by Michelle Cox
“There!” she said, pointing furiously to one of the paintings.
Clive looked at the painting and could see nothing untoward. It was a work by a lesser known American impressionist, Joseph Raphael.
“Yes?” Clive asked, confused, peering at the painting carefully. “I don’t understand, Mother. It doesn’t appear to be damaged—”
“It’s not damaged! It’s not supposed to be there! It’s the wrong one!”
“What do you mean, the wrong one?”
“The Levitan is supposed to be in that spot, but as you can see, it’s gone!”
Clive in truth did not know if this was correct, but he was inclined to believe her. His mind raced to the series of thefts that had occurred in the last months at the hands of Jack Fletcher and even Henrietta’s brother, Eugene, but he did not think either of them responsible for a theft of this magnitude. His mind then jumped to a worse suspicion—hadn’t this Susan woman asked for a gift? he remembered, his stomach roiling. But had his father really just lifted an exceptionally valuable painting from the wall and given it to her, or sold it and given her the money? Or had he needed the money himself? Clive wondered, thinking of the dangerously low balances in his father’s accounts.
“Do you think it was that awful chauffer?” Antonia asked, her eyes blazing. “It must have been! Clive, I insist you call the police! That painting was worth thousands!”
“Yes, Mother, I’m aware of that. But somehow, I don’t think it was Fletcher . . . I think . . .” but Clive broke off there. Obviously, he could not elaborate on any theories that may involve his father’s mistress. “Let me investigate. Maybe there’s a simple explanation.”
“A simple explanation!” Antonia almost shouted. “I can’t imagine what that would be, Clive!”
“Perhaps a servant damaged it,” he suggested, “and they put a different one there until it could be repaired. Perhaps Billings took it into his mind to have it cleaned. It could be any number of things. It’s damned difficult to just up and steal a painting.”
Antonia did not respond but seemed perhaps to be considering Clive’s words; she stood staring at the imposter painting, clearly still distraught.
“Mother,” Clive said tentatively, “was everything all right between you and father? You know, were you . . . how shall I put it? Was everything on the level, as it were?”
“What a singular question, Clive,” Antonia said sharply, turning to him. “Yes, of course everything was ‘on the level’ between us, if I understand you correctly. But what on earth does that have to do with this missing painting?”
“Forgive me, Mother, I . . . things just don’t make sense lately, is all. Father’s affairs seem not perfectly in order—”
“Clive,” she said, exasperatedly. “I really must interject. You are positively driving yourself mad.” She said this last word as a bit of a hiss. “I acknowledge that you . . . you suffered in the war and that you were a bit . . . addled afterward. Anyone would be, of course, darling, after what you endured, but you must be strong now.” She sighed. “I know you think of yourself as the police detective, but all of that is behind you now,” she continued patronizingly. “I refuse to allow myself or your father’s memory, for that matter, to be subjugated to these . . . these mad theories of yours. There has been no foul play, and the sooner you recognize this, the sooner you will find some peace. I don’t mean to be beastly, darling, but you’re wrong in this. Quite wrong! You know you are. Please give this up, for all our sakes,” she urged. “If you must investigate something, investigate this painting!” she said, her irritation returning as she glanced back at the gallery wall.
Clive rubbed his brow wearily. Obviously she now thought him unbalanced. “Yes, Mother, of course you’re right,” he managed to get out through gritted teeth, resolving to watch what he said in front of her in future. “Let me ask Billings a few questions, and if I’m not satisfied with the answers he provides I will call in the police.”
“Do I have your word?”
“Yes, you have my word.”
She left him, then, and instead of spending the afternoon looking for Sidney Bennett as he had intended, he spent it querying Billings, who admitted easily that yes, Mr. Howard—the late Mr. Howard, that is—had instructed him to remove the painting, wrap it securely, and deliver it to a Mr. Kennicott, J. Arthur Kennicott, that is, an art dealer in Lake Forest who had agreed to buy it with the purpose of reselling it to another collector he was in contact with in another part of the country. Yes, Billings staidly responded to Clive’s question, he had indeed been paid at the time of transfer. He had been instructed to wait, Billings explained, while Mr. Kennicott painstakingly counted out exactly ten thousand dollars in front of him, wrote a receipt, and neatly stacked the cash in a small attaché case, which Billings then promptly delivered—the case of money and the receipt—to Mr. Howard not two hours later. No, he could not say why Mr. Kennicott paid Mr. Howard in cash rather than a check, though he could think of several reasons which no doubt had probably already crossed Mr. Clive’s mind. No, Billings said, he did not know what had become of the money after that, though he assumed that Mr. Howard had put it in the safe in the wall, which was hidden, everyone knew, behind a picture of an English hunting scene hanging behind Mr. Howard’s desk.
“Did you not think to tell me of this before, Billings?” Clive asked, irritated.
“No, sir. Why would I, sir?” Billings answered emotionlessly. “Do you expect me to relate to you all of Mr. Howard’s instructions to me spanning the course of his lifetime?”
“That’s very close to impudence, Billings,” Clive snapped.
“I’m very sorry, sir, to be sure.”
Clive sighed. “I suppose you have a point, however.”
“Will that be all, sir?” Billings asked blankly, his facial muscles immovable.
“Yes, that will be all,” Clive said, and once Billings had exited the room, he sat at the desk and buried his face in his hands, knowing as he did—having found the key and looked through the safe yester-day—that it was empty.
The meeting had just been adjourned, Clive’s briefing now finished and a temporary plan of action in hand for most of the department heads, many of whom paused to shake Clive’s hand once more before they returned to their respective offices. Bennett was not among them, however, and was almost out the door before Clive called to him.
“A word, Mr. Bennett.”
Clive saw him stiffen and turn back, shifting his black portfolio under his arm. Clive’s request to speak to Bennett seemed to signal everyone else to leave directly, then, and Clive finally found himself alone at last with Sidney Bennett.
“You didn’t really think I would let this drop, did you?” Clive asked him, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table.
Bennett gave a halfhearted shrug and looked at him steadily. He was a short man, though he held himself erect. His hair was trimmed short and graying, though Clive, once upon a time, had known it to be brown. His bluish-gray eyes had deep creases in the corners, an obvious by-product of the work and stress of his life thus far, but there was a tired sort of kindness to be found in them too. He did not at all appear to be what one would conjure up as an example of an aggressive Wall Street lawyer, though he did have the reputation of being uncommonly sharp. As he stood looking at Clive now, his normally placid, controlled face was one of concern and worry.
“I had hoped you might leave well enough alone,” he said thoughtfully.
“Tell me about Susan.”
“It’s not what you think—”
“Try me.”
Bennett cleared his throat and stepped closer. “Listen, Clive. I’ve known . . . knew . . . your father for many years. I’ve watched you grow up, if only from afar. I know a great many things about your father and your . . . your family,” he said carefully. “Nothing good can come from opening this up. I beg you—”
“How long did it go on?” Clive asked tightly.
&n
bsp; Bennett sighed audibly and paused, as if deciding. Finally, he uttered, “From the very beginning, I believe.”
Clive swallowed hard, the blow crushing. Their whole married life? “Who is she? Where do I find her?”
“She?”
“Was she blackmailing him?”
“Clive . . . I think there’s been some mistake,” Bennett said, confused. “There’s no woman involved.”
Clive banged his fist on the table. “Damn it, man! Don’t lie to me!”
Bennett’s face grew red, his own ire apparent now. “I’m not lying,” he said testily.
Clive wrenched his father’s illicit letter from his inner jacket pocket and tossed it down the table toward where Bennett stood. “How do you explain this, then?” he asked angrily.
Slowly Bennett reached for the letter, unfolded it and skimmed it, his face blanching as he did. “Where did you find this?” he asked, looking up at Clive.
“That is not the relevant question that should have first come to mind,” Clive answered. “It implies much. So start explaining.”
“I thought I collected them all,” Bennett murmured, as he carefully set the letter back down on the table, his hand noticeably trembling a bit. He looked over his shoulder at the closed door of the conference room and then turned back to face Clive. “Yes, I’m pretty sure this Susan, as it says, was getting money from him,” Bennett said in a low tone. “But it isn’t a woman. It’s a man who goes by the name of Susan, and I’m fairly certain he’s part of the mob,” he said quietly.
Clive felt the hair on the back of his neck rise up a little bit at this revelation. Of course! For a split second he allowed himself to feel the relief of knowing that his father was not involved in a love affair, but that bastion of relief was instantly overwhelmed by a much worse realization. Jesus Christ! The mob? And for how long? From the beginning, Bennett had just said. Clive felt an uncharacteristic sense of panic, which he fought to control before it got the better of him.
“They killed him, didn’t they?” he asked, wanting to be vindicated in his theory, but desperately not wanting it to be true.
Bennett nodded slowly.
Clive let out the deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “What happened?” he demanded.
“I don’t know all of it, Clive, and that’s the truth. God knows I’d tell you if I knew.”
“Like you have so far, you mean,” Clive snapped.
“If you must know, I was afraid, Clive. Already things have been happening . . . awful things . . .” he whispered.
Clive took a deep breath, trying to control his frantic pulse and his need for more information. “Let’s take a step back. Let’s start at the beginning. Was he being blackmailed? Or was it simple extortion?”
“I’m not sure. One of them, I’m guessing.”
“But what would anyone have over him to use for blackmail?” Clive asked, looking at him acutely.
Bennett shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Clive observed that he shifted slightly as he said this and wondered if he was telling him the truth. “You said this has been going on ‘from the beginning,’” he said slowly. “What does that mean?”
Bennett sighed and gripped the back of one of the chairs at the thick, wooden conference table and leaned against it. “I don’t know all the details,” he began, “but I think it started shortly after he came here, to Chicago I mean. I had no idea back then what was going on. As the years went on, though, I started to wonder, but it was only this last year that Alcott confided bits of it to me. Well, not really. More like hints.”
“Hints? Nothing concrete?” Clive asked impatiently.
“As far as I could make out, he was in the habit of paying a certain sum of money to these characters—let’s just call them the mob— much to his own detriment. As far as I know, he only ever used his personal salary.”
This would explain the low totals in his father’s account books, Clive reasoned and felt a resultant fresh wave of fury.
“So what changed? Did he decide to challenge them? Is that why they killed him?” Clive demanded.
“I don’t know everything,” Bennett said nervously. “Alcott told me that he didn’t want to tell me everything, that it would be too dangerous. But he did show me some of the letters. All I know is that recently this Susan was suddenly demanding a very large payment and that Alcott had a plan to end this whole ridiculous affair,” he explained.
“Explain what happened that day. As far as you know. The day he died.”
Bennett paused, thinking back. “He was to meet with someone at the train station—”
“On the platform?” Clive interrupted.
“I . . . I believe so.”
Clive rubbed his eyes, irritated at the thought of how foolish that had been.
“How do you know this?”
“I was there.”
“You were there? Good God, man, why haven’t you said so before now?” Clive stood up and began to pace. “You’re a witness! Why haven’t you gone to the police?” he cried.
“I can explain—”
“No, wait. Go back to the beginning. What the hell happened?”
“Like I said,” Bennett began again calmly, “Alcott’s plan was to meet these ‘ruffians,’ as he called them. He intended to give them only half of the money they were demanding, and I was supposed to watch from the other end of the platform so that I could be a witness to the transaction. Then we were going to follow them in my car . . . try to get an address or a license number. Alcott thought that if he had some sort of evidence, he could go to the police.”
“That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard of! It doesn’t make an ounce of sense. What would giving them only a fraction of their payment serve? And then following them?”
Bennett shrugged uneasily. “I tried to tell him. I tried to tell him that the whole thing was acutely foolhardy. But he was insistent.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t think Alcott foresaw that they would actually look in the case. They must have realized that it wasn’t all there, and then . . . then a scuffle of sorts ensued, I guess you could say. The train was coming, but they didn’t move away from the edge. I didn’t actually see it all . . .”
“Even though you were there expressly to be watching?”
Bennett looked away at the accusation. “Yes, I . . . I know,” he said grimly. “But it happened so fast. One minute they were arguing and the next I saw Alcott fall . . .” He paused here, as if reliving the scene again in his mind, his face contorting. “Hysteria broke out then . . . I ran down the platform toward him, but by then a crowd was gathering.”
“What about the two men?”
“I . . . I lost sight of them, I suppose . . .” Bennett said absently. “Did you at least get a good look at them? Could you identify them?”
“No,” Bennett sighed. “I didn’t.”
“Damn it! Wasn’t that the whole point of planting you there? To get a good look at them?”
“Yes, I’m aware of that!” Bennett said angrily. “Their collars were turned up, and their hats were pulled down. It was nearly impossible to see their faces.”
“Did you go after them?”
“And leave your father?”
Clive had to admit he probably would have done the same, though he felt sure his father’s death must have been instantaneous. “But why didn’t you go to the police?”
“I meant to, Clive,” Bennett said uneasily, looking at him furtively. “I think I was in shock at first . . . seeing him die before my eyes. I just didn’t think . . .”
Clive was silent for a moment as he tried to assess the situation in a calculating manner without letting emotion cloud his mind. How could his father have put up with this for so many years? he wondered, waffling between pity for him and annoyance, even anger. How could he have mishandled his affairs so badly? How could he have put himself—all of them, probably—in danger for so many years? It was just
so confoundedly stupid—the whole ridiculous plan. He couldn’t believe it. In fact, this whole story had a flavor of egregious unbelievability to it.
And then another thought occurred to him, his stomach clenching. Perhaps this was all a ruse on Bennett’s part. He desperately wanted to believe Bennett, for more reasons than one, considering that the whole of Linley Standard was in his hands, but he had to carefully consider the facts. Bennett’s excuse about not going to the police was downright feeble, and he was definitely holding back information, he could tell.
“Hmmm,” Clive said tightly. “As a lawyer, you are no doubt aware of how suspect this all sounds.” He stared at him now, but Bennett held his gaze, not a trace of fear in it. “I’m thinking,” Clive went on smoothly, “that maybe you were in on it.” He paused here, watching Bennett’s face for a reaction. The resultant dark look of fury surprised him.
“I’ll ignore that insult for the moment and put it down to grief—a momentary lapse of reason,” Bennett said slowly, his eyes flashing. “But I never want to hear you accuse me ever again.”
Clive was tempted to lash back, but he forced himself to remain calm.
“Well, I find some of your answers very singular,” he said, still not breaking his gaze. “What did you mean then when you said you thought you had collected all the letters?” Clive asked coolly. “That suggests a great many things. What should I make of that?”
“You do me a gross disservice, Clive,” Bennett said thinly.
“Answer the question.”
“Yes. All right, yes. I did go to Highbury—to tell your mother myself how Alcott had died. I . . . I didn’t want the police to tell her. Didn’t she mention that?” Bennett peered up at him, but Clive did not move a muscle except the clenching of his jaw.
“No, she did not. Go on.”
“And, yes, I did go into Alcott’s study and look for all the letters, just in case—”
“Just in case of what?” Clive interrupted. “In case there was an investigation, which there should have been?”
“No! Not that. It was in case . . . in case Antonia found them. I didn’t want her to come to the conclusion you so easily did. I sought to spare her that pain.”