Pursued by Shadows (11 page)

Dubinsky opened his mouth and Sanders raised a warning hand to forestall his interrupting the narrative.

Nina paid no attention to their pantomime. “When I met him, I was eighteen; he was thirty-five and rich. And a brute and a slob, of course, but a very rich one. He died when I was thirty-five. I always liked the symmetry of it; and I like the fact that Marco's money ended up funding an art gallery. He had the taste and discernment of an alcoholic sewer rat, and would have considered the gallery a total waste of hard-earned cash.”

It sounded like a speech she had given many times before and loved reciting. “So where does Beaumont fit it?” asked Sanders abruptly.

“Guy? Well, once I got rid of Marco—”

“Got rid of him?”

“Or he died, I should say. Although I suppose to some extent it was my fault. He smoked, drank himself into a stupor every night, ate like a pig, screwed everything in sight, and worked like a demented ant until he dropped dead. A better woman than I,” she added with a sorrowful smile, “might have been able to stop him. I didn't really try.”

Sanders leaned against the windowsill and regarded her steadily, like an entomologist noting the characteristics of a new form of beetle.

She shifted uneasily in her chair, colouring under his stare. “Not that it was deliberate. But with his temper it was easier not to nag about the booze and the cigarettes and the weight and the girls and to avoid the explosions. When I look back at it,” she added thoughtfully, “I can see it was inevitable. Marco being what he was, and me what I am. If I had tried to fight it, I would have gone under with him. And there'd never have been a gallery, and several promising artists would never have had a chance. It was fate.” She shook her golden locks gently.

“And Beaumont?”

“Guy was my first big find. I exhibited him here, and then in Montreal and in London. He was sensational. I'm going to miss him,” she said with a sigh. “In more ways than one, too.” She raised a beautifully groomed eyebrow and flashed an instantly suppressed grin. “We had a little thing going for a while,” she said. “Not serious, but most enjoyable. We neither one of us took these things seriously. But I suppose you are more interested in what Guy had been up to lately. And that I cannot tell you, I'm sorry. He had been painting in London—”

“Had he done much work?” interrupted Sanders.

“As much as anyone would expect. A lot of small pieces, which went like beer at a ball game, some prints, and one big commission. He wasn't suffering from a work blockage, if that's what you mean. He was living in my flat, as I said, with that girl. I visited them on various buying trips, and they seemed happy enough to me. He had been complaining recently that he needed more money, and for some reason—perhaps because he felt the gallery wasn't concerned enough about him—he didn't get in touch with me on this trip home. I'm not sure why.” She spread her hands out helplessly. “And that's it. I tried to contact him—I even pestered his old girlfriend to find out where he was—but no go. That's all I know.”

“Did you get all that?” asked Sanders as they walked over to the car.

“Yeah,” said Dubinsky gloomily. “Most of it. Why do you suppose she was pouring out her life story to us at eleven in the morning? She doesn't look the type, somehow.”

“There was a lot that we were going to find out anyway,” said John sourly. “She wanted to throw it in where we wouldn't notice it.”

“Like the fact that she was screwing Beaumont?”

“And trying to get Harriet to find him for her. She must have been desperate to reach him.”

“But all that crap about her husband?” said Ed as he reversed out of the drive. “We didn't need that.”

“It wasn't so much what she said,” John pointed out, magisterially. “Were you looking at her? That was nerves. She was babbling. I'll bet there's some sweet scam going on in that gallery.”

“So? What's new?”

“You mean you left an urgent message because you felt like having lunch? Look, Harriet—I know that food's important—”

“I didn't leave an urgent message. I left an important message—I didn't want it getting lost in the shuffle somewhere.”

“Yeah—well, we don't have a box to check off between urgent and routine. None of these subtle gradations you artistic types go in for. What are you having?”

“Soup and a pita with chicken,” said Harriet promptly. “And a beer. And then coffee and baklava, since Joe has the best baklava in twenty blocks. But I told him to wait until you got here, so take your time. You want the same thing?” she added without taking another breath. “Two, Joe,” she called over without a pause to the man behind the counter. “This is my territory,” she said blandly. “Here you eat my food.”

But it wasn't until the honey-sticky plates of baklava were stacked and carried away that Harriet came to the point. She centered her coffee cup and looked over at John. “Okay. I had another encounter—this time on the phone—and I figured it might be relevant. My first impulse was to forget all about it, but then I realized that I ought at least to give you a chance to—”

“Harriet, what in hell are you going on about? Let go of that cup and tell me what happened as clearly as you can. You're babbling.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, turning pink. “This whole experience seems to have unhinged me finally. Here we go. Around ten this morning, I got a phone call from Peter Bellingham.”

“That's the little twerp who broke into your apartment?” he said and waited until she nodded. “What did he want?” asked Sanders.

“He asked if I was all right. I said I was fine, and he went on and on about how relieved he was. And then he said that I had to get rid of it, it was dangerous and he would look after it for me. I asked him what he meant and he paid no attention. He just got very upset and said that he didn't want what happened to Guy to happen to me. Then he said these guys were really vicious and I didn't know what I was dealing with. Then I said the entire conversation was a mystery to me and hung up. For chrissake, John, what in hell is ‘it'?”

At that same time, the summer evening sun was filtering palely through the clouds and lighting up all London north of the river with its sickly glare. In the little interview room, the light sucked life and animation from the faces of the law and the citizenry alike, giving them both a vampirish aura. “I'm telling you, something was stolen from Malcolm's studio. Something valuable,” the white-faced young man was saying. He clenched his jaw and eyed the door, caught as it were between stubborn determination and panic.

“And how do you know that something was stolen?” The detective sergeant who had been handed the task of interviewing this stray young man eyed him suspiciously. “Is it because you were searching the premises looking for it? Someone was in that flat and ripped it apart, looking for something. We'd be interested in talking to that person.”

The young man shook his head miserably. “It wasn't me.”

“And what's your interest in who killed Mr. Whiteside?” he asked, having no doubt at all what the reason was. His already thin mouth and narrow jaw contracted. “You've taken your time to come forward.”

“We were friends, that's all,” the young man persisted. “I thought it might help you find out who killed him if I came in to tell you. I'd have come earlier if I'd realized.”

The sergeant mentally reviewed the statistical probability that a homosexual male of promiscuous habits would be murdered by someone he had picked up, leaped to a conclusion or two, and permitted himself a faint sigh of satisfaction. “Indeed,” he said. “And how long had you and Mr. Whiteside been friends?” he purred.

“That has nothing to do with anything,” said the man. “But I'm telling you that he told me that he was working on a very valuable project, and that he was going to be paid a great deal for it. And the day he died,” he added miserably, “was the day he was supposed to finish it.”

“What's a lot?”

“Forty thousand pounds.”

“For an illustration?” said the sergeant incredulously. “That was what he did, didn't he? Illustrations for books?”

“I don't know what it was, but he spent the last three months in the British Library and traveling to the Continent. That was where I met him, actually. At the British Library, I mean. A few years ago. That was where he did research for a lot of his projects. Anyway—there's no trace of anything that looks like a new project anywhere, and no sign of the money.”

“Indeed. And how do you know that the money is missing?”

“Malcolm left everything to me. And made me executor of his estate,” said the young man simply. “I just found out today and I started checking on things. And you needn't look at me like that. I didn't kill him. Your people have checked that already. I have an alibi.”

“And what's that?”

“I was in hospital. Having my appendix out.”

The sergeant looked through the file again and, with a twinge of regret, found the relevant date. “You're the Charles Wilson who was interviewed on May 15?”

He nodded unhappily. “I don't remember much about that interview. I was still groggy.”

The sergeant piled up the papers in front of him, and turned his attention away from the young man to concentrate it on what he had been saying. “You're sure he said forty thousand pounds?”

Wilson nodded.

“Who knew about this money beside you?”

“He was very quiet about it. But in the past few months, he used to spend most evenings down at the pub—he couldn't work once the light was gone, of course—with two Canadians. They were painters and he thought they were uproariously funny,” said Wilson unhappily. “And I rather think he may have said something to them. In fact, I'm almost sure of it. He used to get talkative after a couple of pints.”

The sergeant looked at him, bright-eyed and inquisitive.

“And that's all I know. I collapsed in the afternoon of the day he died and was taken to hospital and never saw him again . . .”

“Consider yourself lucky. If you'd been there you'd have been left on the floor with a hole in you along with Mr. Whiteside.”

The sergeant ushered his visitor out of his office and turned back toward his desk. “Right,” he said, sitting down. “Now we're looking for two painters. Two Canadian painters,” he added gloomily.

The chief was not happy. He was not happy with the situation, and he was even unhappier that it was Saturday morning and he had to deal with it. “It's impossible. You'll admit that, won't you?”

“It is awkward,” Sanders proffered.

“It's a damned sight more than awkward. This man was attacked by you in the week before his death. If we believe the forensic evidence, he was murdered in the apartment belonging to a woman with whom you have intimate relations. For chrissake, John. These days it would look better if you moved in with her. Casual affairs are out, you know.”

“It's hardly a casual affair,” said Sanders, hanging on to his temper with some difficulty.

“That may be, but in spite of what Ed Dubinsky may think, she could also be implicated in his death, and so could you. This is not to be regarded as a disciplinary measure,” he went on, speaking rapidly and monotonously, “but for the next—uh—two weeks you are to consider yourself on paid leave of absence, pending a successful investigation into the circumstances of the Beaumont case. In two weeks the matter will come under review once more. By me. Thank you,” he said, shuffling the papers in front of him together in a gesture of dismissal.

What are you doing here? So casually attired and all that?” asked Harriet, looking at John's sweatshirt and jeans. She was in her oldest pants and shirt, a gray smudge decorating one cheek. She had dedicated the day to removing the last traces of police presence from her apartment.

“Temporarily removed from duty,” he threw at her as he started walking rapidly up the stairs.

“What does that mean?” Harriet pursued him up to the top of the stairs, but then turned into a newly scrubbed kitchen. “Beer? It's not very cold.”

“Just what it says,” he replied irritably and threw himself down on the couch.

“No, it doesn't,” she said, taking two beers out of the refrigerator and trying to judge their temperature. “Nothing ever does.” She put them back in.

“It means that there is an appearance of possible impropriety and that I don't go in to work, but they still pay me. In two weeks they figure out whether I'm clean, in which case I return to work and they continue to pay me, or not clean, in which case I don't go back and they stop paying me, but there is a hearing.”

“Clean?”

“They're afraid, deep in their heart of hearts, that the two of us conspired together to put Beaumont away, in some manner not as yet clear to them, and in so doing to seize the valuable piece of property he owned—”

“Even though we don't know what it is.”

“Even though, and to sell it and run off to some extradition-free haven for two.”

“Sounds nice, doesn't it? Beats trying to get this apartment back to normal. Why does everyone assume we have it? Whatever it is?”

Sanders shook his head. “Probably because they take you for the kind of patsy he'd have palmed it off on when things got rough. Little do they know.”

“Marvelous. They've suspended you because they think you have it. According to Peter, I might be tortured and/or blown up because someone else thinks I have it and we don't even know what the goddamn thing is.”

“Speaking of Bellingham, he was picked up this morning for questioning, largely on my account of what he said to you on the phone, and released an hour ago. They're not very happy. They think we're just trying to involve more people to save our own skins. It seems he was at the movies about the time that Beaumont was killed—”