Full Circle by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online Page B

right?”
    “You’re close. Actually I’m a red-wine man.”
    “Ah, good. Anything in particular? Cabernet?”
    “Cabernet is fine.”
    Graham called room service, then settled back on a small love seat. Although Graham reclined at his ease, it was obvious that his preference wasn’t for velvet furniture. He wore no jacket or tie, and his button-down Oxford shirt was open at the neck. He was robustly built, and moved with the easy confidence of a man who had always been able to take care of himself. His complexion was ruddy, his casually combed hair was ginger, thinning across the top. Beneath thick ginger eyebrows, behind gold-framed designer glasses that resembled the aviator glasses Bernhardt wore, Graham’s eyes were a bright, lively blue. This man, Bernhardt decided, had never suffered the pangs of self-doubt. For Graham, life was a pleasure.
    “I understand,” Graham said, “that you were a playwright—that you had plays produced off Broadway.”
    “One play. It closed after twelve performances.”
    “Still.” Graham gestured with a freckled hand. “That’s a big deal. Did you ever try Hollywood?”
    Bernhardt nodded. “Years ago. It didn’t work out. When I arrived in Los Angeles the studio sent a limo for me, and put me up at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a week. When I left, I couldn’t even find someone to take me to the airport.”
    Graham studied the other man’s face, then said softly, “That’s a sad little story.”
    Bernhardt shrugged. “The arts. It’s survival of the fittest. A lot of people don’t realize that.”
    “So now you’re a PI.”
    “Now I’m a PI.”
    “And you’ve got Raymond DuBois for a client.”
    Bernhardt nodded to himself. Yes, this was about the moment the other man would choose for his opening move. Graham had played this game before. Many times.
    “I think,” Bernhardt said, “that you’d better tell me why you’re asking.”
    “It’s like I said at the Federal Building. I’m in the insurance business. We’re a reinsurance company. In fact, we’re one of the biggest reinsurers in the world. Let’s say one of the major insurance companies insures a work of art for—pick a number—ten million dollars. Which, these days, is modest. The client would probably be an art museum. But it could be a rich collector—an American, probably, or a Japanese. In any case, it would be prudent for the primary carrier to lay off some of the risk. That’s where we come in. If it’s a measly million-dollar deal, we probably wouldn’t be interested. Ten million, that’s different. So then let’s say the painting, if that’s what it is, gets stolen. We pay the primary carrier ten million, and he pays off the client. And then—” For emphasis, Graham let a beat pass before he said, “And then we start looking for the painting.”
    “And that’s where you come in.”
    As Bernhardt spoke, a uniformed youth arrived with a glass of cabernet sauvignon and a double Scotch on the rocks. Graham signed the chit, waited for the room service waiter to leave. Then, after a silent toast and a deeply appreciative sip of Scotch, he nodded. “Precisely. That’s where I come in. And the truth is, I’m a man who loves his work. I just turned fifty. Most of my life I was a pretty conventional product of old New England money. You know—Choate for prep school, then Yale. Then it was the canyons of New York, dressed in the mandatory Brooks Brothers suit and carrying the mandatory attaché case. Christ.” Ruefully Graham shook his head. “I think I might at least have worn a derby, except that I didn’t quite have the nerve. But, anyhow, I spent the first forty years of my life exactly as programmed. I married a girl from Smith who, in fact, majored in art history. We bought a house in Connecticut, and we raised two well-behaved little girls. Meanwhile, I was positioning myself for a vice president’s slot at Prudential. But then—” Graham broke off, sipped more Scotch.