“That’s what I’m getting at,” said Dillon. “Other than a Surrealist, who would even know what an exquisite corpse is?”
Fifty-Five
No sooner had the Port of New York Authority office opened at 8:30 a.m. than Hare’s call had been answered. He had concocted a story about expecting some important papers that someone was hand carrying from Cartagena but hadn’t been delivered. The ship was supposed to arrive on Friday.
“That’d be the Princesa,” the clerk informed him. “She was delayed by bad weather. Didn’t make port until Saturday.”
“Do you know what time she docked?”
“Let’s see, just a minute. I need to check the clearance log.” He put down the phone, and Hare fidgeted while the clerk consulted the listings. “Here it is,” he reported. “Clearance was at eight forty-five p.m. Saturday. Your papers could have come off anytime after that.”
Hare thanked him and hung up. Damn it, clearance is right—that clears Solana. According to Breton, Lam was dead before the sailor even stepped ashore.
Abruptly disconnected, the clerk realized that the caller hadn’t given his name or mentioned anything about the nature of the documents he was expecting. Early in the afternoon, he received a bulletin about the same ship, which had left port that morning. Confirm current position and route while in U.S. waters, it said. Gosh, he thought, they must be planning to intercept her. I guess those papers weren’t delivered after all. They must be pretty important.
He imagined something so sensitive that it couldn’t be trusted to radio or telegraphic transmission, maybe intelligence about refueling points for the U-boats that were making such a hash of trade routes to and from southern waters.
Once again, he cursed the myopia that had kept him out of the military and dreamed of the heroic deeds he would have done if allowed to serve. Once again, he consoled himself with the knowledge that he was doing his bit on the home front, helping to keep what commercial shipping there was running as efficiently as conditions permitted. Not everyone in the office was as conscientious as he.
He set aside the manifest he was checking and looked up the Princesa’s return route to South America. She had loaded up with agricultural machinery and parts, and had no scheduled stops between New York and Cartagena, so she would have to be intercepted at sea. This is an important assignment, he decided, and I’ll see to it that the ship doesn’t leave our territorial waters with those papers.
To save fuel during wartime, cargo ships were steaming at reduced speeds. A trip that normally took six days direct now took eight or nine, as freighters hugged the coast to steer as clear of U-boats as possible. Judging by the clock, the clerk calculated that the Princesa’s rough position was no more than sixty miles out of port, well north of Atlantic City and still inside the three-mile limit. Plenty of time to get a Coast Guard cutter from the station there to intercept.
He pictured himself on the cutter’s bridge, trumpeting orders to the boarding party. He got on the horn to the radio room, determined to retrieve the documents that he now believed were vital to the war effort.
“Hello, Sparky, this is George,” he announced. “I’ve got an urgent message for the Princesa. She left port at seven a.m. and will be abreast of Barnegat about now. Alert her to prepare for boarding by the Coast Guard. Get her coordinates and speed and radio that information to the station down at AC, tell them to get ready to scramble.” Suddenly he curbed himself. “I’ll get back to you with more details.” He realized with alarm that he had no idea just what the Coast Guard should be looking for, who had the papers, whatever they were, or where on board they might be. He had jumped the gun, seriously exceeded his authority, in fact.
“Not necessary, George,” Sparky reassured him. “All I needed was her approximate position so I can tell the FBI which Coast Guard station to notify. I’m to radio the ship, and the Feds’ll take it from there.”
Both thrilled and relieved, the clerk felt his heart jump. So it really was something of national importance if the FBI was involved. And he was responsible for setting the operation in motion! He would never learn the outcome, of course—they would have to keep the whole thing under wraps—but he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had played his part.
He sighed with pleasure, cleaned his thick eyeglasses, and went back to checking the manifest.
Fifty-Six
“He didn’t do it.”
Hare was sitting on the couch in Matta’s living room, talking more to the floor than to his host, who was seated on a chair opposite, practically knee to knee with him. Hare was keeping his voice down so as not to disturb Anne and the twins in the bedroom. The bedroom door had been open when he arrived, and Anne had glanced up from her diaper-changing task and seen him come in, but Matta quickly closed the door on her.
That move didn’t surprise Anne. He had been jumpy ever since his argument with that horrible sailor—sulking in the studio after the man left, running out and coming back without a word last night, then hardly touching his breakfast this morning, just coffee and cigarettes until Hare showed up.
Something had gone wrong with the scheme, she knew, but what? She could only pray that it had fallen through. I guess Fredo was telling the truth; he was still waiting for the drugs to be delivered when I showed up. Maybe they never came, maybe Carlos couldn’t get them after all. That’s why Roberto and David are so upset. Please, God, let that be the end of it.
“I talked to Breton last night,” Hare continued. “He assured me that Lam was dead by around eight p.m., no later. With his medical training, I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about. I found out that the crew wasn’t cleared to leave the ship until eight forty-five. Carlos couldn’t have gotten to the apartment before nine.”
Matta sat back, taking in this information. Keeping his voice low, he replied, “Okay, so Carlos really did find him dead and really did dress him up to throw suspicion away from himself. Naturally he takes the money. Naturally he takes the coke to sell elsewhere. All that makes sense once you know he didn’t kill Lam. But who did?”
Suddenly Hare had another thought. “How do we know he was killed?”
“What are you talking about? The police said he didn’t die of natural causes.”
“That was yesterday, when they first questioned us, right after his body was discovered. I bet they didn’t have a medical report by then. They just assumed that, because of the costume, someone killed him and dressed him up like that. But there’s another explanation.” Hare was warming to his theory. “Breton said there were no visible wounds, in fact no evidence of violence at all. Maybe he actually had a heart attack.”
Matta was stunned. “Jesus, do you really think—”
“Who had a heart attack?”
Anne’s voice seemed to echo in the room. For one guilty moment, she hoped it was Carlos they were talking about. That would solve the problem once and for all.
Both men were startled to see her emerge from the bedroom. They hadn’t heard the door open. They looked at each other, unsure of what to say or who should say it. Hare lowered his eyes. After all, Matta was her husband, it was his responsibility to decide whether to make up an explanation or tell the truth, or perhaps part of it.
Matta’s annoyance at her meddling gave way to some quick thinking. He decided to be as truthful as possible without actually saying anything.
“We’re not sure that’s what it was, dear. David and I have some checking to do. I’ll let you know as soon as we have news.”
They rose quickly and made their escape, leaving Anne still in the dark.
Fifty-Seven
Monday evening
Commissioner Valentine had other more urgent matters to occupy him that day, so it wasn’t until early evening, as he was about to leave the office, that he remembered to ring Peggy Guggenheim with the good news. He was lucky to catch her at home, preparing for a rendezvous at Caf
é Society Uptown on East 58th Street, where she was hoping to find her husband without a female companion. With Max, you never knew who might attach herself to his adhesive embrace. Their marriage had been fractious from the start, but she had a fine appreciation of his charismatic charm, as well as enormous respect for him as an artist and sympathy for his situation as a de facto enemy alien.
To Americans in wartime, every German was automatically suspect, no matter that the Nazis had interned Max when Hitler’s forces overran France. His art was labeled degenerate, and even though he wasn’t Jewish, he might as well have been, since he was lumped with the Jews, gypsies, and other undesirables marked for extermination. He probably would have been sent to a death camp if he hadn’t escaped and she hadn’t helped spirit him out of Europe.
After Pearl Harbor, Max had to register with the government, and Peggy decided that marriage to an American would help shield him from harassment. She was wrong. After a disastrous vacation trip to Cape Cod, where the FBI questioned Max, practically accused him of being a Nazi spy, and warned him to stay away from the coast, they retreated to the relative safety of New York City, where the sympathetic art world offered some measure of protection. Lam’s death had opened that world to scrutiny by the authorities. All the Surrealist émigrés, Max included, were under suspicion. So were any Americans who associated with them.
But now, as Peggy dressed for the evening, she reflected happily on Valentine’s report. The Surrealists were in the clear. She decided to wear her favorite Fortuny gown—an extravagant acquisition from her early days in Paris that still fit her twenty years later—and declare a celebration. The nightclub’s owner, Barney Josephson, might even be persuaded to donate a bottle of prewar champagne. A first-generation American, son of Latvian immigrants, he welcomed the European exiles, whose lively banter in French added tone to the sophisticated atmosphere he cultivated.
Josephson greeted her warmly as she swept in. A Continental-style kiss on each cheek, an admiring appraisal of her outfit, and a gentlemanly offer to take her wrap. “You look like a million bucks,” he told her, “but then, so does your uncle Solomon.”
“You know I’m just a poor relation, Barney,” she replied amiably, “not to mention the family’s black sheep. That’s why I come to your club—you let us blacks in.”
In addition to its reputation as one of the city’s hottest jazz spots, Café Society Uptown was known for its integrated clientele. Josephson was proud of the fact that Negroes and whites mixed backstage, onstage, and out front. The club’s program also broke the mold. On Mondays, when many nightclubs were dark, he featured some of the most prominent entertainers. Tonight, Art Tatum was at the piano, warming up the crowd for Lena Horne, the beautiful vocalist who got her start at Josephson’s downtown club—another reason Peggy might expect to see Max in the audience.
Sure enough, she spotted him at a table with her ex-husband Laurence Vail, his ex-wife Kay Boyle, and Kay’s new husband, Baron Joseph von Franckenstein, an anti-Nazi Austrian aristocrat serving in the OSS.
Seated next to Max was his son, Hans, known as Jimmy, who was acting as Peggy’s assistant at Art of This Century. Jimmy was crazy about American jazz and relished the opportunity to hang out with his famous father, who was more interested in the singer, in town with Duke Ellington’s orchestra to promote her new film, Stormy Weather, than in her music.
“Will you do me a favor, Barney?” Peggy asked. “We have something to celebrate tonight, and I’d like a bottle of champagne for the table. If you’ll bring one over, please join us.”
Josephson took the hint. Peggy was a good customer—a generous one when she’d had a few drinks—so one bottle on the house would probably lubricate the wheels.
“It will be my pleasure, Peggy darling,” he cooed. “Let me show you to your table, and I’ll be along directly.”
Fifty-Eight
“What are we celebrating?” asked Kay. “Joseph and I have been married for a month, but if you want to toast our future happiness, we’ll drink to that!”
“Bonne santé, mes chères, et nombreux retours heureux,” replied Peggy as she raised her glass. “But as delighted as I am for you both, your marriage isn’t the occasion.” She was savoring the suspense and planned to draw it out as long as possible.
It was a remarkable gathering that hung on her words. In spite of their complicated relationships in Europe, they remained bonded, with Peggy as the glue.
Vail, the son of American expatriates, had been her first husband, a dashing man about town who swept her off her feet when she had arrived in Paris as a headstrong twenty-three-year-old heiress seeking adventure. He deflowered her, wedded her, and fathered her two children, Sinbad and Pegeen. Although they had been divorced for many years, he was financially dependent on her.
A talented writer and artist, Vail was a heavy drinker whose indolent nature interfered with any sort of serious career, much less gainful employment. He was also far from monogamous. His affair with Boyle, an American writer, had begun while he and Peggy were married, but since she was equally promiscuous, she accepted the situation as a consequence of the bohemian expatriate life she had embraced. So Peggy supported them both.
But after Kay and Laurence married, she had turned the tables by falling in love with von Franckenstein during the early days of the war, when his outspoken opposition to the Hitler regime had made him a marked man in Austria. Taking refuge in Paris, he was looking for a way to aid the Allied cause when he and Kay met and became lovers. In those turbulent times, when the present was perilous and the future bleak, they were soon parted, but found each other again in New York.
The baron had offered his services to the American army, which had brought him to the States for training. After many setbacks and delays, in July 1941 Peggy had managed to secure passage on the Pan American Clipper for Laurence, Kay, Max, and seven of their respective children—except for Jimmy, who had arrived in New York two years earlier. Now they all were reunited, savoring their escape from the Nazis, and eager to celebrate whatever Peggy was proposing.
Max was becoming restive. “Au nom de dieu, explique!” he demanded. The others seconded him. Once Lena Horne began to sing, their conversation would be interrupted.
“All right, I won’t keep you guessing,” she began. “First, I must tell you that this is a bittersweet occasion, equal parts sadness and happiness. I only wish Marcel were here to share it, for he was the messenger of the bad news.”
Now they were anxious, also somewhat fearful that the bad news involved a setback for the Allies or perhaps word that Sinbad, who had been drafted, was about to ship out.
“I don’t mean to alarm you, but Wifredo Lam died on Saturday. The tragic loss of a dear friend and a great artist.”
Murmurs from around the table expressed shock and sincere regrets.
Peggy explained the circumstances as related to her by Duchamp, including the exquisite corpse costume. To describe the reaction as stunned would be an understatement.
“If the police had understood its meaning,” she continued, “they would have concluded that Fredo was killed by a Surrealist. Why, they might have arrested Max! Fortunately they had no idea what it meant, and, in any case, it proved to be a diversion, as Marcel and I assumed. As soon as he told me, I telephoned the police commissioner, a friend of the family, and asked him to take a personal interest in the case. He rang me half an hour ago with the good news.” She paused for effect.
“The killer has been identified. Not a Surrealist. That is what we are celebrating.” She raised her glass and drank, enjoying the party’s rapt attention.
“Well,” said Laurence, “are we going to learn his identity? It is a he, I assume.”
“Yes, it’s a man, a sailor Fredo befriended on the boat from Cuba. They would get together when he was in port. It turns out that he is a smuggler. The police think Fredo found out his friend was a c
riminal and they had an argument. The sailor hit him on the head, not meaning to kill him, but the blow was fatal. He used the costume to throw the police off his trail.”
“What do you mean, they think that’s what happened?” asked the baron. “Haven’t they arrested him, questioned him?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Peggy explained. “He shipped out this morning, before they identified him. It’s a Colombian vessel bound for Cartagena. They are going to radio the ship and asked to have him put ashore somewhere en route. If the captain cooperates, they can arrest him and bring him back to New York.”
“That’s a big if,” said Josephson, “but at least you know who the killer is, and your people are in the clear. That’s certainly worth celebrating. I’ll have another bottle of the thirty-eight Moët sent over.” As the house lights dimmed, he excused himself and stepped onto the bandstand.
“She first thrilled you at Café Society Downtown,” he began, “and now, on the silver screen, she’s captivating audiences around the country. But she prefers a warm welcome at our humble club to all the Hollywood razzle-dazzle. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Lena Horne.”
Amid enthusiastic applause, as a golden spotlight escorted the singer to the microphone, Jimmy leaned over, tucked two fingers under Max’s chin, and gently closed his gaping mouth.
Fifty-Nine
Yun Gee walked up Seventh Avenue and turned east on Eighth Street. The Cedar Tavern beckoned. Just a couple of drinks, he decided, just a round or two with the boys. He was getting too old to punish himself as he had been doing, and his wife probably wouldn’t put up with it much longer. Plus he was nearly broke. His part-time war work as a mechanical drafter at Bell Labs on West Street kept him and the family going, but payday wasn’t until Friday.
He spotted Motherwell, who lived only a few doors away, at the round table in the rear. With him were Pollock, apparently deep in thought, and de Kooning, who motioned Gee to join them. He grabbed a beer at the bar and pulled up a chair.
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