The offices were on Charles Street, a narrow thoroughfare between Cromwell and Cedar Streets—a five-minute walk. Taking a last breath of ME cool air, Carmine emerged onto Cedar Street in something close to 100°F and near-saturation humidity. Five minutes later he entered an elderly office building that proved to hold, on its third floor, his destination. Outside the glass-paneled door Carmine paused to roll his sleeves down and put on his Old Chubber tie, then went into a waiting room that gave away no hint of its calling, as likely a podiatrist’s or a vendor of things in plain brown wrappers as a law office. The receptionist, hammering away on an IBM golfball typewriter, paused to speak through an intercom, then went back to her work.
“Captain Delmonico? Come in,” said a deep voice issuing from a tall, portly man in his early fifties.
Carmine walked into a little heaven of chilly air, his hand outstretched to shake the one being proffered.
“John Uppcott. How may I help, Captain?”
Uppcott too wore an Old Chubber tie: Carmine’s instincts had been right.
Keeping it brief, he explained that he was re-opening Dr. Nell Carantonio’s case.
“I know she left no will, but what I’m hoping, even after so long, is that I can locate some people who knew her well,” said Carmine, sounding relaxed and only moderately interested. “This firm handled the intestacy and the presumption of death, but I imagine the only Carantonio you knew personally was Fenella.”
“Yes indeed, I knew Fenella well,” Uppcott said, something in his tone suggesting that it hadn’t been a joyous experience. “However, the one you should speak to is my father. He can tell you all the Carantonio dirt.”
“Would it be possible to see him?”
“He’d be over the moon. Dad is barely seventy. My mother died fifteen years ago, and he’s been having a ball ever since. Not that my wife and I worry about acquiring a stepmother! Dad is far too fly to get caught in that trap. He likes very pretty young women around nineteen or twenty, lavishes presents on them, gets all the sex he asks for, and everybody’s happy.”
The two Old Chubbers smiled at each other broadly.
“Him, most of all,” said Carmine.
“Definitely. What I love most about him,” said his pragmatic son, “is that he knows down to the last cent how much he can afford to spend, and never dips into the red.”
“When would it be possible to meet your dad?”
“How about ten tomorrow morning? Do you mind if I come along to kibitz? I’d enjoy hearing him on the subject of Dr. Nell too.”
“Be my guest.”
“No, you be ours. I’ll bring fresh raisin bagels and brew the coffee,” said John Uppcott. “Your car, I’ll be navigator.”
Carmine slid his card across the desk. “The number on the back is my home phone. Just in case you have to switch the time or the date.”
And that, he thought, was too easy. His tie in his pocket and his sleeves rolled up again, he walked back to County Services.
Next on his list was Mr. Hank Jones, the new artist; with him Carmine brought the portrait of Un Known from Fenella’s boudoir.
“The Man himself!” said Hank Jones, eyes gone yellow. “What can I do you for, sir?”
“Carmine will do for me. Interesting taste in wall art.”
“Flowers are nice, but I like ’em growing in a garden or a field. Walls are for statements.”
“And flowers can’t be statements?”
“Not for my walls, no. Unless it’s a pitcher plant, maybe.”
Carmine unwrapped the portrait. “Have you seen this?”
“No,” said Hank, inspecting it. “Brilliant brush work, but dirty as an old broom. I’d like to clean it.”
“That was what I hoped you’d say. Will it take long?”
“No, it’s not old enough for the grime of centuries, just the smog of this one. I can wipe it clean with my magic elixir.”
“How old is it, Hank?”
“Several decades, maybe around five … It’s in oils, but none are hand-ground and mixed, yet there are no really modern pigments either.” Hank wiped the canvas lightly in one corner and examined his rag, an old handkerchief of fine cotton. “I’m safe with this. Won’t be long, there’s nothing ingrained.”
By the time he was finished the handkerchief was uniformly dirty, and the portrait had leaped into life. Pale skin, and an undeniably blue ring around each enlarged pupil. No writing or lettering had appeared in the background, which was impossible for Carmine to pin down as a specific location.
“Leave it with me and I’ll ask Photography to make some good copies,” Hank said, fascinated. “Is he a John Doe of way back?”
“I don’t think so, in that he doesn’t appear to be linked to our Doe case. Yet in a different way he’s definitely a John Doe.”
The elfin face looked gleeful. “I knew it! What’s his name?”
“That’s just it. He has a name, but it means John Doe. His first name is Un, and his last name is Known.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. All we know about him is that he’s someone’s father, and his name on the birth certificate is Un Known.”
“Cool!” said Hank.
As Carmine prepared to leave, he found Hank between him and the door, face a mixture of apprehension and determination.
“Uh—sir—Carmine?”
“Yeah?”
“Delia told me that you live on East Circle in the house with the tall square tower, is that right?”
Eyes twinkling, Carmine prepared to hear some proposition as bizarre as individual. “Spit it out, Hank,” he said, grinning.
“Well, it’s like—uh—after midnight, when all the lights except those permanently on have been switched off—and when there’s no wind, the harbor water is glassy—and the Oak Street hydrocarbons farm is blazing with lights—uh—it’s gorgeous!”
“I have noticed these phenomena,” Carmine said gravely.
“Sir—Carmine—if I was quieter than a pussycat, could I maybe sneak into your front yard after midnight and paint all the lights across the water? Please?”
“It turns you on?”
“Like Saturn seen from an outer moon!”
“With some modifications,” Carmine said. “First off, there’s a pit-bull in residence, and you’d have to know him very well. Secondly, if you set yourself up on the deck outside my back door you’d have the best view of all. So I suggest that you and Delia bring some Chinese food next Saturday night about eight. We’ll eat, you can meet Frankie the dog and Winston the cat, look at my deck, and if the night’s right for your needs, you can paint.”
Then he was gone, leaving Hank to stand, gasping, unable to credit his luck. He’d seen the view from East Circle itself on one of his two a.m. prowls, been blown away, then realized that from public land there was no clear sight of what his imagination was piecing together; it would have to be the land belonging to the house with the tall square tower. When he’d told Delia, she informed him that her boss, Carmine Delmonico, lived there, and she’d prodded him to ask Carmine now he was back from California.
What he hadn’t expected was such a warm response; thus far life hadn’t been all that kind to Hank Jones, the quintessential foster child with sinews tough enough not only to survive the system, but actually get something out of it.
Hot damn! When the picture was finished, he’d give it to Carmine, on condition he could hang it when he held his first exhibition.
Time to see Commissioner John Silvestri, who was closeted with the Captain of Uniforms, Fernando Vasquez.
“We’re all worried about the situation in Hartford,” Silvestri said as Carmine sank into a chair.
“Any sign of its spreading our way?” Carmine asked.
“Not so far. The Comancheros don’t have a big presence here, as you know, and they’re in the thick of it.”
Carmine grinned at Fernando. “No sheet of relevant paper?”
“Why do you always harp
on my bureaucratic tendencies when you know they’re necessary?” Fernando demanded wryly.
“Am I paying you a vacation salary, or a working one?” the Commissioner asked Carmine.
“A working one, I guess, as of this morning. Your new artist is a great find, John.”
“Stan Coupinski in Chubb Anatomy told me to grab him. He’d earn a fortune in commercial art, and hate every minute of it.”
The three men passed into a discussion of what was going on in Holloman, a difficult town for Black Power militants to exploit thanks to the two-mile separation between its ghettos, one to either side of downtown and the main Chubb campus, therefore with a tendency to be at loggerheads rather than united. The Hispanic element was small and as yet not infiltrated by any of the fierce Hispanic gangs of bigger cities.
All in all, Holloman seemed likely to survive August in reasonable shape, unlike Hartford.
“Good,” said the Commissioner, and closed the session.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 14, 1969
Carmine packed everything he could imagine he might need into his briefcase: copies of Hank Jones’s portraits of John Doe Three, John Doe Four, James Doe, Jeb Doe and the hypothetical Doe the Desired. To them he added a copy of the cleaned painting of Un Known, and the same painting with pupils of a normal outdoor size, allowing wide, vividly blue irises. Fenella had two pictures: the head and shoulders from the staircase masterpiece, and a Richard Avedon photographic portrait in black and white. And the photograph of Dr. Nell from her police file. Of police files there were five, commencing with her disappearance in 1925, and ending with presumption of her death late in 1933. He doubted there was any other case in the Holloman PD files so rich with pictorial history. Mr. John Uppcott was bringing his law firm’s files, but—no pictures!
Uppcott was waiting outside his building, carrying a fat briefcase and a big bag of fresh raisin bagels, and stepped into the passenger seat of Carmine’s beloved Fairlane as soon as he had deposited his burdens on the back seat.
“I suppose you never get a parking ticket, even in this tank,” he said, enjoying blasts of cool air.
“Not unless the cop who issues it feels like spending the rest of his career in our version of Outer Mongolia.”
“Sheer curiosity, but what is the Holloman PD version of Outer Mongolia?”
A wide white grin flashed Uppcott’s way. “Manning the North Holloman station—nothing ever happens there.”
“Well, Captain, I guess you have to have some perks for what I suspect is a lousy job.” Uppcott stripped off his tie and undid his shirt collar. “Thank God for that! My wife and I always go on vacation in June because it’s more comfortable people-wise, but the office in August is only bearable because of my A/C unit. I’d put one in Rosemary’s reception room, except that old Mortimer Gablonski, the senior partner, won’t hear of it. Subordinates must suffer, the old bastard says.”
“Does that mean you pay personally for your comfort?”
“Yes, and gladly. The Steins are no problem, and we’ve got it all worked out. Morty retires next February, then we’re moving to the Nutmeg Insurance building—full A/C, even for Rosemary.”
“Any special directions how to get to your dad’s?”
“No. He’s on Inlet Road at the point end.”
They drove then in a pleasant silence through the leafy streets of Carew, turned onto Inlet Road and emerged into what Carmine privately thought one of the prettiest coast villages Connecticut could boast—tranquil, well kept up, an antique row of shops, prosperous houses except for the one little tower of apartments that had so upset the locals they promptly banned any structures over two storeys in height.
John Uppcott Senior lived just three houses short of the park that formed Busquash Point, in a white-painted New England saltbox house with dark green shutters and a shingled roof. It stood in a generous half-acre of carefully maintained gardens, its sole trees several dogwoods and a magnificent North American birch with four trunks, its flower beds filled with roses. The owner was obviously a passionate rose fancier.
The son looked older than his father, whom he clearly admired as much as adored.
“Call me Jack,” said Uppcott Senior, shaking hands.
He was shorter than his son and in much better condition: flat belly, broad shoulders, supple movements. A magnificent head of fair, wavy hair set off a handsome face endowed with a pair of permanently laughing green-blue eyes that few women could have resisted. What a legal lion he must have been in his day! A pity his day had been so short on lady lawyers; he would have swept all before him. Though he probably had anyway. Carmine made a mental note to pump Judge Thwaites for information—those two would have loved each other.
“No teenyboppers dropping in, Dad?” Junior asked.
The eyes danced. “Son! Would I do that to a captain of detectives? Go make us some coffee and put the bagels on a big plate, like a good guy,” said Jack, leading Carmine to a shaded loggia that overlooked the park and Long Island Sound.
“Doctor Nellie!” the youthful old man said on a sigh. “I never knew her, though I joined the firm in June of 1923 and she didn’t disappear until October of 1925. Stonemeyer was the senior partner, and even he hadn’t set eyes on Dr. Nell. Since her portfolio was blue-chip and she never speculated on the Market, she didn’t use a broker. We kept her scrip and papers, and after tax began to come in, we retained a tax accountant for her and other big clients. After she disappeared George Stonemeyer handed everything to his son, Norman, who was useless. Norman co-opted me as his full-time assistant, and dumped the whole Carantonio mess in my lap. He was killed in 1926 literally skating on thin ice to impress a local Clara Bow, and his father sold out of the firm. My own father had died and left me a bundle, so I bought in as second partner on condition that I kept Carantonio in my purlieu. You see, Carmine, by then I was hooked on it, and the last things I wanted were the headaches of the senior partner. Sy Gablonski bought the senior partnership for his son, Mort. As far as I was concerned, everything came up roses. Until the end of 1933, I handled nothing except the Carantonio affair.”
John Uppcott came out bearing a tray of coffee and bagels, performed the duties of a waiter, then sat and listened.
“Did you cherish any ideas of your own about Dr. Nell’s sudden disappearance, Jack?” Carmine asked. “There’s no interview with you in the police files.”
“My only ideas were suspicions without foundation,” said Jack, sinking his excellent teeth into a bagel, “but here they are, for what they’re worth. There was a man involved, I’d bet a lot on that. Dr. Nell never lived much at Busquash Manor—the house called Little Busquash always held a caretaker, a man named Ivor Ramsbottom, who I gather the police enquiries cleared totally. But Antonio III had sent her to boarding school when she went into high school, though she lived at home through her university years—U-Conn and then Chubb Medical School. I can solve the mystery of her easy medical career—Antonio III bought it with enormous endowments that were kept what we’d call now, top secret.”
“Fascinating,” said Carmine, enjoying both bagel and story. “In not interviewing you, Jack, the cops missed a bonanza.”
“I agree,” said Jack complacently. “When Dr. Nell went into her clinical years at the Holloman Hospital as well as the Medical School, she bought a three-family house on Oak Street not far north of where the Holloman Hospital is today. The cops knew all about it, but I think missed its true significance. She lived on the middle floor, installed a housekeeper on the top floor, and—at least I believe—not a bodyguard on the bottom floor, but a lover. The neighborhood back then was on the slide, but it was still lower middle class white—why a bodyguard? To me, it didn’t make sense. By the time that the detective got around to investigating the house, both the woman on the top floor and the man on the bottom floor had packed up and left the state. As far as I know, neither ever surfaced.”
“You’re right, neither did. Any theories about the lover?”
&nb
sp; “Oh, sure!” said Jack, reveling in this late chance to air theories ignored at the time. “For one thing, he didn’t really live in Dr. Nell’s bottom apartment, according to the neighbors. He came and he went, always with a bag—a suitcase, I mean. My theory? He was married.”
Carmine was leafing through the fat first file, and found what he was looking for. “According to the neighbors, a big guy in his middle thirties, and something of a looker—one witness calls him extremely handsome—female—and another, a fine man. It strikes me that a progressive thinker like Dr. Nell would have been bored by guys her own age, so if she did have a lover, the so-called bodyguard would fit for looks and age.”
“My interpretation exactly, Captain! How cheering, that the Holloman PD detectives are also evolving!” said Jack slyly. “He must have been married. Otherwise, why the subterfuge? Dr. Nell was a marital catch—brains, beauty and two million dollars. I think he was a surgeon.”
“Not a fellow giver of gas?” Carmine asked.
“Yes, it was a rather limited field back then—mostly good old nitrous oxide. But no, Carmine. Similar field, conflicting schedules. An allied field, like surgery.”
Carmine extracted the photograph of Dr. Nell. “I know you never saw her, but does this face ring a bell?”
“It fits Dr. Nell’s description. Look at the fire in those eyes! Some woman,” said Jack, sighing.
“Fill me in on her cousin, Fenella. The second Nell.”
“Antonio Carantonio III had a younger brother, Angelo,” Jack said, pausing to savor his coffee and choose another bagel. “Not unusually, they hated each other, a feeling that blazed higher after their father, Antonio II, left absolutely everything to the older son, Antonio III, who was the father of Dr. Nell. Angelo had always been the black sheep—he was shiftless, a compulsive liar, and an adept at forging checks on the family bank accounts. In 1903, about ten years after inheriting, Antonio III dealt with his brother and the business in one fell swoop. He sold the business and invested the proceeds in blue-chip stocks, nothing else. His income from these investments was paid directly into one bank account so well protected that Angelo couldn’t get at it by hook or by crook.”
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