by Morris West
There was one seat left on an 11 a.m. flight to Kennedy, which left him just enough of the afternoon to go to the bank and arm himself with money, photostats and documents. He ordered a car for 8.15 a.m. and had Swissair book him a limousine at Kennedy. Which left only one more call to make before they walked out of Liepert’s office.
Mather insisted on calling Berchmans in Paris. The old man’s reaction was subdued. ‘Do you think she did it?’
‘I know she didn’t.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I hope so. One thing I do have to tell you. I am taking copies of Madeleine’s papers and sketchbooks. They may be subpoenaed in evidence. You appear in both, though not too conspicuously or scandalously.’
‘No way you can pull me out?’
‘I’m afraid not. Frankly, the most the media could do is poke ribald fun.’
‘Can I trust your judgment on this, Mr Mather?’
‘You must, I’m afraid.’
‘Good. I’m coming to New York shortly. Call my office there, they’ll let you know the exact date. We should meet again. I’ve made arrangements for the two Brazilian Raphaels to be shipped under bond for inspection. I’d like you to see them with me.’
‘Thank you. By then I hope to have further news of the originals.’
‘Which, of course, have to be verified?’
‘Of course.’
‘We should talk about how they may be coming to market.’
‘That too.’
‘Now I owe you a piece of advice. Watch Seldes – he doesn’t like you. He’s jealous. He can be dangerous.’
‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘One hand washes the other,’ said Berchmans and hung up.
FOURTEEN
George Munsel, attorney for the defence of Leonie Danziger, was something of a surprise. He was six feet three inches tall, thin as a beanpole, with big hands, big feet, a square-cut Scandinavian face, a shock of blond hair and a smile of childlike innocence. The biggest problem in his life seemed to be to accommodate himself to the scale of ordinary mortals. He stooped going through a door; he sidled past furniture; he sprawled in a chair; he bent to listen to people. Mather had the impression of some ancient Nordic sage bowed in compassion over the commonfolk. In Mather’s small apartment he stretched his long legs under the dining table, laid out his notes and his brief-pad and delivered his report in a deep baritone recitative.
‘A quick rundown. The client accepts me, I accept her. I need an opening retainer of ten thousand. We haven’t come to disclosures yet, but the DA’s office must be pretty confident to lead off with murder one. The girl denies the charge, but admits damaging involvements and circumstances: a lesbian association with the victim, quarrels, a visit to the studio on the day of the murder, a call to Hugh Loredon. My guess is we’ll be offered a plea. My instinct is to refuse it, ask for reasonable bail and fight the case.’
‘Bail,’ queried Mather. ‘How much?’
‘Too early to say – and it’s not your responsibility to raise it.’
‘I want to help if I can.’
‘Because she’s your editor?’
‘Because she’s a damned good editor – and I owe her for that.’
‘That’s an interesting point of view. The lady is, on her own confession, lesbian.’
‘It’s irrelevant,’ said Mather. ‘What’s next?’
‘What’s next in your story, Mr Mather?’
Max Mather told it quietly and without embellishment, marvelling as he did so how deeply he had become embroiled – and in so short a time – in the lives of all these people. Munsel listened for the most part in silence, interrupting only to clarify an element in the story or to give himself time to record a point. Then he made Mather retell, twice over, every detail of his meetings and talks with Hugh Loredon from their first luncheon in the apartment to their parting handshake in Amsterdam.
Next he turned his attention to the letter which Danny Danziger had written him and the photographs she had sent covering the police inquiries. His comment defined the uneasiness which Mather had felt but could not put a name to when he himself had first read them.
‘This bothers me,’ said Munsel. ‘She writes with total detachment, as though she is simply summarising information from others. The only concession is in the phrases “a lot of us are involved in it” and so on. In short, the letter is in essence a falsehood.’
‘It bothered me too when I read it,’ Mather agreed. ‘But I didn’t know then what I know now. If you read Madeleine Bayard’s diaries, you’ll see a possible reason for the lie…Take your time; I’ll fix us a drink. What will you have?’
‘Vodka tonic, please.’ He was already deep in his reading.
Mather served the drinks and then went into the bedroom to call Anne-Marie. Their conversation was brief. She was delighted he was back. She would join him for dinner at eight. Oh, and would he please call Ed Bayard at home? Why? Ed was feeling very badly about his conduct. He’d like to apologise and make friends. On the principle that even friends like Bayard were a shade better than enemies, Max agreed to make the call next morning. Then he telephoned Harmon Seldes, and was surprised to find himself welcomed effusively.
‘My dear Max. Delighted to have you back! My God, the timing couldn’t have been better – we publish your Bayard piece; they arrest Danny Danziger. Terrible mistake, of course. It has to be. We’re all rooting for her.’
‘In that case, I’m sure it would help if you supported her bail application.’
‘How would I do that?’
‘Attend the court. Be prepared to testify that she’s in permanent employment, is of great value to the magazine…that sort of thing. It would be good for staff morale too, Harmon!’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Now tell me about the Raphaels. Berchmans says you’re making lots of progress – and, you old fox, you’ve hooked yourself up with the Palombini again.’
‘They asked me to represent them. It would have been churlish to refuse.’
‘Of course. When am I going to see you?’
‘The arraignment won’t take long. Let’s talk after that. I have a suggestion for a follow-up on the Raphael story.’
‘Let’s talk about it by all means. Meanwhile I’ll do what I can to support the bail application. I can’t wait to hear where you’re at with the Raphaels. I know you’ve been talking to Berchmans, but he doles out information as if it were money…You and I must make time to talk. It’s very important. Once again – welcome back!’
George Munsel was still absorbed in Madeleine Bayard’s manuscripts and sketch books. He looked up as Mather entered and asked abruptly, ‘Why did Hugh Loredon give you this material?’
‘I’ve never quite figured that out. I believe he viewed it as a weapon against Bayard. Once I saw it I was inclined to agree.’
‘Why did you hang on to the stuff? Why didn’t you give it back?’
‘He told me to keep it.’
‘Did he give a reason?’
‘Yes. He said: “For the police it’s evidence; for you, it’s treasure-trove.” Which, given the circumstances, it is.’
Munsel gave his big, innocent smile. ‘But why did he give it to you and not to his daughter?’
‘Because he knew we had been lovers. He saw me always as a kind of protector.’
‘The police are going to ask you another question.’
‘Which is?’
‘Mr Mather, do you understand the meaning of misprision of a felony?’
‘I do. It means concealing knowledge of a crime.’
‘So what do you reply to the police?’
‘Madeleine Bayard’s papers make no reference to a crime – only to the follies of her friends and intimates.’
‘Which of course could be relevant to the crime that took place.’
‘But I am not, and was not, competent to judge of that relevance.’
‘Hugh Loredon obviously thought you were.’
&nb
sp; ‘Did he? How would that be established?’
‘Good answer, Mr Mather. How did you read Hugh Loredon’s intention?’
‘I couldn’t with any certainty. My guess is that he wanted to protect his daughter from distress and scandal after his death. He may well have wished to enrich her with valuable documentation on Madeleine Bayard – but he couldn’t do so directly without involving her in the concealment of evidence. So he turned to me, confident I would protect her interests.’
‘I could use another vodka,’ Munsel said. ‘This time, hold the tonic.’
‘Coming up.’
‘So now let me make a small suggestion. Suppose – just suppose – Hugh Loredon was playing one last devious game.’
‘To do what?’
‘To bring down the man he feared and hated most: Edmund Bayard.’
‘And to do that he incriminates an innocent woman with a cooked-up story? That’s crazy.’
‘Not so crazy. You watch what happens after the arraignment. The prosecution has a notarised confession which is also an accusation. The accuser is dead and can’t be questioned. Absent any other evidence – and my hunch is that they have some, but not enough – they’re in a very awkward spot. Especially when I produce a rebuttal document as strong as this stuff I’ve got under my hands.’
‘But that’s all before the fact.’
‘Except for the man who will interpret it.’
‘And that is?’
‘You, Mr Mather!’
‘I don’t see where you’re leading me.’
‘You’re a scholar, Mr Mather. I’ve looked you up. I’ve read your two pieces for Belvedere to which Danny Danziger pointed me. Your discipline isn’t fine art but palaeography, the study of manuscripts ancient and modern. According to my encyclopaedia that study is to read correctly the handwritings of the past, to examine manuscripts in the light of internal evidence (to wit, the contents) and external evidence provided by other available documents. You’ve already been through Madeleine Bayard’s papers several times. You have produced a moving and illuminating article. I want you to go through the same material again, as a palaeographer, looking for internal and external evidence about the life and death of Madeleine Bayard. If my guess is right, I could make you the star witness for the defence.’
Mather gaped at him in amazement.
‘Do you realise what you’re asking? This isn’t a game. It’s a gamble on a woman’s liberty – not only on my skill, but on the vagaries of a dead woman’s mind and the fantasies she constructed to amuse or shock or mystify. I couldn’t even attempt this!’
‘Not even if I direct you a little?’
‘I don’t see how you can.’
‘Try this, then.’ Munsel flipped forward through the diary to the last two pages. ‘This is the beginning of the entry for the last day of Madeleine’s life: “It is bitterly cold. The studio is like a tomb. I turn on every heater. Even so, my fingers are not as completely under control as they should be for this scribe’s work. Yet old habit determines that it must be done, at this hour and in this fashion, else the rest of my day will never flow smoothly.” Interpret that for me, Mr Mather. Give it to me off the top of your head. First skim off the cream, so to speak.’
‘Well…’ Mather scanned the lines three times before he answered. ‘ “This scribe’s work”…that’s exactly what it is. For the diaries she uses a very formal and regular hand based on an old French Gothic style called écriture financière. The form is called ronde or rounded and, because it is rounded, upright and accented in the downstrokes, it is slower to write and needs much more care than cursive or running hands. “At this hour and in this fashion, else the rest of my day…” That says to me that she used the diary as a kind of warm-up exercise for drawing and painting. Also, knowing something of her domestic background, I would say it probably constituted an act of release and outpouring after a night of marital tensions. There is a hint of superstition – the ritual must be performed, otherwise the day goes wrong. “The studio is like a tomb”…What was the heating anyway? It certainly wasn’t central.’
‘Bravo!’ George Munsel cut him off with a burst of solitary applause. ‘That’s great. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Will you have a go at it? We can meet every day or two and discuss what you’re finding.’
‘It’s worth a try…but what do I say to the police when they put me under the griller?’
‘One more question before I answer that one. Where are the originals of these writings and drawings?’
‘In a safe-deposit in Switzerland.’
‘Who owns them?’
‘The company to which I disposed of them – Artifax SPA.’
‘What if the police ask to see them?’
‘I’ll be happy to put them in touch with the lawyer who deals for the company.’
‘Good. And since I’ll be sitting with you at that interview, you’ll take your cues from me. I’ll also call the police and arrange the time and venue with them. You are going to be available but very hard to isolate.’
‘When can I see Danny?’
‘With luck she’ll be bailed at the arraignment tomorrow. If not, I’ll arrange for you to see her immediately afterwards. However, after reading this stuff and hearing what you have to say, I believe bail will be set at a reasonable figure; the girl does have enough assets to make arrangements with a bail bondsman. I’d rather not have you encumbered or tied too closely to her. I need you as an expert witness, which is how I’m going to present you at the trial.’
‘You realise that my testimony will touch a lot of other people: Ed Bayard most of all, Anne-Marie because of her father, not to mention all the other men and women who pop up in the diaries and in her drawings?’
‘Let’s take them in order. Ed Bayard? He takes his soup as it’s served. We’re not pursuing him, we’re defending a client. Anne-Marie Loredon? That’s rough. Her father will certainly be discredited. She may lose insurance benefits if the company decides to deem Loredon’s death a suicide. Again it’s rough; but she’s free and our client is in jail and will still have to face trial. The rest…It’s their problem, isn’t it? One of the problems of the swingers’ circuit – leaving out AIDS, herpes, chlamydia and syphilis – is that you get caught up in a whole gaggle of other lives and you never know who or what is likely to come knocking on your door. In this case it’s going to be a little man with a subpoena offering a fun day in court. Any more questions?’
‘What gave you the idea of using me as an expert witness?’
‘The stuff you wrote for Belvedere – and Leonie Danziger’s own estimate of your talents.’
‘And what’s your estimate of her?’
‘I’m not sure I’ve arrived at one yet. She’s intelligent, well-educated, passionate – affectionate, which is somewhat different. She’s fiercely independent, yet desperately needs someone to depend on. She’s also capable of deep attachments – she’s already developed one for you in spite of her lesbian tastes – and in my view she would be capable of murder. But then we all would, given the provocation. In short, she’s a highly complex character, not yet fully formed in my mind, and I have no intention of putting her on the witness stand. So now tell me how you feel about her, Mr Mather?’
Wearily Mather explained, ‘Harmon Seldes gave me Danny as my editor. He also told me she was a blue-stocking who had unusual sexual preferences.’
‘And did she?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you confirm that?’
‘She told me so.’
‘And…?’
‘And nothing. We continued working together. She’s a first-rate editor. She’s helped me greatly. I can’t walk away from her now.’
‘What if she’s found guilty? She could be, you know.’
‘What do you expect me to say? There but for the grace of God goes Max Mather?’
‘You’ll do,’ said Munsel. ‘I’ll see you at ten o’clock in Court No. 3. Thanks for the d
rink.’
He gathered up his papers, uncoiled his lanky body and sidled out of the room. It was six-thirty – Mather had an hour and a half to lay in provisions and prepare a meal before Anne-Marie arrived.
This meeting promised to be a difficult one. He had no intention of conducting it in a public place. So far as Anne-Marie was concerned everything she had was on the line: her family name, her inheritance, her career, her business and her personal relations with Ed Bayard. For himself, the issues were equally important. His career was being rebuilt on the twin foundations of the Raphaels and his representation of a reputable gallery in New York. The arrest and trial of Danny Danziger was like the first rumbling of an earthquake which could wreck all their carefully-built projects.
Like an earthquake, crime produced extraordinary random effects. The murder of Madeleine Bayard was changing the lives of people in Florence, in Zurich, in Paris, Rio and New York. The affair of the Raphaels assumed a new dimension in the context of a New York courtroom. His casual relations with Anne-Marie now coloured his growing attachment to Gisela Mundt. Ed Bayard, whom he had chosen as his own legal counsellor, had turned suddenly hostile and, with equal suddenness, was now suing for a truce. George Munsel was a new catalyst, setting off all kinds of chemical reactions to construct a defence for his client. And Max Mather himself had become a mutable man, a very chameleon – changing his colour, altering the configuration of his presence to merge himself more perfectly with the background and protect himself from the predators who hovered always over the scene of a catastrophe.
His shopping completed, he walked back, set the table and began laying out ingredients in the kitchen. This was a deliberate ploy to keep himself busy during the opening gambits with Anne-Marie. The last scene he wanted to play was a confrontation of interests or opinions. Besides, he intended to convey comforting echoes of Florence, when he would serve cocktails on her terrace and afterwards take over her kitchen to prepare the evening meal. A little nostalgia now might take the rough edge off the evening. The harsh truths of the situation might sound a shade more comfortable in Florentine slang…