An Artful Corpse

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An Artful Corpse Page 19

by Helen A. Harrison


  Thirty-Seven

  When her break came, after the lunchtime rush, Ellen joined a couple of League students who had opted for the Automat instead of the cafeteria. Having polished off two helpings of macaroni and cheese each, plus Boston cream pie for dessert, they were lingering over their coffee, not too eager to return.

  “How is it across the street?” Ellen asked. “I haven’t been back since last Thursday, when everybody was still in shock.”

  “Not good,” said Dan Forsberg, the full-time student who’d almost come to blows with Benton. “The classes are only half full, and the cops are in and out, poking around, questioning people they’ve already questioned before. Fortunately for me, since I was involved in that cafeteria dustup, I have several witnesses who saw me in there between classes on Wednesday afternoon. I was there from five until the place closed at seven.”

  “You shoulda been working on your mural project for Laning, like I was, you lazy bastard,” said Chris Gray. “If you’d been down in Studio Sixteen with me, we could have vouched for each other. I’m not sure the cops believed me when I told them I was there when Benton was getting done in, ’cause nobody saw me.”

  “Have they questioned you again?”

  “No. Actually I think they figured I wouldn’t have reported finding the body if I was the one who killed him. Besides, they think it was Bill.”

  Ellen chose this moment to drop her bomb. “But it wasn’t, you know.”

  “I don’t know,” said Chris, “not for sure. I don’t want to believe he could have done it, but I can’t be absolutely certain he didn’t.”

  “I can.”

  “Listen, Ellen, I know how much you care for Bill, and your belief in him is admirable, but—”

  She cut him off. “Thanks to TJ’s detective work, Bill is in the clear.” She told them what TJ had learned from Karl.

  Dan was the first to react. “Holy shit! Being over three hundred miles away is as good as an alibi gets. But can he prove it?”

  “TJ called me this morning to say he was going to see the people who helped Bill get away and tell them that he’s wanted for murder. They can warn him to get the proof.”

  “Won’t that give him away?”

  “Not necessarily. He doesn’t have to tell the cops where he is now, only when he got across the border, which was two days before Benton was killed.”

  “What kind of proof would be enough to get him off the hook?”

  “I don’t know, maybe some sort of affidavit from the group that took him in. Anyway, TJ and I know he’s innocent, and now you do, too.”

  “Well then,” said Chris, “who’s guilty?”

  This question prompted a new round of speculation.

  “Remember that guy from the Academy Benton was bragging about giving the shaft to? He could’ve been angry enough,” said Ellen, prompting quizzical looks from the guys. “Oh, no, that’s right, you weren’t at our Thursday night class when Benton came in. Bill was the monitor then.”

  “You mean Lewis Mumford?” said Dan.

  “Yes, that’s him. Benton didn’t mention his name, but TJ found out who it was. How do you know?”

  “Because Klonis said he was cleared. I heard him talking to Peter Blume in the hall. He’s a member of the Academy, so Klonis thought he’d like to know. Told him Mumford was in Chicago when Benton was killed.”

  “Even farther away than Bill was,” observed Chris.

  Ellen described the hunt for the mysterious woman who had threatened Benton at the Whitney, her adventure with TJ at Max’s Kansas City, and the blind alley down which it had led. Chris said he’d heard that somebody had seen a man in a red jacket hurrying downstairs at about the right time, and the rumor was it was Breinin, who had told the cops he was home with his family. Since nobody else had as strong a motive—except maybe Bill, who was out of the picture—it looked like Breinin had moved to the top of the suspect list.

  “I just don’t see it,” said Dan, shaking his head. “Using his own knife, then leaving it in the body? That’s outright stupid, and whatever else Breinin is, he’s not stupid. Sure, he’s a hothead. I could see him punching Benton, even strangling him, but knocking him out and then stabbing him in such a calculated way, that just doesn’t seem like his style.”

  “So you think whoever did it deliberately framed Breinin?” asked Ellen.

  “Now that makes sense. Everybody knew he had it in for Benton. All the killer has to do is get a red jacket like Breinin’s, lure Benton up to Studio Nine, incriminate Breinin by using his knife, then keep his head low and scram down the stairs. Not many people use the front staircase, especially during the break between classes. If anyone saw him, they’d assume it was the Russian.”

  “What happens when he gets to the lobby? Wouldn’t he be pretty obvious?”

  “Maybe he didn’t go all the way down,” suggested Chris. “He could have stripped off the jacket, stuffed it in a bag, and gone out on a lower floor. Or he could have gone out the side entrance and into the street, or into the basement and changed there. Then he could just leave, or come back upstairs and blend in as usual, with no one the wiser.”

  “Jesus,” said Dan, “that means it’s got to be a League insider, someone who knows the building and the schedule, when the coast was likely to be clear, where to find the knife.”

  “That was assumed from the beginning,” Chris reminded him. “If it’s not Bill, and not Breinin, and it’s neither of us, then it’s somebody who hasn’t been suspected yet.”

  “Don’t be too hasty,” said Ellen. “It could be an old enemy from Benton’s teaching days. Someone who found out he was hanging around the League and saw his chance to finally get even.”

  Suddenly she glanced at the wall clock and jumped up from the table. “Oh, wow, look at the time! My break was over five minutes ago. Cindy’s going to give me hell.” The girl who came out from the kitchen to fill in for her didn’t like to spend one second more than necessary in the nickel-thrower’s booth.

  With a sheepish apology, ungraciously accepted by a frowning Cindy, Ellen resumed her station, slipped on the rubber finger guards that helped her make change more efficiently, and adopted the regulation friendly smile required of Automat cashiers. But there wasn’t much demand for her nickels during the midafternoon lull, and her mind wandered, lost in the haze of half-formed conjecture.

  Gazing out over the dining room, she saw that Dan and Chris were still at their table, deep in conversation. I guess they don’t have afternoon classes today, she mused.

  Presently they rose and made for the exit, still talking earnestly. She wondered what they were on about. Certainly something to do with the Benton case.

  I’m going over there when I get off, she decided. I bet they have another idea, and I want to find out what it is. Michele and I don’t have to be at The Bitter End until eight. I’ll have plenty of time.

  * * *

  True to his promise, TJ was waiting downstairs by the token booth when Ellen came through the turnstile at the Union Square subway station, only half an hour late.

  “Where were you? I was worried,” he scolded, but not too angrily. Goddammit, I bet I sound like her father, he thought, annoyed at his overprotectiveness. Fortunately she brushed aside his concern.

  “Sorry, but I had to run across to the League after work, to see Chris. He and Dan came into the Automat this afternoon, and we talked during my break. I told them about Bill, I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. But why did you go to the League?”

  “I had a hunch they were on to someone else, and I was right. Someone nobody even thought of, because he hasn’t been around in decades. They were just grasping at straws, but I think they hit on something.”

  “Okay, are you gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

  “Of course I’ll tell you, si
lly. Come on, let’s walk. I have to get changed for tonight’s hoot.” She linked arms with him, and they headed across the square.

  “Remember the guy Karl told you about, the one Benton got fired? You said his name was Johann Gruen, right?”

  “Yeah, Benton had it in for him because he was gay. But it can’t be him, because he’s dead.”

  “They didn’t know that. It was Chris who got the name, and he only heard part of the story.”

  She had found Chris in Studio Sixteen, at work on his mural project. She had pulled up a bench easel next to his and, in her usual forthright way, asked him what he and Dan were discussing so earnestly after she left the table. He told her that they had picked up on something she said.

  “I had lunch in the cafeteria yesterday, and there was a group of instructors at the next table. They were talking about, what else, the Benton business, and I overheard Bob Brackman mention a guy with a German name, Johann Gruen, who taught here years ago.”

  “You mean back in Benton’s day?”

  “Exactly. Brackman said Gruen left under a cloud, not voluntarily. What you said made me wonder if Benton had something to do with it. I didn’t hear the whole story because I had to get up to Studio Nine to prepare for Alston’s afternoon class. But the most interesting part of what I did hear is that Gruen’s son is at the League now.”

  “You mean a student?”

  “No, not a student.”

  “Is there another instructor named Gruen?”

  Chris had led her along. “There are two Fogartys, father and son, but not two Gruens.”

  “Come on, Chris, out with it!”

  “Okay, okay. It’s Wally Green, the model.”

  For a few moments Ellen had been uncharacteristically speechless. She had gazed quizzically at Chris for clarification, which he’d provided.

  “His last name got changed when we were at war with Germany. Anyway, when you said it might be somebody from Benton’s past, I started thinking that maybe Wally told his father that his old enemy was back, and Gruen finally took his revenge. Of course that’s just guessing, but Dan thinks it’s plausible, and that maybe we should tell the police to question Gruen and check his whereabouts at the time.”

  Ellen finished her account of this conversation and looked at TJ, who had stopped walking when she dropped Wally Green’s name.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked him.

  TJ nodded. “If what Karl Bissinger told me is true, Benton did get Gruen kicked out, because he was a homosexual. What Karl didn’t mention is that he was married, and had a son. A son who carries his dead father’s grudge. A son who, after all these years, sees a chance to settle the score, and takes it.”

  Thirty-Eight

  As they entered the Up ’n’ Down, Michele’s jovial greeting quickly dissipated. “You two look serious,” she observed. “What’s the problem?”

  “We have to do some thinking,” said TJ. “There’s a whole new angle to the Benton case, and we need to decide what to do about it.” He took Ellen’s coat, removed his own, and hung them on the door.

  Ellen plopped into one of the armchairs. “Gosh, Michele, I don’t know about tonight’s hoot. My mind is really someplace else. Would you mind going solo?”

  “No way. We’re a duo act, remember? It’s Ellen and Michele or no one. I’m sure they won’t care if we skip a week.”

  She headed to the kitchen. “What we need is a beer. Better to think over a drink,” she quipped as she took three bottles out of the fridge, poured the beer into glasses and returned with them to the living room. TJ perched on the arm of Ellen’s chair, Michele took the other armchair, and they put on their thinking caps.

  At first their strategy session was pretty scattershot. After filling Michele in on what they’d learned, they couldn’t decide what to do with the information, or how to follow where it led.

  “A lot of this is just hearsay or gossip, nothing substantial,” TJ reminded the girls. “How do we know Karl’s story is true? Chris catches part of a conversation and jumps to a conclusion. If he and Dan go to the cops, they’ll find out Gruen is dead—if he really is dead, that is.”

  “Why would Karl lie about that?” asked Michele.

  “Oh, I don’t think he was lying. Maybe he just made an assumption, or heard it from somebody else who got it wrong. Like I said, it’s only gossip.”

  “I guess there are a couple of ways to check it,” offered Ellen. “We could go to the library and look up the obituaries in back issues of the newspaper, but that would be very time-consuming. We don’t know when he might have died, except that Karl said it was long ago.”

  “Don’t they have an index for obituaries?”

  “I don’t know, I never looked for one before. Anyhow, there’s a much quicker and easier way to find out.”

  “You mean, ask Wally?” said TJ.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so, but that’s not what I had in mind. Why would he tell us? If his father is alive and possibly implicated, he’d lie to protect him. If he’s dead, he’d lie to protect himself, because that would make him the top suspect.”

  TJ looked thoughtful. “You’re right. Either way he’d have no reason to level with us, and it would just put him on his guard. So what did you have in mind?”

  “Apart from Karl, who’s the source of this secondhand information? Chris overheard it from Mr. Brackman. Let’s ask him.”

  TJ leaned over and planted a kiss on Ellen’s forehead. “That’s why I love you, honey,” he announced. “Inside this beautiful head there’s a real brain! You’ve got it all in one gorgeous package.”

  She swatted him away playfully and stood. “Listen to this guy. Almost as bad as your bartender boyfriend,” she said to Michele, “only his eyes aren’t quite as brown.” She finished her beer and took the glasses to the kitchen.

  “You know,” she said as she returned to the living room, “I think we have a plan. Let’s find out when Mr. Brackman is there.” She went to the bookshelf and found the Art Students League 1967–1968 class schedule. It listed Robert Brackman as the instructor for both morning and afternoon classes in life drawing, painting, portraiture, and composition, Mondays through Fridays, as well as two evenings a week, Mondays and Tuesdays.

  “Jesus,” said TJ, “the guy practically lives there. He should be there right now. Let’s go.” He headed for the coats.

  “No, wait,” Michele called after him. “Look here,” she pointed to a qualifying note. “It says ‘instructors present one evening only,’ so maybe tonight’s not his night. You’re better off waiting ’til tomorrow anyway. That gives you time to decide how to approach him. You can’t just go up to him and say, Hi, you don’t know us but we’re investigating Benton’s murder, and we think Johann Gruen did it—that is, if he’s still alive. Can you tell us, please?”

  “No, you’re right,” admitted TJ. “Besides, it would be good to know what Chris and Dan are planning to do.”

  “I don’t think Chris is in tonight,” said Ellen. “He has the Alston night class on Mondays, Breinin’s on Wednesdays, and now he’s doing our class on Thursdays instead of Bill. Dan’s only a day student.” Unfortunately, Ellen’s workday started at nine, which was when the League opened. Waiting until the morning meant she’d have to leave it up to TJ.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “My first class on Wednesday isn’t until eleven. I’ll head over there first thing and talk to them both, then see you at the Automat before I do anything else. You can sell me some nickels while I fill you in.”

  * * *

  The day had been a productive one for Sheik, though it didn’t produce the result he wanted. Before heading downtown he had telephoned the Sixth Precinct and spoken to Detective Michael Flynn.

  “Listen, Mickey, I’m trying to get a line on a murder suspect, a queer named William Millstein. Does he
happen to be on your blotter?”

  “Don’t sound familiar, but I can check. Does he live around here?”

  “No, he’s from Hell’s Kitchen, but word is he hangs out at the gay bars on your patch. What I really want to know is who would help him if he wanted to disappear. In addition to the murder rap, he’s a draft dodger.”

  “You want the fairy dusters,” Flynn said. “They got a network that handles all the arrangements. We’ve never been able to prove that they’re actually breaking the law, but we’re pretty sure they’re faking IDs for deserters and guys who’ve been denied conchie status. The volume’s going up every week, so we’ll catch ’em sooner or later.”

  He gave Sheik the address of the Greenwich Village Peace Center, and told him to ask for Alex. “I bet you come up empty. Those boys are experts at protecting their own.”

  The southbound Eighth Avenue E train took Sheik to West Fourth Street, and a short walk from the station led to the church. A small sign on the red side door identified the Peace Center, where he was directed to Alex’s desk. On the ride downtown he had decided to make it official, so he pulled out his shield and identified himself.

  Alex, who was used to regular visits from the authorities, looked at the detective’s badge with disinterest, folded his arms, leaned back in his chair, raised his eyebrows and said, “Well?” He did not invite his visitor to sit.

  “I’m looking for a runaway, one William Millstein,” said Sheik. “I believe you may have helped him get out of the country.”

  “I’m a nonbeliever myself,” answered Alex tersely, thinking, What took them so long? That kid who was in here earlier was way ahead of them.

  “Believe this,” said Sheik, his eyes locked on Alex’s. “He’s wanted by the New York City Police Department for murder. If you shipped him out to avoid conscription, that’s a federal matter, and the feds can pursue it if they want to. But by aiding a murder suspect, whether you knew it or not, you and your organization are accomplices after the fact, which lands you in deep shit, man. I could get a search warrant, close this place down in a heartbeat, ransack your files, haul everyone in for questioning, really spoil your day.”

 

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