Chapter 10

Damien Hirsch had a good little racket going for himself. Not that little either. Contractually, he was to be paid 15% for every tour, expert, auction, he booked.

Thanks to my superior investigative skills, well, the Sullivans’ tip-toeing through the digital backwaters, we learned he was enjoying close to a 40% baksheesh.

His guides, lecturers, auctioneers, received one set of invoices and receipts, The Globe another. The right hand didn’t know what the left foot was doing.

Hirsch, fairly comfortable thanks to some family money, had fallen in love with his own scam. He liked the extra money, sure. But more than that he liked getting away with it. Flaunting his schnozzola at the establishment.

I didn’t report Hirsch to my employer, Envoy Assets. Not yet. Was he the answer? Or merely part of the answer? Or a stranger to the answer?

I vaguely sensed, barely felt, someone behind Hirsch. Above him. Pulling strings. No shred of evidence yet, but it seemed to me that someone was testing the possibilities. The oddity of maritime law. The closed shipboard society once The Globe left port.

Liz Claymore saw me kiss 2nd Officer Eamon Nilsson goodbye. Right outside my condo entrance. She winked at me. Slut-suspicion confirmed.

I don’t call home every day. I’m a mature woman, comfortable out in the world. On my own. But I’m worried about Walker. How much he’s missing me. Vanessa too. She loves me so much.

Okay, I call home about every day.

Captain Emile Huffstedder didn’t look like the movie-version of a ship captain. He was portly and sort of waddled. But his passengers weren’t the type panting to be invited to dinner at the captain’s table. In fact, I don’t know where this particular captain ate. Bet his friends called him Huff. Rhymes with Puff. As in Dragon, not a blunt. I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow ya. Stop.

I saw the captain from time to time, walking, mingling, pausing to speak with this person or that one. I presumed somebody was up top driving The Globe. They don’t use automatic pilot on ships do they? That’s another thing I’m not going to Google.

Captain Huffstedder nodded to me a couple of times, he knew who I was and why I was on his ship. I nodded back, gave him a small, non-conspiratorial smile.

Winter Jennings, undercover.

Part of my shipboard detection strategy is backgrounding the other passengers. Not the Wikipedia stuff that anyone can forage around in. And not just the digital info from the Sullivan twins. Although that formed the foundation for my amateur analyses of The Psyches of Rich People.

In addition, though, I wanted scuttlebutt. Gossip. Unfounded rumors.

My key recruit, 2nd Officer Eamon Nilsson, is quite the Chatty Cathy. Once I’d taken care of that certain piece of business he was most interested in. Without leading him, without overtly encouraging him, my Swedish Nightingale warbled and warbled.

My bed is a multi-purpose piece of furniture. Sleeping being the least important. Fucking, the most fun. But postcoital languor, sitting up, shoulder to shoulder, murmuring softly. Well, Eamon murmured, I listened avidly.

Liz Claymore fucked around on her husband. Men, women, cabin boys.

Frank Claymore fucked around on his wife. Women and cabin boys.

Eamon dished about his fellow crew members as well. I didn’t mind in the least. Might pick up a clue. More sex than the passengers were enjoying. But the crimes were petty. Pilfering. Sneaking bottles of booze.

So far Eamon hadn’t dropped anything particularly useful. But I regarded him as a potential fount of information and planned to continue my vigorous interrogations for the duration.

I decided to look more closely into the art auctions. More money was involved than land tours and seminars and lectures. Damien Hirsch’s graft could be on a bigger scale when the hammer went down on a quarter-million dollar oil painting.

But what had first caught my eye was that the three different condo owners who had sold their homes earlier than projected had also purchased something at auction. Three different couples at two different auctions.

And all three had purchased artwork. One couple had bought a drawing of a nude woman, L’Idol by Henri Matisse.

Another, Printemps Normand by Raul Dufy.

The third was Homage to the Square. Josef Albers.

The three condo sales had been ahead of Envoy’s algorithm-projected timetable. The auction tie-in could mean something. Maybe not.

Now the art sales on The Globe were nothing like those on mere cruise lines. The Globe condo owners were sophisticated, experienced, savvy. The artwork for sale was more valuable, the prices certainly reflected that.

The cruise lines were still recovering from previous auction scandals. The artwork was shipped months after it had been promised. The frames were missing or damaged. Some pieces were proven to be forgeries. There were shills bidding the prices up. Many cruise line buyers overpaid.

Lawsuits were filed, the publicity was murder.

Cruise auctions had a party atmosphere. Booze was free. And plentiful. Pretty girls circulated to brighten the room. The auctioneers were talented and experienced enough to wring extra bucks out of tight wallets.

The Globe auctions, by contrast, were conducted professionally. The paintings, sculptures, vases and the like had supposedly impeccable provenances. Everything that would be going on sale was available to be previewed in private. By the passengers and their experts, if desired.

Jessie Sullivan wrote me: “Plan B in St. Barts.”

Damien Hirsch would be there when The Globe berthed at Saint Barthélemy. A luxury liner at a luxury resort.

Hirsch looked like the digital photos Jessie had sent me. Except, you know, larger and three-dimensional. Breathing.

Dapper, that’s the word that popped into my mind. Dapper Damien.

Slender, trim, pencil mustache. Around six feet, no more than 140 pounds. Erect posture. Black hair gelled straight back. Ascot. A plummy Oxbridge accent that belied his Moline, Illinois upbringing.

Not that I faulted Hirsch for a faux accent. I’ve paddled in similar pools my own damned self.

Because I’m a professional investigator, I followed Hirsch on his rounds that balmy Tuesday morning. That, and Eamon Nilsson had recertification tests this week.

I didn’t really expect to uncover any skullduggery and I didn’t. Hirsch strolled the streets of Gustavia, stopping in jewelry stores and other shops. He was obviously a regular, greeting many of the proprietors by name.

His French was far better than mine, but I was able to follow enough to decide it was just surface chatter. Polite.

I wore a long-billed, straw fisherman’s cap and enormous round sunglasses. Or is it fisherwoman’s? My tote contained other hats and glasses so I changed my profile a couple of times.

No need. Hirsch was oblivious to anyone but himself and whoever he was talking to. He was quietly gregarious, friendly with a friendly smile. Like a small town mayor.

Around 2, he stopped for lunch at The Sand Bar in the Eden Rock Hotel. Hirsch ate out on the terrace overlooking the amazingly blue water. He ordered grilled fish. I saw the plate go by.

Incongruously, I had a pizza jones and fortunately there was a wood-fired oven just roaring to please me. The Sand Bar has some affiliation with that globe-trotting chef, Jean Georges Vongerichten. It’s not the only St. Barts connection he has. I wish the signing rights to my name were worth something. Anything.

The rest of the day was equally crime-free. Hirsch is quite the gadabout. He spent the next two and a half hours, strolling and greeting, greeting and strolling. He walked like a European, right hand grasping his left wrist behind his back. Posture perfect. Rambling, so far as I could tell, aimlessly.

And that was fine with me. It felt good to be land-ho! The Gustavia sights and sounds and French language were new to me and interesting. I could use the exercise. Besides, Eamon was otherwise occupied.

In any case, my real focus was on this evening’s art auction.

I wondered if Dapper Damien would attend. Hoped so.

There is only one axiom I live by. I call it the Winter Jennings Code: What is the face of a coward? The back of his head as he flees the battleground.

I had to admit that while my focus was on auctions, the tour itineraries looked interesting. Fascinating, some of them.

In four months The Globe would be in Crete, the largest of the Greek Islands. An archaeological tour with some scholarship, but also plenty of stops for food and liquid refreshment.

The excursion would include the Heraklion Museum located, logically enough, in Heraklion. Minoan artifacts. Next, the Minoan palace of Phaistos where, as everyone knows, the famous Phaistos Disk was discovered. Whatever the fuck that is. Wonder if the Minotaur was there?

On to the Lyrarakis Winery. Lunch at a taverna. Douloufakis Winery. That’s more like it.

Knossos, an archeological sight I’ve heard of.

Island hopping. Spinalonga. Mochlos. Lisos.

Hirsch had put some thought into his tour packages. Each began with a brief lecture from a local expert. Meals were more than just respites. The menus were thoughtful and looked delicious. Plenty of wine breaks, cocktail hours, cigar and brandy following dinner. Posh hotels.

And money from The Globe distributed at every step of the way.

Prior to swanning around on The Globe, I had taken a crash course in art appreciation. Studied catalogs from Sotheby’s and Christie’s. Talked to gallery owners, a couple of professors. Some artists friends whose work might never be in a famous catalog, but they knew stuff. Art stuff.

I certainly didn’t plan to bid on anything. I just didn’t want to sound like a chimpanzee. If someone asked me about Joan Miró, I would at least know he was male.

What my research hadn’t prepared me for was the nature of this particular art auction. The audience, most of them sipping staff-poured champagne from bottles bearing The Globe’s own label, was about 70% women.

One of whom clinked flutes with me and whispered, “It’s really Salon Mesnil Blanc de Blancs Brut.”

I whispered back, “Really?” As if I knew what the fuck she was talking about.

Dapper Damien Hirsch flâneured in, right hand tucked into the side pocket of his seersucker blazer. Thumb standing sentry outside. The fashionably wrinkled jacket was white with navy stripes. Black pleated slacks. Scuffed white boat shoes, no socks.

I stayed more or less opposite him as he schmoozed his way around the lushly carpeted room. Dark red carpet, everyone is a star here. The chairs, around 40 of them, were comfortably padded leather. Arranged casually -- no rows like a schoolroom, thank you -- in an easy semicircle facing a century old campaign desk with a tooled leather top.

I sensed that there wouldn’t be a podium with a microphone and speakers.

Hirsch seemed to know just about everyone. And just about everyone seemed happy to see him.

Cole Porter was busy in the background, barely audible.

The women were dressed casually as if dropping $35,000 on a Chinese porcelain trinket were ho-hum. They wore slacks, shorts, one had a beach robe over a bikini. Ace dick that I am, I detected that the younger the woman, the more the skin.

As it is now, ever has been, ever will be. Amen.

Then I slowed my circling and let Hirsch catch up. He held out his hand, smiling whitely, “Damien Hirsch. You’re new on board.”

He had a politician’s handshake, light and smooth and brief. “Winter Jennings.”

He looked at me quizzically. Curious, but too refined to pry. I guess Moline teaches you that.

“I’m a friend of Freddie. And Gilda.”

“Ah. Marvelous. Two of my favorite people in the world.”

“They are charming.” Maybe someday I’d meet them.

Hirsch had dark, dark eyes. Bedroom eyes. With that posture, that demeanor ... in another life ... well, back to work.

I learned, on my daily calls back home, that Walker wasn’t having any more wet dreams. Pilar.

Vanessa told me, “She’s a good influence on him, Winter.”

“I guess.”

“He’s less hesitant, more confident. He sees how she attacks life. Almost fearless.”

“I guess.”

“Here he is, love you, babe.”

“Love you more.”

“Winter.”

“Walk.”

“You ... um ... that 2nd Officer? Is... ?”

“Yes. Eamon Nilsson.”

“Oh.”

I wasn’t surprised, I’d read the auction’s catalog, that some of the art had guaranteed minimum prices. Sotheby’s and Christie’s were back doing that after they’d been burned during the 2008 financial collapse.

The stock market and the art market have since roared back. The wealth indexes seem to do that.

Each minimum price was six figures, or close to it. No $20 million Judd’s, too small an audience, no matter how rich they are.

So, a few paintings, sculptures, drawings, and the like.

But a lot of custom jewelry, antique watches, designer purses. It was a glorified shopping mall! And, unlike artwork, the provenance was flimsier. Or nonexistent, like with some of the Hermès purses.

A two-tone chime ... um, chimed. Gently. Sounding rather pleased with itself.