A few days later – the day after Christmas when the household was still trying to recover from the festivities – Mel and Betty slipped away and drove downtown to see the picture for the first time. Mel had long ago given up attending public showings of anything he had worked on because watching the audience around him fail to appreciate his lines was too much like sitting in a dentist’s chair and having a tooth needlessly drilled; but this time Betty insisted.
‘After all, we didn’t go to the funeral,’ she argued with a woman’s logic, ‘so this is the least we can do for Cy.’
‘Darling, no disrespect intended, but where Cy is now, he couldn’t care less what we do for him.”
‘Then I’ll go see it by myself. Don’t be like that, Mel. You know this one is different.’
And so it was, he saw. Different and shocking in a way that no one else in the audience would appreciate. At his suggestion, and to Betty’s pleased bewilderment, they sat through it a second time. Then, while Betty was in the theater lounge, he raced to a phone in the lobby and put through a call to MacAaron’s home in North Hollywood.
‘Mac, this is Mel Gordon.’
‘Sure. Say, I’m sorry you couldn’t make it to the funeral, but those flowers you sent—’
‘Never mind that. Mac, I just saw the picture, and there’s one shot in it – well, I have to get together with you about it as soon as possible.’
There was a long silence at the other end of the line.
‘Then you know,’ MacAaron said at last.
‘That’s right. I see you do, too.’
‘For a long time. And Betty?’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’
‘Good,’ said MacAaron with obvious relief. ‘Look, where are you right now?’
‘With my in-laws, in San Francisco. But I can be at your place first thing tomorrow.’
‘Well, first thing tomorrow I have to go over to Elysian Park and settle Cy’s account for him. He put me in charge of it. You ever see the way he’s fixed up?’
‘No.’
‘Then this’ll give you a chance to. You can meet me there at ten. The man at the gate will show you where Cy is.’
Punctuality was a fetish with MacAaron. When Mel arrived for the meeting a few minutes after ten, Mac was already there, seated on a bench close by a mausoleum with the name GOLDSMITH inscribed over its massive bronze door. The structure was made of roughhewn granite blocks without ornamentation or windows, and it stood on a grassy mount overlooking a somewhat unkempt greensward thickly strewn with grave markers. Unlike the fashionable new cemeteries around Los Angeles, Elysian Park looked distinctly like a burial ground.
MacAaron moved to make room for Mel on the bench.
‘How many times did you see the picture?’ he asked without preliminary,
‘Twice around.’
‘That all? You caught on quick.’
‘It was simple arithmetic,’ Mel said, wondering why he felt impelled to make it almost an apology. ‘Six statues already used and locked up in the prop room, six more in that long shot of the corridor – and the one in the studio that the police smashed up. Thirteen statues. Not twelve. Thirteen.’
‘I know, I caught wise the day we shot the last scenes with those statues, and I counted six of them standing there, not five. That’s when I backed Cy into a corner and made him tell me everything, much as he didn’t want to. After he did, I had sense enough to cut away from that sixth statue before the camera could get it; but I never did notice that one long shot of the whole corridor showing all six of those damn things until the night of the big premiere, and then it was too late to do anything about it. So there they were, just waiting for you to turn up and start counting them.’ He shook his head dolefully.
‘As long as the police didn’t start counting them,’ Mel said. ‘Anyhow, all it proves is that Paolo Varese was a lot smarter than we gave him credit for. The statue in his studio was just a dummy, a red herring. All that time we were watching the Commissioner chop it apart, Alex was sealed up in the sixth one in the corridor. Right there on that set in the sound stage, with everyone walking back and forth past him.’
‘He was. But do you really think it was Varese who had the brains to handle the deal? He was as green as he looked, that kid. Him and his little sister both. A real pair of babes in the woods.’
‘You mean it was Cy who killed Alex?’
‘Hell, no. The last thing Cy wanted was Alex dead, because then the picture would be tied up in Surrogates Court. No, the kid did it, all right, but it was Cy – look, maybe the best way to tell it is right from the beginning.’
‘Maybe it is,’ said Mel.
‘Then first of all, you remember what Cy had us do after we saw the Caddie standing there that night with the door open and Alex nowhere around?’
‘Yes. He had you go through the sound stage hunting for Alex, and Betty and me look around the grounds.’
‘Because he wanted all three of us out of the way for the time being. He had an idea Alex had gone to see the kid and that something might have happened. So he—’
‘Hold on,’ Mel said. ‘We all agreed right there that Alex would never have the guts to face the kid.’
‘That’s the track Cy put us on, but in the back of his mind he figured Alex might have one good reason for getting together with Varese. Just one. Alex was yellow right down to the bottom of the backbone, right? But he also had to do business in Rome every year, and that’s where the kid lived. Who knew when they’d bump into each other, or when the kid would get all steamed up after a few drinks and come looking for him?
‘So what does a guy like Alex do about it? He goes to the kid waving a white flag and tries to buy him off. Cheap, of course, but the way things are with Varese and the sister he feels a few hundred bucks should settle the case very nicely. About three hundred bucks, in fact. Twenty thousand lire. Cy knew how much it was because when he walked into the studio there was the money all over the floor, and Alex lying there dead with his face all black, and the kid standing there not knowing what had happened. Cy says it took him five minutes just to bring him out of shock.
‘Anyhow, he finally got the kid to making sense, and it turned out that Alex had walked into the studio, waving the money in his hand, a big smile on that mean little face of his, and he let the kid know that, what the hell, the girl wasn’t really hurt in any way, but if it would make her feel better to buy something nice for herself—’
‘But how stupid could he be? To misjudge anyone that way!’
‘Yeah, that’s about the size of it.’ MacAaron nodded somberly. ‘Anyhow, it sure lit the kid’s fuse. He didn’t even know what happened next. All he knew was that he got his hands around that skinny throat, and when he let go it was too late.’
‘Even so,’ Mel said unhappily, ‘it was still murder.’
‘It was,’ agreed MacAaron. ‘And a long stretch in jail, and the papers full of how the little sister had gone wrong. It sure looked hopeless, all right. And you know the weirdest part of it?’
‘What?’
‘That the only thing on Varese’s mind was the way he’d let his folks down, his Mama and his Papa. Going to jail didn’t seem to bother him one bit as much as that he had argued his people into letting the girl go to Rome and then he had let her become a pigeon for Alex. It never struck him anything could be done about Alex being dead. As far as he was concerned, it was just a case of calling in the cops now and getting it over with.
‘But, naturally, the last thing Cy wanted was for anyone to know Alex was dead, because then the picture was really washed up. And looking at that Tiberius statue which was almost finished, he got the idea that maybe something could be done. The hitch was that you and me and Betty were right there on the spot, but once he got you two off the lot and then had me hunting for Alex like a fool through all those buildings and shops, he had room to move in.
‘First off, he had the kid rush through a whole new Tiberius statue. That wa
s the thirteenth statue, the one they stuck Alex inside of, and Cy said it was all he and the kid could do to keep their dinner down while they were at it. It took almost all night, too, and when it was done they trucked it over to the sound stage and set it up there and brought the other one back to the studio.’
‘But he told me he had Paolo helping you and him look for Alex most of the night. If I had asked you about it—’
‘Oh, that.’ The ghost of a smile showed on MacAaron’s hardbitten face. ‘He wasn’t taking any chance with that story, because he had the kid go by me a couple of times looking around the lot with a flashlight in his hand. If I had any doubts about him up to then, that settled them. When Inspector Conti questioned me next day I didn’t even mention the kid, I was so sure he was in the clear about Alex.’
‘You didn’t have to mention him. Wanda was only waiting to.’
‘Wanda?’ MacAaron said with genuine surprise. ‘What would she know? Hell, it was Cy who told the Inspector about what happened when you took the kid home that night. But the right way, you understand, sort of letting it be dragged out of him. And sort of steered him around to the studio so he could get a good look at that statue after seeing some photos of Alex.
‘It was Cy all the way. Once he made sure the Inspector and the Commissioner knew those other statues in the prop room and on the sound stage had absolutely been there before Alex disappeared, Cy wanted that showdown in the studio. He wanted everything pinned on the kid and then cleared up once and for all. The only question was whether the kid could hold up under pressure in the big scene, and you saw for yourself how he did.
‘Now do you get the whole setup? Make the lot look like it was sealed up airtight, make it look like the kid was the only possible suspect, and then clear him completely. If I could swear on the Bible that the kid was helping us hunt for Alex that night, and if Alex isn’t in that statue – what’s left?’
‘A statue with a body in it,’ Mel said. ‘A murder.’
‘Yeah, I understand,’ MacAaron said sympathetically. ‘Now you’re sorry you know the whole thing. But I’m not, Mel. And I don’t mean because it’s been so hard keeping it to myself. What’s been eating me is that up to now nobody else in the world knew how Cy proved the kind of man he was.’
‘Proved what?’ Mel said harshly. ‘It wasn’t hard for him to be that kind of man, feeling the way he did about the picture and knowing he had only a little while to live. How much was he really risking under those conditions? If things went wrong, he’d be dead before they could bring him to trial, and the kid would take the whole rap.’
‘You still don’t get it. You don’t get it at all. How could you if you weren’t even there at the finish? Well, I was.’
To Mel’s horror, MacAaron, the imperturbable, the stoic, looked as if he were fighting back tears, his face wrinkling monkey-like in his effort to restrain them. ‘Mel, it went on forever in that hospital. Week after week, and every day of it the pain got worse. It was like knives being run into him. But all that time he would never let them give him a needle to kill the pain. They wanted to, but he wouldn’t let them. He told them it was all right, he wouldn’t make any fuss about how it hurt, and he didn’t. Just lay there twisting around in that bed, chewing on a handkerchief he kept stuffed in his mouth, and sweat, the size of marbles, dripping down his face. But no needles. Not until right near the end after he didn’t know what was going on any more.’
‘So what? If he was afraid of a lousy needle—’
‘But don’t you see why?’ MacAaron said despairingly. ‘Don’t you get it? He was scared that if he had any dope in him he might talk about Alex and the kid without even knowing it. He might give the whole thing away and send the kid to jail after all. That was the one big thing on his mind. That was the kind of man he was. So however you want to fault him—’
He stared at Mel, searching for a response, and was evidently satisfied with what he saw.
‘It’ll be tough keeping this to ourselves,’ he said. ‘I know that, Mel. But we have to. If we didn’t, it would mean wasting everything Cy went through.’
‘And how long do you think we’ll get away with it? There’s still the statue with Alex rotting away inside of it, wherever it is. Sooner or later—’
‘Not sooner,’ MacAaron said. ‘Maybe a long time later. A couple of lifetimes later.’ He got up stiffly, walked over to the mausoleum and inserted a key into the lock of the bronze door. ‘Take a look,’ he said. ‘This is the only key, so now’s your chance.’
An unseen force lifted Mel to his feet and propelled him toward that open door. He knew he didn’t want to go, didn’t want to see what was to be seen, but there was no resisting that force.
Sunlight through the doorway flooded the chill depths of the granite chamber and spilled over an immense casket on a shelf against its far wall. And standing at its foot, facing it with features twisted into an eternal, impotent fury, was the statue of Tiberius mad.
The Last Bottle in the World
It was a bad moment. This cafe on the rue de Rivoli near the Meurice had looked tempting, I had taken a chair at one of its sidewalk tables, and then, glancing casually across at the next table, had found myself staring into the eyes of a young woman who was looking at me with startled recognition. It was Madame Sophia Kassoulas. Suddenly, the past towered over me like a monstrous genie released from a bottle. The shock was so great that I could actually feel the blood draining from my face.
Madame Kassoulas was instantly at my side.
‘Monsieur Drummond what is it? You look so ill. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, no. A drink, that’s all. Cognac, please.’
She ordered me one, then sat down to solicitously undo the buttons of my jacket. ‘Oh, you men. The way you dress in this summer heat.’
This might have been pleasant under other conditions, but I realized with embarrassment that the picture we offered the other patrons of the cafe must certainly be that of a pitiful, white-haired old grandpa being attended to by his soft-hearted granddaughter.
‘Madame, I assure you—’
She pressed a finger firmly against my lips. ‘Please. Not another word until you’ve had your cognac and feel like yourself again. Not one little word.’
I yielded the point. Besides, turnabout was fair play. During that nightmarish scene six months before when we were last in each other’s company she had been the one to show weakness and I had been the one to apply the restoratives. Meeting me now, the woman must have been as hard hit by cruel memory as I was. I had to admire her for bearing up so well under the blow.
My cognac was brought to me, and even in extremis, so to speak, I automatically held it up to the sunlight to see its color. Madame Kassoulas’ lips quirked in a faint smile.
‘Dear Monsieur Drummond,’ she murmured. ‘Always the connoisseur.’
Which, indeed, I was. And which, I saw on grim reflection, was how the whole thing had started on a sunny Parisian day like this the year before …
That was the day a man named Max de Marechal sought me out in the offices of my company, Broulet and Drummond, wine merchants, on the rue de Berri. I vaguely knew of de Marechal as the editor of a glossy little magazine, La Cave, published solely for the enlightenment of wine connoisseurs. Not a trade publication, but a sort of house organ for La Societe de la Cave, a select little circle of amateur wine fanciers. Since I generally approved the magazine’s judgments, I was pleased to meet its editor.
Face to face with him, however, I found myself disliking him intensely. In his middle forties, he was one of those dapper, florid types who resemble superannuated leading men. And there was a feverish volatility about him which put me on edge. I tend to be low-geared and phlegmatic myself. People who are always bouncing about on top of their emotions like a Ping-Pong ball on a jet of water make me acutely uncomfortable.
The purpose of his visit, he said, was to obtain an interview from me. In preparation for a series of articles
to be run in his magazine, he was asking various authorities on wine to express their opinions about the greatest vintage they had ever sampled. This way, perhaps, a consensus could be made and placed on record. If—
‘If,’ I cut in, ‘you ever get agreement on the greatest vintage. Ask a dozen experts about it and you’ll get a dozen different opinions.’
‘It did look like that at the start. By now, however, I have found some small agreement on the supremacy of two vintages.’
‘Which two?’
‘Both are Burgundies. One is the Richebourg 1923. The other is the Romanee-Conti 1934. And both, of course, indisputably rank among the noblest wines.’
‘Indisputably.’
‘Would one of these be your own choice as the vintage without peer?’
‘I refuse to make any choice, Monsieur de Marechal. When it comes to wines like these, comparisons are not merely odious, they are impossible.’
‘Then you do not believe any one vintage stands by itself beyond comparison?’
‘No, it’s possible there is one. I’ve never tasted it, but the descriptions written of it praise it without restraint. A Burgundy, of course, from an estate which never again produced anything like it. A very small estate. Have you any idea which vintage I’m referring to?’
‘I believe I do.’ De Marechal’s eyes gleamed with fervor. ‘The glorious Nuits Saint-Oen 1929. Am I right?’
‘You are.’
He shrugged helplessly. ‘But what good is knowing about it when I’ve never met anyone who has actually tasted it? I want my series of articles to be backed by living authorities. Those I’ve questioned all know about this legendary Saint-Oen, but not one has even seen a bottle of it. What a disaster when all that remains of such a vintage – possibly the greatest of all – should only be a legend. If there were only one wretched bottle left on the face of the earth—’
The Specialty of the House Page 49
