Maggie took her hand away from the light button. “I’ve known Sharon almost that long. It seems to me she’s very much the same now as she was then.”
“Or even more so. That’s the point. That time in England I had the idea that I was easing her out of her dreamland into good healthy reality. But last night while she and I were talking I realized that far from moving closer to my reality she had hauled me right into her dreamland. Sir Galahad come to rescue a soul-stirring, pill-popping princess from all the dragons be-setting her.”
Maggie said, “I seem to remember that the Sir Galahad analogy was mine.”
“It was. And somehow it helped reinforce my impression that Mrs. Quist is a lot tougher than she looks. She is not really the plaything of fate. She knows what she wants when she wants it, and she has an uncanny way of getting it. An amoeba type. Sort of flows around the desired object and ingests it.”
“In fact,” Maggie said tartly, “quite the beautiful monster.”
“Nope. Just a beautiful mixed-up kid. But put all that aside, Miss Riley. Fix your eyes on the bottom line. Which is that when I indicate to you my pleasure in your company it is not because I’m trying to play you off against Sharon, God forbid. And with that settled—”
“I’m not so sure it is, Milano.” But her mood was plainly changing from dark to light.
I said, “Try me out. I have a fireplace and the makings. We can stroll upstairs—”
“No.” She glanced at her watch. “What we can do is sit down in my office and discuss my book. Remember my Van Gogh book? We were supposed to get to it sometime today. There isn’t much of the day left.
“Your office?”
“Uh-huh. My plain old office. No fireplace, no fixings, no bed. Did you read that Jack the Ripper study I gave you?”
“I dipped into it. If you’re wondering whether I found any connection between him and Van Gogh, no, I didn’t. But right now—”
“Right now, Milano,” said Maggie, “let’s go to the office and sign in.”
On the way to the office I saw that there was now a uniformed security man stationed inside the building’s front door, a Pablo type but even more youthful. He gave us a chipper, two-fingered salute as we passed, and I returned it. Out of his range, I said to Maggie, “Araujo told me Sharon’s got a thing about bodyguards clustering around. That it’s why she’d rather stay here than in the duplex in town. Is that true?”
“Yes. I can’t really blame her for it. Andrew never lets her go out of the apartment in town without someone tagging after her with a gun under his armpit. It can make for a pretty claustrophobic lifestyle. Here at least she’s got space to ramble around in by herself.”
I said, “Is it possible—just barely possible—that it isn’t only kidnapers Andrew’s concerned about? That he’s found himself a neat device this way for keeping tabs on his wife every minute of her time?”
“Anything’s possible,” Maggie said shortly.
“Now, that’s what I call a clear-cut equivocal answer.” I took notice that this time instead of pushing open the office door she had to unlock it.
She waved me to an armchair and sat down sideways at her desk to face me. A cold wind rattled the doors opening on the terrace and filtered through the room. I said, “Considering the money Quist put into this place, why not central heating for times like this?”
“It’s only a cold wave. It never lasts long.”
“That’s what the Chamber of Commerce would like me to believe. All right, I’ll warm up hearing about Van Gogh. Start with those overheated days in sunny Arles.”
“No.” She was very serious. “I’d rather start by asking you what your image of him is. Not as a painter. As a man.”
“My image of him? Oh, I suppose a martyr to his art. At least as neurotic as Sharon Bauer.”
“That all?”
“I really didn’t study for this test. Well, let’s say his heart was in the right place. He sympathized with the poor and downtrodden, used them as subjects in his early stuff. Financially dependent all his working life on his kindly brother, what’s-his-name.”
“Theo.”
“Theo. Near the end, while he was in Arles, he went from neurotic to psychotic. He threw a series of fits. There was that business of his cutting off an ear and presenting it to some surprised hooker. Finally he killed himself. I’ll settle for a gentleman’s C.”
“You don’t rate it,” Maggie said without humor. “He was not psychotic, the way you mean it.” She motioned at the bookshelves. “His collected letters are there, including the ones from Arles. If you want to see a demonstration of coherence and brilliance, read them.”
“When I have time. Now, would you mind telling me how Jack the Ripper fits into this? That’s the part I’m here for, isn’t it?”
“I’ll get to that. First let’s fill in some of the record. Vincent was not only sensitive to the downtrodden, he agonized over the condition of the downtrodden female. Notably those broken-down streetwalkers who serviced him now and then. He was eccentric and awkward, so women of his own class shied away from him. So he did turn to prostitutes. And felt intense guilt because of this. Not on moral grounds, but from an understanding of the degradation they suffered in their lives.”
I said, “I’ve known a few hookers who would not quite—” and Maggie cut in sharply: “You wouldn’t have known the kind he did. Not the diseased, used-up kind you could buy with a crust of bread. Like the one he took to live with him out of pity. In his Amsterdam period. A woman named Sien. The pathetic, miserable, ugly bottom of the barrel. And pregnant into the bargain. He didn’t have much more than a crust of bread himself, but he made a home for her and her children for almost two years. When Theo suggested that this didn’t make sense, especially since the woman was ungrateful and abusive, Vincent simply answered that it was his duty.”
I said, “I’m beginning to see a remote Jack the Ripper connection. The Ripper butchered prostitutes, Van Gogh salvaged them. Beyond that, you’ve still got me wondering.”
“But you must know that the Ripper didn’t just butcher them. He mutilated them. And in one case he cut out the victim’s kidney and mailed it to the police.” She leaned forward, her eyes bright with intensity. “Don’t you find that enlightening, Milano? That particular act? In terms of Vincent’s self-mutilation?”
I mentally shuffled these pieces together and finally came up with the required enlightenment. “Are you telling me that Van Gogh cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute to compensate for what Jack the Ripper did to another prostitute? Is that your theory?”
“It’s more than a theory, Milano. And once and for all it wipes out that whole patronizing image of the mad artist committing a random self-destructive act. What Jack the Ripper did in mailing the police that bloody remnant of his victim was the last straw for Vincent, the ultimate obscenity. What Vincent did in response was to perform an act of atonement. Because slashing off his ear and giving it to a prostitute was exactly that.”
I said, “Hold it. You’re summing up for the jury, not offering evidence.”
Maggie drew a deep breath. “All right, the evidence. Start with the fact that the six murders definitely attributed to the Ripper took place between early August and late November of 1888. The newspapers first broke the story in September.”
“The British papers, that is.”
“Naturally it was the London papers first. But papers everywhere—including France—picked it up very quickly. I’ve got a whole carton of clippings from French provincial papers in the Midi. Which Vincent must have read.”
“Or which you assume he read. When exactly did he do that ear job on himself?”
“December twenty-third, that same year. The woman he gave it to was simply known as Rachel. Evidently a favorite of his in what was called Brothel Number One in Arles. Paul Gauguin was sharing life with Vincent then. He frequented the same place.”
I started to say we could leave out Paul Gauguin a
nd such, but Maggie said urgently, “No, we can’t. Now listen. He and Vincent had a ferocious quarrel that day. They were always at each other’s throats, but this time it seemed to have been worse than usual. It was right after the quarrel, when he was alone, that Vincent slashed off part of his ear and took it to Rachel. The Ripper case was now a topic of conversation everywhere. Consider that these two men—Vincent suffering torment for the victims, Gauguin born to abuse women—would have been diametrically opposed on that topic. Consider that to end any such argument Gauguin might very well have said: ‘Well, what the hell can you do about it anyhow?’ And when he was alone Vincent in a frenzy of shame and despair saw what he could do about it. And did it. And has been misunderstood for it ever since.”
She waited, looking as if she were ready to land one on me if I said the wrong thing. I took my time trying to come up with the right one. “At the very least I don’t think I’ll be able to look at a Van Gogh again without allowing for this.”
“How generous of you.”
I said, “Don’t be unfair. You’ve worked out a theory, and taking everything into account—especially the timing of events—it does make some sense. After all, a foundation’s willing to put money into it. But you must know yourself it needs substantiation.” I pointed at the bookshelves. “For instance, in those van Gogh letters is there any mention of Jack the Ripper?”
“No. But there are other materials to be searched out. Letters, journals, diaries hidden away and forgotten by people he came into contact with during that period.”
“Like Gauguin?”
“Not Gauguin. I’m positive that whatever he and Vincent said to each other on that subject went to the grave with him.”
I said, “That’s quite a handicap to start with, isn’t it?” and Maggie shook her head vigorously. “Just the opposite. The quarrel they had that day has never been cleared up. And Gauguin was far from reticent about his quarrels. Why would he keep the nature of this one secret unless he felt deeply guilty about it? Unless something he said during it drove Vincent to self-mutilation and giving the ear to Rachel. Of course it would have been said in sarcasm—‘If you’re so damn sorry about a piece of meat being cut out of a dead whore, why not just square accounts for her?’—something like that. But Vincent would have seized on it literally.”
“I’ll concede the possibility. But those other materials you want to search out—do you really expect to come up with something worthwhile?”
“Of course I do. I’m not starting out cold on this. I already have leads in Provence and Amsterdam to go on. And that’s where I’d like your professional advice.”
“About what?”
“I have to locate about a dozen people in Europe. I don’t have addresses for most of them, just identification. But these are the people who could give me further leads to where private material’s been stored away. Now, how would you handle all that?”
“Through a Paris agency I know.”
“A detective agency?”
“That’s right. I can give you an introduction to the head man there. But you have to keep one thing in mind. It’s expensive.”
“How expensive? After all, if I get that grant, I’ll have fifty thousand dollars to work with.”
I did some quick calculation. “One man, full time, will cost you half of that in a year. Allowing for some polite padding of the swindle sheet. Which you have to allow for.”
Maggie said, “So in two years—” and suddenly the room was pitch-dark. The chandelier and the desk lamp might have been blown out by one of those gusts banging against the doors. I was in a tunnel, no light at either end.
“Oh, hell,” said Maggie. “A blackout. It’s all right. There’s an emergency generator. It’ll come right on.”
It didn’t.
Objects in the room started to take on vague form. I used my lighter to read my watch. Eleven-ten. I asked, “Do you have a flashlight handy?” and Maggie said, “Right here.” A drawer scraped open. A flashlight beam stabbed across the room and imprinted a full moon on the far wall.
I took the flashlight, handed Maggie the lighter. I said, “I’m going out. Meanwhile, do what I tell you, no questions. Phone Daskalos. If he answers, just tell him power’ll be on soon and that’s all. Then phone Calderon, do the same thing. If either of them doesn’t answer, keep calling him. If and when you finally get an answer, note the time. What’s your watch say right now?”
It agreed with mine. Maggie said, “But Kalos is probably asleep already. And most likely Mike’s in Miami Beach.”
“Never mind that. Just start working the phone.”
I left by way of the terrace, a handy shortcut, and the gas lamps along the way made it an easy run to the service building. I wasn’t the first on the scene. Right outside the generator room, among a concentration of flashlight beams, there was a huddle of figures, Araujo prominent among them. He was in an undershirt, his belt hung unbuckled. He looked furious. A uniformed man sat on the floor hunched forward, his teeth clenched, his eyes closed. Blood was smeared on the man’s scalp.
I said to Araujo, “What about Daskalos?” and he answered, “Everything’s all right there.” He motioned at the dazed man on the floor and spat out, “Stupid as a rabbit. He heard a noise, he walked out here to see what it was, and somebody gave it to him right on the head.”
I said, “Before or after the blackout?” and Araujo said impatiently, “Just before it, naturally. And this is not a power failure.” He pointed through the heavy wire mesh of the closed cage gate at the jacks in the panel, both now at the horizontal. “See that? The outside feed-in and the emergency generator—the two of them pulled. And whoever did it got away with this idiot’s key, too. I had to send to the office for mine. And his gun was taken. That’s a lovely thing to have on the loose around here right now.”
I said without too much hope, “You realize an assault like this is a police job, don’t you?”
“No. The boss would raise hell about it, and for good reason. It isn’t worth it.”
“How about a doctor? That looks like a hard wallop.”
Araujo said contemptuously, “Not enough to dent a head made of concrete. A couple of aspirins, and he’ll be fit as an ox. Until I have a little talk with him.”
A man came running in with the key. Araujo opened the gate of the cage, shoved the jacks upright, and lights came on. He picked up the phone on the desk to show me the severed cord. “Didn’t miss a trick.” There was a porno magazine open on the desk, one corner of it weighted down by an empty beer bottle. Araujo flung the magazine through the open gate at the injured man, missing him by inches. He yelled at the man, ‘Sitting here jerking off, is that it? On overtime pay?”
He fired a volley of Spanish at the others, then took my arm and led me outside the building. Considering his barrel shape and stumpy legs, he could move fast. He said, “I’ll get a cart and give you a lift back. Then I want to check out the cottages.”
“Good idea. Mind if I join the party?”
“Not at all. But”—his voice became warmly ingratiating—“there’s something else that must be done right now. Something I’d like you to take care of.”
“Yes?”
“Explain to the boss what just happened. Very diplomatically.” He managed a laugh. “Tomorrow, he’ll have cooled off a little, you know? But right now—”
I said I had no objection to being the bearer of ill tidings, but that our first stop should be the main gate. Araujo raised his eyebrows at this. “Anyone who tried that way out would be marked. The security there is very tight.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
He trotted upstairs to his office and came down in shirt and jacket. Then, plainly irritated by this detour, he steered us in the cart to the main gate. “A waste of time,” he muttered, pulling up at the gatehouse.
His mood changed as he questioned the man on duty. Yes, said the man, someone had driven out not long ago. During the blackout. Mr. Cald
eron. Absolutely. No question. Mr. Calderon.
Araujo wheeled the cart in an arc and headed toward the main building. Fifty yards down the driveway he brought us to a jolting halt. “Jesus,” he said in bewilderment. “Michael Calderon. But a man like that? Why? For what reason?”
I said, “I can give you a good one, but it has to be kept strictly between us. If you object—”
“No, no. Not at all.”
I described Calderon’s marital mix-up much as Shirley Glass had passed it along to me long distance, and Araujo nodded grimly. He said, “I’ll tell you this much. If I were deprived of my child—my only son—by such means—”
“I know. But that doesn’t guarantee Calderon’s our man.”
“Oh, sure,” Araujo said going along with the joke.
“I’m serious. Calderon takes off for town every night. I wanted to check out the gate now to see if he did it tonight. And he did, knowing he’d be identified. If he did pull off the blackout, it means he was unbelievably careless about getting away with it.”
“So he was.”
“But,” I said, “up to now our jokester’s been anything but careless about his operation. Those two pieces don’t fit together.”
Araujo said incredulously, “You think this puts him in the clear?”
“Not at all. I think we don’t jump to any conclusions someone might want us to jump to. We just keep going as we are. Wherever that is.”
Araujo kicked the cart into motion. “Fine,” he said. “You just tell me when we get there.”
Maggie, still at the phone, had company. Quist, wearing a robe and with a towel arranged like a turban on his head, sat in his wheelchair, his face gray and drawn with pain. He said to me in a hoarse whisper, “That was no accidental blackout, was it?”
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