The Knowledge: A Richard Jury Mystery (Richard Jury Mysteries)

by Martha Grimes

  “Why? Because he’s Leo Zane. He likes games. And I’m not sure that a drawerful of broken glass wouldn’t be more of a deterrent than a safe. Get a safe open and there you are. Get this drawer open and there you aren’t. Besides, who would think it?” Trueblood lit up a pink Sobranie with his gold lighter. “I’d like to get Diane here.”

  Jury was so used to Trueblood’s shifting conversational gears that he barely blinked. “Diane Demorney?”

  “How many Dianes do we know? I need a distraction.”

  “You have too many as it is.”

  “Not a distraction for me. A distraction for Leo Zane. I want to get into that drawer. You think he’s smuggling tanzanite, didn’t you say?”

  “And you think that’s where the stash is? Or do you just want to practice your pilfering skills?”

  “Very funny. You know, I wonder what Dr. Moffit’s system was. Maybe it wasn’t how to beat the house. Maybe it was for something else,” said Trueblood.

  “Physics. What kind of application would that have to Leonard Zane’s world?”

  “That’s rather begging the question, as we don’t know what Zane’s world is.”

  “Art, gambling. David Moffit.”

  “But you don’t know there was a connection to Moffit.”

  “Sure, I do.”

  “How?”

  “Because he died on Zane’s doorstep.”

  “And the shooter?”

  “Mr. Banerjee appears to have melted into the Nairobi night.”

  Artemis Club, London

  Nov. 7, Thursday morning

  26

  Leonard Zane held the painting up to the sunlit window. “Where did you get it?”

  “From the Moffits’ London flat.”

  “Moffits? You’re talking about the couple who were shot?”

  “Rebecca Moffit, yes. According to her mother, it was Rebecca’s. But you had never met her.”

  “That’s right, I hadn’t.”

  “Yet she must have been in your gallery in order to acquire this Abasi painting.”

  Leonard Zane frowned, looking at it. “I don’t recognize it, and I think I would.” He pulled over the leather “sales” book; started leafing backward through the pages, over which he first ran his eyes and index finger; and finally shook his head. “I see no record of the sale. You’re welcome to look.” He started to turn the book round for Jury.

  “No, thanks. I’m sure there’d be no record.”

  Zane closed the book and shoved it aside. “You want to establish a connection between me and the Moffits.”

  “It’s not that I want to. It appears it’s already there, unless Mr. Abasi has broken his contract and is allowing other dealers to sell his works here. Although I would find it a hell of a coincidence that Rebeca Moffit would have found one of his paintings elsewhere.”

  Leonard Zane offered Jury a little smile. “My contract with Masego Abasi does not extend to his studio in Nairobi. He was perfectly free to sell a painting to anyone who happened to stop in there. So Mrs. Moffit or her husband must have been in Kenya.”

  “Wouldn’t that also be too much of a coincidence,” said Jury, “that Rebecca Moffit would happen by this obscure artist’s studio in Nairobi?”

  “In Kenya he’s not obscure. Or couldn’t someone else have given it to her as a gift? There must be a dozen possibilities.”

  “I don’t think so. I see only four: The one you just mentioned—a gift. The Zane Gallery—that’s the most likely. The artist himself, if she was in Kenya. Another dealer who shouldn’t be selling Abasi’s work. That’s unlikely.”

  “There’s a fifth possibility: accident. That the painting passed through other hands before it got to hers. Estate sales, a relation handing it along—you know.”

  “All right, that is possible. However—”

  Without a prior knock, the door to the gallery opened.

  It was Maggie Benn. “Oh … sorry, Leo. But there’s a bit of a fracas downstairs. I mean out there—” She pointed toward the window they had left. Jury went back to it. She continued: “The woman in the black suit. She’s trying to get to the place that’s roped off and the police are trying to stop her.”

  Jury looked out and down at the drive. From this angle he couldn’t be sure, but—suddenly, he started to move. “I’ll see to it,” he flung over his shoulder. Once out of the room, he was down the staircase at a run.

  Outside the front door he stopped. A DS from City Police had walked over to him and said, “She’s making a bit of a fuss, sir. I pointed out the crime scene tape was still up, but she insisted on the flowers, sir. Got a bunch of chrysanthemums—she’s his mother, or so she says.”

  Jury froze. He was looking at a dark-haired woman in a black suit in the center of one of the most desolate scenes he could imagine for her: murder scene, empty day, mum, dead son. A handful of already spent chrysanthemums she had probably picked up on the fly. In front of her stretched the “Do Not Cross” crime scene tape that she clearly had crossed in order to place the flowers on the gray stone of the drive. And then obediently returned to stand behind the blue tape. That detail Jury found infinitely mournful.

  Quickly, he crossed the drive. He put out one hand to raise the tape, the other to take her arm. “Please forgive us—you’re David’s mum.”

  “Mum” was too much for her fragile shell of composure and she started to cry.

  Jury put his arm round her shoulders and led her to the front door and then inside, to where Maggie Benn was now standing. He apologized again, saying, “We didn’t know you were coming today, Mrs. Moffit. We’ve been trying to get in touch since last Friday night. We’d have met you at Heathrow. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  She shook her head as she tried to find a handkerchief or tissue or something to wipe the tears away and finally settled on the sleeve of her black suit. “I was in—I was out of touch, didn’t know about—David and … Oh, hell. Hell.” Crying again, she gasped, “Is there a restroom?”

  Jury asked Maggie to show Mrs. Moffit and Maggie led her away. He watched her cross the deep-piled dark blue rug. Although nowhere near being the stunner that Claire Howard was, Paula Moffit was attractive, but then she’d have to have been: David’s looks couldn’t have come wholly from his father.

  Her clothes were low key, but structurally elegant. She wore a perfectly cut suit. Beneath the jacket was a gray cashmere sweater. No jewelry, not a piece. And no makeup, unless it had been washed away by tears.

  She was back in five minutes. They were seated in the library; she seemed a quiet person, restful, almost, even in these circumstances. She said, “David was our only child. My husband died some years ago. I feel alone.”

  “Yes. I’ve never had children. The death of one strikes me as the worst loss imaginable, one you don’t recover from. Ever.”

  “Thank you for not saying it will get easier. I’ve heard enough clichés to last me a lifetime. Why do people think that sort of remark makes you feel better?”

  “Because it’s easier than coming up with something meaningful. It’s odd what some people think is comforting, like, ‘Be happy for the time you had him,’ which is astoundingly callous. How could you feel anything but despair remembering?”

  “I’ll never see him again, never. I can’t—”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t know him; you’d have liked him.”

  “I did know him, and I did like him.”

  “But where? … How?”

  “In Covent Garden in a shop we both happened to be in. The owner’s an astrologist. There was something about your son that was … intensely compelling. You know what I mean?”

  “I certainly do. People were drawn to him. When David walked into a room, you knew he was there.”

  “He had presence.”

  Paula nodded and dropped her head in her hand. “I think I’d better lie down.”

  “I’ll take you to—where are you staying?”

  �
�The Ritz, but I haven’t been there yet.”

  He rose and helped her out of her chair. As he was retrieving her coat, Leonard Zane came hurrying down the stairs, putting on his jacket. “Superintendent, Maggie told me Mrs. Moffit—” He stopped and held out his hand to Paula. “I’m Leonard Zane, Mrs. Moffit. This is my place. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your son and his wife.”

  She took his hand and laid her other hand over it, almost as if in condolence. “Did you know him? Did you see him?”

  Zane shook his head. “No, I’m sorry to say. Where are you staying in London?”

  “I reserved a room at the Ritz.”

  “Not the Ritz. It’s much too big, too ostentatious, and hasn’t enough—the Park Lane would be much better.”

  Maggie Benn said, “They never have anything.”

  Zane gave a quirky smile. “Well, now they do. Get Simon Parking-ton for me.”

  Paula Moffit made to protest. “Oh, please don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure the Ritz will be fine.”

  Zane let his ice-gray glance slide from Maggie’s face, as if she’d been the author of this argument, to Paula Moffit. “Please, the very least I can do is see that you’re comfortable while you’re in London. It’s no bother.” He took the mobile phone from Maggie. “Simon, hello. Leonard Zane.” A pause. “Yes, I know, but—” He walked off, out of hearing range.

  Maggie asked Paula, “How long are you here for?”

  “I don’t know. A few days.”

  Leonard Zane ended his call, came up to them and said to Maggie, “Tell Jim to bring the car round.”

  “Oh,” she said uncertainly. “To go where?”

  “The Grand Residences. That is, if you’re ready, Mrs. Moffit.”

  The car was a Bentley and Jim a full-blown chauffeur, though without a cap, which made him appear that much more official. Jury accompanied Paula to Park Lane.

  It was not a room, but a small luxurious flat with a living room and a well-furnished kitchen. Paula said she’d like some tea and Jury offered to make it.

  “Not on your life, Superintendent; except to pick up the phone, we neither of us will lift a finger. Get it from room service.”

  They did. Paula toed off her shoes and sat back in the armchair. “I love English furniture, it’s so wide and deep.”

  “We’re a lazy lot.”

  “Ha. I can see that. I’m tired, but I know you have questions you need to ask. So ask away.”

  “Do you feel like talking about this?”

  “Remember, you knew David. You think I wouldn’t want to talk about that? I’ll sleep a little and I’ll be fine.”

  After the tea arrived and was poured and the waiter had gone, Jury said, “Rebecca struck me as being the perfect wife for your son.”

  Paula Moffit registered surprise. “You met her too?”

  “Had dinner with them at the Goring.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Paula said after a moment. “You know, I was always surprised that any girl could take a backseat to the cosmos.”

  “But to hear him talk about her, I don’t think she was taking a backseat to anything. He really loved her.”

  “Yes. He did.”

  “Strange for one so addicted to the night sky that he could tell his students what he told me he did.”

  Paula looked puzzled. “What was that?”

  “‘If you’ve come here for solace, go back. If you’ve come for consolation, you won’t get it.’”

  “What do you think he meant?”

  Jury slipped down farther into his chair, looked up at the ornamental molding. “I think he was pointing out how superficial our experience of the cosmos is. We gaze at the stars and remark on their beauty. He looks up there, at infinite space, and feels—felt—the terror.” He wished he hadn’t changed the tense when he saw her expression. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m astonished. You met him once and you know as much about him after only a few hours as I do after years.”

  “No, I don’t, Paula. Not at all.”

  “I wish only that you’d known him longer.”

  Jury returned his look to the ceiling. “I feel I did.”

  There was silence for a few moments, after which Jury shifted ground. “Given that you live in the United States and she lives here, I expect you didn’t see much of Rebecca’s mother after the wedding.”

  “As much as I ever wanted to,” said Paula Moffit.

  It was the evenness of the tone as much as the words that surprised Jury. As if anyone who knew the woman would feel the same way.

  “You don’t care for Claire Howard?”

  “No, I don’t.” The same matter-of-factness. She had unclasped her bag and pulled out an interesting Victorian-looking cigarette case, offered it to him.

  “No, thanks. No more. I stopped.”

  “Don’t you miss it?”

  “As much as a perennially absent lover.”

  “Oh, dear. I hope you don’t have to suffer both of those at the same time. One would be enough to flatten you. Though you don’t look easily flattened.”

  “I am, though. Why don’t you like Claire Howard?”

  She eyed him through the smoke of her cigarette. “You met her.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You found her beautiful and charming.”

  Jury nodded.

  Paula Moffit added, “And sincere.”

  Jury smiled slightly. “That’s questionable, perhaps.”

  “Highly. She isn’t. Have we an ashtray? Smokers are such a nuisance.”

  He got up and found a blue-green glass ashtray on a small side table. He put it down before her. She went on: “I didn’t trust Claire Howard.” She drew on her cigarette as if she didn’t trust air, either.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, she’s an opportunist.”

  Jury frowned, puzzled.

  “You know, the sort of person you wouldn’t introduce to your lover because she might … No, that’s too obvious. Say instead, the sort you wouldn’t introduce to your jeweler.”

  Jury laughed. “Why not?”

  “She’d insinuate herself into his good graces and walk away with the best deal on a gem you yourself were supposed to get. A more literal example: after the wedding, when she returned to England, she got in touch with two or three of my friends and I found out later from one who regularly took a vacation in the Caymans that Claire Howard had been invited to join them. I had no idea about this until long after it had happened. That’s what I mean by opportunist. She’s extremely manipulative, which of course goes along with the opportunism.”

  “And Rebecca, did you think she was like her mother? A gold digger, maybe?”

  “Oh, gold-digging.” Paula dismissed that with a little snort. “Gold digging is much more honest. No, Rebecca wasn’t at all like Claire. Rebecca was a genuinely honest and gracious girl. David met her on a trip to London. Some convention of physicists.” She smiled. “Doesn’t that sound enchanting?”

  “Indeed.” Jury returned the smile. “And a romance followed?”

  “Yes. Rebecca is—was—quite unusual. Complex for a beauty. Beautiful women generally don’t bother being much else. Well, she would have to be complex to snag David.”

  They drank their tea in silence for a moment.

  Jury said, “I understand he’d devised a gambling system that somehow involved physics.”

  “Not the best use of his discipline.”

  “Nor, I’m sure, the only. He did have a professorship at Columbia.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “He didn’t tell you about this system?”

  “Me? Heavens, no. I know he was especially interested in—the uncertainty principle, is it?”

  “That you can’t know the velocity and the position of anything simultaneously?”

  Paula stared. “Well, good Lord, Superintendent! You know quantum physics?”

  “No. I just know a physicist.” Who’s also a patholo
gical liar, but Jury didn’t bother with that detail. “Your son was applying the uncertainty principle to cards?”

  “Blackjack. But I’m not sure that’s what it was. Some theorem about completeness? Oh, I don’t know what he was doing.” She was silent for a few moments and then said, “The thing is that even though David was addicted to gambling, it couldn’t compete with his work; it couldn’t begin to compete with the night sky. He saw in it unimaginable depths and brilliance. Everything else was the color of ice.” She sighed. “I think I’d probably better get some sleep. I never sleep on these long flights.”

  “Of course. If you can think of anything at all, later on, that might have some connection with what happened, please ring me.” He took out a card. “I’m adding my home and mobile numbers. Or ring me if you just want to talk.” He handed the card to her.

  Looking at it, she said, “If you need to talk to me again, please don’t hesitate. I’ll be here. I’m afraid I’ve been of little help so far.”

  “On the contrary, you’ve given me a lot of information about your son and his wife, and a new perspective on Claire Howard. That’s a lot of help, and I appreciate it. Call me.”

  And with that Jury left.

  Mbosi Camp, Kenya

  Nov. 7, Thursday morning

  27

  “It’s only a little after seven A.M. and you nearly got killed by a leopard last night,” said a groggy Melrose Plant, thumped roughly awake by Patty Haigh. “No, I will not go on a walking safari with Ernest.”

  “He’ll carry his Winchester.”

  “That’s in favor of going? I don’t think so.”

  “But he said we’d see rhinos, maybe even a white one.”

  “A further bit of bad press. Go eat your breakfast.” The last few words were barely decipherable since Melrose had buried his face in his pillow.

  “But we can see animals we haven’t seen before.”

  Melrose thought that was another bad PR move. “I’ve seen enough to last a lifetime. The only animals I want to see in the future are my horse and my goat.”

  “You have a goat?”

  She seemed to think this almost as good as a rhino. “I do. His name is Aghast.”