An Exquisite Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  “Please, take a seat,” said Joey affably in Spanish, indicating a chair in front of the desk.

  Carlos sank into it.

  “How would you like to join our little social club?” he offered. “We could use a South American chapter.”

  “What would I have to do?” Carlos asked warily.

  “Same as what you just did.” Joey put his hand on the package. “Pick up another one just like this in Cartagena and deliver it to me. You do that, and you get five hundred American every time. Out of that, you pay whatever the goods cost wholesale and you keep the rest.”

  Carlos could hardly believe it. This was an even better deal than he had with Lam. Same risk, but a much greater reward. He wanted to jump at it, but there was a catch.

  “You are very generous, sir. I would like nothing more than to join your club, but I do not see how I can do what you ask. The contact in Cartagena was arranged for me, I have no idea how. He came to the dock, gave me the goods, I paid him a hundred American, and he left. How will I find him again?”

  Joey chuckled. “If he wants another hundred, he will find you.” He unlocked a drawer, took out ten fifty-dollar bills, and handed them to Carlos. “Next time, give him a hundred and fifty.”

  Twenty-Six

  By the time Dillon got back to the station, Fitz had already returned from Harlem and was waiting in Dillon’s office. “Any luck uptown?” asked the detective.

  Yes, Fitz thought, considering that he had met Nita, but he shook his head. “Not yet, sir, but Officer Diaz is following up. She’ll ask around and report.”

  “That’s the best we can do in that neighborhood,” replied Dillon. “O’Connell said he would investigate the possible Chinatown connection. He has a contact.”

  Dillon settled in behind his desk. He leaned on his elbows and stared past Fitz toward the far distance. “This case sure is a peculiar one,” he reflected. “I don’t mind telling you it gives me the creeps.”

  “I know what you mean, sir,” said Fitz. “Diaz and I went to see a Cuban fortune-teller to find out if she recognized Lam. She had a couple of premonitions, I guess you’d call ’em, that were pretty much on target. She kind of ran her hands over the crime scene photo and asked where his wife was. Said she felt a woman’s presence, but the wife’s in Cuba, and I never mentioned him being married.”

  “Did she say anything about that getup he was wearing?”

  “Just that it wasn’t anything to do with Cuban voodoo, what they call Santería. She said that, according to their belief, it would be sacrilegious to do that to a dead body. But maybe that was the point. Maybe he had a run-in with one of their priests, and the outfit was meant to show disrespect.”

  Dillon sighed deeply. “Jesus, that’s all we need, a ritual killing involving a weird religion. I sure hope it turns out to be something straightforward, like a jealous husband. Right now we don’t even know how he was killed, much less why.”

  He glanced at the wall clock. “Maybe I should call the medical examiner and see if he can hurry up that damned autopsy report.” If there was a backlog at the morgue, Lam might be at the end of a long line.

  The intercom buzzed, and Sergeant Ryan notified the detective that there was a reporter in the lobby asking for details about the murder investigation.

  Dillon was indignant. “One of these days I’ll find out who around here the Daily News is paying off,” he growled.

  Quick to defend his fellow officers, Fitz suggested, “Probably someone at the morgue, sir, or the photo lab.”

  “In that case, the son of a bitch probably already has the crime scene shots. Just the sort of lurid stuff ‘New York’s Picture Newspaper’ loves. If he does, we’ll know where the tip-off came from.”

  Dillon grunted as he rose, resigned to the impending ordeal. So little was known that his answers to the obvious questions—cause of death, motive, and suspects—would seem evasive or worse. He could imagine the headline: “Voodoo Killing Stumps Police.”

  Twenty-Seven

  The interview with the Daily News reporter was mercifully brief. He didn’t have the telltale photograph, only the victim’s name and a bare outline of the case. Dillon was able to verify that two friends had found Wifredo Lam, an artist, dead on the floor of his apartment at 140 West Tenth Street at around eleven o’clock last night. Time of death uncertain. Cause of death unknown, pending the autopsy. Suspicious? Possibly. No, murder couldn’t be ruled out, but couldn’t be confirmed at this stage. Unwise to speculate. No apparent break-in, no apparent robbery.

  “Listen,” said Dillon, leaning in confidentially, “do you mind holding off until we can notify the next of kin? It would be terrible for them if they learned about his death by reading the paper.” He failed to mention that Lam’s family was far outside the circulation area of the Daily News. He was planning to try to locate them through the Cuban Consulate when it opened on Monday.

  With little solid information to go on and with Dillon’s assurance that he would call as soon as the family was told, the reporter agreed to wait. On the face of it, this didn’t seem like much of a story. Guy might have had a heart attack or choked to death on his dinner. People drop dead all the time.

  The reporter handed Dillon his card and left.

  “I hope the door didn’t hit him in the ass on the way out,” Ryan mumbled from behind the desk.

  Dillon chuckled as he made his way down the hall. Back in his office, he pulled the list of Lam’s friends he’d gotten from Duchamp and Matta. He took it out to the desk and handed it to the clerk on duty.

  “Jeff, I want you to check the city directory and verify as many of these addresses as you can. You can try the phone book, too, but I doubt they have service. I’m going for a bite of lunch, maybe half an hour. I’d appreciate it if you could have the list for me when I get back.”

  “Yes, sir, not a problem,” said the clerk obligingly. “Shouldn’t take long.” There were only about a dozen names. Some had only the street, not the building number, but that narrowed it down. The list, neatly typed, was waiting for Dillon when he returned.

  “You were right, sir,” said the clerk. “Only two of ’em have phones—that Hare fella over on Bleecker and a guy named Motherwell on Eighth Street. The others must communicate by smoke signal.”

  “They’re all artists,” replied Dillon. “They probably draw pictures for each other. They got their own language. Damned if I understand it. The whole business is baffling.” He took the list and studied it a moment. “Well, maybe these folks can shed some light. I’d better go find out.”

  Twenty-Eight

  When he stepped out of the Lexington Social Club, Carlos Solana was holding more money than he earned in two months of deck work on the Princesa. He went next door to the Agozar, ordered a beer, a sandwich, and a pack of Camels, and broke one of the fifties. The remaining nine didn’t even make a bulge in the inside pocket of his pea jacket, but they did make him very nervous. He decided to take the subway straight back to the ship and stash them in his hidey-hole, then stay on board until they shoved off.

  Thank God he no longer had the incriminating package, so much harder to conceal and protect. His neck was still stiff from sleeping on it. Everything would be simpler next time. Now he was dealing with an organization, not a single person. Joey was going to set up a contact at the North River docks that would know when the ship was due and if there was a delay.

  Sometimes they had to lay over when there was a U-boat alert, or bad weather, like this time. These last-minute schedule changes didn’t always show up in the published shipping news, but the longshoremen waiting to unload cargo were informed by ship-to-shore radio. The contact would meet the ship, collect the package, and pay him there and then. He wouldn’t even have to carry the goods uptown.

  Smuggling came naturally to Carlos and his shipmates. They always carried some contraband, small thi
ngs they could sell in port for a bit of extra spending money. A few months ago, Carlos had brought in some Cuban cigars and held back a couple for himself and Lam. That was how the idea got started.

  Lam had asked him, “What else do you carry?”

  “Sometimes rum,” he’d answered. “Once, an emerald that my cousin told me he found.”

  On his next visit, Lam said that a friend had connections in Peru that could supply something really valuable and easy to carry. If he was interested, there was good money in it.

  Carlos was interested. Even more so now. On the subway ride downtown, he thought about his prospects. Thanks to Joey, he was going to be rich. His only regret was that it was Lam’s death that sent him to the Lexington Social Club.

  Suddenly, he was overcome by a longing for his friend’s company. He wanted to share the news of his good fortune, but he wouldn’t have had this luck if Lam were alive. It was a sad paradox.

  If giving up the extra hundred and fifty—or even two hundred, if he ignored Joey’s advice—could have brought Lam back to life, Carlos would have done it gladly. At least that’s what he told himself for comfort.

  Twenty-Nine

  Frustrated and increasingly nervous, Matta returned to Patchin Place. Two doors stood between him and his apartment. The outside door was locked, and he cursed under his breath as he fumbled for the key. By the time he had climbed to the second floor, he was all in. Another locked door, another irritating delay while he found the apartment key. As he stumbled inside, he met the anxious eyes of his wife, who had just finished rolling the living room carpet back into place.

  The sight of her startled him. He had completely forgotten that she and the boys were due back from her parents’ house today.

  “Darling,” cried Anne, “where have you been? You look like you’re about to drop!”

  He walked past her in a daze and collapsed onto the couch. She knelt in front of him and took both his hands in hers. “Let me get you some coffee. Have you had anything to eat? Here, give me your coat.”

  “Don’t fuss so,” he snapped. “I just need some rest. My head is splitting.” He stretched out and covered his eyes with his hands.

  Just then one of the twins let out a squeal and began to whimper.

  Matta winced. “Can’t you keep those brats quiet?”

  Anne rushed into the bedroom and swept up Sebastian, the offending infant. His brother, Gordon, still fast asleep, must have been restless and poked or kicked him. Thankfully, Sebastian calmed down right away. Sometimes they set each other off and there was a double dose of bawling.

  She settled Sebastian and went back to tend to the cranky baby in the living room. But he was already out cold.

  Thirty

  Still wearing Max Ernst’s silk pajamas and now sporting his cashmere bathrobe and kidskin slippers as well, Duchamp shuffled into Peggy’s kitchen in search of something to eat. In her efforts to charm her errant husband, the newly minted Mrs. Ernst had spared no expense on his nightclothes, but neglected to consider his nutritional needs. The bread box was empty, and the icebox held nothing but two bottles of champagne. Duchamp opened the cupboard doors, hopeful of finding a box of the Ritz crackers that were Peggy’s favorite support for canapés, but was disappointed. Fortunately there was some coffee, and he busied himself with it as she joined him.

  “Peggy, my dear, you really must stock your larder with a few staples,” he said, scolding her. “Not even a mouse could find sustenance here.”

  “Of course you’re right, Luigi,” she admitted. “But you know I never cook anymore. When I lived with Douglas Garman at Yew Tree Cottage, I cooked all the meals—he was as helpless in the kitchen as he was clever in the garden. Max is an excellent cook, but he’s never here. Now I eat every meal out and have even forgotten how to boil water. I’m so glad you have taken charge of the coffee. I’ll send Louisa out for some pastries. Or would you rather have bread and cheese?”

  Duchamp had strong opinions on the subject. “I prefer not to eat any cheese I don’t buy myself. Likewise, American bread must be chosen very carefully.”

  “But there’s an authentic boulangerie not two blocks from here! It is also a pâtisserie. It belongs to the pastry chef from the French pavilion at the recent international exposition. He simply stayed on after war was declared. Fortunately for us.”

  “In that case, a baguette, and perhaps some fruit confit, would be most welcome,” said Duchamp with relief. “I have not eaten since late last night, when the police gave us some unspeakable coffee and things they called ‘sinkers.’ An apt description, believe me.”

  Once the maid was dispatched and the coffee prepared, the conversation returned to last night’s shocking discovery. They had already discussed it in bed, but now it was time to plan the next moves.

  “Someone must notify his parents and Helena,” said Peggy. “I have an address, a poste restante in Havana, but perhaps I can contact the embassy. It would be better if someone could tell them in person.”

  Duchamp was doubtful. “But what can they tell except that he is dead? We do not know how he died.”

  “Commissioner Valentine will keep me informed. There will be an autopsy, of course. You say Breton had no idea what killed him?”

  “There was nothing obvious, no apparent wound, no blood. But we could not examine him. Breton thinks he may have been strangled or knocked unconscious and smothered. His face was hidden by the mask.” Despite himself, Duchamp shuddered at the memory of his friend’s humiliated body.

  “Did the police ask you about the mask and the other, ah, decorations?”

  “Yes, but I pleaded ignorance. Breton almost gave it away, but I did not translate correctly what he said. If they had understood the significance, it would have pointed to one of us.”

  “But my dear Luigi,” Peggy replied, “that is exactly where it does point.”

  Thirty-One

  The apartment at 46 East Eighth Street was a fifth-floor walk-up over a printing shop. “I sure hope the others aren’t all on the top floor,” Dillon muttered under his breath. The buzzer marked “5-Pollock” was answered, and he trudged up the dingy staircase. In the hall, a slim auburn-haired woman stood in the doorway and regarded him quizzically as he approached.

  “Mrs. Pollock?” he asked politely.

  “Lee Krasner,” she answered, rather sharply, as if his mistake had been an insult.

  He recognized the name as another on his list. Better not start off on the wrong foot by asking what she was doing in Pollock’s apartment instead of her own on the next block.

  “Is Mr. Pollock in? I’d like to speak to both of you.”

  “What for?” she said abruptly. “Who are you?”

  Dillon identified himself and displayed his shield. Lee eyed it dispassionately, masking her concern. She was used to dealing with the police when she collected Jackson from the drunk tank after one of his regular benders. But this was the first time a cop—a plainclothes one at that—had shown up at the apartment. What sort of damage could her boyfriend have done to warrant a personal visit?

  “Pollock’s not up yet.” She started to close the door.

  Damn, she’s prickly, thought Dillon. Why so defensive, I wonder? I could come on strong and insist on seeing them both right now, or try to soften her up. He decided on the latter tactic.

  “Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to give me a few moments of your time,” he said soothingly. “I’d really appreciate your help. May I come in?”

  The effect was to pique Lee’s curiosity. It didn’t sound as though there’d been a complaint against Jackson, so what was it all about? She opened the door and led the detective into the kitchen. There was a pot of coffee on the gas ring, but only one cup on the table. Lee sat down and lit a cigarette. She didn’t offer one to Dillon or ask if he wanted coffee or invite him to sit, which he did anyway. He was
used to this sort of rudeness, since most of the people he interviewed were not happy to see him and only wanted him gone—unless they were crime victims, who usually were in no condition to be hospitable. In any case, he wasn’t there to socialize.

  Just then the bedroom door opened and a slightly groggy man in his early thirties, wearing paint-stained jeans and an untucked shirt, shambled into the kitchen, trying vainly to smooth what little hair remained on his balding head. Just in time for lunch, mused Dillon, glancing at his watch. It was nearly one p.m.

  “I heard voices,” he mumbled, then did a double take at finding a strange man in his apartment. “Who’s this?” he asked Lee.

  “A detective from the Sixth Precinct,” she answered. “He wants to talk to both of us, but he hasn’t told me why. You’re just in time to find out.” She turned a gimlet eye on Dillon, obviously his cue.

  The conversation was relatively brief. Dillon gave as little information as possible and got very little in return. Jackson found an empty cup, filled it with coffee, sat down at the table, groped in his shirt pocket for cigarettes and matches, and smoked in silence.

  Lee did the talking. Asked if they were acquainted with Wifredo Lam, she said yes. According to her, neither she nor Jackson knew him very well, mostly ran into him at the art gallery on Fifty-Seventh Street, where their work was shown. How about socially? “Sometimes,” she told him, “he would be at Matta’s place when we made plans to reinvent Surrealism and played that silly drawing game with the folded paper.” Lam enjoyed it, but she and Jackson didn’t go for it. “Too contrived,” said Lee. Jackson didn’t contradict her.

  Dillon had no idea what she was talking about. His only concern was finding out who might want Lam dead. When he asked if, to their knowledge, Lam had any enemies, the creases in Jackson’s forehead deepened, and Lee came to attention in her chair.