Danse Macabre

by Gerald Elias

  “I have some information for you,” Dedubian told Jacobus. “It seems that the Garimberti has papers, good papers, from Laszlo. He was one of the best.”

  “Laszlo!” said Jacobus. “Crusty old fart! He wrote papers for my violin. You know my fiddle. It’s a terrific eighteenth-century Neapolitan instrument, but Laszlo used to give me hell because I never bought a Strad.”

  “Yes, he was like that. How did you get him off your back?”

  “I told him I did have a great instrument. My ears. What’s he up to? He still live in Passaic?”

  “No, not for a long time,” said Dedubian. “Lazlo’s been retired for a few years. His eyesight was going and he was no longer absolutely certain what he was looking at. He didn’t want all his earlier work to be invalidated by making a bad call, so he called it a day. I do believe he is now in your neck of the woods, Putnam County, New York. I hear he has become fond of vegetable gardening, of all things.”

  This was good news for Jacobus, because Novak was now only a half hour away, whereas going to New Jersey would have taken another valuable day off their efforts to preserve the life of BTower.

  “What do you think about Grimes not filing an insurance claim for the Garimberti?” Jacobus asked. Dedubian rattled off a few possibilities: ignorance, shame, excessive paperwork. There was no way to know. This led to the subject of the previously stolen Piccolino Strad, which had been recovered by Jacobus, but which had also been seriously damaged in the process.

  “There aren’t too many pristine Strads or Guarneris anymore, are there?” said Jacobus.

  “Very few, Jake,” said Dedubian. “Very few. I had a Strad for sale a few months ago but because it had been repaired under the bass bar and sound post it really didn’t have much tone. It did have some nice historical value so there was not much trouble selling it. Then last year I had the ex Hawkins, which was in beautiful shape—”

  “You had what?” said Jacobus.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Dedubian. “The ex Hawkins. I was asked to sell it, and I can tell you when word got out—among private circles, of course—that it was for sale, my phone rang off the hook. I did not have it in my shop for twenty-four hours.”

  “May I ask who the seller and buyer were?” asked Jacobus.

  “You may ask, but I am sorry to say I am not at liberty to tell you. Both parties requested anonymity, and if I am to maintain my ability to buy and sell at this level I must respect their wishes. I can, however, assure you that its provenance and authenticity were indisputable. All the papers were there, and anyone in the world who had ever seen the violin before René sold it and it went underground would attest to it being the original.”

  “May I ask when you sold it most recently?”

  “You may ask.”

  “Are you at liberty to tell me?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then, godammit, tell me!”

  “It was sold the day after BTower’s conviction, about a year ago.”

  That floored Jacobus. Allard’s del Gesù, hidden for years, sold the day after his murderer’s conviction!

  “What do you read into that, Bo? Surely there’s some connection.”

  “Yes, there’s a connection,” said Dedubian, “but, from the sound of your voice, not nearly as nefarious as you may think. It is nothing new for an owner of a valuable instrument to capitalize on the notoriety of a previous owner in order to maximize profit. When Jascha Heifetz died a few years ago, some guy who had one of Jascha’s old junker Mittenwald fiddles put it on the market and got ten times what it should have gone for. With the ex Hawkins, the markup wasn’t as proportional; I can’t tell you the price, but it was millions more than it otherwise would have been.”

  “Then why didn’t the seller get rid of it the day after Allard died? Why did he wait a whole year until the day after the conviction?”

  “Backlash, I suppose, Jake. With someone as beloved as Allard, buyers might have been disgusted that someone would want to profit from his death so fast. Wouldn’t you be? So they waited. Really, it’s nothing sinister, just capitalism at work.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure you raked in a proportionally greater commission as well,” said Jacobus.

  “Well, it’s all standard. I’m not complaining, however.”

  Jacobus hung up, no longer as hopeful as he had been a moment ago. Another thread, perhaps, but a frayed one at best. At least he had Novak. Where that would lead, he had no idea. He chugged his tepid Folgers. “Ah!” he said, smacking his lips. “At least there’s something good in the world.”

  Jacobus called Roy Miller, the town’s police force. Miller had received the photos from Malachi. Jacobus invited him to the house, just a few miles down Route 41. He said, “I’ve got a Jack Daniel’s with your name on it.”

  Miller said, “But it’s only nine thirty in the morning.”

  Jacobus said, “That’s never stopped you before.”

  “I’ll be there,” said Miller.

  First, they looked at the police photos of Allard’s body. They had read the report, but now here they were in all their graphic gore. Jacobus ordered Nathaniel to describe in detail what they looked like, but it turned Nathaniel’s stomach just to look at them. Nevertheless, Jacobus was relentless.

  “Why?” asked Nathaniel. “What is it you need to know?”

  “If I could answer that question, I’d only need that one thing. But since we don’t know what that one thing is, I need to know everything.”

  So Jacobus demanded more and more detail. How prone was the body? What did the clothes look like? How far from the elevator was he? Where exactly was the violin underneath him? How was he holding the case? What was the angle of the curious disposition of the left arm? How rotated was it? How straight were the fingers? How far apart from each other were they? Worst of all, describe the head. How was it twisted? What was the color, or colors, of the face? Tell me more about the missing bits of scalp and hair. Jacobus didn’t know what he was looking for. He just knew it was too bizarre to be immaterial. He prodded Nathaniel mercilessly, corroborating every detail with Miller, so that he could have a picture in his mind’s eye of the gruesome scene.

  They took a break. Miller had his JD in a Big Gulp mug loaded with ice, Jacobus his cigarette, and Nathaniel a cup of Earl Grey tea with honey to soothe his throat from all the talking he had done.

  Next they pulled out Gottfried’s collection. Each one was in a clear, numbered plastic sheath. They appeared to be what Malachi had purported them to be, a bunch of family photos from the old days in Germany. Many of them were copies of each other and of the photos that had been on the wall. Yet Jacobus had Nathaniel describe each one. Ultimately, when his voice gave out entirely, Nathaniel had Miller take over the monologue.

  “Take one out,” said Jacobus.

  “What do you mean?” whispered Nathaniel.

  “Out of the plastic envelope.”

  “Whoa, hold on one minute!” said Miller. “What do you need to do that for?”

  “Who the hell knows?” asked Jacobus. “I want to hold one.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to . . . but what the hell,” Miller said, taking another swig of his drink and removing one of the multicopied photos of a teenage Sigmund Gottfried with his twin sister and their mother, Winifred. Seglinde, towering over her brother, had long flowing golden (or so it seemed in the black-and-white photo) locks of hair. The siblings had whimsical smiles on their faces; the mother was more stern.

  Miller placed the picture in Jacobus’s hands. Jacobus first felt around the edges and corners, which were still impressively sharp—tidy fellow, that Ziggy—then he felt along the back of the photo, which was predictably smooth and unblemished. He was about to turn it over and do the same on the picture itself, but felt a large hand stop him.

  “Jake,” said Miller, “I don’t know if you should do that. It might ruin it. I’ve had enough run-ins with Malachi.” When Jacobus had been a suspect in the murder of
Victoria Jablonski a few years before, it had been the trusting Miller who had naively enabled him to flee to Japan. Malachi had been irate, and Miller had almost lost his badge and the modest income that went with it.

  “All right,” said Jacobus. “For now.” He picked up the photo and put it just in front of his nose. He inhaled deeply.

  Miller chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Jacobus.

  “Well, if you could only see it as well as smell it.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re sniffing that young lady. She looks good enough to eat.” Miller laughed at his joke and poured himself another sour mash.

  A moment later Jacobus threw down the photo.

  “Nothing!” he growled. “Nothing!” He sat back in his chair, totally dispirited.

  The phone rang but he made no move to answer it. Finally Nathaniel picked up the receiver and, his voice gone, whispered, “Hello.”

  It was the VA. They had some interesting news for him.

  “Are you sure?” rasped Nathaniel. A moment later he put down the receiver.

  “What is it?” asked Jacobus.

  “There is no Mr. Grimes at 74 West 132nd Street,” said Williams.

  “Hey, he was there. You saw him. I heard him. He wasn’t big on chitchat, but he was still kickin’.”

  “Except he wasn’t a Grimes. He was a Freeman. A Shelby Freeman. Senior.”

  SIXTEEN

  Though the pacing continued, it was slower than yesterday, and the hand banging had stopped. BTower, eyes closed, centered himself in the room. He lifted his imaginary violin and bow and began to practice, still only the right hand on imaginary open strings, and all somewhat stiffly.

  “Look at that. He’s really losing it,” Gundacker said to both Haskell and Rosenthal. He removed a sandwich from his lunch bag and unwrapped it. “Cripes, peanut butter again,” he complained.

  “Is he?” said Haskell, who had brought a container of leftover chili. A few days ago I would’ve said yeah, he’s gone, but y’know they almost always get either more violent as the big day approaches, or sometimes they get kinda numb. Seems to me that Mr. BTower here is finding something in between.”

  “By playing charades?”

  “I mean he’s got three days to go and he’s pulling it together, man. I mean he’s hearing music. Not crazy music, real music. And he’s practicing it. I’ve been watching. I can almost hear it, the way he’s doing it.”

  “Then you’re a fruitcake too,” said Gundacker.

  Haskell chuckled quietly. “Maybe, man. Maybe. But look at him now. That boy’s got a plan.”

  The two guards and Cy Rosenthal watched the surveillance camera as BTower gently placed his imaginary violin on the mattress. Now that his legal team had suspended its appeals, all that Rosenthal had left was the opportunity to observe his client. He expressed a hope that somehow he and his team might contrive a way to extend BTower’s life—a plea for mental health treatment, perhaps, or . . . or what?

  “Five bucks he paces,” said Gundacker.

  “Quit while you’re behind, Gruber,” said Haskell.

  BTower lay on his back on the floor and put his hands behind his head.

  “Napping. He’s gonna take a nap on the floor,” said Gundacker.

  “Why don’t you let your lips take a nap, Gruber?” said Haskell.

  BTower didn’t nap. On the contrary, he began to do sit-ups, toe touches, knee bends, and push-ups—basic stuff kids learn in gym class—followed by a variety of sophisticated stretching exercises from shoulders down to knees.

  “Well, boys, time for me to go,” said Rosenthal, rising from his folding chair. The two security men rose with him. “Gotta head back to the city. Can’t say I’m too hopeful, but thanks for your time.”

  “I’ll let you out,” Gundacker said. “Time to begin my rounds anyhow. Don’t know why he thinks he needs the exercise, though. What’s he got, three more days, but he must have had one helluva personal trainer,” he said.

  “You could use one, Gruber,” said Haskell. “Those choke sandwiches, they all going right to your stomach.”

  “Fine, give me a thousand bucks a week and I’ll call Paunchless Pilates today.”

  As soon as Rosenthal and Gundacker had gone, Haskell put the bowl of chili on the desk and stood up, ready for Lesson Number Two. He had an inkling that BTower’s exercises had something to do with playing the violin. He now mimicked BTower, again in center stage painstakingly seeking a relaxed and balanced posture. Stand straight up, feet shoulder distance apart, knees slightly bent like a linebacker before the snap. BTower bounced on the balls of his feet a bit, making sure he was relaxed from the neck on down.

  BTower rotated his head from side to side. Haskell did likewise. Ah, the neck! The more he turned his neck in either direction, the more tension he felt going down his spine. He was relieved that BTower finally settled on a position looking almost straight ahead as he held the violin, though he wasn’t sure he’d be able to see the fingers on his left hand (when it was finally time to use them). But then Haskell asked himself, why should he need to see where his fingers were going, anyway? He had ears to hear, didn’t he? What did he need eyes for? After all, that guy Jacobus who BTower hated, they said he could play the violin and he was blind.

  Now BTower began to raise and lower his outstretched left arm, finally settling on a level with his left hand raised to a height that would keep the violin more or less parallel to the ground. Haskell followed suit. It felt comfortable and practical. Though Haskell couldn’t know for sure, he ascertained it would also be best for keeping the bow on the string and making the best sound.

  Now BTower began to play, still without moving any fingers on his left hand. Haskell tried to imitate, but BTower was doing things with his right arm and hand that were beyond him to follow. He executed bow strokes that started totally connected but gradually became spikier until, by the end, he was doing these short choppy motions with only his fingers. Haskell soon gave up and just watched, finishing his chili, which was now almost cold, but he had an idea for the next lesson, if there would be one.

  SEVENTEEN

  The more dirt they unearthed, the more Jacobus felt buried by questions. BTower, the progeny of Shelby Freeman and Rose Grimes? What about the Garimberti? What about this possible new triangle of Grimes, BTower, and Allard? Why hadn’t Grimes revealed any of this to them? How did all the pieces fit together? If nothing else, all these new questions upped the ante on Jacobus’s visit with Laszlo Novak.

  An hour after the call from Dedubian, they arrived at Novak’s tidy white-clapboard, green-shuttered cottage at the end of a tree-shrouded gravel lane. Before they even knocked on the screen door, a voice as gravelly as the lane barked, “Hey, I’m on the can. Just come in. Food’s on the counter.”

  Nathaniel and Jacobus found their way to the kitchen, the former by sight, the latter by smell. Jacobus bumped into the refrigerator, knocking off a calendar and some newspaper clippings stuck to it with a magnet.

  “Klutz,” said Nathaniel, picking the items up off the floor and replacing them on the fridge. “Can’t you see where you’re going?”

  “Sure I can,” said Jacobus. “I just like walking into things.”

  They helped themselves to a plate of spicy homemade Hungarian salami with fresh cut-up tomatoes drizzled with olive oil that was sitting next to a few beat-up old violins and a can of varnish. Novak joined them as they were polishing off the salami.

  “Never know when nature’ll call at my age,” said Novak. “So you guys starving or something? You just finished my lunch.”

  “Sorry,” said Nathaniel. “Couldn’t help it.”

  “Well, what the hell,” said Novak. “There’s plenty more. You can take some home with you. Take my zucchini . . . Please! So what are you overstuffed gents here for? Dinner?”

  Jacobus licked his fingers. “We’re trying to find out the owner of a violin that you wrote a certificate for.”
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  “Yeah? When? You want a beer? I got some Rolling Rock in the fridge.”

  “Sure,” said Jacobus, and Nathaniel added, “Make that two.”

  “About thirty years ago,” said Jacobus.

  “You guys must be off your rocker,” said Novak, handing out the bottles. “I can’t even remember what I did before I went to the bathroom. What is it? A Strad? Del Gesù?”

  “Garimberti. 1958.”

  “What? That’s not a big fiddle. How d’you expect me to remember who brought in a Garimberti?”

  “Don’t you have records? Copies, at least?”

  “Jesus, they’re in a bunch of cardboard boxes in the attic covered with mouse shit. I haven’t looked at them since I retired. You want me to go through all that for a Garimberti? What else can you tell me?”

  “The present owner is an African-American woman,” said Nathaniel. “Rose Grimes.”

  “Nope,” said Novak. “Don’t ring a bell.”

  “I’m guessing,” said Jacobus, “that’s she’s had the fiddle since about 1965, because that’s when she left the Bonderman. Maybe she took it when she left.” Nathaniel winced.

  “Strike two,” said Novak. “Modern Italian violins. They’re a dime a dozen.”

  “Garimbertis?” asked Jacobus.

  “Garimberti, Antoniazzi, Bisiach, Pedrazzini, Ornati, Sgarabotto, Sderci. You want me to go on? There was one little guy who used to bring them in by the truckload, but that was before ’65.”

  “Who was that?”

  “You expect me to remember his name? Jake, there are some days I wake up in the morning and I ask myself, ‘Who am I?’ Then I look in the mirror, and say, ‘Oh, yeah, it’s Laszlo.’ Not that it’s such a pretty face. Plus I can’t see a thing. Not as bad as you, though, Jacobus—yet! Getting old ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. All I remember, he was a little bald guy and talked with a German accent. I remember that because I don’t like German accents.”