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Death and the Maiden

Page 17

by Gerald Elias


  “And the informations was not helpful?”

  “There was no informations, Maestro. This was both unhelpful and helpful.”

  “I’ve got two questions.”

  “Yes, Maestro.”

  “One: Could you please stop talking in riddles and get to the point?”

  “I will do my best. And the other?”

  “Can you stop calling me Maestro? It’s giving me a headache.”

  “What shall I call you then?”

  “How about Jake?”

  “As you please, Yake. So I will give you all the informations, and you decide if it is helpful or unhelpful … Yake. It seems that when Señorita Flores, who had the shift of the night when the Lima concert took place, noticed that Señor Kortovsky did not return while she was on duty. The next day his room was cleaned, but the day after that it was clear that nobody had slept in the bed. However, Señor Kortovsky’s belongings were still in his room, and he had not checked out even though his reservation had expired.

  “Señorita Flores properly had Señor Kortovsky’s belongings transferred into the office by the house help, to remain there until Señor Kortovsky returned to claim them. These belongings were put into a corner where they would not be in the way of anyone, but at the same time, they were out of the view of everyone.

  “When Señor Kortovsky did not return after several more days, Señorita Flores, who is a hard worker with four young children but no husband, was unable to resist the temptation. She removed the belongings of Señor Kortovsky and gave them to her cousin, José Carlos, who has a degree in architecture but who at the moment is a driver of the tico, to dispose of on what you call the black market. As a result, I could not find any information on Señor Kortovsky’s receipt because there never was a receipt.”

  “Hey, Oro, you’re sounding a little protective of hardworking Señorita Flores and overachieving José Carlos after they killed Kortovsky so they could sell his million-dollar violin, and computer, and high-tech mountain-climbing gear and live high off the hog. Why the warm and fuzzy?”

  “That was my precise thought, as well, Yake, when Señorita Flores confessed to me.”

  “And?”

  “Now I do not believe it is true.”

  “Why not? It fits, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes and no, but more no than yes. If they killed him, and if we assume the body one street away is that of Kortovsky, there was no reason to then spend so much time removing the body parts and risk discovery. It would not fit their motive. Then, if we assume Señor Kortovsky was killed the night of the twenty-seventh, which I think we may now do since that was the last time anyone saw him, both Señorita Flores and her cousin have the good alibis. She was on duty and he was repairing his tico with his brother, Miguel. I believe they are innocent of murder because I talked to them. I also believe they stretched the law because they are poor, but they were most remorseful.”

  “It’s not hard to be remorseful when the choices are going to jail for the rest of your life or being a millionaire.”

  “Ah, you are wise, Yake. Here in Peru there are not so many ricos. People with a little money, a modest house, they have iron fences, alarm systems, floodlights, security guards, because too many other people with little money are envious. So no doubt there was the temptation. Yet I have not told you one important detail that you had all the rights to assume. They made some money selling Señor Kortovsky’s mountain-climbing goods, sí; however, there was no violin and no computer, so they did not become the millionaires enough to kill for.”

  “How the hell do you know that? Did you look deep into their eyes and decide you could trust them?”

  “This time you are incorrect, Yake.”

  “Then how?”

  “I have my ways, Maestro. They have been persuaded to tell the truth, and you can trust me in this. They did not kill anyone.”

  In those few sentences Jacobus heard what Oro hid under his velvet-tongued civility—a cold-as-death ruthlessness that made him shudder. He knew better than to argue.

  “Then where does that leave us?”

  “There are two meanings to the American phrase ‘check out,’ are there not? One is to leave a hotel, the other is to die. Is that not correct?”

  “Yeah,” said Jacobus. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Cagney and Lacey. I confess it is my favorite TV show. So entertaining. But I am taking up too much of your time.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Well, now that we know that Señor Kortovsky did not check out of the Maury Hotel, because there was no reason we know of for him to not check out, there is a greater chance that he is the corpse who checked out one block away.”

  “Unless he was the killer.”

  “That is always possible, yes, but if that were the truth, don’t you think he would have returned to the hotel, checked out, and removed his belongings to continue life in an unsuspecting way? It is also possible he fled the hotel for a reason to which we are not the privy, but the location of the body suggests that is not the likely trail. No, more and more I fear that our victim is the person whom you seek.”

  “If that’s true…” Jacobus mused. “Do you still have the corpse chilling out in a morgue somewhere?”

  “I am sorry to say the body has been disposed of. If at the time we had known…”

  “What about the autopsy report?”

  “Yes. That we still have. Of course.”

  “I want you to check if the medical examiner noticed anything interesting about the right hand.”

  “The right hand. And for what purpose, Yake?”

  “To satisfy my curiosity, let’s say.”

  “I will investigate and tell you. You have my word. In the meantime, I will also speak to the bartender who served Señor Kortovsky several pisco sours with the mysterious stranger.”

  “Mysterious stranger!” bellowed Jacobus. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this first? Who the hell is the mysterious stranger?”

  “If I knew, then he would not be a mysterious stranger, would he?”

  “Let’s not get into that again, Oro. Just spit it out.”

  “Late that night, the night we presume Señor Kortovsky was killed, he and another yenkleman were seen in the bar by the bartender, who served Señor Kortovsky three or four of the Maury Hotel’s legendary pisco sours.”

  “Enough of the travelogue, Oro, I just—”

  “This time it is important, Yake, not just my pride of the nation. You see, one pisco sour at the Maury is fuerte, strong. Three or four would make someone not accustomed to its potency, how shall I say, assume the horizontal. And also, please note, the bartender did not say he served pisco sours to both yenklemen, only to Señor Kortovsky. Do you see now what I am thinking?”

  “You think Señor X got Kortovsky drunk and then dragged him off in order to kill him.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Any idea who Señor X is, then?”

  “Señor Equis? I am not sure, except that I am told he had a limp.”

  “The man at the concert! Who you bumped into!”

  “Perhaps, but it is too early to conclude.”

  “Didn’t the bartender see his face?”

  “It was dark, and he had no reason to be interested. But I did not see his face either at the concert, only his back. But we will continue the search.”

  “Well, maybe I underestimated you, Oro. Maybe you will figure this out. Anything else?”

  “Just one thing more, Yake.”

  “Oro, it’s not Yake. It’s Jake. With a juh, not a yuh.”

  “Of course, Yake. Discúlpeme. Before this mysterious man arrived, there was another person who met with Señor Kortovsky at the hotel after the concert. A young lady.”

  “Let me guess. Señorita Angelita?” Jacobus asked, enjoying the rhyme and the musical bounce of rhythm. Señorita Angelita. Señorita Angelita.

  “I am afraid not. It was your former student, Señorita Shinagawa.”


  “Like hell it was,” Jacobus exploded. “How do you know?”

  “I had her photo, from the program. I showed it to many of the workers at the hotel. She was well recognized, even by the housekeeper who saw her going into Señor Kortovsky’s room. We have a surprising number of Japanese people in Peru, Yake, but few as attractive as Señorita Shinagawa. And even fewer who have those marvelous green eyes. Certainly someone of her ancestors was not un japonés.”

  “English,” said Jacobus. “Grandmother.”

  “Ah! Another mystery solved. But I must be very honest with you, Yake, and I tell you this even though I shouldn’t because I have the high respect of you: Because of the information you have given me, I was required as a police officer to inform your New York City lieutenant, Lieutenant Malachi, of my information. He was very thankful.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Jacobus.

  TWENTY

  THURSDAY

  As he waited by the receptionist’s desk in Lewis Carino’s office, Jacobus made a fist, pounded his chest, and belched. Fond memories of Fat Chance. He didn’t mind. What he did mind was being kept waiting for Crispin Short to arrive.

  “When’s he going to get here?” Jacobus asked the receptionist for the third time.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here any moment now,” she said for the third time. “He’s aware of your appointment. Would you care for a magazine?”

  “You have a recent copy of Modern Invalid?”

  He decided not to ask any more and sat there contemplating while the receptionist continued to do nothing of any appreciable value that he was able to ascertain.

  “Ah, so there you are!” Short said when he eventually arrived. “Waiting long, have we?”

  “Yes, we have,” said Jacobus.

  “A bit hot under the collar, are we?”

  Jacobus did not respond.

  “Mr. Carino gave us a conference room,” Short continued. “He decided that since you haven’t brought a lawyer it would be better if he left us to our own devices and found something else to do.”

  “Like boff his receptionist?”

  “We take a jaundiced view of the legal profession, do we now?”

  “Me? Not at all. I’m just trying to figure out what purpose Miss Efficiency has for taking up space in the office.”

  “Yes, that is a bit of a mystery,” said Short. “One of the trappings of success, I suppose. Can’t begrudge anyone that, can we? Now, do we need assistance to the conference room?”

  “Don’t bother. We’ll just follow you in.”

  After the two of them had seated themselves at opposite ends of a very long table, Short asked, “What is it that is so urgent for you to find out that is not already known?”

  “How did you know Ivan Lensky was filling in for Kortovsky?” Jacobus asked.

  “What does it matter to you?”

  “Because with an empty seat in the quartet, who more than you would want to fill it? You might not be too pleased that someone else’s ass is warming it.”

  “Look, Mr. Jacobus, the last thing I’d want is for Kortovsky not to be there. His absence has delayed my long-overdue satisfaction. Aaron Kortovsky is a fanatic, Mr. Jacobus, in everything, with an ego to match.”

  “Everything? That’s a pretty broad generalization, don’t you think?”

  “For anyone but him, yes. But with Aaron, everything had to be his way. It didn’t matter what.”

  “Had?” asked Jacobus. “Didn’t? Is this all in the past? Has Aaron changed, or are you suggesting there’s no more Aaron?”

  “Aren’t we suspicious now?” said Short. “Who the hell knows where he is or whether he’s still alive? Just like him to keep everyone on tenterhooks. Always the boss, whether it’s music, his ridiculous rock climbing, his…”

  “Women?”

  “Whatever.”

  “It drove you nuts, huh?”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  Jacobus avoided a direct answer. “I was told to ask you the story about the broken bow.”

  “Why? By whom?”

  “Let’s just say it’s an Up Close and Personal.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide, Mr. Jacobus. And you’re a violinist so you’ll understand.” Receiving no response other than a grunt from Jacobus, Short continued.

  “Aaron insisted … insists that we always play on the string.”

  “That doesn’t sound too fanatical to me,” said Jacobus. “That’s the old mantra: You play chamber music on the string, you play orchestra music off the string; the former for the big, juicy sound you need from a small ensemble, the latter for the articulation and clarity you need from a big group.”

  “As a general rule, that’s absolutely fine and I have no complaint. But every fast passage, and always at the tip of the bow? Never spiccato in the middle of the bow, which is so much more natural and, when it needs to be, so much more incisive.”

  “Never?”

  “Well, hardly ever. Usually if you just experimented with playing off the string he’d stop immediately and make some derisively humiliating insult that either you had no bow control, or … Once, for example, he told me that my tone was like a rodent repeller.”

  “You poor guy. He hurt your feelings. So you broke his bow.”

  “You may mock me, Mr. Jacobus, but after a while, after years of being belittled…”

  Jacobus heard Short take a deep breath. Preamble over.

  “One day we were rehearsing the finale of Beethoven Fifty-nine number three. You must agree that, of any piece in the literature, it is simply too fast to play on the string and at the point of the bow on the violin, let alone on the cello.” Short stopped, apparently awaiting a response.

  “I take your point,” said Jacobus. “Go on.”

  “Well, poor Pravda was doing her best, but Aaron browbeat her mercilessly. I mean, after all, her bow was only obeying the laws of nature. That’s why bows are made of wood, isn’t it, for their flexibility? Aaron told her that her playing matched her looks. Like a cow chewing her cud. And you know what she did, Mr. Jacobus?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “She just sat there. Impassive. I decided something needed to be said, so I noted that every other string quartet in history has played this fugue in the middle of the bow, and no amount of insulting would change that fact. I knew when I said it there would be retaliation.”

  “So you waited, knowing it was your turn, and came up with a plan?”

  “With an idea, shall we say? As you may have heard, Mr. Jacobus, I am rather corpulent. This is an issue of some sensitivity, as in my opinion, it was one reason the fair Annika, the strumpet, left my embrace for Mr. Fit. I do not deny that I am almost as enamored of food as Aaron is of his sculpted torso, but that only exacerbated the issue, and Aaron knew it when he poked me in the stomach repeatedly with the point of his bow and said, ‘With blubber like that no wonder you’re obsessed with the middle.’ I took offense.”

  “That’s putting it mildly, from what I gather.”

  “Yes, I suppose. I grabbed Aaron’s cattle prod and, as he was not anticipating such a maneuver, it wasn’t difficult to disengage it from his hand. I said, ‘Now when you’re playing at the point you’ll be in the middle like the rest of us,’ whereupon I broke it in half on my knee and handed it back to him.”

  “I hope it wasn’t a French bow,” said Jacobus, trying to maintain a straight face.

  “A Peccatte,” said Short.

  “Oy vey!” said Jacobus. “So then what?”

  “I walked out.”

  “And you were fired.”

  “Yes.”

  “You should’ve expected it, after that.”

  “Yes, I did. But that’s not why I sued. I sued because they besmirched my name throughout the profession and media, labeling me an incompetent troublemaker. And then I found out about their marketing study and it all started to fit together. Adam and Eve were trying to make me into a serpent to get me out of t
he Garden. And Pravda will be the next victim, I can tell you. By the way, would you like me to ask Miss Dibble to bring you some water?”

  “Who’s Miss Dibble, and why do you ask?”

  “Miss Dibble’s the vacuous receptionist you’re so fond of, and I ask not only to give her something to do, but because the sounds your stomach is making are threatening to overtake our conversation.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Very well. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  “Yes. Considering what you were just saying, what I don’t get is why sue Pravda too? And why Yumi? She wasn’t even there.”

  “That is not my call. The Magini String Quartet, or whatever they choose to change their name to, is a nonprofit organization. Legally they are all responsible regardless of their level of complicity. If Pravda or Ms. Shinagawa so decide, they can convince their colleagues to agree to the terms Mr. Carino has proposed—”

  “Even if it will cost Ms. Shinagawa her job?”

  “There is no one in this entire saga, Mr. Jacobus, who will emerge unscathed. That is the inconvenient truth of the wheel Aaron Kortovsky set spinning. I am sorry for that, but let me be perfectly clear. This is not the first time I have been involved in litigation and most probably not the last. If you so desire I will have Mr. Carino give you the roll call of cases in which I have been the plaintiff. Some have called me ‘a litigious fiend,’ because of my proper willingness to derive justice from the decree of the courts, but lucre is not my goal. I have never sued unless I believed myself to be morally and legally in the right and, I may add, I have never lost a suit.”

  “A man on a mission, eh?” said Jacobus.

  “If you choose to call it that.”

  “The way I see it, Short, is that your passion for justice and your hatred of Aaron Kortovsky are blinding you to something very obvious, and for you, very sad.”

 

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