Second Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  Delaney flipped through the book, one painting per page, glancing mostly at the selling prices.

  “He did all right,” he noted. “A gradual increase. He starts out at one hundred bucks and ends up with a hundred big ones.”

  “Yes, but look at these,” Geltman said, turning to the back of the book. “His new work that’ll be in the show. Unsold. Look at this one. Magnificent! I’ll get two hundred for that, I know. At least.”

  “And after these are gone?” Delaney asked. “No more Maitlands?”

  “Well, that I can’t say for sure,” Geltman said cautiously. “You know, most artists are nuts. They’re nuts! They do paintings and squirrel them away. For a rainy day. In case they get sick and can’t work. Or maybe just something to leave the wife and kiddies. Their inheritance.”

  “You think Maitland did that?”

  “I don’t know,” Geltman said, troubled. “He never said. Once I came right out and asked him, but he just laughed. So I don’t really know.”

  “I’m surprised Mrs. Maitland is letting you have this show,” Delaney said. “Letting you sell his last work.”

  “Surprised?” Geltman said. “Why should you be surprised?”

  “She told us she was suing you,” Delaney said, looking at him.

  Geltman laughed, went behind his desk to flop into his swivel chair.

  “She’ll have to get in line,” he said cheerfully. “Wives and widows of artists—the curse of my profession. If you can call it a profession. They all think we’re screwing their poor, impractical husbands. Well, there’s the ledger. I told Alma she’s welcome to bring her lawyer in and examine it any time she wants. I have all the canceled checks I gave Maitland. What she is afraid of finding, of course, and what she will find, is that he was doing paintings he wasn’t telling her about. The checks were given to him in person or mailed to his Mott Street studio. She didn’t know anything about it—but she suspected. He was spending that money himself.”

  “On what?” Delaney asked.

  “Wine, women, and song. But very easy on the song.”

  Delaney and Boone lowered themselves cautiously into their reclining chairs again.

  “Mr. Geltman,” Delaney asked, “what’s your personal opinion of Mrs. Maitland?”

  “Dear Alma? I knew her in the Village, you know. Twenty years ago. She tried her hand at painting for awhile, but gave it up. She was terrible. Just terrible. Much worse than me on my violin. So she decided to make her contribution to art by modeling. I admit she had an incredible body. Big. Junoesque. Maillol would have loved her. But you know what we called her in the Village then? The Ice Maiden. She wouldn’t screw. She-would-not-screw. I often wondered if she was a closet lez. So Maitland married her, that being the only way he could make her without her filing a rape charge.”

  “She told us she was his first model.”

  “Bullshit!” Saul Geltman said explosively. “He had plenty of models before she came along. And he layed them all: young, old, fat, thin, beautiful, ugly—he didn’t care. The man was a stallion. And after he married Alma, he told everyone she was the worst lay of the lot.”

  “Hardly a gentleman.”

  “No one ever accused Victor Maitland of that!”

  “Why did they stay married?”

  “Why not? He had someone to cook his meals and mix his paints, to run down to the store for a jug, and nurse him through his hangovers. Also, he had a free model. She had the type of body he liked. It was a good deal for him.”

  “What about her?” Delaney asked. “What did she get out of it?”

  Geltman leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling.

  “You’ve got to remember that the Ice Maiden was a very beautiful woman. Very. A lot of men were in love with her. Or thought they were. I might have thought so myself. Once. She loved that. Loved having men wildly in love with her. The center of attraction at any party. The professional virgin. I think it gave her a sense of power: all of us sniffing around with hard-ons. She didn’t believe there was any man who didn’t love her. She just took it for granted.”

  “Did Maitland love her?”

  “Come on, Chief; you know better than that. He probably told her he did. He’d tell a woman anything to get in her pants. And he was beginning to sell, so I guess she figured he was a good catch. So of course he made her miserable. He made everyone miserable. She just couldn’t believe he didn’t come home nights because he was out drinking or shafting someone older and uglier than she was. She wanted all of him. I mean all of him. But I’ll tell you something funny. Well … maybe not so funny. If he had been a good husband and didn’t cheat and swore off the booze, she still wouldn’t have been satisfied. She’d have wanted more of him and more and more and more, until she had him all. Then, I think, she would have turned to someone else.”

  “A barracuda,” Sergeant Abner Boone said suddenly, and then blushed when the other two looked at him in surprise.

  “Exactly, sergeant,” Geltman said gently. “A beautiful barracuda. But Victor wasn’t having any. He knew her greed, but he wasn’t about to be devoured. At least, that’s the way I figure it.”

  “Interesting,” Delaney said noncommittally. He snapped his notebook shut, struggled out of that damned chair again. Sergeant Boone followed suit. “Thank you very much, Mr. Geltman, for giving us so much of your valuable time. I hope you’ll be willing to see us again if it’s necessary.”

  “I told you, any time at all. Can I ask a question now?”

  “Of course.”

  “Those three drawings that were in the studio—what happened to them?”

  “They’re in my possession at the present time,” Delaney said. “They’ll be returned to Mrs. Maitland eventually.”

  “What did you think of them?” Geltman asked.

  “I thought they were very good.”

  “More than that,” the agent said. “I’ve seen some of his preliminary work before. I’ve sold some of it: drawings, studies for paintings. But those are something special. Rough, fast, strong. Something primitive there.”

  “Have any idea when they were done?”

  “No. Recently, I’d guess. Maybe just before he was killed.”

  “You said you didn’t recognize the model.”

  “No, I didn’t. Very young. Looked Spanish to me. Well … Puerto Rican or Cuban. Latin.”

  “Spanish?” Delaney said. “I thought Oriental.”

  “The body was too full to be Oriental, Chief. I’d say a Latin-type. But maybe Italian or Greek.”

  “Interesting,” Delaney said again. He moved toward the door. “Thank you once more, Mr. Geltman.”

  “Say!” the agent said, snapping his fingers. “I’m having a big reception here before the opening. A combination press party and just plain party. A kind of wake, I guess. A lot of important people. The beautiful people. Oy! And important customers, of course. How would you and the sergeant like to come? At eight o’clock on June ninth. Bring your wives. Or girlfriends. Plenty to eat and drink. How about it?”

  Chief Delaney turned slowly to smile at the agent.

  “That’s kind of you, Mr. Geltman,” he said softly. “I’d like very much to come.” He looked at Boone. The sergeant nodded.

  “Good, good, good,” Saul Geltman said, rubbing his palms together. “I’ll make certain you get invitations. And look, wear your uniforms if you like. Maybe then I won’t lose so many ashtrays!”

  They walked back to Boone’s car, parked on Lexington Avenue.

  “Reticent little fellow, isn’t he?” the sergeant said sardonically.

  “Oh I don’t know,” Delaney said. “It helped. We learned a lot.”

  “Did we, sir?” Boone said.

  In the car, Delaney glanced at his watch.

  “My God,” he groaned. “Almost three. Where does the time go? Can you get me home?”

  “Sure, Chief. Ten minutes.”

  On the ride uptown, Delaney said, “Yo
u’re going to check with more of the men who worked on the Maitland case? To see if they remember anything not in the reports?”

  “Right,” Boone said. “But I’m running out of names of guys I know. Could you give me some more from the file?”

  “Of course. Come in with me when we get home. I also want to give you the name and address of Mrs. Maitland’s friend. The one she had lunch with. To ask why the two of them didn’t go shopping together.”

  “Will do.”

  Just before they parked near Delaney’s brownstone, the Chief said, “You know, he’s not as frail as he looks. I hefted that ledger. It’s heavy, but he handled it like a feather. And did you catch the way he swung that safe door open? It must be six inches of steel. He didn’t have any trouble.”

  “Maybe the door was well balanced and well oiled, Chief.”

  “Not on those old safes,” Delaney said. “No way. It took muscle.”

  They spent a few moments in Delaney’s study while Sergeant Boone copied names and addresses in his notebook, and the Chief flipped through his notebook, fretting over cryptic jottings he had made during the interviews with Alma Maitland and Saul Geltman.

  “More questions than answers,” he grumbled. “We’ll have to see these people again. But I prefer to see all the principals first, before we start the second round.”

  Boone looked up.

  “What Geltman said about his financial condition,” he said. “The money he owed, the lawsuits, and so on … Was that legit?”

  “Apparently,” Delaney said. “It’s in the file. But maybe not as bad as he put it. He’s got some heavy loans. But those lawsuits are piddling stuff. One guy is suing because he wants to return a painting that his wife didn’t like, and Geltman won’t give him his money back. He seems to have a good income, but his bank balances don’t reflect it. You’d think a man who can make thirty G’s by picking up a phone would have something tucked away, but it looks like Mr. Geltman is suffering from a bad case of the shorts. I wonder where it goes? The next time we see him, let’s try to schedule it in his apartment. I’d like to see how he lives.”

  “Chief—” Boone started, then stopped.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “You think he’s a flit?”

  Delaney looked at him curiously.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A lot of little things,” Boone frowned. “None of them significant in themselves—but maybe they add up. He’s so fucking neat. The bracelet. Calling the interior designer a fag. There was no need for that. Except to prove his own masculinity, figuring we’d think that way, too. He’s got an ex-wife, he said. The way he touches himself. He said he might have loved Alma Maitland. Then he added, ‘Once.’ And that fake window. That’s flitty.”

  “You’re good,” Delaney said. “You really are. Good eye, good memory.”

  Boone blushed with pleasure.

  “But I don’t know,” Delaney said doubtfully. “As you say, each item is innocent. But maybe they do add up. Then we’ve got to ask ourselves, ‘So what?’”

  “Maybe he was in love with Maitland and couldn’t stand the thought of the guy alley-catting around.”

  “Original idea. Another possibility. That’s the trouble with this thing: all smoke, nothing solid. We’ll see Jake Dukker and Belle Sarazen tomorrow. That leaves only Maitland’s son, and his mother and sister up in Nyack. After we talk to all of them, we’ll sit down and try to—”

  There was a brisk rap-rap on the closed study door. Then it was opened, Monica Delaney stuck her head in …

  “Hullo, dear,” she said to her husband. “Rebecca and I just—Why, Sergeant Boone! How nice to see you again!”

  She came swiftly into the room. Abner Boone jerked to his feet, took the proffered hand, almost bowed over it.

  “Pleasure, ma’am,” he murmured.

  Chief Delaney carefully avoided smiling as he watched the effect of his wife’s formidable charm on the sergeant. It was strictly no contest.

  “Edward,” Monica said brightly, turning to him. “Rebecca and I have been shopping, and she came back with me for a cup of coffee. We stopped at the Eclair and bought some of those petits fours you love. Why don’t you and the sergeant take a minute off and have coffee with us? Just in the kitchen. Informal.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Delaney said, picking up his cue dutifully. “You, sergeant?”

  “Just fine,” Boone nodded.

  The poor fish, Delaney thought. He hasn’t got a chance.

  They sat around the kitchen table on wooden chairs, and laughed at Monica’s droll description of the trials and tribulations of shopping in crowded department stores.

  “And,” she concluded, “I know you’ll be happy to hear, dear, we didn’t buy a thing. Did we, Becky?”

  “Not a thing,” Rebecca Hirsch vowed.

  She was a shortish, plump jolly woman, with soft eyes set in a cherubic face. Her complexion seemed so limpid and fine that a finger’s touch might bruise it. She wore her black, glistening hair parted in the middle, falling unfettered to below her shoulders. Her body was undeniably chubby, but wrists and ankles were slender, hands and feet delicate. She moved with robust grace.

  She was wearing a tailored suit, but even beneath the heavy material, bosom and hips were awesome. There was a rosy glow to her, and if not especially beautiful, there was comfort in her prettiness and no guile in her manner. Her voice was light, somewhat flutey, but her laugh was hearty enough. Delaney found much enjoyment in chivying her. Not maliciously, but only to see those button eyes suddenly flash, the innocent mien change to outraged indignation.

  The talk bubbled. Nothing of an artist bleeding to death in a Mott Street tenement. Just the weather, the latest cosmic pronouncements of Mary and Sylvia Delaney, Rebecca’s continuing feud with the superior of a private day-care center where she worked four days a week, the high cost of flounder filets, and the problems of getting tickets to Broadway theatrical hits.

  “The problem is,” Rebecca Hirsch said seriously, “the problem is that it’s practically impossible to do anything on impulse these days. You decide in the evening that you’d like to go to a Broadway show or see a first-run movie. But then you discover you’ve got to buy tickets weeks in advance for the show or stand in line for three hours to see the movie. Don’t you agree, Sergeant Boone?”

  “Uh,” he said.

  “Or going somewhere,” Monica Delaney said quickly. “A trip or vacation. The planning!”

  “Yes,” Chief Delaney nodded solemnly. “The planning …”

  His wife looked at him blandly.

  “You were going to say, dear?” she asked.

  “Just agreeing,” he said equably. “Just agreeing.”

  After a while, the coffee finished, the petits fours demolished, Rebecca Hirsch rose to her feet.

  “Gotta go,” she sang. “One dog, two cats, three African violets, and a mean-tempered parakeet to feed. Monica, Edward, thank you for the feast.”

  “Feast!” Monica scoffed. “A nosh.”

  “The calories!” Rebecca said. “Sergeant Boone, nice to have met you.”

  “I’m leaving too,” he said. “I have a car outside. Can I drop you anywhere?”

  They left together. Monica and Edward Delaney waved from the stoop. Inside, the door closed, she turned to him proudly.

  “See?” she said triumphantly.

  That evening, after dinner, alone in his study, Chief Edward X. Delaney carefully wrote out complete reports of his day’s activities: the questioning of Mrs. Maitland and Geltman. He wrote slowly, in the beautifully legible Palmer method he had been taught. Twice he rose to mix a rye highball, but most of the time he sat heavily in one position as he doggedly put the interviews down on paper, consulting his notebook occasionally for exact quotes, but generally relying on his memory for the substance, mood and undertone of the meetings.

  When he had finished, he read over what he had written, made several minor correc
tions, and appended lists of additional questions to ask at further interviews. Then he filed the reports away in the proper folders, and pondered the usefulness of asking Sergeant Boone for copies of his reports. He decided not to, for the time being. He went up to bed.

  Shortly after midnight, the bedside phone shrilled, and Delaney was instantly awake. He grabbed it off the hook before the second ring was finished, then moved cautiously, trying not to disturb Monica.

  “Edward X. Delaney here,” he said in a low voice.

  “Chief, this is Boone. Sorry to disturb you at this hour. I hope you’re still awake. I’d hate to think—”

  “What is it?” Delaney asked, wondering if Boone was sober.

  “I spoke to four guys who worked the Maitland case. Got nothing from them, but at least they were reasonably friendly. But that’s not why I’m calling. I finally got through to Susan Hemley. She’s the friend of Mrs. Maitland. The friend who had lunch with her that Friday.”

  “I know.”

  “The reason I’m calling so late is that she had a date and just got home. And the reason she didn’t go shopping that Friday morning with Alma Maitland is that she couldn’t. She’s got a job. She’s a working girl.”

  “Simple solution,” Delaney sighed. “We should have thought of it.”

  “Not so simple,” Abner Boone said. “Just for the hell of it, I asked her where she worked. Are you ready for this? At Simon and Brewster, attorneys-at-law, on East Sixty-eighth Street. She’s the personal secretary of J. Julian Simon, Saul Geltman’s lawyer.”

  There was silence.

  “Chief?” Boone said. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here. I heard. Any ideas?”

  “None. Total confusion. You?”

  “Let’s talk about it in the morning. Thank you for calling, sergeant.”

  He hung up and rolled carefully back under the covers. But Monica stirred.

  “What is it?” she murmured.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  6

  SERGEANT BOONE APOLOGIZED FOR his late call the previous night.