The Knowledge_A Richard Jury Mystery Read online

  “Card-counting? Only once that I know of. An OBE.” Zane smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t want to make a big thing of it, so I just gave him a lifelong pass to the restaurant if he’d cease going to the casino.”

  “Sounds like he got the best of that deal if your chef’s as good as you say.”

  “Oh, he did, but I wanted to get him out of the casino in case it encouraged card-counting in others.”

  “And you, do you like to gamble?”

  “I like an occasional go at twenty-one.”

  “Do you win?”

  “Sometimes. But not much. I’m not very good at it.”

  Jury just bet. “What about art? Is that a gamble?”

  Zane smiled. Brilliant. “No more than many other aspects of life.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, we’re sitting in the City, aren’t we? The financial district?”

  “But surely finance is much more fluid and frangible.”

  Zane laughed again. “Like love. Another gamble.”

  Jury thought his look as it slid from Jury’s face was one of a man who’d tried his luck once too often and lost. It was hard to believe Leonard Zane would have woman troubles.

  “This couple, the Moffits, you don’t really know why they were here. Perhaps for dinner.”

  “You think David Moffit might not have been here for the casino? Pardon me, Mr. Zane, but that’s ridiculous, given his gambling penchant.” Jury’s gaze was drawn once more to the painting that he had decided was not primitive, but a highly sophisticated version of the primitive. “Why doesn’t she know?”

  Zane’s tone was puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry, I mean the woman in that painting seems unaware she’s in the sights of a cheetah and a lion.” He nodded toward the painting.

  “Oh.” Zane studied it for a moment or two before answering. “Perhaps she does. Maybe there’s an understanding between them.”

  Jury had risen to get closer to the painting. “I don’t see any sort of mutual acceptance. Look at their eyes.”

  “Perhaps you see something I don’t.”

  “I doubt it. It looks like a Gauguin. But it isn’t.”

  Zane smiled. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s still here.”

  Zane laughed and rose to go and stand by Jury. “Very good. No, it isn’t a Gauguin. This is by a Kenyan painter, Masego Abasi. Very much underappreciated here.”

  “So you’ve been to Kenya. To Nairobi?”

  “Of course.”

  “The shooter is a Kenyan and apparently lives in Nairobi.”

  “Yes, I read about that. You believe it’s more than a coincidence, I’m sure.”

  Jury shrugged, still looking at the inscrutable painting.

  “I’m surprised that this painting hasn’t sold even if it isn’t Gauguin.”

  Zane touched the corner of the frame as if making an adjustment. “I could have sold it several times; I guess I’m not ready to let it go. Any other questions?”

  Jury looked back at the wall of paintings. “You don’t have others by this Kenyan?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t brought them out yet. I have several others.”

  As he did not offer to bring them out, Jury said, “Like this?”

  “Most are. One other is a scene of Nairobi, quite dark—I mean sinister. Abasi’s brother is a wealthy industrialist. They have widely differing views about Kenya and Africa.” Zane drew in on his cigarette, exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Abasi is virtually unknown here.”

  “You discovered him?”

  “Nothing so grand. He was already discovered by Africa. His paintings hang in Johannesburg and Nairobi galleries, but nowhere else.”

  “Not in European ones.”

  Zane shook his head. “I’m the exclusive distributor here.”

  “Sounds like a deal.”

  “And that sounds like cynicism.”

  “So it isn’t a deal? You introduce his paintings in Europe if he gives you exclusivity?”

  “We worked something out that’s mutually beneficial.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, you can’t,” said Leonard Zane, annoyed. “You don’t know the art world.”

  No, but I know a deal.

  As he was leaving, Jury turned and said, “It just occurred to me: your assistant mentioned you’re looking for a croupier.”

  Zane laughed. “You’re applying?”

  “It’d make a change. No, but I do know a dealer who retired last year.”

  “I’d rather have someone youngish. You know, who’d appeal more to women.”

  How condescending, thought Jury. “He didn’t retire because of his age; he just didn’t care for the venue. He’d appeal, believe me. He’s an oddly esoteric gambler. The place bored him to death.”

  Zane laughed. “First time I’ve heard that.”

  “Your place is anything but boring.”

  “We don’t have a murder every day, remember.”

  Jury looked around. “I’m thinking of the ambience.”

  “I’ve interviewed a half dozen applicants already. The ones that got past Maggie Benn.”

  “What was the matter with them?”

  Zane paused. “Well, I hate to sound like a snob—”

  You already do.

  “They might do well in Brighton, but not at the Artemis. We have to maintain a certain level of … sangfroid … you know.”

  Jury didn’t, but said helpfully, “No hotheaded rubbish, then.”

  “Right. And after seeing these applicants, I’ve half a mind to take over the table myself.” He picked up a deck of cards and skimmed them out across the table, flipped them back again.

  His hands, Jury thought, were quite elegant, fingers long and supple. “You’ve had experience, then?”

  “Of course. A sharp eye and extremely quick hands are paramount, right?” He reset the cards and shuffled them deftly. “So I’d be glad to see your retired dealer. I really need someone now. Could he come in, say, Monday?”

  “I’m sure his calendar could make room for that.”

  New Scotland Yard

  Nov. 2, Saturday afternoon

  12

  Wiggins was in the middle of tacking up newspaper cuttings and writing names on a large freestanding board when Jury walked into the office and asked him, quite bluntly, why in hell he was bringing this thing back.

  “We should have a murder board, sir.”

  “We’ve been through all of that, Wiggins. And it’s a whiteboard. Don’t talk like we’re a TV cop show.” At least Wiggins wasn’t frothing up that damned green matcha tea he’d lately taken to. “And when you’ve done with that get me information on the import regulations for gemstones, specifically tanzanite. It’s mined in Tanzania in a place called Merelani.” Jury looked at the board. “You keep reminding me this isn’t our case. That we’re just assisting DCI Jenkins. So why are you so determined to have a whiteboard for it?”

  “It’s helpful to get everything all in one place.”

  “Everything is never in one place.” He smiled, because that sounded like something David Moffit would have said. “You’ve interrupted the Tweedears project, have you?” Jury could only hope, as he looked at the heavy notebook of sketch paper and the glass filled with colored pencils.

  “No, not at all. But this takes precedence, wouldn’t you say?”

  Anything would take precedence, Jury didn’t say. “Getting me this tanzanite information does.”

  Wiggins scratched his head. “Call Customs?”

  “Try the Fraud Squad.”

  Wiggins picked up the phone.

  Jury heard bits of talk about smuggling and VAT while he looked at Wiggins’s glass of colored pencils. He plucked out a couple of them and went to the “murder board.” There was a clipping attached from a Reno paper. Reno? When the receiver went down, he turned.

  Wiggins said, “According to Fraud, restrictions have been tig
htened a lot because of all the smuggling and illegal export. This stuff’s mined in Tanzania but China and India do a lot of import-export of it because they’re such experts at cutting gems. Gems worth billions have been smuggled into Kenya. So you have to have a certificate of origin to show that the stuff actually comes from Tanzania—export permit and receipt, invoice on custom clearance, and freight forwarding certificate. That’s in case there’s a first and then second buyer. Something like that. The VAT is twenty percent; tax is five.”

  Jury whistled. “That’s a chunk right there. If Leonard Zane wants to import, say, a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of tanzanite, he’s looking at a twenty-five percent loss.”

  “You think he’s doing something illegal there?”

  “Certainly possible.” Jury thought about this. “If that gemstone can be found nowhere else in the world, imagine how the value rises as the supply goes down.”

  “Output decreased because of the lack of new deposits discovered. And the cost of mining in the small mines gets higher because they have to dig deeper. That’s probably happening in his own mine, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would.” Jury paused. “Did Jenkins call?”

  “Yes, but there doesn’t seem to be any news of David Moffit’s mother. Nobody’s been able to get hold of her. Jenkins said the American embassy rang up her house in Connecticut and somebody—housekeeper? cook? butler? She must have money with that kind of staff—” Wiggins stopped when he saw Jury’s expression. “Anyway, this housekeeper said Mrs. Moffit had gone to Oregon to visit a friend who had a cabin in the mountains and was ‘off the map,’ so to speak.”

  “Police? Local sheriff? For God’s sake, the woman’s son was murdered and the American police can’t find her?”

  “It’s apparently very difficult. Jenkins is keeping in touch.”

  “Keeping in touch? Get me the American embassy. Now, Wiggins, please.”

  Wiggins picked up the phone, got the embassy and nodded to Jury, who picked up his. Jury told the official what he wanted. “What about this friend whose cabin Mrs. Moffit is visiting? Can’t anyone find out where the place is by contacting this other woman’s home? Family? Staff?” Jury listened. “Yes … yes … yes. Thanks.” He came close to slamming down the receiver. “So the owner, a woman named Shriver, has never told anybody where the cabin is located. No phone, no TV. Electric supplied by a generator.” Jury frowned. Call Jenkins and ask him if he can get on this. We’ve got to find David’s mum before she reads the New York Times.”

  “Well, they’re hardly getting newspaper delivery—”

  Jury got up to look at the murder board. “What’s Reno got to do with this?”

  “Report I got on Leonard Zane. Seems Leonard Zane had a casino in the States, in Reno, where a man was shot eight years ago.”

  “He was shot in the casino?”

  “In the hotel where the casino was located. The Metropole. Since closed. Shooter never identified.” Wiggins slapped the file shut. “Bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Stripped bare of extenuating circumstances, yes. I take it that there are a few other salient details in that report.”

  Wiggins turned to the whistling kettle, unplugged it and poured the steaming water over his Tips tea bag. He held up an empty cup to Jury, who shook his head. Wiggins opened the file again. “Not much, really. Man’s name was Danny Morrissey, from Champaign, Illinois. He was shot in his room at the Metropole. Taken to hospital. He was there several hours, released. No vital organs had been hit, just a wound to the shoulder. The only thing he said to journalists was that, no, he hadn’t seen the person who apparently walked into his room, where he was standing looking out the window at the night sky.” Wiggins stopped, added milk and four sugars to his tea.

  “And?”

  “Nothing much. No witnesses, except there was a couple who overheard an argument going on in the casino office, quite heated, they said, between a man and a woman. Finally, the man walked out. It was this Morrissey. But they never saw the woman.”

  “This was in the casino? If Zane was running it, he must have had something to say.”

  Wiggins shrugged. “Not in this report. Neither did his assistant manager—” Wiggins tapped one of the newspaper clips. “—Marguerite Banado. Quite a looker. Just the type Zane would want around.” He untacked the column and handed it to Jury.

  Jury looked at the woman in the picture, whose face was partially obscured by a magazine that she had raised to shield it from cameras, but the other part of her face and the long dark hair and décolletage were visible. Even from the little he could see of her, he thought her exotically beautiful. “I agree.”

  Wiggins went on: “She was there, heard nothing, saw nothing. Of course, there’s a lot of shootings in gambling meccas—Las Vegas, Atlantic City, Indian reservations—”

  “Indian reservations?”

  Wiggins updated Jury on Native American culture and gambling and suggested he read a Tony Hillerman mystery and went on in this vein until Jury shut him up. “Thank you. But back to Reno. Didn’t the police investigation turn up anything else?”

  Wiggins held up the file. “This is the police investigation, sir.”

  Jury sighed. “Another visit to Mr. Zane sounds in order.”

  “Funny, though. I mean that Leo would be involved in the same thing twice.” Wiggins frowned.

  “‘Leo’?”

  “That’s what his best friends call him. Everybody else says ‘Leonard.’ I read that in an interview. The man’s always being interviewed. He’s what you’d call ‘hot.’”

  Jury remembered Maggie Benn saying “Leo.” “You know what interests me is this present assistant of his. She doesn’t fit, somehow.”

  “You think she’s more than an assistant?”

  “No. She’s less. Very plain, very sedate, very un-Artemis.” Jury frowned. “What have you got on her?”

  “Nothing. But I expect DCI Jenkins does. It’s City Police’s case, sir.”

  “But it’s our murder board, Wiggins.” Jury snickered.

  “What gets me is this shooter ‘Banerjee.’” Wiggins went on. “He travels to Terminal Three in as ostentatious a way as could be found except for landing in a helicopter. Has a first-class ticket on Emirates. He’s conned by a little kid, for God’s sake. They go flying off to Dubai.” Wiggins stirred his tea and frowned. “It’s a helluva peculiar way to follow up a shooting. You shoot someone, get in a cab, go to a station you’re not leaving from, meet up with someone else, drive to Heathrow … I mean …” Frowning, Wiggins looked at Jury. “He’s larking around, almost.”

  Jury smiled. “Hardly, Wiggins.”

  Wiggins shrugged, drank his tea. “Well, then, acting like somebody who’s in no danger.” He added, thoughtfully, “I wonder—how did this Banerjee know where the Moffits would be?”

  “He followed them.”

  “If you were going to shoot somebody, you wouldn’t follow him to his destination. You’d need to be there already.”

  “You’re right. I meant he appears to have followed David Moffit before that night. So then, the question is: who told him?”

  “What about the cabbie?” said Wiggins.

  “Parsons?”

  “Couldn’t he have been involved?”

  “Robbie Parsons? Working with the killer?”

  “The more I think about it … This was the vehicle Banerjee got into. It was like a getaway car.”

  “So you don’t think getting into that taxi was a split-second decision?”

  “Look at it this way: he couldn’t have been following the cab—the shooter, I mean. Banerjee would have to have been in place when the cab arrived, wouldn’t he? That incredible ride Parsons described, that was his description; he was the only one involved. We don’t really know that’s what happened, do we?” Wiggins got up. “Back in a tick.”

  As he left, Jury dug out the number Jenkins had given him and picked up the phone.

  “
Mr. Parsons? Superintendent Richard Jury here. Scotland Yard CID. I rang you three times this morning. You’re not an easy man to get hold of.”

  “I am if you want a taxi.”

  Jury thought for a moment. “I want one.”

  “Where?”

  “Can you pick me up in front of New Scotland Yard? Say in about a half hour?”

  “Sure. Right now I’m in Southwark. Take me a while, with this traffic. What do you want?”

  “To talk to you.”

  “‘About what? I told you all I know.”

  “You think you did.”

  Robbie grunted. “Yeah. Are you hiring this cab? Or am I supposed to show some public-spiritedness?”

  Jury laughed. “I think you’ve shown enough of that to last for a long while, Robbie. No, I’m hiring.”

  “Good. Where do you want to go?”

  “Nowhere. Or, rather, just to drive.” Jury looked at the wall clock.

  “Okay. But don’t sit in the backseat, Superintendent.” Parsons laughed and rang off.

  From the shelf where Wiggins kept his matcha tea powder and whisk, Jury extracted several squares of sketch paper. On one sheet was Wiggins’s unfinished replica of the family crest. It looked much like a paint-by-numbers composition that he had been filling in.

  He was, however, serious enough about his crest to have visited a heraldic artist and the result was framed and on the wall above his desk. This whole family coat of arms thing had started during a case in Baltimore when Wiggins had mentioned to a genealogist (one of the witnesses) what he thought was a relation to a very distant forebear named “Tweedears.” Owen Lamb, the genealogist, had pulled down some dusty tomes and searched it out, discovering that Wiggins must be the last Tweedears, a baron de jure, the title having been forfeited, in abeyance, dormant, attainted—blinking on and off over the centuries, Jury thought, like a faulty neon sign.

  Jury took paper and pencils to his desk and spread out three squares of paper. He did not have a compass and Wiggins’s tea bowl wasn’t big enough for the circles. His eyes slewed round the office until they fastened on a glass bowl that might once have contained flowers. He went to the shelf where it sat, carried it back to his desk and drew a green circle round its bottom to nearly fill the sketch sheet. He then drew a blue one and an orange one on the other two squares. His hand was steady and the circles were perfect. Above each he put a heading. Then he took up his pencil and started penciling in names.