Jigsaw

10

The nylon stocking was wrapped tightly around her throat, embedded in the soft flesh of her neck. Her eyes were bulging, and she lay grotesque in death upon the turquoise-colored rug in her bedroom, wearing a baby-doll nightgown and bikini panties, the bedsheets trailing off the bed and tangled in one twisted leg.

Geraldine Ferguson would never again swear in Italian, never again proposition married spades, never again charge exorbitant prices for a painting or a piece of sculpture. Geraldine Ferguson lay robbed of life in a posture as angularly absurd as the geometric designs that had shrieked from the walls of her gallery, death silent and shrill in that turquoise-matted sanctuary, the bedroom a bedlam around her, a tired reprise of the havoc wreaked in the rooms of Donald Renninger and Albert Weinberg, the searcher run amok, the quest for 750 G’s reaching a climax of desperation. The police had not found what they’d wanted in Gerry’s safe, and they wondered now if whoever had demolished Gerry’s apartment and strangled her into the bargain had had any better luck than they.

Arthur Brown went out into the hallway and, oddly, wondered if Gerry had ever roller-skated on a city sidewalk.

They picked up Bramley Kahn in a gay bar that night.

He was wearing a brocade Nehru jacket over white linen hiphuggers. His hand was resting on the shoulder of a curly-haired young man in a black leather jacket. A sculpted gold ring set with a gray freshwater pearl was on Kahn’s left pinky.

He was slightly drunk, and decidedly campy, and he seemed surprised to see the police. Everywhere around him, men danced with men, men whispered to men, men embraced men, but Kahn was nonetheless surprised to see the police because this was the most permissive city in the world, where private homosexual clubs could expressly prohibit policemen from entering (unless of course they, too, were members) and where everyone looked the other way unless a six-year-old boy was being buggered by a flying queen in a dark alley. This was just a run-of-the-mill gay bar, never any trouble here, never any strident jealous arguments, never anything more than consenting adults quietly doing their thing — Kahn was very surprised to see the police.

He was even more surprised to learn that Geraldine Ferguson was dead.

He kept telling the police how surprised he was.

This was a Tuesday, he kept telling the police, and Tuesday was normally Gerry’s day off; she took Tuesdays, he took Wednesdays. He had not expected to see her at the gallery and was not surprised when she did not show up for work. He had closed the gallery at six, had gone for a quiet dinner with a close friend, and then had come down here to The Quarter for a nightcap before turning in. Arthur Brown asked him if he would mind coming uptown to the squadroom, and Kahn said he could see no objection to that, though perhaps he had better first consult his lawyer. Brown said he was entitled to a lawyer, and in fact didn’t have to answer any questions at all if he didn’t want to, lawyer or no lawyer, and then went into the whole Miranda-Escobedo bit, advising Kahn of his rights while Kahn listened intently, and then decided that he had better call his lawyer and have him come up to the squadroom to be present during the interrogation, murder being a somewhat serious occurrence, even in a city as permissive as this one.

The lawyer was a man named Anatole Petitpas, and he asked Brown to do the whole Miranda-Escobedo song and dance one more time for the benefit of the people in the cheaper seats. Brown patiently explained Kahn’s rights to him again, and Kahn said that he understood everything, and Petitpas seemed satisfied that all was being conducted in a proper legal manner, and then he signaled to the detectives that it was now all right to ask his client whatever questions they chose to ask. There were four detectives standing in a loose circle around Kahn, but their weight of numbers was offset by the presence of Petitpas, who could be counted on to leap into the fray if ever the questioning got too rough. This was murder they were fooling around with here, and nobody was taking any chances.

They asked all the routine questions (almost putting even themselves to sleep) such as WHERE WERE YOU AT TWO A.M. LAST NIGHT? (the time established by the ME as the probable time of Gerry’s death) and WHO WAS WITH YOU? and WHERE DID YOU GO? and WERE YOU SEEN BY ANYONE? all the usual police crap, the questions coming alternately from Brown, Carella, Meyer, and Hawes working smoothly and efficiently as a team. And then finally they got back to the photograph, everything always got back to the photograph because it was obvious to each of the cops in that squadroom that four people had been killed so far and that all of them had been in possession of a piece or pieces of a picture showing the location of the NSLA loot, and if a motive were any more evident than that, each of them would have tripped over it with his big flat feet.

“When I talked to you at the gallery Saturday,” Brown said, “you told me Gerry Ferguson was in possession of a certain piece of a photograph. When you said this, were you...”

“Just a second,” Petitpas interrupted. “Have you talked to my client before this?”

“I talked to him, yes.”

“Did you advise him of his rights?”

“I was conducting a field investigation,” Brown said wearily.

“He didn’t tell me he was a cop,” Kahn said.

“Is that true?” Petitpas asked.

“It’s true.”

“It may be significant.”

“Not necessarily,” Brown said, and smiled. The other detectives smiled with him. They were thinking of thousands of social agency reports in triplicate where, for example, a young man would be described as having been arrested at the age of fourteen for possession of narcotics, at sixteen for possession with intent to sell, and at eighteen for smuggling in twelve kilos of heroin in a brown paper bag, all of which damning criminal history would be followed by the words, typewritten in upper case,

“Go on,” Petitpas said.

“I wanted to ask your client whether he knew for certain that Miss Ferguson had a piece of that photograph.”

“I knew for certain,” Kahn said.

“Miss Ferguson told us the piece was in the gallery safe,” Carella said. “Was that your impression as well?”

“It was my impression.”

“As you know, however, when we opened the safe, we did not find the photograph.”

“I know that.”

“Where did you think it was then?” Hawes asked.

“I don’t understand your question.”

“When you found out it wasn’t in the safe, when we opened the safe yesterday and the picture wasn’t in it, where did you think it might be?”

“I had no idea.”

“Did you think it was in Miss Ferguson’s apartment?” Meyer asked.

“He has already told you he had no idea where it was,” Petitpas said. “You’re asking him to speculate...”

“Let’s save it for the courtroom, counselor,” Carella said. “There’s nothing out of line here so far, and you know it. A woman’s been killed. If your client can satisfy us on certain points, he’ll walk out of here in ten minutes. If not...”

“Yes, Mr. Canella?”

“Carella. If not, I think you’re as well aware of the possibilities as we are.”

“Are you threatening him with a murder charge?”

“Did anyone mention a murder charge?”

“The implication was clear.”

“So was Detective Meyer’s question. Mr. Kahn, did you or did you not think the photograph might be in Miss Ferguson’s apartment?”

“May I answer that?” Kahn asked his lawyer.

“Yes, go ahead, go ahead,” Petitpas said, annoyed.

“I guess I thought it could have been there, yes.”

“Did you go there looking for it?” Brown asked.

“That’s it, I’m afraid,” Petitpas said. “I feel I must advise my client at this point that it would not be to his benefit to answer any further questions.”

“Do you want us to book him, counselor, is that it?”

“You may do as you wish. I know I don’t have to remind you that murder is a serious...”

“Oh, man, what bullshit,” Brown said. “Why don’t you just play ball with us, Petitpas? Has your man got something to hide?”

“I’ve got nothing to hide, Anatole,” Kahn said.

“Then let him answer the goddamn questions,” Carella said.

“I can answer the questions,” Kahn said, and looked at Petitpas.

“Very well, go ahead,” Petitpas said.

“I didn’t kill her, Anatole.”

“Go ahead, go ahead.”

“I really didn’t. I have nothing to hide.”

“Okay, counselor?”

“I have already indicated that he may answer your questions.”

“Thank you. Did you go to Gerry Ferguson’s apartment last night?”

“No.”

“Or any time yesterday?”

“No.”

“Did you see her yesterday?”

“Yes, at the gallery. I left before she did. This was sometime after you’d opened the safe.”

“Sometime after you knew the picture wasn’t in the safe?”

“That’s right, yes.”

“And sometime after you thought it might be in Miss Ferguson’s apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s talk about the list, Mr. Kahn.”

“What?”

“The list.”

“What list?”

“The torn list of names you keep in a little cash box in the bottom drawer of your office desk.”

“I... I don’t know what you mean,” Kahn said.

“Four people on that list have already been killed, Mr. Kahn.”

“What list does he mean, Bram?” Petitpas asked.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s a list of names, Mr. Petitpas,” Brown said, “presumably of people who possess or once possessed portions of a photograph alleging to show the location of certain monies stolen from the National Savings and Loan Association six years ago. Does that clearly identify the nature of the list, Mr. Kahn?”

Petitpas stared at his client. Kahn stared back at him.

“Well, answer it,” Petitpas said.

“It clearly identifies the nature of the list, yes,” Kahn said.

“Then the list does exist?”

“It exists.”

“And a torn portion of it is indeed in your cash box?”

“It is, yes, but how...?”

“Never mind how. Where’d you get that list?”

“Gerry gave it to me for safekeeping.”

“Where’d she get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mr. Kahn, try to help us,” Meyer said gently.

“I didn’t kill her,” Kahn said.

“Somebody did,” Carella said.

“It wasn’t me.”

“We’re not suggesting it was.”

“All right. As long as you know.”

“Who gave her the list?”

“Carmine.”

“Bonamico?”

“Yes. Carmine Bonamico. He gave half of the list to his wife, and half to Geraldine.”

“Why Geraldine?”

“They were having a thing.”

“They were lovers?”

“Yes.”

“Did he also give her a piece of the photograph?”

“No. She got that from her brother-in-law, Lou D’Amore. There were four men on the holdup. Bonamico cut the picture into eight parts, a wiggly line across the middle horizontally, three wiggly lines vertically, eight pieces in all. He gave two pieces to each of the men, and kept two for himself. He asked the men to distribute the pieces to people they could trust. It was an insurance policy, so to speak. The beneficiaries were the people who held sections of the photograph. The trustees were Alice Bonamico and Gerry Ferguson, the only two people who could put together the list and collect the photograph segments and uncover the loot.”

“Who told you all this?”

“Gerry.”

“How’d she know?”

“Pillow talk. Bonamico told her everything. I don’t think his wife knew who had the other half of the list. But Gerry sure as hell knew.”

“So Gerry was in possession of half of the list as well as one piece of the photograph.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t she put the list together and go after the other pieces?”

“She tried to.”

“What stopped her?”

“Alice.” Kahn paused. “Well, after all, would your wife cooperate with your mistress?”

“I don’t have a mistress,” Carella said.

“Here’s a typewritten copy of the list,” Brown said. “Take a look at it.”

“Is it all right to look at it?” Kahn asked his lawyer.

“Yes,” Petitpas said. He turned to the police stenographer and said, “Let the record indicate that Mr. Kahn is being shown a list with such-and-such names on it; record all the names as they appear on the list.”

“May I see the list?” the stenographer asked.

Brown handed it to him. The stenographer studied it, noted the names, and then handed it back to Brown.

“All right, Mr. Kahn, would you now please look at this list?”

Kahn accepted the list.

“I’ve looked at it,” he said, and handed it back to Brown.

“Which of those names are familiar to you?”

“Only three of them.”

“Which?”

“Gerry, of course, Alice Bonamico, and Donald Renninger. He’s the other person who got a piece of the picture from Lou D’Amore.”

“How come?”

“They were cell mates at Caramoor. In fact, Lou mailed the piece to him there. He was still behind bars at the time of the robbery.”

“What about these other names?”

“I don’t know any of them.”

“Robert Coombs?”

“Don’t know him.”

“His name was on the half of the list you had in your possession. Didn’t you ever try to contact him?”

“Gerry may have. I didn’t.”

“You weren’t at all curious about him, is that right?”

“Oh, I was curious, I suppose, but not curious enough to go all the way out to...” Kahn suddenly stopped.

“Out to where, Mr. Kahn?”

“All right, Bethtown. I did go to see him. He wouldn’t give up the piece. I offered him twelve hundred dollars for it, but he wouldn’t give it up.”

“How about some of these other names? Did you ever try to contact any of them?”

“How could I? I only had half the list.”

“There are only seven names on this list, Mr. Kahn.”

“Yes, I noticed that.”

“You said the picture had been divided into eight pieces.”

“That’s what Gerry told me.”

“Who’s got the eighth piece?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about this first name on the list, Mr. Kahn? Albert Weinberg? Are you trying to say you’ve never heard of him?”

“Never.”

“Don’t you read the newspapers?”

“Oh, you mean his murder. Yes, of course, I read about his murder. I thought you were referring...”

“Yes?”

“To my having some knowledge of him before then.”

“Did you kill Albert Weinberg?”

“Just a second, Mr. Brown...”

“It’s all right, Anatole,” Kahn said. “No, I did not kill him, Mr. Brown. In fact, before the night of his murder, I didn’t even know he existed.”

“I see,” Brown said. “Even though he’d been in the gallery several times to inquire about the photograph?”

“Yes, but always using an assumed name.”

“I see.”

“I had nothing to do with either murder.”

“Did you have anything to do with beating me up?”

“I should say not!”

“Where were you at the time?”

“Home in bed!”

“When?”

“The night you were beat up.”

“How do you know it happened at night?”

“Just a second, Mr. Brown...”

“No, it’s all right, Anatole,” Kahn said. “Gerry told me.”

“Who told Gerry?”

“Why, you, I would guess.”

“No, I didn’t tell her anything about it.”

“Then she must have known some other way. Maybe she was involved in it. Maybe she hired someone to go to your hotel...”

“How do you know that’s where it happened?”

“She... she said so.”

“She said I’d been attacked by two men in my hotel room?”

“Yes, she told me about it the next day.”

“She couldn’t have told you there were two men, Mr. Kahn, because I just made that up. There was only one man, wearing a stocking over his face.”

“Well, it wasn’t me!” Kahn shouted.

“Then who was it?” Brown shouted back. “You just said you learned about Albert Weinberg on the night of his murder. How?”

“The morning after, I meant. The newspapers...”

“You said ‘the night of his murder,’ you said you didn’t even know he existed until that night. How’d you find out about his existence, Mr. Kahn? From my open notebook by the telephone?”

“Just a second, just a second,” Petitpas shouted.

“I didn’t kill him!” Kahn shouted.

“What’d you do, go after him the minute you left me?”

“No!”

“Just a second!”

“Walk the three blocks to his room...”

“No!”

“You killed him, Kahn, admit it!”

“No!”

“You attacked me...”

“Yes, no, NO!”

“Yes or no?”

Kahn had half-risen from his chair, and now he collapsed back into it, and began sobbing.

“Yes or no, Mr. Kahn?” Carella asked gently.

“I didn’t want to... to hit you, I deplore violence,” Kahn said, sobbing, not looking up at Brown. “I intended only to... to force you to give me the piece you had... to... to threaten you with the gun. And then... when you opened the door, I... You looked so big... and... and in that split second, I... I decided to... to strike out at you. I was very frightened, so frightened. I... I was afraid you might hurt me.”

“Book him,” Brown said. “First Degree Assault.”

“Just a second,” Petitpas said.

“Book him,” Brown said flatly.