Styx & Stone (38 page)

It was dark when the cab dropped me off outside Saettano’s Riverside Drive apartment house. I had tried to call him, but the line was engaged. The slush had stopped falling from the sky, but the sidewalks and gutters were still rough sledding. I slipped once in my haste, but caught myself before falling, and pushed through the heavy brass door into the lobby.

“You again, Miss Stone?” asked Libby with a frown. “The professor is about to sit down to dinner.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, stepping inside before she’d invited me. “I tried to phone, but the line was busy. It’s really urgent.”

Libby showed me to the den overlooking the Hudson, where the old man appeared a few minutes later.

“Eleonora,” he said, holding out his frail hand. “Two visits in one day. What is so urgent that makes you behave so rashly?”

“I have to ask you something,” I said.

“Of course,” he said, motioning to a chair as he himself sat down. “How may I help you?”

“I want to know about philology, history of language,” I said. “Italian philology.”

Saettano regarded me queerly. “Philology?”

“I want to know about sound change.”

“I’m not a linguist, Eleonora.”

“But I’m sure you’ll know the answer.”

“So ask me,” he said.

“When a word comes into one language from another, what happens?”

Saettano pursed his lips. “This reminds me of my university exams,” he said. “And that was more than sixty years ago. What kind of word are you talking about?”

“Suppose a word, or a name, came into Latin or Italian a thousand or more years ago from a Germanic dialect. Let’s say the name is William or Wilhelm. Is there any rhyme or reason to how it turns out?”

“Absolutely,” intoned the old man, punctuating his statement with a bounce of his cane. “Sound change is paradoxical, Eleonora: it is at the same time arbitrary and regular.”

“How so?”

“Arbitrary in the sense that there is not necessarily a reason one sound moves to another. If all phonemes changed in the same fashion everywhere and for the same reasons, we would all speak the same language with the same accent.” He wiped a handkerchief across his lips, then continued. “For a group of people living in the same community, speaking the same language, sound change is regular. The evolution of Latin to Italian is filled with such examples. It may sound complicated, but a philologist can explain and predict changes. The Latin for milk,
lactis
, for example, moves to
latte
in Italian. The regularity of this sound change can be seen in other examples:
fructus–frutto, factum–fatto, pectus–petto
.”

“What about my example of Wilhelm?”

“The German
W
is pronounced like an English
V
of course, but in Romance languages it changes to a
G
sound.
Guillaume
in French,
Guillermo
in Spanish, and
Guglielmo
in Italian. It’s completely regular.”

“Regular enough for other examples?”

“Many. The pairs are common between English and Italian. English is, after all, the descendent of Saxon, a Germanic dialect. For example:
guadagno
for wage;
guardia
for ward;
guerra
for war. I’m sure there are more. Perhaps you could think of some yourself.”

“I think I can.”

Saettano squinted at me from his chair. “For instance?”

“
Guelph
and Welf.”

“Yes,” he said. “Any others?”

“
Gualtieri
and Walter,” I said, and the old man nodded approvingly.

I tried to reach McKeever, but he was out. The switchboard transferred me to a sergeant who worked Homicide.

“What do you want him for?” he asked, chewing on something that sounded like dinner.

“It’s the Ercolano murder case,” I said.

“He don’t need your help, girlie; he’s already got a warrant for some Italian guy.”

“It’s not the Italian,” I said. “Just tell him Ellie called. I need him to meet me in an hour at Carnegie Hall, box 59 in the first tier.”

“Is this some kind of crank?”

“Please tell him. It’s just seven thirty. Have him meet me there at eight thirty.”

“What for?”

“He can listen to the music if he wants,” I said. “But first I’m going to hand over his murderer.”

Carnegie Hall sits on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street (if you were wondering how to get there). The placards at the Fifty-Seventh Street entrance announced a special, sold-out engagement: Van Cliburn.

It was no easy feat getting inside. I argued with the man at the ticket window that I was Abraham Stone’s daughter, there to collect replacement tickets for the originals, which had been lost. After some grumbling on his part, and two pieces of identification on mine, he issued the tickets: seats 3 and 4, box 59 on the first tier. The seats, on the left side, were among the finest in the hall. But I was going to have to wait that night, as my wrangling with the ticket clerk had made me miss Cliburn’s entrance. The door to box 59 was locked. I looked at my watch: 8:07. Intermission was at least thirty minutes away.

I paced the corridor, consulting the time every few minutes. Two red-coated ushers watched me cross-armed from the stairway, their faces expressionless. I asked if they might be induced to unlock box 59, but they shook their heads in unison. I took up my pacing again.

Strains of Schumann’s “Papillons” fluttered up the stairways and through the corridors, but my mind was too busy to worry about missing a great concert. I pulled a pencil and paper from my purse and began jotting down the disjointed pieces of my reconstructed puzzle; I didn’t want to forget anything. At 8:26, McKeever appeared at the top of the stairs. He showed his badge to the ushers, who looked my way, sure the flatfoot was after me. McKeever approached, looking put out.

“Gigi didn’t do it,” I said.

“Gigi?”

“Luigi Lucchesi didn’t kill Ercolano. And he didn’t attack my father.”

McKeever winced, looked down, and drew a deep breath.

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?” I accused. “More work? More people to interview?”

McKeever frowned. “It’s not that, Ellie.”

“Then what?”

He seemed to search for words. “Look, if not Mr. Lucchesi, who did it, then?”

I turned my head toward the box behind me. “In there. I’m just waiting for intermission.”

McKeever gazed past me at the door, his shoulders drooping, looking exhausted.

“Look, Ellie,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

Then a thunderous applause rose from below and carried through the halls. I stepped to one side of the door to box 59 and motioned to McKeever to do the same. He looked at me, almost desperately, then relented and moved to the side. A few moments passed, and the ovation subsided. The brass knob clicked and turned, then the door eased open. A bald man in black tie stepped out, followed by a portly, lipsticked woman in a green satin dress and a brown mink. A young couple came next, then a little man with white hair. I held my breath, waiting for the next to appear. I knew I wasn’t wrong.

“Good evening, Professor,” I said.

Gustav Emmel blanched, stammered something unintelligible, then threw a glance back into the box.

“Please, do invite Mrs. Farber to come out,” I said. I drew out the awkward drama another moment before adding: “Walter.”

Angela Farber appeared from the box, radiant from some kind of musical rapture, and didn’t notice her escort’s discomfort. Emmel’s eyes darted back and forth between her, looking stunning in a sequined dress and fox fur, and me, in my wet hair, black overcoat, and soggy shoes. She still hadn’t seen me.

“Angela,” said Emmel, eyeing me. “She’s here.”

Mrs. Farber turned her head, euphoric smile spread over her cheeks, and almost looked through me. Then her glow dimmed.

“Good evening,” I said. “Enjoying the concert?”

She suppressed whatever emotions were roiling inside of her—rage, humiliation, surprise—and floated a cracked smile.

“Ellie, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Are you referring to your father’s seats?” she asked, waving a white-gloved hand. “How embarrassing! You’re probably wondering why I have his tickets.”

I glanced at McKeever, who had stepped from behind the door into view. I waited for her to explain.

“He gave them to me,” she said, unable to smile and lie at the same time. She’d caught sight of McKeever, and, remembering him from the initial investigation, nodded nervously in his direction. “He had planned on being out of town, you see. He said something about Washington and his cousin, like a few months ago when I looked after his plants. Well, anyway, he knows how I enjoy piano music, so he offered me the tickets. Walter and I have had this evening planned for weeks.”

“According to Carnegie Hall, the tickets were only mailed on the twentieth,” I said. “He would have received them on Friday the twenty-second at the earliest.”

“So? That’s when he gave them to me.”

“That’s the day he was attacked in his study. And you said you were in the bathtub when he arrived home.”

Angela Farber blinked, looked to Walter, Gustav, or whatever his name was, then back at me.

“Furthermore, my father’s cousin from Washington is somewhere in the Painted Desert right now. He won’t be back until next week.”

There was a long silence.

“Why don’t we talk inside,” said McKeever, motioning to the box. “I don’t think we want to share this discussion with everyone.”

The box was empty, except for the chairs and a couple of forgotten programs. McKeever held the door for Angela Farber, Emmel, and me, then closed us in.

“Is this going to take long?” she asked. “I don’t intend to miss the second half of this program. And Walter and I have a table reserved at the Russian Tea Room later on.”

“I wouldn’t count on either if I were you,” I said. “Mrs. Farber, I think you already know Detective-Sergeant McKeever of the NYPD. He’s here to arrest you for the murder of Ruggero Ercolano and the attempted murder of my father.”

Her jaw dropped, and McKeever blushed.

“Ellie,” he protested. “I have no plans to arrest this lady.”

“How could you think I’d do such a thing?” she gasped. “I didn’t even know that Ercolano fellow.”

“I realize that,” I said. “Or you hardly knew him. That’s why it never occurred to me that you might be the one. You had no direct ties to the Italian Department, besides living next door to my father, so I had no reason to suspect you.”

“You have the wrong idea, Ellie,” she said, trying to muster another smile. Her upper lip glistened with perspiration. “I had no reason to kill anyone, and no opportunity.”

“You had both,” I said, looking at Emmel, whose gray face had turned green. “Walter, here, was your motive.”

“I had nothing to do with these crimes, Miss Stone,” said Emmel.

“I know,” I said. “But you were the inspiration.”

“What are you talking about, Ellie?” asked Mrs. Farber, eyes smoldering.

“You’re in love with Walter, aren’t you?”

She fidgeted, but didn’t answer. Emmel just groaned.

“You’re in love with him,” I continued, “and intent on keeping him by any means available. You told me yourself he was losing interest, didn’t call anymore.”

“So I went out and tried to kill your father? You’re crazy, Ellie!”

Her voice echoed through the hall, and some patrons in nearby boxes interrupted their conversations to stare.

“No, not me, Mrs. Farber,” I said, though not as mean as it sounds. “I think you were mad with love, mad with fear of losing Walter, mad with the turmoil inside your own head—the same turmoil that sent you away for all those years.”

Her eyes clouded up with tears.

“You couldn’t bear being alone,” I continued. “You’d already lost one man: Garth. He’s still in jail, isn’t he? Or did he die? He was a junkie, wasn’t he? When they sent him away, you broke down.”

“Officer, can’t you stop her?” she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My poor Garth!”

McKeever stared at her, then me, gulped, but said nothing, did nothing to try to stop me.