Mary Peg called out, “Albert? Come back here and talk!” Crosetti stuck his thumb over the microphone slits and yelled, “In a minute, Ma. I’m on the phone with Mr. Glaser.”
Resuming his conversation, he said, “Uh-huh, yes, sir, I did know that. And so you actually sold her the books?”
“Oh, yes, just the carcasses, net of the prints and so on. I think she paid thirty dollars a volume. I really don’t like to bother with that aspect of the trade and Carolyn made a little business of it for some years, sprucing up fine bindings off worthless books and selling them to decorators, who would then sell them, I imagine to illiterates for concealing their liquor cabinets. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
Crosetti made something up, a question about how he should handle the fire loss in their inventory accounting system, got a brief answer, and closed the conversation. He was both relieved and stunned by what he had just learned: relieved because this cleared up the legal ownership of the manuscript, stunned because Carolyn had allowed him to think there was something shady about the deal when there wasn’t. So why had she allowed him to take the manuscript for his own? Why had she pretended to be semi-blackmailed into letting him have it? Why had she used this supposed crime as an emotional lever to get him to sell it to Bulstrode? None of it made sense. And how was he supposed to get all that past his sister?
He went back into the kitchen and related the gist of the conversation he had just had, and, as expected, Donna was full of the objections that he just passed through his own mind. He cut her off, however, feeling rather more aggressive, now that he had right on his side. “Donna, for crying out loud, none of that matters. For all practical purposes I own the Bracegirdle manuscript. Carolyn isn’t here, and Glaser is not going to make a fuss because I got the impression he’s scamming the insurance company on the ruined volumes. He probably put in for the whole value and forgot to mention to them what he’d realized on the maps and prints, five grand or so. So that part’s fixed.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Donna. “The insurance company might have a case that they own the thing. They paid for it.”
“Then let them sue,” snapped Crosetti. “Meanwhile, do we have any chance of getting the manuscript back from the estate?”
“You could sue,” replied Donna with equal heat.
“Children,” said Mary Peg in a familiar tone, “calm down. If no one stole anything, we have a completely different situation, thank God. Why don’t we wait and see what this Mr. Mishkin has to say. What I’m a lot more worried about is this attempted kidnapping business. I’m going to call Patty. I think the police should be involved.”
With that, she went to the kitchen phone, but before she could dial, the doorbell rang. Mary Peg went to the door and admitted a very large man in a black leather coat. He had a close-cropped head and a bleak, hard look on his face, and for a panicked instant, Crosetti thought he might be one of the men who had just attacked him. But as he came forward to introduce himself, Crosetti saw that, despite the hard features, the man was not a thug, that there was a sad look in his dark eyes, reminding Crosetti of his own father, also a man with a hard face and a sad look.
Mary Peg declared that they would all be more comfortable in the living room (she meant: away from the disgraceful jelly glasses on the table and the reek of red wine), and so they all trooped off to the worn upholstery, the knickknacks, and the Portrait, and she said she would make some coffee, and could she take Mr. Mishkin’s coat?
When they were seated, Donna lost no time showing that she was in charge. She told the big man who she was and that she was representing the family temporarily and stated what she believed were the primary facts of the case: that her brother had gone to Professor Bulstrode in good faith for an assessment of a seventeenth-century manuscript he owned; that Bulstrode had abused his professional responsibility to provide an honest assessment, had, in fact, lied about the content of the manuscript, which was a valuable addition to Shakespeare scholarship, and had purchased the document from Albert Crosetti for a fraction of its value, a transaction that any court would find unconscionable. And what did Mishkin intend to do about it?
Mishkin said, “Well, Ms. Crosetti, there’s not much I can do about it. You see, I’m here under false pretenses, in a way. My personal involvement in this affair was prompted by the fact that Professor Bulstrode came to me shortly before his tragic death and deposited the manuscript he had bought from Mr. Crosetti here with our firm. He was seeking some intellectual property advice, which I provided. The manuscript was part of his estate at death, and when a woman appeared claiming to be his heiress, we accommodated her in our trust department. I personally am not handling that aspect.”
“So why are you here?” asked Donna, and then, as she registered the import of his phrasing, demanded, “And what do you mean by ‘claiming to be his heiress’?”
“Well, as to that: it seems we’ve been defrauded. This woman, the supposed niece to the decedent, Miranda Kellogg, made off with the manuscript. Her whereabouts are at present unknown.”
At this, astonishment. “You must be joking!” said Donna.
“I wish I were, Ms. Crosetti. And I admit it was entirely my fault. This person secured my confidence with an entirely plausible story and I gave her the document.”
Mishkin turned his sad eyes on Crosetti. “You asked why I came to see you. Tell me, have you or has anyone associated with you been threatened in any way?”
Crosetti exchanged a brief glance with his sister, then answered: “Yeah. As a matter of fact a couple of guys tried to snatch me a little while ago.”
“These were two men, one very large and one somewhat smaller, traveling in a black SUV?”
“Yeah, that’s right. How did you know?”
“They attacked me too, last week, and tried to steal the thing. I was able to fend them off at the time, but shortly after that, they, or someone else, invaded my home, knocked out my assistant, and made off with the manuscript and the woman who was posing as Ms. Kellogg. I had imagined that she was kidnapped, but it now seems that she was in league with the assailants. I can only suppose that the first attack was to establish a bond between me and the woman, to allay my suspicions. That, or we’re dealing with two separate antagonists. Speaking of which, Mr. Crosetti, I assume you know the person listed in Bulstrode’s appointment book as Carolyn R.”
“Yes! Yes, I do. Carolyn Rolly. She’s the person who found the manuscript in a set of books. Do you know where she is?”
“No, I don’t, but Ms. Kellogg called me after she vanished and told me there was a person named Carolyn involved. Whether she’s a victim or working with the thugs I couldn’t say. But clearly, she understood that you did not part with the entire manuscript, and that there were still a number of pages, apparently in ciphered form, that you retained. Whoever’s behind this knows you have them and wants them.”
“But they’re useless,” Crosetti protested. “They’re indecipherable. Hell, whoever it is can have them right now. You want them? You can have the goddamn things…”
“I don’t like the idea of surrendering your property as a result of threats,” said Donna.
“No? Then why don’t you take it?”
“Take what?” said Mary Peg, entering with a tray full of coffee cups and a plate of biscotti.
“Albert wants to give his ciphered manuscripts to the thugs,” said Donna.
“Nonsense,” said Mary Peg as she handed out the coffee mugs. “We don’t give in to violence.” She sat down on the sofa next to her son. “Now, we all seem to be involved in this in various ways, so why don’t we all share our stories from the beginning, just like they do in the mysteries, and then agree on a course of action.”
“Mother, that’s insane!” cried Donna. “We should call the police now and turn this whole mess over to them.”
“Darling, the police have other things to worry about besides secret letters and attempted kidnap. I’ll let Patsy know what�
��s going on, but I’m sure she’ll agree. The cops can’t possibly put a twenty-four-hour guard on everyone in this family. We have to figure this out ourselves, which we’re perfectly capable of doing. Besides, my Irish is up. I don’t like it when bums try to muscle my people. When that happens I muscle back.”
At this, both of Mary Peg’s children stared at her, and for the first time in many years recalled certain mortifying events of their childhood. All the Crosetti children had gone to school at Holy Family down the street, and were part of the last generation of American Catholic children to be educated at least in part by nuns. Unlike the parents of all their friends, Mary Peg had taken no guff at all from the sisters and had often appeared in the chalky hallways to rail against some injustice or inattention or incompetence she had detected in their relations with her children, and continued despite all their pleas to stop. Yet at some level, they still believed that anyone who could take on a fire-breathing eleven-foot-tall Sister of Charity could handle any number of mere gangsters.
“Why don’t you begin, Mr. Mishkin?” she said.
“Jake,” said Mr. Mishkin.
“As in Chinatown,” said Mary Peg.
“I certainly hope not,” said Mishkin, withdrawing a small diary from his breast pocket. “Let’s see. October eleventh, Bulstrode arrives at my office, seeking some intellectual property advice…” And he told the whole story, except the dirty parts, ending with his conversation with Osip Shvanov, and his denial of involvement with any rough stuff.
“And you believed him?” asked Mary Peg.
“Not at all. He actually asked me about the ciphered letters. The people who just tried to kidnap you tried it because they want something you have, which can only be those letters, which you tell me you have not been able to decipher.”
The three Crosettis shared a quick look among them, and after a pregnant pause Crosetti said that they had not, and explained why, after which Mary Peg said, “Albert, you understand what this means?”
Crosetti said, “No, I don’t,” a temporary lie, this, to ward off dreadful knowledge.
“Well, it’s very clear to me,” said his mother. “There were only two people still alive who knew that the ruined books contained a set of ciphered letters, you and this Carolyn person, and the only people you’ve told are completely reliable-”
“Oh, right! What about Klim?”
“…completely reliable, which means that this Rolly woman has been behind all of it from day one.”
“Uh-uh.”
“No, really, Albert, face facts! Who got you to sell to Bulstrode? Rolly. Who disappeared to England right after you sold to Bulstrode? Rolly. Bulstrode must have found out something in England, and they were probably together when he found it. Then he comes back and he’s tortured to death to reveal whatever it was, and how could whoever did it know what he found out? Rolly!”
“Mother, that is so…so completely off the charts. You assume that Carolyn’s the perpetrator here on zero evidence. She could just as easily be another victim. She could’ve been tortured too, and that’s how whoever it is knows about the ciphers.”
“He’s right, Ma,” said Donna, as her natural defender’s personality emerged. “We just don’t know enough to speculate about the guilt of Carolyn Rolly, although unless the leak comes from Allie indirectly, the source of knowledge about the ciphers has to come from her. Meanwhile, this is clearly a criminal matter and-”
Bang.
The sound came from the street, and the three Crosettis knew immediately what it was, because they were not a family to ever say “I thought it was a firecracker or a car backfiring.” In the next seconds a fusillade sounded from the street. Everyone stood up and Mary Peg made for the cordless phone sitting on an end table. Now came breaking glass, the sound of heavy feet, and three big men charged into the room, all of them carrying large 9 mm semiautomatic pistols. One of them shouted at Mary Peg to drop the phone. She ignored him and continued to punch in 911. When the operator came on she gave her address twice and said, “Shots fired. Home invasion,” before the phone was torn from her hand and a big man grabbed her around the neck and held a gun to her temple.
T HE F IFTH C IPHERED L ETTER
My lord I have not had message from you these five moneths & what shal I doe? W.S. saith he will not give hys plaie of Mary to anie hand but my lord of Rochester’s owne or onne of hys house. Shal I steale it of hym & sende? Mr Wales is dead this weeke, found stabbed in Mincing Lane. From London 2nd December 1611 Restyng yr Lordships moste loyal & obdt servt Richard Bracegirdle.
15
After Shvanov left I used the cell phone to call Miriam. She was, of course, out and with her own cell phone switched off (I have never once, in more than twenty years, connected with my sister on the first try), so I left a somewhat frantic message. Why? Because no one is supposed to know Dad but the three of us? Ridiculous, but there it was, a feeling of dread.
Around ten the next morning I received a cell phone call from a woman named Donna Crosetti, who said she was representing her brother, Albert, in the matter of certain papers fraudulently obtained by the late Bulstrode. I replied that it remained to be seen whether any fraud had taken place, but that I would be happy to meet with her, or Albert, to discuss the matter, all the while thinking that it was odd for a lawyer to be representing a family member, and odd too was the venue she proposed, a house in Queens rather than a law office. After we had arranged the meeting for that evening, I dialed the number she had called from and was surprised to find it a Legal Aid office. This is yet another indication of how nuts I was then, as in my right mind I never would have agreed to such a meeting.
Meanwhile, my diary helps not at all, as I was now cut loose from my normal office routine. My appointments were cleared indefinitely, which turned out not to be such a good thing. People in stressful jobs are often told to take a rest, but sometimes it is just that stress that has held them together, like the proverbial ancient biplane kept in the air with rubber bands and baling wire, without which it falls from the sky. So, now, in unaccustomed idleness, all the little wheels started to wobble loose or jam up. I paced. I flicked channels. I watched pigeons and traffic out my window. I had a massive coronary…
What it felt like for a moment, but which was only the start of panic: short breath, sweats, tingling in arms, a little dyskinesia. The cell phone buzzed its simple factory-installed tweedle and I grabbed for it like life itself and it was Omar, and would I be going out today? Actually, I would. I had the usual number of friends and acquaintances around town, but there was only one person I thought I could go to after getting fired from my job for malfeasance, which was my wife. So I cleaned myself up, dressed casually but with care, checked my image for corporal signs of depravity, found many, took a Xanax so as not to fret about these overmuch, and away we went uptown. More dummheit! I always forget that my wife understands me.
I believe I mentioned that Amalie runs a financial newsletter out of a small office in our town house. This is somewhat misleading, because there is also an actual office full of gnomes down on Broad Street, and in other offices scattered throughout the planet in the time zones that matter to international money. My wife visits these as infrequently as she can get away with, because it is her fancy that she is a simple wife and mother with a paying hobby, as if she were crocheting pot holders instead of running a multimillion-dollar enterprise. It is something of a joke in the financial district, I am told, but it turns out (ask Mike Bloomberg) that after a while one’s financial information empire more or less runs itself, and the founder’s main responsibility is to resist kibitzing.
Thus I had every reason to believe that Amalie would be free for a nice consoling chat, but when I arrived at the house and was let in by Lourdes, and asked where Amalie was, she told me (with what I thought was excessive satisfaction) that Amalie was not available, that she was having a meeting. I could wait in the living room.
So I waited and fumed and wished for more d
rugs and got tight in the chest for what seemed like hours, but by my oft-consulted watch was less than forty minutes, until I heard voices in the hallway and sprang up and was able to witness Amalie showing out a trio of suits, who looked at me curiously, as at an exhibit (I imagined): unemployed ex-husband, lurking. Amalie, for her part, showed no surprise, nor did she introduce me to the suits but ushered them graciously out the door.
When she came back, I said, “Big meeting?” keeping the tone light.
“Yes,” she said. “What’s wrong, Jake?”
I related the law firm story in the most pathetic and self-deprecating manner possible, sitting on her/my leather couch while she perched primly on the chair opposite. I omitted only the horrible Russian of the previous evening.
“Poor Jake,” she said when I was finished. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know. Take some time off, think about life. Maybe I’ll look for this lost play.”
“Oh, don’t even joke about that!”
“Why not?” I said. “Where’s the harm?”
“The harm is that one man has been killed over this, according to you, and my children are having to be watched by Paul’s gangsters. I cannot stand to live like this, Jake. I have said to Paul, thank you very much, but please no.”
“What, no one is watching the children?”
“No, and there is no reason for anyone to bother with them because you have nothing they want any longer.” She must have observed something in my face that I was not aware of, because she added, a little more forcefully, “Or so you have led me to believe. Is there anything?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Of course not. They have the original letter already and that was all I ever had. It’s over.”
She kept looking at me as if waiting. At last I said, “What?”
“Nothing. I have nothing to say. You are the one who came to my house.”
The Book of Air and Shadows Page 33