“Yeah,” said Artie with a snap of anger. Who was she to ask him that?
“A righteous gentile is one who lives up to the laws of God as well as the best Jew, without, of course, the lifelong training of an orthodox Jew. I guess it would be a form of our sainthood. I think that’s wonderful, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Saints don’t mind getting killed.”
“Well, I’m not a saint, Arthur. I happen to be quite rational, and it bothers me not a little bit that you don’t understand this. And I’d like to explain how I handle risk and what I am doing here. All I want is a fair hearing from you.”
“What does it matter what I think? If you worry about what everyone thinks, you’re going to go crazy.”
“It matters to me what you think, Arthur. Come into the living room, please.”
She got up from the table and led him into that partial living room that was mostly research center, with a wall full of papers and markings, and a long table underneath with enough file folders to occupy a major office inventing the atomic bomb. There was a big map of the world with colored lines crisscrossing it.
Artie had taken his coffee. She nodded to a chair. He sat down. She stood in front of a computer terminal. It was going to be a lecture.
“First, as to the danger. I’m as big a coward as the next person, Arthur. If I felt there was real danger, danger directed at me, not just danger out there somewhere happening to others, I would be the first to run.”
Ordinarily, Artie would handle lectures by nodding and letting his mind drift off. But this point he could not let go by.
“What is this ‘others’ business? It’s ‘others’ until it happens to you and then the next victim can think you’re the others it happens to. There are random killings everywhere. New York, Geneva. That Swiss businessman got his eyes burned out of his head. The diamond cutter died while having his skin torn off. And there are two men who died so slick, it scares an officer in the British army. What makes you think you’re not next? I mean somebody got in here to kill your cat.”
“Torture is not random killing, Arthur, no matter how horrible. The tragedy of Nuisance’s death was a very rational threat. I would gather that the weight of evidence would have to show we are dealing with a rational killer or killers here, from Dad on. My father’s death seemed more accidental, a hysterical stabbing.”
“Since when are you an expert on homicide?”
“I’ve got to be my own expert, and I’m always willing to listen to other opinions and evaluate them. The tortures weigh inordinately on the side of rationality, even more methodical than the single thrust into the head that killed Battissen and that other person found near the body of the Swiss businessman.”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Claire. I had a great meal. After a great meal is getting to know people time, not this … stuff. Awful stuff. Let’s just call the deaths insane. I’ve seen lots of insanity that, take my word for it, caused just as many horrors as planning.”
“Oh, I’m sure insanity causes many horrors, but you have to judge things by probabilities. By weights,” said Claire.
And then Artie made the mistake of asking her to explain this weight business, and he could see her eyes suddenly sparkle as she turned to the wall, revealing a great discovery like the secret sunset she had just found someone else to share it with. “When I began I had a blank wall,” she said. And she talked about facts and their reliability and unreliability. She talked about great gems and pointed out their paths around the world and time along her map. She talked about researchers and dead ends, and going on. And she talked about faith. Faith was going on when there was no hope.
And then she explained the whole wall. There was only one time that she had had no hope and that was her first night alone here, her first night alone. And the wall was bare. The hardest thing she had to do was start from nowhere that night.
“The rest really isn’t that much,” she said, amazing Artie with her knowledge of history and gems and how she weighed facts and made calculated decisions to pursue one course or another in a myriad of lies, partial truths, and entire lost civilizations.
Claire Andrews from Carney, Ohio, who didn’t have a place to stay her first night in New York, had organized the world.
Artie had a question that had been bothering him: “A friend of mine says that great gems have blood on them and that laws don’t apply to them. What does he mean?”
“Mr. Feldman?”
“Yeah.”
“In history, people’s lives weren’t worth much unless they were nobility of some sort. People were considered property, and not that valuable property. The nobility were different. And they were the people who owned the great gems. But even they were usually slaughtered when they lost a war, and their gems as well as the land went over to the new conquerors. The common people were considered not even worth mentioning. When they make a mistake in history, you can have the numbers of people vary by tens of thousands from one report to another. But a gem, when they do mention gems other than poetically or mystically, won’t weigh different by even an ounce. So much for human life.”
“And today?”
“It depends which country, but in most of the countries of the world the people who own the great gems are the ones who make the laws. It’s only recently, in the last few hundred years, that there are some places where the laws are meant to protect the people and not the rulers. So the fact that there might have been a murder associated with, say, the eighty-seven-karat pigeon’s blood ruby just wouldn’t mean anything. Only the ruby itself would mean something. I think that’s what he means, Arthur.”
“Yeah,” said Artie. It made sense. “So somebody is after that ruby pretty bad, huh?”
“Probably, and yet I look at my map, and I look at my stones and at the histories researchers have waded through for me, and all I can say, Arthur, is only maybe they’re after that ruby.”
“What else?”
“Maybe an abomination that is a lesson or a thing that is not of God.”
“That I really don’t understand,” said Artie.
“References that are associated with this thing along the way that I have not puzzled out yet.”
“I’m still worried about you and the killings,” said Artie.
“When Harry Rawson gets killed, then I am going to worry with you.”
“You don’t like him, do you?” asked Artie.
“He certainly is not the best influence on you,” said Claire. “I’ve never seen you drink heavily before. I heard you drinking your champagne when you talked to me in Paris. You were probably too drunk to do anything after our talk.”
“Are you asking?”
“It’s none of my business. I enjoyed our conversation. I enjoyed it very much, Arthur.”
“So did I,” said Artie. He felt almost embarrassed. Something had happened between them, and he had felt it was such a private thing that even discussing what they shared was exposing it. But it was received the same way it was sent, and they were quiet together in the research room of her apartment.
Artie did not know where to put down his coffee without leaving a ring on some papers. She took it from him, and he breathed the scents of her body close to him, her perfume and herself, and he rose from the chair, and very softly he kissed her, a gentle touching of the lips. But it was too exciting for just a kiss. And he saw fear in her eyes.
“I think I had better go home,” said Arthur.
“Do you have to?” asked Claire. Her eyes were so wide, so innocent.
“Yeah. It’s all clean, you know. We had dinner, and everything’s okay, and it’s all right. You have your life here. No damage. It’s good.” Artie nodded.
“I don’t think damage is the worst thing that can happen to a life. I think unuse of a life is the worst thing that can happen, Arthur.” She was still so close to him, looking up to him.
“Good night,” he said, and h
is voice was low, and he looked so strong and protective, so handsome in his acceptance of things, that Claire wanted to grab him and kiss hard that sweet and open face. But she didn’t. She smiled, and now she shrugged. She didn’t want him to go, but she knew all of this was too awkward to continue.
“Good night. I think this is best,” she said.
“I think it’s horseshit,” said Artie.
“Horseshit is best,” said Claire. She walked him to the door.
And just before he left, he seemed to have some change of mind in some way.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night. Okay? We’ll go out.”
“Fine. Wonderful,” she said, but she wondered what was wrong. She was sure this darkly good-looking hunk of man who knew his way around, who had testimony to that from the woman who had the key to his apartment that first night, would make some sort of overture. After all, there was that half-hearted overture that first night.
She waited for him to return and then dramatically make some sort of pass. She would receive it with a playful laugh and then ask him softly to wait. But she did not see him until the next night, when he joked and generally played through dinner, telling her his impressions of Paris and confessing that he did not get to see the Louvre. She was dying to ask who the women were in the Paris hotel room. He went off about the sapphire, and she mentioned that a lawyer she had hired to pursue the ownership matter had told her that Lady Jennings was not French but British.
“There’s such a difference between French and English women, isn’t there?” she added.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Artie.
“You’ve never known English women, I guess.”
“I went with an English secretary for a while.”
“They’re different from the French.”
“I don’t know.”
“Were your friends in Paris American?”
“No. They were French. You know, the thing about Japanese food is you end up eating stuff you would never think you would eat.” They were in a Benihana restaurant on Third Avenue.
“Speaking of sushi, Arthur, who were they?”
“Thousand-dollar-a-night prostitutes.” He put down his chopsticks and stared her right in the eye.
“You’re lying.”
“No. They were Rawson’s. He wanted me to try one.”
If Claire disliked Rawson before, she hated him now. But when Arthur did not add to the explanation, she knew he knew what she was trying to find out. So she didn’t hide it.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I was talking to you.”
“Too bad,” she laughed lightly. “I was wondering what a thousand-dollar-a-night woman would be like.” What a liar she was. Of course she did wonder, but the wonder didn’t come near the joy that he was speaking to her instead of going to bed with them. She felt glorious. She felt beautiful. She felt wanted.
They went out on the weekend, walking down through Greenwich Village, coming back not to his place but to hers again, and just hanging around and talking. She confessed she felt like a weak person at times, overwhelmed at times, and wanted to know honestly if Arthur found her a bit on the mousy side. She watched his eyes like a hawk.
“No. If anything, you’re a bit too tough. Analytical. You’ve got a mind like a computer.”
“So you think I’m without life?”
“No. I think you’re nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yeah. Very nice.”
“You wouldn’t give up a thousand-dollar-a-night prostitute for nice. Nice isn’t what people give up thousand-dollar-a-night people for,” said Claire. She wanted more. She was going to have to work on being more relaxed and casual. For five meetings it went on like this, sharing, playing, questioning, wondering when Arthur would make a move, wondering if she wanted him after all this time, wondering what it would be like, wondering if he was as sexual as he appeared, wondering if she had absolutely no sex appeal, wondering if she should meet him half-naked sometime, wondering if she should touch him between his legs and start things, wondering if he had some hidden problem, letting her active mind spin her beyond any reasonable course of action with so many variables. The problem was she didn’t know where she stood. There were no weights at all. No probables or improbables. No forests or trees, just lots of wood burying her.
And all the turmoil of questions ended with a very warm kiss one Monday night that went on a bit longer, snuggling in his arms on her couch in her living room.
What had she done? Where were they going? She did not know, but all she knew was that when he said, “Let’s go to your bedroom,” she said yes.
And they did not go right away, but kissed, and touched each other, with his hands caressing her so wonderfully everywhere, right on the couch, so that by the time they reluctantly left that place for the bed, she was wanting him without any question. Her useless mind was waiting somewhere inactive to collect the results.
Claire was delighted to find out he was gentle and caring and strong. The world did not shake, and neither did her body scream out with exotic uncontrollable passion, making her some sort of limp rag. She enjoyed it. She trusted him, and she enjoyed it very much, and she wanted to do it some more, and when they were lying in each other’s arms, she was happy. She wanted more of this and she wanted more of him.
Artie was astonished at the joy.
“Are you happy?” she asked.
Where is this going? he thought, with a sense of looming, severe entanglement.
“Are you happy?” she asked again.
“Sure,” he said.
“I’m very happy. I didn’t think I would be. But I am now,” she said.
“I am happy,” he said. And he meant it. And why not? What was there to be unhappy about, wondered Detective Modelstein, except someone who had his eyes burned out, and someone else who died while his skin was being stripped, and two others who got sure perfect stabs into the brain.
They went out for a midnight snack at a nearby delicatessen, and she asked him what he wanted for breakfast, and he told her rolls, and she ordered two, and he ordered four more with cream cheese, to go.
In the morning, Claire was the Claire Andrews he knew before they had gone to bed, but he should have expected that. She got a phone call at 6:00 A.M. from Great Britain, and she bounced out of bed, saying she would take the call at her work station. He knew she was excited because he heard her say, “Wonderful. No wonder we didn’t find it before. No wonder.”
Artie pulled the blankets over his head. He did not have to be awake for another hour so he did not listen. And even if he didn’t have to be up for another hour, he still might not have listened. He had made an accommodation with her research. She would do it, and he would stay out of it.
But Claire had taken this accommodation for support. She woke him at 6:07, when he had fifty-three more minutes to sleep. She had to share an important event with him. She was going to put something down on her map in black ink. Artie remembered that the line around the world from Jerusalem to England was in black ink. So it wasn’t one of the stones. It was the mystery thing, the abomination, or whatever she was talking about. He knew he couldn’t tell her how much more important sleep was to him at this moment, not when she was so excited.
He was in his undershorts and Claire wore a T-shirt with a giant print daisy through which he could see her wonderful body, and he put an arm around her waist as she leaned over the table to write on the map. She bounced into him coming back, grinning. Not even 7:00 A.M. and the bright blue eyes and yellow hair were bouncing. She was hugging him and grinning. So he had to look.
Just west of London, in block letters so big they extended into the English Channel, she had written:
TILBURY
“Dad’s cellar was called the Tilbury, and it was made in 1588 for Queen Elizabeth the First, celebrating her victory over the Armada, and you will never guess how I found this out. It’s wonderful, Arthur. It’s wonderful. It’s absolutely wo
nderful. I’ve given it an almost positive on my scale of reliability.”
“You want me to heat the rolls from last night?” asked Artie.
XX
For just as folly and error fled at His advent and truth stood revealed, even so has Our Lord Chosen you from among all knights to ride abroad through many lands to put an end to the hazards that afflict them and make their meaning and their causes plain.
—WALTER MAP
Queste del Saint Graal, 1225
“Arthur, it’s so exciting. I know what that black writer must have felt like when he found his ancestral home generations after slavery. Arthur, it’s so wonderful, it’s chilling it’s so exciting.”
Artie did not mention rolls again. He did not get dressed right away, but as was called for he listened while Claire explained. Her hands moved. She clacketed facts like a machine gun and then explained the facts. She was so excited he didn’t even dare ask if she wanted coffee while she talked. She had barred his way back to bed or into the kitchen with her enthusiasm that labeled any lack of interest a form of betrayal. Artie knew well the ground he stood on.
“I sent my drawings out to two researchers in England. I wanted to know about this saltcellar. I asked them to research through this picture, so they went looking through catalogues. Then, like I did here, they looked for saltcellars. They looked at books of saltcellars, histories of goldsmiths, and nothing. They said there was no evidence of any jeweled saltcellar. This is important because when you find out how I found out, you’ll laugh.”
Artie nodded. She filled a daisy T-shirt deliciously, not packed like a cannoli but with lots of tantalizing points and rounds. Artie would have to remember to ask a question when she was done. She was gorgeous in the morning.
“When you track things through history, you see the same thing referred to in different ways and different things referred to in the same way. It can be confusing, but it teaches you things. Like in the Bible, Jonah was swallowed by a great fish. Well, that certainly doesn’t explain what it is, although for centuries people thought they meant a whale. But it never said that. And now they think it’s a grouper because a whale doesn’t have that kind of gullet.”
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