by Barbara Paul
“But told him in a way that made him suspicious?”
Marian shrugged. “DiFalco’s quite good at jumping to the wrong conclusion. He does it all the time.”
“Seems to me you’re on thin ice there.” He sighed. “But I’m grateful to you for diverting him, even though there’ll be repercussions later. I’ll see what I can do when the time comes. Right now I want you to go wait by the stage door for Ramsay. Leave one of the officers there.”
“Yes, sir.” She opened the door to go. “There’s one other thing. I’ve decided not to resign.”
His face broke into a smile. “A wise decision, Sergeant. I’ve felt all along you belong on the force. You enjoy the hunt, you know you do.”
“I’ve always enjoyed the hunt. It was the kill that bothered me.”
“And now it doesn’t?”
“Now it doesn’t.”
He nodded approval. “You’ll have my recommendation for lieutenant on Monday.”
“Thank you, Captain.” She went out to the stage door to wait for Gene Ramsay.
19
The stage doorkeeper was edgy, sensing that something was up. He didn’t feel any better when the two uniformed officers appeared with the play’s producer in tow.
“Marian, what the hell’s going on?” Gene Ramsay demanded angrily. “These two won’t tell me anything.”
“We’ll tell you all about it now,” she said. “In John’s office.” She told one of the officers to stay by the door.
Captain Murtaugh was sitting behind the desk; Marian pointed to the chair facing the desk. Ramsay sat down and said, “Well?”
The second police officer closed the door and stood with his back to it; with four people in the small room, the office was uncomfortably close. Murtaugh put a folded court paper on the desk. “That’s a warrant,” he said, “entitling us to examine and recover the contents of that safe in the corner. You have the combination. Open it.”
Ramsay turned white as Marian watched. He swallowed and said, “Why on earth do you want to open that safe? I don’t think there’s anything in it.”
“Let’s find out, shall we? Open it.”
“I don’t remember the combination.”
“Then get it. Or I’ll get a police locksmith in here. That safe is coming open, one way or another.”
Ramsay heard the determination in the captain’s voice and abandoned that line of resistance. “Oh, very well. I think I have the combination written down here.” He made a show of taking out his billfold and looking for it. “What do you expect to find in the safe?”
“Gems. Stolen gems.”
“Oh, really?” His hand was shaking when he turned the dial, but he got the safe open.
Marian moved him aside and looked in; a good-sized canvas carryall made up the entire contents of the safe. Her heart beating rapidly, she put the carryall on the desk in front of Murtaugh. At his nod, she opened it; it held a number of small black velvet bags. Marian picked one up, loosened the drawstring, and upended the bag. About two dozen emeralds spilled out on the desk.
“Jesus,” exclaimed the uniformed officer.
“Sergeant,” Murtaugh said.
She turned to Ramsay. “You have the right to remain silent. You have—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” he cried. “You aren’t arresting me? I didn’t put those stones there!”
“Yes, you did,” Marian said. “You’re the only one with the combination to the safe, and you’re the only one who could have smuggled those stones into the country.” She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out one of the amber velvet sleeves; Ramsay made a choking sound at the sight of it. Marian looked at his stricken face and said gently, “Gene, it will go easier for you if you cooperate. Once these gems are identified as the ones stolen in France, we have an airtight case. Don’t you see? It’s all over.”
He did see. He buried his face in his hands and shuddered. When he raised his face again, he looked ten years older.
“Your confederates who stopped the van wanted to get the stones out of France,” Marian said. “That’s where you came in. You bought the Bernhardt jacket, substituted the real gems for the stage fakes, and got them through customs that way. But back home you had a problem. Everyone knew about the jacket and expected you to donate it to the museum. So you gave the jacket to Kelly Ingram to wear for a few performances and recruited Ernie Nordstrom to burglarize the theater for you—that way no blame would be attached to you when the jacket disappeared. But I don’t understand why you didn’t just replace the real gems with the stage fakes again. Nobody would have known the difference.”
Ramsay was taking short breaths; he ran his tongue over his lips before he answered. “I’m not a costumer. I would have had to hire somebody to do it for me. It was too risky.”
“Then how was the switch made in the first place? In France.”
“One of my confederates, as you call them—he’s a costumier, a stage costumer.”
“Why not bring him over here to do the job, to switch them back?”
“He’s under suspicion in France. The police won’t let him leave the country.”
Marian looked at Murtaugh; the captain gave a satisfied grunt. “Okay, so you staged the burglary,” she said to Ramsay. “Then things really went wrong. Ernie Nordstrom figured out why the jacket was so important, and … refused to give it back? Held out for a percentage?”
Ramsay sighed tiredly. “He wanted half. I was willing to cut him in for a piece of my share, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted half of the total value or he’d try to fence the stones himself.”
“So what happened?”
“Oh, so what started as an argument degenerated into a shouting match. I was ready to punch him in the mouth when the little bastard pulled a knife on me. He pulled a knife on me!”
“And?”
“And I was wrestling with him, and I got him to drop the knife. He was going for it when I grabbed up something, that Victorian bellpull, and got it around his neck. I just meant to cut off the oxygen to his brain so he’d pass out.” Ramsay looked at Marian, then at Murtaugh. “I didn’t think he’d die.”
Murtaugh said, “We found no knife at the scene.”
Ramsay gave a bitter laugh. “Do you want to hear something funny? It was a stage knife. One of those with blades that slide up into the handles. He couldn’t have hurt me. I wouldn’t have had to … to do anything.”
The room was silent for a moment. Then Murtaugh said, “What did you do with the knife?”
“Tossed it into one of those boxes he had all over the place. It’s still there.”
“And then you hid the Bernhardt jacket between two other costumes and left.”
“Yes. That’s all there was to it. A stupid fight that went stupidly wrong. I didn’t intend to kill him. I didn’t know people could … could die so easily.”
One corner of Murtaugh’s mouth turned down. “Yes, well. A smart lawyer might make a plea of self-defense work, but you’ll still have the jewel-robbery charge facing you. We were planning to check your finances anyway—were you having money problems?”
“No, nothing serious. But when the costumier approached me with the scheme, it looked like a million dollars falling into my lap with very little risk for me. They were to do the hard part, no one was to get hurt, and all I had to do was get the jacket out of the country. It looked so simple.”
“Yes, these little schemes always do,” Captain Murtaugh said sourly. “And upstanding, law-abiding citizens suddenly discover they have a larcenous streak they never before knew existed. You can try that argument in court, too. You’ll probably be extradited to France to stand trial there as well as here, but that’s up to the District Attorney.”
Marian put the velvet sleeve back in her handbag. “Did you have to ruin the jacket getting the jewels off?”
Ramsay snapped, “I told you, I’m not a costumer.”
Murtaugh motioned to the uniformed officer standing b
y the door. “Take him in.”
The producer rose slowly and watched as if hypnotized as the officer pulled out a pair of handcuffs. The sight of those cuffs did something to Ramsay: they made him panic. With a strangled cry he drove his fist into the officer’s stomach and pushed the man toward Marian. He was out the door before Murtaugh could get around the desk.
“Gene!” Marian called. “Don’t be foolish!”
He started toward the stage door but saw the officer stationed there. He turned back to see Marian and Captain Murtaugh closing in on him. The only way out was through the audience, and the only way into the audience was from the stage. He ran out on to the stage, almost colliding with Ian Cavanaugh. A gasp went up from the audience.
Like a cannonball, Holland shot out from the other side of the stage. He tackled Ramsay, hard and low. The two men crashed into the base supporting the fish tank—and the tank tipped over, drenching them both and spilling its contents to the stage floor.
Xandria Priest screamed. “The fish! Save the fish!”
“Curtain!” Leo Gunn yelled. The curtain closed.
Marian slipped and skidded her way to Ramsay, one of the uniformed officers keeping pace with her and Murtaugh and the other officer not far behind. This time the officer slapped the cuffs on the producer before he could try anything else. “Not a brilliant move, Gene,” Marian said. “Now we’ll have to add resisting arrest to the charges.” Ramsay moaned.
“That was an impressive bit of derring-do,” Ian Cavanaugh said smoothly, giving Holland a hand up. “But if you want to go on the stage, it’s generally best to audition first.”
Marian gave Holland a quick once-over: wet, but not hurt. She turned back to Ramsay. “Now I’m going to do this again, and this time don’t interrupt.” She read him his rights.
“Why are you arresting our producer?” Frieda Armstrong demanded imperiously.
No one answered her. When Murtaugh made sure their prisoner was cuffed, Mirandized, and under control, he turned to Holland. “Are you all right?”
Holland shook his arms and head, shedding some of the water. “I’m not about to burst into song,” he said resignedly, “but I’ll survive.”
“I want to thank you. That was quick thinking and quick acting.”
“Thinking had nothing to do with it—it was all instinct. That’s one thing the FBI teaches you. Act, don’t think.”
“You’re FBI?”
“Former.”
Kelly came running up with a towel. “Curt—here.” Holland wiped off his face and looked down. His trousers were clinging to him like a second skin. Almost daintily he wrapped the towel around his waist and hips. Kelly laughed.
Stagehands were busy with mops, and one man was going around with a bucket of water picking up fish. John Reddick was trying to calm everyone down; cast and crew alike were looking at Gene Ramsay in horror, once it sank in on them he was being arrested for murder. The two uniformed officers hauled their prisoner to his feet and led him away.
“Yes, we’re going to finish the performance,” John Reddick was saying. “Just as soon as—”
“You’re not asking us to finish?” Xandria Priest broke in loudly. “Well, I can’t. My concentration’s broken. I’m too upset. I can’t finish.”
John planted himself in front of her, fists on hips, and said in a voice that silenced everybody: “Yes. You. Can.”
Xandria blinked. “Yes, I can.”
The director grunted. “The rest of you—take deep breaths, compose yourselves. I’ve got to make an announcement.” He stepped out in front of the curtain. Backstage, they could hear him say, “Ladies and gentlemen, our apologies for this totally unexpected interruption. We intend to finish the performance.” A smattering of applause. “Just give us a few more minutes to get squared away back here, and thank you for your patience.” He stepped back through the curtain.
Ian said to Marian, “Abby will die when she hears what she missed.”
The stagehands were rolling up a wet carpet from the stage floor, and the now-empty fish tank was upright once again. The water was all mopped up and Leo Gunn was warning the actors that the damp floorboards could be slippery. They were almost ready to go.
Marian felt a hand on her arm. “How’re you doing, kiddo?” Kelly asked.
That was an easy one. “I’m doing just fine, Kel,” Marian said with a big smile.
Kelly squeezed her arm and went to take her place. Holland seemed to have disappeared; Marian left the stage and went looking for him. She found him still wearing his towel sarong, talking to Captain Murtaugh.
Murtaugh saw her coming and said, “Well, Sergeant, that was a good day’s work. I’ll expect you at Midtown South Monday morning, eight o’clock sharp. I still haven’t seen any letter ordering you back to the Ninth, and you have a report to write.”
“Yes, sir! I’ll be there.”
“Holland—thanks again.”
A sharp nod in response.
Murtaugh smiled goodbye and left. Leo Gunn’s assistants were moving swiftly around the backstage area saying Quiet, please. The matinee performance of The Apostrophe Thief was ready to resume.
And Marian’s stomach growled. “Breakfast’s wearing off,” she said.
Holland looked down at his wet clothes. “Do you mind stopping off at my place while I change? Then we’ll go get something to eat.”
Did she mind …? “No, I don’t mind,” Marian said as casually as she could. Did she mind!
They left the theater and walked four blocks to where Holland had left his car. Although it had been bugging Marian that she didn’t know his address, she’d never really wondered about how Holland lived. But now she wanted to see the place. She wanted that very much.
In the car, Marian looked at her watch. “Will we make it in time for the early news? DiFalco may be on.”
“DiFalco? Is he back in the picture?”
She told him about the captain’s showing up at the Broadhurst and what she’d done. Holland burst into laughter. “It’s funny now,” she said, “but when he finds out—”
“He’s going to feel like ten kinds of idiot,” Holland said, still laughing. “Fur smuggling! How did that man ever make captain?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing myself.”
“Nice, Marian—nice.” He heartily approved of her exercise in misdirection.
“DiFalco’s going to want my hide.”
“Perhaps. Take it as it comes.”
Holland’s place turned out to be an apartment on Central Park West. Two bedrooms, two baths, a dining area, and a balcony opening off the living room. The living room itself was dominated by an entertainment center—big-screen TV, VCR, stereo, tape deck, CD player, laser disk player, amplifiers, speakers, mixers, things Marian knew no names for. The center dominated the room simply because it was the only thing in the room. No furniture. No pictures on the walls. Not even a lamp. Nothing to sit on.
The dining area was completely empty. One of the bedrooms contained a computer and all its accoutrements, but nothing else. The bedroom Holland slept in did have a bed, Marian was relieved to see. And a bureau. But the only chair in the entire apartment was the one facing the computer screen.
“I see you go for the minimalist styles,” she said dryly.
“What?” Holland looked around as if he’d never seen the place before. “Oh … yes, I’ll need to buy some furniture.” He took a pair of trousers out of the closet.
“I want to watch the news.”
“Right.” He tossed the trousers on the bed and led the way back to the living room, where he produced a remote control from somewhere. The television screen flared to life.
They watched a Zoning Commission report, forty commercials, a report on an upcoming transit workers’ strike, forty more commercials, and then DiFalco was on.
“He didn’t waste any time, did he?” Holland murmured.
DiFalco didn’t mention Marian, Murtaugh, or Midtown South. He told the re
porters—only two of them, he must not have had time to contact everybody—that Ernie Nordstrom’s murder was connected to the presence of a fur-smuggling ring operating right here in New York City. He dodged questions about names, details, leads.
“The reason I’m making this announcement,” he said earnestly to the camera, “is to warn the people of New York. Don’t buy a fur coat from someone you don’t know. Stick to established, reputable dealers. And especially don’t buy a fur that’s offered to you at a discount. One other thing—don’t believe what you read on a label. I don’t want New Yorkers taken in by this gang.” Very public-spirited, Captain DiFalco was.
The show went to a commercial. Marian applauded. “I should have asked Murtaugh when he was going to release the news about Ramsay. Oh, I wish I could see DiFalco’s face then!”
“It’ll have egg on it,” Holland said. “I wonder how he’ll try to weasel out.”
“By blaming me.”
“Will he? Is he going to admit his only source of information was the unsupported word of a detective who’s supposed to be under his command but who won’t come home? Anything he can say will just make him look all the more foolish.”
Marian thought about that. And smiled. “Yeah.”
“You may get out of this free and clear.” He handed her the remote. “I’m going to change.” He went into the bedroom.
Marian turned her back to the screen and inspected the otherwise empty room. A place of residence was supposed to reveal something of the person living there; but this apartment was only a resting place for a transient, a man on the move, a sojourner. All the place told Marian was that Holland liked music and high-tech gadgetry—which she already knew—and that he was able to do without certain creature comforts other people took for granted. His origins, his past … they remained as much a mystery as ever.
She clicked off the TV and wandered out to the balcony. From there she could look over Central Park, where the lights were just beginning to come on. “God, I hate mysteries,” Marian said.
About the Author
Barbara Paul is the author of numerous short stories and novels in both the detective and science fiction genres. Born in Maysville, Kentucky, she went on to attend Bowling Green State University and the University of Pittsburgh, earning a PhD in theater history and criticism. She has been nominated for the Shamus Award for Best PI Short Story, and two of her novels, In-Laws and Outlaws and Kill Fee, have been adapted into television movies. After teaching at the University of Pittsburgh for a number of years, she retired to write full-time. Paul currently resides in Sacramento.
