by Anna Porter
“Why?” Arthur asked, with what appeared to be genuine surprise.
“Because Mr. Singer was murdered on February 26th in your father’s red XJ-S, which I understand you were rather fond of driving when you were in Toronto. So let’s talk about your first meeting with Mr. Singer. That was your first meeting?”
“Whoa, now, Inspector—”
“Detective Inspector,” said David.
“Now, you’re not about to suggest, my dear Detective Inspector, that I bumped off that poor sod Singer, are you?”
“Did you?”
“Shit, you can do better than that. I’m not the only person who drove that little car, and there are others, at least one other person we can both agree on, who had more reason to wish him dead than I did. Or haven’t you figured that out yet?” When he picked up his cup, he held his little finger up and apart from the others, displaying a diamond-studded gold pinkie ring.
“He did come to see you,” David insisted.
Arthur heaved a deep, theatrical sigh. “Of course he came to see me. I’ve no intention of denying that—since you’ve already worked it out for yourself.”
“Why?”
“He said he had known my father back in Hungary. He got the address from the telephone book, for heaven’s sake, and just materialized at the door one evening. If I’d known he was some acquaintance of my father, I wouldn’t have agreed to see him. But he didn’t call, he just came. The book lists me as P.A. Zimmerman, you see. My initials.”
He watched David expectantly. “Don’t you want to know what the P stands for?” he asked at last.
“Not particularly,” David said.
“Stands for Polgár. Some obscure Hungarian village my mother’s family came from. Nice name for a boy. So there he was in his hat and coat, with some gift from the old country. I had no choice but to let him in. He told me he and my old man had grown up together. He had some photos to show me. That sort of stuff. Then he left.” Arthur started to dig into his muffin with so much relish that David began to think he either was a consummate actor or had an ironclad alibi for the night of February 26th.
“No. I don’t think so,” said David. “That’s not the way it went. He told you something about your father you didn’t know before, something you thought might be worth remembering.” He was guessing, but if Singer didn’t get the money from Paul Zimmerman, it would be a fair guess Arthur had. His own mother had virtually told Judith the guy was adept at blackmailing his father.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Detective Inspector,” Arthur said. “Sure Singer had something to say, but he wasn’t about to tell me. Whatever it was came to his mind when he saw me. He was saving the telling part for my father.”
“Why don’t you begin at the beginning, Mr. Zimmerman. Starting with the moment you opened the door to Mr. Singer...”
Arthur ordered another cappuccino and a Danish pastry. He complimented the waitress on the cuisine. Then he smiled wearily at David. “Have it your way,” he said. “Singer—Harvey, you said?—arrived on our doorstep exactly as I told you. Don’t ask me to remember the exact date, but there he was in a dreadfully old-worldy coat and hat with—would you believe—feathers. My dear, they went out with lederhosen after the First World War. At first I thought he was selling something, he carried a box of some sort and a briefcase. So I told him we didn’t want any, whatever it was, chances are we already had some. But he just sort of stood there, staring at me as though he’d seen a ghost. Then he said, ‘Zimmerman Pál,’ which is Hungarian for Paul Zimmerman—they get people’s names backwards. I knew that, because I’d picked up some of the stupid language as a kid. God knows I tried not to, but it sort of seeped in. I told him no, I wasn’t Paul Zimmerman, and he got rather hysterical at that, though why the hell he should was beyond me. I’m the one should get hysterical every time someone tells me how much I look like the old buzzard.
“Then he carried on about someone called Feri in Eger, and a whole lot of other Zimmermans, I couldn’t quite make it out, so I told him I didn’t speak Hungarian and that I was Arthur. I spelled it for him. A-R-T-H-U-R. And I admitted, much against my better judgment, to being the son of the aforementioned. This guy Singer was crying and shaking still, so I asked him in. Actually, I more or less carried him in. What else could I do? He was in such a state, he could barely walk, the poor old sod. I stuck him on the couch and got him a brandy. We’re only human, you know.”
“I know,” David said. Why did Arthur feel he had to overact? Was he pushing for some major homophobic explosion from David? Because if so, he was in for a long wait.
“Then he told me he’d known my father. They practically grew up together, though I gathered they weren’t exactly friends. And he showed me some stuff he’d brought in the small box he carried. Photographs of boys playing together. And there was a silver-colored yarmulke, and a book with ZIMMERMAN PÁL on it, in block letters, like a kid’s writing, and an oval locket, it was old-fashioned silver. Inside was a photograph of a little girl. She had dark hair in ringlets with a big white ribbon. I remember it well, because he told me her name was Meredith. I thought, that’s nice, because my half-sister’s name is Meredith, too, and I told him that. Then he cried some more.” Arthur dabbed at his mouth with the napkin.
“Did you ask him why he was crying?”
“What do you think? Of course I did. But all he’d say was that seeing me brought back memories. And he asked a bunch of questions, mostly about my father.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Like where he lived, who my mother was, and about Meredith and Brenda. I was getting pretty impatient with the old bugger by then, because I’d just as soon not spend my time gabbing about my dear old pa—you may have gathered by now he’s hardly my personal valentine. So I told him I was busy, but he kept on with the damn questions, like where did we live when I was young, and what did we do for recreation. That kind of shit. So I told him about the blasted butterflies and asked him to get the hell out and chase my father if that’s who his fond memories were of, because my memories weren’t all that fond. So he left.”
“He didn’t tell you anything else?”
“No. I figured there was something else he might have told me had I stayed quiet and listened. But I don’t know what it was.” Arthur spooned the sugar out of the bottom of his cup.
David shook his head. “What then, Mr. Zimmerman, was the $100,000 for?”
“The $100,000?”
“$50,000 on January 7th, and another $50,000 on...”
“How did you know about that?” Arthur was dismayed, but not insulted. “Brenda?” he asked. When David didn’t reply, he ordered a small brandy, then told him, drink in hand, that at an obligatory family get-together he’d mentioned Singer’s visit to his father. Paul had taken the news so badly, Arthur thought he was going to have a heart attack then and there. He’d turned pale. He shook. His first question was whether Arthur had already told Brenda. He hadn’t, because he didn’t have anything to say. But Paul didn’t know that. So Arthur took advantage of the situation and asked what his keeping silent might be worth to his father.
“Right then and there he suggested he would change his will. You could have knocked me down with a feather,” Arthur said. “So when I got back to New York, I figured Singer must really have something hot. I wrote my father a letter and asked him for a bit of extra moolah just to tide me over—you know, till he died.” Arthur laughed. “Next thing I know, he sent me fifty thou in cash. By courier. Bingo. Just like that.”
“And the second fifty?”
“The first lot had gone so smoothly, I thought there might be more where that came from, so I wrote him again...”
“When was that?”
“Late January, because Jeremy and I were planning a trip to Jamaica for February. Lousy time to be in New York.”
“And he sent you another fifty?”
“Like magic.”
“And then what happened?”
“He changed his mind about the whole deal, will and all. Or so I’m told. He had Masters go back to the original version, and when I called for a bit of financial assistance to get me through March, he told me there wouldn’t be any more.”
“When was that?”
“I really don’t recall. Mid-February, or thereabouts. I didn’t keep notes, and didn’t jot it down in my diary. Why would I? I didn’t know Singer was going to get himself murdered and I’d have to answer all these dumb questions.” Arthur hadn’t mellowed much with the brandy.
“All that remains, then, is for you to tell me where you were the night of February 26th,” David said.
“Certainly, Detective Inspector. My pleasure. I was at Ocho Rios in Jamaica and you can find at least two dozen lovely people—there’s no accounting for tastes, is there?—including some straight hotel staff, who’ll swear to that.”
***
Back in Homicide there was a message from Martelli. Melwyn Singer had finally received word from his mother.
“Do you want me to read it to you?” Martelli asked David.
“Please.”
“I’ll spare you the most touching parts. Real mush, but I’m afraid she means it. Sort of stuff my mother might have written had she been able to write. Real old-fashioned materfamilias. Then she says: ‘I’m sorry I had to leave in such a hurry. You know I wouldn’t have gone if there wasn’t something to force me. I’d never leave you and my grandchildren. You are my life. The Nazis threatened me. There was a letter written in blood on the front seat of my car. It said if I didn’t pack myself off to some faraway place within 24 hours, they would exterminate me and my family. It said there were still too many Jews in the world, but they were doing whatever they could about it. There was a lock of hair with the letter. It looked like your Dad’s...’ She then goes on to urge him and his wife to join her in Israel, where they could at least live with their own people.”
“So now we know why she left in such a hurry,” David said.
“Sounds like the same lot that putzed up your girlfriend’s house,” Martelli said.
Thirty-Three
“THERE IS NO QUESTION about Zimmerman’s heart. He was a very ill man. The pathologist’s report confirms Doctor Meisner’s diagnosis: idiopathic hypertrophic subaortic stenosis. Symptoms include heavy breathing on exertion, angina pains, dizziness. The radiologic findings indicate a left ventricular enlargement. The course of the disease would be variable, most likely slowly progressive, but could just as easily cause sudden death.” Dr. Yan took a deep breath. “Particularly when inherited,” he concluded.
“And how do you translate that for an ordinary citizen?” David asked. He was exhausted. There had been the interview with Arthur. His Chief had had a harrowing phone call from Brenda, declaiming that her husband’s exhumation had been an act of blasphemy; David had then spent a nasty half-hour with the Chief justifying the veracity of his sources, without either of them letting on that they both knew the main source was Judith Hayes. There had been a confrontation with Philip Masters, who had found some obscure law covering unjustified harassment of the bereaved by investigating officers. There had been a tearful call from Deidre about Masters threatening her with removal from the will if his suspicions proved right about her giving confidential information to a policeman. Finally, PC Stewart had appeared with a balding man of indeterminate age who had been put in weekly contact with his dead wife by Madame Cielo, all for a mere $600 per session, $50 more than his monthly trucker’s pension, and more than he could scrounge from friends. He admitted he had discovered Madame was a phony, but felt too embarrassed to complain. Stewart was certain he was the killer, but had no concrete evidence.
“You’re hardly the ordinary citizen, Parr,” Yan replied. “And that report shouldn’t require a translation. Zimmerman had an inherited form of heart disease that can, and often does, cause sudden death. There is a swelling in the dividing wall between the two ventricles, which obstructs the flow of blood and, eventually, chokes up the system. It’s unpredictable as to timing, but a relatively quick and easy way to go.” Yan lit another Camel, breathed in deeply and leaned his head back against the orange padding of his chair. He had been up close to 20 hours, as had Parr, but the lack of sleep was taking a more obvious toll on him. His skin was dry, stretched, parchmentlike, and there were loose brown pouches under his half-closed eyes. He watched David, waiting for his reaction.
In the silence they could hear the hot water pipes clanging as the building cooled for the night.
“Did they do a complete autopsy?” David wished he’d brought along the mickey of Scotch from the apartment. Looked like he was going to need it.
“Yes, indeedy,” Yan said, dragging out the words. “Wasn’t easy, with the poor bugger frozen, but there are newfangled ways of quickly defrosting. I’d be glad to tell you about them, if you want to hear...”
“It’s okay, thanks all the same.” David rested his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees. He noticed his scalp was damp with perspiration, as was his forehead. It would be good to take a long walk to the subway and leave the damn car behind. He’d need to think about what he would say to the Chief tomorrow.
“They did their best cutting him up, minimal disfigurement, and all that. The relatives might want the fluids pumped back in, what do you think?”
“You mean, embalm him again?” David peered through his fingers at Yan. He was beginning to notice, despite his tiredness, that an unusual tone of jocularity had crept into Yan’s voice—a cheerfulness that was both unlike him and ill-suited to the news that Zimmerman had died of a heart attack.
“Well, that will probably be their choice. I, personally, wouldn’t do it to a dog, but then, as you know, I don’t believe in these barbaric burial customs,” Yan prattled on gaily, still gazing at David through hooded eyes.
“I know.” It occurred to David that the coroner was enjoying himself. What could he find to smirk about in this unpleasant ending to one of their longest days?
“We may not want to release the body to them until the day after tomorrow, though,” Yan said cheerfully. “We have a few more tissue samples to get back from Toxicology, hair samples...”
“Why Toxicology, if he died of whatever kind of obstruction in his heart?”
“Oh, that.” Yan beamed openly now. “You mean his idiopathic hypertrophic subaortic stenosis? He didn’t die of that. My goodness, I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression. He could have died of that, as easy as this...” He clicked his fingers, not very successfully. “But he didn’t. What he died of was something far simpler, easily understood even by an ordinary man: a dash of potassium cyanide, otherwise known as rat poison, and readily available at your ordinary drugstore. He was poisoned.”
“Son of a bitch,” David yelled at the ceiling, as he leaped to his feet. His first impulse was to hug the coroner, but when he saw the smile on his face, he almost slugged him. He got a couple of plastic cups full of water from the water fountain, and walked around the office, slurping, with a grin to match the coroner’s.
“I knew it. I knew it,” David lied, pulling his jacket on. He could finally get home. “Can I drive you somewhere?” he asked, feeling suddenly energetic.
“I think I’ll finish going through the pathologists’ reports, and the tests from Forensics. I’ll have it all ready and typed for you tomorrow—but I might take the day off. There’s a place up north my cousin wants me to try for ice-fishing. It’ll be mild and sunny. Near Parry Sound. Clears the fog out of my head.”
Thirty-Four
THERE HAD BEEN 16 people at the Zimmermans’ lavish March dinner party. That meant at least 15 possible suspects.
The seating, as usual, had been arranged personally by Mrs. Zimmerman. Giannini discovered from Arnold that Brenda liked to design the place cards herself. While he no longer had them—“Why, sir, would we have saved them?”—he was certain she had placed them at the head of each plate before the guest
s arrived.
The waiters hired by Ferndale Catering Services confirmed they had seen Mrs. Zimmerman put the cards in place.
Two tables had been lined up parallel, Brenda presiding at the foot of one table, Paul at the head of the other. Judith Hayes had sat on Paul’s right, Jane Masters on his left.
David was sure he could eliminate Judith from the list of potential killers, but he wasn’t sure about Jane.
On the surface, Jane Masters was a pillar of feminine society, member of numerous volunteer boards, government-appointed committees, and fund-raising drives for artsy causes. She was widely regarded as the power behind her husband’s charitable purse strings and a steady influence on Paul Zimmerman’s own choice of patronage.
She was tall and slender, with a regal bearing that would have taken a lifetime to develop. She received him in the spacious anteroom of her immodest Bridle Path mansion, as if he had come to measure the floors for a new carpet rather than to question her about a murder.
She remembered the evening of March 1st as a pleasant gathering of friends, hopelessly marred by Zimmerman’s death. She had not been informed of his heart troubles, but then she wouldn’t have expected to be informed. She had gone from the living room directly to the dining room and hadn’t left her seat until Zimmerman died. She had noticed he was drinking out of three separate glasses, two for the white and red wines, one that contained an amber liquid she thought could have been ginger ale.
Needless to say, all the glasses had been emptied, washed, and put away long ago. The cook was still in Bermuda with Brenda, but Arnold and the waiters were certain none of the guests had entered the kitchen before or during the first two courses. It would have been most unusual for them to do so.
Jane Masters offered no references to her husband’s rift with Zimmerman. She said she hadn’t been told of the parting of ways between them, nor did she seem offended that Masters hadn’t confided in her. It was his business. Whether he had quit or had been relieved of his duties was of no interest to her.
