Marked Man

40

“Why, you’re a regular Sammy Glick, aren’t you?” said Agnes LeComte, leaning forward, her legs crossed, her elbows on the table as she slowly stirred her iced tea with a long silver spoon.

We were sitting at an outside table at a café just east of Rittenhouse Square. The sun was bright, her sunglasses were big, pedestrians passed by, their arms swinging. Women smiled down at me, assuming I was lunching with my grandmother.

“I knew another Sammy Glick just like you,” she said, “but that was a long time ago.”

“Sammy Glick?” I said.

“You are young, aren’t you? Do you have a mentor, Victor?”

“Not really. I’ve had a few people who helped me along the way, but generally I’ve muddled through the thickets of the law on my own.”

“I don’t mean in the law – what do I know of the law? – I mean in other ways. There is so much in life one can learn from a more mature viewpoint.” She pursed her wrinkled lips, demurely lowered her chin. “Trust me, I know.”

“While I would never deny the need of a more mature viewpoint in my life, Mrs. LeComte, what I really wanted to discuss was the Randolph Trust robbery thirty years ago.”

“Why would you ask me?” she said, her silver teaspoon still stirring her tea. “Why wouldn’t you ask your client? He knows far more about it than I, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But my client is not as available to me as I would like, seeing as he is on the run. And I would like to know the way the trust saw it.”

“Oh, I don’t want to talk about that silly old robbery. Don’t we have other things to talk about?”

“Okay, then,” I said. “Who is this Sammy Glick person you mentioned?”

“Are you jealous of another man?” She laughed. “Sammy Glick is a character in a novel written decades ago. He is a young Jewish boy with a sharp ferret face who rides his ambition to unimaginable heights.”

I put a hand to my jaw. “You think I have a ferret face?”

“From firsthand knowledge, Victor, I have learned that certain intimate relationships of diverse ages can be a glorious opportunity for both parties. One learns from experience, the other is inspired by youth. Have you ever read Colette?”

“No, actually. Is she any good?”

“She’s yummy, and she has much to say on the benefits of ripened wisdom handed down to the young.”

Gad, could this have turned any weirder? “Can we talk about the heist?” I said.

“I would prefer not to.”

“Mr. Spurlock himself suggested I talk to you about the robbery. He’d be disappointed if he discovers that you refused to answer my questions.”

Her face soured at the name of the trust’s president. “I was at the trust before he was born, and I will be at the trust long after he is thrown out of his post.” She took the lemon from the rim of her glass, bit into it with yellow teeth. Her lips curled like an old movie queen. “What would you wish to know, Victor?”

I leaned forward, lowered my voice. “How did they do it?”

“No one is certain,” she said. “You’ve seen the trust’s building. It is a fortress, impregnable, impossible to break into even with a battering ram, and there was no evidence of a battering. The doors were all locked tight, the windows intact. But, like the Greeks at Troy, they found a way inside. How they did so is the enduring mystery. Once inside, they were able to immobilize the guards, silence the alarms, and open the locked cabinets and safes where the most valuable objects were stored.”

“Could they have just snuck in?”

“There are only two entrances into the building and each was constantly guarded. No one was ever allowed in without authorization and without signing the book. Even I was required to sign in and out.”

“Maybe they came in as visitors and never left.”

“Impossible,” she said. “From the earliest days of the trust, Mr. Randolph feared that someone would either steal or vandalize the artwork. And just a few years before the robbery, when that madman took a hammer to Michelangelo’s Pietà in Rome, Mr. Randolph himself tightened all procedures. Visitors were required to put their names into a log, and a complete search of the building was conducted each night after visiting hours. In any event, the day of the robbery was not a sanctioned visiting day and there were no educational events scheduled.”

“Could someone have let them in? Maybe left a window unlocked?”

“Everything that night was checked and double-checked. The records are clear. Still, there were some irregularities. Miss Chicos had signed out some blueprints of the building and her fingerprints were found on the file jacket containing diagrams of the alarm system. None of that information was in the purview of her employment, which made her an obvious suspect. She was a young curator just out of graduate school. Nothing could be proved, but still, the suspicion was enough to force her to forfeit her position. I never thought much of her in the first place. Her tastes were slightly vulgar and her neck was too long.”

“Too long for what?”

“Is there really a chance that your client will return the Rembrandt to the trust?”

“There’s a chance.”

“What about the missing Monet? It was a small work, but so lovely. Does your client have anything to say about that?” Her chin rose, the lines outside the dark circles of her glasses deepened.

“No,” I said. “Just the Rembrandt.”

“Pity. It was one of my favorites.”

“Can I show you something, Mrs. LeComte?” I pulled out the photograph of Chantal Adair. “Have you ever seen this girl before?”

She took the photograph, examined it carefully. “No, never. Lovely girl, though. Is she somebody I should know?”

“Probably not. Do you know where that Miss Chicos is now?”

“I heard Rochester. Just the place for her, don’t you think?”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve heard things about Rochester.”

“You mentioned you met another Sammy Glick once? Who was the other?”

“Oh, Victor, we all have our lost loves, don’t we? Some dwell on the past, others move forward. This was fun. We should do it again. Maybe someplace more intimate than an outdoor café. And maybe after you’ve read Colette. You know, those of us who have been on the younger side of one of those special relationships want nothing more than to pass on all we’ve learned. There is so much I could do for you if you would let me.”

And I knew exactly what she had in mind.