The Other Adonis

by Frank Deford

  Constance gritted her teeth when the phone rang. She was standing there, almost done packing. She knew who it had to be. That woman. That woman who had known Bucky, who had…fucked Bucky. That woman. Miss Buttinsky. That woman who is after me, sticking her nose in. After Bucky and me. After Margareta and me. One more ring.

  And now, suddenly, Constance’s angry eyes were dead, and she saw Elsa in the canal again. She shook her head vigorously, trying to blur over that vision, to replace it with the red and the black diamonds. And she did! With Margareta sitting on them, smiling up at her. Now it was all so clear. And look! Their baby! This time, Margareta was sitting on the red and black diamonds nursing their baby.

  But: one more ring.

  Constance swirled to glare at the phone. That woman is going to tell about Elsa. Report me to the scutters, get the reward. I will never again be with Margareta. Instinctively, Constance snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”

  Jocelyn had all but given up. She was so shocked that she’d actually finally reached Constance that it was all she could do to stutter, introducing herself.

  “Yes, what is it, then?” was all Constance replied, icily.

  “Well, I’d just love to see you sometime tomorrow, to talk about what I’ve learned about you and—”

  “I’m returning tomorrow,” Constance said. “But…” There was the longest pause. “We could meet tonight.”

  Jocelyn was flabbergasted. “Now? It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “Well, it must be now.”

  “Of course, of course. I’ll come right down.”

  “No,” said Constance emphatically. “I’ll meet you by Rubenshuis. There are places nearby for coffee, a drink.”

  Jocelyn hung up in excitement. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. There was so much she wanted to tell Constance about Double Ones. So much Constance could tell her. Jocelyn grabbed her shoulder bag, then her long raincoat. If it wasn’t raining yet, it was already chilly enough. And of course, she put on her new Rubens-era hat, the green one with the tall feather.

  She hurried down the hall to the little elevator. Hardly had she pushed the button, when back in her room, the phone rang. It was Nina. This was the message she left: “Oh, Jocelyn, this is Nina Winston. How perfect! I was going to call your office tomorrow to see how to reach you. Here’s a name I want you to check out: Jan De Gruyter.” She spelled it out. “Can you find anyone by that name living in Antwerp in 1635? Are there town hall records from back then? Or any registry at Saint James Church? And not just Jan. Also Margareta De Gruyter. Okay? Call me.”

  Jocelyn, though, was gone from the room and soon walking down Wapperstraat, then passing by Hopland, onto Rubenshuis. All the Palm beer and Coca-Cola umbrellas had long since been folded up on this dreary evening. So about ten minutes later, when Jocelyn could hear footsteps approaching down the side street by the ATM, she was certain that it could only be Constance Rawlings. And yes, when the figure emerged under the street light, Jocelyn knew that it was her.

  There was a certain irony in that, too, because by then, at that moment, Jocelyn Ridenhour knew better who Constance Rawlings was than did Constance Rawlings know herself.

  In fact, the whole way, walking briskly from the Hilton, the person who was Constance Rawlings kept wondering whether Jocelyn had already contacted the scutters. Maybe it was a trap.

  “I’m sooo glad to finally meet you,” Jocelyn cooed, sticking out her hand. And now Constance was even more discombobulated, because there in the dark by the Rubenshuis, Jocelyn—in her hat with the feather and in the long raincoat that seemed so like a gown—appeared even more to be a figure from the past. Constance’s eyes darted about.

  “They’re still open over there,” Jocelyn said, cheerily, pointing to the bistro on the corner of The Meir, catty-cornered from where they stood on Wapperstraat.

  Now, for the first time, Constance spoke, and if Jocelyn had been listening carefully, she might have taken note of how oddly she talked—deeper of voice, different in tone and cadence than the voice on the phone. “No,” the new voice said, “I know a place further down.”

  “Terrific!” Jocelyn said gaily.

  The two of them were standing by some conical trees, arrayed for decoration in the middle of Wapperstraat. Just beyond, toward The Meir, were the large concrete bins, maybe three-and-a-half or four feet high, that held thick shrubbery. As they passed by the first one, Constance made sure to glance around. There was still no one about in the street, and what few people were finishing up their drinks across the way in the bistro were shielded from view by the bushes on the promenade. So, here they were, the two of them alone, just the way it had been the other day with Elsa on the Burchtgracht. “Wait,” Constance said, as soon as they were behind the island of shrubbery.

  Jocelyn stopped. Without warning, Constance stepped forward and slammed a fist into the raincoat, into her midsection. In the dark, Constance couldn’t see the utter shock on Jocelyn’s face. She only heard the involuntary whoosh, as Jocelyn doubled over, the wind and the wonder gushing out of her. Her hat flew off her head, and her purse fell off her shoulder. It was easy, then, for Constance to take her powerful forearm and bring it up solidly into the crook of her neck. Now she gasped for any breath. But that was really only a brief panic, her startled eyes wide, for then Constance banged her head against the concrete wall and watched Jocelyn, unconscious, crumple to the pavement.

  It was easy enough for Constance to fall upon her, and placing both hands around her neck, squeeze until there was no life left in Jocelyn Ridenhour.

  Quickly, Constance looked around. Still, no one in sight. Sure, it’d been easier just dumping Elsa in the canal, or leaving Caterina right there in the bed, or letting Bess slip down upon the pebbles. It would be more difficult here, and it had to be done with dispatch, too. She had to raise the body up the four feet or so and dump it—dead weight—into the shrubbery. Jocelyn was no petite woman, either. But Constance was so strong from her riding and her other exercises, and she was so galvanized by the urgency required of her, that swiftly enough, she lifted Jocelyn up upon the concrete edge and then plopped her over into the dirt.

  Constance snatched up the hat and the shoulder bag and one shoe that had come off. Just then, she heard voices to her left, coming down The Meir. Quickly, she tossed Jocelyn’s effects up into the bin then hoisted herself up to lay still beside Jocelyn, listening breathlessly as the footsteps approached the intersection of Wapperstraat…and then kept on, receding down The Meir.

  Constance peered out and was just about ready to rise up so that she could yank Jocelyn back, more into the cover of the bushes, but she saw someone arriving at the ATM. So, she lay back down, still, staring up at the dark skies and then over through the bushes to the upper floor of Rubenshuis.

  There were no candles lit inside, but she knew that was Mr. Rubens’s private studio, and she knew, on a night like this, that if the master should leave his bedroom and go up to the studio and peer out, he could spot her from there. But the windows were not open now. Perhaps the master’s gout was not bothering him this night. Stay with Helena, Mr. Rubens, she thought. Try to sleep.

  Constance turned her head to the side to look toward the ATM where the man took his francs and departed back down the side street. And now she and Jocelyn were alone again, so Constance rose up on her knees and pushed the body over, deeper into the shrubbery. She couldn’t hide it completely, but she could conceal it enough so that unless someone came very close to the island and actually peered in, no one would see the body.

  Then something else occurred to Constance. She reached under Jocelyn’s raincoat, ripped open the buttons on her blouse, and then yanked at where the bra hooked in front. With her right hand, then, she pinched one of Jocelyn’s breasts hard. She did not have to see to know she’d made a bruise. Good. It was a crime of passion. Once again, a lonely
, middle-aged woman had ventured out at night on vacation and met the wrong…man.

  Constance prepared to depart, shuffling over to the edge of the bin. But just at that moment, she heard people leaving the café across the Wapperstraat. They couldn’t see her from that vantage, but perhaps they’d come round this side of the island. Be patient. Constance threw herself back down on the dirt, flat out on her back.

  And sure enough, they were coming toward her, chatting. All men’s voices. Germans, she was positive. Damn Germans will drink beer all night. They were laughing. They were right by her. Suddenly, one spoke loudly: “Warte. Wait.” They all stopped. Constance held her breath. Out of the corner of her right eye, she could see them, which meant that, if they but glanced over, they could see her.

  Luckily, they’d gone two steps past her. But now the one who’d called out turned and faced the shrubbery bin, and Constance realized he was going to relieve himself. He was so close, she even heard the little noise his zipper made going down. The German never looked to his left where Constance lay, but instead, only kept his eyes on the endless stream he made against the wall. When he was finally finished, he took out a cigarette and lit it, tossing the match into the bin. It landed, spent, next to Constance’s legs where she lay all this time side-by-side to the woman she’d just murdered.

  At last, the Germans moved off and the streets were empty again. Constance peeked out. She left Jocelyn’s feathered hat behind with the body, but she made sure to grab the shoulder bag, and with it, leapt down nimbly out of the shrubbery bin then hurried away, past Rubenshuis. Only when she was well beyond did she duck into the shadows and brush off the dirt that clung to her clothes, rearranging herself to be neat, undistinguished by any disarray.

  Moving through back streets, Constance stopped under a streetlight, where she searched through Jocelyn’s bag. Quickly, she laid her hands on what she wanted: that little plastic card key that would let her into room 554.

  Constance cut over to Arenbergstraat, paused briefly before the Alfa Theatre, and then strode casually into the hotel, straight ahead to the elevators. If the clerk at the front desk had seen her, Constance certainly hadn’t occasioned him to take any special notice of her. Besides, night clerks have no idea who’s checked in during the day.

  Constance opened the door to 554. She found the room neat enough, with a few tourist maps and guidebooks tossed about. She made sure not to touch anything without using a handkerchief as a glove. No fingerprints—she knew that. Quickly, then, she started rifling Jocelyn’s briefcase. And there it was: a manuscript. She read the title. Double Ones. Furious, Constance flipped through it. Most of it was in Cyrillic, meaningless to her, but there were also whole notebooks full of Jocelyn’s own beautifully ornate script, including—yes, there it was—a large section entitled “Bucky & Constance.” Constance’s eyes flashed as she read that. The names jumped out. Cecil Wainwright. Oliver Goode. Margareta.

  That was enough. Constance trembled with fury. She had to sit down on the bed. The intrusive bitch. She got what she deserved. Constance would take the briefcase and destroy it. She and Bucky would be safe from prying. Dr. Winston might know about them, but as a doctor, she was obligated to secrecy.

  Next, Constance dumped the contents of Jocelyn’s shoulder bag onto the bed. What else might be in there? The usual, mostly. Cosmetics. Some Polo mints, a tin of Excedrin. Some old grocery receipts from New York, new ticket stubs from Antwerp. But, uh oh, what’s this? Two condom packages. Constance picked them up, bemused. Jocelyn came prepared. It gave Constance an idea, though.

  Jocelyn had been killed by a man, had she not? So, let’s make that even more obvious. The man had been in her room, too. Constance tore open the two packets, then threw the rubbers into the toilet. She took the wrapping paper from the first one and pitched it into the wastebasket, but the second she dropped next to that receptacle—bad shot. Also: easy to notice. Then she put up the toilet seat, and squatting over the bowl, made sure to pee some on the top of the commode. Just like a man. Bad shot. She flushed the toilet and returned to the bed, where she rolled about, messing up the sheets, leaving no doubts but that there had been considerable passionate activity there.

  That was when Constance noticed that the message light was blinking. She considered that for a moment, then picked up the phone, punched the message button, and listened. There was only one call. From…Nina Winston. “How perfect!” Constance’s jaw clenched. She has no business passing out our secrets. At the mere mention of Jan De Gruyter’s name, Constance slammed her fist hard into the bed. She hated Jan De Gruyter, even if she wasn’t altogether sure why.

  Now, too, she hated Nina Winston. For cause.

  Constance returned the phone to its cradle and took deep breaths, regaining her composure. That was when her eyes fell on Jocelyn’s coffee cup across the way, sitting half-finished on the desk. That gave her another idea. However, it distracted her and made her forget about the message light. She did not push star-three to eliminate the message. The little red light didn’t blink anymore. But it did remain on, signaling that the message, once heard, remained there, able to be summoned up again.

  Constance went across to the mini-bar. It opened without a key. She withdrew a bottle of Stella Artois, poured about three-quarters of its contents down the toilet, flushed that again, then put the beer bottle next to the coffee cup on the night table, so that it appeared as if Jocelyn and her lover had enjoyed a little post-coital drink before they’d gone out strolling down the Wapperstraat, until maybe a little lovers’ spat and…

  Constance gave one last look about the room, picked up the briefcase with the Double Ones manuscript and notes, snuck a peek down the hall to make sure no one was about, affixed the Do Not Disturb sign to the door handle, closed the door to 554 softly behind her, strolled down the hall, caught the elevator, departed the Alfa Theatre Hotel, and returned to her room at the Hilton where she left a wake-up call for eight so that she could make the nine o’clock Sabena bus to the Brussels airport, which she did.

  Constance was dozing off well over the Atlantic on Delta/Sabena 2703 that afternoon, when in Antwerp, along Wapperstraat, a young man, laughing, backed his girlfriend up against one of the shrubbery bins so that he might give her a playful kiss. Almost simultaneously, she smelled something awful, and he caught a glimpse of Jocelyn’s body.

  37

  Inspector Gijs Stoclet, assigned to head up the case, assumed at first that the murdered woman was a local resident who had worked at the Rubens Fair. Why else would she have had the Rubens-era hat with the gold feather? Perhaps she’d even met her killer there, in the Grote Markt.

  But naturally, the murder received considerable attention, and the clerk in the candy stall who’d sold Jocelyn the hat read about the crime in the Gazet Van Antwerpen. She notified the police that she’d sold exactly the kind of hat mentioned in the press account to an American who seemed to fit the victim’s description. After that, it did not take Inspector Stoclet long. Soon enough, three employees of the Alfa Theatre Hotel positively identified Jocelyn’s body.

  The hotel maid, an immigrant from the Congo, had long since made up room 554, but she recalled the scene there. She distinctly remembered the condom wrapper on the floor. Likewise, the employee in charge of mini-bars reported that whereas the guest in 554 had not previously purchased anything but one Orangina, on the night she was killed, a Stella Artois beer had also been removed. Nonetheless, while all the circumstantial evidence pointed to a male acquaintance, the Antwerp police were unable to find a single witness who had seen Jocelyn Ridenhour in the company of a man (or a woman, for that matter). Stoclet grew fearful that the American had been the victim of some chance encounter that had left no clues of any consequence.

  The inspector had, by now, already contacted New York. A card in Jocelyn’s wallet identified her employer. That had led to a call to Jocelyn’s nearest kin, her brother
, Randolph, who still lived in southwestern Virginia where Jocelyn had grown up. Next, Stoclet phoned Nina. It was early evening in New York, and she was at home, to be absolutely floored by the news.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Winston,” Stoclet said, in an English that was largely free of accent, “but it seems that you were the last person who tried to contact her.”

  “I see,” Nina replied, collapsing onto her sofa. She told him about the exchange of messages. “I was in the shower when she called me.”

  “Do you recall what time that was?”

  “Oh, exactly. I’d just gotten back home. Around six—my time. That’s why I was so surprised when I called Jocelyn back and she didn’t answer. That would’ve been past eleven, your time. That’s awfully late to go out.”

  “Yes. And you called her as soon as you got out of the shower?”

  “Well, yes and no. I called her back right away, as soon as I found the message. But the line was busy.” Stoclet jotted down that information. It jibed. The hotel record showed that Jocelyn had made a local call at that time. “So I waited awhile,” Nina went on, “then called her back. No answer. That’s when I left the message.”

  “Yes. So now, Dr. Winston, may I ask you: who are Jan and Margareta De Gruyter? There are no such persons we can find. And why 1635?”

  Nina was frazzled enough by the shocking news. She was hardly prepared for any interrogation. She mumbled—probably not very convincingly, “Oh, uh, Jocelyn was involved in some sort of genealogical search. But it couldn’t have anything to do with this awful thing.”

  Stoclet could hear Nina’s voice starting to break. “I’m sorry, but just to be sure I understand: neither Jan or Margareta De Gruyter could possibly be involved?”

  Nina inhaled her sniffles. “Inspector, there is no Jan or Margareta De Gruyter. Not now.” But Nina couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, and Stoclet surmised it was a dead end. Too bad. The next question he was going to ask was whether Nina was aware of anyone Jocelyn knew in Antwerp. That, surely, would have reminded Nina about Jocelyn’s teasing remark about a most “fascinating” person who was also there. But for now, in her distress, she’d forgotten that, and she barely managed to scribble down the inspector’s name and number.