Emerald Aisle (15 page)
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF Waldo Hermes bothered the police more than it did Joseph Primero.
“He is not under contract to me. He has always been free to go whenever he wanted to.”
“Did he say good-bye?”
Primero smiled at Phil Knight. Knight was his employee too, at least for the nonce, but he did not think that the private investigator would skedaddle to South Bend without letting him know.
“Not all employees are equally sensitive.”
Swenson asked, “Does that mean you're offended by his departure?”
What a tiresome thing a police investigation is. There had been a lull during the period of the wake and funeral, but on the way back from the cemetery Primero was accompanied by Swenson, who wanted a few words.
“Lieutenant, my wife is dead. Someone killed her. How are you going to find that someone by asking me questions?”
“Do you own the building in which your wife lived.”
“The condominium? I built it.”
“Are you still the owner.”
“I am a partner.”
“So your wife paid no rent.”
“I took care of that.”
“Isn't that unusual?”
“For a husband to pay his wife's expenses?”
Swenson fell silent and watched the world through the tinted windows of the funeral director's limousine. O'Dell, the undertaker, sat in front next to the driver. He was still disappointed that he had been unsuccessful in persuading Primero to have a miniature replica of Saint Peter's built to house the remains of his wife. Was Swenson his revenge?
“Have you arrested Dudley Fyte yet, Lieutenant?”
“Not.”
“I hope he doesn't leave town.”
“He's been told not to.”
“Well, that should suffice.”
By the time the sarcasm hit Swenson, they were pulling into O'Dell's parking lot. Philip Knight was already there, waiting. He was surprised to see Swenson emerge from the undertaker's limousine.
“I'm not under arrest,” Primero said to Phil Knight.
“What did you mean about Dudley Fyte?” Swenson asked.
“If he's your man, you'd better take him into custody.”
Phil went with Primero to the house where they talked about the investigation.
“You're right, Joseph. They ought to move on Dudley.”
“You think he did it?”
“Well, God knows he had motive enough.” Phil then proceeded to convey to Joseph the contents of an E-mail he had received from his brother listing the motives of the people connected with Bianca.
“He really thinks I myself might have done it?”
“This is all abstract. Algebraic. Quite impersonal. And, as Roger notes, the question of opportunity has not been raised.”
“It's odd even to be speculated about.”
“There is also the gate guard of the condominium, a tough little bird named Norma. She could be of help.”
“How so?”
“She sees a lot and remembers a lot, but her memory is supplemented by the monitors in the security system.”
Primero nodded. “To increase her field of vision.”
“And record it.”
“She told you that?”
“And showed me some samples. Swenson doesn't know about it yet, but he soon will. Then he can assign people to the patient task of looking at hours and days and weeks of film in which by and large absolutely nothing happens.”
But it was to check Waldo's quarters that Philip Knight had come. Primero told him the police had already ransacked Waldo's little apartment over the garage of the house on Lake of the Isles. “Once I told them I had seen the
Apologia
there that later was missing altogether they couldn't wait to tear up the place.”
Apologia
there that later was missing altogether they couldn't wait to tear up the place.”
Primero had left the police to their work, but he went up to the garage apartment with Phil and, when he entered felt even more than before like an intruder. He had worked almost daily with Hermes, but this was the area of the curator's privacy. Primero had been struck by its austerity. Waldo must have had most of the furniture removed. The outer room had a trestle table set up in its center at which Waldo had sat in a secretary's chair. He had used a similar chair in the house itself for the back support. There were no shelves, just books rising in tottering piles from the floor on three sides of the room. A lounge chair, which elongated to a supine position, was looked upon by a modernistic lamp whose light bounced off the low ceiling. The bedroom was monastic. A single bed, carefully made, a chair on one side, a small bookshelf on the other, the only light the ceiling lamp. A dresser on which a small statue of the Madonna sat. There was a crucifix on the wall
over the bed. Phil opened the closet door. It had not been emptied. The bathroom was a mess, a towel lying in the basin; the bottom of the tub had hair in it.
over the bed. Phil opened the closet door. It had not been emptied. The bathroom was a mess, a towel lying in the basin; the bottom of the tub had hair in it.
“He must molt when he showers.”
“The police concluded that he had left on the spur of the moment.” Primero smiled at Phil.
The Primero Collection was kept on the first floor of the house itself, using the library and garden room and a structure that had been added to the back.
“It had been my intention to turn the whole house into a library. The thought returned after my wife left, but by then I had already made the decision to donate everything to Notre Dame. The zoning laws here ruled out my idea of course, but I think I could have won a legal battle. Such a library would enhance the neighborhood rather than the reverse.”
“I wish Roger were here,” said Phil.
“I could have him flown up.”
“He almost never flies. And never without me.”
“Is there a special reason why you want him?”
“Joseph, you've met him. He understands all this as well as your man Waldo does.” Phil paused. “The question arises as to whether there is anything else missing.”
Primero smiled. “I am not quite that dependent on the veracity of my employees. Every item is bar coded. The code is read by a very sensitive device. This provides me with an all but instantaneous inventory. It is how the thefts were known.”
Phil wanted to telephone his brother from Waldo's desk amid the collection, so Joseph Primero left the private investigator. “The door will lock when you leave, Phil.”
“You're going?”
“I have a little errand.”
Phil Knight's car was parked by the garages. Joseph took the little olive-colored Mercedes convertible. Once behind the wheel, he rolled up the tinted windows, adjusted his cap in the rearview mirror, and donned oversize sunglasses. Then he purred down the driveway.
DUDLEY WAS TAKEN INTO custody in his office, where he had foolishly gone in the conviction that the police, having done nothing thus far, would continue to do nothing. Amy, his secretary, came into his office, openmouthed, followed by Swenson and a uniformed policeman.
“Dudley Fyte, you are under arrest as a suspect in the murder of Bianca Primero. You have the right to remain silent ⦔
Dudley listened to the ritualistic phrase, recited with all the solemnity of a priest by Lieutenant Swenson. Dudley became a mute. He was led out of his office and down the corridor, where colleagues came to their doors to watch him go by. This was ignominy indeed. But it was liberating as well. He might have been shucking off all the inhibitions that go with the struggle to rise in the corporate and social scale. He looked dispassionately at the shocked faces of men and women he would doubtless never see again. Whatever happened he would not return to Kunert and Skye. It was odd that being suspected of murder should exhilarate him so.
The one face he did not see on that Via Dolorosa out of Kunert and Skye was Dolores Torre's. That he could not have borne. It was to her his thoughts turned when, after being taken to downtown Saint Paul and booked, he was told he could call a lawyer. He stared silently at Swenson.
“It's all right to talk now.”
Dudley said nothing.
“Is there a lawyer you would like to call?”
What power silence gave him over Swenson. He wondered if he would ever speak again. He was led to a holding cell with Swenson explaining that if he did not select a lawyer one would be assigned him.
“We're due in court at two o'clock.”
Today? He almost asked it aloud. But then he was alone.
The prominence of the toilet and washbasin and bed seemed to reduce life in a cell to its animal basics. It was a setting conducive to meditation, if brooding over the events of recent weeks could be called meditation.
Ten years ago he had emerged from the law school of the University of Chicago, passed the bar exams in a breeze, and put his foot firmly on the bottom rung at Kunert and Skye. His diploma from Chicago blotted out his prehistory, the windswept little town in western Nebraska, his dirt-poor family that had a long-term relationship with bad luck, the brothers and sisters who ignored the praise with which he swept through school. He graduated a month before his seventeenth birthday and went off to Chicago to take up the scholarship he had been awarded.
“Make us proud of you,” Mr. Warbke, his faculty adviser, had said.
His parents and siblings just stared him onto the bus. On the long ride to Chicago, he'd studied the list of names he had made up over the years, trying to decide who he would be. He changed his name to Dudley Fyte in his first year of law school, and it was as Dudley Fyte that he had entered the employ of Kunert and Skye, and it was as Dudley Fyte that he was arraigned before Judge Rita Callisher that afternoon.
“Cat got your tongue?” the judge asked sweetly, before assigning him a lawyer.
Back in jail he continued the review of his life. He thought of Bonner, wondering if that incident would be raised at his trial. He thought of Bianca, of that fateful meeting in the art gallery in Highland Village. He thought of the sentimental painting that she had sent him as a vindictive gift. But most of all he thought of Dolores.
Once she had accepted his proposal, he should never have looked back. She was his destiny. He might have told her about Bianca, some sanitized version that would have defanged his mistress. By trying to keep it a secret, he had made Bianca into a threat.
“Your lawyer,” the guard said, unlocking his cell.
He was taken to a room where Dolores awaited him.
“Are you my lawyer?” His heart leapt. Had Kunert and Skye decided to get behind their fallen partner and provide him with all the professional help he needed.
“Dudley, you know I'm not a lawyer.”
“Did they send you?”
But her expression was enough to snuff out the mad hope that he had friends and support. He was reduced to the condition that had been his as a boy in Nebraska; he began to weep.
“Oh, Dudley.”
She came around the table, but he turned away although he was proud of his tears, they were so uncalculated. She put her hand on his arm. The tenderness came and went like an electric shock. He was no longer weeping when he looked at her.
“Why have you come? Because you missed my ignominious departure from Kunert and Skye?”
She stepped back, surprised at his vehemence. But she now represented something in the irredeemable past. He no longer felt anything for her. It was all gone, blown away like tumbleweed across the featureless prairie of his youth.
“Who is your lawyer?”
“They will assign me one.”
“Assign you one.”
“We will make a team, whoever it is. And I will win. It is no easy matter to convict an innocent man.”
His chin lifted as he spoke, but he could see that nothing he could have said would have convinced her more thoroughly of his guilt.
“WHERE IS LARRY?” ROGER Knight asked Nancy Beatty.
“He's gone back to Minneapolis.”
“Again?”
“They talked him into joining the firm right away. No reason not to. His final semester has been just odds and ends. He's already fulfilled the course requirements.”
“Leaving all the wedding preparations to you.”
“I guess. Maybe we'll postpone it. I could start graduate work.”
“At Northwestern.”
“Yes.”
Of course Roger did not pursue this surprising suggestion. In any case, he had come to visit with Nancy's father, Professor Beatty, whose study at home was even more chaotic than his office in Decio. His wife was not permitted entry, she being a compulsively neat person who dreaded anyone's seeing the squalor in which her husband preferred to work.
“I'm not responsible,” she said, taking Roger to the door of the study and averting her face.
“Nancy says Larry has gone back to Minneapolis,” Roger whispered.
In answer, Mrs. Beatty let her eyes roll upward, a look of resignation that covered both the condition of Professor Beatty's study and her daughter's suddenly indefinite wedding plans.
Experience had taught Roger to settle for a hassock on which to
sit, if one were available; his second choice was a couch he could have all to himself like La Signora in
Barchester Towers.
None of the chairs in the study could accommodate a significant fraction of him, but,
deo gratias,
there was a hassock over which he could spill in all directions. The difficulty was in rising again, but here Beatty, surprisingly strong for such a wiry little man, would be of help. Beatty closed the door with the decisiveness of an angel closing the gates of paradise and picked up his pipe. A ceiling fan rotated slowly above him, distributing the smoke evenly around the room.
sit, if one were available; his second choice was a couch he could have all to himself like La Signora in
Barchester Towers.
None of the chairs in the study could accommodate a significant fraction of him, but,
deo gratias,
there was a hassock over which he could spill in all directions. The difficulty was in rising again, but here Beatty, surprisingly strong for such a wiry little man, would be of help. Beatty closed the door with the decisiveness of an angel closing the gates of paradise and picked up his pipe. A ceiling fan rotated slowly above him, distributing the smoke evenly around the room.
“Roger, I've read Newman's letter to Trollope.”
“Good for you.”
“Gregory Whelan was discreetly helpful.” Beatty leaned toward Roger. “I made a photocopy.”
“It's too bad such a treasure came to the Archives in such an unusual way.”
“The murder in Minneapolis?”
“Well, yes.”
“I find it perfectly understandable.”
“You do.”
Beatty rapped on his knee with his pipe, about to rule. “I would have gladly wrung that woman's neck myself. Imagine, turning items like these into some kind of game. And she was a Jezebel besides. The sooner the whole kit and caboodle is out of such hands and safely in the Archives, the better.” Beatty drew on his pipe as if to calm himself.
“Joseph Primero is a very different kind of person.”
“He sounds like a wimp to me. Casper Milquetoast. But you wouldn't remember that. Beware of a man who lets his wife dominate him.”
Professor Beatty's voice raised as he pronounced what he took to
be a basic truth. And sitting there in the cherished disorder of his study, he spoke with authority. No cloister could have been less subject to invasion than Professor Beatty's place of work. It did not surprise Roger that Beatty had absolutely no trouble finding things either here at home or in his office in Decio. Order is an analogous concept, not to be confused with neatness. He might have said it aloud, making an addition to Beatty's list of self-evident truths, but he turned the conversation to Nancy.
be a basic truth. And sitting there in the cherished disorder of his study, he spoke with authority. No cloister could have been less subject to invasion than Professor Beatty's place of work. It did not surprise Roger that Beatty had absolutely no trouble finding things either here at home or in his office in Decio. Order is an analogous concept, not to be confused with neatness. He might have said it aloud, making an addition to Beatty's list of self-evident truths, but he turned the conversation to Nancy.
“I pray that it is over. Imagine passing up a full scholarship to graduate school to rush into marriage. I have nothing against whatchamacallit, but why hurry? Let him get settled in his profession, let her get a doctorate, then they can talk about marriage.”
“It may be now or never.”
“Yes,” Beatty said, and his expression suggested which alternative he thought would prevail.
The following day Joseph Primero showed up at Notre Dame calling on Greg Whelan, who telephoned Roger with the news. The university benefactor was on campus.
“He's in conference with Wendy now. Can we meet at the Huddle?”
Roger drove his golf cart along the campus walks, saluting and being saluted by students as he went. What satisfaction he felt being a member of the university and having its scholarly resources at his beck and call. And the friendship of Greg Whelan was a particular bonus.
“Primero says he is ready to transfer his collection to the Archives immediately; no need to wait for the new building to go up.”
Roger surveyed the array of hamburgers and french fries on the
tray before him. As midday approached, the Huddle was full of undergraduates who had chosen this alternative to one of the dining halls, along with graduate students, faculty, and members of the staff. There were half a dozen other such alternative restaurants around the campus now, but the Huddle remained the most popular, a kind of town meeting place in the center of the campus where Italian food, junk food, and stir fry, as well as the deli provided for the gustatory needs of its customers. Roger and Greg occupied a booth whose benches could accommodate Roger's width, but if his north and south were taken care of, to east and west there was a tight fit because of the intervening table.
tray before him. As midday approached, the Huddle was full of undergraduates who had chosen this alternative to one of the dining halls, along with graduate students, faculty, and members of the staff. There were half a dozen other such alternative restaurants around the campus now, but the Huddle remained the most popular, a kind of town meeting place in the center of the campus where Italian food, junk food, and stir fry, as well as the deli provided for the gustatory needs of its customers. Roger and Greg occupied a booth whose benches could accommodate Roger's width, but if his north and south were taken care of, to east and west there was a tight fit because of the intervening table.
“It is not always wise to make a precipitous move after the death of a spouse.”
“It is the loss of Waldo Hermes that is the proximate cause. He can't face the task of replacing him.”
“I wonder where he is?”
Greg dipped a french fry in a little container of ketchup. “At my place.”
“Your place!”
“He showed up the other night. I hardly recognized him. He has shaved off his beard and shaved his head as well.”
“A disguise?”
“Until he identified himself, I did not know who he was.”
“What does he have to say for himself?”
“He feels he is under suspicion. The worst of it is, he feels responsible for the theft of those items.”
“Well, unless he stole them, he isn't.”
“It is largely a professional disappointment with himself.”
“Do you think he would agree to see me?”
“I promised to bring him food.”
They took it together, conveying it to the despondent curator in Roger's golf cart.
The naked face of Hermes peered out at them over the security chain of Greg Whelan's door.
“Edgar G. Robinson,” Roger said, when the door had been shut, the chain removed, and then opened again. Waldo Hermes had retreated out of sight. Roger's remark puzzled him.
“An actor you look like.”
“I don't like the part I'm playing.”
When Greg told his guest that Joseph Primero was on campus, Waldo stopped, holding the Styroform container in both hands.
“How did he know?”
“That you're here? He doesn't.”
“I couldn't face him.”
“Waldo,” Roger said, “no one can blame you.”
“I blame myself.”
“I can understand that, but it is nonsense.”
“No. I should have warned him that his wife had been lurking about the neighborhood.”
“To steal things from the collection?”
“Obviously.”
“Possibly. Dudley Fyte has been taken into custody.”
“What for?”
“He is accused of killing Bianca Primero.”
But murder did not rank as high as the theft of the precious items from the collection that had been in Waldo's custody, except perhaps that it provided an exculpating motive for killing the wayward wife.
“Primero says he wants to transfer his collection to the university as soon as possible.”
The great naked head nodded. “A good idea. Here it will be safe.”
“What will you do?”
Waldo looked sheepish. “It will seem quixotic at my age, but I want to spend time in a monastery. My destination is a Trappist monastery, New Melleray Abbey, near Dubuque.”
“You want to become a monk?”
“
Domine, non sum dignus.
Just a long stay in the guest house.”
Domine, non sum dignus.
Just a long stay in the guest house.”
“And then?”
“God knows. Joseph Primero has provided me with a comfortable retirement.”
How old was Waldo Hermes? His age seemed even more indeterminate without the abundance of hair. Both Roger and Whelan acknowledged the attraction of a stay with the Trappist monks.
After much persuasion, Hermes agreed that he must meet with his employer, or his former employer, as he insisted. “I deserted my post. I failed in my duty.” Clearly, Hermes felt more comfortable with the pangs of guilt than he would have with exoneration. Perhaps he thought seeing Primero would provide more laceration to his delicate conscience.
Greg called the Archives and arranged for a meeting with Primero at The Morris Inn, where the benefactor had taken a room. Roger got into his cart, and went to his office, where he checked his E-mail and found a message from Phil.
Roger
I told you about the security system at the condo where Mrs. Primero lived and of the taped record kept there. Of course I passed this information on to Lieutenant Swenson, but when he went to the condo with a court order he was told by Norma that the tapes had been
destroyed. He is threatening legal action, claiming the destruction of materials relevant to a murder investigation. You will wonder who gave the order. All Norma would tell me was that it had been a decision by the governing board of the condominium. I wonder if Joseph Primero was consulted? He
is
a member of the board. Moreover, it turns out that he has kept a small apartment there, the builder's prerogative. It's called the penthouse, but its just a little place on the roof. Odd that Mrs. Primero did not live in it. Probably not posh enough.
destroyed. He is threatening legal action, claiming the destruction of materials relevant to a murder investigation. You will wonder who gave the order. All Norma would tell me was that it had been a decision by the governing board of the condominium. I wonder if Joseph Primero was consulted? He
is
a member of the board. Moreover, it turns out that he has kept a small apartment there, the builder's prerogative. It's called the penthouse, but its just a little place on the roof. Odd that Mrs. Primero did not live in it. Probably not posh enough.
P
Roger thought of telephoning Phil to discuss the message, but instead he fell into a kind of reverie. Even the most innocuous events become incredibly complicated when subjected to scrutiny. But of course few events are scrutinized, followed as they swiftly are by a continuous flow of further events.
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