An Artful Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  Kaminsky circled back. “This girl who threatened him, any idea who she was?”

  “As I told you, I wasn’t in the gallery when it happened. Perhaps one of the guards recognized her. I can ask them. You don’t think she was serious?”

  “It’s like you said, Mr. Goodrich, it may have no bearing on the case, but it needs investigating. Was it just an angry outburst or a real threat? If it was real, was it acted on? You wouldn’t have called me if you hadn’t asked yourself those questions.”

  * * *

  There were quite a few Millsteins in the phone book, but only one at 310 West Forty-Ninth Street—Samuel Millstein. Falucci placed the call at half past three and got Mrs. Millstein, who said her son was not at home.

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “This is Detective Anthony Falucci of the New York City Police Department, Mrs. Millstein. I need to speak to your son in connection with an investigation.”

  There was a pause, then she said simply, “He’s out of town.” She was not going to elaborate. He thought, I wonder how much he’s told her.

  “Then I’ll need to ask you some questions,” he said. “I’ll be with you shortly. Please stay at home until I get there. It will only be a few minutes.” He hung up before she could object.

  On his way out of the station, he popped into Kaminsky’s office and told him he’d spoken to Mrs. Millstein and was headed off to interview her. “I’ll go from there down to Breinin’s place,” he said. “The wife is supposed to be home around five thirty. If I’m early I’ll wait for her. Don’t know how long I’ll be at the Millstein place. The mother says her son’s out of town. Probably on the run to Canada, only now he’s dodging the law as well as the draft board.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard to trace him. I’ll issue a warrant and alert the inspection station at Rouses Point. That’s where the New York Central train goes through customs before heading into Quebec. There’s only one train a day, and it won’t have gotten to the border yet.” He knew this because, on his vacation in August, he and his wife had taken that train to Expo 67, the world’s fair in Montreal, and had been exasperated by the long delay passing through customs. No passport was required, but proof of identity was.

  “He’s sure to have a fake ID,” said Kaminsky. “I got a pretty good description from Klonis over at the League, but see if you can get a photo of him from his mother.”

  Twenty-Two

  By the time TJ arrived at the League that evening, the building was literally buzzing with apprehension. The top floor was cordoned off, and the police had been questioning the instructors and staff who were in on Wednesday. Other officers had been sent to interview those who had been there Wednesday but were not in today. The registrar had supplied a list of all students registered in Wednesday classes, and they were being checked for criminal records. It was obvious that they were treating Benton’s death as a homicide.

  Klonis had insisted that, despite the ongoing investigation, classes should be held as scheduled. Alternative accommodations had to be found for those usually held in Studio Nine—not a simple matter, since the large studio was used primarily by full-time students who left their canvases there and were now barred from getting them. They would have to start over in a different studio or with a different instructor if no vacant space could be found.

  Fortunately Breinin taught only on Wednesday evenings, so he would not be returning to that studio for a week, by which time Klonis assumed the case would be solved. Of course if it turned out that, notwithstanding his denial, Breinin was the killer, he’d have to find another instructor. He could probably persuade one of the other part-timers to take on two evenings a week.

  This logistical juggling act didn’t affect TJ’s once-a-week night class, which maintained its normal schedule. And the venerable building itself still sat sedately in its usual spot on West Fifty-Seventh Street, but that was where normality ended. The entrance was now guarded by a uniformed police officer, who turned away anyone not authorized to enter. Proof was needed, so a monitor also stood at the door checking everyone’s identification against a long list of students, staff members, instructors, and models. No part-timers were allowed in if it wasn’t their assigned day.

  A chilly crosstown breeze blew in TJ’s face, warning that fall would soon turn to winter. He turned up the collar of his jacket as he approached the entrance, and the atmosphere cooled further as he huddled with a group waiting for admission. “No one goes in who’s not on the list,” shouted the cop. “Get your IDs ready.”

  “What’s going on?” asked a young man next to him, someone he didn’t know from one of the other evening classes.

  “Didn’t you read about it?” replied TJ. “There was a body found here last night. The police are investigating.” He filled in some of the story he’d got from the paper as they slowly made their way to the entrance.

  While the cop gave TJ the once-over, a man with a clipboard asked him for his ID. He offered his draft card, which showed his 1-S classification as a full-time college student. The monitor, a hard-faced man whom TJ pegged as ex-military, looked at it and handed it back to him without comment. His name was checked off, and he was motioned through the outer door. Clearly the gatekeeper was not enjoying his job.

  Once inside, he joined the general hubbub in the lobby, where another monitor was redirecting Rudolph Baranik’s students, whose class in Studio Nine was relocated. Loud complaints were heard—“All my supplies are in my locker up on five,” “I need to get my painting,” and “What room did he say Baranik is in?” Baranik, a Lithuanian émigré, World War II veteran, and Art Students League alumnus, was an outspoken anti-war activist whose ongoing series of paintings he called Napalm Elegies was chronicling the human ravages of America’s defoliation campaign. His Thursday evening life class attracted a fiercely loyal cadre of like-minded students, including those Vietnam vets who were also against the war. They would have gone to his class if it had been moved to the broom closet. Fortunately a vacant studio on the second floor was available, so that’s where they were sent.

  TJ made his way among the knots of students speculating about Benton’s death. Theories ranged from apoplexy brought on by a fight, the most popular, to murder by one of the many people he had offended, not an unreasonable assumption.

  “I bet Bill Millstein did him in,” TJ was alarmed to hear one young woman suggest. “I was in the lunchroom when he called Bill a poor excuse for a man, then started cursing at him, said he must be a fucking pansy. I think he called him a kike, too. Bill picked up a knife off the table, and I swear he would have used it on Benton if a couple of the other guys hadn’t stepped in.”

  “My money’s on Breinin,” said someone in another group. “I heard he was telling the world how he hated Benton’s guts and was glad he was dead.”

  “Yeah,” chimed in his friend, “but would you say that if you killed the guy? Not if you’re smart. Breinin’s impulsive, and he’s got a temper, but he’s no fool.”

  “Maybe they had an argument, and Benton blew a fuse,” offered an advocate of the apoplexy explanation. “I’d say that loudmouth Russian’s capable of riling him up enough.” Apparently the fact that Benton had been stabbed had not yet leaked out.

  When TJ finally reached the studio, he saw Ellen already inside. She usually went home to change after work, swapping her miniskirt for more practical jeans, but tonight she hadn’t bothered. Instead she’d gone straight from the Automat to the League, a mere matter of crossing the street. At first they wouldn’t let her in—too early, the monitor said—but at half past six they gave her the okay. She was looking for Bill.

  “Have you seen him?” she asked TJ anxiously. “He hasn’t been to the Automat for over a week, and out in the lobby they’re saying he may be mixed up in this Benton thing. What really happened, TJ? Did he just drop dead or did som
eone kill him?”

  “Damned if I know,” he answered. “My dad saw it in the paper this morning, that’s the first report I got, and it didn’t say much, just that he was found dead upstairs. Nobody outside has a clue, either, they’re all just guessing.”

  The bottleneck at the entrance was thinning out, but some students had decided to turn around and go home when they heard what had happened. Others had probably read about it and simply stayed away. The only one who didn’t seem perturbed was Wally, who came in late, apologized politely for the delay, and disappeared behind the screen.

  At seven thirty the depleted class was far from settled when Laning appeared. Usually he would wait for an hour or so, giving the students time to accomplish something before he checked on their progress. But this was no ordinary night.

  Remarkably, Chris had shown up for the afternoon mural class, which had also been sparsely attended, and went about setting up as if nothing had happened. But when the class finished he took Laning aside and told him the whole story, knife and all—except for the postcard, which neither he nor Klonis had gotten a good look at. He said only that something, probably a note of some kind, was stuck on the blade.

  Laning was dumbfounded. “It’s unbelievable. I’ve heard people say they’d like to wring Benton’s neck, even threaten to punch him in the nose, but actually kill him? I know there was that fracas in the cafeteria, but surely it wasn’t that serious.”

  “Things got pretty hot,” Chris told him, “but Wally intervened and Mr. Lawrence calmed Mr. Benton down, and we got Bill the hell out of there. Dan Forsburg was pretty sore, but it was actually kinda comical the way Benton went after him, like a bulldog taking on a bull. I think he’d had a skin full, or he would’ve thought twice before he threw that punch. Dan shrugged it off afterward, but he was ready to deck him for sure.”

  “What about you, Chris? You’ve had a helluva time. The shock of finding the body, then trying to cope while the police were here, then being questioned at the station until late at night.” Gently, he put his hand on his student’s shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

  Chris sighed, lowered his eyes, and shook his head. “Thanks, Mr. Laning, but I’ll be okay. It only sank in when I got home and had to tell Arlene why I was so late. I called her from the police station, just so she wouldn’t worry, but I didn’t want to talk about it on the phone. She’s afraid they’ll think I did it, but that’s ridiculous. I had no reason, none at all.”

  He looked up, and Laning saw a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. Was it simply hope that the police had accepted his statement, or a plea for affirmation? He decided it was the latter.

  “Of course you didn’t, Chris. No one I know had a reason to go that far. Anyone could have come in here and attacked him, the building is wide open—at least it was. The police will find him, don’t you worry.” Laning realized it was a foolish thing to say. Chris would be stupid not to worry.

  * * *

  Laning stepped onto the model stand and asked Wally, who had only been in position for a few minutes, to take an early break. He donned his robe and returned behind the screen, where an armchair and the sports page were waiting.

  “I think you all know the cause of the disruption,” Laning began, “but what you may not know is that Mr. Benton was murdered. Chris Gray found him, and he told me Tom was stabbed in the chest.”

  There were murmurs in the room, a few jaws dropped, and one of the women made a high-pitched sound that wasn’t quite a scream, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

  “If any of you would prefer to skip tonight’s class, I will understand. I’ve discussed it with Mr. Klonis, and he has agreed to give everyone credit for a makeup session when this business is settled. Meanwhile those of you who wish to stay, please raise your hands.” Only Al Schwartz, and a couple of the other painters did. Since Bill was absent, Al took attendance while those who were leaving packed up their supplies.

  “I hate to miss class, but I couldn’t have concentrated,” said Ellen as she walked with TJ to the subway. “It just seems, like, unreal. Murder. Wow. Crazy. Just crazy.” She was mumbling, distracted. Suddenly she stopped, reached out, and took TJ’s hand. “Will you help me find Bill?” she asked earnestly. “I’m so worried, scared for him, really. I need to know he’s okay.”

  Thrilled by her touch, TJ wanted to embrace and reassure her, but he held back. Not now, when she’s so upset, he told himself, she’ll take it the wrong way. Instead he contented himself with squeezing her hand, not too hard but firmly, and promising to do whatever he could.

  Then he had an idea. “Come home with me, Ellen. We can ask my parents what to do. I told you they’re both cops. My mom’s a detective; she does this kind of stuff all the time.”

  “You really think they’d help?” she asked hopefully. Her hand tightened in his, causing his heart to skip a beat.

  “I know it,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Twenty-Three

  Nita and Fitz had just settled down to watch Bewitched when the apartment door opened and TJ brought Ellen into the hall. Their other choices at eight thirty on Thursday night were the cowboy series Cimarron Strip or the crime drama Ironside, both of which were a bit too close to their line of work to be appealing. The fantasy sitcom featuring a beautiful witch turned suburban housewife was just the sort of escapism they craved.

  TJ was used to seeing them snuggled on the couch in front of the television, but the sight of a middle-aged couple behaving like, well, like teenagers startled Ellen. She was sure her parents didn’t cuddle that way, even when she wasn’t around. Unlike teenagers, however, Nita and Fitz weren’t embarrassed to be caught at it. They just smiled and took their time untangling.

  “Home so early?” asked Nita rhetorically as she rose from the couch and approached them. “And who is this lovely young lady with you?” Fitz got up and turned off the TV, then followed his wife to welcome TJ’s guest.

  “This is Ellen Jamieson,” he told them. “She’s in the art class with me. We left early because of the disruption, you know, about Mr. Benton. Mr. Laning said we could do a makeup session later. It’s kinda chaotic over there right now. Everybody’s pretty freaked.”

  “I’m surprised they held the class at all,” said Fitz. “Well, come on in, you two. Let’s grab a beer, and you can tell us what’s going on.” He turned to Ellen. “Or would you rather have a soft drink? We have Coke and ginger ale.”

  “I’d love a beer, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m kind of wound up, and it might help me relax. Actually, I have something on my mind that I’m hoping you can help me with. TJ said it was all right to ask.”

  Nita was quick to express concern. “Of course. Come on into the kitchen and we’ll find out what the trouble is. This must be very distressing for you, for all the students, in fact. The faculty, too. I hope they get to the bottom of it soon. Here, let me take your coat.”

  They headed to the kitchen, where Fitz liberated four Rheingolds from the icebox and Nita fetched the opener, some glasses, and a box of pretzels while TJ directed Ellen to the table, pulling out a chair for her in a gentlemanly way. She thanked him politely and made an effort to smile in spite of her somber mood. Behind their backs, TJ’s father nodded and his mother winked back, signaling approval of their son’s good manners and of his new girlfriend.

  Once they were settled, TJ told them what they’d learned about Benton’s death. “They’re saying he was murdered; stabbed in the chest. One of the monitors found him, and he told our teacher, Mr. Laning, and he told us.”

  Fitz got right to the point. “Any suspects?”

  “That’s what I’m so worried about,” said Ellen. “I’m afraid my friend—our friend, that is—Bill Millstein may be involved. No, I don’t mean that, I don’t think he did it, but I’m afraid the police will.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Bill had a fight wit
h Mr. Benton last week. I wasn’t there—I work during the day, across the street at the Automat, and it was at lunchtime, in the school cafeteria. But I got an earful later when some of the students came over after class. They said Bill was about to be drafted, and he told them he wouldn’t go, that he’d run away to Canada. He got really upset, and right there at the table he burned his draft card.”

  “That’s a serious offense,” said Nita, “but what does it have to do with Benton?”

  “Mr. Benton saw him do it and heard what he said about running away. He was there having lunch with some of the teachers and one of the models. My friends said he got furious, started shouting at Bill, demanded to know his name, said he’d just committed a crime and should go to jail. He was cursing him out, calling him a coward and a homosexual. Bill is gay, but he doesn’t want people to know it, so he yelled at Mr. Benton to shut the you-know-what up. Then Mr. Benton called him an anti-Semitic name, which made him even madder. They said he almost went for Mr. Benton with a knife; they had to hold him back. When they got him out of the room and took him downstairs to cool off, he said ‘I bet that blankety-blank is gonna turn me in.’ That was last Tuesday, and I haven’t seen Bill since.”

  She leaned forward and fixed her large blue eyes intensely on Nita. “Please, Mrs. Fitzgerald, can you help me find him? TJ says you’re a detective. I’m sure the police will be after him, and I want to know he’s safe. I hope he’s already in Canada.”

  “Where does he live?” she asked.

  “With his parents, somewhere on the West Side, in Hell’s Kitchen, I think. Oh dear, I don’t think he ever mentioned the address. He did say it’s close enough that he usually walks to the League. Only takes the subway when it’s pouring.”