An Artful Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  “Yes,” said Kaminsky, “I think it would be better coming from you.” He took the information Klonis had written down, stood and thanked him, handed him his business card, and advised him to call at any time. Klonis reciprocated with his own card, rose politely, and escorted him through the lobby. As they reached the entrance, they could see through the outer glass doors that a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. Apparently the students’ mass exodus had attracted rubberneckers, including a couple of reporters, and on his way out Breinin had gleefully informed the world at large of Benton’s demise. Flashbulbs popped as Kaminsky descended the steps, past Officer Jenkins, who was blocking admission, and headed to his car.

  Klonis looked on with dismay. Better make those calls right away, he said to himself. This will be all over the front pages by morning.

  Eighteen

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Lloyd, but I must speak to you right away,” said Klonis into the telephone, eager to get the distressing conversation over with as soon as possible. Lloyd Goodrich also hoped the conversation would be brief. Klonis’s call had interrupted him at dinner with his wife, Edith, and several guests, though the museum director was too gracious to say so.

  One of the New York art world’s most respected administrators, as well as a League alumnus, Goodrich had been associated with the Whitney since its founding in 1930, first as a curator and since 1958 as director. He was often called upon as Klonis’s unofficial advisor and confidante, and was used to being asked for his opinion on governance matters and recommendations for potential instructors. But these requests were seldom, if ever, made at nine o’clock on a weeknight.

  “What’s the trouble, Stewart?” he asked with concern.

  Fidgeting with a pencil as he spoke, Klonis explained the situation. There was silence on the other end of the line as Goodrich absorbed the news.

  “So, as you can see,” Klonis concluded, “this is not simply a matter of Benton’s having died at the League. He was murdered. Possibly by one of our own students or instructors.”

  Goodrich had had several squabbles with the irascible artist, but he was having a hard time imagining Benton’s behavior provoking someone to homicide. “Poor Tom,” he sighed. “Oh, I know he had plenty of enemies, but who hated him enough to kill him?”

  “How in God’s name should I know?” snapped Klonis, who immediately apologized for his rudeness. “Please forgive me, Lloyd. I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what impact this will have on the League, how much adverse publicity it will generate, whether it will affect enrollment. Frankly, I just don’t know how to handle it.”

  “Has Rita been informed?”

  “The police will contact her as next of kin. I offered to let you and George Kennan know.”

  “Good. I’ll get onto George as well, coordinate the memorials. Of course we’ll do something at the museum. But for the moment, let’s consider your position, and the League’s reputation.” Knowing Klonis’s singular devotion to the school—matched by his own commitment to the Whitney—Goodrich understood how personally painful this calamity was to him.

  “As you know, the museum has had its share of bad publicity. Nothing quite like this, of course, but in my experience the best way to handle it is to get in front of it. Don’t wait for the papers to call you for comment. Draft a statement right away and get it to all the papers as soon as you can—tonight, if possible.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right, Lloyd. May I ask you to help me with it?”

  “Certainly. I’ll just have a word with Edith first, if you don’t mind, then I’ll be back with you right away. Stay on the line, in case a reporter is trying to call in. You need to prepare before you speak to the press.”

  As if on cue, the phone at the secretary’s desk in the outer office rang. Goodrich could hear it in the background. “Is that the League’s listed number?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Klonis. “My office number is a private line. It’s unlisted.”

  “Excellent. It will take them a while to find it, but eventually they will. Meanwhile, let’s work out some wording. You’ll have to run it by Everett before you release it.” Walker G. Everett, the League’s president, was also a member of the public relations committee and had final approval on all official communications.

  “Naturally,” replied Klonis. “I’d better call him right away. I can use the other line to dial out and leave this line open. Or perhaps I should wait until I have something to read to him. Oh, dear, this is complicated. What if he doesn’t approve?” He was beginning to get flustered again.

  Goodrich, an old hand at fending off unwelcome press inquiries and manipulating board members, assured his friend that it would all go smoothly. “Call Everett now, and tell him what you told me. Tell him you’ll handle everything, and that you’ll call him back as soon as you have a statement ready. You know he’ll be only too glad to defer to your judgment, and the board will give you the credit for saving the day.” Unspoken was the implication that if things went south, Klonis would be the one to take the blame.

  * * *

  An hour later, Klonis was on the line to the Associated Press office at 50 Rockefeller Plaza, reading the following statement to the New York City correspondent on night duty:

  At approximately seven p.m. on Wednesday, November first, 1967, the body of Thomas Hart Benton, the noted American Regionalist painter, was discovered in Studio Nine at the Art Students League of New York, 215 West Fifty-Seventh Street. The cause of death has not been officially determined. The circumstances are being investigated by the New York City Police Department’s Eighteenth Precinct, 306 West Fifty-Fourth Street, under the leadership of Inspector Jacob Kaminsky.

  An Art Students League instructor from 1926 to 1935, Mr. Benton had lived and worked in Kansas City, Missouri, for the past thirty-two years. He was a frequent visitor to the school since a retrospective exhibition of his work opened at the Whitney Museum of American Art, 945 Madison Avenue, last month.

  The administration, faculty and students of the Art Students League wish to express sincere condolences to the artist’s widow, Rita Piacenza Benton, and his children, Thomas Piacenza Benton of Acton, Massachusetts, and Jessie Benton Gude of Roxbury, Massachusetts. Memorial services will be announced.

  Inquiries should be directed to Stewart Klonis, Executive Director, Art Students League of New York, Circle 7–4510.

  “Give them lots of information,” Goodrich had advised, “but don’t say very much. Whatever you do say, don’t lie. Be factual. Let the police take the next steps, after the autopsy. That will buy you some time.”

  Klonis was pessimistic. “Not more than a couple of days, I’m afraid. As soon as the cause of death is official, the press will be all over us. The police already know he was murdered, and a murder in our building has thrown suspicion on everyone associated with the League. No doubt the police will be a visible presence. Students and faculty will be questioned. Classes are sure to be disrupted. Enrollment for next term may be affected.” He was audibly agitated by this bleak prospect, and Goodrich did his best to calm his friend.

  “Your best plan is complete cooperation with the investigation. If you know of anyone who might have had a motive, you must tell the police.”

  “When they were here, the inspector asked me about that and I said I didn’t. But now that I think about it, some things were brought to my attention, more or less in passing. Several instructors mentioned to me that Benton had butted in on their classes, but that was mere annoyance. There was, however, an incident in the cafeteria a week ago that was more serious. Blows were exchanged, I was told. Perhaps I should advise Inspector Kaminsky of that.”

  “You know,” said Goodrich, “we had something like that happen at the museum a couple of weeks ago. Tom was giving a gallery talk—he came in several times and did impromptu tours for whoever happened to be in the exhibition, a
nd he always attracted a crowd. Very entertaining commentaries, they were, too. But one day, who should show up but Andy Warhol and his entourage. I’m sure it was a coincidence—Tom couldn’t possibly have invited them, because no sooner did he recognize Andy than he started insulting him in the grossest terms. I got the story, in graphic detail, from one of the guards.

  “Please pardon my language, Stewart, but according to the guard he called Andy a simpering queer and ordered him and his, pardon me again, bunch of butt-fuckers and dope addicts out of the building. Of course they laughed at him—Andy actually cracked a smile—and that made Tom even madder. He practically started a fistfight in the gallery, and the guards had to break it up. They brought him to my office, and I calmed him down, but not before he spent half an hour raving about how this Pittsburgh parvenu pansy and the whole Pop art contingent had hijacked the art world.”

  Klonis was taken aback. “Good God, Lloyd, it sounds like the man was out of control. I know the exhibition put a lot of pressure on him, and of course the largely negative reviews didn’t help, thought the coverage seems to have stimulated attendance. He must have felt threatened by anyone who might challenge his position. Did the Warhol crowd do anything to provoke him?”

  “On the contrary, that’s what’s so curious. Andy was very respectful. You know how he can be, sort of gee-whiz about things, and you do wonder if he’s sincere or if it’s some sort of ironic act. But on the face of it he was being complimentary. The guard told me Andy didn’t know at first that Tom was in the gallery. He went over to one of the paintings and said something like ‘Oh, gosh, isn’t that beautiful? Look at the pretty colors. Aren’t the flowers pretty?’ He had his flock around him, and they do attract attention, so they were distracting people from Tom’s monologue. Tom told them to pipe down, and that’s when he recognized Andy. It went downhill from there.”

  This account made Klonis wonder if Benton’s killer might be an outsider. “You’d better tell the police about that incident, Lloyd. Whatever you think of Warhol or his art, there’s no question that some of the people around him are unsavory. Any one of them could have come in here and assaulted him. Some of them may even be former League students familiar with the building.”

  Goodrich was skeptical. “How would someone get him up to the fifth floor? What was he doing up there between classes anyway? As I recall, there’s only the one studio on that floor, and it’s usually empty when there’s no class in session.”

  “I don’t think that would have been difficult,” replied Klonis. “Studio Nine was Benton’s old classroom. He called it the penthouse—top floor for the top artist. He was up there several times during the past few weeks, dropping in on whatever class was in session. Charles Alston, who’s in there five afternoons a week, apparently didn’t mind, nor did Bob Brackman, who has the morning class. He started teaching here back in Benton’s day. I think they got along fine. Ray Breinin, on the other hand, threw him out—he told us so himself. There’s a history of animosity there, and he’s definitely a suspect.”

  Nineteen

  Thursday, November 2

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Brian Fitzgerald as he read the front page of the Daily News at the breakfast table. He handed the paper, folded over to the headline, “Artist Found Dead at League,” to his son and asked, “Isn’t this the guy you told us about?”

  “Who’s that?” asked Nita as she poured herself another cup of coffee.

  “Thomas Hart Benton, the artist,” said her husband. “You remember TJ telling us how he disrupted his art class, and how he saw him at the New School. That’s him, right?”

  TJ took the paper and read the first paragraph. “It sure is. I wonder what happened. Says here cause of death not known. Says he was found in Studio Nine, that’s up on the top floor, so I guess he didn’t fall down the stairs. He was an old geezer, maybe he had a heart attack. I’ll probably find out more tonight.”

  “Says Jacob Kaminsky is investigating,” said Fitz. “That means it’s not straightforward. Looks like they don’t have much to go on, at least not yet. Most of the story is background about Benton’s career and the show at the Whitney. Jake’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  * * *

  Inspector Kaminsky was already organizing his inquiries. But his first order of business was to inform the widow.

  Rita Benton had not been at the St. Regis on Wednesday night. The management told Kaminsky that she was visiting her niece on Long Island for a few days and had left a number where she could be reached. He much preferred to speak to the next of kin in person, but he couldn’t wait for her to return. By the time he finished with Chris Gray and Ray Breinin it was too late to call, so he tabled it until morning.

  Early on Thursday he dialed the Mattituck number, which was answered by Maria Piacenza Kron. He identified himself and asked to speak to Mrs. Benton.

  “Aunt Rita’s right here, Inspector. Don’t tell me Uncle Tom’s gone and got himself arrested.” Maria had apparently heard about some of Benton’s recent antics.

  No, I won’t be telling you that, said Kaminsky to himself. He ignored her prompt and asked her please to put Mrs. Benton on the line.

  “Just a minute,” she said, and laid down the phone. He heard her footsteps on the hallway’s bare wood floor, and her voice call, “Aunt Rita, there’s a policeman on the phone for you.” A distant voice said something in Italian that he didn’t catch, but from the tone it sounded like a curse. A chair scraped, and more footsteps approached the telephone in the hall.

  “This is Rita Benton.” The voice was richly accented and slightly exasperated. “No doubt you are calling about my husband. What has he done now?”

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Benton. I have some very bad news for you.” He told her, but not that her husband had been stabbed to death.

  “Gesù, Maria e Giuseppe!” she cried. “Maria, Joe, Tommasso è morto! Mio amore!” She began to moan, and her niece rushed to the phone with her husband in tow.

  “Take her back to the kitchen, Joe. Get her some brandy. Hello, Inspector, what did you tell her? Is my uncle dead?”

  “Yes, he is, Mrs. Kron. Can you arrange for your aunt to return to the city as soon as possible?”

  “What happened to him?”

  “His body was found at the Art Students League. There will have to be an autopsy, and we need Mrs. Benton, as next of kin, to release the body to the medical examiner.”

  Maria Kron took charge. She told Kaminsky that she and her husband would drive Rita Benton to New York City immediately. He gave her the address of the Eighteenth Precinct, and she said they’d be there by noon.

  Thank God that’s over, at least for now, thought Kaminsky. I hope she doesn’t break down here at the station. I’d better have a policewoman on hand when she gets here. She’ll probably start howling when she identifies the body. Oh, well, that won’t be my problem. And the guys at the morgue are used to it. He called the New York City Mortuary at Bellevue Hospital to let them know that he would be bringing in Mrs. Benton early that afternoon.

  Kaminsky now turned his attention to the statements taken from Christopher Gray and Raymond Breinin the previous night.

  Chris had told him that Alston’s afternoon class finished at four thirty, after which students tended to trickle out until about five. Then the room was vacant until a quarter to seven, when the monitor for the evening class went in to tidy up and do whatever preparations were required. He said the studio door was left open so students who wanted to work after class could come and go, but the top floor was usually deserted between classes.

  He was the Wednesday evening monitor. He explained what was involved, depending on the type of setup. A live model might need drapery, a chair, a stool, or a pole, which were usually left out in the room or kept in the storage closet, while a still life arrangement required a table and props from a separate cabinet. The monitors had
keys to all the doors.

  When asked where he was during the hiatus between classes, Chris said he’d gone to the cafeteria around six to grab a sandwich and stayed to chat with some of the other students. Then he walked up two flights and entered Studio Nine at six forty-five, his usual time.

  “What about the time from four thirty to six?” asked Kaminsky.

  “I was in Laning’s mural class in Studio Sixteen on the first floor until half past four,” he said, “and I stayed on to work on my project. I’m a full-time student, and I want to be a professional muralist when I finish my coursework. I just won a scholarship that’ll begin in January, so between that and my G.I. Bill I won’t have to monitor anymore.”

  “You say you were on the first floor all the time until you went to the cafeteria?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m working on a mural concept for a library, just a proposal, nothing specific. Sort of like what Benton did when he was first trying to get mural commissions. He made a proposal to the New York Public Library back in the ’20s, but it was rejected. I guess I’ll have to expect that, too, unless Mr. Laning goes to bat for me. He did the library murals in the main branch, you know, on Fifth Avenue.”

  Kaminsky took him back to the point. “Was anyone else there with you during that hour and a half?”

  “No, I guess not. I think somebody came in to get something from a locker, but I wasn’t paying attention. But nobody else stayed after class, if that’s what you mean.”