An Exquisite Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  It made Gee wince to hear him, but he swallowed his distaste. Better to speak Cantonese so I don’t have to listen to his pathetic pidgin. He had no intention of inviting him inside, so he stood in the studio doorway. “You have news for me?” he asked redundantly. Why else would the kid be here?

  “On Leong did not do it,” Ricky informed him. “Nobody in Chinatown did it.”

  He probably doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, thought Gee. “Tell your boss I am grateful to know that we have not been dishonored by one of our own. Can you remember that?”

  “Sure,” sneered Ricky. Who was this old drunk to question his intelligence? They had told him all about Gee and how he was a stooge for the white cops who were trying to pin Lam’s killing on one of the tongs. In fact, Lam was no good to On Leong dead. He was going to supply them with a valuable commodity, for which he would be paid $1,000 for every shipment. Of course, a rival tong might have gotten wind of the deal and tried to scotch it, but they’d be more likely to offer Lam a better deal than to kill him. No, Lam’s death was Chinatown’s loss, and On Leong wanted the cops to know that.

  Gee made his way to the drugstore and used the pay phone to call in his report to O’Connell.

  Fifty

  Still baffled by the outfit on the body, Dillon decided to revisit Motherwell, the most articulate and forthcoming of the people he had questioned. Not hostile like the Krasner dame, or argumentative like Pollock and that Rosenberg guy, or oblivious like de Kooning and the Matters. For an artist, he seemed pretty down-to-earth. From what Dillon had seen in his apartment, his art was nothing but a jumble of shapes and colors. At least it wasn’t creepy like Lam’s.

  Since the Chinatown connection looked like a dead end and the voodoo angle wasn’t panning out, Dillon had a hunch Lam’s killing was art related. After all, he reasoned, some of the decorations—the chicken’s foot, the mask—were his props. You could see them, distorted versions of them anyway, in the painting he was working on. It was like he was posing for his own picture. I guess they usually hire models, but if he was as poor as everyone says, he couldn’t afford one.

  He decided to take along the full-body photograph and see what Motherwell made of it. He telephoned and found the artist at home.

  “This is Detective Dillon calling, Mr. Motherwell,” he began politely. “I spoke to you on Sunday about Wifredo Lam’s death.”

  “Yes, of course,” replied the artist. “Have you learned anything more? Do you know the cause of death?”

  “I do have more information, and I think you may be able to help me make sense of it. Is it okay if I come to see you now?”

  Motherwell was intrigued, though a bit uneasy. “By all means. West Eighth Street, number thirty-three, as you may recall. My name is on the bell.”

  “I’ll be right over,” said Dillon, and ended the call.

  It was a short walk, but long enough for Dillon to formulate his approach. I think I’ll just show him the photo, get his reaction, and take it from there, he decided. No need to go into the Cuban or Chinese angles, unless he brings it up.

  Motherwell was waiting for him at the front door. “My wife just came in with a friend,” he announced. “They’re having coffee in the parlor, so let’s go into the studio. We can talk freely there.”

  He directed the detective to the back of the building, where a bedroom with a north window had been converted into his workspace. On a large easel, a bold abstract painting in progress dominated the room. Several unfinished collages lay on the worktable, and one wall was covered with sketches, postcard reproductions of paintings, magazine clippings, and a photograph of a frowning man.

  “Who’s the grump?” asked Dillon, then excused himself. “Sorry, I hope he’s not a relative.”

  “Charles Baudelaire, a nineteenth-century French poet,” replied the artist. “He defined what it means to be modern, and I try to work in his spirit.”

  Doesn’t look like much fun, thought Dillon, but then it seems these artists take themselves pretty seriously. He decided not to get into the subject of what motivated Motherwell—way too deep for him. Better get down to business.

  Motherwell directed him to a chair that looked like it had been stolen from a sidewalk café. It was the only chair in the room, so Dillon politely remained standing. With disarming frankness, he began.

  “I don’t mind telling you, this case has me stumped. The autopsy report says Lam died from a blow to the head. Someone hit him from behind. He let the person into the apartment, so he probably knew whoever it was. No sign of a struggle, and as far as we can tell, nothing was taken.”

  Motherwell found that incredible. “You mean someone he knew attacked him in his own apartment for no apparent reason?”

  “Did he have any enemies? Anyone with a score to settle?”

  “Of all the people I know,” said Motherwell, “Lam is the least likely to have enemies. Excuse me, I mean was. It’s still hard for me to accept the fact that he’s dead, even harder to believe someone killed him.”

  “There’s more to it,” continued Dillon, “which is why I need your advice. The body was, well…tampered with after death.” He pulled out the photograph and laid it on the worktable by the window. “What do you make of that?”

  Motherwell stared at the picture of Lam’s body. He clearly was taken aback. “Good God,” he whispered, “an exquisite corpse.”

  “Hideous is more like it,” said Dillon with evident disapproval. It was beyond disrespectful to call that getup exquisite, unless you had a really warped sense of humor. He scowled at the artist.

  “You misunderstand me,” replied Motherwell. “I don’t mean it literally, except that it is Lam’s corpse. I’m sorry, I’m not making myself clear.” He sank down on the chair and collected himself.

  “Lam belonged to a circle of artists and writers who call themselves the Surrealists,” he explained. “Their art is inspired by unconscious impulses. Anyway, that’s the idea. It has to be spontaneous, irrational, beyond ordinary experience. They use certain devices—tricks, if you like—to stimulate their imaginations. One of them is a drawing game they call le cadavre exquis in French. In English, that means ‘the exquisite corpse.’ The name comes from one of their poems, a combination of unrelated words, the more absurd the better.

  “It’s played in a group. One person starts a figure by drawing the head, then folds that part back, so you can’t see what was drawn.” He took a piece of paper from the worktable and demonstrated. “Then it’s handed to the next person, who draws the torso and the arms, folds that part back, and hands it on. The last person finishes it off with legs and feet. Then the paper is unfolded and they see what sort of hybrid they’ve created.”

  He unfolded his paper. At the top, he had drawn a masklike face. In the middle section, one arm sprouted an umbrella and the other ended in a boot. The last section had the figure standing on a clawed foot.

  “They always try to make it as bizarre as possible, and that’s exactly what someone has done to Lam’s body.”

  Dillon compared the drawing to the photograph. He let out a breath that was half-whistle, half-sigh. “I’ll be damned.” Suddenly the list of potential suspects came into focus.

  Motherwell was also aware of the implication. “I can’t imagine one of the Surrealists killing Lam,” he insisted. “As I said before, he was admired, even loved, by everyone in the group. Oh, there’s plenty of contention in the ranks, but he never took sides. André Breton is the leader, and he can be dictatorial—he decides who’s in and who’s out. I could see someone wanting to wring his neck.”

  At the mention of Breton, Dillon interjected, “I think I told you he’s the guy who found Lam’s body. Even if they did have a dispute, he’s the one Surrealist we can rule out as the killer.”

  “How do you know?” asked Motherwell.

  “Because he was uptown a
t the Voice of America studio all day on Saturday. He told us that, through his buddy Duchamp, when we questioned him, and we checked his story. He got in around nine in the morning and didn’t leave until ten p.m. According to the autopsy, Lam was clobbered sometime that morning, but after eleven, when he went to the candy store on Sixth Avenue for a pack of cigarettes. The guy at the counter saw him there, alive and well.”

  Fifty-One

  After a productive conversation with Raul, DetectiveMorales returned to the Twenty-Third Precinct to find Officer Diaz about to clock in.

  “Hola, Nita,” he called as she emerged from the squad room. “I have some interesting news from the Joey and Raul front. Come to my office and I’ll fill you in.”

  “So you found that little rat Raul? Of course you did. What hole was he hiding in?”

  “Mrs. Gomez’s place, over the bodega. Her daughter’s his girlfriend, worse luck for her,” replied Morales. “They didn’t have any choice but to take him in, since he cuts Mrs. G a deal on protection. He acted tough, tried to bluff his way out, but when I mentioned a possible charge of accessory after the fact to murder, he suddenly got real helpful.”

  “What was the deal he was bragging about?” asked Nita. “And what’s the connection to Lam’s killing?”

  “I told him I wasn’t interested in the deal,” Morales explained, “but I’m sure it’s a smuggling racket. The sailor, name of Carlos Solana, is off a Colombian ship that makes regular runs to New York via Cuba. Lots of opportunity to pick up all sorts of contraband. Anyway, that angle can wait. The important thing is that Raul found out about Solana while he was on Lam’s trail. Raul told me that the deal was originally between Solana and Lam, but when the sailor got to the apartment, Lam was dead. So he went looking for another deal.”

  Like any good investigator, Nita was skeptical. “Do you buy that, Hector? Suppose Solana double-crossed Lam. Maybe he already had a better offer from Joey.”

  “Then why go to Lam’s at all?” reasoned Morales. “Why not just take his stuff straight uptown?”

  “He wanted his payoff from Lam,” said Nita, “so he went there first. Figured he’d get paid, knock Lam out, and then go uptown.”

  Morales chuckled. “You bucking for detective? Okay, then, why didn’t he take the three hundred bucks Lam had on him?”

  “Maybe Lam held out on him, said he didn’t have the money yet. Said he had to pass the goods first, then pay Solana. Solana gets sore, they argue, and Solana beans him when he isn’t looking. He panics. Realizes he’s killed the guy and decides he’d better scram.”

  Morales recognized the big hole in that scenario. “Then who dressed him up like a voodoo doll? That must have taken some time—plenty of time to go through his pockets—and some thought. Not the work of a panicky killer.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said. “And we don’t know why it was done, much less who did it. We’d better find this Carlos Solana.”

  “His ship is the Princesa,” Morales told her. “Let’s find out where she’s docked.” He reached for the phone and rang the desk.

  “Sergeant, call the Port of New York Authority and get the whereabouts of a freighter now in port, Colombian registry, the Princesa. Ring me as soon as you have the information.”

  While they waited, Morales briefed Nita on the details of his interview with Raul. “He called me Spic and Span, the little punk. I know I’ll never get away from that nickname, though I’ve learned to shrug it off. But coming out of his mouth, right to my face, it almost got under my skin.”

  “No one on the force calls you that anymore,” she said, assuring him. “They have a much better nickname for you now, you foxy old flatfoot.”

  Morales grinned as the phone rang. His good mood died when the desk sergeant relayed the bad news. “The Princesa was tied up at Pier Fifty-Two. She left port five hours ago, all hands aboard.”

  Fifty-Two

  Fitz was just leaving the station when the desk sergeant called him to the phone. “It’s yer Spanish lady friend at the Twenty-Third on the line,” he said with a grin. “I think she fancies ya.”

  Fitz bristled. “She’s a police officer, Sergeant Ryan, just you remember that. She’s calling on official business, I’m sure. Give me the phone. Fitzgerald speaking. What is it, Officer Diaz?”

  From his abrupt tone, Nita got the message loud and clear. Keep it strictly impersonal. Desk sergeants have sharp ears.

  “It’s the Lam case, Officer Fitzgerald,” she began. “I have good news and bad news.” She told him what Morales had learned and about the unfortunate departure of the ship with Solana aboard.

  “I don’t know if Pier Fifty-Two is where the Princesa always docks, but we can find out. Or rather, you can, since it’s in your jurisdiction. From what Detective Morales tells me, Solana had motive and opportunity. If he returns with the ship, you can pick him up. If he doesn’t, it’s probably an admission of guilt, but then he’s out of reach.”

  Fitz agreed. “He’s not likely to come back if he’s the killer, is he? But if he does, we’ll be waiting for him, thanks to you and Morales for fingering him. Once he leaves the dock and steps onto West Street, he’s ours.”

  “I’ll send you a copy of the written report as soon as it’s filed,” she told him.

  Meanwhile, he decided to brief Dillon and O’Connell right away. It was all over the station house that the commissioner was putting on the pressure, and this information would show that progress was being made.

  “Excellent work, Officer Diaz,” he said as flatly as the pleasure of hearing her voice allowed. “I’ll pass this information to the detectives on the case. I believe you know Dillon. I’m sure he’ll want to thank you himself.” He hung up with a curt goodbye, secure in the knowledge that she saw through his formal facade.

  Fifty-Three

  “Now we’re getting somewhere!” thundered O’Connell when Fitz relayed the latest news from the Twenty-Third. “Although it’s a shame Morales didn’t get hold of his fink last night. We could have collared that sailor this morning before he shipped out. Damn.”

  His fist hit the desk, but not too hard. Now he had a likely suspect, as well as a good excuse why he couldn’t make an immediate arrest. He picked up the phone and ordered a call to the commissioner’s office.

  When Valentine was put through, O’Connell informed him, “We have a break in the Lam case, sir. A suspect has been identified.”

  Valentine was momentarily at a loss. “Lam, you say? Oh yes, the artist friend of Peggy’s. Funny name. Funny looking, too, now that I recall. Met him once, bit of an oddball. But that’s beside the point. What have you got?”

  O’Connell filled him in. The complication of Solana’s disappearance was accepted as regrettable but not disastrous. “I’ll have the Port Authority radio the ship, find out if she’s making any stops between here and home port. If they can put the fellow ashore on American soil, the FBI can pick him up.”

  “I appreciate this information, O’Connell,” Valentine declared. “I’m glad I can inform Peggy that my men have identified the killer.”

  O’Connell hesitated to remind the commissioner that the case against Solana was far from proven, but what harm could it do for him to tell some meddling socialite that the crime had been solved, even if the killer had escaped? It would take the pressure off, and Valentine could forget all about Lam.

  “I’ll let you know right away when there are further developments,” O’Connell promised, knowing that Valentine would have no more interest in the case. After being told that he was free to call anytime, day or night, the detective ended the call in good spirits. We may not have solved the murder, he told himself, but I’ve solved my problem. He made a note to call and thank Hector Morales.

  He buzzed the clerk’s office. “Have you been onto the Cuban Consulate yet?” he asked, and was told yes.

  “They said they
’ll track down Lam’s family and call me back,” Jeff reported.

  Fifty-Four

  Dillon returned to the Sixth Precinct to find O’Connell in a very good mood indeed. He wasted no time in telling the detective that he’d managed to get Valentine out of his hair.

  “I’ve fingered the prime suspect, Pat,” he boasted, then revised his statement. “Thanks to the outstanding work of Morales and Diaz up at the Twenty-Third. They made the connection to Lam. He’s a Cuban, all right. Let me give you the details.”

  Settled in one of O’Connell’s office chairs, Dillon got the story so far.

  “Our big problem is that the guy shipped out before we could collar him. I’m waiting to hear from Port Authority whether we can get him off the ship before she’s out of U.S. waters. Otherwise we can kiss Solana goodbye.”

  “Just how solid is the case against him, Jack?”

  “Well, we know from the uptown information that Solana and Lam had some kind of deal that went sour. Smuggling, most likely. Then there’s the Cuban voodoo outfit on the body. We also have a lot of unidentified fingerprints from Lam’s place, and if we can match Solana’s, that’ll put him at the scene. Course we have to catch him in order to print him.”

  Based on his conversation with Motherwell, Dillon was having misgivings. “Have you completely ruled out all of Lam’s artist friends?”

  “What are you driving at, Pat?”

  “The outfit. It has nothing to do with Santería.” He related what Motherwell had told him and showed him the drawing.

  “Damn, that adds another wrinkle, all right,” admitted O’Connell. “An exquisite corpse, you say? Christ, what a bunch of loonies to dream up something like that. But who would want to turn Lam into a human version of one of those weird doodles?”