This was a different newspaper, but the wording in the separate box was just about the same: part of the gang caught, with a vehicle that had carried at least a part of the stolen paintings. Galesburg was mentioned. It was the same garbled story as in the paper in Nashville, it apparently having been released just barely in time to make most afternoon papers, but not in time to do full coverage on it or check the details.
Devers and Parker looked at the paper together, and Devers said, “He thought it fell through.”
”Why the hell didn’t he wait?” Mackey was getting angrier by the second, glaring at the body as though he might push its head the rest of the way under.
Devers said, “He must have been tight for cash. We really must have strapped him when we made him put the money in savings accounts.”
“No reason to kill himself.” Mackey was sulky.
Parker said, “We search.”
Mackey raised an eyebrow at him. “For what?”
“A lot of things. For a note, in case he left a note with our names in it. For something to tell us the name of his buyer.”
“If he had one,” Devers said.
Parker said, “If he was that tight for cash, he had a way to turn those paintings over right away. At least some of them.”
Mackey said, “What about the bank accounts? We’ve got the passbooks.”
“Not a chance,” Parker said.
Devers said, “Let’s get out of here.”
The three of them moved next door to the bedroom, where Devers switched on the overhead light. Mackey said to Parker, “Why not? I’m a pretty good hand with signatures. I could do a fine Leon Griffith before the bank closes this afternoon. And I walk in with Griffith’s ID.”
Parker said, “He opened the accounts three days ago. A man comes in with fifty thousand in cash to open a savings account, they’re going to notice him at the bank. They’ll remember him three days later. You don’t look like Griffith.”
“All that money,” Mackey said. “Wasted.”
“All our work wasted, too,” Devers said. “Unless we can find a buyer.”
“And soon,” Parker said. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”
Devers said, “I’ll start in here.”
The three of them separated into different parts of the house, and spent the next hour searching. There was no note, and no clue to Griffith’s buyer—if he had a buyer—in any of the obvious places: his office, his bedside table. But they kept searching anyway, as outside the day got brighter, and soon they didn’t have to turn lights on any more when they entered a room.
Parker and Mackey met near the front hall. They both had fingertips black with dust, and Mackey was even more irritable than before. “Not a goddam thing,” he said. “And where the hell else is there to look?”
“The basement.”
“That’s a goddam waste of time, and you know it.”
“We’ll do it anyway,” Parker said.
Mackey grimaced. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Just so we can say we did everything.”
“Come on.”
They walked down the hall together. Mackey said, “Lou isn’t gonna be happy when he hears about this.”
“Nobody’s happy about it,” Parker said.
Devers was coming the other way, a piece of paper in his hand. He looked excited, but in a muted and guarded way. He said, “Take a look at this.”
Parker took the paper, and he and Mackey read it together. It was lavender stationery, thick, good quality, with a purple letterhead in Edwardian script:
Jacques Renard
302 CPW
The letter was handwritten, in clear but rather overly fancy printing. It was dated a month earlier, and it read:
Leon, dear,
So lovely to hear from you. Unfortunate, of course, the news your letter brought. Dear boy, we are all of us biting the bullet these days, and praying for happier times.
Although a direct transfusion just wouldn’t be possible from these limp old veins, it might be that some sort of business arrangement might be worked out between us, if you’re interested. Should you be traveling in these woods, why not rap upon my trunk?
As ever,
Jack
Doubtfully, Mackey said, “Maybe. Sounds more like a brush-off. Like Griffith tried to tap this guy, and the guy didn’t want to be tapped, but was letting Griffith down easy.”
Parker said to Devers, “Why do you think this is it?”
“Because it was in the kitchen,” Devers said. “Hidden in a cookbook.”
Mackey said. “Hidden? Maybe he just used it for a bookmark.”
Parker said, “I saw other letters from Renard in the office.”
“That’s right,” Devers said. “In the office. Not in the kitchen.”
Mackey looked at the letter again. “That’s some address,” he said. “Three-oh-two CPW. What the hell is CPW?”
“Central Park West.” Parker said. “Renard is in New York.”
Four
The man who opened the door was tall and flabby, an unhealthy-looking combination. He was wearing white slacks and a white peasant blouse with yellow and red decorations around the scoop neck and short sleeves. He was barefoot and standing on the balls of his feet, as though he were a ballet dancer prepared at any instant to go up on point. Parker said, “Jacques Renard?”
The man looked at Parker and Mackey and Devers, the three of them practically filling the small foyer in front of the elevator doors, and he gave a little smile which combined sardonic humor with a touch of nervousness. “I’m not at all sure how I should answer that,” he said. “Who shall I say is calling?”
Parker said, “Friends of Leon Griffith.”
“Leon?” Wariness came into the man’s eyes. “I must say you don’t look like friends of his.”
Mackey, as usual, was made irritable by impatience. He said, “Let’s get off the dime. If you’re Renard. we want to talk about some paintings. If you aren’t him, tell him we’re here.”
The man gave Mackey a jaundiced look. “My, my,” he said, “aren’t we impulsive. Leon usually talks about paintings himself.”
Mackey said, “He couldn’t come this time.”
“Pity. I’d rather speak to friends of mine than friends of his.”
Parker said, “He’s dead. You want us to stand here in the hall and tell you about it?”
The man looked startled. “Dead?” Then fright showed on his face, and his left hand gripped the edge of the door as though he might slam it. “Did you—?”
“Suicide,” Parker said. “Slit his wrists in the bathtub. Money worries. Are you Renard or not?”
“Good God. I never thought he’d—” Releasing the door, the man stepped back a pace, saying, “Come in, come in.”
The three of them stepped into the apartment, and the man shut the door. They were in a square vestibule hung with paintings. An arched doorway on the right led to a room full of Early American furniture; beyond it, a terrace could be seen, filled with plants.
“I am Renard, of course,” the man said, turning toward them from the door. “I knew Leon was troubled about money, but—” He gestured toward the room on the right. “Won’t you go in? Do sit down.”
They all went into the room. Mackey and Devers sat down, but Parker and Renard remained on their feet. Parker said, “We were getting some paintings for Griffith. Now that he’s dead, we’d like to find the buyer he had in mind.”
“Ah, I see.” Renard smiled around at them, having gotten his composure back. “May I offer you anything to drink?”
Parker said, “The main thing is the buyer. We had the idea maybe you were him.”
Renard looked doubtful. “A buyer? I deal in art, of course, but I’m only marginally a collector.”
“The idea we have,” Parker said, “is that you and Griffith had a business deal together, where he’d get these paintings for you and maybe you’d sell them to somebody else.”
Renard smiled vaguely, as though trying to think. “That does seem unlikely,” he said. “So many intermediaries. I normally do my purchasing myself. If you could tell me exactly what paintings we’re talking about, perhaps it would refresh my memory.”