Murder and Gold

by Ann Aptaker

  “Tell Sig Cantor Gold wants to talk to him.”

  Sig soon comes on the line. “Good afternoon, Cantor,” he says in that slow, too careful way that makes even a greeting sound like a death sentence. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can thank me,” I say.

  “Is that so? Have you brought me Miss Garraway’s killer? No, you have not. So why am I thanking you?”

  “Because it turns out I led Lieutenant Huber to Tap Tenzi, where Huber heard me trick Tap into confessing to Quinn’s murder. Now that Tap’s in custody, and will soon be in Sing Sing prison, do you think he’ll meet his demise in the electric chair, or should I place my bet on something sooner?”

  I don’t know if he’s giving me that creepy silent laugh of his or if he’s just giving me the silent treatment. All I hear is dead air through the phone. It makes the hair on my neck twitch until he finally says, “Now that the Quinn matter is resolved, you will have no impediments to taking care of the Garraway business. Lieutenant Huber has been sidelined, so you are free to proceed as you wish. Your methods are your own to decide, except they must result in bringing the guilty party to me. No more involvement by the police, no more loose ends. Do you understand, Cantor?”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, just hangs up.

  Sig may own a lot of politicians, courtrooms full of judges, whole police precincts, entire Mob outfits, even teenage street gangs, but he doesn’t know beans about any of the people he owns. He doesn’t see their souls, their contempt for the Law or their fear of it. He sees their failures but not their pride. He has no idea that Lieutenant Norm Huber will never just step aside, no matter how much brass comes down on him.

  But I know. And I know that Huber hates me.

  Maybe Sig knows that, too.

  • • •

  The Green Door Club has a different feel in the afternoon than it does at night. The crowd’s smaller, older, less colorfully dressed, the drinking more relaxed. There’s no band; no one’s put money in the jukebox. No one’s here to find the love of their life or just pick up a night’s tumble. During the day, the Green Door Club is a snug spot to find friendly peace and quiet and just be.

  Peg’s pouring a beer at the bar for an older butch I’ve seen around now and then, who nods, says, “Hiya, Cantor.”

  I tip my cap, say, “Hello, Jo. How’s retirement treating you?”

  “Better than the factory ever did.” There’s enough dignity in her smile to make the Queen of England kneel, and enough pain to make even a Marine cry.

  Peg pours me a shot of Chivas. Noticing the gash at the corner of my mouth, she gives me a “not again” tsk. I answer with a shrug, down the scotch, and head upstairs.

  • • •

  Alice throws an arm around my neck when I walk through the door, runs a finger tenderly along my wounded mouth, and then kisses me. Her tongue slides along the torn flesh as if trying to taste my blood. It’s a kiss that eats you alive and makes you happy you’re on the menu. It’s not until she pulls away from the kiss that she says, “Hello,” through a smile that’s equal parts sweet and seductive. She’s dressed in a black sheath with a square neckline that’s coy, at least for Alice, with just enough tease to make me kiss her again.

  It’s my turn to kiss deep, to search and probe every corner of her mouth. I open my coat, wrap us both inside, pull Alice hard against me. Her every curve molds itself to me, sparking every nerve in my flesh, each one triggering in my imagination what I want to do with Alice Lamarr.

  My need of her is so deep it scares me, sets off an alarm in my head warning of danger. I don’t want to need anyone this much. Not again.

  I pull away from the kiss, but gently. Through a smile meant to mask my jitters, I say, “Have you heard?”

  She answers with a questioning tilt of her head.

  “You haven’t seen today’s paper?” I ask.

  “No, why?”

  “Tap’s been arrested for the murder of Lorraine Quinn. You’re out of danger.”

  I guess after living in fear of Tenzi’s violence for so long, Alice’s smile is as nervous as it is happy. “They took him alive?”

  “You were expecting a shootout? They only happen in the movies.”

  Her smile’s brighter now, able to enjoy my joke. “I guess he’ll get the chair?” she says, not bothering to hide her hope.

  “He’s got a reservation for a cell on Sing Sing’s death row.” I don’t mention that Sig might remove Tap from this earth before the state does. I bet she wouldn’t mind that either. “C’mon,” I say, “let’s get you back to your room at the Collier.”

  “And that nice big bed.” Her smile is part kittenish, part alley cat, and all temptation.

  • • •

  “I can’t stay,” I say when we’re back in her hotel room. “You might be out of danger but I’m not. There’s someone I need to see who could help get me out from under.”

  “You’ll come by later?” She slides her arms around my neck again.

  “I’ll try,” I say, wondering if I mean it. I slip her arms from my neck and head for the door.

  “Cantor,” she calls after me. “Kiss me good-bye.”

  I give her a smile from the doorway, then escape before I can’t.

  • • •

  The Parkhurst Trent mansion on the swanky Upper East Side, on a block between Fifth and Madison Avenues, is bigger than your common rowhouse but smaller than the New York Public Library. A Beaux Arts confection of European gewgaws, its door is the showstopper of the block. The big walnut slab is carved with tangled forest scenes painted deep red. When the sun hits it, the forest looks like it’s burning. At night, in the shadowy light of curbside street lamps, the forest looks like it’s bleeding. The door was designed for the house’s first owner, Malachi Trent, Vivienne’s Gilded Age great-grandfather, the bruiser who bullied his way into a maritime fortune and managed to marry the aristocratic Parkhurst copper heiress. According to Parkhurst Trent family lore, the old scoundrel wanted a house dignified enough to take its place among the mansions occupied by his more pedigreed neighbors but with something to announce the mighty Malachi’s arrival into New York’s upper tiers of power. The fearsome door was Malachi’s billboard.

  Inside, though, is another story, a calmer one. Vivienne’s been redecorating the house, getting rid of the stuffy nineteenth-century furniture and the remnants of Malachi’s safari hunt décor and replacing it with comfortable elegance.

  Her butler, George, has been with the family since before Vivienne was born. He’s served her faithfully ever after. This isn’t the first time he’s taken my coat and cap and led me through the house, keeping his disapproval of me tightly wrapped under his butler’s stiff demeanor. But it’s there in his eyes, his suspicion that I bring disrepute and danger to Miss Vivienne. The newest gash to my face probably isn’t improving his assessment.

  He’s escorting me to the living room. Along the way, my shoes tap on the checkerboard marble floor in the mahogany-paneled hallway. Priceless European Renaissance paintings hang on the walls, masterpieces by bad boys Caravaggio, who was said to have murdered a Roman pimp, and Fra Filippo Lippi, who ran off with a nun. There’s a jewel of a triptych of The Annunciation by Netherlandish master Jan van Eyck, and drawings by Leonardo. I supplied the Lippi and one of the Leonardos. Getting the Leonardo out of the London townhouse of a drunken British aristocrat was easy. Slipping the Lippi past the Vatican’s robed princelings and the zealously vigilant Swiss Guards was an adventure.

  Arriving at the living room, George opens the double doors and announces me to Vivienne and her guest, a woman who I’d guess is about fifty but whose money made sure those fifty years treated her kindly. Her tailored gray suit is expensive. Her light brown gray-flecked hair in an off-the-face style of tight waves, topped by a disc of a gray hat, frames a sculpted face that declares the patrician bloodline of its owner, a lineage even more lofty than Vivienne’s. Both women, enjoying martinis, are seated on th
e slate green sofa, its black pillows fringed in gold. The sofa wears well in the handsome room of rich greens, browns and golds, complementing the pale skies and gentle waterways of the sixteenth-century Dutch landscape paintings gracing the walls.

  Vivienne’s guest looks me over as if making sure I am as advertised. Evidently the danger of my life was part of the advertising, since she doesn’t flinch at the sight of my scarred and newly wounded mug. The woman’s carefully lipsticked mouth, a shade of red less vibrant than Vivienne’s, doesn’t move a muscle.

  Vivienne, however, flinches, but it’s a flinch of exasperation with a dash of worry. That Vivienne would have even a speck of worry about me comes as a surprise. She recovers quickly, though, reverting to her natural state of cultured scholar and high society hostess. When she gets up from the sofa, graceful as a panther, the pleated skirt of her pale rose knit dress, belted at the waist, ripples and swirls as she walks across the room. I marvel again at how easily Vivienne carries the Parkhurst elegance and the Trent savagery in the same body.

  “Cantor,” she says, taking my arm and leading me across the living room, “you’re right on time, five-thirty. Allow me to introduce Mrs. Dierdre Atchley.”

  Mrs. Dierdre Atchley does not get up, but offers her hand for a light shake. “How do you do,” she says. Her mellow voice and articulation roll out in the leisurely rhythm developed through centuries of high-status breeding. “Vivienne tells me that you wish to ask me about Eve Garraway. I understand that you have, well, an interest in her death.”

  Before I can answer, Vivienne says, “Can I get you a martini, Cantor? Or do you prefer to stick with your usual scotch, neat.” She’s at the small bar behind the sofa.

  “Scotch,” I say, and sit down in the club chair across from Mrs. Atchley. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all,” she says. “In fact, I’ll join you.”

  I take out my pack of Chesterfields, offer her one, but she says, “I have my own, thank you,” and takes a silver cigarette case from the alligator bag beside her. She selects a cigarette, places it between her fingers, and looks at me.

  I get the message. I pick up the heavy silver lighter from the coffee table between us, lean over and light Mrs. Atchley’s cigarette.

  All of this, I realize— including our inhales, exhales, and veils of smoke— is our way of sizing each other up. Mrs. Atchley wonders how deeply I want to probe; I wonder what she wants to hide.

  Vivienne returns with my drink, then resumes her seat beside her guest.

  Lifting my tumbler of scotch, I smile at both women, say, “Well, cheers.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Atchley says. Her smile is as guarded as Fort Knox. I’ll have to probe with precision if I hope to get at whatever it is she’s guarding.

  I start slow. “Mrs. Atchley, yes, I have an interest in Eve Garraway’s death. Has Vivienne told you of the circumstances we found ourselves in when Eve’s body was discovered by her butler?”

  “She mentioned that the police officer, a Lieutenant Huber, was convinced you are the guilty party. I take it you disagree.”

  “Strongly,” I say. “Which is why I need to know more about Eve, about the people she knew, maybe anyone she crossed, giving them a motive for her murder. Do you have any ideas along that line, Mrs. Atchley?”

  She puts her martini down on the coffee table, takes a pull on her cigarette. After exhaling a long, slow stream of smoke, she says, “Cantor— may I call you Cantor? Miss Gold seems rather inappropriate.”

  “Cantor will do just fine. Now, what were you saying?”

  She gives that a polite smile. “When Vivienne invited me for cocktails and to meet you, she explained who you are and she did indeed tell me about yesterday’s tragedy at Eve Garraway’s house. Now, I am a woman of considerable resources and influence, and I put those resources to work to look deeply into who you are and what you do. What I learned did not entirely surprise me. It’s no secret— well, not a very well kept one— that museums and collectors often acquire their treasures through, shall we say, less than legal means. What surprised me, however, is the life you lead so openly. Frankly, I was, and am, impressed on your insistence on living as you please even at the risk to your freedom.”

  I’m being played. I’m being massaged and stroked by a woman who’s accustomed to believing that a good word from her makes the recipient bow down.

  But I can be a player, too. I guess her research on me didn’t find that out. She’s impressed with how I survive? She’s about to learn. My probing knife is about to get a lot sharper. “Thank you, Mrs. Atchley. Kind of you to say so. I’m sure a woman in your unfortunate position can appreciate what it takes to survive in this sometimes cruel world.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mrs. Atchley, the life I lead, the work that I do, and the associations they bring, provides me, too, with access to information. Information on you and your husband, for instance.” At the corner of my eye I catch Vivienne looking anxiously at me. She needn’t worry. I’d never rat her out. I keep my attention on Dierdre Atchley. “I understand that Eve Garraway hated your husband for choosing you over her as a suitable wife. She was getting her revenge by moving to acquire enough stock to have your husband kicked out of his own banking institution. If she’d succeeded, I bet the humiliation would have been—”

  “Cantor!” It’s Vivienne. “I didn’t invite you here to insult—”

  “It’s all right, Vivienne,” Mrs. Atchley cuts in, cool as a crisp day. “Cantor is no doubt trying to ascertain if either I or my husband have a motive for murder. Well, of course we do. While we would not have been completely ruined financially had Miss Garraway succeeded with her stock scheme, you are correct, Cantor, that the humiliation would have been difficult to overcome socially. The loss of my husband’s financial influence would have reduced our position in important circles, leaving us at the mercy of powerful financial or political interests who may harbor ill will toward my family. Certain doors would have been closed to us. My son’s future would have been severely constricted.”

  Yeah. A lower-tier bride and second-string yachting races. How would he ever withstand the hardship. “Well then, Mrs. Atchley, did you kill Eve Garraway?”

  “I did not.”

  “Did your husband?”

  “He could not have. He’s been away in Geneva on banking business for the last month. He’s not due back until late tomorrow night.”

  “What about your son?”

  “Of course not. James is a sweet and respectable boy.”

  James, if I remember correctly from the newspapers, is in his early thirties, well past the age of being considered a boy.

  It’s the first crack in Mrs. Atchley’s polished armor. But that doesn’t make her a murderer, and it doesn’t make her son a murderer. But it could.

  Mrs. Atchley regains her composure by lazily stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. “Is there anything else you wish to ask?”

  “I’d like to know more about Eve’s situation,” I say. “I understand that she was not especially welcome in your circles, but that you and the other wives put up with her because her political connections were important to your husbands. Am I right?”

  “You are unfortunately correct, yes.”

  “Does anyone among your crowd harbor something more than simple dislike of Eve?”

  “You mean someone with malign intent, and someone besides me?” I have to hand it to her; she actually laughs a little when she says it, enjoying her sarcasm at her own expense.

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean. Anyone come to mind?”

  “You want me to talk out of school about my dearest friends, men and women I’ve known all my life. That’s not particularly honorable of you, Cantor Gold. You want me to be what I understand the people in your world call a rat.”

  “Let’s put it this way, Mrs. Atchley. You and I now have something in common. Lieutenant Huber thinks I’m guilty of murder. And I think yo
u, or your son, make just as good candidates. So if all of us wish to escape frying for something we may not have done, I suggest you get rid of your prissy ideas of honor and come across.”

  I never knew I was such a comedian, but Mrs. Atchley is laughing again. “Oh my, you can have all the suspects you want! All you have to do is open the Social Register. There isn’t a New York family in that book who’s shedding a tear over the social-climbing viper who was Eve Garraway. Even her little soirées, as she liked to call them, were tasteless. Absurd evenings of gaudy food and self-serving entertainment. But as you say, we put up with her and attended her soirées in order to protect our husbands’ interests.”

  “Your husband’s interest and reputation in particular,” I say.

  She gives that a chilly, “Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going,” she says, getting up and putting on a pair of gray kid gloves. “The French ambassador and his wife are coming for dinner, and I have preparations to attend to. Thank you for the martini, Vivienne. And thank you, Cantor, for such fascinating conversation.”

  Accompanied by Vivienne, Mrs. Dierdre Atchley crosses the room with a firm step but a brittle confidence. I guess I got to her. Time to shake her a little more. Maybe something will tumble out. “I figure you didn’t kill Eve, Mrs. Atchley. Looking at you, I’d say you’re in damn good shape, but frankly I don’t see you stealthily entering Eve’s house unnoticed and stabbing her in the back. But I wouldn’t put it past you or your husband to hire an assassin. New York has plenty of them, and they’re not listed in your Social Register. Or maybe they are.”

  “Good day to you, Cantor Gold.”

  “Mrs. Atchley.”

  Once Dierdre Atchley is out the door and in George’s practiced care, Vivienne turns and looks at me as if she wants to say something but isn’t quite sure what it is. All she can manage is, “Well,” which comes out through pursed lips, unfolds into an unexpected and slowly expanding smile, and finally lands in a laugh. “Let’s have another drink, shall we?”

  At the bar, Vivienne refreshes my scotch and pours herself a martini. After a sip, which she enjoys with gusto, she says, “I think Dierdre’s gifts to the museum just doubled.”