“Some good, some not so good. Miss Little was worried her prints would be on the key, even if she hadn’t stolen it, since she handles all the keys. Victor Chalmers kind of liked the experience; said he was fascinated by police work. That Purdy kid refused to be printed at first, but his friend Petronella finally convinced him to give a sample.”
“And Bruchner?” I asked, still unsure what I’d do about him.
“Volunteered without question. The old man, Saettano, seemed miffed, but submitted. Hildy Jaspers didn’t like getting her fingers dirty, but she went along.”
Now the question I dreaded. “And Luigi Lucchesi?”
“He didn’t like it but he gave us a sample.”
“OK, Sergeant. I don’t have a snare drum; what’s the verdict?”
“We isolated a partial print that seems to belong to Mr. Lucchesi. It was no contest for the others. They didn’t come close.”
I was floored. My temples began to throb. He’d duped me; played me like a harmonica. I had slept with him, damn it! The imaginary conversation with my father returned to my head:
“Well, Ellie, how did you proceed in your investigation?”
“By the book, Dad. First I investigated every possible suspect, except one.”
“And which one was that?”
“Funny you should ask. By the purest of coincidences, it turned out—you’re gonna love this—it turned out that he was the guilty party.”
“Oh, my, what bad luck for you, my girl. I suppose you had no reason to suspect him. Perhaps you had little opportunity for intercourse with him.”
“As a matter of fact, I had quite a bit of intercourse with him. You see, while I was chasing after the others, harassing and accusing, I was screwing him in your house!”
I fumbled for a cigarette, struck the match once, twice, three times, took one puff, then put it down.
“Have you talked to him?” I asked. “What’s his explanation? What’s his motive?”
McKeever lit a cigarette of his own, then shook his head. “I haven’t asked him,” he said. “We just got the results back an hour ago and haven’t located him yet. But he had reasons. I understand that your father was pursuing an investigation of his behavior with an undergraduate from Barnard.”
“That was blown out of proportion,” I said, a little too earnestly. “And people don’t kill for that.”
“They might if it meant dismissal, shame, and return home to face mandatory military service.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I want to solve this for you, Ellie,” he said softly. “I’ve been digging around.”
I wrestled my heart into submission, took a deep breath, and tried to remind myself that I didn’t care. But my head was so muddled with thoughts of how little I cared about Gigi Lucchesi, that all I could think about was Gigi Lucchesi.
“I, um, I’ve been wondering if I could have another look at Ercolano’s apartment,” I muttered, just to have something to say. I was distracted beyond measure. “No, not his apartment, his, um, his things.”
“His personal effects?” asked McKeever, voice strong and imposing.
“Right, his personal effects. Do you have them?”
McKeever shook his head. “Just the keys,” he said, pulling a chain from his pocket. “The rest of it is locked up in the evidence room.”
I took the keys from him and turned away absently. Barely glancing at them, hardly concentrating on the silver in my hands, I thought of Gigi swinging some blunt object at my father’s head. Then at mine. I jingled the keys a couple of times, counted them in my palm—three, two latchkeys and one mailbox key—then handed them back to McKeever.
“What will you do now?” I asked.
“Arrest Luigi Lucchesi as soon as we find him.”
I was quiet, and McKeever noticed. He gazed at me with some kind of emotion in his eyes. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to comfort me or kiss me.
“Are you OK, Ellie?” he asked.
I nodded vigorously. “Everything’s fine. Looks like you’ve got your man, Jim,” I said, forcing a smile. “Congratulations.”
McKeever left at four thirty. I lay down on my father’s bed and stared at the ceiling for an hour, tormenting myself alternatively with the ache of having lost the divine object of my desire, then the sting of having been taken in by the devious incubus. It’s never easy to admit to foolishness, but the shame compounds itself when you still hunger for the source of your humiliation, and you wonder to yourself if you’d let it happen again for one more night in his arms.
I slid off the bed, lit a cigarette, and paced the room. The nicotine rush I had wanted earlier hit me hard now, biting my lungs and dizzying my head. I had to sit until the spinning had passed, holding the burning cigarette in my left hand, resting it on my knee. Once my head stopped swirling, I took a last deep drag, then stubbed out the butt in an ashtray. Then I lit another, in defiance of Gigi Lucchesi; he would not deprive me of a good smoke.
I wandered into the study, poured myself a tall Scotch, and finished the cigarette at my father’s desk. About halfway down to the bottom of the tumbler, I made my way over to the hi-fi, where the Rachmaninoff still sat on the turntable. On the middle shelf, among Mom’s records, I found an old 78 of Cole Porter songs. I put it on, right over the Rachmaninoff concerto that I had used to seduce myself with Gigi. Why had he come to me that night? Perhaps he’d left some evidence behind and needed to collect it. And I’d helped him.
I dropped the needle and fell into the sofa, drink in hand, and lit yet another cigarette. The first track was “I Get a Kick out of You,” and I remembered his smile and flirtations. “I’ve Got You under My Skin”—Gigi’s lips, his eyes, his . . . Everything that tickled my desire, none of which I’d ever touch again. “Let’s Do It.” Birds, bees, educated fleas, and I was thinking of how I had enjoyed his company. The first notes of “Just One of Those Things” began, recalling Dorothy Parker and an anonymous boyfriend; Abélard and Héloïse; Romeo and Juliet; et al.—famous pairs who never managed to make love work. I could count myself as lucky among the group; Romeo poisoned himself beside his Juliet, while Abélard was castrated and shipped off to a monastery. But once the introduction’s catalogue of unfortunate lovers was through, the song’s lyrics spanked me, hitting my nail on the head:
It was just one of those things,
Just one of those crazy flings,
One of those bells that now and then rings,
Just one of those things.
I bounded to the hi-fi and yanked the needle off the disk, sending a shriek through the nearby speakers, and a gouge across the record. I flipped the disk across the room, where it collided with the bookcase. The bookcase won.
I drained the last of my Scotch into my mouth, poured another, equally as tall, then sat some more. The silence was too much. I thought of Angela Farber and wondered if she’d like to trade hard-luck stories. There was no answer when I buzzed her door. I called the elevator to ask if she’d gone out.
“Oh, yeah, Mrs. Farber left here about a half hour ago,” said Rodney. “All dressed up, shiny dress, fox stole, saucy little hat . . . Looked like she was going out for dinner and the theater.”
I drifted back to my father’s apartment, cursing Angela Farber’s improved fortunes; just a day or two before she couldn’t get a date to save her life. I returned to the study where I picked up my Scotch and looked for another record. Reluctant for a second Porteresque experience among Mom’s records, I delved into my father’s collection. As long as I avoided Rachmaninoff, I’d be fine. My fingers tripped along the alphabetical path, starting with Albinoni. Then came the three Bs, Chopin, Dvorak, Elgar, Franck, Grieg, Hindemith, Ives, and so on, until I found myself in Rachmaninoff’s neighborhood. From A to Q, I had been unable to choose, perhaps subconsciously, so I would have to listen again to the late Romantic Sergei Rachmaninoff. No, damn it. I moved on, only to come nose to nose with Gioacchino Rossini. My eyes ran across the titles: Il Barbiere di Sevigl
ia, La Cenerentola, La Gazza Ladra . . . I tugged at one album in particular, pulling it out of the tight line. It was one of the records I had found on the floor earlier in the week, one of those strewn about but not destroyed. It was Guglielmo Tell, and all thoughts of Gigi Lucchesi dissipated into air.
My ears tingled, and the shiver of imminent illumination tripped over my skin, from my toes to the top of my head. I placed my glass on my father’s desk, never taking my eyes off the album’s dust cover, which I raised in front of me at arm’s length. Orchestral excerpts from Guglielmo Tell, by Gioacchino Rossini, performed by the NBC Orchestra under the direction of Arturo Toscanini. Guglielmo Tell, and I recalled two conversations with Gustav Emmel about Billy Chalmers and Guelphs. I brought the album to my lips and planted a kiss on Toscanini’s bald head.
“That’s for Gigi,” I said, then ran to change my clothes.
It was dark when the cab dropped me off outside Saettano’s Riverside Drive apartment house. I had tried to call him, but the line was engaged. The slush had stopped falling from the sky, but the sidewalks and gutters were still rough sledding. I slipped once in my haste, but caught myself before falling, and pushed through the heavy brass door into the lobby.
“You again, Miss Stone?” asked Libby with a frown. “The professor is about to sit down to dinner.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, stepping inside before she’d invited me. “I tried to phone, but the line was busy. It’s really urgent.”
Libby showed me to the den overlooking the Hudson, where the old man appeared a few minutes later.
“Eleonora,” he said, holding out his frail hand. “Two visits in one day. What is so urgent that makes you behave so rashly?”
“I have to ask you something,” I said.
“Of course,” he said, motioning to a chair as he himself sat down. “How may I help you?”
“I want to know about philology, history of language,” I said. “Italian philology.”
Saettano regarded me queerly. “Philology?”
“I want to know about sound change.”
“I’m not a linguist, Eleonora.”
“But I’m sure you’ll know the answer.”
“So ask me,” he said.
“When a word comes into one language from another, what happens?”
Saettano pursed his lips. “This reminds me of my university exams,” he said. “And that was more than sixty years ago. What kind of word are you talking about?”
“Suppose a word, or a name, came into Latin or Italian a thousand or more years ago from a Germanic dialect. Let’s say the name is William or Wilhelm. Is there any rhyme or reason to how it turns out?”
“Absolutely,” intoned the old man, punctuating his statement with a bounce of his cane. “Sound change is paradoxical, Eleonora: it is at the same time arbitrary and regular.”
“How so?”
“Arbitrary in the sense that there is not necessarily a reason one sound moves to another. If all phonemes changed in the same fashion everywhere and for the same reasons, we would all speak the same language with the same accent.” He wiped a handkerchief across his lips, then continued. “For a group of people living in the same community, speaking the same language, sound change is regular. The evolution of Latin to Italian is filled with such examples. It may sound complicated, but a philologist can explain and predict changes. The Latin for milk, lactis, for example, moves to latte in Italian. The regularity of this sound change can be seen in other examples: fructus–frutto, factum–fatto, pectus–petto.”
“What about my example of Wilhelm?”
“The German W is pronounced like an English V of course, but in Romance languages it changes to a G sound. Guillaume in French, Guillermo in Spanish, and Guglielmo in Italian. It’s completely regular.”
“Regular enough for other examples?”
“Many. The pairs are common between English and Italian. English is, after all, the descendent of Saxon, a Germanic dialect. For example: guadagno for wage; guardia for ward; guerra for war. I’m sure there are more. Perhaps you could think of some yourself.”
“I think I can.”
Saettano squinted at me from his chair. “For instance?”
“Guelph and Welf.”
“Yes,” he said. “Any others?”
“Gualtieri and Walter,” I said, and the old man nodded approvingly.
I tried to reach McKeever, but he was out. The switchboard transferred me to a sergeant who worked Homicide.
“What do you want him for?” he asked, chewing on something that sounded like dinner.
“It’s the Ercolano murder case,” I said.
“He don’t need your help, girlie; he’s already got a warrant for some Italian guy.”
“It’s not the Italian,” I said. “Just tell him Ellie called. I need him to meet me in an hour at Carnegie Hall, box 59 in the first tier.”
“Is this some kind of crank?”
“Please tell him. It’s just seven thirty. Have him meet me there at eight thirty.”
“What for?”
“He can listen to the music if he wants,” I said. “But first I’m going to hand over his murderer.”
Carnegie Hall sits on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street (if you were wondering how to get there). The placards at the Fifty-Seventh Street entrance announced a special, sold-out engagement: Van Cliburn.
It was no easy feat getting inside. I argued with the man at the ticket window that I was Abraham Stone’s daughter, there to collect replacement tickets for the originals, which had been lost. After some grumbling on his part, and two pieces of identification on mine, he issued the tickets: seats 3 and 4, box 59 on the first tier. The seats, on the left side, were among the finest in the hall. But I was going to have to wait that night, as my wrangling with the ticket clerk had made me miss Cliburn’s entrance. The door to box 59 was locked. I looked at my watch: 8:07. Intermission was at least thirty minutes away.
I paced the corridor, consulting the time every few minutes. Two red-coated ushers watched me cross-armed from the stairway, their faces expressionless. I asked if they might be induced to unlock box 59, but they shook their heads in unison. I took up my pacing again.
Strains of Schumann’s “Papillons” fluttered up the stairways and through the corridors, but my mind was too busy to worry about missing a great concert. I pulled a pencil and paper from my purse and began jotting down the disjointed pieces of my reconstructed puzzle; I didn’t want to forget anything. At 8:26, McKeever appeared at the top of the stairs. He showed his badge to the ushers, who looked my way, sure the flatfoot was after me. McKeever approached, looking put out.
“Gigi didn’t do it,” I said.
“Gigi?”
“Luigi Lucchesi didn’t kill Ercolano. And he didn’t attack my father.”
McKeever winced, looked down, and drew a deep breath.
“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?” I accused. “More work? More people to interview?”
McKeever frowned. “It’s not that, Ellie.”
“Then what?”
He seemed to search for words. “Look, if not Mr. Lucchesi, who did it, then?”
I turned my head toward the box behind me. “In there. I’m just waiting for intermission.”
McKeever gazed past me at the door, his shoulders drooping, looking exhausted.
“Look, Ellie,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
Then a thunderous applause rose from below and carried through the halls. I stepped to one side of the door to box 59 and motioned to McKeever to do the same. He looked at me, almost desperately, then relented and moved to the side. A few moments passed, and the ovation subsided. The brass knob clicked and turned, then the door eased open. A bald man in black tie stepped out, followed by a portly, lipsticked woman in a green satin dress and a brown mink. A young couple came next, then a little man with white hair. I held my breath, waiting for the next to appear. I knew I wasn’t wrong.
/>
“Good evening, Professor,” I said.
Gustav Emmel blanched, stammered something unintelligible, then threw a glance back into the box.
“Please, do invite Mrs. Farber to come out,” I said. I drew out the awkward drama another moment before adding: “Walter.”
Angela Farber appeared from the box, radiant from some kind of musical rapture, and didn’t notice her escort’s discomfort. Emmel’s eyes darted back and forth between her, looking stunning in a sequined dress and fox fur, and me, in my wet hair, black overcoat, and soggy shoes. She still hadn’t seen me.
“Angela,” said Emmel, eyeing me. “She’s here.”
Mrs. Farber turned her head, euphoric smile spread over her cheeks, and almost looked through me. Then her glow dimmed.
“Good evening,” I said. “Enjoying the concert?”
She suppressed whatever emotions were roiling inside of her—rage, humiliation, surprise—and floated a cracked smile.
“Ellie, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t.”
“Are you referring to your father’s seats?” she asked, waving a white-gloved hand. “How embarrassing! You’re probably wondering why I have his tickets.”
I glanced at McKeever, who had stepped from behind the door into view. I waited for her to explain.
“He gave them to me,” she said, unable to smile and lie at the same time. She’d caught sight of McKeever, and, remembering him from the initial investigation, nodded nervously in his direction. “He had planned on being out of town, you see. He said something about Washington and his cousin, like a few months ago when I looked after his plants. Well, anyway, he knows how I enjoy piano music, so he offered me the tickets. Walter and I have had this evening planned for weeks.”
“According to Carnegie Hall, the tickets were only mailed on the twentieth,” I said. “He would have received them on Friday the twenty-second at the earliest.”
“So? That’s when he gave them to me.”
“That’s the day he was attacked in his study. And you said you were in the bathtub when he arrived home.”
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