what you said. Let’s see what happens.” He pushed back his chair. Then, on impulse, he said, “I’ll tell you this, though, Andrea. If—” He broke off. Should he finish it? Should he turn up his card for her to see?
Yes, he’d do it—just this one card: “If you want to get in the game, it’ll probably take about twenty-five million dollars. Very negotiable dollars. No checks accepted.” He smiled, rose to his feet. “Thanks for the drinks. Keep in touch.”
As he turned and walked away, making his way through the Saturday night drinkers, he began to whistle softly. Delivering the last several lines, he’d felt very good, very much in command of his performance. And the exit line had been timed perfectly. The proof had been her reaction: pure, naked fury.