Second Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved dress of nubby black silk. Her stockings, or pantyhose, had a black tint. Black shoes. No jewelry. Little makeup. The only color that saved her from chiaroscuro was a great mass of burnished coppery hair, braided into a gleaming plait, wound around and around into a crown atop her head. With her erect carriage, the effect was queenly.

  Her features seemed to Delaney to be beautiful without being attractive. Too crisp. Too precise. Too perfect in their sculpted smoothness. On a face like that, a pimple would be a godsend. But her complexion was an unflawed porcelain glaze. Big eyes like licked stones. An expression so serene it was blank. Beneath the black dress was a hint of generous bosom, bountiful hips. But the face, the posture, the demeanor, all denied humor. She would never leave a note to her husband toothpicked to a roast of beef.

  “Mrs. Maitland,” Chief Delaney began, “I regret the necessity of intruding further on your grief. But the investigation into your husband’s death continues, and I am certain you will endure any inconvenience if it aids in bringing to justice the person or persons responsible for this vicious crime.”

  He had, quite deliberately, adopted the manner and language to which he thought she might respond. His instinct was correct.

  “Anything,” she said, lifting her chin. “Anything I can do.”

  “Mrs. Maitland, I have read your statements to the investigating officers who questioned you. Please let me review briefly what you told them, and when I have finished, you can tell me if it is accurate. On the Friday he was murdered, your husband left this apartment at approximately nine in the morning. He told you he was going to his studio, then had an appointment at the Geltman Galleries at three that afternoon, and should be home about six or seven that evening. You yourself left this apartment at approximately ten o’clock. You spent the morning shopping. You met a friend for lunch at one-thirty at Le Provençal on East Sixty-second Street. After lunch you cabbed back here. At about four that afternoon, Saul Geltman called to ask if you knew your husband’s whereabouts. Do I have it right?”

  “You do, Chief Delano,” she said. “I pre—”

  “Delaney,” he said. “Edward X. Delaney.”

  “Pardon me,” she said. Her voice was low-timbred, husky, but curiously dry. “Chief Delaney, I presume you have checked my story?”

  “We have,” he nodded gravely. “The doorman on duty confirmed your time of leaving. Your friend affirmed she had lunch with you at the time and place specified. The records of the restaurant bear this out. Unfortunately, we have not been able to find witnesses to your shopping from ten to one-thirty.”

  “I went to Saks, Bonwits, Bergdorfs, and Gucci,” she said. “But I didn’t buy anything. I don’t suppose anyone would remember me; the stores were crowded.”

  “No one did,” he said. There was a short pause while he leaned toward her earnestly. “But, Mrs. Maitland, that could be entirely normal and understandable. You purchased nothing, tried on no clothing, made no special inquiries; it’s quite natural that no one would have any special recollection of your presence in those stores. You didn’t try on any clothing, did you?”

  “No, I did not. I saw nothing I liked.”

  “Of course. Meet anyone you knew at any time between ten and one-thirty? A salesperson, an acquaintance, a friend?”

  “No. No one.”

  “Make any telephone calls during that period?”

  “No.”

  “Mail any letters?”

  “No.”

  “Speak to anyone at all? Have any personal contact whatsoever?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Please understand, Mrs. Maitland, all we’re trying to do is clear up loose ends. It appears to me you acted in a perfectly normal manner. I trust you are not offended by the tone of these questions?”

  “Not at all, Chief Delaney.”

  “Was your husband cheating on you?” he asked harshly.

  If he had slapped her, the effect would not have been any more dramatic. She jerked back, her face reddened, her hands flew up.

  “Believe me, Mrs. Maitland,” he continued, once again in his smooth, almost unctuous voice, “it grieves me to pry into your personal life, your private relations with your husband. But surely you must see the necessity for it.”

  “My husband was the dearest, sweetest man who ever lived,” she said stiffly, her lips white. “I assure you he was completely faithful. He loved me, and I loved him. He expressed his love frequently. By telling me and in—in other ways. Ours was a very happy marriage. A perfect marriage. Victor Maitland was a very great artist, and it was an honor to be his wife. Oh, I know the filthy gossip that has been circulated about him, but I assure you that he was as fine a husband and father as he was a painter. I assure you.”

  “And your son shares your feelings, Mrs. Maitland?”

  “My son is young, Chief Delaney. He is presently going through an identity crisis. When he is older, and more experienced, he will realize what a giant his father was.”

  “Yes, yes. A giant. How true, Mrs. Maitland. Well put. And by the way, where is your son? I was hoping to meet him.”

  “Now? He’s at school.”

  “Studying to be an artist, is he?”

  “In a way,” she said shortly. “Graphic design.”

  “But your husband was an artist, Mrs. Maitland. Specializing in the female nude. He was alone in his studio with naked models for long periods of time. Did that not disturb you?”

  “Oh my!” she laughed, a tinny sound that clanged through the deodorized air. “You have some very middle-class ideas about the life styles of artists, Chief Delaney. I assure you that to most artists, the naked female body is about as exciting as a bowl of fruit or an arrangement of flowers.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “The body is just a subject, an object to them. Let me show you something. Don’t get up. I’ll bring it to you.”

  She jerked to her feet, rushed from the room. Sergeant Boone looked at Delaney with wonder.

  “Wow,” he said. “You’re something else again, Chief. First the velvet glove, then the knuckle sandwich. You sure shook her.”

  “She needs shaking,” Delaney growled. “She’s playing a role. Did you catch it? While he was alive, she played the Betrayed Wife. Now that he’s dead, she’s playing the Bereaved Widow. Have you ever heard such shit your life? Shh. She’s coming.”

  She came striding into the room, thumbing through the pages of an oversized book. Delaney admired the way she moved: energetically, healthily, power in her thighs and shoulders. She found the page she wanted, reversed the book, held it out to Delaney. Boone rose and moved behind him to look over the Chief’s shoulder.

  It was a copy of the book of Maitland’s paintings the sergeant had loaned to Delaney. It was open to a full-color plate. A nude lay on her side on a rough wood plank, her back to the viewer. The curve of raised shoulder, narrow waist, swell of hip, diminishing rhythm of leg flowed like water. It was not one of Delaney’s favorite paintings in the book. The model was in repose. The best of Maitland’s nudes were charged with vigor, caught in movement, captured in postures that surged, bursting. But now, looking at this particular reproduction that Mrs. Alma Maitland had thrust into his hands, Chief Delaney saw only the flame of coppery hair spilling down from the model’s head, across the rough wood plank, to the painting’s border.

  “Me!” Mrs. Maitland said proudly, raising her chin again. “I posed for that. Years ago. And many others. I was Victor’s first model. So I assure you, Chief Delaney, when I tell you of artists and models, I know whereof I speak. I posed for many artists. Many. My body was considered classic. Classic!”

  “Beautiful,” Chief Delaney murmured. “Very beautiful indeed,” and wondered why it was the only nude in the book in which the face was not shown.

  He closed the book and put it aside. He took up his homburg and rose to his feet.

  “Mrs. Maitland,” he said, “I thank you for your
valuable assistance, and only hope I have not caused you undue anguish.”

  “Not at all,” she said, obviously glad to see him going.

  “And I hope, as our investigation progresses, you will be kind enough to grant me additional time. Things do come up, you know, and we like to clear them up if we can. And as the one person closest to this great artist, we are depending on you for information no one else can furnish.”

  “I will be happy and eager to do anything I can to help you find the man who robbed the world of such a talent,” she said solemnly.

  Sergeant Abner Boone looked at the two of them in amazement. A couple of loonies.

  Delaney started toward the door, then stopped.

  “By the way, Mrs. Maitland, how did your husband get from here to his studio?”

  “He usually took a cab. Sometimes he went by subway.”

  “Subway? Did he ride the subway frequently?”

  “Occasionally. He said he liked to look at the faces.”

  “The doorman confirms that your husband left the building at approximately nine o’clock that Friday morning. But he did not ask the doorman to call a cab; he just walked westward. And we’ve been unable to find a cabdriver who dropped a fare at your husband’s address on Mott Street. So perhaps he took the subway that morning. Did he tell you how he intended to spend the day?”

  “No. I presumed he would be working.”

  “Mentioned no particular painting or model?”

  “No.”

  “Did he call during the day?”

  “The maid says he did not. Of course I wasn’t here.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  Delaney paused, pondered a moment, staring at the brown carpeting.

  “One more thing, Mrs. Maitland … What’s your personal opinion of Saul Geltman?”

  He looked up. Her face had tightened. Delaney fancied those slick stone eyes dried as he watched.

  “I would rather not express an opinion of Mr. Geltman at the present time,” Alma Maitland said coldly. “Suffice to say that I am currently consulting an attorney in an effort to get a complete and truthful accounting from Geltman Galleries as to monies paid and owed to me. I mean to my husband’s estate.”

  “I see,” Delaney said softly. “Thank you again, Mrs. Maitland.”

  When they left the apartment house, the doorman was standing outside, his hands clasped behind him. He nodded to the two men.

  “Find the dear lady?” he asked.

  “We found her,” Delaney said. “Tell me something … You said that Maitland left that Friday morning about nine o’clock. What time did he usually leave in the morning?”

  The doorman stared at him, then slowly, deliberately winked.

  “As soon as he could,” he said. “As soon as he could.”

  In the car, Sergeant Boone said, “Well?”

  “She knew he was cheating,” Delaney said. “Everyone knew he screwed anything that moved. But she’s busy creating the giant, the Great Man, of spotless character and immaculate integrity. She’s making a statue out of the guy.”

  “Did you believe what she said about artists and models?”

  “Come on,” Delaney said. “If you were an artist and had a naked piece of tush alone in a studio, would you consider it an object?”

  “Yeah,” Boone laughed. “A sex object. Chief, I followed most of your line except for the last question about Geltman. What was the reason for that?”

  Delaney told him the story of old Detective Alberto Di Lucca down in Little Italy, and how he had broken the warehouse heist by pitting one suspect against another.

  “I’ve used variations of that technique ever since,” he told Boone. “With good results. I could have pushed it farther with Mrs. Maitland, but she gave us enough for starters. Now I’ll ask Geltman what he thinks of her. Eventually we’ll get them all biting each other, and maybe we’ll learn something. What did you think of that painting Maitland did of her?”

  “Nice ass,” Abner Boone said.

  “Yes,” Chief Delaney said, “but he didn’t show her face. Why didn’t he show her face?”

  “I don’t know, Chief. She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “Mmm.”

  “And strong.”

  “Oh, you caught that, too? Yes, a big, strong woman. Think she could be a killer?”

  “Who couldn’t?” Sergeant Boone said.

  They had lunch at Moriarty’s on Third Avenue, sitting in the front room. Boone looked around at the Tiffany lamps, the long mahogany bar.

  “Nice place, Chief,” he said.

  “Nothing fancy,” Delaney said. “Solid food, honest drinks. Order what you like; it’s on the Department.”

  They both ordered steak sandwiches with home fries, Delaney had a Labatt’s ale, Boone had an iced tea.

  “She’s the only one with a loose alibi,” the sergeant said casually, scrubbing his face with his palms.

  “Where were you last night?” Delaney asked.

  “What?”

  “Where were you last night?” Delaney repeated patiently.

  “Why?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I was home, sir.”

  “Alone?”

  “Sure.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Wrote some checks, watched some TV, read some magazines.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  Sergeant Boone smiled crookedly.

  “All right, Chief,” he said. “You made your point.”

  “Alibis are about as much use as fingerprints,” Chief Delaney said. “If they exist and can be checked out thoroughly, all well and good. But most of the time you get partials; they don’t say yes, they don’t say no. Maybe Alma really did go shopping. Except women usually meet, go shopping together, and then have lunch. Or they meet for lunch, and then go shopping together. She says she went shopping alone, met her friend for lunch, and then went home. It bothers me. I have the friend’s name and address in the file. Will you check her out? Just ask why she didn’t go shopping that Friday with Mrs. Maitland.”

  “Will do. Ah, here’s our food …”

  They had a leisurely lunch, trading Department gossip and occasionally exchanging stories of cases they had worked.

  “Who collects in this Maitland thing, sir?” the sergeant asked.

  “Good question. He didn’t leave a will. I’ll have to get an opinion on it from the Department’s legal eagles. I think the widow takes all, after taxes. I know she’s definitely entitled to half. I want to know if the son’s entitled, too.”

  “You know we got copies of Maitland’s bank accounts,” Boone said, “and he didn’t leave all that much. No safe-deposit boxes we could find. And apparently his only unsold paintings are up in the Geltman Galleries.”

  “Which reminds me,” Delaney said, “we better get going. We can walk over; it isn’t far.”

  The Geltman Galleries occupied the ground floor of a modern professional building on Madison Avenue. Enormous plate-glass windows, set back from the sidewalk, fronted one long room high enough to accommodate a half-balcony reached by a spiral iron staircase. Paintings and sculpture were customarily displayed on the main level, prints and drawings on the balcony. Offices and storage rooms were at the rear of the ground floor. Entrance to the Galleries was directly from the street.

  When Chief Delaney and Sergeant Boone walked over after lunch, they found the high plate-glass windows covered from the inside with drapes of oyster-white burlap. A sign stated that the Geltman Galleries, temporarily closed, were being prepared for a memorial exhibit of the last works of Victor Maitland, paintings that had never been shown before. The sign urged visitors to return after June 10th, when “we will be proud to present the final creations of this premier American artist.”

  The street door was locked. A smaller notice, handwritten, stated that those with deliveries to make should enter through the building lobby and ring the bell on the Galleries’ interior door.
Delaney and Boone went into the lobby, to discover the side door open, workmen passing in and out, carrying plasterboard, lighting fixtures, boxes of eighteen-inch tiles of white and black vinyl. They followed the workmen inside, looked around at the bustling confusion: shouts, men hammering, a lad with a foulard kerchief knotted about his neck rushing about with a roll of blueprints under his arm. They stood irresolutely a moment, then a slat-thin young girl hurried up to them.

  “We’re closed,” she said breathlessly. “The show doesn’t open until—”

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Geltman,” Chief Delaney said. “My name is—”

  “Please, no more interviews,” she frowned. “No photos. Absolutely none. A press conference and reception will be held the evening of—”

  “—Edward X. Delaney,” he finished in heavy voice. “Chief, New York Police Department. I have an appointment at one o’clock with Saul Geltman.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Wait right here, please.”

  She disappeared into the jumble. They waited stolidly, inspecting. The walls were being repainted from a delft blue to a flat white. The white and black tiles were being laid in a diagonal diamond pattern. Temporary partitions were being erected to break up the room into several compartments of varying widths. Lighting fixtures of a brushed-steel teardrop design were being attached to the walls.

  “Must be costing a fortune,” Boone said.

  Delaney nodded.

  The girl was back in a few minutes.

  “This way, please,” she said nervously. “Mr. Geltman is expecting you. Watch where you step; everything is in such a mess.”

  She led them toward the rear. They watched where they stepped and arrived at the back office without misadventure. She stayed outside, motioned them in, closed the door behind them. The man behind the desk, talking on the telephone, smiled at them and lifted a hand to beckon them forward. He continued speaking on the phone as he waved them to armless chairs arranged in front of his desk. The chairs, in black leather on chrome frames, looked like jet-plane ejection seats. But they were comfortable enough.