Chapter Twelve
The window of Masako’s prison framed it, the famous statue. But instead of the inspirational view every schoolchild knew by heart, she could see only the blank, draped back. Copper, weathered green. Heavy-folded robe. Head crowned with what looked like knives. Face averted. Lady Liberty had turned her back on freedom.
Masako had asked over and over. What had she done? What had any of them done?
“Enemy alien,” the FBI agent said.
“A viper is a viper,” the stern matron said.
“Dio Mio,” the Italian woman on the next cot complained in horror, “they’re making us sleep with Japs.”
Chapter Thirteen
A peach-and-gray teacup lay shattered on the dark green counter beside the kitchen sink. Satsuma, Mrs. Oakley had called her treasured tea set, wiping each cup with a ceremonial cloth before she filled it to offer with both hands to her guest. In receiving the cup, Louise knew she was a guest rather than an employee.
Like its mates from a teakwood chest that had been carried off by the FBI, the delicate heirloom depicted geishas kneeling on bamboo mats with a background of misty mountains. The Federal agents had been particularly suspicious of any items that depicted kimonos, as well as pagodas or ceremonial masks.
Louise gathered up the remnants of the delicate cup and cradled them in one palm. What to do? Not throw them away, surely. She felt as if she were holding the Japanese woman’s soul.
It was wrong—simply wrong—the way the bull-headed Agent Bagwell and his men had treated the Oakleys. Could the woman help where she’d been born? And, for goodness sake, what was suspicious about a professor of Asian history owning books and artifacts from Japan? The terrifying rampage of last night was not what America was supposed to be about, even an America under siege.
Louise’s outrage grew as she bundled the porcelain shards into her pocket handkerchief, tied the ends and placed it on the shelf where the teak chest had stood. She couldn’t let this pass. She had to do something—something to help right this wrong and return Masako Oakley to her home.
But she didn’t know what that might be.
Chapter Fourteen
Unlike us cops, McKenna thought, still perched uncomfortably on the chartreuse settee in the dead man’s office, this guy looks like he actually belongs here.
Desmond Cox, the long-haired gallery employee, sat facing McKenna and Dolan. He wore a gray V-necked sweater under his navy wool jacket and a bow-tie with colorful squiggles. His smoke was parked in an ashtray on the glass-topped table. “I’ll help you as much as I can, officers. But I really don’t know anything.”
The young man’s pinched nose and tight lips told a different tale. They were a dam, holding back a river. Once he got Desmond Cox talking, McKenna knew, those lips would be flooded with information.
He sat back, nonthreatening, easing the guy in. “Mr. Cox, when was the last time you saw Arthur Shelton?”
“I had Friday off, so it was Thursday—around closing time.”
Dolan was fumbling with his notebook. McKenna made scribbling motions at him. The sergeant found the right page, licked his pencil and wrote.
“Why weren’t you working Friday?”
A pause. Cox’s expression became even more guarded. “Some friends rented a beach bungalow for a weekend party. Winter rates, you know. We left the city around nine o’clock that morning.”
“Where was the party?” Still Mr. Nice Guy.
Another pause. “Fire Island.”
“Okay.” McKenna stood abruptly. His bad hip had had enough of the chartreuse settee.
Cox suddenly looked panicked. Had he interpreted McKenna’s rise as some sort of accusation? “My friends can vouch for me.”
The detective sighed. He didn’t particularly like fruits, but he didn’t arrest them for holding house parties. Rubbing his hip, he walked over to the narrow window and stood there looking out onto brick walls and a bare alley. A mangy gray cat slunk past a row of garbage cans.
McKenna swiveled on his good leg. “Tell me about Arthur Shelton.”
“Arthur?” Cox blanched again. “I can’t believe he’s lying up there—dead! All that flash—that vitality. Where could it have gone?” Two distinct tears appeared, one in the corner of each eye.
McKenna eased onto the settee again. “I can’t tell you where, Mr. Cox, but maybe I can eventually tell you why. That’s how you can help us. Tell me about your boss. You were his assistant. Right?”
“Well—” Cox recrossed his long legs. “Associate is more like it. Arthur was grooming me to become his partner one day.”
“Okay, got it. What else?”
“Well, Arthur came from the absolute, spot-on middle of nowhere—went to some cow college in Muncie, Indiana, before he moved to New York. But that doesn’t really tell you what he was like. You want more than biography, I guess.”
McKenna nodded. For starters, he thought.
Cox brooded a moment, then sat up straight. “Okay, besides flash and vitality, Arthur had courage—when it came to art, he had more courage than anyone I ever knew.”
In McKenna’s mind art and courage didn’t go hand in hand. He screwed up his face. “How so?”
“Some people weren’t happy about Arthur mounting work by a Japanese artist. There’s a lot of bigotry floating around, Lieutenant—even before yesterday’s attacks. When you go through Arthur’s files…” Cox made a vague gesture toward an old chest, the only piece of wooden furniture in the sleek, modern room. “That’s Arthur’s filing cabinet—a seventeenth century Tibetan blanket chest he had reconditioned. You’ll find letters there from prominent collectors. Many protested his ‘support for the enemy,’ but a few praised him for mounting the Fumi show.”
“Oh, yeah?” McKenna turned to Dolan. “Get Brenner in here—he can search the files.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Dolan went to the door, and returned after a brief conference with someone out of sight.
“We even had picketers,” Cox continued, watching the unwieldy sergeant lower himself back onto the settee and find the right page in his notebook.
McKenna’s right eyebrow shot up. “What d’ya mean—
picketers?”
“Monday after the show’s opening James LaSalle wrote a swell review. We had a lot of lookers wander in, so we thought everything was going to be okay. But first thing Tuesday morning, parading up and down the sidewalk in front of the gallery, there was this guy with a big sign.”
“This would have been last week, right? What did the sign say?”
“It said No Go Jap Show—just like that damn scrawl out by the broken window. The son-of-a-bitch was there all day. Then the next morning, there were three of them. Again—all day.”
“They interfere with customers?”
“What customers? By Thursday we were down to a big fat goose egg—the only people who walked through the door were Arthur’s great friend…Lawrence Smoot” —Cox made a face— “and this lady professor he’d dragged down from Columbia. Shelton and Smoot were…well.” He made a dismissive hand gesture. “And Lillian is a friend of the artist’s husband.” He laughed. “Nothing would keep those two away.”
“So…” McKenna said, as he thumbed his jaw. “The toughs were scaring away trade. What’d your boss do?”
“Called the police. The desk sergeant at the Eighteenth Precinct said as long as the picketers weren’t accosting people, they were within their rights—freedom of expression. By Thursday noon, there were six of them, chanting. ‘No go Jap show, no go Jap show.’ A couple of passers-by joined in and a crowd began to gather. Arthur took the situation in hand…”
“Hmm.” McKenna turned his head. “Ya got all that, Dolan?”
“Yeah, Lute.” He flipped a page.
Cox went on, “We decided
the first lunkhead was the ringleader. I went outside, slipped the guy a fin and told him my boss had a proposition for him. He was game, so I brought him into the office.” Cox looked around as if he could see the scene in his mind. Again McKenna detected a note of real grief in his expression.
“Then, Arthur comes in with a bottle of his best single malt and two glasses. He plied him with Glenfiddich. By the time he was done, the guy was mellow—plus a century richer.”
“Whew!” It was Dolan. McKenna gave him the icy eye.
“Yeah. The mug went out, handed around some stray fives, and the picketers vanished.”
“Only to come back this morning, paint his slogan and heave a brick through the window?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
McKenna sat back, unconvinced. Once roaches scattered, they usually went in search of better pickings somewhere else. “So, what was this goon’s name?”
“Arthur didn’t ask.”
Great. Just ducky. McKenna changed the subject. “So, that’s the reason Shelton was closing the show?”
A hurt look danced across Cox’s face. His features pinched in and it looked like he was building that dam again. “Arthur didn’t discuss that with me. I thought he intended to keep Masako’s paintings up.”
A tap at the door and Dolan jumped up to let Brenner in.
Cox gave the blond, broad-shouldered cop an interested look that wasn’t lost on McKenna.
“Hey, Brenner,” he said. “Sit in on this, will ya? You been to college. You know about art. You’ll be a big help interpreting Mr. Cox’s information.”
Brenner looked surprised, but he pulled up one of the tortured-looking chairs and sat, one ankle on the other knee.
Cox flipped his hair over his collar.
“Okay, Mr. Cox,” McKenna continued. “This Masako Fumi—tell us about her. Brenner, you take this down.”
“Sure, boss.” He pulled out his notebook. It looked almost new.
Something that might have been a pout streaked across Dolan’s features.
“Masako Fumi Oakley.” Cox directed his nervous chatter at Brenner. “No matter what the great American unwashed thinks about the Japanese, Arthur knew Masako Fumi’s paintings were simply earthshaking. Like the latest in Western modernism, her figures are nonrepresentational. But she also layers on calligraphic figures using the traditional mouse-hair brush. She makes her own Sumi ink from three-hundred-year-old slabs of vegetable soot and glue, the way Japanese calligraphers have done for centuries—”
“Wait.” McKenna stopped the flow with a raised palm. “Old ink is a good thing?”
“Well, Lieutenant…” Cox swiveled his head. “Some people must think so. The opening reception was a smash—Arthur sold five paintings just that night. Five!”
“What’s that add up to?”
“You mean—in money?”
McKenna nodded. No. In doughnuts, he thought. Who are these people?
“I’m not certain—Arthur keeps—kept—the books. But it must have been close to eighteen thousand dollars.”
“A good haul, I’d say.” McKenna reached for one of the glossy show brochures. “How come this painting looks different in the photo here than it does on the wall?”
“Huh?”
“This ‘Lion After the Kill.’ Up there in the gallery, the writing part is covered with some reddish gunk.”
Cox winced. “Oh, that’s wine. We had a nasty scene the night of the opening.”
“What happened?”
“Tiffy De Forest happened. She used to be one of Arthur’s most loyal patrons—had a good eye for a coming artist, and her stockbroker hubby didn’t mind ponying up the funds.” He paused for a moment’s reflection. “He also didn’t mind hovering in the background—whether Tiffy was displaying her latest canvas or her latest man.” His wink was all-boys-together lewd.
“Oh, yeah?” McKenna took the bait. “Like that, huh?”
“Very much like that. But almost overnight, Tiffy-dear took a very vocal dislike to all things Asian. She sure wasn’t invited to Masako’s reception, but she showed up anyhow, high as a kite, itching to make trouble.” Cox was getting into it now. McKenna had him pegged right—as an irrepressible gossip. “Tiffy made a beeline for Arthur. Lu-di-crous! She was spilling right out of that tight dress.” He leaned forward. “Then the worst—she accused Arthur of being a traitor.”
“What was Miss Fumi doing during this cute scene?” McKenna was becoming more and more interested in this lady artist. If that girl reporter had been right about Fumi being picked up last night by the FBI, it was going to be hard prying the artist loose from the Feds, but he intended to try; Shelton’s body had been positioned right beneath her splashiest painting.
“Oh, well—we were all frozen in shock. Of course. Masako included. Then she began to scream—a wild mixture of French and English.”
“French?”
“She grew up in Paris. Her father’s some kind of Japanese big-wig.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ambassador to France, I think he was. Anyway, Tiffy grabbed a glass of wine right out of James LaSalle’s hand—red wine, of all things. I think she meant to hurl it at Masako, but it ended up hitting Arthur. And the painting.”
“LaSalle?” Hadn’t he just heard that name?
“Yes—the art critic. Imagine!”
“Sounds like a mess.” McKenna kept his voice neutral. Couldn’t these people find something better to do with their time—and, of course, their money?
Cox rattled on, “You bet. The doorman tossed Tiffy and her escort out. Then Masako wouldn’t let Arthur clean up the painting. She said, ‘That woman’s hatred is part of the work, now. Let everyone see what she has done.’
“But, of course,” he continued in an arch tone, “Tiffy only did it at Nigel Fairchild’s urging.”
“Nigel Fairchild?” McKenna repeated in surprise.
“Yeah. He was her escort.” Cox’s thin lips twisted in a sneer. “You know him?”
Know Fairchild? Hell, yes. The man was all over the papers and the airwaves, New York’s answer to that ranting radio priest, Father Coughlin. Nigel Fairchild might come from an old Four-Hundred family, but he was a demagogue through and through—head of the local America First Committee.
Cox continued, “I never personally heard him talk about the Japs, but at a dinner party last summer, he railed on and on about how the Nazi takeover of Europe wasn’t our concern. ‘They got themselves into it,’ he said, ‘let them get themselves out.’ European society he labeled effete and decrepit, doomed to perish. America was the hope of the world, young and robust, the ‘coming nation.’
“‘Besides, we’re perfectly safe here,’ he said that night. ‘There’s an ocean between us and Hitler.’”
Then Desmond Cox laughed and added, “Well, I wonder how safe he feels after yesterday’s bombing attacks. Japan’s a hell of a lot further away than Germany.”
“Right,” McKenna replied. “A lot of those isolationist chumps are eating their words right about now. You think Fairchild and the De Forest dame had anything to do with the broken window out front?”
Cox shrugged.
“Right. Okay.” McKenna stood up abruptly and squinted at the young man. “Get your coat. You’re going downtown with Detective Dolan.”
Cox swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple going up and down. He shot a wounded look toward the unheeding Brenner. “Am I under arrest? I didn’t kill Arthur. My friends can vouch for me—we didn’t get back to the city until late last night.”
“Don’t worry—we’ll check with your pals, all right. But no, you’re not under arrest. That picket ringleader sounds like someone who might have a few priors—so you’re going to look at some photos down at Centre Street.”
“Oh.”
Cox visibly relaxed.
“Yeah. Soon’s you give me Miss Fumi’s address and phone number.”
No reason Cox needed to know that Masako Fumi currently was in residence at the federal detention center on Ellis Island.
Chapter Fifteen
In the time it took for Louise to answer the doorbell and let Dr. Wright in, Professor Oakley had forced himself into a sitting position and edged one foot to the floor. “Fetch my overcoat, Nurse,” he ordered, as she followed the doctor back into the darkened bedroom. “I’m going down to Foley Square, talk to those imbeciles at the Federal courthouse.”
Louise hurried toward her patient as a cold wind rattled the windows and seeped through cracks to lift the silk wall hangings.
“You want to kill yourself, Bob?” Dr. Wright eased the professor back on his pillows and hitched the bedclothes under his armpits. “Save it for later. I won’t have you dying on my watch. You hear me?”
“I won’t abandon Masako to those fools.” The professor kicked the blankets away. Even that small exertion was too much. A series of coughs racked his barrel chest. Louise was alarmed to see his lips grow blue as he clutched his right side.
As she tucked the blankets tighter, Wright continued his lecture. “Listen, my friend, this lobar pneumonia isn’t some undergraduate you can browbeat into behaving. If you don’t rest and let your nurse keep the fever down….” He raised a forefinger and shook it in cadence with his words. “It will kill you. You hear me? It will kill you. And when you’re gone.” He paused. “When you’re gone, Masako will be on her own. What will happen to her then?”
Professor Oakley sank into his pillows and, with a shuddering sigh, gave in.
The doorbell rang again.
***
“Arthur? Dead? Murd—” Professor Oakley’s chest heaved in a strained, painful cough. Louise winced. Lieutenant McKenna, the disheveled police detective at the bedside, his face tired and etched with wrinkles, paused only a split second. Then, “How long have you known Arthur Shelton?” he asked. “Where were you last Friday evening? Where was your wife?”
Face of the Enemy Page 7