by Stuart Woods
“This is an honorable background,” she said, “except for that business about Communism. But many good people were hoodwinked into joining in the thirties, I suppose.”
“He never regretted holding Communist views. He regretted what the Party turned out to be.” Stone looked at her narrowly. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m being interviewed for some position?”
“Perhaps you are, but not the one you are thinking of. I am a Catholic, and my father is a devout Catholic; I’m allowed only one husband.”
“Somehow, I can’t imagine you with a husband,”
“Neither could my husband, after we’d been married a while.”
“So what position am I being interviewed for?”
“I haven’t decided,” she said. “Why haven’t you asked me any questions about my family?”
“I told you, I’m psychic; I already know what I need to.”
“You mustn’t joke about such things with an Italian girl; we take them seriously.”
“I will always know more about you than you will want me to know,” Stone said, and he hoped she would believe it, even if it weren’t true. He thought he saw a tiny flicker of fear in her eyes.
“Please,” she said.
They finished their first course, and Stone took their entrée, a crown roast of lamb, from the hot box under the table. Stone tasted the red wine and poured it.
“It’s not Italian,” she said, sniffing her glass.
“It’s a California wine, perhaps made by Italians; it’s called Far Niente.”
“Dolce far niente,” she said. “Sweet nothings.” She sipped it. “It’s delicious, and it’s not even Italian.”
“Does everything have to be Italian?”
“Not everything, but Papa believes that Italy is the most important country in the world, even though we have been here for four generations. He tends to think of anything not Italian as slight, of little weight.”
“Do you feel the same way?”
“I am more American, but I understand his feelings.”
“There is nothing Italian about me; what does your father think about that?”
“You are not wine or food or art or architecture.”
“I’m not Catholic, either.”
“He is not so concerned about that. In a strange way, he feels the family is protected by my divorce.”
“Widowhood would free you, would it not?”
She smiled a little. “You are clever. The only reason my former husband is still alive is that my father does not want me to be free to marry again.”
“I see.”
“Why did you telephone today?”
“Your father gave me the number, in case I needed his help.”
“And now you do?”
“Yes.”
“Does Dino know?”
“Dino doesn’t want to know.”
“Your call was precipitated by the incident of last evening?”
“Yes.”
“And where is the beautiful painter?”
“She has returned to her native England. She will not be back.”
“Are you sad?”
“Less so than I was this morning.”
“What help do you want from my father?”
“You know that this Mitteldorfer has disappeared?”
She nodded. “Papa has told me what he knows.”
“Dino had a little flap with the captain of the guard at Sing Sing; because of that, I am unable to get any information from the prison that might help me find him. That, and the fact that Mitteldorfer managed the financial assets of the captain and the warden, and they are, shall we say, kindly disposed toward him.”
“You want information from the prison?”
“Yes. There must have been prisoners who were close to Mitteldorfer; he was there for twelve years. Perhaps one or more of them might know something about his plans after he left prison.”
“This can be done,” she said. “It will take a few days, perhaps a week. Do you think you can stay alive that long?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“We seem to have finished our business and our dinner,” she said. “Can we go back to bed, now?”
“We haven’t had dessert.”
“I’ll give you dessert,” she said.
38
S TONE WOKE AROUND SEVEN, HAVING NOT had much sleep, and found Dolce gone. There was a note on the dresser: “Thank you for an interesting evening. Let me know when you need more information, or another interesting evening. Dolce.” Her phone numbers, office and home, were below.
Stone ordered some breakfast and read the Times. Again, he saw the theatrical advertisement by Judson Palmer. He cut it out and put it in his money clip. He checked out of the hotel at nine and ordered his car from the garage, checking the glove compartment to be sure the pistol was there, before relocking it. He consulted the theatrical ad; Palmer’s theater was on West Forty-fourth Street, west of Sixth Avenue. He parked in the Hippodrome Garage at Forty-fourth and Sixth and walked to the theater. A janitor was sweeping out the lobby.
“Good morning,” Stone said.” Can you tell me where to find Judson Palmer? Where his offices are?”
“They’re right up there,” the janitor said, pointing upward. He indicated a door. “Through there and up the stairs one flight.”
Stone walked upstairs and emerged into a shabby waiting room, where a young woman was sitting at a desk, eating a Danish and drinking coffee. “Good morning,” he said.
She had to swallow before she could speak. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Palmer.”
“Are you an actor? We’re already cast; we open this weekend.”
“No, it’s a matter of personal business.”
“Does he owe you money?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Stone heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and he turned to see a man in his fifties wearing a bush jacket walk into the room, carrying a brown bag. He was overweight and looked hungover. “Mr. Palmer?” he said.
“We’re already cast,” Palmer said, opening the door to his office. “Leave your picture and r/ésumé with the girl; I’ll consider you for the next show.”
“I’m not an actor,” Stone said. “My name is Stone Barrington.”
“Sounds like an actor,” Palmer said, pausing in the doorway. “What do you want?”
“It’s in connection with a man named Mitteldorfer.”
Palmer winced. “Are you a reporter?”
“No, and I think you should hear what I have to tell you.”
“All right, come on in,” Palmer said.
Stone followed him into the room, which was decorated with posters from Palmer’s previous shows. The place had a temporary look; Stone thought that Palmer must move his office from theater to theater, with his shows.
Palmer indicated a chair, then he took coffee and a bagel from his brown bag. “That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time,” he said. “What’s that guy got to do with me?”
Stone sat down. “I’m aware that you had an affair with his wife some years back, and that, as a result, Mitteldorfer murdered her.”
“I won’t confirm or deny that,” Palmer said. “Are you a lawyer?”
“Yes, but I’m not here in a legal capacity. I used to be a police officer; I arrested Herbert Mitteldorfer for his wife’s murder. At the time, we didn’t know with whom she’d been having an affair, so we didn’t talk to you.”
“Why now? Mitteldorfer’s in prison, isn’t he?”
“No.”
Palmer stopped chewing the bagel. “Then he must be dead.”
“No. He was released from prison recently.”
“Jesus Christ,” Palmer said. “I thought he went away for fife.”
“At the time, life didn’t necessarily mean life; there was no life sentence without the possibility of parole.”
Palmer put down the bagel and sipped his coffee; he
looked worried.
“Tell me, Mr. Palmer, did Herbert Mitteldorfer know with whom his wife was having the affair?”
Palmer swallowed hard. “I don’t know, for sure,” he said. “Arlene thought he was onto us, though. She didn’t know if he knew who I was. I was a client of the firm where he worked; I met her when she came into the office one day. It was the only time he saw us together, that I know of, and that was very casual. In fact, Herbie introduced us. Something passed between Arlene and me, though, and I waited outside for her. When she came down, I asked her out for a drink.”
“How long did it go on?”
“Four or five months, I guess; right up until she…died.”
“Did you ever write her any letters?”
“No.”
“Might she have had your business card?”
“No. If you’re screwing somebody else’s wife, you don’t give her things like that; you’re more careful.”
“Just how careful were you?”
“Very. I never went to her place, and she never came to mine. I had an office in the Schubert Building at the time, and she used to come up there. I had a little bedroom and a shower; I was living in Scarsdale, married, and I’d stay in town two or three nights a week.”
“Were you in love with her?”
“Not really. I liked her a lot, though; she was a nice girl in a bad marriage.”
“Was she in love with you?”
“She was in love with the idea of getting out of her marriage,” Palmer replied. “She knew I was married, but she knew mine was rocky, too, that I wanted out.”
“So she looked upon you as a way out?”
“Maybe, but I tried to discourage that. I knew that if I got a divorce, it was going to cost me most of what I had. I was right about that.”
“Did she talk about her marriage much?”
“Some; you know what women are like in those circumstances, don’t you?”
“Not really; tell me.”
“She’d complain about him, about how finicky he was about everything—their apartment, his clothes, her clothes. Apparently, he was very good with money, but she complained that she had no control over the money she’d brought to the marriage, which was considerable, I think. She was afraid that if she divorced him, she wouldn’t be able to get the money back, and it was all she had. Her parents were dead. That’s about all she ever told me about him.”
“Did she see a lawyer?”
“Yeah, just a day or so before she was killed.”
“Do you know his name?”
Palmer wrinkled his brow. “I used to know it; he was a well-known divorce lawyer at the time—even bigger, now. I see his name in the papers now and then.”
“It would help if you could remember it.”
Palmer looked at Stone. “Help who? What’s your interest in this?”
“Mitteldorfer disappeared after he got out of prison. I’m trying to find him.”
“Why?”
“I want to put him back in prison.”
“Goldsmith,” Palmer said.
“Bruce Goldsmith?”
“That’s the one. He’s a big-time divorce lawyer, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is.” Stone had gone to law school with him.
“Look, tell me what’s going on, will you?”
“It looks as though Mitteldorfer is taking revenge on people he thinks have wronged him.”
Palmer rested his face in his hands. “Oh, Jesus. I can’t get involved in this. Investors are hard enough to find; if my name turns up in the papers…”
“Mitteldorfer may already be responsible for the deaths of half a dozen people, including a police officer who happened to get in the way. He seems to be attacking people he thinks of as enemies and…people close to them. Did you see the story in the Times about the bombing at a gallery opening on Wednesday?”
“Oh, shit, yes. And I’ve got an opening tomorrow night.”
Stone wrote down Dino’s name and number on the back of his card and handed the paper to Palmer. “This is the detective in charge of the investigation; he was my partner in the murder investigation. I’d suggest that you get in touch with him, tell him about your past association with Mitteldorfer’s wife, and ask for his help.”
“But what if Mitteldorfer doesn’t know who I am?”
“Then you should have nothing to worry about.”
“But if he does…?”
“Then, in addition to calling Lieutenant Bacchetti, I’d hire some private security for your opening.”
“Oh, God.” Palmer moaned, resting his head on his arms.
“My number’s on the card, too; I’d appreciate a call if you think of anything else that might help me find Mitteldorfer. Good luck with your opening.”
Palmer said nothing. Stone left his office.
“Maybe you should be an actor,” the young woman at the reception desk said. “You’re good-looking enough.”
Stone smiled at her. “You, too,” he said.
39
S TONE DROVE OUT OF THE GARAGE AND called information for Bruce Goldsmith’s number, using the hands-free phone. He remembered that he and Goldsmith had once been rivals for a girl, and that Goldsmith had lost. He dialed the number.
“Goldsmith, Craven, and Moyle,” a woman said.
“Bruce Goldsmith, please. My name is Stone Barrington.”
“Are you a client, Mr. Barrington?”
“No. An old acquaintance. Tell Mr. Goldsmith that it’s important that I speak to him right away.”
“Just a moment.”
There was a very long delay, time enough for Stone to get onto the West Side Highway, before Goldsmith came on the line.
“Hello, Stone, what can I do for you?” he asked, sounding in a hurry.
Stone remembered that Bruce Goldsmith had always been in a hurry. “Hello, Bruce; how have you been all these years?”
“I can’t complain. What can I do for you?”
“I can’t complain, either.”
“Stone, I don’t have much time; what is it?”
“You remember, about twelve years ago, a woman named Arlene Mitteldorfer came to see you about a divorce?”
There was a long silence.
“Bruce, you still there?”
“What’s this about, Stone?”
“I take it you remember her. You may also remember that she was murdered a day or two after you saw her.”
“How do you know about this?”
“I ask a lot of questions. What I want to know is, what did she say about her husband in that meeting?”
“I remember that you were the arresting officer. You know very well I can’t discuss that with you; the conversation was privileged; otherwise, I’d have called you at the time.”
“She’s been dead for twelve years, Bruce; privilege shouldn’t be a problem.”
“My notes from those days are in storage in Queens. It would take weeks to find them.”
“I don’t want your notes, Bruce; I just want to know what, you remember about that meeting. Mitteldorfer is out of prison, and I’m trying to find him. I’m hoping you can tell me something that might help.”
“I don’t remember much.”
“She was a beautiful woman, Bruce. I’m sure you remember the meeting very well.”
“I don’t see why I should violate a confidence to help you, Stone.”
“Let me give you a reason, Bruce: it appears that Herbert Mitteldorfer is going around New York City, killing people who have annoyed him in the past, and, sometimes, their friends. We’re at six bodies, and counting. If you gave her advice that might have been to his disadvantage, and I’m sure you did, then he might very well be annoyed with you.”
There was only a brief silence, and then Goldsmith was talking. “I took her to lunch; she was gorgeous, and I didn’t mind being seen with her. She told me her husband had appropriated the money her father had left her, and that she wanted to divorce him and get the money
back. She wanted to know if that was possible, and I told her it certainly was. My recollection is that we were talking about something in the range of three or four million dollars, plus an apartment her father had given them when they got married. She was worried that he might become violent. I advised her to move out of the house immediately and file for divorce. I told her I could get her the apartment back very quickly, and she’d be able to move back in during the proceedings. She said she’d get back to me. I never heard from her again.”
“Did you sleep with her, Bruce?”
“That’s hardly relevant to this conversation.”
“It is, if she told her husband about it. Spouses tend to spit out these things in the middle of domestic quarrels.”
“Yeah, all right, I fucked her. We had lunch at a little hotel in the Sixties; I kept a room there, at the time.”
“Was there anything else she said about her marriage, anything at all?”
Goldsmith thought for a moment. “Yeah, there was: she said she thought her husband had another wife, that he was a bigamist.”
“Did she say who or where the other wife was?”
“No; we were…getting involved about that time, and we didn’t get back to that. I would have asked her, of course, if she had called me back.”
“Of course.”
“Stone?”
“Yeah?”
“Should I watch my back?”
“Bruce, if I were you, I’d leave town; that’s what I’m doing.”
“Hang on,” Goldsmith said. “Millie, tell Moyle that I’ll do the deposition in San Francisco, and get his plane ticket changed to my name. He’s on the two o’clock flight, isn’t he? I don’t care what he says, just do it.” He came back to Stone. “Thanks, pal, I appreciate the warning.”
“And I appreciate your recollections,” Stone said, feeling slightly soiled from having received them. He hung up and called Dino. He was headed north on the Saw Mill River Parkway.
“Bacchetti,” Dino said.
“It’s Stone. You may get a call from a guy named Palmer, who…”
“I just did.”
“So, you’re on top of that?”
“You bet I am. Anything else come up?”
“Yes. Arlene Mitteldorfer saw a divorce lawyer right before she was murdered. He told me that she said she thought Herbie had another wife.”