Second Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “It could have waited, Chief,” he admitted. “It wasn’t all that important. But I got excited. It’s the first new thing we’ve turned up. It wasn’t in the file, was it?”

  “No,” Delaney said. “No, it wasn’t. I looked this morning, in case I had missed it.”

  They were seated in Boone’s car, parked in front of the Chief’s brownstone. Both men had their black notebooks open.

  “I stayed awake half the night trying to figure it,” the sergeant said. “Then I thought, what the hell, the two were just friends, that’s all. Why shouldn’t Mrs. Maitland be friendly with the secretary of Geltman’s lawyer? That’s probably how they met. But then I remembered how hostile Mrs. Maitland sounded when you mentioned Geltman’s name. So maybe she was using the secretary as a private pipeline, to keep track of what the little guy was up to. What do you think?”

  “That could be,” Delaney nodded. “Except the two had lunch at Le Provençal on East Sixty-second Street. That’s not far from the Geltman Galleries. If Mrs. Maitland was playing footsie with this Susan Hemley, maybe even paying her for information, wouldn’t she have picked some place for lunch where there was no danger of running into Geltman?”

  “I suppose so,” Boone sighed. “Right now, it makes no sense at all, no matter how you figure it.”

  “One thing’s certain,” Delaney said grimly. “We’re going to have a talk with J. Julian Simon and the Hemley woman.”

  “Today?”

  “If we have time. Belle Sarazen first, at ten o’clock. Then Jake Dukker at two this afternoon. We’ll see how it goes. You know where the Sarazen woman lives?”

  “Yes, sir!” Boone said. Then he grinned. “Wait’ll you see her place. A Persian whorehouse.”

  He pulled out slowly into traffic and headed north to Eighty-fifth Street, to take a traverse across Central Park to the West Side. There was a fine, warm mist in the air, but they had the windows open. The sun glowed dimly behind a grey scrim; it looked like it might burn through by noon.

  “The file was skimpy on Belle Sarazen,” Delaney remarked. “Seemed to me everyone was walking on eggs. You said you questioned her twice. What was your take?”

  “Remember the Canfield case?” Abner Boone asked. “In Virginia? About ten, fifteen years ago?”

  “Canfield?” Delaney repeated. “Wasn’t he the heir to tobacco money who got his head blown off? His wife said she thought she was blasting an intruder?”

  “That’s the one. Our Belle was the gal behind the twelve-gauge. Buckshot. Spread him all over the bedroom wall. She was Belle Canfield then. Youngish wife, oldish husband. He was an heir all right, but they kept him out of the tobacco business. Heavy drinker and heavy gambler. There had been attempts to break in; no doubt about that. In fact, he had bought her the shotgun for protection and taught her how to use it. Still, she knew he was out with the boys that night and pulled the trigger without even asking, ‘Is that you, darling?’ The coroner’s jury—or whatever they have down there—called it ‘a tragic accident,’ and she waltzed away with almost two mil.”

  “And the county prosecutor retired to the French Riviera one year later.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Boone laughed, “but the Canfields practically owned that county and were kissin’ cousins to half the money in Virginia. The Sarazens weren’t money, but they were family: one of the oldest in the state. Belle sold the old plantation and the horses and moved to Paris. She cut a wide swath through Europe. French poets, English race drivers, Italian princes, and Spanish bullfighters. And I think there was a Polish weightlifter in there somewhere. The money lasted for five years and three marriages. Then she came back to the States and married a Congressman.”

  “Now I remember!” Delaney said. “Burroughs of Ohio. The guy who dropped dead while making a speech against socialized medicine.”

  “Right! But while he was alive, Belle was the most popular hostess in Washington. The scandal mags said John Kennedy, quote, Enjoyed her hospitality, unquote. Anyway, after the Congressman conked, she came up to New York. Still has a lot of political friends.”

  “Oh-ho,” Delaney nodded. “I’m beginning to understand why the file was so cautious. But she doesn’t use any of her married names; that’s probably why I didn’t make her.”

  “No, now she’s just plain Belle Sarazen, a little ole gal from Raccoon Ford, V-A. But she’s still flying high, wide, and handsome. One of Saul Geltman’s Beautiful People. The Jet Set. Gives lavish parties. In big with the art and museum crowd. Contributes to the Democrats. Models for charity fashion shows and for fashion magazines, and sometimes for artists and photographers.”

  “She must be pushing forty,” Delaney said. “At least.”

  “At least,” Boone agreed. “But she’s got the body of an eighteen-year-old. You’ll see.”

  “Where does the money come from?” Delaney asked. “For these lavish parties and political contributions?”

  “I think she hustles,” Boone said, then laughed when he glanced sideways and saw Delaney’s startled expression. “No con, Chief. I asked her directly. I said, ‘What is the main source of your income, Miss Sarazen?’ And she said, ‘Men give me gifts.’ So naturally, I said, ‘Money gifts?’ And she said, ‘Is there any other kind?’ Maybe she was putting me on, but I doubt it. She just doesn’t give a damn.”

  “Did Maitland give her money?”

  “According to her, yes. Plenty. Did they have sex together? Yes. Did she love him? God, no, she said, he was a savage. But she thought he was amusing. Her word: ‘amusing.’”

  “Yes, I read that in your report. Where did you pick up the other stuff on her? The background stuff?”

  “From her scrapbooks. She’s got three fat scrapbooks of newspaper clippings about herself. And magazine articles. Photos with famous people. Letters from politicians and royalty. She let me go through them as long as I wanted.”

  “Anything from Maitland? Or about Maitland?”

  “Not a thing, sir. And I looked carefully.”

  “I’m sure you did, sergeant. It must be that building—the highrise across from Lincoln Center. Listen, I noticed in our interviews with Mrs. Maitland and Geltman that you hardly opened your mouth. Don’t be afraid to speak up. If you think of something I haven’t covered, ask it.”

  “I’d rather let you carry the ball, sir. First of all, they’re liable to be more intimidated by a chief than a sergeant. And also, I’m studying your interrogation technique.”

  “My technique?” Delaney said, smiling. “Now I’m amused.”

  The door to the twenty-ninth-floor penthouse was opened by a Filipino manservant wearing livery of an unusual color: a blue-grey with an undertint of red. Not lilac or purple or violet, but something of all three. Looking around at the Persian whorehouse, Delaney saw the identical shade had been used on the painted walls, the curtains and drapes, the upholstered furniture, even the hassocks, pillows, and picture frames. The effect was that of a purpled grotto, a monochromatic cave that tinged skin and even seemed to color the air.

  “I tell Miss Sarazen you are here, gentlemens,” the butler said, almost lisping “Mith Tharathen,” but not quite.

  He disappeared into an inner room. They stood uneasily, hats in hand, looking about the stained chamber.

  “Is the whole place like this?” Delaney whispered.

  “No,” Boone whispered back. “Every room a different color. The bedroom is blood-red. I had to use the can; it’s dead black. The one I used was. She said that the place has three bathrooms.”

  “Hustling must be good,” Delaney murmured.

  The Filipino was back in a moment, to lead them down a hallway with walls covered with framed autographed photos. He ushered them into a bedroom, closed the door behind them. Here, again, was a one-color room: blood-red walls, curtains, drapes, bedspread, carpet, furniture—everything. The only striking exceptions were the white leotard, silvered hair, and chammy skin of the woman exercising near wide French doors. T
hey led to a tiled terrace that provided a view, in the distance, of Central Park and the towers of the East Side.

  “Sit down anywhere, darlings,” she called to them, not interrupting her slow, steady movements. “There’s champagne and orange juice on the cocktail table. Push the intercom button by the bedside table for anything stronger—or weaker.”

  They sat cautiously in fat armchairs with plump red cushions, facing the French doors. Daylight was behind the woman. There was a nimbus about her, a glow; it was difficult to make out her features.

  She was seated on the floor, legs spread wide, flat out. She was bending from the hips, touching right hand to bare left toes, then left hand to bare right toes, the free arm windmilling high in the air. She wore a skin-tight white leotard, cut high to the hipbones, tight over the crotch. A soft mound there. The garment was sleeveless, strapped—a tanktop.

  The body was that of a dancer, long-legged, hard, with flat rump, muscled thighs, sinewy arms, small breasts (nipples poking), and a definite break between ribcage and waist. Her exercise was strenuous—both men realized they could not have done it—but she had not huffed or gasped when she spoke, and Delaney saw no sweat stains on the leotard.

  The silvery hair was fine, cut short and parted on the left. It was combed and brushed sideways, like a boy’s haircut. It lay absolutely flat against her well-shaped skull: no wave, no curl, no loose tips or bounce to it. A helmet of hair, as tight and gleaming as beaten metal.

  She ended her toe-touching, folded her legs, bent forward and rose to her feet without using her hands for support. Chief Delaney heard Sergeant Boone’s low groan of envy.

  “I want to thank you, Miss Sarazen,” Delaney said mechanically, “for seeing us on such short notice.”

  She stood erect, feet about eighteen inches apart, clasped her hands over her head as high as she could reach. She began to bend slowly to each side alternately, hips level, her upper torso coming down almost to the horizontal.

  “Call me Belle, sweet,” she said. “All my friends call me Belle. Even the Scarecrow calls me Belle. Don’t you, Scarecrow?”

  Boone turned to Delaney with a sickly smile.

  “I’m the Scarecrow,” he said. “Yes, Belle,” he said to her.

  “I hope we’re going to be friends,” she said, still bending steadily. “I so want to be friends with the famous Edward X. Delaney,”

  “Not so famous,” he said tonelessly.

  “Famous enough. I’m a fan of yours, you know. I imagine I know things about you that even you’ve forgotten.”

  “Do you?” he asked, uncomfortable, realizing he was losing the initiative.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “The Durkee case is my favorite.”

  He was startled. The Durkee case had happened twenty years ago. It had certainly been in the New York papers, but he doubted if anyone in Raccoon Ford, or in all of Virginia for that matter, had read of it.

  Ronald Durkee, a Queens auto mechanic, had gone fishing in Long Island Sound early one Saturday morning, despite threatening weather and small-craft warnings. When he had not returned by midnight, his distraught young wife reported his absence to the police. Durkee’s boat was found floating overturned a few hundred yards offshore. No sign of Ronald Durkee.

  The missing man had twenty thousand in life insurance, was in deep to the loansharks, and was known to be a strong swimmer. When the wife applied almost immediately for the insurance, Delaney figured it for attempted fraud. He broke it by convincing the wife that her missing husband had a girlfriend, even producing a fraudulent photograph to show her.

  “This is the woman, Mrs. Durkee. Pretty, isn’t she? We think he ran off with her, I’m sorry to say. Apparently he was seeing her on his lunch hour and after work. He did come home late from work occasionally, didn’t he? We have statements from her neighbors. They identified your husband. He visited her frequently. I hate to be the one to tell you this, Mrs. Durkee, but we think he’s gone off with her. Florida, probably. Too bad, Mrs. Durkee. Well, they say the wife is the last to know.”

  And so on. After a week of this, she broke, and Delaney picked up Ronald Durkee in a motel near LaGuardia Airport where he had grown a mustache and was patiently waiting for his wife to show up with the insurance money. Delaney wasn’t particularly proud of his role in the case, but you worked with what you had.

  It had, resulted in a lot of newspaper stories, and his name had become known. A year later he was promoted to lieutenant.

  “The Durkee case?” he said. He could not bring himself to address her as Belle. “That was long before you came to New York. You must have been checking into my background.”

  “As you checked into mine, dearie,” she said. Her voice was lilting, laughing, with just a hint of soft Virginia drawl. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. You seem to make no secret of it.”

  “Oh, I have no secrets at all,” she said. “From anyone.”

  She began reaching high overhead, then bending deeply from the hips to touch the floor. But not with her fingertips; her palms. He could see then what a slender, whippy body she had. No excess anywhere. He recalled with pleasure a line from an old movie he had enjoyed. Spencer Tracy looking at Katharine Hepburn: “Not much meat on her, but what there is, is cherce.”

  “Then you know I killed my husband,” Belle Sarazen said casually. “My first husband. Four husbands ago. A tragic accident.”

  “Yes, I know of it.”

  “Tell me, Edward X. Delaney,” she said mockingly, “if you had been investigating that, what would you have done?”

  “My usual routine,” he said coldly, tiring of her flippancy. “First, I would have checked to see if your husband really was out drinking with the boys that night. Or was he with another woman? Or if not that night, then any other night? Was there another woman in his life, or more than one other woman, that would make you jealous enough to blow away an intruder without yelling, ‘Who’s there?’ or screaming or maybe just firing your shotgun into the ceiling to scare him away?”

  “What time is it?” she asked suddenly.

  Abner Boone glanced at his watch.

  “Almost ten-thirty, Belle,” he said.

  “Close enough,” she said. “That’s my daily hour devoted to the carcass.”

  She stopped exercising. Came toward them. Turned on a floor lamp (with a blood-red shade). Bent forward to shake the Chief’s hand.

  “Edward X. Delaney,” she said. “A pleasure. Scarecrow, good to see you again. I have this pitcher of champagne and orange juice waiting for me. A reward for my labors. Somewhat flat, which is good for little girls in the morning. Anything for you boys? Coffee?”

  “That would be appreciated,” Delaney said. “You, sergeant?”

  Boone nodded. They watched her push a button and speak into a small intercom on the bedside table. No one said anything until the manservant entered bearing a silver tray with coffee pot, sugar bowl and creamer, two cups, saucers, spoons. She poured for them. They both refused sugar and cream. Delaney leaned forward to examine the tray.

  “Handsome,” he said. “Very old, isn’t it?”

  “So I understand,” she said carelessly. “Daddy said it belonged to Thomas Jefferson—but who knows? Listen to Virginians, and Thomas Jefferson must have owned six thousand silver serving trays.”

  She folded down onto the floor at their feet. Went down without putting a hand out to aid her. She sat in the Lotus Position, back straight, knees bent and legs crossed so tightly that each foot rested on the opposite thigh, soles turned almost straight up. She sipped from a champagne glass that had not lost a drop during her descent.

  “Yoga,” she said. “Ever try it?”

  “Not me,” Delaney said. “You, sergeant?” he asked solemnly.

  “No sir.”

  “Keeps the spine flexible,” she said. “Puts pow in the pelvis. Improves performance.” She winked at them.

  Delaney could see her triangular face clearly now. High
cheekbones—Indian blood there?—tight skin, somewhat slanted eyes widely spaced. Open, astonished eyes. Thin lips extended a bit above the skin line with rouge to give the impression of soft fullness. Hard chin. Small ears revealed by the short, flat silvered hair. Thin nose, patrician, with oval nostrils. Not a wrinkle, mark, or imperfection. She felt Delaney’s stare.

  “I work at it,” she said laconically.

  “You succeed,” he assured her, and meant it.

  “You want to know about Victor Maitland,” she said, more of a statement than a question. “Again?”

  “Not really,” Chief Delaney said. “I want to know about Jake Dukker. What’s your personal opinion of him?”

  He noted, with some satisfaction, her small start of surprise. He had her off-balance.

  “Jake Dukker,” she repeated. “Well, Jake is an artist.”

  “We know that.”

  “Very facile, very competent. You cops are lucky he never decided to become a forger. Jake can copy anyone’s style. Rembrandt, Picasso, Andy Warhol … you name it.”

  “Could he copy Victor Maitland?”

  “Of course he could. If he wanted to. But why should he? Jake does very well indeed doing his own thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Whatever’s selling. Superficial stuff. Very trendy. As soon as something shows signs of making money, Jake gets in on it. Abstracts, Calligraphy, Pop-Art, Op-Art, Photo-Realism—he’s been into it all. You know what he’s doing now? You’ll never guess. Not in a million years. A nude of me painted on aluminum foil. Ask him to show it to you. Fan-tas-tic. It’s not finished yet, but it’s already sold.”

  “Who bought it?” Sergeant Boone asked quickly.

  “A friend of mine,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “A very important man.”

  “Do you model frequently?” Delaney asked.

  She nodded. “Mostly nudes. I enjoy it. Painters and photographers.” She looked down at her body, stroked her small, hard breasts, ribs, waist, hips, her bare thighs. “Not a bad bod for a thirty-five-year-old chippy—right, men? I have this friend who wants to make a plaster cast of my body. The whooole thing. But I’m not sure I want to. I understand it gets hot as hell while that plaster is hardening. Is that right?”