Vanishing Act

by Seth Margolis

  “Wanting someone dead and killing that person are two quite different things.” She reached in front of her and lifted a teacup from a saucer on the coffee table. The cup was so delicate Joe D. could see the liquid through the porcelain. She raised the cup to her lips but seemed to merely kiss it, rather than take an actual sip.

  “Did your husband know about Williams?”

  “Absolutely not. We were very discreet.”

  “Are you positive about this?”

  “Quite. George wasn’t exactly observant, except when it came to cheap women’s sportswear. He could identify a swatch of polyester from a thousand feet, but I daresay he wouldn’t have noticed Ken Williams if he caught us passionately embracing right here in this library.”

  Joe D. was tempted to ask in what in part of Mississippi they used words like daresay. “Did he ever meet Williams?”

  “Once or twice. On the charity circuit.”

  “How serious is your relationship with Williams?”

  She started to reach for the teacup but changed her mind and sat back. “How did Ken…Mr. Williams characterize it?”

  Joe D. detected a hint of vulnerability in the question, the first visible crack in her composure. “He didn’t say,” he answered truthfully, though Williams had in fact seemed rather cavalier about his benefactress.

  Mona seemed disappointed in his answer. “It’s serious,” she said.

  “Will you two be getting married eventually?”

  “Possibly,” she said with what sounded to Joe D. like forced casualness.

  “What was your involvement with the New York Art Alliance?”

  “I was the wife of its largest benefactor.”

  “Nothing more direct?”

  “I went to innumerable fund-raising dinners. I even chaired one or two of them. Why?”

  “Did you have much to do with Stuart Arnot?”

  “I met him at the dinners, of course. Why?”

  “Your husband never mentioned any concerns about Arnot?”

  “Concerns about what?”

  “That Arnot might have been doing something improper with the money he handled.”

  “George never mentioned anything about it. Not that he would have,” she added. “He wasn’t one to gossip.” She made this sound like a singular failure.

  “Stealing money from a charity is more than gossip.”

  “I suppose, but George never mentioned anything about it.”

  This wasn’t getting him very far. He decided to take a chance. “A few days before he died, your husband and I met.”

  She cocked her head in a not altogether spontaneous gesture. “Did you?”

  “He asked me to kill him.”

  “Ah, so you’re actually investigating your own crime!” She laughed, a surprisingly deep, guttural sound that caused her bony shoulders to quiver.

  “He asked me to fake his killing. I refused.”

  “You’re an honorable man, then. I assumed he offered you packets of money.”

  “A million dollars.”

  “Weren’t you even tempted? That’s a lot of money, I daresay.” Her face, surgically tightened, barely moved when she spoke. Joe D. had the eerie impression that he was watching a ventriloquist at work, making sounds without moving a muscle. But where was the dummy?

  “You’re making a joke out of this. I think you know more than you’re saying.”

  “Thinking is your prerogative.”

  The woman was an icicle. “Why would your husband have wanted to fake his own death?”

  “You’re sure it was George you met with?”

  A question that had been haunting Joe D. since taking this case. “Positive,” he lied.

  “Then, no, I can’t imagine why George would want to fake his own death. Assuming you’re telling the truth. You’ve accused me of lying. Perhaps you’re the one who’s lying.”

  “I never said you were lying, Mrs. Samson. Only that you know more than you’re saying.”

  “Have you met with my niece?” She said this so matter-of-factly it took Joe D. a moment to realize that she had changed the subject.

  “I did. And I learned that the man she’s been seeing is the son of Arthur Rudolph. Did you know that?”

  This piece of news finally made an impression. “I don’t believe it,” she gasped. He saw an undulation in her loosely draped blouse. Joe D. found this small movement reassuring. “I knew she hated George, but I never thought…”

  “I don’t think she knew who her boyfriend really was.”

  “Oh, don’t you believe it. She’s a calculating thing.”

  “Did you know that Arthur Rudolph was missing from his nursing home?”

  “No, how interesting.”

  “Did you know Rudolph?”

  “I suppose we’d met a few times on the…”

  “Don’t tell me, on the charity circuit?”

  “That’s right, before my husband bought him out. His family was once very prominent, you know.”

  “I gather they lost their prominence along with their money.”

  She didn’t appear to enjoy this remark. “Don’t be such a cynic, Mr. DiGregorio. Anyway, I believe the last time I saw Arthur was at a closing dinner celebrating the acquisition. About five years ago.”

  “Arthur Rudolph’s last hurrah.”

  “I suppose it was. He wasn’t pleased that George converted his precious stores to Samson’s. I wouldn’t have been pleased either. But it was absolutely asinine of him to waste all his money trying to get even. And now his son has taken up the cudgel by teaming up with Joanna.” She seemed to find this notion delicious.

  “But what would Joanna have to gain by teaming up with your husband’s enemy?”

  This appeared to baffle her, but she recovered quickly. “Don’t trust her, Mr. DiGregorio. She profited most from George’s death, don’t forget that. She had nothing, now she has thirty-nine million.”

  “Thirty-nine?”

  “The market was up last week. Hadn’t you noticed?”

  “A lot of people profited from your husband’s death.”

  “It’s a matter of degree. It’s always a matter of degree.”

  Twenty-Two

  Continuing his effort to stir things up, Joe D. left Mona Samson in her library and headed straight for Stuart Arnot’s office. So far the effort had proved futile. Mona Samson was as easily stirred as a vat of hardened cement. Perhaps Arnot would be less rigid.

  The front door of the Alliance building looked unmolested. Joe D. had checked this point before leaving the building on Saturday, but he wanted to reconfirm it today, with a clearer head. It looked like whoever hit him that day had a key to the place. Not to mention the access code.

  Once again Joe D. was struck by the aura of self-satisfaction that permeated the New York Art Alliance. The receptionist didn’t seem pleased to see him. Nor did any of the other, mostly female, employees who passed by him. He seemed to carry with him the odor of the REAL WORLD, a place where money was earned rather than donated, and spent, not granted.

  Like Mike Moran, Estelle Ferguson pretended not to recognize Joe D. He didn’t enjoy this part of detective work. On his last case with the Waterside police he’d had to masquerade as an accountant, of all things, and he’d hated every minute of it. As Estelle led him up the grand staircase to the second floor, Joe D. whispered that he wouldn’t get her into any trouble with her boss. He hoped this was true.

  Arnot said nothing as Joe D. crossed his office and sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. He couldn’t help glancing over at the locked cabinet before which he’d recently had his brain pulverized. He turned quickly away. It seemed almost unfair that the only evidence of the crime that had taken place here was a diminishing but still sore lump on the back of his head.

  “I’m very busy,” Arnot said petulantly by way of greeting. Once again Joe D. was struck by how overshadowed Arnot was by his large and opulent office. Even his clothes—a starched blue shirt wit
h white collar, red silk tie topped by a gold-collar pin, and rich-looking charcoal-gray suit with a blue handkerchief ballooning out of the jacket pocket—seemed to detract from rather than enhance their occupant.

  “I won’t keep you, then. I’ve been doing a little digging into the finances of the New York Art Alliance.” Joe D. watched Arnot closely for a reaction, but found none. “A lot of money has been earmarked for something called the Caribbean League. Mind telling me what that is?”

  “First of all, it’s none of your business what the Alliance does with its money. And second of all, the Caribbean League supports arts programs within the large community of Americans of Caribbean descent.”

  “Especially those from the Cayman Islands.”

  Arnot didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t believe there are many Americans from the Caymans, as a matter of fact.”

  “Then why has more than five million dollars been deposited in a bank in the Cayman Islands?”

  “How did you find…” Arnot stopped himself. His hands automatically neatened a small pile of papers on his blotter. “What the Caribbean League chooses to do with its funds before disbursing them is their concern.”

  “Come off it. That money is being diverted to numbered accounts.”

  Arnot stood up and removed his jacket, which he placed carefully on the back of his chair. In his shirtsleeves he looked surprisingly powerful. His face had a boyish inchoateness, but his body appeared lean and strong. “If I find you’ve been talking to any of our employees, I’m going to have to file a complaint with the police.”

  “I have a feeling you’re not eager to bring in the cops. Anyway, I’ve been digging at the New York Department of State,” Joe D. lied. “You’d be surprised, the information they have.”

  “Would I?”

  Joe D. didn’t want to get any deeper into this lie than he already was, so he took a chance and changed the subject. “But I do admit to breaking into your office this weekend.”

  “What?” Arnot looked genuinely shocked.

  “You mean you didn’t know?”

  “I certainly didn’t.”

  “It was quite busy in here this weekend. Someone clobbered me on the head before I got hold of what I was looking for.”

  Arnot fell back into his chair. “And what was that?” he asked dispiritedly.

  “Bank statements.”

  “What would you want with bank statements?”

  “The ones I was looking for would tie you to numbered accounts in the Cayman Islands.”

  “Yet you never found any statements.”

  “Someone else got to them first.”

  Arnot didn’t respond to this.

  “Aren’t you even curious who it was?”

  “I’m not sure I believe a word you’re saying.”

  “Are the statements missing or aren’t they?”

  “I haven’t checked lately,” Arnot replied smoothly.

  “Who besides you has keys to this building? And the code to the alarm system?”

  “My secretary has keys, one or two of our senior grant administrators.”

  “Would you mind if I talked to them?”

  “If you must,” Arnot sighed. He seemed momentarily overwhelmed by the whole business.

  “Be honest with me. Did you or didn’t you know that I was in your office this weekend.”

  “How would I know?”

  “You’d know if the other person here told you.”

  “Then I didn’t know you were here. As I said before, I’ve half a mind to call the police.”

  “But the other half tells you not to involve them.”

  Arnot smiled grimly, picked up a pen, wrote something on a slip of paper, and handed it across his desk to Joe D., who had to stand up and reach for it. There were two names on it, both female. “These two people, and my secretary, whom you’ve met, have keys to the building.”

  “You wouldn’t by any chance be planning to leave the country?”

  “I travel occasionally on Alliance business.”

  “I’m talking about a permanent absence.”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “Only that you sold your place in Connecticut and have five million stashed in the Caymans.”

  Arnot took a deep, fortifying breath. “You have no right to accuse me of anything. Now, I said I was busy…” He grabbed a handful of papers from his desk, as if proving his point.

  Joe D. briefly questioned the two women who had keys to the building. Both looked incapable of hammering a nail, much less pummeling Joe D.’s head. Neither had given or lent her key to anyone. And both talked to Joe D. with the forced politeness they probably used on panhandlers.

  The answering machine was winking when Joe D. got back to the apartment. The first message was from Alison, suggesting they eat out that evening. The second message was from Arthur Rudolph, Jr., asking Joe D. to call him. Joe D. had to remind himself that Rudolph was the same person as Howard Lessing. He returned the calls in reverse order.

  “I wanted to know if you’d heard anything from my father.”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Oh.” A disappointed silence followed.

  “Have you been in touch with Joanna?”

  “I’ve left messages on her machine. I’d say it’s over.”

  Joe D. reassured himself that he’d only expedited the inevitable unmasking of Lessing. “Do you have any photos of your father?”

  “Sure, plenty.”

  “Any recent ones?”

  “Not since he’s been in the nursing home. His looks kind of went to hell these past few years.”

  “Put together the best ones you have, the ones that would help ID him now. I’ll come by and get them in an hour or so.”

  He called Alison and told her he’d pick her up at the store at 7:00. Then he headed downtown.

  Twenty-Three

  “Chip” Rudolph looked like an animal in a zoo before they started building roomier cages. It was almost as if he’d grown since Joe D. had last seen him, and now threatened to burst the confines of his tiny apartment.

  Even Rudolph seemed to realize that something had changed. “I know it looks kind of crowded here,” he said apologetically, shortly after Joe D. got there. “Joanna had my things sent over, and I just haven’t found the heart to put them away.”

  Finding the heart should be easy compared to finding the room, Joe D. thought. Several boxes, still taped shut, were stacked in the middle of the room. But it was more than just the clutter that made Rudolph seem so out of place. Everything about him declared that this was a man whose horizons had recently shrunk.

  “Did you find some pictures of your father?”

  Rudolph crossed his apartment in two giant steps and retrieved a shoe box from a shelf above his desk. He rejoined Joe D. in the “living” portion of the cubicle and began fishing through the box. He came up with a dog-eared photo and stared at it for a few minutes before handing it to Joe D. “I never know what to feel looking at these pictures. Anger or pity.”

  “Anger at your father or George Samson?”

  “Both, I guess. That’s the hard part, resenting both of them. Samson screwed my father, but my father just couldn’t walk away. He lost everything trying to get revenge.”

  Joe D. studied the picture. Rudolph, Sr. was a tall man, on the hefty side. His face was fleshy, with oversized features. He appeared to be posing in front of a store, probably one of his; he had a proprietary grin on his face.

  “Not a very flattering picture,” Rudolph said.

  Joe D. doubted if photos of Rudolph, Sr. ever were. Cameras like bones and sharp angles. Rudolph’s father had neither.

  “How old is this picture?”

  “About five years. He’s standing in front of one of his stores. A few months later he sold the chain to Samson and was booted out.”

  Joe D. squinted at the shot, held it at arm’s length, then peered at it closely. “Can I keep this?”
<
br />   “If it helps you find my father, by all means.”

  Joe D. stood up to leave. The tiny apartment forced an uncomfortable intimacy upon its occupants. Joe D. thought it best to keep his distance, and figured that the only way to insure this was to leave. Rudolph, still seated, started to speak, and Joe D. knew he wasn’t going to get off easily.

  “I don’t know,” he began. The words escaped his lips in a sigh. “I just don’t know how to convince Joanna that I really love her.”

  “You may not be able to.”

  Rudolph looked at him as if he’d been given a death sentence. “But I do,” he wailed.

  “Then keep trying.” Joe D.’s right hand was on the Medeco lock on Rudolph’s front (and only) door.

  “She thinks I only wanted money. Or revenge.” Rudolph laughed ruefully. Joe D. struggled with a second lock, having broken one of his cardinal rules since moving to Manhattan: Never attempt to unlock someone else’s door.

  “The funny thing is, she and her uncle weren’t even getting along. He kept threatening to disinherit her. If I was after Samson’s money, I might have been barking up the wrong tree.”

  Joe D. abandoned the locks.

  “You say Samson threatened to cut her off?”

  “All the time. He couldn’t stand the way she looked down on him. He’d invite her to one of his fund-raising dinners and she’d always find an excuse not to go. Or if she went she’d just sit there with her nose up in the air. Samson wasn’t cultured enough for her. And he certainly never understood what her art was all about.”

  “Sounds like she was risking losing a lot of money.”

  “Joanna never truly believed he’d cut her off. I think she enjoyed thumbing her nose at Samson. And if things ever got too strained between them, she’d always make it up in some way. But lately things were worse than usual.”

  “How so?”

  “He’d stopped asking her to things. This past winter, he never even invited her to his Christmas party. She’d call, and he wouldn’t return her calls. Or he’d return them a week later, and act cold towards her.”