He swiveled the chair and led us into a room that had been rebuilt in the old town house space to accommodate an enormous library. Hundreds of leather-bound books and modern first editions in plastic-covered dust jackets lined the walls. We drew three of the chairs together so that we were close to our host.
"Mr. Zeldin," Mike started, "is that a surname or-"
"It's just what it is. Zeldin. No 'mister,' no other name."
There was no question this man would be quirky. He was dressed in a dark burgundy smoking jacket over a pair of nicely tailored gray slacks. The expensive hairpiece had been purchased long enough ago that it didn't match the new patch of gray growth coming in around its owner's ears. Zeldin was probably close to sixty, but had fine skin that gave him a more youthful appearance. The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper album was playing on his sound system and there was a strong scent of burning incense overlaying what I guessed were the remains of a sweet-smelling marijuana cigarette.
"We have some questions about the society. In fact, we don't know anything at all about it."
"I should hope not. We're not known for our inclusivity, Detective." He looked at each of our faces. "Am I allowed to ask what brings you here?"
"A phone call from a dead man," Mike said.
Zeldin was no longer smiling. "Who do you mean?"
"What's your telephone number?"
Zeldin's answer was the number Mike had taken off the cell phone.
"Who is it that called you yesterday? Probably late afternoon, maybe a bit earlier."
"I wasn't at home, Detective. I spent the day in my office. I've taken an early retirement, but I've kept an office and I go in to it from time to time."
"Do you have an answering machine here?"
"Indeed. You can check it yourself. The only messages yesterday were from my rare book dealer and one hang-up call. Perhaps it's the latter you're referring to. Perhaps it was a wrong number."
We could check the length of the call from telephone records to determine whether it was true that the call was a hang-up, by its short duration.
"What's the name of the dead man?"
"He was a doctor," Mike said. "Wo-Jin Ichiko."
Zeldin scratched his head, gently enough not to shift the position of the rug. "I don't know that name."
"The news story today-the one about the man who died in the Bronx River?"
"Yes, I heard about that, but I didn't know the fellow. My office, in fact, is in the Bronx."
I hesitated asking what condition confined Zeldin to a wheelchair and wondered whether he was remotely capable of sending someone to his death at a rugged crime scene. But there would be time for Mike and Mercer to come back to that.
"Why don't we start at the beginning. What is the Raven Society?" I asked.
Zeldin wheeled himself to a cabinet and opened the door to reveal a wet bar, constructed at the height of his chair. "A glass of wine, anyone?"
We all declined and waited while he poured himself some Burgundy.
"The society was formed a century ago to honor Edgar Allan Poe on the fiftieth anniversary of his death. It was conceived as a secret society, membership by invitation only-just a scholarly tribute to the great poet. It was limited to five members."
"Five? That's a pretty minuscule society," Mike said.
"Unlike many writers of that period, who never achieved fame until long after their deaths, Poe was recognized for his genius during his lifetime, here and abroad. But he suffered so many tragedies during his short time on this earth-so many personal indignities- that when he died, there were only five men to take him to his grave. Five-including the minister who presided over the burial. It seemed, at the time, a fitting number to honor him."
"And now?" I asked.
"Still by invitation only, Miss Cooper. Now there are twenty-five."
"All in New York?"
"Oh, no. But about two-thirds of them are here."
"What are the criteria for membership?"
"We look for scholars, Detective. Not necessarily academics, but people who have immersed themselves in Poe and know his body of work. The poems, the stories, the literary criticism. Aficionados of the master."
"And do you meet?"
"From time to time, certainly. Dinners for the most part. Lectures and other events marking significant dates or new research."
"Would you be willing to give us a list of your members' names?" I asked.
Zeldin hesitated. "That would not be my decision to make. I'm merely the secretary of the society at the moment. I would have to ask-"
Mike interrupted him. "You're right that it's not your decision to make. We're in the middle of a murder investigation. I think it's gonna be Ms. Cooper who decides. Along with the grand jury."
Zeldin sipped his wine. "I don't mean to be obstreperous, Mr. Chapman. We shy away from publicity. Of course we'd be only too keen to help with your work, but I'd like some assurance that all this won't be material for the headlines."
"It's not likely that any of it will be made public," I said.
"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what you know about the skeleton at Poe House," Zeldin said, smiling as he drew a reaction from each of us, "and whether this man's death-Ichiko, is that his name?-is connected to the finding of those bones?"
"How about you go first?" Mike said. "What do you know about the skeleton?"
"I told you, Detective. Poe is our life's work. The society was part of-how do you say it in the law, Ms. Cooper?-part of the amicus brief to oppose the destruction of the old building by the university. I was naturally very interested to read that someone's remains had been discovered there."
"Why is that site so important to you?" Mercer asked.
Zeldin sighed. "From a historical point of view, and a cultural one, the places any great man lived should be preserved. In January of 1845, 'The Raven' was published. It brought Poe enormous acclaim, of course, and the fame he'd been longing for. It was that very same year he moved into the building on Third Street from uptown-from Brennan's farm in the West Eighties.
"You've seen that place? Can you imagine what works, what brilliant writings were created in those tiny, inhospitable rooms he rented?" Zeldin paused. "But then I suppose you care nothing about that. It's what keeps you in business."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"If the lawsuit had not been lost, if the building had not been demolished, well-you'd never have come upon that skeleton. It would have been interred behind the brick wall forever, as its killer intended."
"And what do you know about the bones? About those intentions?"
"Nothing more than what I've read in the newspaper and discussed with some of the society's members. We're interested, obviously," Zeldin said, gesturing at Mike with his glass.
"Poe only lived there for one year. What's your interest in that particular place?"
"Yes, Mr. Chapman, just a year. But do you know what he wrote in that house on Third Street?"
We each shook our heads.
"The most exquisite meditation on passion and revenge ever created. A tale called 'The Cask of Amontillado.'"
"Of course," I said. It was one of the most famous of Poe's tales, and I had studied it in a literature course at college. "The narrator entombs someone who has betrayed him behind a brick wall. Buries him alive, laughing while the man screams to be freed. Why is it he did that to his victim?"
Now my mind flashed to images of the young Aurora Tait, left to die inside the very same place where that story was created.
Zeldin's Latin was perfect. "The family motto, Miss Cooper. Nemo me impune lacessit. 'No one insults me with impunity.'"
"Maybe we're on the same page," Mike said. "Is there anyone associated with the society whose name or nickname is Monty? Maybe going back twenty or thirty years?"
"Why do you ask?"
"One of the victims involved may have had a boyfriend named Monty."
"I would guess he was pulling her leg, Detective. It
would be a wonderful joke for the killer to take that name, for either of two reasons. There's amontillado itself."
"Sherry?" I asked.
"Exactly. A blend of pale, dry sherry from the Montilla region of Spain. It was casks of this wonderful rare drink that the storyteller invited his prey down into the catacombs to sample. He wanted to get his victim intoxicated enough to pass out, but then have him come around in time to see that the last bricks were about to seal him in forever."
I could imagine Aurora Tait, being lured into the basement on Third Street by someone she had betrayed, with the promise of some pure smack or a stash of high-grade cocaine.
"And then there's the name of the killer himself," Zeldin said. "Don't you remember, Ms. Cooper? Montresor. Poe called him Montresor."
"Monty," Mike whispered. "All the time I'm looking for a guy called Monty, like that was really his given name. If he was Emily's boyfriend, and if he did kill Aurora Tait, he was probably just playing with people's heads, counting on the fact that the junkies in his little self-help group wouldn't have a clue about the stories of Edgar Allan Poe."
"I'm just commenting on the irony of finding the poor woman in that particular location," Zeldin said, backing off a bit, "and here you people are trying to connect it with someone named Monty."
"I got to catch up on my reading," Mike said. "Meantime, if you come across any tales by Poe where someone is killed going over a gorge and pummeled to death in a vortex, be sure and let me know. Once might be a coincidence, twice could be a plan."
"Sounds more Sherlockian than Poe, doesn't it? Professor Moriarity and the great Holmes, struggling with each other at the Reichenbach Falls," Zeldin said. "But then you'll want to move my crutches out of the corner, take down that slim lavender volume of Poeiana on the end of the third shelf and read a bit of it, Mr. Chapman. The story you're looking for is in that collection."
26
I had never read "A Descent into the Maelstrom," but a scan of the ten pages in one of Zeldin's leather-bound first editions revealed a scene eerily similar to Dr. Ichiko's last minutes on earth. It seemed characteristically Poe to describe "how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner," and then have the narrator watch his own brother disappear into the vast funnel and gyrations of the whirling water below.
At exactly 6P.M., a housekeeper in a gray uniform knocked on the library door. She announced to Zeldin that his physical therapist had arrived and was awaiting him in the exercise room. He looked at us and asked what we wanted him to do.
"Most people I know start their drinking after they work out," Mike said, with his usual skepticism.
"I've got a degenerative nerve condition, Detective. It actually relaxes me to sip on some wine before we go do the therapy."
"May we continue this conversation tomorrow?" I asked.
"Of course, Ms. Cooper. In the meantime I shall inquire about the release of the list of society members' names. And you three should brush up on your Poe."
"Here, at nine o'clock?"
"Actually, I had planned to spend the day at my office tomorrow," he said, as the attendant wheeled him to the door of the spacious room. "You'll find that quite interesting, in light of the death of Dr. Ichiko."
"Why's that?" Mike asked.
"For years until I retired I was the head librarian in the rare books department at the Botanical Gardens," Zeldin said.
Mike was on his way to the door to put the brakes on the wheelchair. "You were at the gardens and yet you didn't know anything about Ichiko's death until you read it in the newspaper?"
"Mr. Chapman, I was in the Mertz Library at an acquisitions meeting all afternoon. By the time my driver came to take me home at four o'clock in the afternoon, according to the published accounts, the poor man's body hadn't even been discovered. The first I knew of it was the morning papers. Julia, please-let's show these people out and get on with my session."
"And this morning," I asked, thinking of our near-miss at the Hall of Fame, "were you in the Bronx again today?"
"Alone here with my books all day. Julia will be only too happy to confirm that."
The housekeeper nodded as she held the door open for us.
"Nine o'clock?" I repeated.
"At the library, inside the Mosholu Parkway gate and turn left."
Once again we were out on a stoop in the cold. "I'm hungry," Mike said, "and everything aches. My tailbone, my pride, my stomach. I need a good steak."
We split up in two cars and met a few blocks away, on Forty-sixth Street, to have dinner at Patroon. This mecca for power business diners and elegant parties had long been a favorite. The waiting area was packed and the hostess was alarmed that we had no reservation.
"Hey, Mike, c'mon upstairs for a drink." The owner, Ken Aretsky, was waving to us from the staircase. We squeezed in through the crowd and walked one flight up to the lounge, past the stunning collection of elegant black-and-white photographs of Manhattan from the forties and fifties.
No matter how packed with tycoons and traders the restaurant was, Ken always made us feel welcome. Within minutes, we each had a drink and a quiet corner in which to catch up on our thoughts.
"Salut," Mike said, clicking our glasses together. "To a peaceful end of a busy day."
"Now how are we going to figure out how to put all these pieces together?" I asked.
"You're the literature major. What do you know about Poe? There's too strong a connection here among Aurora Tait, Emily Upshaw, and Dr. Ichiko to ignore it."
"I know the obvious-a lot of the poetry, some of the stories. I know he was born in Boston, and that his father's family was from Baltimore-which is where he died and was buried. There's a Poe museum in Richmond, where he was raised, before he went to school in Charlottesville."
"Did you ever know about the New York City connection?" Mercer asked.
Mike answered, "There's the place he once lived on West Eighty-fourth Street that Zeldin mentioned. I handled a burglary on the block. Back in the 1840s it was all a farm belonging to the Brennan family, like he said. I think it's even called Poe Alley."
"It seems to me it's worth letting Zeldin give us as much detail about the man as he can," Mercer said. "Maybe something, some little fact he suggests, will pull things together for us. If it turns out Zeldin himself is in the mix, all it does is give him more time to sink himself. I say we take advantage of the fact that he likes to talk."
"You believe his bullshit?" Mike asked.
"D'you see those crutches in the library? They wouldn't be there if he wasn't capable of getting out of the wheelchair. I want to know if he really can walk and just how well, and what route his driver took home from the Botanical Gardens office yesterday afternoon. The gorge isn't very far from where he worked."
"Man, I'm looking for the exercise routine that starts with marijuana and red wine."
"There are too many links here to ignore," I said. "I agree-let him explain what he can about Poe's life. Keep in mind that lots of great artists have their clubs and cabals-the Baker Street Irregulars, the Wolfe Pack, Poirot's Peers. I'm sure Tolstoy and Trollope, Mozart and Mahler, all have followings."
"They don't necessarily kill each other," Mike said.
"You guys need the television?" Ken asked, coming through to check on us.
"Hey, we skipped it last night. Check Jeopardy! and then we can order," Mike said.
By the time the final category was announced, we had downed our first drinks and paused in front of the large screen in the lounge.
"Scientific Theories," Alex Trebek announced.
Two of the three contestants groaned along with each of us.
"I'll pass," I said. "My weakest link."
"Nothing worse than a coward," Mike said. "Ten each. That won't get us a bottle of water in this joint."
The answer displayed read that the Big Bang theory, accepted in the 1960s, was first described in this prophetic work a century earlier.
"I'll take another Grey Goos
e," Mike said. "Let's order some grub."
None of us even took a guess as we watched all three players lose their bundles.
"No," Trebek told the anthropology graduate student, who was the only one to venture a guess. "Hubble came along a little later."
"This one surprised me, too, gentlemen. What is 'Eureka'? 'Eureka,' remember that? In a work called 'Eureka,' Edgar Allan Poe insisted that the universe exploded into existence in 'one instantaneous flash' from a single primordial particle." Trebek went on reading from his note cards. "Amazing, folks, that this amateur stargazer-back in 1848-came up with the version of the Big Bang that is still the best guess of contemporary scientists."
"Ever get the feeling that something was meant to be?" Mike asked. "It's frigging creepy to be surrounded by this guy Poe-he's everywhere."
We had a table in the back of the room on the first floor, near the kitchen. I sat by myself while Mercer went to call Vickee to tell her he'd be home late, and Mike tried to find Valerie on the Western ski slopes.
We each ordered New York strip sirloins-the sixteen-ouncers for the guys and the twelve-ounce for me. Mike piled on onion rings and cottage fries, and Ken spoiled us by sending over a superb Bordeaux from his fabulous cellar.
"Who's going to call Sally Brandon and break the news to her that Emily's kid knows that Sally's not her birth mother?" Mercer asked.
"Sounds like woman's work to me."
"I'll do it tomorrow afternoon. When Tormey is cleared medically, we've got to see if Emily really called him, like her letter says," I said, then shifted gears. "What's with Val?"
"She's over-the-top. The family's all up in Canada, doing that heli-skiing stuff."
I laughed. "Guess that's why you got left behind. Do they know her super-macho RoboCop is afraid of flying in choppers?"
"Hey, I did it for you once, didn't I?"
"Yeah, but that's because I didn't ask you to jump out."
"Last year, Val was so sick from the chemo that she couldn't make the trip with the rest of them. That's why her father thought it was such a special gift for her this time. She and her brother are like cowboys-you oughta see their videos."
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