Edwin of the Iron Shoes Page 13

  “Ms. Brosig?” Marcus’s voice was kind. “I’m Lieutenant Marcus of Homicide and this is Ms. McCone. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  She shrugged wearily. “I’ve already told the other detective everything that happened, but go ahead, if you must.”

  “Thank you.” Marcus sat down on the couch, and I perched on the edge of a nearby chair. “Did you expect to see Mr. van Osten tonight?”

  She sighed. “We didn’t have any specific plans, but we usually got together for a drink or two.”

  “So far as you know, Mr. van Osten was planning to spend the evening at home, alone?”

  “No. I thought he’d had an appointment, but he must not have. His lights were on, and the music was playing when I got home.”

  “When was that?”

  “Around nine. I’d been working overtime—I’m a secretary at Crocker Bank—and I’d brought some carry-out from McDonald’s. I ate, then changed and went over to see Oliver but … but he was dead.” Tears filled her eyes but did not spill over.

  Marcus nodded sympathetically. “What made you think Mr. van Osten had an evening appointment?”

  “I’m not certain. I just guessed he had one from what he said this afternoon when he called me at work. You see, we had plans for a trip to Mexico, and I was supposed to make arrangements through the bank’s travel agent. Oliver called and said to hold off because he had a deal to close, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take. He said he might know where he stood tonight, and certainly by the weekend. I assumed he must be meeting with someone.”

  Marcus and I exchanged glances. The final shipment to Joan Albritton would be here by the weekend.

  “Did he mention what kind of deal?” Marcus asked Dorothy Brosig.

  She shook her head. “We didn’t discuss his business much. I don’t even know his customers, except for the old lady.”

  “The old lady?” Marcus glanced at me.

  “The one who got herself killed the other night. I didn’t really know her, just of her. Oliver said she was a big customer, and he stood to lose a lot because she died.” Dorothy Brosig frowned. “And then he said this other thing, about when you’re handed a lemon you should squeeze it and make lemonade. That’s what he was going to do, he said, make lemonade out of the old lady’s death.”

  “Did you ask him what he meant by that?”

  “Oh, no!” Dorothy Brosig looked shocked. “It wasn’t my business. You see, Oliver likes … liked to talk, but he didn’t really talk for my benefit.”

  She was a perfect woman for van Osten: obedient, incurious, and really not too bright. I revised my earlier theory. It now sounded like van Osten had not killed Joan but had known who did.

  Marcus continued questioning the woman: Had she seen anyone tonight, heard anything? Who were van Osten’s friends? What had his emotional state been lately? What shape were his finances in? The answers yielded nothing.

  Finally Marcus stood up, and I followed suit. He went through the usual formalities about getting in touch if she remembered anything, and then we left the building. The crowds outside had dispersed.

  In the car, Marcus sat tapping the steering wheel with his fingers for a full minute. Finally he asked me, “You changing your mind, too?”

  “You mean, do I think Ben Harmon killed both of them? I don’t know.”

  Marcus looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then said, “Well, I’ll have my men move in on van Osten’s office tonight, and tomorrow I’ll get in touch with our friendly Customs inspector and meet that shipment at the dock. I’ll check it out to confirm the smuggling, then pick up Harmon. He may cave in when he realizes we’re onto his involvement with van Osten. I’d sure like to find that bone-handled knife on him.”

  He started the car and turned back up Point Lobos toward town. I suddenly felt exhausted and dozed, just a little, as he drove to Twin Peaks.

  “Want to come in for a drink?” he asked as he turned into the driveway of the little redwood house.

  I paused, then shook my head. “A drink would finish me. I need some sleep.”

  He looked at me, a long, speculative look, then moved over, as if to open my door. He stopped, his arm resting around my shoulders.

  “When this thing is wrapped up,” he said, “I’d like to see you again, nonprofessionally. I can teach you all about Rembrandt and Cézanne and …” he hesitated.

  I tilted my head back to look at him. His eyes were serious. “And?”

  “And there are things you can teach me, too.” It came out almost grudgingly.

  I wanted to smile, but I realized what he wanted to say was coming hard to him. “Such as?”

  “Things about a strong man and a strong woman …” he paused again, his eyes intent on mine. “About how two such people can be together without diminishing each other or tearing each other apart.”

  I smiled. “I’d be willing to try.”

  His kiss was an offering, not a demand. I accepted.

  I leaned my head against his arm, exhaustion and desire mingling. Like me, however, Greg was unable to remain on his good behavior for long. He moved his lips close to my right ear and whispered, “My God, papoose. I can’t tell whether you’re succumbing to my charms or falling asleep!”

  I jerked away, glaring. “For a detective, you’re not very observant. And will you quit calling me that ridiculous name? It’s a racial slur!”

  He burst out laughing and moved away. “When you think about it, it’s also sexist and agist.”

  I opened the door and got out of the car. Greg followed.

  “The course of our relationship is not destined to run smoothly.” He was standing on the sidewalk, the old sarcastic grin on his face.

  “I’m sure you’re right!” I got into my car, slipped on the seatbelt, and started up. Aloud I muttered, “If anyone had told me two nights ago that I’d ever let that bastard kiss me, I’d have said they were insane!”

  Then I made a U-turn, right there under the eyes of the law, and drove home to bed.

  23

  I couldn’t sleep the whole night. As soon as I found a parking space near my building, Paula’s comment about over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of painting came back to me. I removed the Bellini from the trunk and, with it still wrapped in the blanket, hurried furtively down the sidewalk.

  Why hadn’t I turned it over to Greg as I’d intended? I supposed the shock of our prime suspect’s murder had driven the thought of the stolen masterpiece from our heads. I fumbled with my keys, glancing over my shoulder.

  Inside, I unwrapped the painting and set it on a chair. The Madonna and child glowed at me, luminous and rounded against the gold leaf. I admired it until footsteps in the alley jerked me back to reality.

  Footsteps in the alley were perfectly normal. It was a convenient, well-traveled shortcut through the neighborhood, and I usually paid no attention to passers-by. But then I didn’t usually have a Bellini in my apartment. I wrapped the Madonna again and stuffed it under the bed. Anyone who wanted it would have to disturb me first. I undressed and got under the covers.

  And tossed and turned. God, how I tossed and turned! The act of sleeping on top of a potential fortune made me a veritable gyroscope.

  Through the night, my mind wandered from the Bellini to the new relationship I seemed to have contracted with the lieutenant. Contracted was a good word for it, too: as in contracting a disease, I didn’t think it would be healthy. Greg Marcus was a headstrong, domineering man, and I was an equally self-willed woman. He might talk of two such people coexisting in harmony, but I suspected he and I were more the tearing-apart type.

  Around there in the morning I heard noises outside again and spent a bad hour wondering if Harmon’s Spanish thug had returned. If Harmon had ordered Frankie to commit the Salem Street arsons, he could also have ordered him to kill van Osten, or to kill me. By morning, my nerves were a mess.

  At nine thirty I was about to call Greg, hoping if he picked up the Bel
lini he’d take me along to the docks. As I reached for the phone, it rang. The ship, Greg said, was at Pier 97. A Customs inspector would meet him there at eleven. Did I want to come with him?

  Of course I did! I abandoned the coffee I’d been nursing and got dressed.

  Twenty minutes later my bell rang. I buzzed back and opened the door to Greg, striding across the lobby, looking fresh and cheerful.

  “Morning.” He dropped a kiss on the top of my head and walked into the apartment with an air of confident possession. I followed, my eyes narrowed.

  “Nice place, for a papoose.” He examined my picturesque alley view, then turned and saw my face. “Uh, oh. Don’t go getting mad at me. It’s too early in the day. Where’s the Bellini?”

  “Under the bed.”

  “What is it doing under your bed?”

  “I hid it there last night. Then I couldn’t sleep.”

  He grinned. “You don’t look too well rested. I thought, until you mentioned it on the phone this morning, that it was safely stored at the de Young. If I’d known you had it, I’d have kept it myself, but then I wouldn’t have slept”

  “Always look out for Number One,” I muttered and went to get the painting.

  Greg took the bundle and unwrapped it. He whistled softly. “God, it is the real thing! No wonder you were nervous.”

  “You can tell, just like that?”

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t have identified it as a Bellini if I hadn’t had Files locate a copy of that article your friend told you about first thing this morning. There was an illustration of the stolen triptych, and this looks like part of it. But the quality of this is what makes me sure. It has an aura …” He stopped. “You must think I’m peculiar, a cop who’s an art lover.”

  It was what Paula had said the day before. “I admit you’ve challenged my stereotypes.”

  “Well, I had a good tutor, and I’ve continued to explore the field on my own.” Momentarily he looked pensive. Then he said, “Let’s get going.”

  Pier 97 loomed up as we drove in, enveloping us in its gloom. Customs Inspector Ed Windfeldt, a tall, graying man with a grim, traplike mouth, had met us outside and slipped into the car beside me. Now he flashed his badge at the uniformed guard, who waved us toward a parking space inside the pier.

  As we got out of the car, Windfeldt said curtly, “Wait here. I’ll go present the search warrant and see if they’ve located the container.” Even the set of his shoulders was grim as he walked away from us.

  I leaned back against the car and looked up at the arching roof of the pier. It was a huge, towering structure, jammed with vehicles and cargo. Huge wooden containers piled one on the other, and forklifts zipped among the stacks. The sounds of engines and dockworkers’ voices echoed in the chill air.

  I shivered, more from excitement than cold.

  Greg looked at me in understanding. “It’s not long now. Makes it all worth it when everything starts coming together, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even getting knocked around by Frankie?”

  “Sure.”

  “And being yelled at by pushy cops?”

  “Even that.”

  His eyes watched me carefully. “Private eyes are funny people.”

  “So are pushy cops.”

  “You’re right there. Ever think of becoming a cop?”

  “I did, but at the time there wasn’t much opportunity for women. Lady cops were confined to typing, taking shorthand, and the juvenile division.”

  “And I don’t suppose you have any womanly skills like typing and shorthand?”

  I smiled. “No, but I’m a mean shot with a .38, and I bake terrific bread.”

  He smiled back, getting the message. “If you’ll bake me some, I’ll take you to the police range next week.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Rye, with a caraway seeds on top?”

  “Sure.” I saw Inspector Windfeldt coming toward us and turned to watch him.

  “They’ve located the container,” he said, “but it’ll take them a while to get at the particular carton. Come this way.”

  He led us through the stacks of cargo, stopping to let a loaded forklift go by. I wondered if the Customs inspector was always so curt, or if he was embarrassed at our discovery of the smuggling operation.

  Windfeldt stopped at an immense wooden crate, motioning to a couple of stevedores working nearby. They approached, crowbars in hand.

  The crate was over eight feet tall and six feet wide. I asked Greg, “How are they going to find one box in that thing?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m new to this game, too.”

  The stevedores attacked the crate, prying at the side nearest us. I stepped back as the wood splintered and the side gave way, crashing to the concrete floor. Greg put his hand on my shoulder, tense fingers digging in. I glanced up at his face. He looked as impatient as I felt.

  “Whole goddamn case depends on one little painting in all of that.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  Windfeldt stepped forward, consulting a bill of lading, and began examining the shipping instructions of the visible cartons.

  “Are those all from the one Italian firm?” I asked Greg, wishing he wouldn’t grip my shoulder so hard.

  He nodded. “Van Osten did more business than the size of his office would indicate. His territory covered five states.”

  “You’ve been to his office then.”

  “Early this morning. I’m glad you didn’t leave any evidence of your … visit.”

  “What visit?” I smiled at him and removed his hand, massaging my shoulder where it hurt.

  From the crate, Windfeldt called, “Nothing so far.” He motioned for the stevedores to drop another side.

  “I’d be interested to know if van Osten had branches of his smuggling network elsewhere,” I said.

  “Yes, I imagine Customs will be very interested, too.” Greg’s eyes did not leave the crate.

  Another side crashed down, and Windfeldt disappeared around a corner.

  I hated to stand by doing nothing. “Is there any reason we can’t help him look?”

  “Why not?” Greg motioned me forward.

  I went around the opposite end of the crate from Windfeldt. The cartons, their shipping labels exposed, towered above me. I started reading, craning my neck upward: MRS. JOAN ALBRITTON, JOAN’S UNIQUE ANTIQUES. It was directly in front of me, in the second row from the top.

  “I’ve found it!” I called.

  Greg and Windfeldt turned around with identical expressions of annoyance. Clearly, each had wanted to make the discovery himself.

  “What are you, a Geiger counter?” Greg demanded.

  We retreated a few feet, and the stevedores removed the cartons. In less than a minute they had freed the right one and deposited it on the ground at our feet. We all looked down as if it might explode.

  Greg said to Windfeldt, “Well, Inspector, it’s all yours.”

  Surprisingly, the Customs man smiled. “That’s okay, Lieutenant. It’s your case.”

  “No.” Greg reached for the knife Windfeldt was offering. “It’s Ms. McCone’s case.” He extended the knife to me.

  I hesitated, then reached for it, and our fingers touched on the handle. “Thank you,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Like I said, it’s your case.”

  I knelt and cut the tape that sealed the edges of the carton, carefully so I wouldn’t damage its contents. I tore the remaining tape, bent the top back, then pulled off several layers of packing material, dropping it on the ground.

  The paintings, in their cheap gilt frames, lined up neatly inside. I removed the first few. A couple of days ago, I would not have known, but now, having held the Bellini in my hands, I could tell they were fakes. I flipped through the others without taking them out of the box. They were all flimsy, gaudy affairs; all, that is, but the one in the very center.

  I pulled it out with trembling hands and held it up. Behind me
, Greg drew his breath in sharply.

  The three richly robed kings knelt on a stable floor, offering their costly gifts. Their expressions of awe and devotion were living, timeless evidence of the artist’s faith.

  Greg said, “It’s another part of the Bellini triptych.”

  I glanced up at him. “Then they’re bringing the whole thing in.”

  He nodded. “That’s the right half of the altarpiece. I recognize it from the illustration in the magazine article.”

  “Then we may have still another shipment coming.”

  “You’re right; we may.” He turned to Windfeldt. “How would you like to give us an on-the-spot opinion, Inspector? I have what I assume to be the central panel in my car.”

  A look of grim pleasure crossed the Customs man’s face. “I’d be glad to.”

  I gave him the painting, and we went back to Greg’s car. It took the inspector only minutes to verify that the two paintings were part of the same larger work.

  “This, of course, is a preliminary statement,” he warned us. “I’ll need to examine the work more closely and contact Italian authorities before I make it official.”

  “You’ll get that opportunity, Inspector,” Greg said. He thanked him, then turned to me and said, “That does it. I’m going to pick up Harmon.”

  I frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  It was hard to pin down, but I couldn’t see Harmon killing Joan Albritton for her property. It was another of his frequent deals on the side, and, as Hank had said, Harmon was used to them falling through. Harmon killing van Osten for the Bellini was even more difficult to visualize.

  There was too great a disparity between the richness of the Bellini and Harmon’s vulgar, mass-produced world: his Sunset District palace, his flashy suits, his cutesy little office bar. Even though he knew the dollar value of the Bellini, I didn’t think Harmon would risk killing for it. Unlike van Osten, Joan Albritton, or for that matter Greg Marcus, Harmon had no instinctive grasp of the masterpiece’s real worth.