by Gerald Elias
She cackled. She was talking fast now. It wasn’t her voice.
“She didn’t like it that I slept with Strella and Dedubian,” Rachel said. “She kept telling me not to. But there was nothing she could do about it.”
“She was doing that for your own good, Rachel.”
“You old fool, you think you know everything. She didn’t like it because she was jealous they weren’t fucking her anymore!”
“Rachel!”
“And you know what? You know what?” She was laughing uncontrollably. “You know who she ended up sleeping with?”
Jacobus was silent.
“Me! She was having sex with the booby prize!
“Both of you ruined my life. Both of you thought you were God. But you’re not. I proved that with Victoria, didn’t I? And you stole the violin. Pizzi wasn’t the only one who heard you tell Victoria! You stole the violin for your little honey, Yumi, just so I wouldn’t have it. But now it’s going to be mine.”
“Mr. Jacobus, Mr. Jacobus,” Cynthia whispered. “The lights are back on.”
Shit, there goes my advantage.
“And she’s holding a music stand. With blood on it.”
“Thanks.”
“How did you know I have your string?” asked Rachel.
I better keep her talking, Jacobus thought. Only chance now.
He said, “At first I thought you took the G-string off my violin and returned to Victoria’s office to kill her with it. But that couldn’t have been right, could it, because if you had planned on killing Victoria there was no way of knowing for sure that my violin would be left alone, and you couldn’t have known when, where, or even if she and I would have a confrontation.”
“But I set it up pretty well, didn’t I, Jake? I even had that cop show up at the right time.”
“You certainly did, Rachel. You had your own G-string ready in advance. And when you heard Victoria and me arguing in her office, you waited in the hallway until I left Victoria’s room.”
“And you walked right past me!” Rachel chuckled grotesquely, deep in her throat. “All I had to do was stand still. I know how careful I have to be around you, the great Daniel Jacobus. But it was so easy. So easy. I just stood still. I’m good at standing still, aren’t I? My whole life has been one long standing still. Until now. You never knew it was me, did you?”
“No, not at first. At first I actually suspected Yumi, after Victoria humiliated her. That might have been a motive. And Yumi knew where my violin was and could have easily taken my string without anyone knowing. I thought maybe she was trying to frame me for some reason.
“But then it occurred to me that you too knew which was my violin. You figured, why not kill two birds with one stone. So after you killed Victoria, you sneaked backstage and took the G-string off my violin to make it look like I did it. Only problem is I use Harmonium strings and you use Megatones, like all of Victoria’s students. The wrapping on Megatones is red and white, and the wrapping on Harmoniums is blue. Malachi confirmed to me that the string used to kill Victoria was red and white.”
“You can’t prove that just because it was a Megatone it was mine and not yours.”
“You don’t think so? I think so,” said Jacobus. “When the crime lab compares the kind of rosin found on the string with the rosin on our violins, they’ll figure out who the string belongs to. When they measure the distance of the rosin residue from the end of the string and compare it to the distances on the strings still on our violins they’ll see that you, like all of Victoria’s students, play closer to the bridge than I do because all she cared about was power, not quality.
“And maybe I didn’t know your exact motive, Rachel, but I realized what sent you over the edge.”
“What do you mean?”
“You remember when you were telling me that Victoria had told you that you had played the Paganini Concerto ‘note perfect’?”
“So?”
“Well, for you to have been surrounded by young students like that student . . . what was her name?”
“Noriko Watanabe. One of the twits,” Rachel hissed.
“Yes. One of the twits. For you to have been around students like that and then she goes and plays the thing a lot less than ‘note perfect,’ well, that must’ve been very humiliating for someone of your skills.”
“You don’t know what humiliation is, Jake. Did it ever occur to you that I’ve known all along that there’s something in the music I wasn’t getting? How do you think that feels, that no matter how hard you try, how hard you work, how hard you try to understand, you know you’ll never feel what you’re supposed to feel? Isn’t that bad enough? Isn’t that torture enough? And then to be demeaned by people like you. Like Victoria. After that stage show the two of you put on that was called a master class? That charade? And then to hear the sniggers behind your back by twits half your age because of the judgments descending from on high by god almighties like you and her? To be made to feel like you’re subhuman?”
“But I do know humiliation, Rachel.” Jacobus choked back tears. “More than you can know. And I also know why you’re here tonight. Kamryn’s going to play the Paganini Concerto too. Another twit. And on the Piccolino, no less. But I made a mistake.”
“You, the great Daniel Jacobus, made a mistake?” Rachel spat.
“Yeah, even I can make a mistake. I thought you’d wait until after the performance. Isn’t that stupid of me? See, I thought you’d return to the scene of the first crime, when the Piccolino was stolen, where there’d be a crowd, commotion, distractions. More chance of fading into the woodwork. More chance of framing the original suspects. That’s why you’ve got my own Harmonium G-string with you right now, isn’t it? Because you were planning to frame me for yet another murder. But I guess I was just being too poetic thinking about the timing. You really couldn’t stand to hear Kamryn play tonight, could you?”
“No,” said Rachel. “I couldn’t.”
What else? Have to keep this going. She’s getting restless.
“And then, you know, if Yumi had wanted to find Victoria’s room in order to go and kill her, she would’ve had to ask someone, anyone, for directions. She doesn’t know Carnegie Hall. That would have been dangerous for her, you know, to ask directions, if she was going to kill someone. But you . . . you know your way around the building as well as anyone. Well enough to know where the main light switch is. Well enough to go get a key to this door when you found it locked.”
Rachel laughed. “Those security guards never knew what hit them. And with a music stand! How poetic! I do pretty well in the dark, like you, don’t I, Jake?”
Jacobus forced himself to laugh.
“And what better moment for you to strike at Victoria than when both Yumi and I would have motive, means, and opportunity? Very clever, Rachel. Very clever. I must admit.”
“But how did you know your little sweetheart Yumi didn’t kill . . . ? Didn’t kill . . . ?”
Jacobus didn’t know whether to thank God she was taking the bait as he stalled for his life, or to deny His existence, for how could a God permit this girl, unable even to say the name of the person she killed, to endure such wretched misery? What would Father McCawley say to that?
How long do I have to stall until those assholes get here? he asked himself.
“Well, if Yumi had gone into Victoria’s room at that point, knowing Victoria, she would have confronted Yumi. If Yumi had wanted to kill her, there would have been a huge struggle. I’m not even sure who would’ve won. As it was there were no signs of violence, except of course the G-string.
“So you went into Victoria’s room,” prodded Jacobus. “She had no reason to fear you, even with the Megatone string in your hand. She trusted you, Rachel. You waited until her back was turned and then wrapped it around her neck. Isn’t that what happened, Rachel?”
“And framed you in the process. I told you I was a winner, Jake.”
Jacobus heard footsteps running down
the hall. Several pairs of welcome footsteps.
“Then the final clue. It’s been puzzling me. I just have one question, Rachel.”
“Not two?”
“Just one.”
“So what is it this time, Mr. Genius?”
“If you hated Victoria so much, why do you still wear her perfume?”
Rachel uttered an inhuman, groaning animal sound.
Jacobus heard the sudden clang of the music stand as Rachel hoisted it up above her head, base up. Cynthia Vander screamed. Jacobus, sensing Rachel’s onrush, raised the fabled Piccolino Stradivarius in front of him for protection.
A familiar grunt. The door shattering on its hinges as it slammed open, rebounding against the wall.
“Nathaniel, turn off the lights!” shouted Jacobus.
“Yumi . . .”
Then, the impact of the music stand against the violin. Jacobus heard its neck snap with a nauseating crack, causing the tailpiece to rip off, protesting strings twanging angrily. The bridge collapsed with a bang like a gunshot and the sound post burst through the top. The shuddering blow glancing off the violin shattered his glasses. Then, the stunning pain in his temple.
Jacobus opened his eyes. He looked up. The light blinded him. He closed his eyes but still couldn’t keep it out.
Where am I? he asked himself. On the floor? No, not the floor. Someone’s lap.
He opened his eyes again. Someone holding my head. With bloody hands.
Others here. Outlines. The light’s so bright.
“Nathaniel. My old friend Nathaniel.” Jacobus tried to talk but managed only a hoarse croaking sound. “What I do for a pastrami sandwich, huh?”
“Don’t talk, Jake.”
Damn light killing my eyes. Who else?
“We got her, Jacobus,” said Detective Malachi. “Thanks to you.”
“Lilburn, is that you?” asked Jacobus.
“Yes, Mr. Jacobus.”
“Figured. You look as pompous as you sound. So you got your big story.”
“Yes. Thank you. I got it.”
The pain in his head was intolerable.
“Yeah, my obituary.”
He tried to laugh but only choked. Who’s holding me? he wondered.
He twisted around, craning his neck, to see the face that belonged to the hands that cradled his head.
“Yumi . . . Yumi,” he said. There was light behind her. She was glowing.
“Jake,” Yumi said, trying to smile through tears.
He smiled back. She called me Jake, he thought.
“Beautiful as your grandmother . . . almost,” he whispered hoarsely, just before he was engulfed by a wave of darkness even deeper than that to which he was accustomed.
CODA
THIRTY-SEVEN
On the seventh day, Jacobus awoke. He lay there for some time and simply listened, unable to move. It took him a great deal of effort to translate thought into the mechanics of speech, especially with a tube down his throat.
“So, Padre,” he finally said in a whisper, “you have a cigarette?”
Father McCawley almost dropped his book, clutching at it just before it hit the ground.
“My God, Mr. Jacobus,” said McCawley, “you almost startled me to death. How did you know I was here?”
“Who else would sit so patiently at the bedside of a dying man, turning page after page. What else could it be but a Bible? You’ve come to read me my last rites?”
“Only at your request, Mr. Jacobus.”
With supreme effort Jacobus raised his head an inch from the pillow.
“Then get the hell out of here!” he said with as much force as he could muster.
Father McCawley’s laughter faded as Jacobus fell back to the bed. From what seemed like a great distance, the last thing he heard was the priest saying, “Mr. Jacobus, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” before he returned to a deep sleep.
Nathaniel had been by his side since day one in the hospital, refusing to leave except when people like Yumi or Father McCawley came to visit and insist he get some rest. Mostly he sat with his arms folded. Occasionally his head slumped to his chest and he joined Jacobus in sleep. He was determined to protect his friend even if he didn’t know from what. Sylvia brought a gallon of chicken soup from the Carnegie Deli for Jacobus. The doctor on call told her it wouldn’t help. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt” was her reply, and she left it there.
Nathaniel had brought his reel-to-reel tape recorder to play dusted-off tapes from their old Dumky Trio days, hoping that the music’s rays of light would somehow penetrate the dark depths of Jacobus’s slumber. Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Dvořák were his chicken soup for Jake.
When Jacobus woke again, a week later, he felt much better.
There was the music. There was the soup. There was also a large bottle of Suntory whiskey, President’s Special Blend, from Max. That would definitely help with his recovery. Salvador came by to see how Jacobus was doing.
There was a simple but elegant porcelain vase of purple irises from Kate, which he didn’t remove from his sill even though the blooms, which he could still smell, had no doubt faded. The note with them, read by his nurse, said, “Thank you for the lovely souvenirs. The invitation to visit is still, and always will be, open.” The nurse also read the terse note from Father McCawley. “Please call,” and the phone number. Those Catholics, thought Jacobus, never give up.
Though Jacobus now had only a small bandage left to show for his wound, Yumi insisted on coming daily to tend to him whether he wanted her to or not. She was trying to convince Jacobus to allow her to help him finish his book as payment for her violin lessons.
Detective Al Malachi visited and succinctly filled Jacobus in on what had transpired.
“That night in Carnegie Hall, in the Green Room, Nathaniel Williams bursts in, Yumi Shinagawa right behind him. Just before he shuts off the lights, she reaches for the first thing she can throw—a desk bust of Holbrooke Grimsley—and hurls it at the perp, Rachel Lewison. The statuette hits the perp’s arm, and, combined with the lights being out, causes her to panic and misdirect her swing of the music stand, saving your life.
“The perp was ultimately subdued by the combined efforts of Williams, Shinagawa, and myself, and taken into custody, where she is at present awaiting trial for the murder of Victoria Jablonski. Security guards Pizzi and Robison have recovered from head wounds and concussions. Pizzi has decided to retire. Robison is on paid sick leave.”
Jacobus did not press any charges from his own encounter with Rachel. In fact, he planned to cooperate with her defense lawyer to testify on her behalf. Temporary insanity would be the plea, no doubt. Jacobus hoped, but was not confident, that “temporary” was an accurate diagnosis. Malachi couldn’t understand why Jacobus wouldn’t assist the prosecution of someone who had tried to kill him, but they parted on friendly terms nevertheless. Kamryn Vander’s Paganini performance, of course, had been canceled and all future Grimsley Competitions as well, thereby providing Trevor Grimsley ample time to concentrate on plea bargaining with the IRS attorneys.
The New York Times, encouraged that the arts world for once could produce news that would actually help its circulation, covered the MAP story thoroughly. Lilburn had submitted the taped conversation between Jacobus and Anthony Strella to the news bureau, and an investigation had been opened. With both the Times and the IRS breathing down his neck, Strella had little choice but to take his final bow from concert management. He was known to be seeking employment, as yet unsuccessfully, in the investment field.
Nathaniel reluctantly declined his $1.6 million commission from Intercontinental Insurance Associates with the excuse that in the long run the goodwill was more important for his business. It had not been an easy decision. Even Jacobus had urged him to take the money. “Don’t be a schmuck. Think of all the doughnuts!” But Nathaniel explained why, and Jacobus couldn’t disagree.
Intercontinental Insuran
ce, perplexed but overjoyed at its unexpected windfall, was quite content to pay the substantial claim to repair the significant, but not lethal, damage that the violin had suffered. However, any claims that might have been staked regarding the violin’s “perfection” were clearly no longer applicable.
Dedubian himself did the restoration. When the work was finished, the Piccolino looked as astonishingly beautiful as ever, but nevertheless the damage it had received made its value only a fraction of what it had been in its virgin condition.
Grimsley, his ardor for the world of classical music grown cold and in need of a considerable amount of cash, arranged a Russian Tea Room luncheon with Solomon Goldbloom. He agreed to sell the Piccolino at an exceedingly low price to the delighted Goldbloom, who had little difficulty convincing Grimsley that he would get a much better rate of return from the cash he was offering than from the modest annual appreciation of a broken three-quarter-size violin. Goldbloom was so tickled by his good fortune he even paid for the lunch.
Gradually Jacobus’s head began to feel better, and they removed the tubes. One day he received a New York Times article in Braille and a gift from Martin Lilburn. Nathaniel told him the gift was Alfred Brendel’s recording of the complete Beethoven piano works, and he read Lilburn’s inscription on the record jacket. “Have decided to play the piano again. Only one lifetime!” Jacobus waited until night, when the hospital was quiet and the well-wishers were all gone, before reading the article, in order to savor the moment. His fingers felt along the embossed text, reading and rereading it, regretting and relishing its content.
Martin Lilburn to Resign from Times Staff
By Martin Lilburn
It is not standard practice for a journalist to report in the first person. I have never done so until now. As I am the subject of this story, however, it does not seem inappropriate.
I have been a major player in a long-standing and cruel charade. Acting as a member of the Musical Arts Project Group simultaneous with my responsibilities as a reporter—a clear conflict of interest—I have disseminated tainted opinions about musicians whose performances I have attended. These opinions, appearing as they have in this distinguished newspaper, have molded, if not actually created, public perception of the abilities of these artists, and so have affected their careers and their lives; sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, but in many cases falsely.
