Quest

by Richard Ben Sapir

  The sapphire was not used separately as an adornment again until the Paris party of Lady Constance Jennings, whereupon it was not called either an abomination or a lesson, but the “Jennings,” and after the party promptly stored away in a safe where it would stay for all but seven nights out of the year, European property rights being what they were in the twentieth century.

  Werner Gruenwald, businessman, of Geneva, Switzerland, one of the last to deal the great blue stone found in the marble of Kashmir, who had weighed it solely in dollars and francs as he measured all things, had not once during that morning cleaned his pink protective lenses or put drops into his eyes. His hands were still and cold and taped by his wrists to his chair, his eyes having been burned out of his head. A petty French criminal lay in an adjoining office, a lead pipe stuck in his belt, face down with a small bloody spot in the back of his head. Apparently the pipe had been some sort of weapon, but was useless, police surmised. As the forensic doctors assigned to the Swiss constabulary explained, the man had been felled instantly with a perfect mortal knife wound into the posterior cerebral lobe. It was so clean and precise, it could have been performed without any technical shame in an operating room.

  And Claire Andrews meanwhile drew a large circle around Jerusalem and made an arrow from that city to Seville, which led to London.

  Stepping back from her wall, she was certain now that she was looking for something that attracted great jewel adornments. More than that, this thing was thought foolish by Muslims and without God by a Jew in the Spanish Inquisition.

  Probably a Christian thing, she thought, going into the small kitchen to open a Cherry Coke. Then she returned to the wall, where her eyes followed the line from Jerusalem, to Seville, to England. In England, this thing probably became the saltcellar, just like raw materials from other parts of the world became an American car when manufactured in America.

  But why? And what was it? And why specifically would it be rejected by both Jew and Muslim alike? Because of the graven images on the stone? Both faiths felt that way about images. The rejection was too strong for just images. It was, after all, at one time worth breaking up a perfect set of seven diamonds.

  What was history telling her? There was something larger here.

  She wanted to phone Arthur to share her discovery. But she had already made that absolutely wrong phone call to Paris and that was why she hadn’t heard from him for a week now.

  XIX

  Alas miserable wretch that I am. I have been vile and wicked beyond measure to let myself be brought so swiftly to the brink of losing what is irredeemable, namely virginity, which cannot be recovered since it is lost but once.

  —WALTER MAP

  Quest del Saint Graal, 1225

  Even before he knew about the Swiss businessman’s death, Artie was haunted by how the jewels had moved. It was only by accident that they had found them. There were too many signs of a professional at work, no matter what the great ruby dealer of New York kept repeating about amateurs.

  The rabbi’s son had made a correct commercial if not moral judgment. Baruch Schnauer had been seduced by the greatest temptation of all, a certainty that he would not be caught. The diamonds should have moved with no problems in New York City. What knowledgeable dealer would think diamonds so old they were polished would have registered gem prints? And if it had not been for Harry Rawson’s business contacts abroad, no one would have even known that the sapphire had been sold in Paris.

  So if it weren’t for accidents, most connected to Rawson, it would have been a very successful robbery. And Artie thought about that.

  Whenever an important theft occurred, some major painting, a piece of statuary, anything worth millions, it was a safe bet that it had been fenced before it was stolen. The difficult part in a major theft was not in breaking through locks. That was technical. Every detective knew that the damnedest things could be broken into. There was no lock people put up that wasn’t breakable, from the pyramids to the electronics at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Most of the intricate defenses nowadays were figured out by crooks before they were on sale to the public.

  In a major theft, it was the fence who was important, not the burglar. He was just the laborer of larceny. The person who could move the goods was important. He had to be the professional. And who could move a sapphire and a ruby like the ones in the saltcellar? Artie did not like to think about that.

  And then Harry Rawson phoned him with the news that Werner Gruenwald was dead, that he had been tortured and that the body of a thug was found in an adjacent office.

  “Thought you’d get the news through some police network.”

  “No,” said Artie.

  “This is private information I’m giving you for your good. Look, you may not be aware of it, but the thug was killed with the same sort of blow that did in old Geoffrey Battissen.”

  “Yeah, my friends tell me it was kind of surgical.”

  “It was probably the most professional killing that occurred in your city in the last decade.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Harry. We got some real good contract killers here.”

  “Artie, my friend, bullets are accidents launched in the hope of creating death. The posterior cerebral lobe with an instrument is death. I won’t argue with your New York chauvinism. For your own good, please do watch out for yourself.”

  “How is it for my good?”

  “So you’ll protect yourself.”

  “From whom?”

  “Well now, Artie. You’d probably know that better than I, wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Your friend, the ruby dealer.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s a dangerous man.”

  “What d’you mean dangerous?”

  “You don’t know your friend’s war record?”

  “And you do? How come?”

  “Artie, I am in a business that allows me access to information. I suppose I would be a lot better off if I kept my mouth shut.”

  “Are you telling me to back off this whole thing?”

  “I’m telling you in your own vernacular to watch your ass.”

  “And what about your ass?”

  “I’m an Englishman. Rudimentary common sense is alien to my nature.”

  “Feldman’s strange, but he’s all right.”

  “Artie, I know you. You are a drinking buddy, old boy. You’re too shrewd not to know what’s going on.”

  “So why are you telling me this?”

  “Artie, you are amazingly circular when you don’t want to go somewhere,” said Rawson. He suggested drinks next time he was in New York City. He knew places in New York City, too. Artie should keep in touch in case anything turned up in New York City, like the ruby for instance. The ruby was another way of saying Feldman. Artie didn’t want to believe what he knew had to be possible. He wanted to believe that Feldman would only kill in self-defense or for his country, and not for a great, great ruby. Artie didn’t care how great a ruby was, or what Europeans thought about legitimate ownership. Stealing was stealing and murder was murder, and eighty-seven karats of anything didn’t change it. Not even for someone Artie respected so much.

  And so, doing even his minimal duty, Artie did have to phone Feldman to talk to him about what was going on and to ask him his whereabouts lately. But Feldman did not answer his phone and Artie went over to his Forty-eighth Street office, and he wasn’t in. Feldman wasn’t in the next day either, nor twice the following day. And just how safe was Claire Andrews?

  Trudy said she had never seen Artie take work home from the office, and if he were going to worry about things, why remain a policeman?

  Artie answered he did not think it appropriate to discuss work in her bed.

  “Discuss it? It’s in bed with us.” She grabbed a hand of his and put it on her bare breast.

  “Here I am, Artie. Do you want to pay attention to me? Here I am.”

  Dutifully, Artie fondled her breast, and sh
e slapped his hand away.

  “Get out of here. And I don’t want to see you again.”

  “What’s wrong? What did I do?”

  “You’re always the victim, Artie. You never do anything wrong, and you are always the victim. Don’t shrug.”

  “What? What on earth, what!”

  “I told you what. You’re not here.”

  “I’m here.”

  “The hell you are. C’mon, Artie. I’m not your family. I’m not your police captain who you can say yes yes to. I’m Trudy. Remember me? I pay attention to you. I give you my body and my self. You’ve got to be here for me.”

  “What can I tell you?” he said, controlling any shrug that would have been perfect for this situation. But she had taken it away from him, like a zone defense could take away a long pass. And so, shrugless, all he could do was talk.

  Trudy turned away in contempt and held out his underwear and pants. He knew enough that the moment he put them on it was all over.

  “There’s been some killings that have worried me, Trudy. More killings than I’ve seen in anything so far.”

  “It’s not the dead bodies, Artie. It’s that woman.”

  “What woman?”

  “The blond sweetheart from Duluth.”

  “I don’t know anyone from Duluth.”

  “Wherever,” said Trudy.

  “I know who you mean. I have not phoned that woman since I returned from France, precisely because I do not wish to get involved. That is how much you know about what is going on. I don’t want to go near her. I don’t want to go within a hundred miles of her. That is what she means to me.”

  But this evening, Trudy was not even buying the truth.

  “I am a woman who has been second fiddle in seven, count them, seven relationships in a row. That is all I have in my life, and Artie, I am not taking it anymore. As I told you at the beginning, I am not taking it anymore. Put on your pants and go.”

  Artie did not take the pants. Trudy dropped them on the floor. Thus convinced she was serious, Artie dressed and tried to say goodbye. But Trudy had shut herself in the bathroom and was crying. It really was over.

  “I’m sorry,” said Artie.

  “It’s not your fault. Get out of here,” she yelled back.

  “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. You know I like you.”

  “Will you get out of here? Just get out of here. Get out of here so I can get started on my eighth straight second-fiddle relationship.”

  Artie left quickly, sensing if he stayed she might start asking why he thought he could get away with treating her like this, why all men in her life treated her like that, and the truth was she had all but told him from the outset that they were there just to enjoy each other, nothing serious, and every time he treated her that way she was hurt.

  Nevertheless, he felt bad, ashamed, wanting to make things right, wanting to stop Trudy from crying, wanting to give her just the man that would make her happy. And he was wise enough to know it was not Arthur Modelstein. In fact, he was fairly sure Trudy met the right man every day and passed him by in favor of the Arthur Modelsteins of the world.

  Perhaps the British gentleman was right. Hookers were the answer. They were the clean relationships. But he didn’t believe that. And he felt sorry for Harry Rawson. Of course, why should he feel sorry for Harry? He saw the way he lived.

  Artie went home that night and watched television and did not call Claire Andrews. He spent the night not calling her and realized that Trudy was a very smart woman because that was what he had been doing since he came back from Paris.

  If the breakup with Trudy had been uncomfortable, anything with Claire Andrews was going to be five times worse. Everything was worse with that lady. The fact of that two-hour phone call was not lost on him. What did they talk about? They talked about nothing. Little things. Funny things. Not so funny things. Nothing. They had talked about nothing while he ignored a thousand-dollar-a-night courtesan, a fact he would never tell anyone in the department.

  Claire was a person wise men avoided. She was the stuff for which beachheads were stormed, on which empires were built, from which discoveries against all manner of obstacles were made.

  She was oblivious to danger and odds. This was not someone to be entangled with. She was not his kind. Trudy was his kind. Trudy understood the world was not a safe and good place. Trudy was the one he should get entangled with if he wanted to be entangled. Reliable, only moderately bitchy, and usually deceivable on important matters.

  Of course, he had already paid the price for leaving Trudy. He was a thousand times better off not even saying hello again to Claire. That Paris phone conversation was enough warning for anyone. Two hours going by like a warm chuckle. Dangerous.

  “You have done well, Arthur,” he said into his bathroom mirror, “to have kept your distance. What you need now is another affair, a total physical, nonemotional, just body affair. Opposite Miss Andrews.”

  And he agreed with himself. And then phoned Claire Andrews as he had always known he would.

  “I just got back from Paris,” he lied. Why did he say that? That was a stupid, stupid thing to say.

  “And you called me right away?” Her voice was happy. She was actually happy on the other end of the phone that he had called her right away.

  “No,” he said, “I’ve been back for days.”

  “Oh.”

  “I didn’t think it was a good thing what happened when we talked in Paris. It got out of hand.”

  “We had a good talk,” said Claire. “I enjoyed it.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “I hardly see where it’s a problem.” The voice was soft but it was cold.

  “Lady—”

  “Don’t call me lady, Arthur. Don’t play the tough New York City cop with me. I am a rational adult. I am not some innocent. Most of the people in this city came from somewhere else. Your grandparents came from someplace else. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said that.”

  “What? Said what?”

  “About coming from someplace else.”

  “They did. Russia. What’re you sorry about?”

  “We’re different,” said Claire.

  “Right,” said Artie, and immediately both of them understood they weren’t sure how the other meant that.

  “I think you should know and understand that I am a rational person, and I don’t think you understand that.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That’s insulting, Arthur. Insulting to anyone from anywhere.”

  “If I told you that you are sitting on dynamite, and that you should get off, would you say I’m insulting?”

  “If you thought I was too irrational to get off, yes, it would be insulting.”

  “There’s two more bodies with this thing. One of them had the sapphire and sold it to that Paris jewelry store I told you about. The other was found nearby with a blow behind the ear, just like that art dealer Battissen who cheated you. Just like it.”

  “Yes?” said Claire calmly.

  “Yes!” screamed Artie. “Yes! What is this yes? Dynamite. Dynamite. Dynamite.”

  “Arthur, who is being irrational? You’re hysterical.”

  “Dynamite,” he said more softly.

  “Do you want to expand on that? Arthur, I am trying to be as calm as I can. I am trying to reason with you. Will you let me reason with you? Who was killed? Why was he killed? Under what circumstances was he killed?”

  “You are sitting there on dynamite. That is irrational. You can die like anyone else in this world, you know?”

  “Is it going off tonight?”

  “It may.”

  “But it probably won’t, will it? We don’t know why these people are being killed, do we? There’s more we don’t know than there is we do know, isn’t that so?”

  “Hey, Claire, people are dying. All right? Enough to know? Okay? Enough for you? Is that enough?”

  There was silence. Artie wanted to throw the re
ceiver through the wall.

  “I’m listening,” said Artie.

  “You won’t like the answer.”

  “You’re probably right. What is it? Not enough for you, right?”

  “Arthur, no one looking for these gems has been killed. Everyone who has died has possessed them. I don’t possess them. If Captain Rawson were killed, then I would have something logical to fear. But he is alive, isn’t he?”

  “What is this, the Carney, Ohio, homicide squad?”

  “Arthur!”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s sit down, and go over this, and hear me out.”

  “All right. I’ll be right over.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock. Come over for dinner tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to make it so social,” said Artie.

  “Bedtime isn’t social, but supper is?”

  “That’s not what I had in mind,” said Artie with a skilled and practiced righteousness, tempered perfectly with a hint of hurt. “That’s not what I had in mind at all.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Claire and was forgiven.

  The next evening she had a splendid dinner prepared for him, from appetizer to dessert, but confessed that she had gone to a gourmet shop and bought it all, from the ducks with wild rice stuffing to the exotic soup, everything except the coffee, to which she added a powdered substitute cream. They ate at the kitchen table on a new linen cloth Claire had purchased. She wore an apron over a dark blue dress, set off by her lovely body and a tasteful strand of pearls. Artie had bought wine and a new very expensive casual sweater for the evening.

  When he asked her why she would end such a wonderful meal with a substitute creamer, she said she knew Artie could not eat a milk product with a meat product.

  “I’m not kosher,” said Artie.

  “Reb Schnauer didn’t think you would be.”

  “You talk to him?”

  “He’s very helpful when he can be. Do you know I’m a righteous gentile?”

  “No. What does that mean?”

  “Reb Schnauer really is right about you, Arthur. You should know that. Were you Bar Mitzvahed?”