Vanishing Act

by Seth Margolis

  Joe D. assured her he was not hungry.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “I could easily have Bernadette make you something.”

  “No, really, I’m fine.”

  Selma sighed, as if Joe D. were being difficult. She was a woman of indomitable will and great resourcefulness who nevertheless felt that she wasn’t quite up to the life she was living.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Alison suggested.

  Joe D. seconded the idea. Selma seemed about to demur, but Alison and Joe D. were already on their feet. She retrieved her cardigan from a closet in the front hallway, and they left the house through the garage.

  On the train back to the city Joe D. told Alison about his call to Arnot.

  “If it wasn’t Arnot, who was it?” she asked.

  “That’s what I can’t figure. But I do know that Samson’s murder is connected to the New York Art Alliance. That’s where he was coming from the night he was killed. What I don’t know is what that connection is.”

  “Maybe Samson found out that Arnot was stealing money and Arnot had to kill him.”

  “But don’t forget that Samson asked me to fake his murder just the day before. Why would he do that if he had information about a major fraud?”

  The train sped through the dreary landscape of the South Bronx before racing through Harlem and plunging into the long tunnel under Park Avenue. The darkness surrounding them seemed to mirror their own thoughts, and they were quiet while the train sped south to Grand Central.

  Twenty

  “Mr. DiGregorio? This is Mike Moran. From Mrs. Samson’s building?” Moran was attempting to whisper, but his gruff voice was ill-suited to the task.

  “I remember who you are.” Joe D. had only just gotten dressed. It was 8:30 Monday morning.

  “Our Mr. Williams? He’s up there.”

  “With Mona Samson?”

  “That’s right. I come on at eight this morning, but the night man, he tipped me off that Williams and Mrs. S. came in together last night from the country. He never left.”

  A beep intruded on the line. Call waiting, a telephone feature which, like the answering machine, Joe D. always considered a mixed blessing. “Hold on, Mr. Moran.” He depressed the switch hook and said “Hello.”

  “It’s Estelle Ferguson.”

  Joe D. blinked as he momentarily shifted focus. “Estelle. Can I call you back?”

  “I’m at a pay phone, on my way to the office.”

  “Hold on then.” Joe D. switched back to Moran. “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes,” he told him. “I’ll sit on a bench across from the building. When Williams leaves, take your hat off and fan yourself, okay?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Joe D. switched to Estelle Ferguson. “I’m back.”

  “I just wanted to know how it went on Saturday.”

  Joe D. debated how much to tell her. “Did you mention to anyone else about our meeting?”

  “Nobody. Why?”

  “Because someone else was in the building on Saturday. Whoever it was knocked me out and took the bank records.”

  “Mr. Arnot…”

  “He was in Connecticut all weekend.”

  “Oh my god,” she said hoarsely.

  “You’re sure no one else knew I’d be in the building?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay. Your best bet is to act as if nothing unusual has happened. Just go about your job as always. If Stuart Arnot asks about the missing statements, which I don’t think he will, say you know nothing about them, got it?”

  “I hope I can act normally. I’m scared to death.”

  “I don’t think you’re in any danger. Whoever knocked me out didn’t kill me. And you never saw those bank statements.”

  “Never.”

  “Then you’re safe. Listen, does Arnot have a girlfriend?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “I have a feeling he may be planning to leave the country, and I doubt he’s leaving alone. Those checks to the Caribbean League were deposited in a bank in the Cayman Islands.”

  “I usually make his travel arrangements.”

  “I don’t think he’d have you book this flight. Has he mentioned a vacation or anything?”

  “He usually spends his free time in the country. In fact, he’s looking for a bigger place.”

  “In Connecticut?”

  “That’s right. He sold his current place and is looking for something larger in the same area.”

  “He sold the house he’s in?”

  “The closing is this afternoon, here in New York.”

  “Funny. Usually you buy a place first, then try to sell the one you’re already in.”

  “Mr. Arnot said he got an offer for his house he couldn’t refuse. A neighbor wanted to expand, something like that. So he sold it.”

  “How about the apartment in the city?”

  “It’s a rental.”

  Joe D.’s hunch that Arnot was leaving the country was looking solid. “Will you let me know if Arnot does anything that makes you think he’s taking a trip?”

  “Do you really think he’s leaving?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll call you, then.”

  “Good. And unless you need it, I’ll keep the key to the Alliance building.”

  Joe D. stationed himself on a bench across Fifth Avenue from Mona Samson’s building. The bench was low and concrete and, though it was a warm morning, it sent damp, cold waves up through his spine. It stood in front on a high stone wall that formed a barrier between Central Park and the sidewalk along Fifth. Mike Moran spotted him after a few minutes and nodded. Joe D. had brought along a paper, but kept it on his lap, afraid that he’d miss Williams.

  An hour later, at 10:15, there was still no sign of Williams. Someone like Mona Samson probably slept till noon, Joe D. was thinking. Breakfast in bed, a long bath. Would Williams stay with her all morning?

  It was an overcast day, and it was slowly beginning to deteriorate. Rain was a good possibility. Joe D. occupied the next few minutes worrying about this. He didn’t fear getting wet so much as he worried that he’d look obvious sitting on a bench in the pouring rain, staring at an apartment building. Even the most deranged homeless took shelter in a storm.

  People trickled out of the building all morning. Most of them were well-dressed women who got into waiting cars or had Moran hail them a cab. There were a few nannies pushing strollers. One or two men. Each time a man left, Joe D.’s heart began to race. Moran would look at him, as if guessing what he was going through, but he never removed his cap.

  Finally, at about 11:30, a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties appeared. He stepped under the canopy and poked a hand, palm up, out from under it. Satisfied that it wasn’t yet raining, he turned left and headed south. Joe D. stared at Moran as if willing his cap to lift from his head. Moran waited a moment; then he did in fact remove the hat, fanning himself as if overheated.

  Joe D. jumped to his feet and headed downtown on the opposite side of Fifth Avenue from Williams. He trotted for a few minutes to catch up with Williams, then slowed to match his gait. At Seventy-second Williams turned left, heading east. Joe D. crossed Fifth and followed him to Madison, keeping a ten-yard distance. At Madison Williams turned right, and walked downtown for a few blocks. Just north of Sixty-ninth Street he entered a shop.

  Joe D. walked past the shop. He managed to glance in the window and saw that it was an antiques store. He crossed the street, planning to watch the store from the other side of Madison. Then he noticed the name above the window. Kendall Williams, Fine Antiques. It looked like Williams was the owner, not a browser.

  Joe D. recrossed Madison and entered the store. It was small and crowded and suffused with the pungent odor of furniture polish and money. Williams’s taste ran to the ornate. Many of the pieces were gilded, and there were a lot of oversized mirrors and flamboyant chandeliers. A narrow path ran through this clutt
er. Joe D. tried to check the prices on a few pieces, but couldn’t find any. There might as well have been a sign in front: “If you have to ask…”

  At the back of the shop was the one piece of furniture that appeared to be in use. It was a small, intricately decorated antique desk of blond wood inlaid with a darker pattern. Behind it sat an elderly woman of slightly newer vintage. She looked to be about sixty or seventy, with a pouf of gray-blue hair girding a pleasant, pink face.

  “May I help you?” she said in a tone as skeptical as it was gracious.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Williams.”

  “You’re in luck. He’s just arrived. May I tell him who’s asking for him?”

  Joe D. handed her a card. She took it, studied it, glanced quizzically at Joe D., and then rose and knocked on a highly polished wood door behind the desk. She opened the door, slipped in, and closed the door behind her. A moment later she reappeared and told Joe D. he could go in.

  Williams’s office was tiny and windowless. But it was stuffed with what must have been a king’s ransom of antiques. In fact, it was crowded with so much gilded furniture and bric-a-brac it reminded Joe D. of a photo he’d once seen of King Tut’s tomb when it was discovered. The tomb had been crammed floor-to-ceiling with treasures in a frenzy of greed, just before it was sealed for what was hoped to be eternity, but turned out to be just a few thousand years. Williams’s office had a similarly frantic aura to it, as if he were drawing about him as much loot as he could to ensure himself a kind of immortality.

  “I’m Kendall Williams. Can I help you with something?” he said.

  Williams hadn’t gotten up when Joe D. entered his office, but Joe D. knew from following him that he was on the tall side. He was quite handsome, albeit in that over-processed way that Joe D. couldn’t stand. His hair was impeccably cut and had obviously been painstakingly blow-dried that morning. He was tan, but it was a seamless, neon tan from a bottle. He was wearing a navy double-breasted blazer, a muted red tie, and gray trousers. His supple, highly polished loafers, visible under the antique table Williams used as a desk, looked as if they’d been fashioned from embryos.

  Joe D. sat on a delicate, ebony-colored upholstered chair. He let his weight settle onto it gradually, afraid that it might collapse. “I’ve been looking into the George Samson murder.”

  Williams’s determination not to respond in any visible way to this was as obvious as if he’d jumped to his feet and proclaimed his innocence. His face froze, his breathing slowed, his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Mona Samson.”

  “What makes you think I have a relationship with Mrs. Samson?”

  The truth might get Moran into trouble. “You can’t keep anything a secret these days,” he said blandly.

  A long, slow release of breath, then: “I suppose not. But wasn’t Samson murdered at random?”

  “The police think so. I’ve been hired by Seymour Franklin to make sure.” He was about to explain who Franklin was when Williams sniffed, “Franklin’s been fired.”

  “But I haven’t. Maybe you can tell me what you were doing the night Samson was killed.”

  “I was home.”

  “Alone?”

  “That’s right. Do I need an alibi?” Williams made alibi sound like something a child needs to be excused from school.

  “So you don’t have one.”

  “I was home alone. Sorry.”

  “How long have you been seeing Mona Samson?”

  He hesitated, as if deciding whether to reply. “About three years. There was a charity auction. We had an instant rapport. Mona has a very refined taste in antiquities. I wish I could say the same of her late husband.”

  Joe D. guessed her refined taste hadn’t come from Mississippi, and was tempted to ask if she’d acquired it along with her lockjaw accent. “Did Samson know about the two of you?”

  “If he did, he never said anything.”

  “Now that he’s gone…”

  “Will we be getting married?” Williams interrupted, a clear note of sarcasm evident. “Possibly. I haven’t proposed.” He said this with a lift of his chin.

  “Has Mona?”

  “Proposed? She’s only been widowed for a week. Give the woman a chance.”

  Joe D. was trying to picture Williams and Mona Samson in a sexual relationship. It was a picture that wouldn’t develop. Through dieting and surgery, Mona Samson had shorn herself of any overt tokens of feminity—breasts, curves, soft edges. Williams was her male counterpart. There was nothing feminine about him, but nothing really masculine either. He was like the furniture with which he surrounded himself: Gilded, polished, but essentially untouchable.

  “Is Mrs. Samson a customer of yours?”

  “Does she support me? No. Does she buy an occasional objet? Yes. We’ve gone on buying trips to Paris and London together as well. She’s got a lot of square footage to furnish, and I’ve acted as her informal consultant.”

  “Are you paid for these services?” Joe D. hadn’t meant to pluralize the word. Williams flushed.

  “She covered our expenses on these trips. Nothing more,” he said icily.

  “Did George Samson know about the trips?”

  “Of course. He had to approve the expenditures, after all. French furniture was very expensive in the eighties. Today,” he sighed, “today, it’s another story.”

  “I guess it’s all relative,” Joe D. commiserated. “How long have you had the store?”

  “Nearly three years.”

  “So you opened not long after meeting Mona Samson.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did she help you out financially?”

  “That’s really no concern of yours.”

  “I’m just trying to get a picture of the people surrounding George Samson. He was a very rich man, and I’d like to know how many people were dependent on him, that’s all.”

  Williams pounded a fist on the table, which Joe D. half expected to buckle under the impact. “I was never dependent on George Samson!”

  “But on Mona?”

  “Her either. True, she did lend me a bit of money to set up shop. You need an inventory to get started, two months’ rent in advance, and on Madison Avenue that can be a fortune in its own right.”

  “Have you repaid her?”

  He waited before answering. “Not yet.”

  Joe D. couldn’t think of anything else to ask Williams, and the office was beginning to feel stifling. He stood and thanked him.

  “If you ask me, the person you ought to be talking to is Joanna Freeling. Samson’s niece. She’s the one with the most to gain with him gone.”

  “That seems to be the general sentiment. Do you know her?”

  “I’ve met her at a few parties. I’m sure she had no idea I was…well, who I am.”

  “You seem to dislike her quite a bit, considering how little you know her.”

  “She’s a no-talent hypocrite,” he said, displaying more emotion than at any time before. “She’s the one with the real motive for killing Samson. Mona already had everything she needed. Why bother to kill Samson, when the real beneficiary would be that tart?”

  A good question, and one that had occurred to Joe D. as well. As for answers, well, with Samson out of the way Williams was free to marry Mona. Even the income from her portion of the estate would pay for an awful lot of antiques.

  Twenty-One

  It was time to stir up trouble. Joe D. reached this conclusion after returning, wet and cold, from his meeting with Williams. It had begun to rain while he was in the shop, a bone-numbing April storm that made New York, a city of pedestrians, almost uninhabitable. The light on his answering machine was steady as a lighthouse beacon, and he realized, after a warm shower, that he had no right to be disappointed. Who, after all, would be calling? Samson’s murderer, to confess? No, the main players in this case were hunkering down, quite comfortably. Each ha
d gained considerably from Samson’s demise, whether or not it was a random hijacking. Mona was still filthy rich, and could begin to come out of the closet with her lover. Joanna Freeling was richer than ever, though perhaps a bit lonely at the moment. Howard Lessing, aka Arthur Rudolph, Jr., had the satisfaction of seeing his father’s nemesis undone. And Stuart Arnot had five million stashed in a Caribbean bank, without the annoyance of having his organization’s largest benefactor snooping around.

  No, everyone seemed to be quite satisfied with the status quo, which is why Joe D. felt he had to stir things up.

  He decided to start with Mona Samson.

  Mike Moran was on duty when Joe D. returned to the Samson building at about 4:30. The clouds had retreated across the East River to Long Island, leaving Manhattan temporarily bright, with an all too rare rinsed-clean scent in the air that would doubtless vanish any moment.

  Moran greeted him with a resolutely unforthcoming expression. “Mrs. Samson,” Joe D. said.

  “And whom may I ask is calling?” he asked without irony.

  “Joseph DiGregorio.”

  Moran called up on the house phone, and then pointed Joe D. to the elevator without so much as a wink of recognition.

  Like the first time they’d met, Mona Samson was in the library when Serena showed Joe D. in. He looked around and doubted if many of the books had been disturbed since his last visit. Nor had Mrs. Samson put on much weight during the past week; she still didn’t make a dent in the plump couch on which she perched, without leaning back, like a marionette suspended from above by strings. She motioned for Joe D. to sit in a wing chair across from her.

  “Still trying to make something out of my husband’s murder, are you, Mr. DiGregorio?” She said his name through clenched teeth, as if pronouncing it physically pained her.

  “I guess you already know I visited Kendall Williams?”

  “He called about it.”

  “The fact that you have a lover puts a new slant on things.”

  “Does it? George had lovers too.”

  “Then you had a double reason to want him dead.” Oooh, Joe D. was feeling real aggressive. Mona Samson, however, seemed impervious.