Vanishing Act

by Seth Margolis

  Her voice was shaking, and she gripped the end of the bar as if letting go would mean being hurled into a tornado. Joe D. guessed she was near tears. “Let me look into it,” he said quietly. “You’ll feel safer once you know all the facts.”

  “I know it must seem silly to you,” she continued, despite Joe D.’s attempt to steer her back toward practicalities. “Making grants to some of the organizations we support. There was even a bit of a scandal once. Some editorial writer at the Wall Street Journal got hold of the fact that we’d given money to a photographer who was going to document the life of a transsexual—you know, before and after.” She smiled uncomfortably, raised the empty glass to her pale lips, and took a sip of air. “Of course, the Journal saw this as a waste of money, and we received a lot of calls from donors, but in the end the show ran at museums all over the country and received favorable notices. I never saw the show myself, but I understand it was quite…”

  “Help me get into the Alliance building,” Joe D. cut in.

  She seemed almost shocked by his interruption, and waited a few moments before nodding. She took a pen and small pad of paper from her pocketbook and wrote down a six-digit number. “Here’s the access code.” She fished through her pocketbook and handed him a key. It was attached to a round tag with “NYAL” written on it. “It’s an extra key. I have another one. Just return it to me next week sometime. Your best bet is this weekend, at night. Weeknights, the cleaning service is there. Weekends, the place is deserted. There’s only one locked cabinet in Mr. Arnot’s office.”

  She looked like she could faint from anxiety. Her delicate skin was now drained of color, and her knuckles paled from the effort of squeezing the empty glass; Joe D. worried that she’d shatter it. “Let me buy you another drink,” he offered.

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I have to go. I have an…” She looked momentarily overwhelmed by her inability to find an excuse. “I have to go, that’s all.”

  She put down her glass on the nearest ledge and started for the door. A few feet away she turned, walked back to him. “If you’re caught…”

  “We never met,” Joe D. obliged. She smiled weakly, turned, and hurried from the bar.

  Thirteen

  Alison didn’t so much enter their apartment that evening as burst in. Just from her expression, Joe D. could tell that the cold war between them had thawed.

  “You won’t believe it,” she said, and threw down a thick envelope of paperwork she inevitably brought home from Many Fetes.

  “Try me,” Joe D. offered. He figured she had finally sold the outrageously overpriced, hideously vulgar sequin-and-lace concoction he had nicknamed the “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” dress. Alison’s profit on the outfit, if she ever managed to find a buyer, could pay their mortgage for three months.

  “I had lunch with Sharon Epstein today…”

  The name rang no bells, though he could tell from Alison’s face that it should.

  “I knew her from Bloomingdale’s. We had dinner with Sharon and her husband, Peter, last fall. He was with Salomon Brothers until the crash. Now they both run a personal trainer referral service.”

  Joe D. dimly remembered them, an attractive couple who had spent the entire evening lamenting the deterioration in the value of their cop-op off Second Avenue. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I mentioned to Sharon about your investigating the Samson murder…”

  “I’m not sure that was a good idea.”

  “I couldn’t help it. For years Sharon used to brag about Peter. Now it’s my turn.”

  So I’m on a par with half a million-dollar-a-year investment bankers, Joe D. thought. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or mortified.

  “Anyway, Sharon told me this incredible story. About George Samson. It seems that ten years ago, Samson bought out a rival chain; Rudolph’s, they were pretty big once, though not in Samson Stores’ league. Sharon knew some of the buyers there. Anyway, no sooner did Samson buy the company than he fired the top managers and installed his own people. The founder of Rudolph’s, Arthur Rudolph, went nuts. He spent the next five years trying to take over Samson Stores.”

  “I thought Samson owned most of the stock.”

  “He does. Did. That’s why it was so futile for Rudolph to try and take them over. He spent millions on Samson stock, and millions more in fees to investment bankers. Apparently, he tried to convince large shareholders like pension funds to join him. But they were content with Samson’s management and refused. Once his takeover bid failed, the stock started to slide. Since he’d borrowed to buy some of it, his lenders started squeezing him. He sold at a loss, and when the whole thing was over he was practically broke.”

  “Where’s Rudolph now?”

  “Sharon heard he went nuts. He’s in a nursing home somewhere.”

  “Sounds like someone I ought to talk to.”

  “You think so?”

  “He obviously hated Samson.”

  “God, this is exciting.”

  Joe D. had to laugh. “Maybe we should be partners.”

  “Rosen and DiGregorio. Has a nice ecumenical ring to it.”

  “DiGregorio and Rosen has an even nicer ring.”

  Alison turned serious. “About last night…”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  They looked at each other for a few moments, then smiled guiltily. Many of their arguments ended this way, with both apologizing. Sometimes this struck Joe D. as incredibly civilized. But tonight it seemed they were taking the coward’s way out, both of them eager to assume responsibility to avoid facing the real issues.

  “Let’s go out to dinner and celebrate this new breakthrough,” Alison suggested. “I have an urge for something spicy, maybe Thai.”

  “I have an urge for something spicy too,” he said, and pulled her to him. They held each other for a while, reestablishing their intimacy.

  “You won’t leave me, Joe D.,” she said over his shoulder, half questioning, half commanding.

  “You know I won’t.”

  She pulled away and looked at him, unsure but anxious to be convinced. Then she headed for the bedroom. Joe D. followed.

  Fourteen

  Joe D. called Seymour Franklin at his home Saturday morning. “What do you know about Arthur Rudolph?”

  “Ah,” Franklin said, stretching out the word. “So you’ve stumbled upon poor Arthur.”

  “I haven’t actually talked to him. But I understand he wasn’t overly fond of George Samson.”

  “Hated his guts, actually. Samson fired Arthur after buying out his company. Then Arthur went broke trying to buy out Samson. A sad story, really. At one time Arthur was worth forty million.”

  The numbers that were battered around in this case were mind-boggling, Joe D. thought. “Where is Rudolph now?”

  “In la-la land, I should think. He lost his mind when he lost his money.” Franklin said this matter-of-factly, as if insanity, liked bounced checks, was an unavoidable consequence of insolvency.

  “He’s in a nursing home, I hear.”

  “That’s right. It’s up in Westchester. Tranquility Village, it’s called. Samson Stores pays the bills. George Samson said it was the least he could do. But he must have known that it would drive Arthur crazy—or crazier—to know that his enemy was paying his way.”

  “I think I’ll drive up there today.”

  “Arthur’s harmless. You’re wasting your time.”

  And my money, Joe D. half expected him to add, but he didn’t. Apparently three hundred dollars a day was just too insignificant to worry about. Franklin and his peers were the types who talked about two million and change, where the “change” was worth maybe three times Joe D.’s annual salary, back when he had a salary. “I have to follow up every lead. If Rudolph hated Samson, he’s worth talking to.”

  “Suit yourself. Though I still think Mona Samson’s your best bet.”

  “Did you know that Mona was having an af
fair?”

  “Was she? Hard to imagine, don’t you agree?”

  “Does the name Williams ring any bells?”

  “Other than Andy and Ted? None.”

  “Somehow I don’t picture her having an affair with Andy Williams.”

  “No, nor Ted for that matter.”

  Joe D. rented a Ford Escort Saturday morning, and drove up to Tranquility Village in northern Westchester. Alison had insisted that he sell his Trans Am before moving to the city. She said that garages were just too expensive in the city, which was true enough. But Joe D. knew she felt about the car the way she’d feel about an old girlfriend who wouldn’t disappear. It was a symbol of his past life, his life as a cop in Waterside, New York; a sleek, black, eight-cylinder gas-guzzler that had “blue-collar” written all over it, though it had cost Joe D. a bundle. He had hated selling the Trans Am. As he watched the buyer drive away in it, five thousand dollars in cash in his pocket, he felt his past life receding at a dizzying pace. Now, as he headed north on the Hutchinson Parkway, the Escort shimmied and shuddered whenever he pushed it past sixty, so he moved to the right lane and kept to within the speed limit, and thought wistfully of his old car.

  At first glance, Tranquility Village looked appropriately named. Joe D. drove through two brick columns and down a long, winding driveway lined with elms and carefully tended flower beds. The main building was a brick mansion fronted by four two-story white columns. It had probably been a private estate once. The day was warm and sunny. Old people and nurses made their way around the grounds; they walked so sluggishly, it was as if the place had been sprayed with a slow-motion drug. Joe D. slowed the car to a crawl for the last fifty yards. He pulled up to the front of the mansion, where a small visitors’ lot had been carved out of the lawn. When he closed the car door, a dozen heads turned slowly in his direction.

  By the time he reached the front door, Joe D. decided the place was anything but tranquil. It was sterile, stultifying, unnerving—and he hadn’t even been inside yet.

  The front hallway had obviously been quite elegant at one time, with a marble floor and niches on either side where statues once rested. Now the niches were empty, and a Formica desk sat squarely in the center of the space, looking resolutely inappropriate. Behind it sat a young woman in a nurse’s aide uniform. She smiled at Joe D. as he approached the desk. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  This place must cost a mint, he thought, cordiality in nursing homes being more expensive than prescription medicine. “I’m here to visit Arthur Rudolph.”

  Some of the cordiality began to crumble. “Excuse me?”

  “Arthur Rudolph. I’d like to see him.”

  “One moment.” She picked up the phone and pressed two numbers. “There’s a gentleman here to see Arthur Rudolph,” she whispered into the phone. The way she said his name, it was as if Joe D. had asked to see Santa Claus. A moment later she hung up and said that the weekend manager would be out in a minute.

  “I don’t understand. Is there a problem?”

  “Mrs. Hodgson will help you,” she said crisply. It was obvious that something was very wrong.

  “Is Arthur Rudolph dead?”

  “You’ll have to ask Mrs. Hodgson.”

  The all-knowing Mrs. Hodgson arrived a minute later. She was tall and thin and looked about sixty. She wore a white silk blouse with a silver pin between the collars and a long gray skirt. Her hair was also gray, pulled back tightly from her forehead into a small, hard bun. “I’m Grace Hodgson. You are…”

  “Joe DiGregorio. I’m a private investigator looking into…”

  “Ah, of course. Please follow me.”

  She led him down a short hallway into her office, which looked like it had probably been the library of the mansion. Most of the bookshelves were empty, however, except for piles of manila folders and stacks of trade magazines. The desk and file cabinets were metal, the visitors’ chairs of the institutional variety. No attempt had been made to blend the present with the past. Instead, the present had been simply applied to the past with a willful disregard for aesthetics, the way ancient civilizations piled their new buildings on top of the rubble of earlier cities. Like the entranceway, Grace Hodgson’s office had a temporary feel about it, as if it had been set up only yesterday and would be dismantled any minute to make way for the next inhabitant.

  She motioned Joe D. toward a chair and sat on a matching chair a few feet away, facing him. “I was wondering when the Rudolph family would take up their own investigation,” she began. “Of course, Mr. Rudolph’s son was here the day after we called him, but since then we’ve heard nothing. We notified the local police, but they were less than helpful, I’m afraid.”

  Joe D. decided to back up and start with preliminaries. “Mrs. Hodgson, I’m not working for the Rudolphs.”

  She looked shocked. “You’re not?”

  He explained about George Samson’s death, and briefly told her about the relationship between Samson and Rudolph.

  “I know all about their relationship,” she said. “Samson Stores paid all the bills.”

  “Did Rudolph know that?”

  “I’m not sure he was aware of very much. He was only in his sixties, but his mind was quite gone.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “That’s just it, we don’t know. He disappeared Wednesday morning.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “It was a lovely day, much like today. He was sitting out on the lawn, enjoying the sun. When we called everyone back in for lunch, he was gone!”

  “Was he in good enough shape to walk out on his own?”

  “Possibly. But we’re quite isolated here, as you can see. Even if he made it to our front gate, what would he have done then? There are no bus stops nearby.”

  “Could someone have picked him up?”

  Mrs. Hodgson waited before answering. “Our residents are not permitted to leave the premises without signing out. And they must be accompanied by a family member or other authorized individual.”

  “But if someone just drove up and told him to get in the car…”

  “Our staff-to-resident ratio is among the best in the industry,” she said officiously. “Still, for those patients who are not prone to wander, and who can get about on their own, we do allow a certain degree of freedom.”

  “Meaning, no one was watching Rudolph Wednesday morning.”

  “He didn’t require one-to-one monitoring.”

  “Do you have many visitors here during the week?”

  “A few. There are also deliveries.”

  “So a car pulling up Wednesday morning wouldn’t have attracted much attention.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Did Rudolph have many visitors while he was here?”

  “His son came every few weeks. No one else.”

  “Has his son heard from him since his disappearance?”

  She shook her head. “We haven’t heard from his son since we first notified him of his father’s disappearance. But he did say he’d call if his father was found. I assume he’d be returned here.”

  “Did Rudolph seem at all different in the days before his disappearance?”

  “I asked the staff that very question. They hadn’t noticed anything unusual in his behavior. He was very quiet, mind you. Kept to himself. He muttered a lot, of course.”

  “Did he seem angry?”

  She thought about this. “I would say that he was not a man at peace with the world. His muttering had a quality of paranoia to it.”

  “Paranoia?”

  “Oh, you know, he’d glance around him like a frightened bird, then grumble about someone out to get him, about being a victim. We never took him very seriously. He was completely deluded. But, then, things have been rather difficult for the poor man.”

  “Difficult?”

  “Well…” She appeared to consider her words carefully here. “Let’s just say that downward mobility may be one of life’s most difficult burden
s.”

  Joe D. could think of a few tougher afflictions: Illness and death came to mind. But Grace Hodgson seemed to have a story to tell him and he wasn’t about to stifle her. “He lost all his money, apparently.”

  She nodded, a grave expression on her face. “You know, of course, that he’s one of the Rudolphs.”

  “Which Rudolphs would those be?”

  She smiled indulgently at him, as if he’d admitted to not knowing the occupant of Grant’s Tomb. “Arthur Rudolph was the great-grandson of Adolph Rudolph.” A pause, in which Joe D. failed to shriek with recognition. “Adolph Rudolph came to this country from Germany during the last century. He established the first Rudolph’s Shop on lower Fifth Avenue. His son expanded the store, and his son opened several others in suburban locations. But it was Arthur—our patient,” she added smugly, “who really transformed them into a major national chain. He opened Rudolph’s Shops all over the country. I don’t know how many there were before they were bought out. There were several right here in Westchester. They always carried such nice clothing too. Nothing too stylish, mind you, just good classic designs.” Her voice had turned wistful. “Then Mr. Rudolph sold out to Samson Stores.”