“That’s him,” Nigel said. “He’s using his father’s name. Always in trouble, that boy.” He entered his office and closed the door behind him.
Forty minutes later his cell phone rang.
“It’s Valerie,” Megan said. She was in her motel room, lying on the bed with Cuddles, who seemed excited by their new surroundings.
“I’ll have it tomorrow, sometime after two P.M.,” Nigel said.
“Why not today?”
“You can’t walk into a bank and draw out that kind of money unless you’re superrich. That money is all I have. I’m penniless now.”
“You’ll be okay when you sell the paintings,” Megan said. “They’re very valuable, according to Mr. Dibble.”
“Yes, dear Mr. Dibble.” Then he said, “Is your partner still in the dark about our bonus arrangement?”
“He’s very much in the dark,” Megan said. “He believes the paintings are yours and he doesn’t even know the name Sammy Brueger. He’s a brain-dead addict, to tell you the truth.”
“Will he be accompanying you here tomorrow when you bring the paintings?”
“Of course not.”
“Just wondering,” Nigel said, trying to decide how he could use the information he’d just learned from Ruth. Her crime partner was in jail. Would she be alone? Was violence still an option? Could he possibly eliminate both of the thieves?
“But I will have protection,” Megan said as though telepathic. “There will be someone delivering me and the paintings and waiting for me outside. You’ll be able to see him.”
“My dear girl,” Nigel said. “I am not a dangerous man. You have nothing to fear.”
“I’m going to be with a gentleman in a turban,” Megan said, “who looks like he could easily cut the throat of anyone who tried to hurt me. But first he would call the police immediately if I didn’t walk out of your gallery wearing a happy face.”
Raleigh Dibble couldn’t bear it any longer. He pulled the Brueger Mercedes out of the garage and drove to Beverly Hills late that afternoon. Another day was almost over, and still no call from Nigel Wickland. His suspicion that Nigel was secretly dealing with the thieves was overwhelming now, and his nerves were in tatters. He dressed in his best sport coat over somewhat threadbare gabardine trousers with a white dress shirt and necktie. He arrived at the Wickland Gallery thirty minutes before closing and was met by Ruth, who was turning out the painting lights over some of the more valuable consignment pieces.
“May I help you?” she said.
“I need to see Mr. Wickland,” he said. “My name is Raleigh Dibble.”
Ruth smiled and said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Dibble, I remember you. Sorry, but Mr. Wickland left early today.”
“Really?” Raleigh said. “I talked to him today and he didn’t say he was leaving.”
Ruth looked at Raleigh and said, “I don’t recall taking a call from you today for Mr. Wickland.”
“I called him on his cell,” Raleigh said, trying a convivial smile. “I’m a personal friend.”
Ruth looked doubtful until Raleigh rattled off Nigel’s cell phone number. Then she said, “Sorry. It’s just that so many people seem to want to talk personally to Mr. Wickland these days.”
“I know how it is,” Raleigh said. “We’re working together on an estate sale for my aunt, and I’m dealing with some of the same people.” Then he took a wild shot and said, “I guess the fellow came in yesterday that I’ve been working with? Or was it today? Anyway, I told the gentleman to come and speak with Nigel personally and bring a couple of the estate’s paintings. Did he arrive?”
“Nobody brought any paintings in yesterday or today,” Ruth said.
“Oh,” Raleigh said, feeling that maybe he had it wrong after all. “Didn’t someone come and ask to see Nigel privately?”
“Not a gentleman,” Ruth said. “Only a young lady yesterday. I don’t know if she was from the estate or not.”
“I see,” Raleigh said, and now he was sure it was hopeless. Nigel would be furious when he found out that he was pumping this employee for information. He made a last feeble attempt and said apologetically, “I guess it wasn’t my client, unless the young lady happened to bring some paintings here with her.”
Ruth laughed and said, “Dear me, no. The poor little thing was lucky she could carry her purse let alone any paintings. She was so frail.”
Raleigh looked away quickly and felt that sensation again, the blood rushing to his head and ice cubes in the gut. He said, “Was she a very young woman with dark hair?”
“Yes, she was so adorable in her little candy-striped dress,” Ruth said. “I guess she’s also working with you on this estate sale?”
After a long pause Raleigh said, “Yes, she’s the granddaughter of my aunt. Everybody’s trying to get in on the money from the family art collection.”
“I know what you mean,” Ruth said.
“I’ll give Nigel a call after I get home,” Raleigh said. “Thanks.”
Raleigh genuinely feared he might go the way of Marty Brueger as he drove up into the Hollywood Hills. He was almost hyperventilating as he neared home and had to practice normal breathing and tell himself to stay calm. At last he understood all of it. The theft of the van was not a random act at all! It was part of the carefully planned scheme of Nigel Wickland. Valerie, or whatever her name was, and her companion thief were part of Nigel’s conspiracy from the beginning. Nigel had induced Raleigh to allow the theft and reproduction of the million-dollar paintings. But for all Raleigh knew, they might be worth $2 million. Or $3 million! And then Nigel had hired a pair of young criminals to help him remove Raleigh from the conspiracy.
Nigel would eventually tell Raleigh that it’s a terrible tragedy but the thieves apparently did not intend to ever call him again. It was such a simple but brilliant scheme, and he, Raleigh Dibble, was the dupe. The fall guy. The patsy. The fool. The thing that made it so diabolical was the trick with the van keys. Nigel had banked on Raleigh not looking for the keys, which Nigel said he left in the van. Nigel knew that Raleigh would not search for the keys, not inside a gate-guarded estate. And it had worked beautifully by allowing Nigel to shift the fault for the van theft to Raleigh.
What would Nigel have done if Raleigh had found the keys and brought them into the house? Well, that, too, was explainable. In that eventuality, Nigel’s young crime partners probably had a spare key, and Nigel would have covered their escape by claiming that they must’ve hot-wired the van. But that wouldn’t have been quite as neat. That might have thrown up a red flag for Raleigh. No, it had all worked perfectly, just the way Nigel had planned it.
Raleigh wondered where Nigel had found frail little Valerie. So vulnerable, so delicate, so young, so ruthless! Raleigh remembered how she’d kissed his cheek before she’d departed and asked if he’d like to meet at a bistro, and how that gesture had touched his heart. When Raleigh pulled into the Bruegers’ five-car garage, tears were streaming down his cheeks.
Raleigh let himself into the foyer, turned off the burglar alarm, and recalled that Leona Brueger had informed him that because of the burglaries in the Hollywood Hills, she now kept a handgun in her bedroom. He was going to find that gun. He was going to visit Nigel Wickland tomorrow, and the backstabbing sissy was going to bring those paintings back. Those paintings were returning home where they belonged, one way or the other.
Raleigh searched the master bedroom for more than an hour before he found the gun in a hatbox in the closet. It was a nickel-plated, snub-nosed.38 caliber revolver, and it was loaded.
Nigel returned to the Wickland Gallery at closing time, and Ruth said, “Oh, Nigel, you’re back. I thought you had left for the day. There was a Mr. Dibble here insisting to see you. When I tried to find out what it was all about, he was vague and said something about an estate sale you’re working on.”
Nigel scratched his chin, trying to stay composed, and said, “Dibble? Would it be Raleigh Dibble?”
“Yes, that’s him,” Ruth said.
“He’s a fool,” Nigel said. “He completely overestimates the value of everything. Did he say if he was coming back?”
“No,” Ruth said, “but he seemed eager to know if anyone had come here in the last few days with some paintings for you. Of course I told him no.”
So that was it! Raleigh suspected that the thief had brought the paintings and been paid, and that he was being double-crossed! Nigel said casually to Ruth, “Yes, the estate sale. I didn’t mention it to you because it’s all part of his inflated personal appraisal of art that he knows nothing about. He’s not worth a moment of my time.”
“He claimed he was a personal friend,” Ruth said. “He knew your cell number.”
This was getting uncomfortable and Nigel wanted to end it. “He asked for my mobile number when we spoke, and in a weak moment I gave it to him. A personal friend? Never.”
With that, Nigel entered his office and debated whether or not to phone and chastise Raleigh for coming and grilling Ruth because of his own uncontrollable paranoia. But he decided to let it be. Raleigh would eventually have to accept that the thieves must have disposed of the paintings themselves. What else could he think?
Because her employer had ended the discussion abruptly, Ruth hadn’t bothered to mention all of her conversation with Raleigh Dibble. She thought about telling him of Raleigh Dibble’s peculiar interest when she’d casually mentioned the only visitor who had insisted on seeing Nigel yesterday-the girl in the candy-striped dress. She decided to forget about it. After all, Nigel said the man and his estate sale was of no interest to him.