Free A Brush With Death by Joan Smith Page A

inside.
    “Oh I love Paris,” Hot Buns was gushing. Of course being French, she called it Paree, and batted her eyes so hard she nearly knocked off a few layers of mascara. I assumed John was boasting about his intercontinental life-style to incite her interest.
    “I hope your boss—Mr. Bergma is it?—won't mind my taking you away from your desk,” he said, in a good, carrying voice.
    “Not when you have a Gobelin tapestry you might be interested in donating!” she smiled. “And you think it's from the fifteenth century?"
    “That's what the Doerner Institute tells me."
    What possible explanation could he have fabricated to have given himself a priceless tapestry that he was willing to give away? The mind boggled at his ingenuity for mendacity.
    “I'd really like to discuss it with Bergma. But you said he would probably be leaving in a quarter of an hour, I think?"
    Gino nudged my elbow. “That's our clue. Menard's skulking around the old dishes downstairs. We'll warn him to follow Bergma."
    I rose and went out with Gino, though I was longing to remain and listen to John's performance. We made a stop at the administrative offices, as they were on the way. As Hot Buns wasn't there, we decided to let on we were waiting for her, to give us an excuse to tarry around Bergma's office for a few minutes. Gino thought whoever he was meeting might call for him. I jumped a foot when the phone on her desk rang.
    “He'll have to answer it himself. I wonder how this thing works,” Gino said, looking at the assortment of buttons on Ms. Painchaud's phone.
    It had stopped ringing. “He'll hear you if you lift it now,” I cautioned.
    “He'll think his secretary came back,” Gino said, and found the right button.
    I heard the same voice that had asked Hot Buns for coffee, so I knew who was speaking. “No!” Bergma said in a low, urgent tone. “Don't come here. We can't be seen together. They're gone, I tell you. Whoever killed him took them. Somebody's on to us. Don't come, and don't call again. I'll be in touch with you.” Then he slammed down the receiver.
    “The paintings!” I whispered.
    “Shit,” Gino scowled. “We didn't get to hear the other voice.” He hung up the phone.
    There was a sound of movement in Bergma's office. Gino, that dumpy little dwarf, was extremely agile and swift as a cheetah. He had us out of there before I knew what was happening. We went downstairs to wait for John.
    Of course we were both thinking the same thing. “They're gone” referred to the forged Van Goghs, and it sounded as if Bergma hadn't taken them.
    “This is a new twist,” I said. “Either Bergma's helper double-crossed him, or John's hypothetical third man got the paintings. Bergma sounded surprised that the paintings were gone. I don't think he was in on stealing them. And therefore he wasn't in on the murder."
    “We knew Bergma wasn't in this alone, but he's in it up to his snout. He's the only one who knew what pictures were going to be sold. I'm going to find Menard and warn him not to lose Bergma. I want him closer than Velcro to that guy's coattails. He'll have to meet up with his friend eventually."
    Before Gino returned, John came downstairs, smiling from ear to ear. I was almost glad to have some bad news to wipe that smirk off his face. “That was well worthwhile,” he said. “Denise says Bergma is running around like a chicken with his head chopped off today. She's never seen him this nervous before a show. The guy must be sweating bullets in case the cops catch on to him."
    “Funny she'd blab on her partner in crime."
    “You think she's involved just because Latour did her portrait?"
    I stared. “Oh no. Obviously not. The fact that she knew Latour and is on a first-name basis with her boss, Bergma—why should I let little things like that affect my judgment?"
    He frowned judiciously. “Can you really see those little white hands plunging a knife into a big guy like Latour?"
    “Last night you decided