An Exquisite Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  Brief greetings were followed by a return to the topic of the week. Motherwell had been feeling guilty about his revelation to Dillon, which he feared would spark a new round of probing in the art community. But no one else had heard anything more from the police, as far as they knew.

  “How about you, Yun?” asked Pollock. “You were pretty tight with Lam. The cops been onto you?”

  Gee told them about his Chinatown inquiry.

  “If Lam double-crossed one of the tongs, they would certainly kill him. Their errand boy told me they didn’t, but I don’t know if that’s true. They settle their own scores.”

  His listeners nodded as if they understood the arcane workings of the Chinese underworld.

  “Why would they dress him as an exquisite corpse?” asked Motherwell. “And how would they know what that signifies?”

  Gee was confused. He wasn’t familiar with the term, and O’Connell hadn’t described the costume to him. Motherwell, who had just been telling his friends about Dillon’s follow-up visit, explained.

  “Lam was turned into a parody of a Surrealist parlor game? I need another drink,” said Gee, “a real one.” He went to the bar and ordered a whiskey. He had just enough money for a double.

  Sixty

  O’Connell entered Dillon’s office without knocking, startling the detective as he pondered the crime scene photographs one more time.

  “They’ve got him!” thundered O’Connell, planting himself opposite Dillon and treating him to a self-satisfied smile. “Solana. The Coast Guard took him off the ship this afternoon. Didn’t need the FBI after all.”

  “Why not? Wasn’t he outside our jurisdiction?”

  “Yes, for the homicide charge, but smuggling interdiction is a Coast Guard responsibility, so that’s what they charged him with.”

  “Does that mean we won’t get to question him?”

  “They’ll get first crack,” O’Connell explained, “but they won’t be able to make the charge stick. He’s on his way out empty, and you can bet that whatever he got paid, he hasn’t got it on him. It’s probably penny-ante stuff anyway. They wouldn’t even have bothered with him if he weren’t a homicide suspect. No, they’ll have to turn him loose, but they’ll do it in the Port of New York. They’re bringing him back here tonight. Probably dock at the Staten Island station, or maybe Sheepshead Bay.”

  “He can cool his heels in the Coast Guard brig overnight,” reflected Dillon. “I’ll find out where they’re holding him in the morning.”

  “Better phone the Twenty-Third and get one of the Spanish-speaking officers to go with you to pick him up,” O’Connell advised. “Detective Morales, if he’s available. I watched him question that gunrunner we collared in Harlem last year. He played that son of a bitch like a violin, and he called the tune.”

  “You think we can make him for manslaughter?” asked Dillon. “I don’t see murder, myself. After all, he didn’t even rob the guy, so he didn’t kill him for the money. My guess is he made a stupid mistake and tried to throw us off with that Surrealist diversion. I hope Morales can get a coherent story out of him.”

  He picked up the telephone and asked to be put through to the Twenty-Third Precinct. Morales was off duty, but the desk sergeant told Dillon that Officer Diaz was available. She came on the line, and Dillon filled her in.

  “This is excellent news, Detective Dillon,” she said. He could hear the satisfaction in her voice. “Detective Morales will be back on duty in the morning, and I’m sure he’ll be delighted to accompany you. He’s the one who traced Solana’s connection to Lam.”

  “Great,” Dillon replied. “Ask him to call me when he gets in. Meanwhile I’ll get the location where they’re holding Solana and we can meet there.”

  He was about to hang up when Nita asked, “Mind if I tag along?” Before he could object, she continued, “If Hector—Detective Morales, I mean—says I can? I’m thinking of putting in for detective, and he’s kind of a mentor to me. He’s always telling me to learn from experience, not from the textbooks. I promise not to say anything. I’ll just be a fly on the wall.”

  Dillon agreed reluctantly. “Well, if it’s okay with Morales, it’s okay with me.”

  Sixty-One

  Hare and Matta had spent the day trying to find out more about the investigation. They were having no luck. They crisscrossed Greenwich Village, tramping from one walk-up to another, learning nothing more than they already knew. Everyone who had been questioned by the police was told the same meager story, no details, nothing about the exquisite corpse disguise.

  The only one they couldn’t find was Motherwell. He was out when they called, and Maria didn’t know where he was or when he’d be back. When they finally reached him by telephone that evening, he mentioned that Dillon had been to see him again.

  “When did he come back, and why?” Hare wanted to know.

  “He was here this morning,” said Motherwell. “He had a question about the crime scene that he thought I could answer. I’m afraid I did answer it and, in doing so, opened a can of worms.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lam’s body was decorated. Whoever killed him used things in the studio to make him look like an exquisite corpse. Before I realized that it would implicate a Surrealist, I told Dillon what it was.” Motherwell was surprised to learn that Hare wasn’t shocked.

  “I know about the costume. Duchamp told me.” It had been Matta, but he couldn’t give that away. “Did Dillon say anything about the cause of death?”

  “Yes. He had the autopsy results. Lam was struck on the head.”

  Hare groaned inwardly. So much for his heart attack theory.

  “Are you there, David?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here. Just wondering what this means for us.” Especially for me, he mused, and even more especially for Matta, who was sitting beside him anxiously waiting to learn what Motherwell had said. “Thanks, Bob. I’ll be in touch.” He ended the call.

  “It looks bad,” he told Matta, “unless we can implicate Carlos Solana.” The only way out was to pin the blame on him. They started to work out a plan.

  Hare said that Matta, who was closest to Lam, should go to the police and finger Solana. Tell them that the sailor was Lam’s pal, that he was in port on the evening of the killing, and that he knew what an exquisite corpse was because he sometimes hung out with Lam’s artist friends. Then again, better not mention that he’s a sailor. That’ll make it harder to find him.

  Matta began to rehearse the story. “I’ll say Lam had a friend, a Cuban guy named Carlos. I don’t know his last name. I never met him. He’s from out of town. He would visit Lam whenever he came to New York. Lam found out he was involved in some kind of criminal activity, and he was very upset about it. He told me he was expecting Carlos this weekend and was going to confront him. They must have gotten into a fight about it, and Carlos hit him too hard. I can say I heard from Motherwell that he was killed by a blow to the head. Then Carlos tried to cover his tracks with the Surrealist costume.”

  That part was true.

  “Carlos will be presumed guilty, and by the time they figure out who he is, he’ll be long gone. I can get word to him via the Cartagena contact that he’s wanted for murder. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to come back to New York with that hanging over him. That way we’ll be in the clear.” Hare nodded his agreement.

  The only flaw they could find in this scenario was the timing. Once the police identified Solana, how closely would they check the time of death against his arrival on the Princesa?

  Maybe there was enough leeway. They’d have to take that chance.

  Sixty-Two

  Tuesday morning, October 19

  Over good coffee and excellent croissants, which he had picked up on the way to Peggy’s, Duchamp heard all about the previous evening’s party at Café Society Uptown.

 
“Isn’t it wonderful, Luigi? They’ve solved the case already!” Peggy gushed. “I’m so glad I had the presence of mind to call the commissioner. I’m sure it made all the difference.”

  Duchamp sipped his café au lait. “You are remarkable, cherie. Friends in high places and lovers in low ones,” he teased.

  Her rejoinder was on target. “And how shall I classify you, who fit both categories?”

  He chuckled and replied, “Touché.”

  She stroked his arm affectionately. “Is that an invitation?”

  “Pas pendant le petit dejeuner, je t’en prie. Romance interferes with my digestion.”

  Peggy interrupted their erotic banter with another announcement. “I’ve heard back from the United States Embassy in Havana,” she told him. “A telegram arrived just before you did. They located Helena at the home of Lam’s relatives. The family was told that Wifredo was found dead in his studio, but nothing was said about the circumstances. What could they say, except that they would be kept informed of developments?”

  Peggy sighed. “How horrible it must be for her, so far away, alone with his grieving family. I must help her. Tell me, Luigi, you know them better than I—were they close, Fredo and Helena? Did they love each other, did he respect her, encourage her?”

  Duchamp had always resisted pitying Peggy, since many of her woes were self-inflicted and she had enough money to make even her misery comfortable. But now, seeing the reflection of her relationship with Max in her curiosity about Helena’s situation, he felt sympathy for her. If only she could have found in Max the kind of soul mate Helena had in Lam.

  “It was a love match, I am certain,” he said. “Any comfort you can give her will be a blessing.”

  Impulsive as ever, Peggy jumped up from the table, charged across the room to the telephone, and dialed Harry Guggenheim, a son of Peggy’s uncle Daniel. Harry had been the United States Ambassador to Cuba in the early 1930s.

  “Hello, Harry dear? Peggy here. Are you well? Oh, good. Yes, I’m fine, thank you. It’s been too long since you and Alicia came to dine, and I hope we can do it one day soon, but I’m actually calling to ask a favor.”

  Unfortunately, cousin Harry couldn’t guarantee immediate passage for Helena. Apart from the difficulty of arranging travel during wartime, she was a German national, and she and Lam were common-law spouses; they were not legally married.

  “Why are these things always so complicated?” complained Peggy. “No one who took one look at Helena Holzer could possibly imagine her as a dangerous enemy. She’s as meek as a mouse and completely nonpolitical. Can’t you pull some strings?”

  “My dear Peggy, I’m not a magician, and I’ve been out of the diplomatic corps for ten years,” Harry reminded her gently. The last thing he wanted was an argument with his imperious cousin, who evidently believed that the Guggenheim name was enough to unlock doors that were closed to ordinary mortals. “I know you haven’t forgotten that we’re at war.”

  “Not with Cuba, as far as I’m aware.”

  “No, of course not. Cuba’s our most valuable Caribbean ally against the Axis. But we are at war with Germany, and so is Cuba. I’m sure this Holzer woman is under surveillance. Look at the trouble Max has had, and he’s married to an American citizen and a Guggenheim to boot. What chance is there that our government will admit an enemy alien, the common-law widow of a refugee, even one vouched for by a Guggenheim?”

  “They let Max in,” she persisted, “and we weren’t married then.”

  Harry gave in. “Oh, all right, I’ll see what I can do. Or rather what can be done under the circumstances. I’ll put my secretary on, and you can give him the woman’s address and whatever other information you think may strengthen the case. I’ll personally pass the request along to Ambassador Braden. We can try for admission on compassionate grounds.”

  Peggy offered to pay Helena’s passage as she had done for the other European refugees she sponsored.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Harry. “I can get an aeroplane. It’s only a short hop, 229 air miles, from Havana to Miami. From there it’s 1,089 air miles to Floyd Bennett Field. The whole trip can be done in a day if the weather’s good, two at the most. I did it often when I was posted to Cuba.”

  With a lifelong passion for aeronautics, Guggenheim—who had served with distinction as a navy pilot during the Great War—had connections to aviators, both civilian and military, around the country. One phone call, and a plane and pilot would be at his disposal.

  “Getting her out is no problem,” he assured her. “The problem will be getting her in.”

  Sixty-Three

  “Who had a heart attack?”

  Anne repeated the question she had first asked yesterday morning. She was clearing the breakfast dishes, while Matta sat at the kitchen table smoking and finishing his coffee. She had left the bedroom door open, so she could monitor the twins, who had been fed and changed and were gurgling happily in their double crib.

  He realized he’d have to tell her something. She obviously wasn’t going to drop it, and she was bound to find out sooner or later that Lam was dead. He decided to try a version of the story that he and Hare had rehearsed. He also decided to turn on the charm that lately had been in such short supply.

  “Pajarito, dearest, come and sit by me, please.” He had not called her Little Bird, his affectionate nickname for her, in quite some time. His voice spoke of concern, for her and for the subject he was about to broach.

  “I’ll tell you, but first I want to apologize for the way I’ve been acting. You see, I’ve been preoccupied, very worried about Fredo. He’s gotten involved in a bad business, something illegal. I don’t know the details, but that sailor who was here was his partner.”

  You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, and you’re lying about not knowing the details, said Anne to herself. You were in it with Fredo, and so was David. She could feel her emotions rising but tried to keep her expression neutral and attentive while she heard him out.

  He reached over and took her hands in his.

  “The sailor, Carlos, told me that he went to Fredo’s apartment and found him dead.”

  Anne flinched. “Dead,” she whispered. Her eyes stopped focusing on her husband’s winsome face and went blank.

  Matta patted her hands and continued. “He said he had no idea what happened to Fredo. He doesn’t speak English, and he knew we were friends, so he came to me for advice. Frankly, I thought he might have killed him—that’s why I got so upset and angry. He denied it, of course. I told him to go to the devil. Then later I got to thinking that maybe Carlos was telling the truth, maybe it was a heart attack. That’s what David and I were talking about when you came in.”

  Anne had gone completely still. He thought she had stopped breathing, and in fact, for a few moments, she had. The color had drained from her face, and when she did take a breath, it was short and shallow.

  She was in shock.

  “My God, pajarito, your hands are like ice.” Matta rose, lifted her out of her chair, and led her toward the bedroom. “Now you see why I was reluctant to tell you. I knew you’d be upset.” Not this upset, he thought. His concern was genuine. Could she have a weak heart? They’d been married for four years—surely he would have known.

  He sat her down on the bed and removed her shoes. “Lie down and rest, darling,” he suggested. She didn’t move, so he gently eased her up to standing, pulled back the bedding, sat her down again, and covered her.

  “I have to go out for a little while, not long. You stay there, keep an eye on the boys for me, will you?” he asked, hoping her motherly instinct would help her snap out of her trance.

  Her eyes flickered, but she didn’t answer.

  He left quietly, mentally reviewing the story he was about to tell the police, anxious to get it behind him.

  Sixty-Four


  Tuesday midday

  Fitz did a double take as the party entered the Sixth Precinct lobby. Detective Dillon led the way, followed by a disheveled and dejected-looking character, apparently a sailor, wearing a pea jacket, a watch cap, and handcuffs. Behind him came a large Hispanic man in plain clothes, accompanied by a uniformed officer, none other than Nita. Her luxuriant red hair was tucked discreetly under her visor cap, and she had assumed the alert, watchful attitude befitting a police escort.

  Fitz approached the group as they neared the desk. Nita saw him coming, smiled faintly, and cocked her head. They both stepped off a few paces while Dillon handled the booking procedure.

  “Officer Diaz, what a surprise. It’s good to see you again,” he began, forcibly suppressing the urge to greet her with a kiss.

  “A pleasure, Officer Fitzgerald,” she replied with equal formality while her eyes spoke more eloquently. “I’m here with Detective Hector Morales, my colleague from the Twenty-Third, to question a suspect in the Lam case. He speaks no English, so Dillon asked for Hector to translate. I think O’Connell told him what a great interrogator Hector is. I asked if I could observe, and they said okay, so here I am, bringing up the rear.”

  The formalities at the desk concluded, Dillon marched Carlos Solana down the hall to an interrogation room. Fitz followed, reluctant to abandon his position beside Nita.

  “Fitzgerald,” Dillon said, “get Jeff to bring in the fingerprint kit and the stenotype.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Fitz as he opened the door for them.

  “Didn’t the Coast Guard print him?” asked Morales. Even in a normal tone of voice, his resonant baritone rang with authority.

  “I suppose they did,” Dillon replied, “but they didn’t offer to turn them over to us. At least they let us copy his particulars off his merchant seaman’s registration papers. Officially he’s charged with smuggling, so I guess we should be grateful that we got the man himself. We can get another set of prints, but there’s only one of him.”