The silence that cloaked the dignified old building was as palpable as a jackhammer to Joe D.’s alert ears. This time, he knew he wasn’t alone.
Arnot’s office door was closed but unlocked. Joe opened it, walked in, and half expected to see Arnot behind his big desk. Arnot wasn’t there, but Joe D. sensed a recent presence. It took a few moments for him to figure out why. There was a faint, barely perceptible aroma of woman’s perfume. And something else almost but not quite masking it. An acrid smell, metallic. The combination of the two odors was very unpleasant and inexplicably alarming.
Joe D. stood in the center of the room and turned slowly. He stopped when he was facing a door at the end of the office farthest from Arnot’s desk. In the three times he’d been in this office the door had never been open. He crossed the room and tried the door. It was locked. He left the office for the hallway opposite Estelle Ferguson’s desk, and tried to gauge the size of the space that lay behind the door. The hallway in which Estelle’s desk sat extended ten or eleven feet beyond Arnot’s office, unless the building suddenly narrowed, which Joe D. doubted. That meant that the door led to a space considerably larger than a closet. If the hidden room was as wide as Arnot’s office, it would be a bit too large for a private bathroom, but a good size for a private conference room. It was certainly worth taking a look at. Definitely worth it.
He returned to Arnot’s office and studied the lock for a moment. It appeared to be the original lock, located just below the door handle. Not in the same league as a Medeco, he thought with relief, but he still regretted returning the skeleton keys and picks to Carmine. He took an explorative lunge at the door, which proved surprisingly resistant. His right shoulder, on the other hand, proved rather tender. He massaged it for a bit, psyching himself for a second attempt. This time he felt the door give a bit. His shoulder gave too, and was now throbbing. He made the third attempt with his left shoulder. This one really killed him, but at least he’d learned something that would doubtless prove invaluable down the road: Righties should never attempt to break down a door with their left shoulders. Someday he’d ask an orthopedist for an explanation.
Joe D. took a breather and walked back into the hall just to make sure his siege hadn’t brought any visitors. Apparently not. He returned to the door and decided that the fourth attempt would be the last, but that he’d give it everything he had. He backed up an extra few steps, formed a mental image of that Cessna preparing to take off, and hurled himself at the door. Something snapped and, mercifully, it appeared not to be inside Joe D.’s body. A crack appeared along the seam of the door. Joe D. kicked violently at the keyhole, regretting that he’d worn sneakers that day. He kept on kicking until the chunk of wood that held the lock mechanism separated from the rest of the door. He took a breath, or tried to, and entered the sanctum sanctorum.
He knew immediately that he wasn’t alone. He also sensed right away that whatever menace the room held had been dissipated. He sensed this even before he saw the bodies: The room felt dead but not deadly.
The first body he spotted was male. It was slumped over a long mahogany conference table. A pool of blood had formed around the torso and was dripping onto the beige wall-to-wall carpet. Joe D. put his hand on the body’s back and felt a trace of warmth but no breathing; he hadn’t been dead very long.
Joe D. had handled a corpse before, so he should have expected some difficulty as he tried to flip it over. But he was still surprised at its weight. It had the supple heaviness of a commercial-sized bag of fertilizer. Now he understood the term dead weight. Trying his best not to splatter blood on him, Joe D. grabbed the polo shirt the corpse was wearing and tried to flip it. He succeeded only in half undressing it. Reluctantly, he wedged his hands under the body and heaved it over. The head, unfortunately, lolled against the table a moment after the body, making a thud that was set off a sympathetic shudder in Joe D.
He knew right away who it was. Not from the back of the shadowy limousine, but from the obituaries. The corpse was George Samson. Given that two weeks was an awfully long time for a corpse to remain warm, it looked like Samson had succeeded in faking his death after all. Succeeded once, that is, and then failed.
There appeared to be a single bullet hole right about where Samson’s heart was, but his chest was a mess, and there could well have been a second or even third hole nearby. There were some scratches and abrasions on Samson’s right forearm. Joe D. guessed that Samson might have been holding a gun that someone had forcibly taken from him. Joe D. also noticed a big chunk of plaster blown out of the wall behind the table—further evidence of a struggle that had sent at least one bullet flying in a random direction. The metallic odor was more intense in this smaller, windowless room, and Joe D. decided it must be from the gun that was used to kill Samson. He looked around, but the gun, not surprisingly, was nowhere to be found. There was much else of note, however. The room was cluttered with clothing, empty food containers, magazines, newspapers, glasses, plates, utensils. Samson had obviously been living here for some time.
There was a phone at the opposite end of the room. Joe D. was about to use it to call the police when something caught his eye. Amid the mess in one corner of the room was a woman’s pocketbook. He didn’t recognize it, but he easily guessed whose it was. He picked it up and removed the wallet. It was Estelle Ferguson’s.
Joe D. figured she couldn’t be far from her pocketbook, and he was right. There was a small closet at the end of the room. He hesitated before opening it. Inside, slumped against the wall in a sitting position, knees crammed up to her face, was Estelle Ferguson. The grayness of her pallor told him that she was dead. So did the faint but nasty odor that drifted up from her. He saw no sign of a bullet, but there appeared to be cuts around her neck. She’d apparently been strangled with a rope or belt. The look on her face, mouth agape, eyes wide open and crossed in horror—he’d read somewhere that you could always tell if a person had suffered before dying from the expression on the corpse’s face. Estelle had suffered. Joe D. doubted whether he’d ever forget the look on her lifeless face. In fact, he forced himself to stare at her for a moment or two to make sure of it. He felt responsible for Estelle’s murder, and knew that eventually he’d have to deal with this. Right now there were more urgent things to think about, but he wanted to be certain he’d remember what she’d been through. Her expression told him everything he needed to know.
He picked up the phone and started to dial when he heard someone enter Arnot’s office. He replaced the receiver and took the Beretta out from its chest harness. He crossed the conference room and positioned himself behind the battered open door, the gun pointing upwards next to his head. He heard the person cross Arnot’s office to the door. Then he saw the outline of someone through the gap between the door and the frame. The figure froze behind the door. Joe D. could hear it breathing. He held his own breath.
“Oh my god,” he heard. Before he could place the voice, the figure ran to the body of George Samson and froze before it. Stuart Arnot stood over the corpse of his lover, open hands framing the sides of his head, his face nearly as agonized as that of Estelle Ferguson. “Oh my god, no. Oh god.”
Thirty
Joe D. stepped out from behind the door, replacing the gun in its shoulder holster. Arnot didn’t seem to notice him. He continued to stare at the body of George Samson as if he expected it to return to life at any moment. Or perhaps he was trying to inure himself to the idea that Samson never would come to life. Joe D. figured these would be the last moments of privacy Arnot would have for a long, long time, so he didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Instead he watched the man, and compared the grief he was witnessing now with the false grief he’s seen earlier, in Arnot’s apartment, when he’d pretended to be mourning his lover. Watching the real thing, it was hard to believe he’d been fooled earlier.
Finally, Joe D. broke the silence. “Why don’t you tell me the whole story.”
Arnot turned to look at him. He se
emed not the least surprised to see Joe D. there; he was probably shockproof at this point.
“We came so close,” he said in a half whisper.
“Tomorrow morning you were supposed to be on your way to the Caymans.”
He looked at Joe D., surprised. “We never planned to harm anyone.”
“A man was killed in the back of the cab. Not to mention the driver. You stole money from the New York Art Alliance. You caused pain to Samson’s family…” Even as Joe D. said this he heard the falseness in it. So did Arnot, who grasped at this one bit of hypocrisy to avoid dealing with the real suffering he’d caused.
“Pain to his family?” Arnot wiped a fist of tears from his face. “That’s a laugh. His wife never cared about him. Neither did Joanna. No one cared about George except me. It was the tragedy of his life, really. He kept himself totally aloof from people because he had a secret side to him that he couldn’t share.”
“And the two people who were killed in the cab?”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Arnot said, his voice turning earnest. A survivor’s instinct was kicking in, pushing out grief. “He was supposed to disappear. When I heard about those two people…”
“At the board meeting that night, you had no idea what was going to happen?”
Arnot shook his head. “George knew I’d veto any plan that involved violence. He left at about nine that night and was back here a few hours later. He told me everything was taken care of, that he’d need to stay here until he could arrange for a plane. When I read in the paper about what happened, I was appalled. I asked George who the man was, the one that was killed in his place. He said it was some bum he’d dragged off the sidewalk. And that poor driver!”
“Why did Samson wait so long to leave the country?”
“We were going to leave last week. Then George found you nosing around in my office looking at bank receipts. He wanted to make sure everything was OK before leaving. If you had uncovered what we did, with the five million, George said he had an alternative plan.”
“What was that?”
“I don’t know exactly. I suppose Mona would have gotten us some more money somehow.”
Joe D. didn’t know whether or not to buy Arnot’s innocent bystander role. He’d leave that to the police. “Mona had to identify the body, so she obviously knew George wasn’t dead.”
“She was in it all along. She wanted George out of the way as much as he wanted to be out of the way.”
“And Estelle Ferguson?”
Arnot glanced over at the open closet, closed his eyes, and took a deep, unsteady breath. “I feel terrible about that. Do you have any idea what it was like working in this office all day, knowing that my secretary…”
Joe D. couldn’t muster much sympathy for Arnot. “What happened to her?”
“She came in early today. George heard her searching my office, and then he heard her call you and leave a message. When she left her desk for the ladies’ room he found a note on her desk with some information he’d written on it about the plane charter. I suppose George must have left it lying around. She must have found it yesterday evening and come in early today to see what else she could find. George strangled her with his belt. Poor Estelle!”
He sat down heavily and began to sob. It must be tough to discover that your lover is a cold-blooded murderer. It’s bad enough to fake your own death. But to kill three people in the process puts you in a whole new league. Maybe Arnot was having second thoughts about his lover. Maybe he wasn’t as innocent as he professed—at the very least he had defrauded the New York Art Alliance.
“When you got to the Caymans, you were planning to take the money you’d stolen and…”
“We never stole anything. That was George’s money. We used the Alliance to, I don’t know, process it…”
“The technical term is launder.”
“You know what I mean. If George had simply sent the money to the Caymans, the IRS might have questioned it. By donating it to the Art Alliance he made sure that no one noticed.”
“There was an added bonus: Samson got a tax deduction.” Joe D. had to smile, but Arnot didn’t see the humor. He looked as if he were about to defend his late lover, then thought better of it.
“You know, one thing’s been bothering me. Five million dollars doesn’t seem like a lot of money to live on for the rest of your lives. Not compared to what Samson was used to.”
Arnot nodded. “Money was never George’s thing, except that he knew it was the yardstick by which others measured him. Mona was the one who liked money, and what it bought. George and I could have lived very comfortably on the interest from five million…” He broke off here, his voice faltering. “There were some liquid assets too,” he added, regaining his composure. “Some jewelry, a few rare coins. They’re at my apartment. I was to bring them along tomorrow.” Arnot glanced almost wistfully at Samson’s body, and then back at Joe D. “Did you kill him?”
“He was dead when I got here. Newly dead. Any idea who could have done it?”
Arnot looked almost lovingly at the body and shook his head, as if wondering who would want to harm such an angel.
“Who else knew he was living here?”
Arnot shrugged. Then his face turned suddenly nasty. “Mona,” he spat. “Other than me, she’s the only one.”
“But why would she bother killing him when he was already dead?” The absurdity of this statement was lost on neither of them.
“You’ll have to ask her that.”
“Why did you come here tonight?”
“Visiting. I made a point of leaving the office at the usual time, to avoid suspicion. Then I’d return with some food and George and I would spend a few hours…”
He fell into a funk, and Joe D. left him to wallow there while he called Dinofrio at his home number. Dinofrio said he’d call the appropriate precinct. Joe D. left Arnot with the corpses and headed for the front door. He didn’t think Arnot would run—where could he go, now?—and he didn’t want to be around when the cops arrived, though he knew he’d have to answer questions eventually.
On the sidewalk he flagged a cab, and gave the driver Mona Samson’s address.
Thirty-One
Joe D. didn’t recognize the doorman on duty that night. He paced the building’s outer vestibule while he was announced upstairs. It was past 11:00 when he was finally admitted to the Samson apartment by Mona herself. She was wearing a floor-length cream-colored satin robe. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a small knot behind her head, making her look as fierce and alarmed as a raccoon caught in headlights.
“I assume you have a good reason for disturbing me at this hour?”
Joe D. told her he hoped so. She stood in the large entrance gallery with her arms crossed against her fleshless chest. The marble shimmered like melting ice. The chandelier overhead was turned to a very dim setting, and what little light it gave off was absorbed by the lustrous, blue-black lacquered walls. Against this backdrop, in her flowing robe, the stationary Mona Samson resembled a Greek statue. A very narrow statue. She seemed disinclined to let him any further into the apartment. Joe D. wondered if she were alone.
“Your husband’s been murdered,” Joe D. began.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said in her cool, ageographical accent.
“He was killed tonight. As I think you already know.”
He saw a tremble form around her eyes. “You must be out of your mind.”
“You knew your husband was alive—until tonight—because you identified the body. It wasn’t his. I know that because I saw his body tonight. At the New York Art Alliance building, where he’s been living since last week.”
She said nothing at first, undoubtedly gauging what the proper response should be. Finally she spoke, in a faltering voice that betrayed an atavistic lilt. “The body I identified was my husband’s.”
“I’m telling you it wasn’t.”
“I think I’d recognize the man
I’ve been married to for twenty-five years.”
“From what I hear, you weren’t exactly on intimate terms.”
“Intimate enough to identify his corpse, I should guess.” The affectless voice had returned. “Although I must say he was pretty beat up.”
“We’ll see about that. You’ll probably have some more identifying to do in the morning. Too bad your husband’s relatives wouldn’t let you cremate him.”
She glanced at the floor. Joe D. noticed ripples in the cream satin; she was breathing hard.
“Where were you earlier this evening?”
“Here.”
“All night?”
“And most of the afternoon as well.”
“You may have to prove this to the police.”
“I have proof.”
“In what form.”
“Servants.”
“You could slip out of this place with the silverware and no one would notice.”
“I was with someone else, then.”
“Who?” Although he already knew the answer.
“Mr. Williams was here all evening, if you must know. He’s here now, in fact. Do you need to talk to him?”
What Joe D. needed to do was figure out who had killed Samson if Mona was in fact at home all evening. “Sure,” he answered, figuring he had nothing to lose.
Mona left him through one of several doors leading off the gallery. A few minutes later she reappeared with Kendall Williams. He had on a tartan bathrobe that looked a few inches too short on him. Joe D. wondered if it had belonged to Samson. His hair was perfectly groomed, but his expression betrayed some anxiety.
“You wanted to see me,” he said.
“I need to know where you and Mona were all evening.”
“Together, in this apartment.”
“As I explained to him,” Mona chimed in.
Joe D. looked at them, standing next to each other in their robes. He wondered if Mona realized that she aged five or ten years with her lover by her side. She probably figured Williams had the opposite effect on her appearance. Or was it the reverse: Williams looked younger in her company? They were an unappealing couple in any case, like two inoffensive pieces of furniture that clashed when combined.
Vanishing Act Page 18
