The Other Adonis

by Frank Deford

  “I assumed perhaps this might be about her.”

  “Yes. There was somebody who might have been staying in Antwerp at that time, and if that person was there—which I don’t know—but if…” His voice trailed off.

  Stoclet sensed Bucky’s discomfort. “And how might we discover if indeed that person was here?”

  Bucky sat up in his chair now, his head back, looking up to the ceiling, seeing nothing. “Well, I feel certain that she—that person—would have been staying at some hotel—and, you know, probably a good one.”

  “I see. And could you tell me, Mr. Buckingham: what is the name of this person?”

  Bucky closed his eyes now, as if somehow the dark made it easier to hear himself say, “The name would be Rawlings. Constance Rawlings.”

  “We have a list of all the registered guests who stayed that evening in the Antwerp area. If you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll get back to you.”

  It was all so clear to Nina now. Now she remembered. Paulette had said that Constance—it obviously was Constance—had dropped by the Belgian Tourist Office. Of course. Constance had then gone to Belgium, gone to—And you’d never guess who’s here. Surprise!

  Now—now—it all made such perfect, simple sense. And suddenly, Nina’s whole self was chilled. Constance obviously didn’t realize what she had revealed. Maybe she didn’t even realize now that she was Constance. Not altogether. Anyway, she just kept her eyes upon Margareta.

  Nina snuck a glance over, and her eyes lit on Constance’s museum admission button. Silver. Double Ones. But if love can be reincarnated, why can’t all else that we are? Love never lives by itself. It’s not an independent thing. It’s not a bluebird drifting up to the clouds. For all the poems and songs, for all the June/moon/swoon, all the sweet whispers about love—still, love is within us, of us. No less than laughter is us or intelligence is us or character is us or…hate is us. If the capacity to love can jump centuries, why not the capacity to kill?

  Nina turned away. Her breathing was coming in gulps now. She must leave, must run, must find help. And somehow, she found the presence of mind to say, casually (well, she thought she sounded casual), “Sorry, Constance, stay right here. I’ve just gotta go to the bathroom.”

  “You look peaked. You’re not having your period are you?”

  “Oh, no, no. I just have to—”

  “I didn’t think so. I told Bucky I thought you were struggling with menopause.” Now that was frosty. Even from a killer, that was out of line. Struggling.

  Never mind. Nina rushed off, sort of waving, but not daring to look back at Constance. She went out the door to the left, the one by Venus and Adonis. That was the last thing Nina saw as she hurried away. Adonis. That great and glorious body, the rosy cheeks, the sexy eyes, the mighty calves, the…hands. Those hands—the one upon the spear, the other reaching over to Venus. The hands that otherwise strangled women.

  Nina knew exactly where she was going. She knew there was a back stairs past the next gallery, just before the Rafaels and Titians, that wound down to the main floor. So, without looking back, she ducked onto those steps and almost fell on her face. The goddamn heels. Why did stupid women wear heels? Bloody chastity belts made more sense. Probably more comfortable, too. Nina needed the banister to save her fall; then gingerly, keeping hold of it, she made the last few steps to the landing.

  There, she finally forced herself to glance back up to see if Constance might have found these stairs, might be following her. No, thank God, nobody. Hurriedly then, Nina ripped off her heels and taking hold of the banister again, almost using it to vault her way down the stairs, she descended into the medieval armor section. She caught her breath. Damn. She was breathing as hard as if she’d run upstairs. She looked back. Good. Great. Still, no Constance following.

  Quickly now, she ran toward the front entrance. She knew there were two phones on the right side of the main door. Maybe she would even find Fernandez. No, no. Not that. Not any police. Can’t do that to Bucky. Nina had no proof that Constance had been in Antwerp—that she’d killed Jocelyn. Of course, Nina knew. But, no proof. No, first she must call Bucky. She must tell him the terrible truth. And he must come and save her.

  But: Bucky’s number. She’d just seen it at the office. But how did it start: 986? Or was it 896? Damn. She fingered in her purse as she ran. Thirty-seven cents. One quarter. One call. Get it right. Otherwise, that maze of directory assistance, of talking with unknown phone companies, 1-800s, pin numbers. No, get it right. Nine. Eight. Six. That’s it, for sure. Ninety-nine percent sure. Well, ninety percent. Okay, maybe ninety percent.

  By now, she’d reached the Great Hall and she saw the phones. Oh, Jesus. Both in use. But no one else was waiting. Nina glanced back, looking up to the top of the grand staircase. No sign of Constance. She stood there at the phones waiting for one to free up. Please.

  In gallery twenty-seven, Constance finally tore herself away from the Madonna and sat down on the bench, smiling to reassure the guard. But then she began to wonder. Did I say something I shouldn’t have? Maybe the woman knows you were in Antwerp. Not Ollie. You. Nina left so quickly, so nervously. Maybe she hasn’t gone to the lavatory. Maybe she’s gone to tell Bucky. She loves Bucky, doesn’t she? She wants Bucky. Constance jumped to her feet and dashed out of gallery twenty-seven.

  42

  Constance hurried through a couple more galleries. No Nina. No ladies room, either. She didn’t see the back stairs, though. And finally, she did find the ladies room—way in the opposite direction. But, no—no Nina there, either. So Constance ran back to the top of the grand staircase and looked down into the Great Hall.

  Just then, the phone closest to the door opened up, and Nina stepped up to it. Now she was in the shadows. At least she couldn’t be seen from the top of the staircase. But, especially in her bright violet suit, anybody who came toward her couldn’t miss her. Constance started to descend.

  Nina dropped in her only quarter. Please: it’s 986-…isn’t it? She dialed that. And the other four digits. Please. Ring. Ring. “Good afternoon.” Please. “Summer Sailing and Snow Ski magazines.” Bingo! “How may I direct your call?”

  “Floyd Buckingham.”

  Aimee said, “Mr. Buckingham’s office.” Nina identified herself. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Buckingham is in a meeting.”

  What to say? How many times had Nina called his office? Twice? Maybe three. Hardly ever. Did his secretary even know he went to a psychiatrist? “Listen,” Nina ventured, “I know you don’t know who I am, but this is really important. Can you please just tell Bucky it’s Nina, and I must speak to him now, this instant?”

  “I’m sorry, but if you’ll just leave your number, I’ll have Mr.—”

  Nina threw back her head in exasperation, and as she did, she saw Constance out of the corner of her eye. She was already much of the way down the stairs, her eyes glaring, set straight ahead. Nina pulled the telephone cord taut, moving over as far as she could into the shadows of the wall that formed the side of the front door. “Please,” she whispered into the phone. “I have never said this before in my life, but I swear to you: this is a matter of life and death.”

  Aimee could sense the fear in Nina’s voice, but she saw that Bucky’s phone light was still on. That inspector from Belgium had just phoned him back—and she knew how anxiously Bucky had awaited that call, how he had even closed his door when he got it. Aimee held the phone away from herself, looking from it to the red light. Finally, she brought the phone back to her mouth. “Just a moment,” she said, and she got up and knocked on Bucky’s door. There was no answer.

  That was because Bucky didn’t even hear the knock. Just now Bucky had heard Inspector Stoclet say, “Yes, indeed, Mr. Buckingham, we have it. A Mrs. Constance Rawlings of Lake Forest, Illinois, was registered at the Hilton the fifteenth of August.”

  Th
en Stoclet had begun asking questions. But Bucky didn’t hear them either. And then the phone even slipped from his hand. Aimee heard the receiver clatter as it hit the desk. And then she heard a low, awful moan. She didn’t stand any longer on office protocol. She threw open the boss’s door. She saw that Bucky had fallen back in his chair. She thought maybe he’d had a heart attack. She ran to him.

  Nina couldn’t hear any of this. Besides, by now, all her concentration was upon Constance. Nina was trapped. She scrunched down, still holding the phone, but hiding as best she could in the shadows. Would it even matter? Constance had reached the bottom of the stairs by now and was heading directly toward her. Only the large information booth lay between them, in the middle of the Great Hall. Nina saw how simple it all was. If Constance came round to her right, she would be striding right toward her. She could not fail to miss seeing her. But, if by chance, Constance rounded the booth to the left, then maybe Constance wouldn’t spot Nina as she angled to the door. Nina froze against the wall. Here we go: left or right. Nina held her breath.

  Constance bore to her left.

  Aimee took her boss’s hand. “Are you all right, Bucky?”

  He managed something of a nod. Aimee heard Stoclet’s voice coming through the receiver dangling there, so she snatched it and pressed the mouthpiece to her thigh so that the inspector couldn’t hear. Then, kneeling there before him, Aimee said, “Bucky, there’s a Nina Something—”

  His head shot up. “Nina?”

  “She’s on the other line. She says it’s a matter of—”

  Immediately, Bucky came back to life. He grabbed the phone from Aimee. “Nina?”

  But, of course, the man’s voice replied, “Mr. Buckingham, it’s Inspector Stoclet here. Are you all—”

  Bucky didn’t even say I’ll-call-you-right-back. Instead, his hand reached over to his console and he pushed the button on line two. “Nina?”

  “Oh God, Bucky! Help me!” Nearby, not five feet away, Constance flew out the front door to stand at the top of the Fifth Avenue steps, there to search the horizon for a retreating figure in violet.

  “Where are you?” Bucky asked. But before Nina had any chance to reply, he moaned again, “Oh, it’s the worst.”

  “What is?” But she only heard him groan again. Nina couldn’t wait any longer. She had to tell him. She tried to get a hold of herself, and, finally speaking clearly into the telephone, she said, “Bucky, I hate to tell you this, but I’m pretty sure it was Constance who killed Jocelyn.”

  She waited, then. She expected to hear raging disbelief, curses, ugly accusations. In fact, nothing could have prepared Nina for the quiet little beaten voice that merely said, “I know.”

  “You know?”

  He sat up straight in his chair. “We gotta talk, Nina.”

  “I know.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the museum.”

  With that, he shot to his feet. “Good God, is Constance—?”

  “I just met her here. That’s how I found out. I got away. She just ran outside looking for me. She’s probably on the way to my office.”

  “Get a cab, Nina. Come here.”

  Nina shook her head. “No, Bucky, she’s out there.”

  A recorded voice came on and announced that this was going to cost more money.

  “All right, all right,” Bucky said. “I’ll be right there.” He was galvanized now. Yes—still in shock on one level, in despair on another. But he knew he had to act. Well, it was easier to act. To do something. “Wait for me, Nina. Don’t move. Look, I know what. Go up to the Roof Garden and stay there. Don’t leave.”

  Nina whispered, “I’m so sorry, Bucky.” But he’d already hung up and was grabbing for his jacket. Nina simply held onto the receiver, and then leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes and tried to breathe like a normal person.

  By now, outside, Constance had rushed down the steps looking for Nina. She must be heading for her office. But, though Constance peered far down Fifth Avenue: no bright violet suit. She ran along for a block or so, dodging pedestrians who were examining the sidewalk art. But still: no Nina in sight.

  At last, Constance stopped. Maybe Nina didn’t go to her office after all. Maybe she caught a cab. Or maybe—maybe she didn’t even leave the museum. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe Nina’s none the wiser and is back up there in gallery twenty-seven, wondering where I am.

  Constance turned around, and her Venus earrings bobbling, she rushed back towards the museum, back up the front steps. In fact, at the top of the stairs, she rushed past an older man, actually brushing him aside as she burst back in to the Great Hall. That was Hugh. He simply hadn’t been able to wait any longer in his office, so he’d come to the museum early. Before it was time to meet Nina, he’d rent some earphones and go upstairs to the major new exhibit: Velázquez: The Years in Italy. He ambled in, heading toward the admissions booth.

  Ahead of him, Constance hurried on, dashing around the information desk toward the grand staircase that would take her back up to gallery twenty-seven. Wait. She stopped. Who was that in purple just disappearing around the corner up ahead? She was gone now. But it had to be Nina. Constance started to run after her.

  The guard stopped her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You have to have a button.”

  Constance glanced down. Her little faucet-silver button was gone. “It must’ve fallen off,” she said, but the guard had heard that one too many times before. Constance fished into her purse and came up with the receipt. The guard gave her a new button and she hurried in, down the hall, toward the statue of the Virgin reading to the Baby Jesus. Constance momentarily paused to look. Margareta made a far better Madonna, she concluded. She glanced to either side. Nothing. But instinct guided her left, toward the European Sculpture Court. Frantically, her eyes searched about.

  Wait. Up there. In the Kravis Wing. Wasn’t that a bright flash of purple? Yes. It could only have been Nina. Constance almost bowled over a couple of old Asian ladies in her path. But when she looked up, the purple was gone.

  She ducked to her right, into the maze of eighteenth-century palace rooms. Salons. Dining rooms. But no purple. No Nina. And next, absolutely as it had been, the formal reception hall of the Hotel de Tesse, Paris. But no Nina. So Constance scrambled away to her right: The Arts of Africa. Rushing there. But what’s that? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a door open. She whirled back. It was an elevator, the door just closing now.

  Constance stared at the elevator. But soon enough, she didn’t see the blank doors shut there. Instead, what she saw so very clearly in her mind’s eye was the painting over Rubens’s tomb at Saint James. And there—there was her beautiful Margareta. Holding their baby. Constance saw that dear painting all so vividly that she didn’t even notice that the doors had opened again before her and the elevator operator was saying: “Roof Garden.”

  43

  It wasn’t a roof garden kind of day. Rather, it was still gray out and even windy, too, up at this height. Certainly, there was almost no one on the roof, save for a couple employees grabbing a smoke and a handful of visitors scattered about. Off the elevator now, outside the glass doors on the roof itself, Nina paused at the portable bar.

  Her throat was dry. She asked for a glass of mineral water, and the young bartender cut off a slice of lime for the drink. Then Nina realized her damn feet hurt. She took off her heels again, and carried them with her under the arbor, past the statue of the Standing Woman, into the lee of that big, fat bronze lady. “My dogs are barking,” she said to herself. Her grandfather had always said, “My dogs are barking.” Remembering, she laughed, and sat down there at the far south end of the roof in that little extra square area that jutted down off what was otherwise the neat rectangle of the garden.

  Nina sat there, sipping her drink, trying to imagine what would h
appen next. She glanced at her watch. If Bucky had gotten a cab, he should be here soon enough. Now that she was safe from Constance, she felt more sorry for him.

  After all, he would have to confront his one great love of the ages who was a murderer. Poor Bucky.

  Bucky was, in fact, already in a cab speeding up Madison. He was trying not to cry.

  Hugh started up the escalator to the second floor to go to the European paintings section where the special Velázquez exhibit was on display.

  Constance got off the elevator, a bit unsure where she was. She stepped outside, and standing by the little bar, caught her bearings. Nina wasn’t visible to her because the massive Standing Woman statue hid her from Constance’s view. When the bartender asked Constance if she wanted anything and she said no thank you, he turned away to rearrange some glasses. But just in that instant, Constance had seen it lying there. Now, with his back to her, she snatched up the long knife he used for cutting lemons and limes and casually ambled away toward the western side.

  There, Constance gazed out over Central Park to the Obelisk and beyond. She turned back then, and facing in, she put one foot up on the rail behind her and idly scanned the garden. Still, she couldn’t see Nina because now another statue blocked her view. This one was called Becca; it was a bunch of large steel plates welded together.

  Constance pushed herself off the rail. Nina must not have come up here. By now, she’d adjusted the knife within her grasp so that it would be impossible to notice. She held it with her fingers pointing back to her palm so that the handle rested there, the blade laying flat along her wrist, all but hidden by her sleeve.

  Bucky’s cab was making pretty good time coming uptown. The driver pretended that he didn’t see his passenger crying a little.

  Constance walked to the south, giving the garden a final once-over. And there, her sight line changed and she spotted Nina around the side of Becca. There she was. Constance quickly drifted left to put the statue back between Nina and herself. She kept moving closer until she reached the statue. Then she stepped to the side. And now there was nothing between herself and Nina, just a few yards away.