The Disappearing Body

by David Grand

  Freddy didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. He just sat there feeling the heat emanating from his body.

  “We’ll get some more information about Miss Gould from the Beekman’s concierge,” Shaw said to his partner. “See if we can’t track her down.”

  “Yeah,” Reynolds said as he looked Freddy over one last time. “That’s a fine idea.”

  The two officers rose from their seats. They both looked down at the box of cards on top of Freddy’s desk.

  “You mind?” Shaw asked.

  Freddy opened the box for them with an unsteady hand. “Have as many as you like.”

  Shaw took one and Reynolds took one.

  “Have one of mine. We’ll be in touch.” Shaw placed his card on Freddy’s desk.

  With that said, Freddy followed Officers Shaw and Reynolds to the door and watched them walk out onto the display floor. As they crossed under the rotunda, the large room became frozen and silent again. The officers walked as solidly as the marble infantrymen might have. When they cleared the display room, all discerning eyes turned on Freddy and looked him over with some suspicion. Freddy briefly returned their stares and then retreated back into his office, shut the door, and drew the blind to his window. He removed some paperwork from his filing cabinet and sat at his desk, looking over dispatch forms, thinking of his neighbor dressed in her powder-blue robe as she stood at the bureau, in front of her vanity, under the painting of the young man leering down at her with his severe eyes and smile, and he tried to work.

  Chapter 5

  When Harry Shortz returned to his office, his secretary was on the phone saying, “The Commissioner’s out of the office. . . . That’s right. . . . That’s right. . . . If you don’t like it, buddy . . .” The secretary sounded a short laugh with something sharp in it. “All right, have it your way if you’re gonna be like that.” She slapped the phone down, then turned to Harry. “The phone’s been ringing all morning. Everyone wants to know what you were doing over in Long Meadow.” The phone started ringing again. She looked at it like she wanted to throw it out the window.

  “Unless it’s Tines or Crown’s lawyer, I’m not here.”

  Zelda, a thin, energetic woman who moved like a sparrow, tried handing Harry a stack of messages.

  “You hold on to those for now.”

  The phone started ringing again. Zelda steered her lips to the side of her face and stared at the phone defiantly.

  “Answer the phone, Zelda.”

  Zelda lifted the receiver and placed her hand over its mouthpiece. “The missus is inside.”

  Harry walked into his office to find his wife, Beverly, standing in front of a mirror on the wall, touching up her face. She was dressed in a plaid wool skirt and a pale blue silk blouse with a wide collar, open at the neck, just enough so that the dimple in her throat was exposed. By all accounts around town, in the gossip columns, in the fashion pages, by all authorities who judged with whom one should be seen, Beverly Shortz was an elegant woman, regal in spirit, always tastefully dressed, witty, vivacious, independent, modern, and in her middle age still a woman who could turn the heads of young men. When Harry saw her standing there, he was compelled to touch her.

  “I thought I would stop in and say hello on my way home,” she said, smiling at him in the mirror.

  “On your way home from where?” Harry walked over to Beverly and took hold of her by the waist, brushed her hair away with his nose, and kissed her neck. He kept holding her.

  “Dad and I had breakfast this morning.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “About as well as a breakfast with my father goes.”

  “Feeling a little overwrought?”

  “I should: we mostly talked about you.”

  “Not sure how I should take that.”

  “I sometimes think it’s as if he birthed you himself.”

  “I’m pretty sure it was dear ol’ Mom that spit me out into the world.”

  “Anyway, he told me to tell you that he wants to arrange a dinner party over at the house to kick off the money grubbing.”

  “His words?”

  “No,” she said, smiling, “mine.”

  “Tell him I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  “I’ll let him know,” Beverly said as she pried Harry’s fingers from her waist and walked behind him. She took Harry’s coat off and carried it over to a closet opposite his desk. “And where were you?” she asked as she leaned against the closet door.

  “Long Meadow.”

  “What brought you out there?”

  “A little man with a bad complexion.”

  “So now you’re consorting with trolls?”

  “Paulie Sendak—armory foreman of the Long Meadow Munitions Workers Union. A little man with a bad complexion. A troll of sorts, I suppose. He had the mind to give me a call to settle a dispute the union has with Tines.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Well, according to Tines, some dynamite found in some fishing shack somewhere along the river belongs to two of the leaders of the union. According to the union, the dynamite was planted in the fishing shack by the owner of the munitions factory.”

  “Oh, right,” Beverly said, her eyes studying her manicure. “That explosion the other day.”

  “Right,” Harry said, his attention drawn to Beverly’s hands. “That.”

  “So you actually had a talk with Tines?”

  “I did.”

  “And you made everything right for the union?”

  “As right as I could. . . . And then I went to Long Meadow to put the little man with the bad complexion at ease. Him and all his armed men.”

  “Why were they armed?”

  “They had taken over the plant.”

  Beverly looked up from her nails and stared at Harry crossly. “I wish you wouldn’t tell me these things.”

  “Better from me than from the papers.”

  “Did you get them to put down their weapons?”

  “I did.”

  “Without incident?”

  “Without incident.”

  “Good.” Beverly, no longer looking cross, but relieved, walked over to Harry, sat him down on a sofa, and then took a seat on his lap. “I ran into Hope Drummond on our way out of the restaurant this morning,” she said, her tone more light now.

  “How is the old broad?” Harry asked with a genuine lack of interest.

  “As young as ever. . . . I can’t remember, Harry. Did I tell you that the Martins are holding a private auction at their country estate Saturday afternoon?”

  “No, you didn’t. What’s it all about?”

  “You’ll never guess.”

  “I’m sure I won’t.”

  “Soviet art,” she said, accentuating both words slowly and carefully, as though she had said “The Queen of England.” “Of the revolutionary period, no less.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Can you imagine? Celeste Martin and Noel Tersi? They’re as much communists as Herbert Hoover is.” Beverly laughed. “Can you see the two of them trying to pass themselves off as lumpen proletariat? Of the people? Of any people? Please. They’ve always been eccentric, I’ll give them that much. Celeste, in particular, has always gone out of her way to be outrageous. Ever since she and my mother were girls at school.”

  “I’m sure if Noel Tersi is behind it, there’s some money to be made.”

  “Along with the artwork they’ve apparently imported some renowned Russian art historian,” Beverly continued, obviously preoccupied with the subject, “to give a lecture before the auction—Tarovski, or something like that. Anyway, Hope said that they’re boasting that they’ve invited some of the more prominent members of the American Communist Party, including,” and she paused, holding for a punchline, “Jerome Brilovsky.”

  “Dr. Brilovsky? The former head of the Brigade?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

  “It’
s as though they’re daring everyone to be there. I find it peculiar, don’t you?”

  “I take it we weren’t invited? Is that why this is suddenly interesting to you?”

  “No, we were invited. We received the invitation in the mail a few weeks ago. I just didn’t think there was any point to telling you. I thought it would upset you.”

  “Why in the world . . .”

  “And I wouldn’t bring it up now if Hope hadn’t reminded me about it this morning. I said to her, ‘Do they really expect my husband, in his position, with a senatorial election only months away, to be made a greater target for Lawrence Tines than he already is?’ ”

  “Is that what you were thinking?”

  “To be as leftward-thinking as he is already, and then to be in the company of Dr. Jerome Brilovsky?”

  “I see.”

  “I said, ‘It was partly Harry’s doing that helped put him in jail for killing that poor young woman. You’ve got to be kidding,’ I said.”

  “It wasn’t my doing, Beverly. And you know I’d have no objection being in the same room with anyone, including Dr. Brilovsky.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Then why did you refuse the invitation?”

  “Because I feel uncomfortable around a man like Dr. Brilovsky and his ilk.”

  “But now that you know Hope is going . . . ?”

  “She’s set on it. As is everyone else. It’s suddenly the thing to do. According to Hope, anyone who knows anything about modern art will just have to be there. ‘The Soviets being the forerunners of the avant-garde, how could they miss it?’ Hope said to me. I don’t know, darling. It kind of feels like gangrene is setting in.”

  “With envy?”

  “What could you possibly mean?” Beverly flashed Harry a surrendering smile as if to say she knew exactly what he meant. “What bothers me most about all this,” she continued, as she played with a button on his shirt, speaking like a pouty little girl, “—and tell me if I’m being hysterical—is that in the name of art they’re luring in all these good-intentioned people, who’ll end up paying for a painting—some of whose proceeds will probably end up in Stalin’s brutish hands. Don’t you think so, dear?”

  “It’s more likely the money will fall into Tersi’s old decrepit hands.”

  “But possible?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Good. At least I’ll have something to say tonight when I’m at the theater.”

  “You’re going to the theater tonight?”

  “Yes, don’t you remember? Agnes Carlyle is taking me to see the opening of Prometheus Bound.”

  “How appropriate.”

  “ ‘Harry said it’s highly likely,’ I’ll say,” Beverly said, paying no mind to Harry.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Tonight at the theater.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll say, ‘Harry said it’s highly likely.’ ”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “In any case, I might be able to deter at least a few reasonable people from going.”

  “Why don’t we just go, if you’re feeling left out.”

  “I’ve already declined the invitation, Harry.”

  “Not to mention you’ve probably been talking like this with all your friends ever since you received the invitation.”

  “I would look like a fool and a hypocrite if we went now.”

  “Such troubles you have. You and all that blue blood of yours must be boiling.”

  “You love every drop of it.”

  “If I could only help myself.”

  “In any case, Harry, I’ll blather on a bit and try to raise a few eyebrows,” she said as she self-consciously raised her own arched eyebrows and smoothed them over with her finger.

  Harry gave Beverly a hug and a gentle kiss on the mouth. He helped her off his lap and picked up her fur coat from the other end of the sofa. He draped it over her shoulders and walked her to the door.

  “Off I go into the cold cold cold.”

  “I’ll see you tonight, dear.”

  “Yes, tonight, in the sack, I’ll be there.”

  When Harry shut the door behind Beverly, he took a seat at his desk and sat before several framed photographs, one of Beverly, himself, and their two sons, Eric and Harry, Jr., who were eleven and nine. There was a photo of Harry’s parents taken at their family home, which stood on a small plot of land in Portsmith, where his mother and father, two Belgian émigrés, worked for the mining company most of their lives. Beside this image, in a considerably more elaborate setting, on the grounds of their country estate, was a photo of Harry’s in-laws, Clarissa and Edward Kelly. Hanging on the walls were small trophies and plaques from rescue missions and temperance groups honoring his service, along with photos of him standing beside several Presidents.

  Harry noticed sitting on top of a stack of papers in his in-box a manila envelope he hadn’t seen when he had come in that morning. He reached over for it. It was marked Commissioner Shortz, no return address. As he was about to open it, Zelda knocked on his door and stuck her head in. “There’s a Mr. Gerald Kravitz from the Long Meadow Munitions Workers Union to see you. He says he has an appointment.”

  “Send him in,” Harry said. He placed the envelope off to the side and stood up to meet Mr. Kravitz. “How do you do, Mr. Kravitz?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Take off your coat and have a seat.”

  Gerald Kravitz, a fast-talking man with a febrile glow in his cheeks, doubled as a machinist and one of the union’s lawyers. He removed his coat and hung it and his hat on a rack beside the door. He then took a seat in front of Harry and opened his briefcase.

  “Any word on Waters and Capp?” Harry asked.

  “It all went smoothly, thanks to you.”

  “Have they set a date for the hearing?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Not a lot of time.”

  “It’s time enough if Chief Investigator Tines is cooperative.”

  “I certainly hope he is.”

  “It’ll be rough, I think.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Tines has it out for them for certain youthful indiscretions.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Wrote some hotheaded remarks on some hotheaded subjects in The Masses a long time ago.”

  Mr. Kravitz opened his briefcase and handed Harry a few articles that Waters and Capp had written.

  Harry read. “They sound pretty hostile.”

  “It was twenty years ago.”

  “Still,” Harry said, “it doesn’t help matters.”

  “No,” Kravitz said, “it doesn’t.”

  “Not with Tines feeling as he does about sympathizers.”

  “And you? How do you feel?”

  “It’s simply beside the point.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that.”

  “So, Mr. Kravitz,” Harry said, leaning forward in his seat a little, “the reason I asked Mr. Sendak to send you over here this morning is because I’d like to know why someone other than Waters and Capp would have a motive to cause an explosion at the plant.”

  Mr. Kravitz reached into his briefcase, pulled out some papers, and handed them to Harry. “I think the answer to that question is somewhere between the lines of this agreement Fief has with Long Meadow.”

  “How so?” Harry asked as he placed the papers before him.

  “Simply put? Fief wants to open up the shop to workers outside of Long Meadow. He wants to drive wages down. Claims with the current closed-door policy, he’s not competitive any longer.”

  “Is there any truth in it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “He never expected the union to be so strong?”

  “Of course he did. That was the nature of the agreement. It was a three-way partnership between Fief, Long Meadow, and the government. Fief, at the time, was sinking. The government threw him a bone to stay afloat. Long Meadow paid for most o
f the factory’s construction in return for job security and bargaining power. So for Julius Fief, it was a ripe deal. Now that the company’s strong and it looks like things are starting to heat up around the world and there’s a chance he might hit a few more boom years, he’s itching to muscle us out.”

  “So, what’s this got to do with the explosion at the plant?”

  “If a court says the union is too hostile for him to conduct his business, he gets to slip out of that agreement. An indictment for sabotage and manslaughter helps his case an awful lot. Starting to get the picture?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Harry said, giving his chin a rub.

  “And Tines?” Gerald Kravitz said, nearly spitting Tines’s name. “He wants to see working stiffs with their heads in the rubbish heap. It ain’t communism he’s fighting, it’s regular bums like us he’s after. Us and the government that gave Fief the development money that helped create us.”

  Harry, who was still gripping his chin, smiled at Kravitz with some amusement. “But tell me this,” Harry said. “Why doesn’t Fief just offer you a settlement?”

  “Because he’d lose the plant and everything in it. It goes to us to cover our debts. He can’t afford that.”

  “So, he’s stuck with you.”

  “And vice versa. And he’s going to be stuck with plenty more, because if I know my boys, they’re going to vote to shut down the plant starting tonight. We’ve got annual contract negotiations coming up right around the time the trial starts—coincidentally—and, regardless of how it looks, we’re not gonna let Fief think he can fuck with us without feeling a little hurt himself.”

  “That is a little coincidental, isn’t it?” Harry agreed.

  “Very.” Kravitz nodded his head quickly and gave his nose a tug.

  “But if you go on strike, aren’t your men concerned that it’ll look like another hostile act to add to the list of hostile acts? Don’t you think you may be playing right into Fief’s hand?”

  “Frankly, they’re too angry to think like that. The union’s stubborn, Mr. Commissioner, and they don’t like Fief. And I can’t say I blame them. But I do see your point. But you have to see the union’s. When it comes time to negotiate the new contract, we have to show Fief that our backs are made of steel. If we bow down to his and Tines’s intimidation, we’re as good as lost.”