"I think he was getting one hundred and twenty thousand per year, with a share of proceeds, though the last couple of years that wasn't much."
"What do you mean a share of proceeds?"
"It means that if the audience numbers and revenues met a certain threshold then Paul would get a share of any revenue above that threshold. But with the economy not doing very well, I don't think he received much of that for the last few years."
I took a sip of Scotch, thinking about how I was in the wrong line of work. Nevertheless, I didn't know how to play the triangle let alone the violin.
"He had a very expensive violin, I heard."
"Yes, he did. It was an original Stradivarius. I made sure he insured it for ten million. I paid for that."
Sonia looked at me for a while. Looking for something.
"Do you know where the violin is?"
I shook my head.
"Not at the moment, but the police are still doing inventory of what they found at the scene. There were a few violins."
"Should be five violins," said Sonia, "including the Stradivarius."
"I heard he had been keeping the Strad on him for the last little while."
Sonia nodded.
"I told him I thought it was a very bad idea. I said it would be safer in the safe at Avery Fisher Hall. But he was paranoid that it would get stolen. He seemed especially wary of the new caretaker, but we run background checks on everyone we hire. He told me that if they wanted to get the violin, they'd have to pry it out of his cold, dead hands."
"Yes, I heard that too," I said. "And yet I'm puzzled. He was so adamant about protecting the violin with his life that he carried it around everywhere. But then he uses it as collateral for coke buy."
Sonia brought her hand up to her mouth, and frowned again. She'd been doing a lot of frowning during my conversation with her.
"I can't believe it," she said. "Why on earth would he do something like that?"
"Drug addicts are unreliable," I said, "even when they're not high. But I'm planning on visiting this dealer and having a talk with him to figure it out."
"God, you don't think some criminal has a violin like that?"
"Hard to say, though I'm thinking if they have the violin then why kill him. But you never know in these situations. That part of society has different and sometimes changing codes."
"God, I hope not. I'd hate to think that Paul was killed by a drug dealer over a violin."
"Would it better if he was killed by a disgruntled husband over infidelity?"
I looked at her steadily over the rim of my Scotch glass as I put it to my lips. That was the end of the warm liquor. Alfred came up dutifully and offered me a refill. I took him up on the offer.
"I suppose when you put it that way it doesn't really matter, does it?"
"Not in my experience," I said. "Murder is foul however it’s delivered. Now accidental death, that's a tragedy."
"Tell me about how Paul obtained such a valuable violin."
"He got it from his grandfather. It was originally brought by Alexander Pope for his lover Martha Blount. Hence it's become known as the Blount Stradivarius."
I nodded and sipped on fresh, expensive Scotch. It tasted as good as the twenty dollar bottle in my apartment.
"I heard all of that," I said. "How did his grandfather obtain such a valuable violin?"
"Paul told me that his grandfather helped Jews escape through Poland and into Russia during the war. He was given the violin as a gift of thanks from one of these families."
I smiled at Sonia. A big, wide, knowing smile that felt happy with itself.
"You don't believe me?" she asked.
"I believe that you believe the story, and it could be true. I've just heard a different story."
"What story's that?"
"I heard that Paul's dear old granpappy was a guard at Mittelsteine, a concentration camp for women. He stole the violin from a woman there. A woman whose name was," I fished out my notebook and leafed through a few pages, "Anke Mueller."
Sonia frowned at me some more. She'd be spending a lot of money on Botox at this rate. Though to be fair, it didn't look like she did much self-mutilation like that.
"You can't be serious," she said. "That sounds totally outrageous."
"Paul's grandfather's real name was Swen Boehm, which he changed to Ryszard Kucharski, or Richard when he came across the pond."
Sonia shook her head.
"I can't believe it," she said.
"Perhaps Paul didn't know about it either," I offered. "Fact of the matter is that this is what I've heard. John Stampley hired a private investigator to dig up some dirt on Paul and this is what he found out. I'm going to speak to John about it to find out what he did with this information. The idea was, he was going to confront Paul about it and get him to give up the first violin position or John was going to tell everyone about what he found out."
Sonia looked down at the coffee table between us and twirled her glass with the wine very nearly escaping. She shook her head slowly.
"I can't believe it. This sounds awful, and that was so long ago. Paul never said anything about it."
"It's shameful knowledge to have. And it also would have meant, if it was true, that he would have to return the violin to its rightful owners. The heirs of Anke Mueller. Do you think that was something he might have been willing to do?"
Sonia was mesmerized by her swirling wine. It seemed like some big black hole that was going to suck her into its enigmatic charm.
"I can't imagine him giving up that violin for any reason," she said. "He loved it more than he loved women."
She looked up and smiled at me sadly. Across the plain of a dawning realization that perhaps her life to this point had been a barren burnt field that the sun was just now burning the fog off.
"Perhaps there is something to it then," I offered.
I drank more Scotch and started to feel soft and warm all over, like someone had covered me with thick honey.
"Was Paul Jewish?" I asked.
Sonia shook her head sadly and slowly.
"No."
She paused for a long while. Looking out across the expanse of room she had in her large home. It was filled to the brim with expensive decorations and furnishings, yet she was as empty as a cracked egg.
"I don't know, Anthony. I don't know about much anymore it seems. He was so careful with that violin and yet he put it up as collateral for a drug deal. I can't understand why he'd do that. I mean, what was he going to do with all that cocaine anyway?"
"What most drug dealers do that with that amount of cocaine. Sell it," I said.
Sonia looked up and behind me. She was lost in thought, and she looked like an old woman full of regrets and loss.
"It seems that Paul wasn't everything I had thought he was," she said. "Perhaps my feelings for him blinded me to the obvious truths."
She paused and took a sip of wine and then looked at me with a sad smile that had earned its keep over the years.
"But he was such a talent. He really was. I wish you could have heard him play. When he was up there in the orchestra, it was as if he were an angel. He never looked so beautiful and fragile and pure."
Her gaze drifted down to her wine glass and she swirled it again.
"People remain to us how we choose to remember them," I said.
She nodded, looking down at her wine.
"That's kind of you to say. I should hope to remember him in the best light then."
We sat and I drank for a while. I watched the green of the park shimmer as the sun started to fall towards earth in the west. As it died a blood red each evening, so did the chapters of many lives. It was a morbid thought, but I was dealing with a morbid matter and it felt appropriate.
"You will solve this murder, won't you?" asked Sonia. "I'd really like to see justice served."
I looked at Sonia and smiled.
"I'll solve it, though justice doesn't always dine at the table of our desires."
>
Sonia looked at me and smiled.
"You're quite poetic for a private investigator," she said.
"Sometimes it's only poetry and philosophy that make sense of man's madness."
We sat in silence again. I didn't have much else to ask her. But her couch was comfortable and my Scotch not quite done, so I bided my time. I was going to have a heart to heart with Kieran tomorrow morning, see if he did it. After that, I'd let life jostle me towards other shores.
"I like to get in and see the crime scene," I said.
"You know where Paul lived, don't you?"
I nodded my head.
"I do, but the local constabulary is not being particularly helpful. I was told you're a close friend of the Commissioner."
Sonia nodded.
"I'll speak to him tonight. You'll have their full cooperation by tomorrow, I'm sure of it."
"That would be very helpful."
I took the last drink from my Scotch and sat the tumbler down. Alfred started towards me again. I figured it was best to stop while I was ahead. And it wasn't often I was ahead. So I waved him off. I stood up and put on my hat. Sonia stood up too.
"I'll call my driver," she said.
"That won't be necessary. I'd prefer to walk and let things settle in."
Sonia nodded.
"I'll walk you out then."
I followed her to the front door and then out the hall to the elevator. I pushed its white button which lit up a dull yellow. We stood and waited.
"You've been helpful, Sonia," I said. "I'll keep you up to date as I find out more."
Sonia nodded and thanked me.
"I appreciate you not being judgmental," she said.
She offered me her hand and I shook it tenderly. It still felt to me like a fragile bird or a kitten's paw. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, or perhaps life had recently whittled her away. Whatever it was, I was in a big city, a big apple, whose core seemed somewhat rotten though the skin shone brilliantly.
The elevator opened up and I stepped into its gaping maw. The last I saw of Sonia was her smiling face and her hands clasped in front of her in a gesture of hope. I rode the elevator down to the main floor with the numbing music of its namesake. I strode through the opulent foyer like a man walking on hot coals.
Jeremiah smiled warmly at me and wished me a good night. I wished for a good night too, but it wasn't always like that. I got out of The Royce and stepped onto the sidewalk of 5th Avenue. I lit up a cigarette and looked out over the park and into the dusky evening. Through the cacophony of sound, somewhere a baby was crying, and someplace else a man was dying.
ELEVEN
Chapter 11
FROM the Kings and Queens you head east into Nassau and Suffolk counties on Long Island. I understand they're most commonly just called Long Island and that was where I was headed. I was in a yellow cab and the meter was a blur of red numbers doing what looked to me like logarithmic math.
I started thinking that I should have taken Terry's taxi. Sonia had offered his services to me as needed. But I hadn't thought of that heading out this morning and I ducked into the nearest cab, now well aware of my mistake. Not that I cared particularly, my fee is five hundred plus expenses. A taxi fare was expenses.
I was heading out to see Kieran. I'd learnt yesterday that Kieran was working now. Just odds and ends, doing some woodworking for Perry. Funny how misery likes company. Perry had hired Kieran for a recent job. Maybe they'd been in on this murder together. Or maybe they were just two sad sacks trying to help each other out.
By the time we got to Brentwood which was a nice middle class suburb where there are not white fences but the lawns are green and the trees in bloom, the meter was over a hundred bucks. The cabbie pulled over by the side of a house that looked like it had been in a hurricane. It wasn't far from the golf course and there were two guys in overalls fixing the siding. I paid my fare and got out of the cab. I walked up the driveway towards the two men. One guy was much bigger than the other. He was muscled too. I could tell because he wasn't wearing a shirt under his overalls. When you're in a tight spot, it's always best to start with the big guy.
"Can I help you?" he said, trying to sound tough.
The smaller guy was thumping a hammer against his thigh and giving me the eyeball.
"I'm looking for Kieran Stewart. Is he here?"
"What's it to you?" he asked.
I looked at the big guy in front of me. He had a large Adam's apple that would cause a whole world of hurt if I hit it just right. The problem with big guys, and this guy was an easy six three, is that they're slow, and most times they're not used to getting assaulted.
"What does that even mean?" I asked him. "What's it to me. Jesus, none of your business."
I was getting a bit testy with him. I admit that. But it was just after nine a.m. and I was nursing a slight hangover.
"I'm afraid you've got the wrong place," he said.
He was a bad liar. I nodded at him and sidestepped him to head into the house. He moved to block me. His buddy came along too as if they were attached by an invisible string.
"I'm the termite inspector," I said, dead serious.
"Sure you are," said the big guy with a shit eater's grin on his face.
I jabbed him real hard into the larynx. His eyes went wide and he grabbed at his throat gasping for air. This was helpful to me. It meant his stomach was soft and exposed. So I hit him hard, right in the solar plexus. He buckled over and that let me rest his nose on my knee, hard. He fell to the ground then, blood streaming from his nose, gasping for air.
Buddy came at me with the hammer. He was an inch or two shorter than me which meant I had greater reach. Except for that damn hammer. He swung it wildly and I danced back and round for a while as I took off my windbreaker.
"Take it easy, son," I said to him, "you'll hurt yourself with that thing."
I wrapped my jacket around my arm for a little protection, and as he swung at me I hesitated for just a moment before rushing him on his down swing. The hammer was heavy and he wasn't fast enough to bring it up again. By the time he decided that's what he needed to do I was hugging. Because we were being so intimate I decided to give him a kiss too, a Glasgow kiss.
He staggered away from me, dropping the hammer. I jabbed at him, feeling the distance before knocking him on his ass with a right. He had a glass jaw.
I unraveled my windbreaker, put it back on and walked into the house like I was the owner. In the kitchen a guy about six feet had his back to me. He was in similar overalls with black, wavy hair and medium build. He wasn't fat, and he didn't hear me coming in. Maybe he was deaf.
"Kieran Stewart," I said, standing across the kitchen island from him.
His head cocked up and steadied for a moment before he turned around. He had a carpenter's pencil in one hand. A hand that was big and rough for his size.
"Who wants to know?" he asked, crossing his arms in front of me.
"Me."
"I'm not gonna play games. This is a private residence and you're not supposed to be here. So why don't you just fuck off before I call the police."
"I don't see a phone anywhere near you."
This took him off guard. His eyes moved looking around for a moment. He was thinking about what to do. I was hoping he'd take a go. He didn't. I guess he was smarter than I'd figured.
"Alright, what do you want?"
He kept leaning against the far counter with his arms crossed over his chest, the pencil still in his right hand. I took a look at his tool belt. There wasn't much there I needed to be worried about.
"I want to talk to you about Paul Klee."
"The violinist?"
"The very same."
"What about him."
"He's dead."
"You're not the cops."
He looked me up and down. I didn't look like a cop. Cops nowadays don't usually wear fedoras much.
"I didn't say I was."
"Then who are you?"<
br />
"A gumshoe."
I smiled at him and he frowned at me.
"What?"
"A private investigator."
He nodded like that didn't impress him.
"I don't know anything about that," he said.
"Probably because you aren't one."
He shook his head.
"I meant I don't know anything about Paul's death, smart ass."
I still smiled at him.
"Great, so I wasted an hour in a cab and a hundred bucks for nothing."
"Seems so."
"Alright, I guess I'll be on my way," I said.
I was still smiling at him but I didn't move.
"I'm waiting," he said.
"On second thought, let's talk about wife beating."
He didn't like that one much. He took a couple steps towards me. I moved around from the kitchen island so he could reach me easier. He thrust his chin out at me.
"That ain't none of your business."
"I'm making it my business."
I was still smiling like we were old chums sharing an inside joke. I was beginning to feel a lot better. The hangover was almost gone. I figured another round with this clown and I'd be right as rain. Kieran started jabbing at me with the pencil in his one hand.
"I reckon its time for you to leave, asshole. Before I put a world of hurt on you."
And with that last word he jabbed the pencil into my chest for emphasis. Not hard, it didn't break the skin, but it was his mistake. I grabbed his wrist with both my hands and swung around him like we were dancing. There was room enough in this kitchen that he followed my lead. And when I came to a stop he had dropped the pencil and his face came to a stop against some very fine cabinetry.
I let him go. He was dazed for a few moments and brought his hands up to his face. His nose wasn't broken, nor was it bleeding. But I bet it felt like a thousand bees had stung it. His eyes went crazy and he came at me with a big, wild swing that telegraphed all the way from LA. It was easy to miss and as it kept going it opened up the soft of his right side. I planted a hard upper left into his lower ribs and kidneys. As hard as I could. Probably harder than I needed. I figure I likely broke something. He dropped like a shit bag to his knees, gasping for breath.
He leaned back against the kitchen cabinets just below the sink, wheezing like an octogenarian on his second pack of cigarettes. I waited and gave him a moment to catch his breath.
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 40