spindle-legged coffee table, poor lighting.
“So this is where you hang out,” John said, looking around, storing up pictures of me for future thoughts, I figured. “No wonder you're so eager to get out of it. It isn't exactly luxurious.” That was the only reference to the argument.
“A rat's nest, but my own. Well, half my own. Have you had any news from Gino yet?"
John was grinning, which meant success. “The guy's a wizard. He found out half the stuff I wanted to know already. There were no prints on the knife. It's a fairly valuable piece, nineteenth-century Arabian. He got me Bergma's address and phone number. No answer, but of course he'd be at work. He lives in a rented house in Westmount. Gino says it's a real class address."
“Upper Westmount is the Nob Hill of Montreal. The lower end of it's nothing special."
“It's upper. Museum curators don't make much dough. It's kind of a prestige job, more class than cash. He's getting extra money from somewhere. I figure tonight's the time to break in."
“Remember, I'm with you."
He put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. His warm brown eyes brimmed with love. “That's not the kind of thing a guy forgets. Parelli tells me there's some kind of a party on that Bergma will be attending tonight. One of the volunteer ladies from the museum, a Mrs. Searle, also Upper Westmount, is throwing a preopening shindig tonight to congratulate the volunteer gang on this Art Nouveau show that's starting tomorrow at the museum."
“I'd like to see that show. I've been reading about it in the papers. They have some good Erté stuff. I love art nouveau."
“You like anything nouveau,” he teased.
“You mean nouveau riche?"
“I was thinking of cuisine."
“That's nouvelle, feminine ending."
“My favorite kind,” he said, sliding a hand along my hip. Because I had a mug of coffee in front of me, I asked John if he'd like one. He looked at the contents, not enriched by cream, but having the washed-out color given by milk, and declined.
“I'm meeting Gino for lunch—since you'll be busy,” he added hastily. “With luck, he'll know Bergma has no alibi for last night at six-thirty. He's put a tail on him."
“Doing Menard out of a job,” I said.
“I've got a job for Menard. He's supposed to be at the museum, seeing if he recognizes Bergma. If we can get a positive I.D., we're away."
I rubbed my hands in impatience. “I wish I didn't have this darned exam."
“What time's it over? I'll pick you up at McGill and we'll take a tour of the museum."
“It starts at one. I'll be out by three.” I told him where to meet me and he left.
I wasted ten minutes wondering if John was really over his snit, or just didn't want to upset me before my exam. He was thoughtful like that. The rest of the time was spent trying to straighten out the strands of the Existentialist dialectical materialism controversy. Understanding this arcane matter hardly seemed relevant to real life, and I resented every moment of it. I wanted to be with John, solving the case. I made a quick grilled cheese at eleven-thirty and headed out into the cold and snow to fight my way onto a bus. It was a beautiful winter day. The sky was azure blue, gleaming in the sun. The snow crunched underfoot. There hadn't been any thaw, and it was still white. The sun reflecting off it was blinding, and I put on my sunglasses. It would be a gorgeous day for skiing.
The exam was not an unqualified success. The d.m. controversy was worth twenty-five marks, and it was a compulsory question. I figure I got twelve, tops, and hoped the rest of the exam would pull my mark up. There was a flurry of exam talk and goodbyes outside the hall as students parted for the holidays. “Merry Christmas!” “Wasn't that exam a bitch! I knew Ritchie would put on the d.m. thing. I can hardly pronounce it.” “Gotta dash. My flight leaves in an hour.” “See you next year.” “Are you hitting the slopes?” “Did you do
“So this is where you hang out,” John said, looking around, storing up pictures of me for future thoughts, I figured. “No wonder you're so eager to get out of it. It isn't exactly luxurious.” That was the only reference to the argument.
“A rat's nest, but my own. Well, half my own. Have you had any news from Gino yet?"
John was grinning, which meant success. “The guy's a wizard. He found out half the stuff I wanted to know already. There were no prints on the knife. It's a fairly valuable piece, nineteenth-century Arabian. He got me Bergma's address and phone number. No answer, but of course he'd be at work. He lives in a rented house in Westmount. Gino says it's a real class address."
“Upper Westmount is the Nob Hill of Montreal. The lower end of it's nothing special."
“It's upper. Museum curators don't make much dough. It's kind of a prestige job, more class than cash. He's getting extra money from somewhere. I figure tonight's the time to break in."
“Remember, I'm with you."
He put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. His warm brown eyes brimmed with love. “That's not the kind of thing a guy forgets. Parelli tells me there's some kind of a party on that Bergma will be attending tonight. One of the volunteer ladies from the museum, a Mrs. Searle, also Upper Westmount, is throwing a preopening shindig tonight to congratulate the volunteer gang on this Art Nouveau show that's starting tomorrow at the museum."
“I'd like to see that show. I've been reading about it in the papers. They have some good Erté stuff. I love art nouveau."
“You like anything nouveau,” he teased.
“You mean nouveau riche?"
“I was thinking of cuisine."
“That's nouvelle, feminine ending."
“My favorite kind,” he said, sliding a hand along my hip. Because I had a mug of coffee in front of me, I asked John if he'd like one. He looked at the contents, not enriched by cream, but having the washed-out color given by milk, and declined.
“I'm meeting Gino for lunch—since you'll be busy,” he added hastily. “With luck, he'll know Bergma has no alibi for last night at six-thirty. He's put a tail on him."
“Doing Menard out of a job,” I said.
“I've got a job for Menard. He's supposed to be at the museum, seeing if he recognizes Bergma. If we can get a positive I.D., we're away."
I rubbed my hands in impatience. “I wish I didn't have this darned exam."
“What time's it over? I'll pick you up at McGill and we'll take a tour of the museum."
“It starts at one. I'll be out by three.” I told him where to meet me and he left.
I wasted ten minutes wondering if John was really over his snit, or just didn't want to upset me before my exam. He was thoughtful like that. The rest of the time was spent trying to straighten out the strands of the Existentialist dialectical materialism controversy. Understanding this arcane matter hardly seemed relevant to real life, and I resented every moment of it. I wanted to be with John, solving the case. I made a quick grilled cheese at eleven-thirty and headed out into the cold and snow to fight my way onto a bus. It was a beautiful winter day. The sky was azure blue, gleaming in the sun. The snow crunched underfoot. There hadn't been any thaw, and it was still white. The sun reflecting off it was blinding, and I put on my sunglasses. It would be a gorgeous day for skiing.
The exam was not an unqualified success. The d.m. controversy was worth twenty-five marks, and it was a compulsory question. I figure I got twelve, tops, and hoped the rest of the exam would pull my mark up. There was a flurry of exam talk and goodbyes outside the hall as students parted for the holidays. “Merry Christmas!” “Wasn't that exam a bitch! I knew Ritchie would put on the d.m. thing. I can hardly pronounce it.” “Gotta dash. My flight leaves in an hour.” “See you next year.” “Are you hitting the slopes?” “Did you do
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