The Witch of Babylon

by Dorothy J. Mcintosh

  “Obviously your father survived.”

  “He did. One day he found a ring in the tray, the one he’d made for Samuel. He believed his son was dead. With no family left, he fled to the safe haven of Turkey after the war ended because the Greek regime was persecuting leftists. He kept his real identity secret and changed his last name to a Turkish one—Madak. Years later he remarried and had a second son—me. Samuel had been searching for his father. When he finally learned that my parents had died in an earthquake that caused a mine accident, he went to Turkey right away to take me home with him.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You were the poor Turkish orphan. Samuel Diakos treated you better than a natural son. You repaid his generosity by killing him.”

  The room turned red. The huge reservoir of guilt I carried around with me over Samuel’s death funneled into a blind rage. I made a move to get up, but the uniformed cop sped around the table and clamped an arm around my neck.

  I was on the verge of blacking out when I heard Gentile say, “Okay, Verne, leave him alone. Give him a couple of minutes to chill out.” The cop let go but remained behind me.

  Gentile poured some water into his glass and took a sip. He seemed pleased with his latest salvo. “Did you remove anything from Vanderlin’s house before you left the party?”

  “No.” I wondered where this came from.

  “Colin Reed told us he heard you arguing with Vanderlin. What was that about?”

  “Hal owed me for a loan I’d given him. He told me he didn’t have the money.”

  “So you got what he owed you some other way, is that it? You took the rest of the heroin with you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Gentile slammed his file shut. “Mr. Madison, there’s clear evidence Vanderlin died of a drug-related accident, unassisted. That information has already been made public. What interests us is how he obtained his drugs.”

  “Look, that’s just a red herring. The woman I told you about was after something Hal Vanderlin stole from my brother, a Neo-Assyrian engraving that may have come from Iraq. It’s worth a substantial amount of money.”

  “Could you translate that please for us humble folks?”

  “It’s a stone engraving made during the period when the Assyrian empire was at its height. About 800 to 612 B.C.”

  “Thank you, professor. You’ve been a dealer in collector’s items, art objects, for what, the last seven years. Is that right?”

  “Around that.”

  “Lucrative business?”

  “Up and down. Sometimes you do well. Other times it can be very lean. It all depends on your contacts, your networks.”

  “And where do they come from, these contacts of yours?”

  “Through Samuel originally. He was an archaeologist and had also studied Assyriology. He knew that world—the dealers, the academics, the museum bureaucrats. I’ve built my own roster of clients now. These last couple of years I didn’t have to rely on him as much.”

  “Has your work focused on Middle Eastern objects?”

  “At first it did because that was Samuel’s specialty. Since then I’ve branched out. Some Renaissance art and, of course, Peter Vanderlin’s collection.”

  “So your talents are wide-ranging. You must have a remarkable knowledge of art to cover such broad territory.”

  A false compliment, I thought, deliberately planted. “I know a lot about the Middle East because I grew up with an expert on those cultures. As far as the rest is concerned, I’m light on that. My skill’s in sales. I’m really a broker. The important thing is getting to know your clients well—their dreams. With the objects themselves, you can always buy the research.”

  Gentile paused to check the file again. “Like you did with the Livorno Madonna?”

  “That ended up settled out of court as I’m sure you know. The guy who owned it was selling a fake. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Gentile’s chair creaked when he leaned back. “Guess your researcher slipped up too.”

  “Even major auction houses get it wrong.”

  The door opened. Louis Peres entered and sat down, then leaned over and whispered something to Gentile.

  Gentile nodded and resumed his questions. “I’m assuming you’re acquainted with a number of prominent collectors. Some of them inclined to cross the line for an item they covet?”

  “You mean art thieves who steal on order for the multimillionaire with a secret room on his estate full of stolen Chagalls and Picassos? That’s just a myth.”

  Gentile raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “You don’t understand a collector’s psychology. The whole point is to show off acquisitions, not hide them. In 99 percent of cases art thieves are brainless. They steal the stuff and then discover it’s impossible to move because the work’s too accurately documented.”

  I could see doubt written all over Gentile’s face. “Doesn’t seem to stop them from trying.”

  “Most of it ends up being passed through criminal networks for collateral or money laundering. The big payoff comes from ransom. Insurance companies would rather look the other way and pay a ransom than ante up for the full value of the work. There’ve been four separate thefts of one Rembrandt painting alone. For looted antiquities, it’s different. Much harder to prove origin. Much easier to cook up a false provenance. Or they’ll do a reverse restoration.”

  “What’s that?” Gentile said.

  “Experts make real pieces look like fakes. Even if acquisition numbers exist, it’s not that difficult to clean them off. You’re looking at billions worldwide every year. That’s incredible money. Samuel would see items advertised for sale he knew were stolen but could do nothing about it because he had no proof. It used to drive him crazy. The truth is antiquities markets are dependent on theft. Outside of resales, looting’s the only source of new supply.”

  “It’s really done that openly?” Gentile asked. His question seemed genuine. Maybe he’d given up baiting me.

  “They usually go through smaller auction houses that aren’t so particular. The missing artifact I told you about is probably from the old city of Nineveh.” Gentile nodded, but I suspected he was about as familiar with Nineveh as he was with what to do with the fish fork at a royal banquet.

  He pointed his index finger toward me like a courtroom prosecutor. “Mr. Vanderlin was what, a professor?”

  “A part-time lecturer in philosophy.”

  “So he had no expertise in dealing with museum pieces?”

  “Right.”

  “You mentioned you assisted him in selling off his father’s collection, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Vanderlin’s father is still alive. Did his son have legal authority to do this?”

  “He had power of attorney. Peter has Alzheimer’s.”

  “So you’re telling me that after being satisfied with your work disposing of his father’s entire collection, he didn’t use you for this new item?”

  “Yes, I already said that. He took it from my brother in the first place.”

  Gentile shut his eyes as if he were meditating on my words. Finally he put his big, beefy hands on the table and rose. His chair almost toppled over when he pushed it back. He walked around to my side of the table and stood over me, making sure I felt the full impact of his bulk. I could smell this morning’s bacon and eggs on his breath.

  “Let’s go back to last night. You told us you left Hal Vanderlin around midnight and went from there to a bar?”

  Where was he going with this, switching tracks by talking about the overdose again? I glanced at Peres. He’d finally woken up and trained his eyes on me.

  “That’s strange. Because Diane Chen says you didn’t show up until after 2 A.M. So fill in the gap for me, please.”

  They’d staged this whole thing beautifully, playing out the rope, letting me meander on about looted artifacts, and I’d leapt right into the lion’s mouth.

  Gentile managed the first genuine
smile since we’d met.

  I fought them off for a while longer, arguing that Diane must have had the time screwed up, but they knew better. In the end I told them I’d gone back when Hal called me and found his body. After Eris and her companion threatened me, I ran, afraid they’d kill me too.

  Predictably, Gentile had followed the line of least resistance, believing I’d been Hal’s supplier and that I’d cooked up the story about Eris and the missing engraving as a cover. But he had no evidence of this, just a towering suspicion. In the end, he couldn’t keep me.

  As I got up to leave, he said brusquely, “Mr. Madison, the investigation of your car accident is still active. And if we determine you provided heroin to Hal Vanderlin, that will get you a charge of involuntary manslaughter at a minimum. Don’t be taking any long trips. I don’t want to hear you’re peddling your wares on some beach in Brazil.”

  I’d started out my sojourn with the police thinking about one woman—Eris. Now I couldn’t forget another—Diane Chen. What had she predicted? Betrayal. The fortune teller had fulfilled her own prophecy.

  Six

  The glare walloped me when I stepped outside the station doors. Patches of sidewalk blacktop had turned soft. It could be 150 degrees for all I cared. I looked at the sun blazing in the sapphire sky and felt like a blind man whose sight has suddenly been restored. I couldn’t get away fast enough.

  I could think of only one person to turn to—Hal’s ex-wife, Laurel. If the news of Hal’s death had already reached her, she’d be heartbroken and need my support. As for me, I wanted to be with someone I trusted. It took a couple of calls to mutual friends before I learned she’d moved temporarily to Hal’s mother’s residence at Sheridan Square.

  Laurel’s marriage to Hal lasted a grand total of six months. Since their split over a year ago, they’d built an eccentric but deep friendship, recognizing that neither of them possessed any talent for marriage. They’d never bothered to get a divorce. A doctoral candidate in philosophy, Laurel met Hal at NYU. She was very bright but never swamped you with her intellect, unlike Hal, who loved leading people into verbal traps and tripping them up. I’d always found her attractive but kept my distance because of Hal. Had the police called her yet? I hoped to avoid breaking the bad news.

  Her building wasn’t too far from the station, so I decided to walk and use the time to calm down after my near miss with the police. I couldn’t shake a feeling of unease. At first I put this down to the interrogation, but soon I began to sense someone tailing me. Eris? I looked back and scanned people’s faces but couldn’t catch sight of her. I dipped into a juice bar and watched each face as the crowd moved past. No sign of her. I went deliberately off course, turning down a residential street of four-story townhouses. One of them, outfitted with elaborate wrought-iron grates and pillars and a Spanish-style balcony, looked as if it had been uprooted from a New Orleans street and plunked down here. Despite the fancy addresses, the street felt ominous and was shadowy from the overarching trees. The high humidity and frothy greenery in the gardens gave it a tropical feel. Few people here. Eris couldn’t avoid being seen. I waited for ten minutes but spotted nothing out of the ordinary. The evidence told me I was safe but my sixth sense disagreed.

  It seemed totally insane that in the space of a day I’d gone from being a normal citizen to living in a constant state of fear.

  I checked the street once more when I reached Laurel’s building, and seeing nothing out of place, I decided to go in. Hal had taken over his mother’s home when she died last autumn. Her penthouse was an eagle’s nest topping a brown-brick mesa, crowned by a gothic mélange of pillars, arches, terraces, and gargoyles. The ground floor of the building housed a bar famous for its Monday-night Latin drags.

  My one worry was whether Gip would remember me, but when I entered the main foyer, he rose from behind his desk and grinned. He was spic and span in an army-green uniform dressed up with lots of gold braid, a cap, a long coat, and matching slacks. A good thing the vestibule was air conditioned. A sturdy Irishman with a round, ruddy face, Gip was the third generation in his family to hold the post. An aristocrat of doormen, he referred to himself as Gerald Powell the Third.

  “Nice to see you, John. It’s been a while.”

  “Thanks, Gip. I’m here to see Laurel Vanderlin, if she’s home.”

  “One second, I’ll check.” He punched in some numbers, spoke into the phone, and handed me the receiver.

  “Hi, Laurie. It’s John.”

  “Oh, John. You’ve heard then.”

  “Yes. Can I come up?”

  “Please do. I’m desperate for some company.”

  The elevator had been refurbished, but the original brass art deco grillwork had wisely been kept. A white-gloved, uniformed attendant slid open the door. It had to be one of the few places left in Manhattan that still offered this service. Here, you didn’t ask for a floor, but simply gave the name of the resident. We sailed up to the penthouse.

  Laurel waited with the door half propped open. I took her in my arms, pressed my face against hers, and felt tears slide down her cheek. I caught the bloom of alcohol on her breath. The stronger light inside showed me a face red and swollen from crying; her eyes had that glazed look people have when the shock is still new.

  We entered a rotunda gleaming with Giallo Siena marble, its mirrors custom-made to fit the rounded walls, and in the center an inlaid, hand-painted credenza that had once belonged to a French king. On it sat a Tiffany lamp. In the receiving room, the floor switched to a rich herringbone oak covered with seventeenth-century silk Kashan carpets so valuable it felt like a sin to tread on them. Three sets of French doors framed by heavy brocade drapes led out to the first terrace. The place presented a face of stale elegance.

  Hal’s mother had made only one change, combining a hall, butler’s pantry, and breakfast room to create a large family room and modern kitchen. This space was done up completely in surgical white. White broadloom, white walls, white furniture. The overall effect resembled an operating theater dropped into the middle of a museum.

  I flopped down on the family room couch. Laurel asked if I wanted something to drink.

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “You sure?” She picked up a tumbler half full of what looked like water but I knew wasn’t, waving it in my direction.

  “You’re drinking vodka straight?”

  “The ice cube melted. If you’re not going to join me, enjoy the show.” She threw down the rest of the drink. I was not about to suggest she’d be better off skipping the booze. Who was I to point out moral imperatives to anyone, considering my penchant for a decent range of sins? After what happened to Hal last night, she could be forgiven for wanting to get numb.

  Laurel slumped into a chair. “What bad angel has cast its spell on us, John? First Samuel and you in that terrible accident, and now this. It’s unbelievable.”

  “I know.” I felt a kind of sorrowful connection with her now that both of us were struggling with a violent loss.

  “I told him so many times those drugs would end up killing him.”

  How much did I want to reveal? “I’m not sure it’s that simple, Laurie. Hal called me after I left the party. I rushed back, but he was already dead when I got there.”

  “You found him? The police didn’t tell me that. What happened?”

  “Someone at the party administered the fatal dose. A woman. She threatened me too.”

  Her face went white. “You told the police about this, right?”

  “I’ve just come from talking to them. They don’t believe me. With my previous record and enough drugs circulating at the party to start a pharmacy, their guns are aiming at me. That’s how they think.”

  “Are you telling me Hal was murdered and you saw who did it?” She swayed. I grabbed her before she could fall and helped her over to the sofa, then sat down beside her. “This is scaring me, John. I don’t know who to believe.”

  “Why would I lie about it? Loo
k, I know how rough this is on you. I can see that.”

  “It was horrible enough already, and now you’re telling me it’s even worse. I can’t get my mind around this.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m having a hard time over losing Samuel and now this … thing with Hal. It’s as though a bomb has just gone off inside my head. Hal was the closest I came to having a brother.”

  “I thought Samuel was your brother.”

  “Sure, but he was forty years older than me, so he always seemed like my father. He played that role. I never knew my real father. When Hal was home from boarding school or camp we spent a lot of time together. We often sparred though. It wasn’t always that brotherly between us.”

  Our talking calmed Laurel a bit. “I’m the only girl in the family,” she said. “I have four brothers. Believe me, sparring is normal.”

  “But he carried it too far. Wouldn’t let it go even as adults. At Columbia we’d be out somewhere, at a party or something. We’d be raising the roof, having a fantastic time, and then he’d start getting all competitive with me. Thinking about it now, I should have called him on it then.”

  “It goes back to how his father treated him. That’s exactly how Peter would behave.” She had a lovely voice. Her years in New York hadn’t altered what sounded like a Midwestern accent. “I guess I’m responsible for Peter now, along with everything else.”

  I took her hand. “I’ll help you. Samuel and I visited Peter after he went into the nursing home. He still remembered me.”

  She let out a deep sigh. “Why does everything have to go wrong at once? I feel like a ten-ton truck has just driven over me.”

  “I think there’s a connection. Between my circumstances and yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you think of anyone who would have had it in for Hal?” I asked.

  “I’ve found out I didn’t know everything about his life. He kept things from me—I’m just starting to realize how much since he asked me to help sort out all his accounts and things. But do you mean going to the lengths of killing him? I can’t imagine who would do that.”