Death and the Maiden

by Gerald Elias

  Jacobus heard the other cop stifle a laugh as he continued. “We’re still looking for the one whose case it was in. Hogan? Hagen? But here comes the other one.”

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss Shinagawa!” said Malachi. “I should’ve guessed. I should call the two of you Smoke and Fire.”

  Jacobus said, “I should call you—”

  He felt Yumi’s dexterous hand over his mouth. She said, “You wanted to talk to me, Lieutenant?”

  “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Yumi remained silent, so Malachi cleared his throat and asked, “What were you doing inside Haagen’s case?”

  “I needed to borrow some rosin.”

  “Where was yours?”

  “I forgot it. I left it at home.”

  “Go on.”

  “I answered your question.”

  “Why did you need rosin? Why did you need her rosin?”

  “I just got my bow rehaired—”

  “By who?”

  “By Tom Stevenson—”

  “You’ll give us his address. Go on.”

  “And when you get new hair you need a lot of rosin, otherwise you don’t get a sound from the violin. It doesn’t grab onto the string. So I needed more rosin.”

  “You don’t need to instruct me about rosin. I used to play the violin.”

  “Like hell,” muttered Jacobus.

  “What was that?” Malachi asked. Receiving no response, he continued. “I also know that violin and viola rosin are different. So why didn’t you borrow Lensky’s?”

  “I hardly know Ivan.”

  “You’re just borrowing rosin. It’s not like you’re sleeping with him.”

  “She’s not sleeping with Haagen, either, Sherlock,” Jacobus burst in. “But she’s worked with her for years and felt more comfortable borrowing her fucking viola rosin.”

  “Look, Jacobus—”

  “Why don’t you just ask everyone around here to show you their goddam hands and see who’s missing a finger instead of wasting—”

  “It’s okay, Jake,” said Yumi. “The rest of the rehearsal’s been canceled anyway. We’ve got time. What else would you like to know, Lieutenant?”

  “Why didn’t you ask Haagen if you could borrow the rosin?”

  “She was still onstage talking to Pravda. I didn’t think it was necessary to disturb them over such a small thing.”

  “Tell me what you did after you opened the case.”

  “I didn’t open the case.”

  “Then how did you get the rosin? Levitation?”

  “That’s a toughie.” Jacobus laughed derisively. “You’ve been watching too many reruns of The F.B.I., Malachi. Obviously, the case was already open.”

  “Shut up, Jacobus.”

  “Hey, is Ephrem Zimbalist Jr. your role model? Good-looking guy! Did you know,” Jacobus continued, “that his father, Ephrem Zimbalist Sr., was a renowned violin teacher at the Curtis Institute? It’s true. Look it up.”

  “There are two differences between you and Zimbalist Sr.,” said Malachi.

  “Really! And what would those be?” asked Jacobus.

  “He’s renowned and dead. But pretty soon there’ll only be one difference. He’ll still be renowned. Now, Miss Shinagawa, how did you get the rosin?”

  “There’s a compartment in the case for extra strings, rosin, mutes. Accessories. I opened that up and…”

  “And saw a finger.”

  “Yes. It was disgusting.”

  “And you screamed.”

  “Of course she screamed!” said Jacobus. “What the hell would—”

  He felt her restraining grip on his arm, not so soft this time.

  “Yes. I suppose so,” she said.

  “Well, everyone else in the hall says you did, so I’ll suppose that too. But you did something before you screamed. Didn’t you?”

  Yumi did not respond.

  “Miss Shinagawa, you were seen doing something before you screamed. What was it?”

  Still Yumi paused. This time Malachi waited.

  “Yes, I suppose I picked up the finger.”

  “You were seen holding the finger. Were you picking it up or were you placing it in the case?”

  “Malachi!” said Jacobus.

  Malachi ignored Jacobus. “Let’s say for the sake of argument you did pick it up. You’re telling me you saw that disgusting, repulsive dead finger, picked it up, and only then screamed? Why did you have it in your hands, Miss Shinagawa? To examine it? Maybe you know the party to whom the finger belongs?”

  Jacobus now understood Yumi’s reticence. She had been trying to protect herself, and him.

  “She thought it was a joke!” he exploded.

  “What?” said Malachi, the surprise in his voice genuine. “I know you classical musician types have a warped—”

  “Just shut up for a minute,” said Jacobus. “I’ll explain.”

  Jacobus told him about the prank he had pulled on Yumi on the train. Yumi added that when she first saw the finger in Haagen’s case she assumed it would be some kind of variation on the joke, that maybe Jacobus had been part of it. That is, until she actually picked it up and saw that it was real. And dead.

  “So that’s your explanation,” said Malachi, “why your fingerprints will now be found all over the finger.”

  “And why the finger’s prints will be found on Yumi,” said Jacobus.

  “That’s not funny,” said Yumi and Malachi in unison.

  “Where’s Haagen?” Malachi continued.

  “I don’t know,” said Yumi. “I put the finger back in her case. I guess I didn’t want her to know I’d seen it, but it was too late. She heard me scream and came backstage. Then when she saw it, she just turned and left.”

  “Leaving her precious viola in the case?”

  “Along with the finger. Yes.”

  “I assume it’s a valuable instrument.”

  “I believe so.”

  “How likely is it, Miss Shinagawa, that a serious musician would walk away from her priceless instrument, to which she is no doubt closely attached, leaving the case open with all this commotion? As we know,” he said, his voice insinuating, “even Strads have been stolen right from their cases.”

  “Yeah,” said Jacobus, “and we also know that Yo-Yo Ma once left his Stradivarius cello in a taxi, and that’s a skosh bigger than a violin, so get off it. You know, I’d give you the finger except someone’s already done me the favor.”

  “We found this, Lieutenant.” It was the voice of the young Hispanic cop.

  “Tell me about it,” said Malachi.

  “It’s her handkerchief. Haagen’s. The Russian lady, the cello player, ID’d it. We found it in the bathroom.”

  “How long’s it been there?”

  Yumi interjected. “Annika uses that to cover her chin rest when she plays—it’s silk—so she won’t get a blister on her neck. She’s got sensitive skin. She had that during the first part of the rehearsal.”

  “So when she sees the finger she goes to the ladies’ room with her handkerchief to do what? To gag? To puke? To freshen up? Any signs of vomit, Ortiz?”

  “I’ll take a look,” he said without enthusiasm.

  “You do that. What else?”

  “That’s it. No one’s seen her. They all came running here, along with the security guard, when they heard the scream.”

  “Security guard see anyone suspicious? Anyone unauthorized?”

  “Yeah, we asked him that. Only this blind guy here.”

  “Okay, keep looking.”

  “I say the concert should be canceled,” Jacobus said.

  “Why?” asked Yumi. Jacobus discerned a distinct tone of protest in her voice.

  “Because when you find a finger in a viola case, this is not a good sign. It doesn’t matter who put it there. Whether Haagen did, or Kortovsky did, or Short did, or even you did. It doesn’t matter because the meaning is the same. It means danger. Maybe a warning that someone d
oesn’t like what is going on. So for everyone’s safety, I repeat, the concert should be canceled.”

  “Are you sure,” asked Yumi, “that you’re not just making up a reason because you’re so opposed to the production?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Only that you’re so traditional when it comes to how music should be performed that you’d come up with just about any rationale to prevent a different approach. You just seem so obstinate—”

  “Traditional! You make that sound like an obscenity, Yumi.”

  “—that you’d even let my career go under the bus if you could get this concert canceled.”

  “Excuse me,” said Malachi. “As much as I’m enjoying listening to your little spat, I’m going to let the two of you have some private time to work things out, but I’m sure we’ll be chatting again.”

  Malachi left to coordinate the search for Haagen with Ortiz. Jacobus, with a vague thought in his head, asked Yumi sotto voce, “By any chance, could you tell if the finger had been dead for a long time? Or was it a new dead finger? No, I’m not joking.”

  “How do I know? It was gross and all shriveled up and had turned disgusting colors. Why does it matter?”

  “Well, if it’s been dead for about a month, and she’s had it in her case that long, then maybe—”

  Jacobus felt a hand on his shoulder. Larger, stronger even than Lensky’s, but gentler.

  “Where the hell’ve you been, Nathaniel?” asked Jacobus. “Coney Island?”

  “All that tea at Lenskaya’s added up, Jake. I been on the can.”

  “The ladies’ room by any chance?”

  “Hell, no! What’s up?”

  TWELVE

  By the time they got back to Nathaniel’s ninth-floor apartment, Jacobus had filled him in. “So while you were pishin’, Rome could’ve burned and you’d still be holding your dick.”

  “It was only fifteen minutes,” Nathaniel protested.

  “Fifteen, eh? Time flies when you’re having a good time.”

  Jacobus heard Nathaniel switch on the light and immediately backed up against the wall for support, bracing himself for the onslaught. The clattering of claws on the wood floor accelerated with frightening speed as Trotsky barreled into the hallway and leaped on Jacobus, knocking off his dark glasses with a prehensile tongue.

  “Get the goddam gorilla off me!” Jacobus cried.

  “Down, boy,” said Nathaniel, firmly but gently easing the dog off Jacobus. “Can’t help lovin’ dat man,” he crooned.

  “Shows you how stupid he is,” Jacobus said. He bent down to retrieve his glasses, miraculously intact.

  “Want me to walk him?” asked Nathaniel.

  “Yeah, or if you want, you can just drop him out the window, but first get me Crispin Short’s phone number. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that Short harassed Haagen an hour before the fickle finger was found in her case. And I’m wondering whether this has anything to do with Kortovsky. And why no one knows where Haagen is. And while you’re at it, find out whether Prince Rupert really did go with her to Peru.”

  “Prince who?”

  “Her kid. There shouldn’t be too many Prince Ruperts who had a plane reservation to Lima in the last few months.”

  Nathaniel found Short’s number in the phone book and recited it to Jacobus. After waiting until Nathaniel’s muttering died away along with the mutt, he dialed the number but got only Short’s answering machine, which said, in part, “Please direct any business or legal queries to my attorney,” without mentioning the attorney’s name. Very helpful. What was it? Marino? Carino? He dialed information, and after seven or eight unsuccessful efforts finally obtained the number for Lewis Carino, attorney. He got hold of Carino just as he was hurrying out the door to go home to his seventeen-room colonial in Chappaqua. In thirty seconds Jacobus managed to convince Carino of the benefit of a meeting with Short as soon as possible the next day, since until they discovered the whereabouts of half the New Magini String Quartet it would be difficult to come to a resolution of the suit, and the sooner they did this, the sooner Carino could make his yacht payment. Carino said he had a fifteen-minute slot the next morning, as long as they could meet in his office.

  Jacobus hung up, satisfied, and prepared to make himself a cup of coffee. The phone rang almost immediately, and Jacobus figured it was Carino calling back to cancel, but instead of a voice saying, “How dare you insinuate my client was involved in criminal activity,” a familiar voice said, “Buenas tardes, Señor Yacovis.”

  “Oro?”

  “Yes I am!”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “After all I am a policeman, am I not? I desired to be sure you are really you when I speak to you, so I discovered your home phone number, only to be disappointed you were not there. Then, I think, who can I trust? So I call your local police force—”

  “Roy Miller?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “He’s also my plumber.”

  “Ah, the true Renaissance man, this Señor Miller. He tell me your friend’s name in New York, this Señor Williams, so I try cinco, seis, seite Nathaniel Williamses, and here I am. Now that I know you are the verdadero Maestro Yacovis, I can talk to you with more free.”

  “Two questions. How do you know maybe I haven’t broken into the verdadero Señor Williams’s apartment and killed him?”

  “It is unlikely, wouldn’t you agree, that you would answer the phone and ask me such a question if you had? And the second question?”

  Smug little son of a bitch.

  “Why is it important you had to confirm I was the verdadero Señor Yacovis?”

  “Ah! You have quite the perspicacious! This I will answer in good time, señor. All in good time. Pues, Maestro, now that we have completed the preliminaries, can you report to me the residence of Señor Kortovsky in Lima?”

  “No, goddammit. I’m working on it, though.”

  “Please, don’t let it trouble you, Maestro, because I, Espartaco Asunción Ochoa Romero, have made this discovery.”

  “Really.”

  “I must admit, I had some little luck. After the concert of the New Magini String Quartet, I desired to obtain the musicians’ autographs on my program.”

  “How lucky can you get?”

  “Ah, you underestimate my difficulties! Let me read you what our music critic, Flor Vivanco, wrote in El Comercio: ‘Esta ciudad, nunca antes habia escuchado una representación del Cuarteto de Cuerdas opus 59, número 3 de Beethoven que estuviese tan lleno de electricidad y poder sísmico controlado.’”

  “Well, that’s grande,” said Jacobus, “except that the only word I understood was ‘Beethoven.’”

  “Discúlpeme, Maestro,” said Oro. “Let me try to translate: ‘Never had this city heard a performance of Beethoven’s String Quartet, opus 59, number 3 that was so full of electricity and controlled seismic power.’”

  “Okay, Oro,” Jacobus interrupted, cursing himself for not making his coffee sooner. Could he, a blind man, make coffee with one hand while holding the receiver with the other? He might have to chance it. “As you said, we’ve completed the preliminaries.”

  “But, Maestro, it is important you know about this concert.”

  “Why?”

  “All in good time, I repeat you.”

  “All right. It’s your peso.”

  “Sol.”

  “No, Daniel.”

  “Not your name. The sol is our currency. Not peso.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Yes. As I say, when the concert ended, there were the choruses of ‘Bravo! Bravo! Braaaaaaavooooooo!’ and there were the chain reactions of cheers of a less coherent nature, which you could almost not hear over the rhythmic foot poundings that rattled the floor. From my balcony seat I saw the wife of El Presidente standing in her privileged box. I must say it amused me to see the first lady, so ardent a patroness and defender of the performing arts in our cash-poor country that she had been nickname
d La Maestra, stomping her feet along with the masses while at the same time, her entourage of political correctness must be remaining neutral.

  “At this point I say to myself, I must go now if I want my autographs, so I begin to push through the standing people. I glance at the stage; they are still bowing, but it occurs to me something curious of a juxtaposition which is this: the quartet, they had played together with precision almost superhuman, but as they now took their respectful bows they seemed to accept the accolade of the audience as individuals, not as a single entity. Each looks in a different direction, but none at each other. The first violinist gazes up at the balcony, how you say, in search of the adoring feminine eyes. Yes, the second violinist, your young Japonesa, she had worked the hardest and had a smile on her face, though even from my great distance, it looked artificial. The violist looked like she couldn’t wait to leave. A pity. She is very beautiful. But I give her the benefit of the doubt. It was their last concert of their tour. Maybe she had a plane to catch. The cellist, the heavy one, she looks down at her shoes as if saying to the audience that perhaps their adulity was not to be warranted, but she, too, maybe the most, knew Beethoven.”

  “Well, muchas gracias, Oro, for telling me nothing, but I’ve got a hot date with Señora Folger.”

  “Discúlpeme, Maestro. Of course you know what it is like to receive the adulity of the concert. This is not of noteworthy to you, but please, if you permit me to relive this experience I would be most grateful. It is possible I will never hear such a concert for the rest of my life, and ¿quién sabe? it may turn out to be important—”

  “—all in good time.”

  “Precisely.

  “Go on, then. You were talking about the cellist’s adulity.”

  “Gracias, Maestro. When the applause momentarily subsides as the quartet exited the stage, I say to myself I must hurry, but the audience was not satisfied. The applause reorganizes with its own energy. It became a rhythmic pulse, like the palpitating heart. This almost never happens here, so the musicians must return to the stage, making more of the screaming, and the rhythm disintegrates into the sound of torrential rain against the window. This sequence repeats itself, six times, seven times, eight times; little by little the people become exhausted and enter into the aisles, making my progress to the backstage area very like rush hour.