A Fine and Private Place (16 page)

Another theory, advanced by those on the inside who believed the anonymous messages to be the work of a crank unconnected with the case and thus irrelevant, was that Nino Importuna and his brother Julio—perhaps all three brothers—had been entangled with the Mafia. (The Mafia theorists made much of the
siciliano
origin of the Importunato clan, building their argument on a sort of guilt-by-geography.) According to these officers, the Mafia had wormed its way into some of Importuna Industries' operations, and the murders of the brothers had resulted from the inevitable power struggle over control of the great conglomerate.

The theory did not survive investigation. No evidence of any sort was adduced to connect Nino, Marco, or Julio, or any of their companies, with Cosa Nostra. This was the consensus not only of the Central Investigation Bureau and other New York City experts in the field of organized crime, but it was the burden as well of the information passed along to Centre Street by the FBI.

F

If the lack of progress in the Importuna-Importunato case was frustrating to Inspector Queen and his fellow officers, Ellery acted as if it were a personal affront. His novel, long since all but given up for lost by his publisher, continued to molder on his desk. He was sleeping badly, jerking awake at the climaxes of horrid dreams in which 9s loomed large, but the details of which he could not retain in his conscious memory for more than a second or two no matter how desperately he tried; he picked at his food like a man suffering from iron-poor blood and found himself losing weight his lean figure could not spare; and he snapped at everybody, including his father and poor Mrs. Fabrikant, who crept about the Queen apartment these days looking chronically as if she were about to burst into tears.

“It's a pleasure to see a living face, even if it's a chindragger,” Doc Prouty said. “We get to see mostly dead ones around here. How you been, Ellery? What can I do you for?” The Medical Examiner was of Inspector Queen's generation and, like the Inspector, he was a walking museum of its fossil humor.

“Chin-dragging, as you diagnosed. As for what you can do, tell me about the time of Nino Importuna's death.” Ellery looked away from the M. E., who was chewing on a peanut-butter-and-tuna sandwich from a rusty lunchbox on his desk. For as long as Ellery could recall, Sam Prouty had brought his lunch to work. Ellery had nothing against bringing honest lunches to work, but he had always felt that Doc Prouty's working environment was not exactly suited to the practice.

“Time of Nino Importuna's death.” The M. E. squinted as he masticated. “What is this, Archaeology Week? That's ancient history.”

“I know, the blow to Importuna's wrist stopped his watch at 9:09. What I mean is, did 9:09
P
.
M
. prove consistent with your autopsy finding?”

“Have you any idea how many posts we've performed around here since we did him?”

“Don't give me that, doc. You can remember the details of posts you did 20 years ago.”

“It's all in my report, Ellery. Didn't you read it?”

“It was never shown to me. How about answering my question?”

“That 9:09 on the watch was a lot of bunk. It's our medical opinion Importuna was beaten to death around midnight of that night—in fact, a bit later than midnight. Just about three hours later than the watch showed.”

Life stirred in the silvery depths of Ellery's eyes. “Do you mean his wristwatch was preset and deliberately stopped at 9:09 to confuse the issue as to the time of his death?”

“Mine not to reason why. That's somebody else's department. Anyway, why I give out my official findings to a squirt civilian on demand this way, like some damned information clerk, I'll never figure out. Want a piece of this sandwich? The old lady makes a mean peanut-butter-and-tuna.”

“I'd rather starve than deprive you of a morsel of it. Oh! I may assume—or may I?—that you found nothing in the course of your postmortem to change your original count of 9 blows to Importuna's head?”

“I said 9, and it was 9.”

“Well, thanks, Doc. I'll leave you to enjoy the corpses of all those little peanuts.” Ellery turned back. “One other thing. The clout that stopped Importuna's watch: Am I correct in believing that it was an extension of one of those 9 blows to his head? That is, that one of the blows to his head glanced off and struck his wrist—maybe because he threw his arm up in a reflexive attempt to ward off the blow?”

“Did I say that?” Dr. Prouty demanded through a spray of peanut butter and tuna fish.

“I'm saying it. I mean, I'm not
saying
it, I'm merely asking if that isn't what happened.”

“Well, it isn't. Not in my opinion. The crack on the wrist that broke his watch came from a different blow altogether. There wasn't a trace of blood or head hair or brain tissue on the watch or his wrist. In fact—if you want to know what I really think—I think the blow that broke the watch was even delivered by a different weapon.
Not
that iron sculpture whatsit.”

“Was this in your report, Doc?”

“Certainly not! I'm a pathologist, not a detective. My report said there was no blood, hair, or tissue on the watch or wrist, period. That was a proper medical observation. Anything beyond that is somebody else's job.”

“I'm losing my miggies,” Ellery muttered, smiting his brow. “Why didn't I insist on reading your autopsy report?”

And he departed on the run, leaving the medical examiner with his dentures sunk to their foundations in the dead body of an apple.

Virginia Whyte Importuna received him in the sitting room of her private quarters in the penthouse. He was surprised to find the room done in early Colonial American, like hundreds of thousands of American homes; he had rather expected the Grand Style of
Le Roi Soleil
, or 18th century Venetian lacquer and gessowork.

But what he had at first thought were good reproductions he soon recognized as originals in priceless condition. There was a 17th century press cupboard of oak, pine, and maple, for example, which he could have sworn was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and even earlier Brewster-type chairs that looked as if they might have belonged to Governor William Bradford. Every piece in the young widow's sitting room was an antique of great rarity.

“I see you're admiring my antiques, Mr. Queen,” Virginia said.

“Admiring is scarcely the word, Mrs. Importuna. I'm overcome.”

“I had these rooms done over—my private apartment—the first year I was married. My husband gave me free rein. I'm New England on my father's side going way, way back, and I've always doted on the furniture and artifacts and things of pre-Revolutionary America. But it was the first time in my life I had the means to collect them.”

“Your husband was very generous with you, I take it.”

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. Too quickly? He was interested by the way she immediately changed the subject, as if she were reluctant to discuss Nino Importuna. “I'm sorry you had such a hard time getting up to see me, Mr. Queen. Sometimes I feel like the princess in the fairy tale who's kept locked in the tower and guarded by dragons. I own I don't know how many homes all over the world, they tell me, most of which I've never visited, and they won't even let me stick my little toe out of this building. I'm beginning to hate 99 East. How long does this have to go on?”

“Until there's a significant break in the case, I imagine,” Ellery said. “Well. I don't want to take up too much of your time—”

“Heavens, I have more of it than I know what to do with.” Virginia sighed and looked down at the hands in her lap. The instant she did, they stopped wriggling. “Aside from having to sign thousands of papers the lawyers push in front of me, I don't get to do very much of anything these days. It's a pleasure to be able to talk to somebody who isn't a policeman.”

“Then I'm afraid I'm going to be a disappointment to you,” Ellery said, smiling. Why was she so nervous? Surely by this time she must be hardened to such encounters. “Even though I'm not a policeman, Mrs. Importuna, I'm here to ask you some policemanlike questions.”

“Oh.”

He thought it disingenuous of her, the little note of surprise and regret. She must know that he had not sought her out to discuss antiques.

“Do you mind?”

She shrugged. “I should be used to it, but I'm not. Of course I mind, Mr. Queen. I mind very much. However, it's not going to do me much good, is it?”

And that was clever of her.

Ellery felt the familiar flow of adrenalin at the prospect of a battle of wits.

“Since we're being so candid with each other, Mrs. Importuna—no, it's not. You can always refuse to answer, naturally. But I don't see why you should, unless you have something to hide.”

“What is it you want to know?” she asked abruptly.

“That cast-iron sculpture the murderer used to kill your husband. Was it usually kept in Mr. Importuna's bedroom?”

“It was never kept in his bedroom. He didn't like it.”

“Oh? Where was it kept, then?”

“In the master living room.”

“I don't understand, Mrs. Importuna. That could be an important piece of information. I've read the transcripts of most if not all of your interrogations, and I don't recall your revealing that fact before. Why didn't you?”

“Nobody ever asked me the question before, that's why!” The ethereal blue of her eyes showed flashes now, like water struck by the sun; there was warm color on her cheekbones, giving her the look of a doll. “I assumed … Well, I suppose I just didn't think about it.”

“Unfortunate. Because you see where this leads us, Mrs. Importuna. Whoever it was, while on his way to your husband's bedroom to commit the murder, paused in the living room long enough to select the weapon with which to commit it. Apparently he didn't bring one with him, a gun or a knife; or, if he did come armed, he deliberately chose the sculpture in the living room instead. Which raises the interesting corollary question, Why that sculpture? I've seen a dozen objects in the master living room—and in Mr. Importuna's bedroom, for that matter—that could have served the killer's purpose just as well. Come to think of it, he didn't have to go through the master living room to get to your husband's room. Meaning that he went out of his way to get his hands on that sculpture. Why would he do that? What was so important about the cast-iron abstract?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Not even a theory, Mrs. Importuna?”

“No.”

“Did the shape of that sculpture ever strike you particularly? Remind you of anything?”

She shook her head.

“Well, it doesn't matter,” Ellery said, smiling again. “Tell me about it, Mrs. Importuna.”

“I don't know what there is to tell.…”

“I believe you said that it wasn't kept in Mr. Importuna's bedroom because he didn't like it—”

“That's not what I said at all. I made two separate statements, Mr. Queen. One: It wasn't kept in my husband's room. Two: He didn't like it. There's no because in between.”

“Oh, I see. Where did it come from?”

“It was a gift.”

“To Mr. Importuna?”

“No.”

“To you?”

“Yes.”

“And it usually stood in the living room, you said.”

“Yes, fitted into an ebony stand.”

“May I ask what the occasion for the gift was? And who gave it to you?”

“It was a birthday gift. Two years ago. As for who gave it to me, Mr. Queen, I don't see that that has the least bearing on anything we're discussing.”

“It's been my experience,” Ellery said chattily, “that you never quite know in advance what's going to turn out to be important and what isn't. Although I grant the odds are usually that any given fact is of no importance whatever. But I sense resistance, Mrs. Importuna. This arouses my curiosity—I've got a lot of cat in me. If you won't tell me who presented you with the sculpture, I assure you I can find out. And I intend to do so. As the saying goes, I have my methods.”

“Peter Ennis.” It was a flat statement, wrung out of her, juiceless.

“Thank you,” Ellery murmured. “I can see why you preferred not to reveal the source of the gift. Ennis has been virtually living here in his capacity of confidential secretary to your husband and your husband's brothers. He's a personable, virile, attractive young man, tall, Nordic, the perfect male counterpart, in fact, of the young and very beautiful lady of the house. Who was married to a squat, ugly old man. If it became known that the young secretary was giving the young wife valuable gifts, people might talk. Servants certainly would. And Mr. Importuna? Did the husband know that the valuable sculpture was a gift to his wife from his secretary?”

“No, he didn't! I lied to him! I told him I bought it for myself!” Her shining hair seemed suddenly in disarray; she looked oddly undressed. “You're a cruel man, Mr. Queen, do you know that? Nino was jealous. I didn't have the easiest marriage in the world. There are circumstances about my marriage that—”

She stopped.

“Yes?” Ellery prodded her gently.

But she was shaking her locks, smiling. “You're also smart as all get-out, Mr. Queen. I don't believe I'm going to continue this conversation.” She rose and walked over to the door. “Crump will see you out.”

She pulled on the bell rope.

“I'm sorry I've upset you, Mrs. Importuna. If you knew me better, you'd know I'm really not cruel, just death on rats. Would you mind telling me one thing more?”

“It depends on what it is.”

“Sculptures, like paintings, are usually titled. Does the sculpture Peter Ennis gave you have a name?”

“Yes. What was it again? Something icky.… It's inscribed on the base of the stand—a little plaque …” She frowned; but then the frown lifted like fog and her face turned sunny. At that moment she was extraordinarily innocent in her loveliness. “I remember!
Newborn Child Emerging
.”