by Alex Connor
A low, dark headache beginning, he followed Gina as she moved into Leon’s study and flicked on the light. The memory was almost unbearable … Leon passing the skull to Ben that first day; Leon standing in the doorway, listening and watching, as astute and nervous as a child … Turning on the computer, Gina accessed the emails and then drew up the list of incoming messages, some with names as a heading, others completely anonymous. Unknown people from anonymous places, Ben thought uneasily. But they had all known where Leon Golding had been and where to find him.
Carefully Ben read every email. Some were in answer to Leon’s enquiries, others obvious cons.
I agree that the painter was not in his right mind. That is why the paintings are not to be trusted, or believed. However, if you send me $400 I can forward some original, and insightful, information.
‘Crazy.’
Over his shoulder, Gina was also reading the emails, her finger suddenly jabbing at the screen as an address came up: [email protected].
‘That rings a bell.’
The message read:
I could call by on Thursday. The gallery would be most interested and would give you full credit.
‘No name on it,’ Ben said. ‘Anything kosher would have a proper name.’
‘Unless they were trying to make sure no one else could contact them.’
Ben glanced over his shoulder. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in a conspiracy?’
‘I don’t know what to believe any more,’ she replied crisply, turning her gaze back to the screen. ‘What was it referring to?’
‘The skull, I suppose.’
She chewed the side of her fingernail thoughtfully, watching as Ben typed a note in reply to the email and pressed the SEND button. A moment later a reply came back stating that the message could not be received as the address no longer existed.
‘Dead end,’ he said bitterly.
‘Damn it! Do we have to wait until the authenticator of the skull gets in touch with us?’ Gina asked, her tone wary. ‘I mean, can’t we approach them?’
Inwardly, Ben flinched, thinking of the skull he had left at Francis’s laboratory in London. The skull Gina thought was still in Spain.
‘They would come back to us with the results, wouldn’t they? Or would they contact the Prado direct, now that Leon’s …?’ She stopped, fighting emotion. ‘You have to talk to them.’
‘I’ve been in touch already.’
‘Oh,’ she said listlessly. The computer screen threw a greenish cast on her face as she stared at the list of emails. ‘What did you say?’
‘That Leon didn’t commit suicide.’
‘Did you tell them that you thought he’d been murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that wise?’ she asked, turning to him, the green light playing on her profile.
‘We’re talking about the Prado, Gina. Not a bunch of gangsters.’
‘I don’t know what to think about anyone any more,’ she replied, her tone lost. ‘Did they ask you who killed Leon?’
‘No. I don’t think they believed me. After all, it was no secret that Leon had tried to commit suicide before.’
‘Was he … was he … dead when you found him?’ Gina asked, her voice breaking.
Ben closed his eyes for a moment before replying. ‘Yes, he was dead.’
‘I just wondered if he said anything … you know …’
‘He was dead when I got there,’ Ben repeated, touching the back of her hand briefly. ‘And no, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t leave a note either. No explanation. And if Leon had committed suicide, he would have left a note. He did before.’
Her head bowed, Gina dropped her voice even further.
‘Ben?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did Leon tell you about the baby?’
28
New York
‘You must keep it a secret. You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,’ Ellen Armstrong said, her voice lowered as she leaned across the table towards Bobbie Feldenchrist. ‘I would be in such trouble. But I’m telling you because you confided in me the other day and because it might be a way out of your … problem.’
Sipping a glass of Chablis, Bobbie raised her eyebrows. She was dressed in a cream Chanel suit with a brown silk blouse, her amber hair drawn back into a chignon. Immaculately distant, she observed the rotund woman in the seat next to hers. Bobbie knew only too well that Ellen needed her as a friend, just as she knew that Marty Armstrong was a brilliant man. His capacity for invention was impressive, but he had little business sense, and that was where Bobbie came in. On a number of occasions she had offered advice to Ellen, advice she knew would be passed on and acted on. Which it always was. In return, Bobbie had Ellen’s devotion. The only caring, maternal influence in her life. Because Ellen Armstrong was that rarity in New York – a kind woman who could keep her mouth shut.
‘What “problem”, Ellen?’
Her voice lowered. ‘About your adoption.’
‘It’s delayed.’
‘Oh, Bobbie,’ she said, pulling at the cuff of one of her sleeves. ‘We know that’s not true, honey. I heard it fell through.’
‘How did you hear that?’
‘Marty heard, and he told me.’
Taking another sip of Chablis, Bobbie stared across the restaurant, her face impassive. How Marty Armstrong knew so many intimate details, about so many important lives, was a mystery to everyone. But somehow he always knew the gossip, somehow he always sussed out a person’s secret or weakness. Luckily for Bobbie, the Armstrongs were on her side.
‘Ellen,’ she said quietly, ‘if you’ve something to say, say it. I hate mysteries.’
‘I know of someone who could get you a baby,’ Ellen replied. ‘Quickly. No questions asked. It would cost you, but that’s not a problem, is it? This man could be the answer to your prayers.’
‘Who is he?’
Ellen leaned back in her seat. ‘Are you interested?’
‘I might be,’ Bobbie admitted, a vein in her neck beginning to throb. ‘How quickly could he get me a child?’
‘Within days.’
Bobbie’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is it legal?’
‘Does that matter?’ Ellen countered, leaning back over the table. ‘You want a baby, Bobbie, and I don’t believe that postponement story of yours. No one does really. We all think you were let down.’ She paused, her tone sympathetic. ‘Everyone knows how difficult the adoption services are. All that paperwork, even for someone like you. And there’s a shortage of American babies. Children that would be more likely to go to a proper family. Or at least a couple.’ The words hit deep and Bobbie pushed her glass away from her.
‘I know all this.’
‘So let me help you to cut through all the red tape.’
‘I don’t want to get involved in anything illegal, Ellen. It wouldn’t do for the Feldenchrist name.’
‘How badly do you want a baby?’
‘You know how badly.’
‘Then take this help.’ Ellen smiled, hurrying on. ‘Oh, Bobbie, you have a score of lawyers on your side. If anything went wrong you could bury this man without breaking into a sweat. You’ve got a name that no one would go up against.’
Pausing, Bobbie allowed the waiter to lay down her meal in front of her. The steam rose up from the poached salmon, the scent of the fresh fish suddenly intoxicating. As she stared at the plate, every portion seemed brighter, the colours psychedelic, vegetables humming with vibrancy, white sauce ethereal, pale as a goose feather.
Excitement made her hand shake as she reached for her fork. ‘Does this man work on his own?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where does he come from?’
‘Africa.’
‘Oh … Would the baby be African?’
‘I believe so.’
Pausing, Bobbie was about to refuse the offer and then considered the idea further. A black child was not something she had imagined for herself, but
then again, why not? How magnanimous would she appear adopting not some healthy WASP child but a baby from an impoverished country? Mentally Bobbie rewrote her previous scenario, tried it on to see if she could accommodate it, and decided that she could. An African child, a black baby – how radical, how modern, how like Madonna. How free-thinking of her.
‘You said this man could get me a baby within days?’
‘By the weekend.’
So the party could still go ahead, Bobbie thought, her spirits lifting. She would have her baby, just as she had said. And more than that, she would make a real statement about adoption. Stop her detractors short and prove herself again … No one denied Bobbie Feldenchrist what she wanted. Not some Puerto Rican slut or some by-the-book adoption society.
‘I would want the child to be healthy. And it would have to be a boy.’
‘I know that.’
‘Who is this African man? What do you know about him?’
‘Not much.’
‘You’re making me nervous now.’ Her tone hardened ‘Is he a criminal?’
‘I don’t know much about him. It was Marty who suggested him. Apparently he’s helped a couple of other women who wanted to adopt. I suppose Africa’s no different to here. Girls get in trouble and need a way out, so they give their babies up.’
‘They have a choice?’
‘Oh, Bobbie,’ Ellen said, chiding her gently. ‘You do worry about things so much. The girls get their lives back so they can move on – and they get paid well.’
‘I suppose this man takes a commission?’
‘It is a business, honey.’
‘So how do I do business with him?’
Ellen dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘He’ll call and see you about the money.’
‘Then what?’
‘He’ll have the baby brought to you. After that, you won’t ever have to see him again.’
Bobbie’s tongue ran over her dry bottom lip. She was suddenly nervous, terrified about her decision. But she wouldn’t go back on it. She wanted a child, and now she was going to get one.
‘Just one thing,’ Ellen said suddenly. ‘You can’t mention where or how you got the baby. Or tell anyone about this man.’
‘Is he …’ Bobbie paused, wanting to ask the question and at the same time not wanting to hear the answer. ‘… is he dangerous?’
‘You want a baby, don’t you?’ Ellen asked steadily. ‘Well, sometimes we have to go about things in ways we wouldn’t usually choose.’ She patted Bobbie’s hand maternally and changed the subject. ‘Now, eat up. A new mother needs all her strength.’
29
The next day it rained. And it kept raining, right through the afternoon and into the turn of dusk. It rained so hard that the traffic slowed down on the New York streets, the headlights bouncing off the slick roads. The clouds rained down like they hadn’t rained for years, as if they wanted to get rid of all the collected water which was making their white froth heavy. Downspouts overflowed, drains choked and were smothered under the onslaught, and a million American pigeons hunched up against the windows of a thousand office blocks. Along the sidewalk, people hurried under awnings and into doorways, a sulky moon dozing in a gap between the clouds. At the Guggenheim Museum they were having a Roy Lichtenstein show, and in Central Park the drivers with their pony traps waited for customers under the dripping trees.
Emile Dwappa watched the rain with indifference. Standing across the street from Roberta Feldenchrist’s apartment block, he watched the comings and goings of the wealthy and their cars. He wondered, fleetingly, which car he would buy when he was rich, and decided that he would go for an English Jaguar. Class, he thought solemnly, was everything. Who wanted a BMW – the Brixton drug-runners’ car? Or some flashy pimp Cadillac? He didn’t want to be noticed, he wanted to be rich. And if nobody else noticed how rich he was, that was fine by him.
Glancing at his watch, he looked up at the penthouse apartment, its lights shining out into the driving rain. Even from street level, the place looked big. He wondered what it would be like to have so much space for yourself. Space up above the masses, away from the dog shit on the streets and the drains which crept down into the sewers below. He wondered then if he would like to live in New York and realised instantly how much he disliked the place. There was no sun, for one thing. Oh, it was raining at the moment, but the previous day it had been fine. And still no sun had got down into the crazy paving of the streets. And all the shadows, he thought, shaking his head. What was the point of walking among buildings so tall that you were always in half-darkness?
Turning his face upwards, he let the rain fall on his skin for a moment and moved into the shelter of a doorway. Roberta Feldenchrist was expecting him … the thought was amusing. One of the richest women on earth needed him. She wanted what he could give her. Only him … He had already worked out what he would charge her. She would baulk at the sum, of course, but she would pay. She had no choice. He thought of the cuttings he had read in the society pages, about how Ms Feldenchrist was giving a baby shower at the weekend for her adopted son
… It amused him to think of the expression ‘baby shower’. Sounded like they were going to drown the poor bastard.
Dwappa had done his research meticulously after his brother had tipped him the wink about Bobbie Feldenchrist. And now he had a very clear picture of a rich cow who had always got her own way – until Mother Nature had slowed up her progress. No amount of money could make a barren woman fertile again. The chemotherapy, he thought idly, had stopped the Feldenchrist line short. But Ms Feldenchrist wasn’t going to let fate, or nature, stand in her way. Even when her first attempt at adoption failed.
But that, he decided, was what you got for doing things the right way. Bureaucracy could topple the mightiest plans. Exhaling, Dwappa ducked out from the doorway and walked across the road, dodging a yellow cab and making for the entrance to the apartment block.
Immediately he was stopped by Reception.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I have an appointment with Ms Feldenchrist,’ he replied, his expression unperturbed.
‘Your name, sir?’
‘She’s expecting me. I’m her seven o’clock appointment.’
The porter hesitated, noting the man’s expensive suit and watch, then asked again. ‘Your name, sir?’
‘Please call the penthouse and tell Ms Feldenchrist her guest is here,’ he replied, holding the man’s stare. ‘I’ll take full responsibility.’
Moments later Emile Dwappa, with his expensive watch and $200 haircut, arrived at the penthouse, ringing the buzzer to be admitted from the escalator reception area into the apartment proper. Above his head a security camera trained its beady eye on him, the blinking of an alarm sensor flickering in a corner. He knew then that his image had been taken and that he would probably also be monitored inside the apartment. Obviously security for Ms Feldenchrist should anything go wrong. But then again, he reasoned, perhaps it would be turned off. After all, she wouldn’t want their meeting to become common knowledge.
Suddenly the door buzzed and he walked in.
‘You’re very punctual,’ a voice said behind him, and he turned to see Bobbie Feldenchrist walking towards him. She had that look only rich women have – an expression of languid arrogance. ‘Please, sit down.’
He did so, facing the windows and looking at the lights on the Chrysler building, thinking about how the remake of King Kong wasn’t as good as the original.
‘I suppose you don’t use your curtains?’ he said, disarming her with a smile.
‘No,’ Bobbie agreed, surprised at his elegant English accent and his expensive clothes. This was no thug off the streets. ‘It’s very good of you to come and talk to me, Mr …’
He had expected her to try and get his name and ignored the hint, moving on to the business in hand. ‘I believe I can help you. I hear you want to adopt a baby.’
She took a long breath, as though putting the realit
y into words was somehow intensely exhausting.
‘I do.’
‘I can make that happen for you, Ms Feldenchrist.’
Her hands wound around themselves tightly. ‘You know of a child?’
‘A baby boy, yes.’
A cry sounded in her throat and Bobbie glanced away for an instant. ‘Can you bring this child to me?’
‘Of course. In two days.’
Again she made a low sound in her throat, as though she could hardly hold on to her emotions. ‘Where is the child coming from?’
‘Africa.’
‘Where in Africa?’
‘That’s not important.’
She turned back to him to pursue the matter, then winced. His expression had closed off, his charm suspended. In his coldness he was warning her, more effectively than words, that he was in charge.
‘I would like to know something about the baby.’
‘I don’t think,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘that we can do business after all.’
Gasping, she stood up, following him. He was making for the door and then paused, knowing her hopes would be raised when he didn’t leave at once. Slowly he began to walk around the room. One by one he stopped in front of the paintings, his face unreadable, his eyes curious. These were some of the famous Feldenchrist paintings. His research had told him about the Spanish masters in the Feldenchrist Collection and he remembered reading about the painting he was now looking at.
‘Is this a Goya?’
She nodded stiffly.
‘Creepy.’
‘My father liked it.’
‘Do you?’ he asked, smiling.
‘Yes, I do. I like most of the Spanish masters.’
‘Expensive taste,’ he replied, charming her again. ‘I didn’t think there were many of the Old Masters in private collections any more.’
‘Some.’
‘Like in the Feldenchrist Collection?’
She was trying to cover her impatience. After all, he wasn’t here to talk about art. ‘We have a good selection of works. My father collected all his life, and I carried on where he left off.’
‘You enjoy it?’