“What’s your super-secret weapon?”
“Jack. If I tell you it won’t be a secret. Oh, all right, since you insist. You remember when Frank was in Beijing two years ago for the China Contemporary conference? He struck up a warm friendship with the head of the Art History Department at the Central University in Hohhot. So warm, in fact, I had to wonder if my domestic bliss was threatened.” He gave a little sigh.
Jack asked, “Where’s Hohhot?”
“Inner Mongolia,” I said. When they both looked at me, I added, “Hey, I’m not just a pretty face.”
“Whatever positions Frank offered Dr. Lin,” Eddie To went on, “the only one he agreed to, as told to me, was to be our exclusive consultant in the field of bleeding-edge Chinese art. Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang. And doesn’t Doug Haig wish he knew. Q.X. is the only reason we find artists Doug the Slug hasn’t gotten to yet. We have to keep him secret or he’d be stolen in a heartbeat.”
“How secret can you keep him, if he’s an expert in Haig’s field?”
“Please. Haig doesn’t have a field. He has a market. He doesn’t speak Chinese and Lord knows he doesn’t go to conferences. He’s above all that. So maybe we can remain a step ahead long enough to get established and stay out of the poorhouse. Possibly even to be able to afford some of the artists Q.X. has found us who, by the time we get to them, are beyond our means. Though as I said, with the gentlemen in this show we’re counting on gratitude and a Chinese sense of duty.”
Jack said, “I think you can count on their prices not rising.”
“Oh, Jack, you’re such a stiff. Hey, Frank named the spotted robot after you.”
“Really? If that’s a bribe he’d be better off naming them after critics.”
“Don’t be absurd. You’re a tastemaker.” Eddie cocked his head. “Odd for a stiff, hmm? Anyway, he did name a few after critics. The one that keeps crashing into that post, like it can’t see it? That’s Gross, from ARTnews.”
I watched a red box drive itself into a blue post, back up, and do it again. “Why is the spotted one Jack?”
“Its job is to tail the striped one.”
Sure enough, wherever the striped red box went, the spotted box zoomed after a few moments later. “They all have jobs?”
Eddie To went to the desk and brought over three stapled sheets. “Artists’ statements. English on one side, Chinese on the other.”
“The Chinese makes more sense,” Jack said. “Especially if you don’t read Chinese. Listen, Eddie, love chatting with you but we’re here on a case.”
“Seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you working. I’ve had to watch the robot to get any sense of what you do.”
“Here’s your chance. I want to ask you something.”
“Well, isn’t this exciting? Frank will be jealous. How can I help?”
“You’ve heard the rumors that there are new Chau Chuns floating around?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“Jen Beril heard them, too. She heard them here, at your opening last week. She just can’t remember who from.”
Eddie To clutched his chest. “That’s just heartbreaking.”
“Why?”
Eddie pointed an accusing finger toward the elevator. “Ms. Thing made her entrance—vogueing in the doorway like RuPaul—took one quick spin, guzzled some Vigonier, and left. Frank would’ve named a robot after her but none of them’s enough of an ice queen. Of course I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
“Do you remember her talking to anyone?”
“I remember it well. Though obviously she doesn’t. Shows you where I am on the food chain. The only person she spoke to was—me.”
“It was you who told her about the Chaus?”
“Was that bad of me? I was trying to impress her with my up-to-the-second inside-track type of knowledge.”
“I’m sure she was impressed. Where’d you hear it?”
“Yes, so impressed I’ve slipped her mind entirely. Remind me not to save the Vigonier for her next time. She can suck up Chablis and like it. As for me, to go back an earlier conversational motif, I heard about the Chaus from the wellspring of all self-importance. Jabba the Hutt down there on the first floor: Doug Haig.”
* * *
As soon as the elevator door closed behind us I exploded. “That revolting creepy fat sleazebag ugly creepy liar!”
“You said fat, so I know you don’t mean Eddie. And you said ‘creepy’ twice, by the way.”
“Doug Haig! He is creepy twice. He told Eddie To about the Chaus last week? He acted like the first he’d heard of them was from Bill.”
“You guys believed him?”
“Not at all. Unless Nick’s wrong, Haig found out about them from Shayna Dylan, even though she doesn’t know she knows. But Haig’s spreading the rumors himself? I mean, what is that?”
“Why? Rumors create buzz and buzz drives up prices.”
“And brings you people like Vladimir Oblomov, and then you act like you don’t know what he’s talking about?”
“Maybe Haig already has a buyer.”
“Then why not say, ‘I already have a buyer’? instead of, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you silly Russian, there are no such paintings’? And besides, you aren’t telling me Doug Haig would put loyalty to an existing buyer above profit from a brainless mobster? Especially if it’s true he’s in trouble.” The elevator opened at the lobby. “No,” I said, “here’s what I think. I think Haig absolutely does know about the paintings. I think he’s seen them and I bet he knows where they are. But he hasn’t got his hands on them yet, so he can’t sell them, to Bill or anyone else. Something makes him pretty sure he will, though. So he’s trying to create buzz now, for then. Then he’ll try to reel Vladimir in, and whoever else. But I don’t want him to find them.”
“If you’re right he’s already found them.”
“Don’t split hairs! I mean, to get his hands on them! I want to steal them out from under him.”
“For our clients, you mean.”
“Yes. Absolutely. For our clients. And also, as part of my plan to reduce Doug Haig to a grease spot on his own gallery floor.”
“Remind me,” Jack said thoughtfully, “not to get in your way.”
“Don’t worry, I will. Besides,” I said, starting to calm down, “my client’s whole point in hiring me was to get to these paintings first. Not to have to bid in public against some crazy Russian.”
“Bill’s not really a Russian, you know. And are you sure that’s what your client’s after?”
I looked at him. “What?”
“Phony name, prepaid cell, thin cover story—it must have occurred to you he was hiding something.”
“Yes, and we told you—”
“What you told me isn’t worth hiding. That’s a lot of trouble to go to just so his own PI doesn’t find out his name.”
“We—”
“Look, I know you’re smart because Bill’s smart and he says you are. No way you guys haven’t been wondering about Dunbar’s angle. He wants something else, not just the paintings. Most likely, it’s the painter.”
In the setting sun the spring breeze was chilly. I zipped my jacket. “Yes,” I admitted. “That’s how we figured it.”
“I wish you’d just told me.”
“Does it matter? To the investigation?”
“Maybe not. But to me. ‘All for one, one for all’? ”