by David Grand
“If you notice,” the professor said with his arm outstretched, “this painting reconnects completely to the corporeal form, a form Rodhinsky so determinedly moved away from in his youth. It is the most realistic of paintings Rodhinsky ever did. It is more like Caravaggio than Rodhinsky. It is a simple but carefully rendered portrait of himself, something so bare of pretense and bare of artifice that, given the circumstances of his death, you shudder to think how much he labored over the inevitability of his death, how there in each one of those labored strokes was his fate, complete and realized. Evgeny Rodhinsky standing over a pickax wedged between the floorboards, there in the privacy of his own studio, but, but, you notice here, in the stained glass of the window, in miniature, the very Rodhinsky-like forms—overshadowed by the brutal realism of the portrait. Here is the only thing that links the painting to him—to his past endeavors, to his revolutionary style—there, looming in the windows like a requiem. It is very moving and thought-provoking, especially if it is true that he was found with that masonry tool driven through his heart and the police only minutes away from his flat.”
“Why’d he go and do it?” Byron asked.
“Yes, why?” Tarkhov said, looking at Byron’s eyes fixed on the painting. “Because he felt he had lost his place in the world, I would imagine.”
Byron walked closer to the painting, to look at the pained expression on Rodhinsky’s face.
“But even if this isn’t what happened . . .” Dr. Gamburg said.
“Does it matter? It is what people believe.”
Dr. Gamburg stared in awe at Professor Tarkhov. “This is very exciting.”
“Yes, yes it is,” the professor said, grimacing once again.
“I think it will make a great impression.”
“You and the owner of these paintings will profit nicely, I am sure,” the professor said to himself.
“I’m sorry?” Dr. Gamburg said.
“It will be a very enlightening event.”
“Let’s hope so,” Dr. Gamburg said. “I am very pleased.”
“The collector thought you would be.” Professor Tarkhov placed his hand on the doctor’s shoulder and smiled. “And now, Dr. Gamburg, if you don’t mind, now that I have shown you the Rodhinsky and I have seen this beautiful gallery, I believe I’m ready to rest awhile. My body is so tired I can hardly feel it.”
“I’ll show you to your room,” Dr. Gamburg said as he walked the professor out of the opposite end of the gallery. The two men walked through a smoking room to a staircase and continued on upstairs to the guest bedroom. “Sleep as long as you like,” Dr. Gamburg said jovially. “You should be well rested for what’s to come.” And with that, Dr. Gamburg turned and walked back down the stairs.
Professor Tarkhov retired to his room and shut the door. The room was as spacious as every other room in the house. It consisted of a large four-posted bed, throw rugs, a Colonial-style armoire, and a writing table. On top of the writing table was a stack of paper, a pen, a telephone, a pitcher of water, a glass, and a tray with some cucumber sandwiches and chocolates. Before the table was a window with lace curtains that looked out onto the sculpture garden and the stand of woods. It was all tasteful and comfortable. As much as the professor’s senses were pleased by his surroundings, he couldn’t allow himself to enjoy them for a moment.
The professor removed his coat and laid it on the bed, then sat down at the desk. He touched one of the crustless sandwiches with his fingers and then turned to pick up the phone. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Midtown nine five eight, please, the Ansonia Hotel.”
The professor listened to the phone ring several times.
“Room three oh nine, please.”
He waited again, more ringing.
“Arthur Brilovsky, please. . . . Yes, I have arrived safely and will meet you as planned. . . . No, I don’t believe you should look forward to seeing me,” the professor said harshly and hung up the phone. He reached for the cucumber sandwich, sniffed at it, and dropped it back down onto the tray in disgust.
Chapter 11
Harry Shortz watched leafless trees flicker past the window from inside the northbound train to Ten Lakes, trying to recall the features of Sylvia Lowenstein’s face. He was still distraught about the blackmail letter, and was starting to see his entire future unravel like a Chinese yo-yo thrown clear off its stick. The timing of the threat couldn’t have made it appear more like he was being set up for a big fall; one, he felt, he probably had little chance of avoiding. He would be ruined and disgraced, and he couldn’t even conjecture how Beverly and his children would take the news. Not to mention his father-in-law.
The truth of the matter was that Harry had buried the memories of Sylvia and Katrina Lowenstein inside him for so long now that when he read their names in the blackmail letter, the idea of their existence felt as though it had emerged from the shadows of a long-forgotten dream. With the exception of one man who had stumbled upon his secret, a man long since dead, Harry had managed to keep his relationship to Sylvia and Katrina concealed from the world. He had never confessed to anyone—not in nineteen years, not to his closet confidants—that in the early years of his marriage to Beverly, he had had an ongoing affair with a young Hungarian prostitute; he had solicited her at a bar one night shortly after returning home from the war. It was strictly business to begin with, but, in time, Harry fell for her, and didn’t like the idea of sharing. Using his wife’s family money and connections, he bought Sylvia Lowenstein a fresh start, pulled her out of the brothel in which she worked and lived, set her up in a room in the West End, and helped her find a secretarial job at an ad agency. He then unwittingly helped get her pregnant. When she refused to give up the child and showed no signs of letting Harry off the hook, Harry, full of shame and regret, exchanged Sylvia’s silence and some distance for money and a country house in a mountain resort town an hour northwest of the City.
Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he would find when he reached Ten Lakes, but after receiving the note, he knew he couldn’t sit still in his office for the rest of the day without trying to look Sylvia Lowenstein in the eye and ask her what in the world she was at and who exactly she had talked to.
When the train pulled into the Ten Lakes station, the ground had turned to snow, and the winds outside had picked up considerably, so that the icy powder that had blanketed the gable roofs of the clapboard houses and storefronts along Main Street spiraled into the air like desert dust devils. Inside the train station, a few cab drivers sat on benches near the exit, quietly reading the newspaper. Harry pulled his hat down over his forehead a little and pulled his scarf up over his chin, then walked over to them. An older man with an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth looked up from his paper first and caught Harry’s eye.
“You available?” Harry asked.
“Where you headed?”
“Pine Valley. Overlook Road. I need a ride there and back.”
“Sure thing.” The man stood up, buttoned his coat, and pulled the flaps of a beaver hat over his ears. Harry followed the man out to a rusting gray Packard and slid into the backseat. They drove out of town onto a two-lane road that swung around Abilene Lake. Through the clearings in the trees along the shore, Harry watched snow from the beaches gently brush over the lake’s frozen surface, as if an invisible broom were sweeping it along. The two men drove quietly, over a short hillside pass and into a valley. They drove past a few homes and a roadside coffee shop and then along a meadow that extended into a marsh.
“It’s coming up on the left,” Harry said. They approached a two-story house in need of paint and a new roof. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys into the air and trailed out over the meadow and hovered over the snow like swamp fog.
“Oh, that old place,” the driver said. “I don’t recall exactly what month, but the woman who lived there passed on just last year. Heart attack, I think. Something to do with her heart, anyway.”
“Wha
t the hell . . .” Harry thought he said to himself.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you sure you’re talking about the woman who lived there in that house?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I drove a few men from town out to the funeral. They buried her up the road a little way, under a couple of sycamores on the top of the hill, by the overlook. I remember the daughter . . . she stayed behind in the house until just recently, but then she left town. Funny thing, I can’t for the life of me remember their names.”
“Lowenstein?” Harry said. “Sylvia and Katrina?”
“That’s right. Sylvia and Katrina Lowenstein.” The man pulled the car up in front of the house and looked it over a little. “The daughter, Katrina, I remember well. She was pretty broken up over it. A real beauty, that one. Like her mother. But I don’t think it was easy for her being her mother’s daughter.”
“Why’s that?”
“I can’t say the mother was all that well liked by the women around here, if you know what I mean. She was quite a beautiful woman, and, well, let’s just say she did all right for herself.”
“I see,” Harry said, still feeling unnerved by the news. “I tell you what . . . why don’t you go back up the road to that coffee shop and come back and get me in say twenty minutes or so.” Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out his money clip. He offered the man a couple of singles. “Treat yourself to whatever you like.”
“It’d be nice to get out of the cold,” the man said, looking at the large sum of money. He took Harry’s two dollars. “I’ll be back.”
“All right,” Harry said.
He watched the man turn the car around and head back down the road. Then he stood outside looking at the house, at the peeling paint, the loose shutters and screens, the broken railing on the front porch. He remembered how when he brought Sylvia out here to look at the house all those years ago, the flower beds were full of daffodils and the small apple orchard in the meadow was in blossom.
Harry walked up the steps to the front porch. He opened the screen door and knocked several times. A sullen-looking man, unshaven and unkempt, appeared in the window beside the door. He wore a tattered navy sweater and baggy tan trousers.
“What can I do for you?” The man appeared to Harry as though he were only half alive. He looked weary.
“I’m looking for Katrina Lowenstein.”
The man stepped away from the window and opened the door. “As far as I know, she hasn’t been living here for some time.”
“You happen to know where she is?”
“No, I’m just renting the place for the winter. What’s this about?”
“My name’s Carl Reese. I work for Reliance Bank. My bank has the mortgage on this house, and the owner’s in default. I’ve come by to assess the property. You mind if I come in and take a quick look around?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “My day’s already ruined. I might as well officially declare it so.” The man stepped away from the door and made room for Harry to enter.
The two of them were standing in the kitchen, a large country kitchen with a wood-burning stove and a maple table, on top of which was a portable typewriter, a stack of paper, and a few packs of cigarettes.
“Miss Lowenstein seems to have a good deal of unfinished business,” the man said as he reached for a cigarette. He offered Harry one as an afterthought.
“No, thank you,” Harry said.
“I’ve been without electricity for the past two nights.” The man lit his cigarette and blew the smoke over his shoulder. “I spent the better part of the morning trying to track down the power company. I didn’t realize a power company could be so elusive. But now, with you here, everything’s starting to make a little more sense.”
“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been so inconvenienced.”
The man turned his back on Harry and walked to the sink. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
The man reached for a teacup from above the sink and placed the cup down on the stove. He poured hot water from a steaming teakettle and squeezed in a wedge of lemon that sat on a chipped ceramic plate.
“I realize it doesn’t look like much, but it calms my nerves.”
“I didn’t get your name,” Harry said.
“Daniel. Daniel Greely.”
Harry removed a pen and a small notebook from an inside pocket resting against his gun. “A writer?” Harry asked, pointing to the typewriter and the large stack of paper.
“Yes.” Daniel Greely looked over to the typewriter and the stack of paper and blanched at the site of Harry writing as he spoke. “What are you writing?”
“I just wrote down your name, that’s all.”
“For what purpose?”
“For future reference, in case I need to ask you any more questions about Miss Lowenstein. It’s urgent that we get in touch with her before we foreclose on her mortgage.”
“I’d prefer it if you kept me out of this.” The lines in Daniel Greely’s face darkened a little.
“I’ll only call on you if it’s absolutely necessary, Mr. Greely.”
Greely took a sip of hot water and lemon and tilted his head, as if he were staring at the gun resting under Harry’s arm, under his coat.
“What do you write?” Harry asked.
“This and that.” Greely’s head turned upright again. “Novels mostly.”
“Anything I might have heard of?”
“I doubt it. It’s mostly pulp.”
“You’d be surprised. I travel a lot. Do a lot of reading on the train.”
“I don’t like to talk about it much, if that’s all right with you.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Daniel Greely wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Please,” Daniel Greely said to Harry as he placed his teacup down, his hand shaking a little, “look around as much as you like. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Harry watched the peculiar man walk away into the living room. He heard a door squeak open and slam shut. When the house felt still, Harry removed his gun, placed it in his outer pocket, and discreetly turned over a page in the stack on the table. “. . . if I bludgeon you with an ax handle don’t you dare frown, for the lemon wedges I insert in your smiles and the rinds with which I wedge open your eyes will not for a minute insinuate that I feel anything sour for you but that I am only as cruel as any man who would intentionally eviscerate you alive with a peeling knife for the sake of grim decadence. . . .”
Harry, who felt as though he were somehow being watched through the walls by this man, continued the charade of being the banker. As he looked over the kitchen, he wrote on his pad: Jasper wood-burning stove, kitchen table, small china cabinet, china, icebox. When he walked into the living room, Daniel Greely reappeared through the cellar door and walked behind the sofa.
“It’s a little unseasonable and out of the way to be here for the winter,” Harry said pleasantly once he saw him. “Does it ever get to you?” Harry wrote on his pad: sofa, armchair, writing table, throw rug, fixtures (3). The house was still furnished with the furniture Harry had bought for Sylvia when she first moved in. However, the sofa and the chairs were now stained and worn.
“I enjoy it for what it is,” Daniel responded. “The cold weather doesn’t bother me in the least.”
“Are you up from the City?”
“No. I’ve come from out west. I was out west, doing some work for the movie studios.”
“I see,” Harry said as he walked over to the mantel and picked up a photograph of Sylvia, older but still youthful, her dark Hungarian eyes warm and full of mischief. On her arm was who could only have been Katrina. She was nearly the exact image of Sylvia, though she was taller and slightly bigger-boned than her mother, yet still slim and feminine. As he handled the picture, something occurred to Harry.
“Can you tell me, Mr. Greely, who’s handling this property?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I made the arrangements
with Donello and Sons. Forty-seven Main Street, I think.”
“Should I ask for anyone in particular?”
“Frank Donello.”
“Very good.” Harry wrote down the name and address. He then poked his head into the den and wrote down the few items in there: radio, sofa, dining table. “I’m just going to take a look upstairs and then I’ll be on my way.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen working,” Greely said.
Harry walked up the staircase to the second floor. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom. In one of the bedrooms was an empty easel, and scattered about the easel, tubes of paint and a palette. He was drawn to a desk beside the easel and began to flip through a stack of papers. When he got to the bottom, he found a scrap of paper with the name Benny Rudolph written on it, and beside it a phone number. It took Harry a minute to recall where he had known the name, for it had been so long since he had thought of it, but when he remembered it, he remembered that Pally and Ira had collared Rudolph for running an extortion racket for the syndicate; Rudolph would beat the owners of City pharmacies silly until they would agree to sell the syndicate’s dope over the counter.
Harry was baffled. He was further baffled when he found paper-clipped to the scrap of paper an old, worn photo of himself with Sylvia, one they had taken together while on a short trip out of town. A dark black line separated the two figures, and both were smudged with paint. Harry picked up the piece of paper and the photo and stuck it into his jacket. He looked through the papers more carefully now, but when he was through riffling the pile, he had found nothing else that seemed significant to him. He wondered what business Katrina would have with Rudolph. He wondered what they had in common, how it was that he knew about her.
Downstairs, Greely was back in the kitchen, sitting in front of his typewriter, typing with a lemon wedge glistening from between his lips. He spit the mangled lemon wedge onto the table when he saw Harry and kept typing. “All through?” he asked over the sound of the clacking key punches.
“Yes,” Harry said calmly as he placed the pad in his pocket. “Thank you for letting me in. It was a great help.”