by R.J. Ellory
‘I don’t understand—’ Duchaunak started.
Evelyn scowled at him. ‘Let me finish what I was going to say and you might.’
‘I’m sorry. Please, continue.’
‘This was Edward Bernstein, you see? This was the point I was making. He possessed this ability to be anywhere he chose without ever being there at all.’
Duchaunak leaned forward. The smell of cigarette smoke was both irritating and exceptionally appealing.
‘Edward led his own life. He possessed people—’
‘What d’you mean?’
Evelyn Sawyer looked at Duchaunak. ‘Where the hell did you grow up?’ she asked.
‘Eh?’
‘You grow up someplace where people have no manners at all? What is it with this interrupting me every other word? You come here and ask if I have time to answer some questions for you. Did I tell you to go to hell? No, I didn’t. I said sure I can answer some questions, come on in and sit down. Have some coffee. I offered you some coffee, right? Fact you didn’t want any doesn’t change the fact that I asked. This is manners, you see? This is what we call manners, Detective, and now you’ve asked a question and I’m answering it, and the way it works in this house is I talk until I’m finished talking, and then you ask me something else. We understand one another?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Duchaunak said.
‘Well, good. Now don’t interrupt me. You have a question that you want to ask, well you make a mental note of it and ask it when I’m done.’
Evelyn took a drag of her cigarette and looked at Duchaunak. Her gaze was sharp and unflinching. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Right, good . . . so where were we?’
‘Edward Bernstein possessing people.’
‘Oh yes, the Stanislavski philosophy. He did that. He would be there, right beside you, and yet you’d feel as though his mind was always three or four steps to the left. It was a very strange feeling. And like I said, he seemed to have the capacity to possess people, and that’s what he did with Anne, my sister. She was all of twenty-three or twenty-four, nothing more than a child really, and Edward was quite a bit older. He must have been – oh, I don’t know – he was nine or ten years older than she was. He was an extraordinarily charming man, Detective . . .’ Evelyn paused. She smiled to herself as if remembering some particular moment. ‘It was Trilby and Svengali,’ she went on. ‘He possessed a manner quite unlike anyone we had ever met before. Edward Bernstein took a shine to my sister—’ Evelyn stopped mid-sentence and looked directly at Duchaunak. ‘She looked a lot like Marilyn Monroe, the real Marilyn, Norma Jean Baker, you know?’
Duchaunak nodded.
‘We saw her one time, me and Anne, right here in New York City.’
‘No,’ Duchaunak said, in his voice an element of surprise and incredulity.
‘Sure as you’re sitting there, Detective, we saw her. I cannot even begin to describe how beautiful she was.’ Evelyn smiled, closed her eyes for a moment.
Duchaunak edged forward on his seat. ‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Where did you see her?’
‘Not far away from where we are right now . . . the old New York Picture House on Broadway.’
‘What was she doing here?’
‘She was promoting a film called Bus Stop —’
‘1956,’ Duchaunak interjected.
‘You know it?’
Duchaunak nodded.
‘There was a scene when Marilyn has her first upset with the lead man—’
Duchaunak smiled. ‘Bo and Cherie in the Blue Dragon Cafe. He tries to grab her costume and the train comes off the back.’
Evelyn laughed. ‘You’ve seen it then?’
‘A couple of times, yes.’
‘Anyway, she has this expression, feisty, independent, a real firecracker . . . and when we saw her, me and Anne, you could tell that she had that kind of character inside of her. Anne had that too, that kind of fiery attractiveness, the kind of thing that drew men to her like moths to a flame.’ Evelyn paused and shook her head slowly. ‘Edward Bernstein broke that down. She became dependent on him, like she was nothing unless he was around. It made me mad, but Anne couldn’t see any of it. She was blind to what he was really like.’
Duchaunak watched the woman as she remembered her sister; he saw the way her hands seemed to clench and unclench into white-knuckled fists as she spoke; he saw the way she took a cigarette from the packet, the lighter flame stuttering, evidence that she was nervous, perhaps angry. She would not hold his gaze, and when she was done talking and he asked about Walt Freiberg she seemed to tense up completely.
‘Walt Freiberg?’ she asked. ‘What about Walt Freiberg?’
Duchaunak leaned back, tried to give the impression of nonchalance. ‘He was around, I understand, for a little while after the death of your husband.’
Evelyn looked back at Duchaunak, and the agitation vanished as rapidly as it appeared. ‘Why are you here, Detective?’
‘Why am I here?’
‘I don’t need you to repeat the question, I need you to answer it.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sawyer. Why I’m here . . . well . . . I’m here because someone shot Edward Bernstein, and now his son has appeared out of nowhere, a son I wasn’t even aware he had—’
‘There was no reason for you to be aware of him,’ Evelyn said. ‘You’re talking the better part of forty years ago, and however liberal and forgiving the society might be today it was not the same then. Unmarried people did not live together, they didn’t admit to sleeping together, and they sure as hell didn’t have children. John Harper was an accidental child, and as soon as Anne was pregnant Edward Bernstein figured he should take his business elsewhere.’
‘Didn’t he stick around for a while?’
‘You ever seen someone someplace who wasn’t really there at all?’
Duchaunak frowned.
‘That’s what Edward Bernstein was like from the moment he found out she was pregnant. He left by inches, little by little but, from the moment she told him, he was never the same person to her. That’s what broke her, Detective. She loved him more than anything, more than life itself, and after he left I just watched her slip away into nothing at all. When Edward left he took the very best of what made Anne so special, and with that gone there was so little left she couldn’t survive.’
‘How did she die?’ Duchaunak asked.
Evelyn tilted her head to the side. She smiled ruefully. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘She took an overdose, Detective . . . just like Marilyn Monroe.’
SIXTEEN
‘A Chesterfield Regent in black,’ Mr Benedict said. ‘Three button, double vent, a deep cuff on the trouser, and I have another Aquascutum in navy with a pinstripe.’ He smiled, walked back and forth, left and right, looking John Harper up and down as if considering a purchase.
Harper was stuck for words.
The three of them – himself, Walt Freiberg and Cathy Hollander – had exited the car, crossed the sidewalk, and walked through a shopfront doorway. Beyond the doorway Harper found an empty room – empty but for the odd item of dusty furniture – and without a word Walt had led him and Cathy to the right and through another doorway into a corridor beyond. At the end of the corridor a second entrance. Here Walt knocked twice, the door was inched open, and then – almost with a flourish, something from vaudeville – the man behind had opened the door wide and welcomed them effusively. They had arrived with Mr Benedict.
Referring to Walt as ‘Mister Walt’, to Cathy as ‘Miss Cathy’, he seemed completely at ease. And then he turned to Harper, and Harper saw it once again, that momentary flash of awkwardness as yet someone else recognized a younger version of Edward Bernstein.
‘Good Lord almighty,’ Mr Benedict had whispered, and then he’d stepped forward and taken Harper’s hand, introduced himself, and told Harper what a pleasure it was to meet Mr Bernstein’s son.
‘
A great pleasure, a great pleasure indeed. I heard about your father—’ Benedict paused, looked towards Walt. Walt smiled, nodded understandingly. ‘My very best wishes for his swift recovery, Mr Bernstein.’
Harper smiled. ‘My name is Harper,’ he said. ‘John Harper.’
‘But—’
‘Edward’s son,’ Walt interjected. ‘You are right, Mr Benedict, this is Edward’s son.’
Benedict smiled. ‘Another story for another day, and none of my business I’m sure.’
‘It’s not important,’ Walt said. ‘We’re here for some things for John. He’ll be staying a little while, we’ll be going out you know? Dinner, visiting some people, and he has little more than he stands up in. I need you to take care of him, three or four suits, some shirts, shoes, ties . . . the usual, Mr Benedict.’
‘Of course, Mr Walt.’
‘I have some calls to make, some things to finalize. I can use your office?’
‘Of course, yes indeed. Let me—’
‘It’s alright, I know the way.’ Walt turned and smiled at Harper. ‘I’ll leave you in Mr Benedict’s very capable hands . . . and Cathy can tell you how good you look, right Cathy?’
Cathy nodded, raised her hand.
‘Wait a minute,’ Harper said. ‘What’s happening here?’
Benedict stepped forward. He smiled enthusiastically. ‘It’s quite alright, Mr Bernstein—’
‘Harper. My name is John Harper, not Bernstein or anything else.’ He looked at Cathy, then at Walt Freiberg. ‘What the hell’s happening here, Walt? What am I doing here?’
Benedict seemed a little awkward. He stepped back as Walt Freiberg approached.
‘It’s nothing, John, nothing at all. Me and Cathy . . . hell, John, we just want you to stay a little while, that’s all. Call it nostalgia, call it something like guilt for all the years I never did anything to help you. Don’t make something out of nothing, John. Mr Benedict here . . . he’s your father’s tailor. You don’t have any clothes with you. You came for one night, maybe two. Least we can do is get you some things to wear, right?’
Harper looked at Mr Benedict. Benedict nodded, raised his hands as if demonstrating he had nothing to hide.
‘Some clothes,’ Harper said matter-of-factly.
‘Not just some clothes,’ Mr Benedict said. ‘Some real clothes, Mr Harper.’
‘Some clothes, John,’ Freiberg echoed. ‘A suit or two, something you can wear if you and Cathy go out for a meal, if we have lunch together tomorrow. That’s all there is to it, nothing else.’
Harper looked at Cathy. She smiled, and her smile was so warm, her expression so guileless and sincere that he couldn’t help but smile back. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Really.’
Harper nodded.
‘We’re all okay here,’ Walt said. ‘We’re all just fine now.’
Harper looked at Cathy once more. Her expression told him nothing. Go with the flow, he thought, and wondered if there was anything he could lose by playing their game. Hell, maybe if he played it right there might be something in it for him.
‘Okay,’ he said quietly, and let his defences down.
Walt smiled, nodded at Mr Benedict, and then turned to leave the room. He backed up and passed through another door behind them.
‘So Mr Harper . . . is the English or European cut to your preference?’
Harper frowned.
‘In a suit?’
Harper shrugged.
‘Aha,’ Mr Benedict pronounced. ‘We have a newcomer to the joys of tailoring. Come, come . . . step forward, stand straight, let me see what we have here.’
Harper did as he was told, stood tall, shoulders back, and Mr Benedict fussed around him with a tape measure.
The room was well-furnished, almost as Harper felt a gentleman’s dressing room would be, but it did not explain why the entrance from the street had appeared as if no business operated from there at all. He glanced at Cathy. She sat in a chair to the left, in her hand an unlit cigarette, a knowing smile playing across her lips like a child caught somewhere she shouldn’t be. He felt as if he was being silently teased, that she was flirting with him, but in considering such a thing he wondered if it was his imagination. He hoped it was not.
And then Mr Benedict started speaking a language Harper barely understood, a language exclusive to tailors and outfitters it seemed.
‘So the English prefer a broader cut, a sense of strength if you like. Think Sean Connery in the early Bond films. The Europeans go for something a little slimmer, a narrower leg, a cut in at the waist. With your build I suggest we stay with the English, except perhaps the Victor/Victoria which is Italian, and quite different from, say . . . say a Lubiam or an Armani. I think we should go with Aquascutum, Daks perhaps, the Signature line . . . and shirts, shirts from Gieves & Hawkes, T.M. Lewin I think. We have some Canali shirts, a very good cotton. French cuffs, Prince of Wales collars . . . say with white, pale blue, perhaps an ivory. Ties, cuff-links . . . and shoes?’
Mr Benedict smiled a lot. He walked around in circles. Harper felt dizzy watching him.
‘Miss Cathy?’
‘You are the master, Mr Benedict. English suits perhaps deserve English shoes?’
Mr Benedict smiled. ‘A girl after my own heart, yes. English shoes . . . Church’s, and I think we have some from Lob. Two pairs of Oxfords, a pair of brogues, a burgundy derby. And your watch, sir?’
Harper looked at Benedict.
‘Your watch?’
Harper shook his head. ‘I have one somewhere, tend not to wear it.’
Mr Benedict nodded understandingly, an expression perhaps suited to someone recovering from a serious illness.
‘Something understated I think. Breitling and Rolex . . . no, too showy. Cartier?’ Mr Benedict shook his head. ‘Omega,’ he said. ‘I think a simple black-face Seamaster.’
He stood back. ‘What do you say, Miss Cathy?’
‘I say you’re a genius, Mr Benedict, no-one like you in the world. I think when you’re done he’s going to look like—’
‘Yes,’ Benedict interjected. ‘He’s going to look just like him.’
‘Sonny Bernstein,’ Walt Freiberg said. He stood at the desk in the office behind Benedict’s fitting room. He held the telephone receiver tight, cigarette in his hand which had burned down to nothing at all. ‘You’re gonna make some calls. Call everyone you know down there. Start something going, whatever the hell you like. Make him a player.’
Freiberg paused, raised the cigarette to his lips. Saw it had burned down to the filter, dropped it in the ashtray and reached into his jacket pocket for the pack.
‘Yes . . . Lenny Bernstein’s son. Marcus’s people—’
Freiberg paused.
‘Not a fucking hope. This is where it stops. Anyone calls, anyone says a thing, you either know nothing or you heard something and it wasn’t good. Tell them Sonny Bernstein is a name, that’s all. He’s a name, has people, his own crew, okay?’
Takes a cigarette from the pack.
‘No-one’s gonna come down there, believe me. This is what I need. This is a thing I need you to do for me. You got to pay some people then I’ll take care of it. Need enough people to be onto this to make it hold up for a week or so, that’s all.’
A moment’s silence.
‘Good enough. Call me if there’s anything you need.’
Freiberg hung up, stood motionless, and then reached for his lighter and lit the cigarette.
SEVENTEEN
‘An overdose?’
Evelyn Sawyer leaned back and smiled; it was the smile of someone viewing something with the measured slant of hindsight. ‘You believe Marilyn committed suicide? That she took all those Nembutal and chloral hydrate tablets herself?’
Duchaunak shook his head. ‘No, I don’t believe she did Mrs Sawyer.’
‘Right,’ Evelyn said drily, matter-of-factly. ‘I think you could possibly consider Anne Harper’s suicide in a similar light.’
&n
bsp; ‘She was murdered?’
Evelyn leaned forward, took another cigarette from the packet. ‘I wouldn’t say she was murdered, Detective.’
‘Then what? What would you say?’
There was silence for a moment. The tension between them was hair-trigger sensitive.
‘I would say that there was perhaps something that could have been done to prevent such an outcome, and that the something wasn’t done.’
‘There was someone there when she took—’
‘Seconal I believe,’ Evelyn Sawyer said. ‘Something like that.’
‘But why?’ Duchaunak asked. ‘How old was she?’
‘When she died she was all of thirty-two,’ Evelyn said. ‘Twelfth October 1975, a Sunday.’
Duchaunak shook his head, somewhat disbelieving. ‘I don’t get why she would want to end her life. I don’t get—’
‘Get what, Detective? How there can be two suicides in the same family so close together?’
Duchaunak didn’t reply. He was struggling to focus his thoughts.
‘Garrett, my husband . . . he died nearly five years later in August of 1980. He died upstairs, right above where you’re sitting now. There was no great similarity between their deaths, Detective, my sister and my husband, but nevertheless there was one specific common denominator—’
‘Edward Bernstein,’ Duchaunak said.
Evelyn didn’t reply.
Duchaunak leaned forward, an expression of concern on his face. ‘Does John know how his mother died?’
Evelyn looked back at Duchaunak with a distant and unemotional expression.
‘Mrs Sawyer?’
Evelyn Sawyer closed her eyes. Duchaunak believed for a moment she was suppressing tears, but when she opened her eyes once more there was nothing to indicate any real reaction to his question.
‘You ever do something, and only years later realize that what you thought you’d done for the best is now going to cause all manner of difficulty?’