“‘Fuck him,’” she quoted Maitland as saying. “‘Geltman’s taken care of. For the rest of his life. Where does he get off complaining that I’m selling my own work? I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone!’”
“So you continued selling Maitland’s paintings?” the Chief asked her.
“Sure, I did,” she said. “It wasn’t illegal, was it?”
“No,” he said, “it wasn’t illegal. Tell me this, Belle—did you happen to notice the dates on the paintings Maitland brought to you to sell? When were they done?”
“They were all early stuff,” she said. “Painted twenty years ago. In 1957 and ’58. Like that. But just as good as his newer things. You couldn’t tell the difference.”
“There wasn’t any,” he said.
She looked at him, puzzled. “That’s what I said.”
He nodded and got up slowly, preparing to leave. He didn’t want to hear any more. He had heard enough. But he turned at the door.
“Belle,” he said, “why didn’t you tell us all this a long time ago? When we first came up here?”
She lifted her chin.
“I didn’t want to get involved,” she said.
He sighed resignedly, and turned again to leave. This time she stopped him.
“Edward X. Delaney,” she said, “you didn’t plant any other envelopes around here, did you? With the real junk?”
“Why, Belle,” he said, with a curdy smile, “you don’t think I’d do anything illegal, do you?”
He would never get to the end of people—never. He came to this chastening realization during a slow, ruminative walk through Central Park, from Belle Sarazen’s apartment to the East Side. He ambled ponderously, leaning forward a bit, his straw hat tipped to shield his eyes from the burning June sun.
What surprised Edward X. Delaney, what shocked him, was the discovery of what the doomed Victor Maitland was doing with his wealth. To hear suddenly that this gross, brawling, vicious man was capable of such anonymous generosity was equivalent, Delaney reflected mournfully, to learning that Attila the Hun had endowed a home for unwed mothers.
He had lunch on the terrace at the Central Park Zoo. Had a hotdog and a beer, then went back in for another frank and beer. He ate and drank slowly, hearing the trumpeting and screeching and howling of caged animals. It seemed a good place to put it all together, give it form and sequence—this story of craving humans.
Victor Maitland had died, Delaney decided, because he lived too long. It was true. If he had lived only three or four years, as Dr. Horowitz had predicted, the tax fraud would have gone like silk, Saul Geltman would be assured of a good annual income from those paintings stored in the barn, Alma and Ted would have been left a comfortable legacy from the final sale, Dora and Emily would have restored the old homestead, and everyone would have lived happily ever after. If Victor Maitland had died …
But the son of a bitch didn’t die, wouldn’t die. Not the way he was supposed to. He lived, and lived, and lived. And there were all those beautiful paintings drying in the Nyack barn. What the hell. Might as well turn a few of them into ready cash and have some fun before he conked. Maitland might think that way, Delaney guessed. There were so many finished paintings; selling off ten or twenty or more wouldn’t make all that difference.
Except to Saul Geltman. It made a lot of difference to Saul. He was trying to keep the price high for Maitland’s paintings. So he fed them into the market carefully. And the barn paintings were as much his inheritance as Dora’s and Emily’s. He could live twenty years on his commissions from those. What was it Maitland had told Belle Sarazen? “Fuck him. He’s taken care of. For the rest of his life.”
Then Geltman learned about the secret sales, and it all began to come apart. No commissions for him on the secret sales. Worse, it was bringing the market price down. How could he depend on scarcity when anyone could go to the Sarazen women and get a discount Maitland? And the artist lived! The bastard lived! And was working and grinding out more and more paintings. It was time to turn off the faucet. Yes, Delaney reckoned, Geltman must have figured just that: it was time to turn off the faucet. Victor Maitland’s death would solve everything.
The Chief walked into the offices of Simon & Brewster, all beaming geniality. But the lubricious Susan Hemley was absent from her desk. In her place was a stiff, bespectacled young man with a grey complexion. The desk was bare; the young man sat as if nailed to the chair, hands clasped so tightly atop the desk blotter that knuckles showed white.
“Yes?” he asked coldly. “May I help you?”
“Is Miss Hemley in?”
“No.”
“Mr. Simon? I called for an appointment. My name is Chief Edward X. Delaney.”
“Chief?”
“New York Police Department.”
“Oh. Just a moment.”
He rose jerkily to his feet, crossed to Simon’s door, knocked in a rough manner. He entered without pausing and slammed the door behind him. He was out again in a moment, scowling.
“Mr. Simon will be with you shortly. Take a chair.”
They sat in silence, trying not to stare at each other.
“Are you also an attorney?” Delaney asked finally.
“No,” the young man said angrily. “I was hired as a paralegal assistant.”
It was evident that his conception of paralegal employment did not include serving as receptionist. Delaney had the feeling that if he offered sympathy, the young man would either start screaming or burst into tears. So the Chief sat without speaking, straw hat balanced on his knees, and endured the long, silent wait, guessing this was J. Julian Simon’s little oneupmanship ploy.
Eventually, twenty minutes later, the man himself came bustling from his inner office, hand outstretched, perfect teeth gleaming.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he smiled, and offered no apology.
“I’m in no hurry,” Delaney said equably. “‘The mills of the gods …’ and so forth and so forth.”
As usual, Simon looked as though he had been oiled and polished. A day spent in court had not dulled his knife-edge creases, disturbed his elaborately coiffed hair, or tangled his perfectly groomed mustache. Today the shirt was light blue polka dots on white, the tie knitted maroon silk, the suit itself a shiny navy linen with white buttons and lapels like vertical stabilizers.
He ushered the Chief into his private office, sat him down, inquired solicitously as to his health, adjusted the drapes to block more of the late-afternoon sunlight, and offered a drink. When it was politely declined, he mixed himself a Rob Roy at his handsome bar with all the care of a mad scientist distilling the elixir of life. It was not, Delaney judged, Simon’s first Rob Roy of the day.
“Five hours in court,” the attorney boomed. “Endless delays. Boring, boring, boring. But you know all that, I’m sure.”
“Cops know all about waiting,” Delaney agreed. “It’s part of the job. But eventually, I’ve noted, things get done. If you have the patience.”
“Of course, of course,” Simon said. He took a sip of his drink, said, “Aah!” and settled back more comfortably into his leather swivel chair. “Is this an official visit, Chief?”
“Not exactly,” Delaney said. “I guess you might say it’s a courtesy call.”
“Oh?” Simon said, puzzled.
“Counselor, as a member of the bar, you’re an officer of the court. That’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And I’m acting in the capacity of an officer of the law. So you might say we’re on the same side. Don’t you agree?”
Simon nodded, watching the Chief carefully now.
“So I felt it only right,” Delaney continued, “that I come to you directly and give you the facts before taking official action.”
Simon finished the Rob Roy in a gulp. He rose, stalked to the bar, busied himself stirring another. His back was turned to Delaney. When he spoke, his mellifluous voice had lost its honeyed drip.
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br /> “What’s this all about, Delaney?” he demanded.
“Are you a friend of Saul Geltman?”
The lawyer brought his drink back to the desk, sat down heavily in the swivel chair. He raised the glass but didn’t sip; he stared at Delaney over the rim.
“You know I am,” he said.
“Do you want to be a friend of his?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m trying to discover just how far out on a limb you’ll crawl for him. Who ate the sandwiches?”
“What?” Simon said, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“The sandwiches you ordered for lunch,” Delaney explained patiently. “For you and Geltman. On that Friday. Who ate them? He wasn’t here for lunch. Did you eat them all? Throw the extras away? Or did he come back for his later?”
“I have told you again and again that—”
“You’ve told me shit,” Delaney said harshly. “What kind of sandwiches were they, counselor?”
“Delaney, what’s this with the sandwiches?”
“What kind were they? Tunafish? Egg salad? Meat? What?”
“Well, if you must know, they were roast beef on whole wheat bread with diet soda.”
“What did you have for lunch last Tuesday, counselor?”
“Last Tuesday?” Simon said. “Who can remem—”
He stopped suddenly, too late. Delaney grinned at him.
“Right,” he nodded. “Can’t remember what you had for lunch last Tuesday. Who can? I can’t. But you remember perfectly that more than two months ago you had roast beef on whole wheat bread with diet soda. Geltman volunteered the same information. Unasked, by the way. That’s the trouble with amateurs: they talk too much. Now, counselor, as an expert in cross-examination, wouldn’t you say that the fact that both you and Saul Geltman remember exactly what you had for lunch two months ago suggests rehearsal, if not collusion?”
J. Julian Simon rose to his feet, somewhat unsteadily.
“This conversation is at an end,” he said thickly. “I’ll thank you to leave.”
Delaney also stood up. He unbuttoned his jacket, raised the tails high. He turned slowly, so Simon could see his shirted torso.
“Look,” he said, “I’m not wired. Frisk me if you like. No bugs, no transmitter, no recorder. This talk is just between you and me, counselor.”
“No more talk,” Simon said.
“For your own good,” Delaney urged, rebuttoning his jacket and sitting down again. “In your own interest. Don’t you want to hear what I’ve got?”
Simon suddenly seemed drained. That ruddy complexion, nourished by a thousand facials and hours under the sunlamp, became as soft and puckered as a deflated balloon. He fell rather than sat back in his chair.
“Sure you want to hear,” Delaney went on grimly. “So you’ll know what you’re up against if you decide to be Saul Geltman’s friend. He comes in here around ten that Friday morning. You close and lock the door to the outer office. Look, now I’m Saul Geltman …”
The Chief rose, strode quickly to the frosted-glass door leading to the outside corridor. He pushed the button release on the lock. He opened the door, stepped halfway through, then turned to wave at J. Julian Simon.
“Bye-bye,” he said merrily.
Then he came back inside, relocked the door, took his seat again.
“No one saw Saul Geltman in this office after he arrived at ten o’clock,” he went on. “Not Susan Hemley, not even the guy from the deli who brought the lunch. No one. We checked.”
“I did,” Simon said hoarsely. “He was here all the time.”
“Was he? Stick with that story, counselor, and your ass is up for grabs. A subpoena. Testimony before a grand jury. Questions. About your business, taxes, your record. Publicity. Your picture on the six o’clock news holding a copy of the Wall Street Journal in front of your face. Is that what you want, counselor? Are you willing to go through all that for the sake of your friendship with Saul Geltman?”
“The man is my client. You have no right to—”
“No right?” Delaney thundered. “No right? Don’t give me that crap, you lousy shyster. You think we don’t have your sheet? You think we don’t know how close you came to disbarment? Don’t talk to me about privileged lawyer-client relationships. I’m not talking about your client now, I’m talking about you, about obstruction of justice, perjury, and accessory to homicide. How’s that for openers?”
“You’re guessing,” Simon cried. “Guessing! You’ve got nothing. You come in here and—”
“I’ve got an eyewitness,” Chief Delaney said triumphantly. “An eyewitness who saw Geltman near Victor Maitland’s studio the morning he was killed. At a time you say he was up here eating roast beef on whole wheat and drinking diet soda with you. An eyewitness, counselor! Think of it! A responsible citizen, pillar of the community, who picked Saul Geltman’s picture out of a dozen others and will swear he was there at that time. Plus supporting physical evidence. Is your friendship worth it? Think, man! Use your goddamned brain! Now’s the time. You can work a deal; you know that. Get out of the way of the landslide, Mr. Simon. It’s coming. You can’t stop it. And if you repeat that stupid statement of yours under oath, you’ll be swept away. You and your Spy caricatures and your oak bookcases and all this swell stuff—all gone. Nothing left.”
Edward X. Delaney rose abruptly to his feet.
“An eyewitness,” he repeated softly. “Who saw him. Think of that! Well, you give the problem a lot of thought, counselor, a lot of careful consideration. If you decide you’d like to amend your statement, that you made a mistake and maybe Saul Geltman did step out of your office for an hour or two, why just give me a call. I’m in the book. Take your time. Think it over carefully. I’m in no hurry. I’m a patient man. I learned how by cooling my heels in lawyers’ offices. Take care, counselor. See you around.”
He left a shaken, slack-jawed J. Julian Simon slumped behind his leather-topped desk, holding his cocktail glass in trembling fingers. Delaney left the office building quickly, crossed to the north side of East 68th Street. He walked a half-block westward, toward Fifth Avenue, and stood partly concealed by trees and parked cars, but in a position where he could observe the entrance to the building he had just left.
He reckoned it would take at least ten minutes for J. Julian Simon to start his adrenaline flowing with another Rob Roy, to call Saul Geltman at the Galleries on Madison Avenue, and to summon him with the news that the sky was falling. But it was almost twenty minutes before the little art dealer came scurrying around the corner, almost trotting in his haste. He rushed into the building, and Edward X. Delaney, smiling, wended his way slowly homeward, lighting a cigar. He didn’t, he acknowledged, know exactly what the hell he was doing; he had no definite plan. Yet. But he wanted Saul Geltman scared witless. It could do no harm.
When he entered his brownstone, he found Monica, Abner Boone, and Jason T. Jason seated around the kitchen table, laughing, and sharing a bowl of potato chips. Monica was drinking a martini, Boone a bottle of club soda, and Jason Two was working on a can of beer. They all looked up as he came clumping in.
“Hullo, dear,” Monica said. “What have you been doing all day?”
“Threatening people,” he said cheerfully. “Thirsty work. Don’t I get a reward?”
“The pitcher’s in the icebox,” she said. “Lemon peel already cut.”
“Perfect,” he nodded, and poured himself a martini over ice and added a twist. Then he pulled up a chair to join them, and looked at Boone. “How did it go, sergeant?”
“Good enough, sir. I think. Between us, we hit eleven dealers. Four of them wouldn’t say one way or another. Didn’t know or wouldn’t talk. The other seven said that without Maitland, Saul Geltman is down the drain.”
“Two of my guys said he’s got no one heavy enough to pay the freight on Madison Avenue, Chief,” Jason put in. “High-rent district. They said he might be able
to stay in business downtown, but not on Mad. Ave. Unless he comes up with another Maitland.”
“Chief,” Boone said, “you remember we asked him the same question the first time we talked to him. He said that the death of Maitland would hurt him, but not all that much, that he’d survive.”
“Sure he would,” Delaney said. “With twenty million dollars’ worth of Maitland’s stuff in the Nyack barn. Here’s what I’ve got …”
He gave them brief accounts of his meetings with Belle Sarazen and J. Julian Simon. They listened intently, silent and fascinated. When he finished, Monica got up to pour herself another drink, freshen her husband’s glass, and put another can of beer before Jason Two.
“Then he’s guilty, Edward?” she asked. “No doubt about it?”
“No doubt about it,” he said. “Proving it is something else again.”
“Uh, Chief,” Jason said. “Sounds to me like we got motive now. And opportunity, if this lawyer guy chickens out on the alibi. No weapon, I admit. But enough to rack him up. No?”
Chief Delaney looked at Boone.
“What do you think, Sergeant?”
Abner Boone shook his head angrily.
“No way,” he said. “I don’t see it. Indictment maybe. Possibly. But I’ll bet the DA won’t prosecute him. Too thin.”
“Thin?” Jason T. Jason cried. “My God, it seems to me the man’s tied in knots.”
“No, Jason,” Delaney said. “Sergeant Boone’s right. We’d never get a conviction on the basis of what we’ve got. Look, everyone thinks a Not Guilty verdict means innocence. Not necessarily. Sometimes it just means the prosecutor hasn’t proved his case beyond a reasonable doubt. Usually in cases like that, the DA doesn’t even go to trial. He wants to show a good conviction rate. Prosecuting an obviously weak case is a waste of time for him, the taxpayers, everyone.”
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