by Gerald Elias
“Skip the overture,” said Jacobus. “You’re curing my insomnia.”
Minnion had explained that something was weird about Gottfried’s alleged suicide.
“Alleged?” asked Jacobus.
“That’s what I said,” said Malachi. “Turns out he might’ve been offed. Listen to what Minnion told me.
“First of all, the Great Salt Lake fluctuates greatly. No one knows exactly why, but in any event it’s not very deep. Lately it’s been especially shallow, so someone would have to walk about a quarter mile from shore before the water would be up to his armpits. But the main thing, which just about everyone knows from the picture in their elementary school social studies book, is that the Great Salt Lake is so salty that you’d have to chain yourself to a lead weight in order to sink, and it wouldn’t be very practical to carry a lead weight a quarter mile. If Gottfried killed himself, in Minnion’s opinion he couldn’t have done it near the Avalon. That meant that either he parked the car there and walked a long way from it to go kill himself—unlikely. Or he killed himself somewhere else and then someone else moved the car—possible. Or someone forced him to write the note, then abducted or killed him—probable. Minnion assured me that at this point he was investigating all possibilities. I guess they’re not total rubes out there.
“Go home, Jacobus. Nathaniel’s right. Rose Grimes isn’t going anywhere. In any event, there’s no evidence to arrest her for anything.” Malachi told them he would follow up and even thanked them for their efforts.
The waiter, who had courteously waited until Jacobus hung up, brought their meals. The beans were spicy and the franks crisp, and the meal came with fresh corn bread. Jacobus, who had had no appetite for days, ate with unanticipated relish. He sensed they were near a resolution, though with the new mystery surrounding Gottfried’s death, he had no idea what that would be. The two of them threw around countless theories and scenarios as they ate.
“Maybe someone had been stalking Gottfried at the concert,” Nathaniel said and suggested they call Yumi. “She went to the Markner concert. Maybe she saw something.”
Jacobus was reluctant. He would have to tell her what had happened to Gottfried, and thinking about her unsavory encounter with Kortovsky in her quartet, he felt she already had enough on her plate to deal with. Nathaniel suggested Jacobus might want to ask her how that was going anyway, to find out how she was doing, so Jacobus ended up agreeing to the call. They calculated she was at the Sunriver Music Festival in Oregon, where the time was three hours earlier, and after making a few inquiries were connected to the home of Yumi’s hosts.
Yumi said she was delighted to hear from them. For Jacobus to actually be calling her was an unaccustomed honor.
Jacobus began by asking how the concerts were going and gradually got to the issue of the harassment she had experienced. Yumi reported that she had had no further incidents and would take Jacobus’s advice if anything happened.
“And you can just tell that creep, Kortovsky,” Jacobus said, “to keep his hands off you or I’ll cut his balls off.”
Yumi laughed. “I’ll be sure to do that, Jake. I’m sure that will do the trick.”
Jacobus then had to broach the bad news about Gottfried. Yumi was saddened, but as he had been only a peripheral personality in her life, his death didn’t have a deep emotional impact on her. She asked if there was anything she could do.
Jacobus asked if she had seen Gottfried at the concert of the Markner Quartet, and if so, was there anyone with him? He described Gottfried but needn’t have, as Yumi remembered what he looked like.
“I don’t think he was there,” she said. “As you know, the hall at the Garr Ranch only holds about a hundred fifty people. I’m pretty certain I would have seen him.”
“But Ziggy’s suicide note mentioned how hearing the G-Minor Quintet was a beautiful way to end his life.”
“The G-Minor Quintet?” Yumi sounded perplexed. “There must be some mistake. They didn’t play the G-Minor Quintet. Simon Baker never showed up.”
“What do you mean, ‘never showed up’?” asked Jacobus.
“His flight was delayed at O’Hare,” said Yumi. “Thunderstorms. He couldn’t make the concert, so they didn’t do the Mozart quintet. Instead they did his ‘Dissonance’ Quartet. They said afterward they hadn’t even rehearsed it for over a year, but it was incredible. I thought that’s what you were talking about the last time we spoke.”
“I don’t believe it!” Jacobus bellowed into the phone.
“Why wouldn’t I tell you the truth, Jake? His flight was delayed. He couldn’t help it.”
“Never mind, Yumi. Of course I believe you. It’s just that every time I learn something new, it adds ten more questions. But everything’s fine. Gotta go. Bye.”
Jacobus slammed down the phone. He had heard about people pulling out their hair in frustration, but this was the first time he ever understood it was more than a figure of speech.
“Ziggy never went to the concert, dammit!” he said to Nathaniel. “The suicide note had to have been written in advance. What the hell was going on with that goddamn little mole?”
How many billion neurons does the human brain have? Jacobus asked himself. Somewhere in my brain there’s one damn neural pathway that can connect the information that’s stored up there and arrange it in a rational pattern. Shit.
Jacobus snarfed down his last mouthful of beans and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Suddenly he froze.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, putting his hands to his head, as if to prevent it from falling off.
“Jake,” Nathaniel asked, fear in his voice, “you been poisoned again?”
“Yeah, but not with cyanide. You can take your big mitts off me. I’m okay.” Everything was clicking dizzyingly inside his head. “What day is today?” he asked. With this one small piece of this ghastly mosaic, the world was rearranging itself into a totally new picture.
“Tuesday. Why?”
Jacobus said there was no time to explain. He had to get back to Nathaniel’s apartment to retrieve the metal box and get to Columbus Circle as fast as possible. In his agonized heart, he apologized to Rose Grimes.
TWENTY-NINE
Even before Nathaniel’s Rabbit came to a skidding stop after rounding the curve at the southwest corner of Central Park, Jacobus had opened the door and had a leg out, metal box under his arm.
“C’mon, Jake, let me go with you,” Nathaniel pleaded.
“Just amscray and get your heinie over to Malachi,” said Jacobus, slamming the door.
Even this late at night, Jacobus had to push his way through the human congestion as he charged down the escalator into the Columbus Circle station. He shouldered his way through the turnstile, hobbling as fast as Grandpappy Amos in a three-legged race in the opposite direction from humanity along a path now familiar to him but to few others.
“Drumstick Man!” he called out into the dark. “Hey! Drumstick Man!” he repeated. “Yoo-hoo!” He heard his voice echo back, but no other sound. He called again, but the result was unchanged.
“Damn,” he said. He pondered his alternatives, quickly deciding there weren’t any. He couldn’t wait. Maybe he was already too late, so he began to retrace his underground expedition to the Bonderman Building alone, hoping he wouldn’t get irretrievably lost or attacked either by the Gatherers—whoever they might be—or more likely by the rats.
The going was faltering and no more agreeable than the first time, but he was ambivalently reassured of his bearings when, directly in front of him, he smelled the river of ordure he had forded earlier in the day. With minutes dwindling, he forced upon himself the excruciating patience to take off his shoes and socks. As he did, he perceived what sounded like human footsteps, sans tapping, somewhere behind him, though with the cavernous resonance of the stone and brick surrounding him it could have come from anywhere, even from within his own imagination.
He concentrated on recollecting Drumstick Man’s route, swa
llowing his fear of the steep stairway with no railing and its slimy, unevenly worn treads. With his left hand on the cold, clammy bedrock of Manhattan Island as his guide, he slowly and resolutely willed his way up those steps, and as he did, he heard from behind the sloshing of someone crossing the canal. Jacobus hurried his pace, his hip aching from exertion and dampness, steeling himself against the prospect of plummeting off those steps in the hope of finding a safe haven in the Bonderman basement. Hands against the side of the ancient subway wall, he felt his way through the tunnel. Finally he arrived at the massive steel door, still slightly ajar from his earlier visit with Drumstick Man. At least now he didn’t have to open it with his own strength, which would have been a wasted effort. He sidled his way in, hoping that whoever was following him had lost his trail.
He groped his way through the steel maze to Gottfried’s apartment, ignoring the pain of repeatedly whacking his head and body against the unyielding infrastructure. Gottfried’s door was still unlocked. He prayed, to the extent he ever did, that he was in time to return the metal box to the desk where he had found it. First, though, he groped for the link chain that he recalled dangled from the ceiling light. He wasn’t interested in turning on the light, of course, but only to ascertain whether the lightbulb was warm, which would indicate it had been recently used. He was hoping it was still cold. He found the chain and, holding the box under one arm, reached for the bulb with his free hand.
“Aaah!” yelled Jacobus, his fingers seared from the heat of the bulb, at which moment René Allard began to play violin, tuning up on the first eerie chords of “Danse Macabre.”
Jacobus, in shock, dropped the box as his knees almost gave way.
“Good evening, Mr. Jacobus,” said a polite voice. “As I told you so recently—oh, though it seems so long ago—my father always said to me—”
“ ‘Better an hour early than a minute late.’ And I’m a minute late. Is that so, Ziggy?” said Jacobus. “Back from the dead, are you?”
“Just so.” Gottfried chuckled. “I’m sorry to have startled you with the recording, but I know how much you’ve always enjoyed Maestro’s playing. I wanted to make you a nice surprise. I myself can listen to him endlessly. I know that playing a record is each time always the same, except maybe for the scratches as it gets older—just like people, wouldn’t you say?—but with Maestro, somehow every time it seems like a new performance.
“But that’s neither here nor there. I have been expecting you, Mr. Jacobus. In fact, in a way I have been looking forward to this visit. There is no longer the exhilaration of solitude for me here in this place which I used to enjoy, which I yearned for. I knew if anyone could find me it would be you, with your great analytical capacity. And it is precisely because of you, Mr. Jacobus, that I am back here in my lonely apartment instead of in the glorious Utah sunshine. But when you inquired after Rose Grimes in Salt Lake City, I knew it was just a matter of time, even though it hadn’t yet occurred to you.”
“You said she was Negro.”
“Yes, but since you hadn’t mentioned that, if I didn’t remember her, how could I know her race? As you now understand, I had no choice but to disappear.”
“With the assistance of your dear sister, no doubt,” said Jacobus. “Nice of her to pick you up hitchhiking from Antelope Island, wasn’t it?”
“Schatzi and I have always helped one another. But now she is there, I am here, and you have come to visit. And just for your information, sir, in case you were still wondering, the light in the apartment is on, as you so painfully determined. I can see you very clearly. I’m glad to see you are looking so well. I trust you have made a complete recovery from your accident in Utah. But, just out of curiosity, how was it that you concluded I was here and not dead or somewhere else perhaps?”
“Tuesday. Beans and franks. That’s what was in Malachi’s report. That’s what I smelled when I was here earlier today. I just couldn’t place it at the time. And, I’m sorry to say, it’s Tuesday.”
“So clever, Mr. Jacobus. I am more impressed with you than ever. I myself have never been clever. I am just a simple elevator boy, a victim of routine. Ah, I see that you have returned my little box. Doubtless you had the contents examined. I’m sorry you did that. Life would have been so much simpler if you hadn’t. And for you, longer.
“But why should we be so gloomy now? After all we are old friends, are we not? May I make you some tea, Mr. Jacobus?”
“Sounds great,” said Jacobus. He didn’t know the clinical nomenclature for Gottfried’s condition, nor did he really care. All he knew was that Mr. Elevator Boy was crazy as a loon. Two subterranean madmen in one day, but this one was a menace.
Should I try to escape? he asked himself. Or should I play the talking game and hope Nathaniel or Malachi will show up?
He was momentarily spared the decision as Gottfried, brewing the tea, spoke.
“Let me describe to you a little bit about the history of my room here, Mr. Jacobus, because it is important you understand the world from which I thought I had escaped. I think you will find it very interesting since you can’t see it yourself. When the Bonderman was constructed in 1904, this entire level was dedicated to producing heat for all twelve stories. All the little rooms on this floor were only afterthoughts, like my humble apartment. Even though the ceiling was very low to begin with, they filled it with ducts and pipes of all sorts to carry the heat and the water and the electricity and the sewage, though at first I believe the building must have been heated by coal, because as I’m sure you have discovered, there is such an unpleasant grimy black coating covering all these things and also the impressively large furnace near the door that goes out to the underground. And of course there is the incinerator next to the furnace, where they used to burn all kinds of garbage. Thankfully, scientists now understand that type of burning is very bad for our health and we don’t do it anymore. These things are no longer used since they closed this floor, but I want you to remember what I am saying. One time long ago this place was clean, but now everything looks black, and with so few lightbulbs there is very little to cheer up my world. I don’t complain, though, because here I was comfortable enough.”
Jacobus heard the teakettle begin to whistle. It stopped immediately as Gottfried removed it from the hot plate. Should I try to run for it? Jacobus asked himself again. Not a good idea. I can barely walk as it is, and I’d get clobbered finding my way through the maze of pipes and ducts. But Gottfried knows his way around like the back of his hand, and Gottfried also has a kettle of boiling water.
“Other than my little apartment, there was a room on the opposite wall that housed the washing machines and dryers, to clean the linens and towels that were provided to the residents and guests. I should remind you that the Bonderman Building’s residences were half hotel, half apartments, but linen service was provided to all, for a fee of course to the residents, but the towels were very nice and soft. Before these modern washing machines there were much less automatic ones, and of course in the earliest days I imagine most of the laundry was done by hand. Can you imagine all that work, Mr. Jacobus? It is too bad none of these machines are being used anymore because of the new elevator construction, but that is progress, I suppose. Here is your tea, Mr. Jacobus. I hope it is not too hot for your taste.”
“I’m sure the tea will be as delightful as your company.”
“There was another room, next to the laundry room, for the maids and other service people to change from their street clothes into their uniforms in the morning and back again at the end of their shift. It was not much of a room, more just a space with walls, a bench, a few hooks for hanging clothes, and a shower. So little by little I got to know the other employees who used these ‘facilities,’ as the room was called. Not all employees did, though, only the ones who had jobs that made them perspire. Mostly the maids and sometimes a mechanic or other repair person. That is how I got to know Rose Grimes, by the way,” Gottfried concluded.
At that moment the recording of “Danse Macabre,” which had faded into insignificance, tapered to its close. The apartment was left with only the sound of the rhythmic scratching of the worn stylus on the brittle, still-spinning 78.
“Ah!” said Gottfried. “There’s something I’d like to play for you, Mr. Jacobus. I think you’ll enjoy this.”
Jacobus heard Gottfried stand and take a few steps to his left, then the cardboard sound of an old album sliding out from among its neighbors.
Well, aren’t we having the quaint little tea party, he said to himself.
He heard the needle drop and the music begin. He immediately recognized the famous fourth movement variations from Franz Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet, a jaunty little tune that Schubert had adapted from his song of the same name, about an angler gaily going about his task of hooking the reluctant trout, which is finally enticed out of its safe haven in the clear, running brook by the angler’s craftiness, sealing its fate.
“This music always cheers me up!” said Gottfried. “Schubert! With Schubert I always feel so young and carefree!
“Now, Mr. Jacobus, tell me why you are here,” said Gottfried, his tone changing. “Why did you steal my box?”
“I don’t know why you say I stole it, Ziggy,” said Jacobus. “If I stole it, why would I have brought it back? I just needed some evidence, and I’m glad to say you’ve provided it for me.”
“Evidence?” asked Gottfried. “What evidence?”
“To prove that Rose Grimes stole the Garimberti and then killed René in revenge for raping her. It wasn’t your fault, Ziggy. That’s what I’ve come to tell you.”
“That’s very interesting, Mr. Jacobus,” said Gottfried. “Please go on.”
Jacobus, sipping his tea, reiterated what he earlier said to Rose Grimes through her apartment door. He had been convinced of the story then and hoped he would sound that way now. As Jacobus talked, he listened for other potentially helpful sounds, but he heard nothing except his own voice.
