by Peter Quinn
Wilkes put down the receiver with a hard bang. “Sorry for the interruption. Another feckless, overeducated, overpaid idiot who can’t think for himself. By now, you must be wondering whether you’ve been lured on nothing more than a fool’s errand.”
Not wondering anymore. Dance instructor or not, he might stick around the city for a few days before heading back to Florida. “You wouldn’t have a cigarette? Seems I left mine somewhere.”
“Smoking is a noxious and destructive habit that does substantial damage to the health of this nation. But Prohibition taught us the unintended and often catastrophic consequences of turning bad habits into crimes. There’s a supply of Fatimas in the box over there on the table. Though he knows I don’t smoke, Mr. Billingsly keeps sending cartons of them over to my table at the Stork.”
The director’s chair creaked loudly as Dunne pushed himself up. He caught himself before his knee buckled and took small steps to disguise the hobble. The box turned out to be a richly inlaid miniature version of those fancy, body-shaped caskets in which the Egyptian pharaohs were buried. Probably a gift from King Farouk or one of the other mummified ex-royals or idle rich entombed in the banquettes of the Stork Club’s Cub Room, in between having their pictures snapped for the society pages.
Beneath the box, pinned to a Bristol board and covered with a plastic transparency, was a glossy page that looked like a mock-up of a magazine cover. Snap was emblazoned in large red letters on a white background. The rest of the space was filled with a block-lettered two-line legend: MISSING NO MORE / MYSTERY NO LONGER. He took a cigarette from the casket, blew out the match with the exhale from the first drag, and dropped it in the ashtray that he carried back to his chair.
“Hear me out,” Wilkes said.
It would probably be best to book a compartment on the Silver Meteor, Dunne decided. Arrive fresh and rested. But it was the height of the tourist season. Would any still be available? “Go ahead.”
“More than a single disappearance, however celebrated in its day, this is a story about America, who we are as a people, where we’ve been, where we’re headed. Think about it, Dunne. Judge Crater got in a cab on August 6, 1930, never to be seen again. Do you remember where you were when the story broke?”
“Vaguely.” A sweltering day in the Hackett Building. Doors and windows ajar in the vain hope of snaring a wisp of air. Tuna on white. It sat on wax paper in the middle of the desk. Always tuna in those days. Voice on the radio from next door. This just in.
“Most people alive then and in full possession of their faculties have some memory of it. Why do you think? Because they care what happened to Crater? Hardly. Because they recall the enormous potential the case had for unfolding into a scandal that reached into the office of the governor himself, Franklin D.—for “Deceiver”—Roosevelt? A tale as stale as month-old bread. No, the reason they remember is because Crater vanished at the very moment their hopes and expectations were being vaporized.
“The reality was sinking in that the stock market crash of the previous fall wasn’t a mere dip in the road but a passageway into a nightmare world of unemployment, foreclosure and bankruptcy. There were thirteen million unemployed by 1933, one-fourth of the American labor force. A thousand foreclosures a day. Two million vagabonds riding the rails or standing in breadlines.
“Crater disappeared as night descended. A man or woman who’s forty-five today was twenty at the time. Today they are who they are, in most cases less than they dreamed. When they remember Crater, they recall a final spot of sunlight before depression, world war, cold war, the last moment their dreams were intact. The man who was 40 is 65 now. He is fast approaching the final twilight. He can seek no succor in the future. His sole consolation is the past. He wonders if, perhaps, Crater ran away and found the happiness that escaped the ordinary Joe.”
Wilkes’s eyes roved the room. “Ten-year-old boys in 1930 grew up to be soldiers in the second war. The majority returned unharmed, but not all. In addition to those listed as officially dead, there are still over 70,000 recorded as missing in action. Add to them the thousands missing in the first war, and now in Korea. Most are dead, for sure, but think of the families, friends, sweethearts, co-workers, neighbors who wonder about the fate of that pal, brother, son, husband, fiancé who they never heard from again. By some miracle could he still be alive? And among those millions, who doesn’t have a memory, however vague, of Crater’s disappearance, a first intimation of what an uncertain place our world can be, where even powerful public officials enjoy no immunity from evildoers, or perhaps are evildoers themselves?”
Dunne conjured up a row of editors sitting behind him, notebooks in hand, struggling to look engaged and enthused as they labored to take down every word.
“In another twenty-fiver years, Crater will be little noted and not long remembered by the legion born amid our current idyll of purposeless prosperity and moral vacuity. In fifty years, he’ll be at best a footnote to a footnote in the history of our time. But now, as we approach the silver anniversary of his disappearance, he lives in public memory, a touchstone and reference point. If the mystery of his disappearance is solved, the masses will be immensely entertained by the sheer showmanship of it. Most important, how many will gain a sense of the past being put to rest and turn their gaze to possibilities still ahead?”
As if on cue, a gush of howling wind clapped against the windows, a storm of applause from an imaginary row of editors.
“A lot to hang on one story,” Dunne said. “Besides, nobody’s been able to locate the judge over a quarter of a century. How can you expect a different result?”
“Mulholland swears there’s nobody like you.”
“You sure he meant that as a compliment?”
“He says you have a knack.”
“It’s rusted.”
“Rust can be removed. Fear of failure is less amenable to cure.”
“Maybe I’ve better things to do than help hawk a few more newspapers.”
Wilkes’s cheeks reddened, as if slapped. “Hawk newspapers? I employ an army of hacks, flacks and editors who see to that quite nicely, thank you. Circulation of my papers has topped ten million, up 250,000 from last year.” He picked up the buzzer and played with the black cord, but didn’t press it. Dunne crossed and uncrossed his legs but didn’t stand. Outside, the wind reduced from howl to moan.
“I’m used to skeptics.” Wilkes’s sharp tone turned flat, neutral. The color left his cheeks. “Their observations are often helpful. It’s the clever-minded cynics I resent, the intellectual snobs, self-appointed guardians of public morals and manners, aspiring aristocrats, our faux elite. Should they learn of this venture, they’ll revel in any embarrassment it might cause. But if the risk of failure is great, the possible rewards are ever greater. Think of what a coup it will be to find an answer to a mystery that’s eluded so many for so long. You’re like me, Dunne. You understand that the difficulty of a thing is what makes it worth doing. And rest assured, you’ll have everything you ask for. Cut the coat according to the cloth like any master tailor. The only interest this organization will take will be to ensure you have the resources you require to produce the perfectly tailored result. If you sign on, Miss Renard will spell out the particulars. She’s in charge.”
Instantly slipping back into his editorial-writing role, he explained that whatever was spent was an investment, then came a brief lecture from the horse’s mouth about the stud farm known as the New York Stock Exchange and the similarities between handicapping thoroughbreds and shorting blue chips. What he didn’t say, Dunne noticed, was what the whole country had learned the hard way: the odds of coming home with any scratch were better at the track than on Wall Street.
Dunne extended his right leg, pushed hard against the arms of the chair, which made a prolonged squeak, and stood to carry the ashtray back to the table. Placing it next to the casket of cigarettes, he mulled over the tailor kneeling to measure pants cuffs. No need to take it personally. T
o Wilkes, no doubt, the whole world was divided into tailors and the tailored to. “I’ll think it over.”
“Money is no impediment. Time is the real challenge. Break the story on August 6th, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day Crater went missing, a moment that will resound in the hearts and minds of the American people. You see, it’s also the tenth anniversary of the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. The press will be filled with stories about that ominous anniversary and how an event that a mere decade ago was hailed as putting an end to war and ensuring American suzerainty has proved prelude to a greater struggle against the rapidly waxing powers of global Communism. Amid that dark and depressing commentary, with the accompanying photos and illustrations of the bomb’s destructive capabilities—which are dwarfed by the apocalyptic potential of the H-bomb—the Crater revelation will shine in the crepuscular gloom like a shaft of redemptive light.”
“One problem. August 6th is only six months from now.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“Not a problem? After 25 years, the case is going be solved in six months?”
“The time constraints are an advantage, not a problem. The same principle will be at work as in Boyle’s Law. It’s as true in business as physics: the volume of a gas is inversely proportional to the pressure it’s under. Like gas, the time required to do a job expands or contracts with the pressure one is under to get it done. Find Crater, and you’ll be famous.”
“Who says I want to be famous?”
“Every man seeks fame, even those who deny it, perhaps they most of all. Their denial is nothing more than an attempt to disguise their resentment that fame is beyond their grasp. Fame is the only form of immortality available to us. Solve this case and I warrant your name will enter the history books.”
“Don’t you have to be dead to get into history books?”
“If history doesn’t interest you, what about television? How about hosting a weekly show, ‘Solving Unsolved Mysteries,’ something like that? Fame is best enjoyed by the living, and believe me, not least among its many benisons is its aphrodisiacal effect.”
“And if we can’t pull it off? What then?”
“Few will even know we tried. You’ll get on with your life, I with mine. Tell me, Dunne, did you notice that portrait above the mantle in the library?”
“Hard face to ignore, even if you try.”
“You’re not the first to react that way. But I dare say the man portrayed would be neither aggrieved nor surprised. Rumored to be the ugliest man in England, John Wilkes was certainly among the most famous and charming. ‘Takes me but half an hour,’ he said, ‘to talk away my face.’ Wilkes was also among the bravest. His newspaper, The North Briton, was fearless in its attacks on King George III.
“Expelled from parliament, tried and convicted of libel and sedition, and sent to prison, he wasn’t cowed. He was returned to parliament and elected Lord Mayor of London. His indictment of royal abuses influenced Jefferson in his writing of the Declaration of Independence. His refusal to be silenced was among the precedents the framers of the Constitution had in mind with the Bill of Rights and its guarantee of a free press. Thankfully, we haven’t the same visage, but I’m proud the same English blood courses through my veins.”
Wilkes’s chin sunk toward his chest. The bald spot atop his head, lightly covered by artful comb-over, glowed halo-like beneath the light. Toying with the electrical cord attached to the buzzer, he looked up. “You’ve every right to be a skeptic. But, please, sleep on it. Give me your answer in the morning. There’s a room reserved for you at the Savoy Plaza. Mulholland will see to your luggage.” He pressed the buzzer.
“Mulholland know what this is about?”
“Presume no one other than Miss Renard and yourself know.”
The maid reappeared. Wilkes didn’t extend his hand. Dunne made sure not to bow. As he followed her out, he glanced at the fleeing girl in the mural. Body as well as eyes could be Miss Renard’s. Dunne half-expected to find her in the library, but Mulholland was alone, slumped in the armchair, newspaper open on his lap. He bolted upright when Dunne tapped his shoulder. The maid switched off the silent TV.
“Damn thing puts you out faster than bourbon and a sleeping pill.”
“Try it with sound.”
“Put you out quicker.”
The maid returned with their overcoats and hats. Mulholland put on his coat and jammed his hat on the back of his head. “Hired?”
“Tired. Been a long day. Wilkes said there’s a room for me at the Savoy Plaza.”
“Suite. Enough space for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Want to eat?”
“Sleep.”
“Your driver’s downstairs. So, let me guess. Wilkes told you what’s up, but told you to keep it to yourself.”
“Nobody but Miss Renard.”
“He reads too many detective novels. Bet he also gave you the spiel about his nibs here, right?” Mulholland faced the portrait of John Wilkes over the mantle.
“Father of the free press.”
“Yeah, and pornographer and all-around sex maniac.”
“No reason to speak ill of the dead. Goes double when it’s your great granddad, I guess.”
“Great granddad, my ass. Wilkes’s forebears were Pennsylvania Dutch. Name was Wiltz. The old man changed it. And one other thing. Bet he didn’t tell you that John Wilkes is who John Wilkes Booth was named after, did he?”
If not spacious enough to accommodate the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, the suite at the Savoy Plaza could comfortably fit a family of six. A bell boy delivered his bag. Dunne had a desultory call with Roberta. Told her he was meeting with the bosses at ISC. They wanted him to get involved in a case.
What about that man who called looking for him when he was in Cuba—the one who’d insisted it was a matter of life and death? Was he part of the meeting? she wanted to know. On top of being persistent, he’d been unpleasant and rude.
“Nothing that dramatic. I’ll fill you in when I get home.”
“Are you dressed warm enough? The announcer on the TV news reported New York is in a deep freeze. He said the Hudson had frozen over near Tarrytown for the first time in fifty years. The temperature here reached eighty-one. Tonight there was a lovely breeze. After the class, Felipe saw me to my car. We stood at the water’s edge. There was a party at the club across the way. The fireworks lit up the night sky. I enjoyed it.”
He resisted the urge to yawn. Out the sliding glass doors, directly north, up the avenue, was Wilkes’s apartment tower. “Felipe?”
“Yes, our dance instructor. Are you listening to anything I say?”
“I’m tired, honey. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Fin, be home soon. Promise?”
“Promise.”
He slid the door open and stepped out on the terrace. The wind had shriveled to a whisper; from below come the muffled but steady hiss of late-night traffic. He took a deep breath. Frigid air surged into his nostrils and lungs, stinging. He peered at the penthouse in the distance. Every light seemed to be on.
Back inside, he opened the bottle of Scotch from the welcome basket on the table by the door and poured himself a half-shot. Teeth brushed, pajamas on, he slipped into the space where the maid had turned down the sheet. He pushed his feet toward the bottom of the bed. The dull, cramping ache in his calves was the kind that usually followed a day of tracking down leads. Hadn’t felt it in a while. Reaching to turn off the light, he paused. Ecclesiastes. Mulholland had quoted from it.
He opened the night table drawer and took out the Gideon’s Bible. The Christian Brothers at the Catholic Protectory, where he began and ended his education, warned their charges against interpreting the Bible for themselves, particularly the Protestant version found in hotel rooms. Though he’d succumbed to other temptations found in hotel rooms, he’d never fallen into Bible reading. First time for everything. He searched a minute for Ecclesiastes. He found what he was looking for in the opening line
s:
“The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem.
Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities, all is vanity.
What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun?”
If there were some dark Protestant heresy in any of this, Dunne hadn’t a clue what it was. Ecclesiastes was a short book. Some nice lines about “a time for everything … to get, to lose, to keep, to cast away.” He skipped to the end:
“For God will bring every work into judgment,
including every secret thing, whether good or evil.”
It sounded as though God should be in the detective business. All-knowing. All-powerful. Nothing by chance. He book-marked the passage with a match, tucked the Bible back in the drawer and put out the light.
He came to with a start, no idea where he was, how long he’d been asleep, only what made him wake …
Sensation of cold metal being pushed into his ear …
A room was dark as newsprint. Dunne needed a minute to sort out where he was. Sat up. Turned on the light. Gradually, a piece at a time, he retrieved the dream he’d just left.
Caribbean beach, except more desert than beach, no ocean in sight. Sits with back to the sun. Shadow falls. Turns. Looks. Mulholland there. Top of his head sheared off. Miss Renard, luscious figure in black corset with red garters, hangs on his left arm.
Mulholland’s right hand has a snake tattooed on the back. Lifts a Lugar from his belt, moves it close, whispers, “Good or evil … evil …”
The cold, uncomfortable feel of a gun barrel sliding farther into his ear …
Miss Renard slips out of the corset, says, “These things are secret … secret.”