“I have a comb in my hip pocket,” he said. “Can I reach for it?”
The Chief nodded. The art dealer took out a little black comb and straightened his hair. Then he took out his handkerchief, dabbed delicately at the shallow scratches on his face.
“I’m bleeding,” he said.
“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Geltman,” Delaney said without irony, “but you really can’t blame her.”
“I want to call a lawyer,” Geltman said “I know my rights.”
“I’m afraid you don’t,” the Chief said gently. “You’re not entitled to a phone call until you’ve been booked. You haven’t even been arrested yet. Am I correct, sergeant?”
“That’s correct, sir. When we arrest him, we read him his rights.”
“That’s how it’s done,” Delaney said, spreading his hands. “I thought we could just sit here a few minutes, relax, get our breath back. Just talk a little. Talk about why you assaulted that poor woman with a knife.”
“I didn’t assault her,” Geltman said indignantly. “I just took the knife out to help her open a package.”
“Assault with a deadly weapon,” Delaney said tonelessly.
“It’s your word against mine,” Geltman said.
“Well … no,” the Chief said. “Not quite. Look at this …”
He rose, stepped to the open closet. Geltman turned his head to watch him reach up and push aside the small, round mirror.
“A TV camera,” he explained to the little man. “Picks up image and sound. Records it on videotape. It’s still running.”
“Shit,” Saul Geltman said.
“Yes,” Delaney said.
“Well, then, you were tapping my phone. That’s how you knew I’d be here. And the phone tap was illegal.”
The Chief sighed. “Oh, Mr. Geltman, do you really think we’d do that? No, she called from a private phone. We had the owner’s permission to tape the call.”
“I’d like a glass of water,” Geltman said.
“Sure,” Delaney said, “Jason?”
Geltman was given not one but two glasses of water. He drained both greedily, wiped his lips with his soiled handkerchief. He looked around. He seemed punished but not defeated. There was a spark in his eye. He tried for a smile and settled for a smirk.
“Miserable place,” he said with a theatrical shudder. “How people can live like this …”
“I’ve seen worse,” Delaney shrugged. “Didn’t you tell me you came from Essex Street? You must have lived in an apartment something like this.”
“A long time ago,” Geltman said in a low voice. “A long time …”
“Uh-huh,” Delaney nodded. “Well, that’s really what I wanted to talk to you about: how you live now. And how you’re going to live. You don’t have to admit anything. I’m not asking for a confession. I just want you to take a look at these, please.”
He took the Polaroid photos from his jacket pocket, leaned forward, handed them to Geltman. The art dealer looked at the top one, shuffled through the pack hurriedly, then shriveled back into his chair. His face had gone slack. He tossed the photos listlessly onto the table.
“So that’s all over,” Delaney said briskly. “The IRS was notified this morning, and I imagine they’re up there right now, taking inventory. They’ll pump Dora and Emily, of course. My guess is that Dora will sing first; she’s the weak reed. She’ll implicate you and Simon.”
Geltman made a gesture, a hopeless flap of his hand.
“I don’t mean to suggest you’ll go to jail for tax fraud,” Delaney said. “You might, but I don’t think the Feds will prosecute. They’ll be happy enough when they add up the estate. Oh, you might get a fine and probation, and a personal audit, of course. But I doubt if anyone will draw jail time for this. It means the end of Dora’s and Emily’s dreams, naturally, but then it makes millionaires of Alma and Ted. I don’t derive any particular satisfaction from that, do you?”
“No,” Geltman said shortly.
“And talking about the end of dreams,” the Chief continued, “there goes your guaranteed future, doesn’t it? I think you’ve sold your last Maitland painting, Mr. Geltman.”
The art dealer made no reply. For a moment or two no one spoke. Then …
“My God, it’s hot in here,” Edward X. Delaney said. He rose, strode to the big window, struggled with it a moment, then threw it wide open. He leaned far out, hands propped on the sill, drew a deep breath. He looked down. He came back into the room, dusting his hands, leaving the window open. “Six floors straight down to a cement courtyard,” he reported. “You’d think they’d have a guard on a window like that. Well, anyway we’ll get a breath of air.”
He sat in the armchair again, leaned back, laced his fingers across his middle. He looked at Saul Geltman reflectively.
“Now let’s talk about the murder of Victor Maitland,” he said. “Premeditated murder because the man that killed brought a knife along. He didn’t kill in a sudden flash of passion with whatever weapon came to hand; he brought his weapon with him. That’s premeditation in any court in the land.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Geltman said tightly.
“Sure you did,” Delaney said. “You know it; we know it. I thought, just from simple curiosity, you’d like to know what we’ve got. Well, for starters, we’ve got motive. Your discovery that Maitland was sneaking paintings from the barn and peddling them secretly through Belle Sarazen. They were his paintings, and he could do anything he wanted with them. But to your way of thinking, those paintings were as much your inheritance as Dora’s and Emily’s, and the dying Victor Maitland was robbing you. Crazy. Not only that, but he was depressing the price of Maitlands by shoveling out more and more paintings. Right, Mr. Geltman? So you had a big fight with him about it, and he told you to go fuck yourself. Right, Mr. Geltman?”
“Conjecture,” the art dealer said. “Just conjecture.”
“‘Conjecture,’” Delaney repeated, amused. “A legal term. You played a lot of handball with your late pal J. Julian Simon, didn’t you, Mr. Geltman? By the way, do you notice I call you ‘Mr. Geltman’ and not ‘Saul’? That’s not going by the book. It’s cop psychology to use first names when talking to a suspect. It diminishes them, robs them of dignity. Like stripping a man naked before you question him. But I wouldn’t do that to you, Mr. Geltman; I have too much respect for your intelligence.”
“Thank you,” he said faintly, and sounded sincere.
“All right,” Delaney said, slapping his knees. “So much for motive. A few rough spots here and there, but I think a little more digging will fill it out nicely. Now we come to opportunity. I suppose Lawyer Simon told you that we tumbled to your little con of skipping out his back door into the corridor. You must have done that, you see, because Rosa Perez and Dolores saw you near Victor Maitland’s studio at a time when Simon said you were in his office.”
“It’s his statement against what they claim,” Geltman said hotly.
“His statement,” Delaney said. “Too bad he isn’t alive to testify in court, isn’t it?”
“I was shocked when I heard he was dead.”
Delaney stared at him reflectively a few moments, then sighed.
“You weren’t thinking too straight, Mr. Geltman,” he said softly. “Getting a little frantic, were you? The bloodhounds nipping at your heels, and your dear chum having an attack of the runits about facing a perjury rap. So you had to take him out—right? Wait, wait,” Delaney said, holding up a hand. “Just let me finish. It hasn’t been announced yet, but we know Simon didn’t die in that fire. Surprise! He was a clunk before he fried. Lung analysis proved that. And the Medical Examiner found the multiple stab wounds in his back. And the fire laddies think whiskey was used to make sure the whole place went up in a poof! They found the empty bottles. A terrible waste! Oh yes, we know how Simon died, Mr. Geltman. We have men flashing your photograph to tenants in Simon’s building, cab drivers, everyone in the neighborhood. Sooner or late
r we’ll find someone who saw you at or near the scene. So if I were you, I wouldn’t count too much on your late buddy’s statement to alibi you for the Maitland kill.”
Saul Geltman had sought to interrupt this breezy recital. As it progressed, his eyes widened, mouth opened. He slipped farther down in his chair like a man hammered. He stared at Delaney, stricken.
“Well,” the Chief said briskly, “that takes care of opportunity. Now we come to the weapon …”
He rose, stepped to the table, bent far over the knife. His nose was almost touching it. Then he put on his glasses and bent over it again.
“Nice,” he said. “French. High-carbon steel. Holds a good edge a long time. It might have been used to slice Maitland and Simon; the length and width of the blade fit the description of the wounds in the autopsy reports. I’ll tell you, I’d never use a knife like that to murder someone, Mr. Geltman. First of all, the blade is too thin. It might hit a rib on the first jab and snap. Also, no matter how you wash it, you can never get a wood-handled knife clean. Tell him, sergeant.”
“The wood handle is riveted to the blade,” Boone explained. “But no matter how much you scrub, blood has soaked in between wood handle and steel. The lab guys pop the rivets, take off the wood, and examine the steel tang for blood seepage. Then they take tiny particles from the inside of the wood handles and examine them for blood. They can tell if it’s animal or human. If it’s human, they can usually determine the type. And tell if it matches Simon’s or Maitland’s.”
“That’s how it’s done,” Delaney nodded. “That’s how it will be done on this knife.”
“I didn’t do it,” Geltman muttered.
Delaney started back to his chair, replacing his glasses in his breast pocket. Then he returned to examine the knife again.
“You know,” he said, “this is what cooks call a boning knife. It looks to me like it’s part of a matched cutlery set. Very nice and very expensive. Sergeant, I think we better send those detectives back to Mr. Geltman’s apartment again to pick up the other knives in the set and put them all through the lab.
Geltman was bewildered.
“Detectives?” he said. “Back to my apartment again?”
“Oh, I didn’t mention that,” Delaney said, snapping his fingers lightly. “We got a search warrant. To toss your apartment and office. They’re looking for those three sketches we lifted from Maitland’s studio—and you lifted from my home. Think they’ll find them, Mr. Geltman?”
“I’m not going to say another word,” the art dealer said.
“You put my daughters in a closet, you fucker!” Delaney screamed at him.
Geltman closed his mouth firmly, clenched his jaws. He crossed his legs and began to drum slowly with his fingers on the top knee. He refused to meet Delaney’s eyes, but stared out the open window, seeing a rooftop, a wide patch of blue sky, a puff of cloud floating lazily.
“Motive, opportunity, weapon,” Chief Delaney went on inexorably. “And now, on top of that, we’ve got you on attempted subornation. Got it on tape. And on top of that, assault with a deadly weapon. How does it sound to you, Mr. Geltman?”
No answer. Delaney let the silence build awhile, frowning slightly, looking down at his flexing hands. Jason shifted his weight from foot to foot at the door. Sergeant Boone sat perfectly still, eyes never leaving the art dealer.
“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Geltman,” Delaney said finally. “I don’t think the DA will go for a Murder One conviction.”
Geltman started, uncrossed his knees. Then he did stare at Chief Delaney, leaning forward a little in his eagerness.
“I think you’ll get a smart lawyer who’ll do some plea bargaining and advise you to plead guilty to a lesser charge. Murder Two, maybe. If he’s a very smart lawyer, he might even get you a manslaughter rap. The point is, no matter how you slice it, you’re going to do time, Mr. Geltman. No way out of that. Jason, you want to make a guess?”
“Fifteen to twenty-five, Chief,” Jason boomed.
“Sergeant?”
“Eight to ten,” Boone said.
“My guess is somewhere between,” Delaney said thoughtfully. “About ten to fifteen before you’re up for parole. Fifteen years, Mr. Geltman. Great Meadows, I suppose. Or maybe Attica. A hard place like that.”
Saul Geltman made a sound, a small sound deep inside him. His stare slid off Delaney, lifted, moved across the ceiling, stopped at the square of summer sky outside the open window.
“Ten to fifteen,” Delaney nodded. “A smart lawyer could get you that. A smart, expensive lawyer. Your gallery will go, of course. You couldn’t have kept that without Maitland anyway; we know that. And that beautiful apartment of yours. All your lovely things. You know, Mr. Geltman, I think that was the most magnificent home I’ve ever seen. Truth. I remember so much about it: those soft-toned rugs, that elm’s-burl highboy, the polished wood and gleaming brass. The way everything seemed to go together. You were right: it was a dream, a beautiful dream. All gone now, of course. I suppose the IRS will sell the stuff at auction to pay your fine. Or you’ll have to sell it to pay for your defense. Other people will own those lovely things. But your beautiful home will be broken up, the dream destroyed.”
His voice had taken on a curious singsong quality, an almost musical cadence. Far away he could hear, dimly, street sounds: vendors’ chants, traffic, blare of horns, shouts and cries. But the other men in the room heard only the soft drone of Delaney’s voice, words that painted pictures and mesmerized them.
“All gone,” the Chief repeated. “The beauty, the softness, the rich comfort of it all. Very different from where you’re going, Mr. Geltman. For fifteen years. You’ll be in a ten-by-ten concrete cell with two other guys and a pisspot. And those guys! Animals, Mr. Geltman. Rough studs who’ll have you serving them hand and foot. Literally hand and foot, if you get my meaning. Food you can hardly stomach. A routine so boring that your imagination shrivels and your hope withers. Because every day is exactly like every other day—exactly, Mr. Geltman—and those fifteen years might as well be fifty years, or a hundred years, or a thousand, that’s how far away the end of them will seem to you. But all that’s not the worst part of prison, Mr. Geltman. Not to a man of your intelligence and sensibility and taste. Remember when we talked in your gallery about Maitland’s work, and you said you thought his paintings were the idea or conception of sensuality? Well, prison is the conception of ugliness. It is complete greyness, greyness in walls and clothing and even in food. And eventually the greyness in the skin of old cons, and a greyness of the soul. Dismal, gloomy. No bright colors there. No music. No real laughter or song. No beauty anywhere. Just hard, grey ugliness that seeps and presses all around. To a man like you, it means—”
It happened so quickly, so suddenly, that viewing the videotape later, a board of inquiry agreed it could not have been prevented.
Saul Geltman jerked to his feet as if plucked up by the hand of God.
He tilted forward, saved himself from falling by taking three running steps to the open window.
He went out like a man doing a header from the high board, arms extended, head tucked down.
His toes didn’t even tick the sill.
He cleared it, and he sailed.
They heard the noise when he hit.
Boone flinched. Jason shuddered. Edward X. Delaney had heard that sound before, and slowly closed his eyes.
“Oh my God!” Boone groaned. He leapt to his feet, rushed to the window. He propped his hands on both sides, leaned out cautiously, looked down. He turned back to the room, face blanched.
“They’ll need a blotter,” he reported.
Chief Delaney opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling.
“Well,” he said to no one, “he didn’t walk after all, did he?”
It was late in the afternoon before everything was done that had to be done. Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen took command of the investigation, received signed statements of all involved, impounde
d the videotapes, issued a report to the newspapers, granted a short interview to TV cameramen.
The three Maitland sketches were found in Geltman’s apartment. Rosa Perez was slipped her hundred-dollar baksheesh, and Delaney didn’t forget her half-gallon. Mama selected dark rum. The television equipment was removed, and the Perez and Ruiz apartments were restored, as completely as possible, to their original state.
The body of Saul Geltman was removed to the morgue in a blue plastic bodybag. Sawdust was scattered on the stained indentation in the concrete courtyard.
Abner Boone offered to drive Delaney home, and the Chief accepted gratefully. It took them awhile to get free of downtown traffic, but once they got on Third Avenue, they began to make good time, Boone driving at a speed to hit all the greens.
“By the way,” Delaney said, “over the Fourth of July weekend, Monica and I are going to rent a car and drive up to New Hampshire to visit the girls. We wondered if you and Rebecca would like to come along.”
“Like to very much,” Boone said promptly. “Thank you, sir. I’ll ask Rebecca; I’m sure she’ll go for it. But why rent a car? We can take mine.”
“I’ll tell you,” Delaney said dreamily, “all my life I’ve wanted to drive a Rolls-Royce, and I never have. I thought I’d surprise Monica and rent a great, big black Rolls. She’ll get a kick out of it, the kids, will flip and it’ll be a treat for me. It’s about an eight-hour trip, I figure, so I thought we could pack a hamper and have lunch on the road. You know, cold fried chicken and potato salad. Stuff like that.”
“Sounds wonderful,” the sergeant laughed. “Count us in. A Rolls-Royce, huh? “Would you believe I’ve never been in one?”
“I haven’t either,” Delaney smiled. “Now’s our chance.”
Then they were silent. Past 34th Street, traffic lightened, and Boone relaxed at the wheel.
“Chief …”he started.
“Yes?”
“When you were talking to Geltman before he jumped … I mean about his beautiful home, and how lousy prison life was …”
Second Deadly Sin Page 42