Eye Wit (17 page)

“Just open the case. I do not intend to allow my husband’s Ishi collection to remain on display. The public has no need to see the instruments of my husband’s death.”

“Of course. But I must say this is most disappointing. Many visitors have called to say they have scheduled trips to see the exhibition, and especially this display. It is truly a fine collection.”

Jessica snapped, “That’s not our problem. Just open the damned case.”

The curator removed a set of dozen or so keys on a gold ring, and quickly located the proper key. He opened the door of the case then stepped hurriedly back as Jessica reached past him and removed both bows and all six of the arrows––and the ornately embossed leather quiver displayed beneath them. Dropping the arrows unceremoniously into the quiver, she slung it over her shoulder. Then handed one of the bows to Sophia and kept the other.

“That will be all,” Sophia said to the departing curator.

The curator stopped and turned back to look at Sophia and Jessica “Very well. Please close the door of the case when you leave. No need for it to be locked anymore. Nothing of value remains.” He spun on his heel and strode off with as much dignity as he could muster, calling a final retort over his shoulder. “If you need anything else, do be sure to let me know.”

Jessica slammed the door of case so hard that its glass panel shattered. “Oops, so sorry. Not a very sturdy case. You really need a better one.”

“We don’t want to go out the front door,” Sophia said, her voice low. “Here, follow me.”

Quickly, she led the way down the long hall lined with members’ paintings to the rear entrance that was used for deliveries. In 1860, when the building was the home of Samuel Tilden, a former governor of New York State, he’d had a secret tunnel dug in case he needed to escape trouble. That had been blocked off decades ago. Nowadays, the National Arts Club, founded in 1898, was designated a New York landmark and a National Historic Landmark, and the only secure escape route close by that Sophia knew about was via the secret room in the former Quaker Meeting House, now the Brotherhood Synagogue. Someone had broken through the rear wall of this relic from the days of the Underground Railroad then skillfully disguised the panel in the wall that opened up access to the tunnels under Manhattan. Sophia Fellini knew her city history and today all her poring over books and maps would be a lifesaver for her and Jessica.

Out on the street, the two women headed east, walking in the quick, determined way New Yorkers often walk. Not exactly running but pretty damn fast.

28

I kept my vow to Brigitta. The day after she died, even before her remains were cremated, I placed a call to Marco Fellini in New York. I spoke to one of his assistants, a woman named Jessica Ware, and identified myself.

“Ah, now I understand. Bernardem is a company, not a place. No, I’m not calling from Bernardem, I’m calling from my home in Lucerne and I wish to speak to Mr. Fellini about an article in the paper.”

“I see. May I tell Mr. Fellini which paper you represent?”

“Ms… Ware is it? Ms. Ware, I am not a reporter, I merely wish to speak with Mr. Fellini regarding a work of art in his possession, which was mentioned in an article in the
International Herald Tribune
. The article appeared on Saturday.”

“Oh, of course. I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Reiniger. I apologize for my confusion. I had been expecting another caller from Switzerland this morning and assumed you were he. Obviously, I will need more tea to fully awaken on this Monday. Marco…Mr. Fellini won’t be in for another hour. Is there some question I can answer for you?”

“It would be best for me to speak to him directly, I think.”

“I will be sure to tell him you called then, Mr. Reiniger. Is there any other message you would care to leave?”

I thought for a moment. “No, just tell him I will call again in two hours, at…” I looked at my watch. “At ten ‘o clock, your time.”

She agreed and I hung up.

As usual when I needed to gather my thoughts, I made myself another cup of Nescafé. As usual, I couldn’t do so without reflecting on the ubiquity of Nescafé, the perennial best-seller for Switzerland’s largest food purveyor, Nestlé. Over big parts of the world, most notably in Mediterranean and Middle Eastern countries, if an American asked for coffee without specifying Arabic or Turkish coffee—or a cappuccino or espresso—the server would query: “Nescafé?” then serve the American a cup of Instant Nescafé, accompanied with a dismissive scowl.

I picked up the paper to re-read the article, grateful for the two-hour delay before I would talk to Fellini. I would need to be circumspect, rather than challenging or hostile. I did not want to put him on guard or have him think he was talking to some kind of crank. If I was to be sure the crystal ball was my grandmother’s I would need to see it in person, preferably photograph it close up, to show Mama and Papa. If I handled him right, perhaps Fellini would suggest a visit.

I used the time to clean the apartment while I rehearsed what I would say, and when my watch read 4:00 p.m., I dialed Marco Fellini’s number.

“Fellini’s. This is Iona Duncan. How may I assist you?”

I identified myself. Nearly immediately, Fellini was on the line. “Mr. Reiniger, what can I do for you?”

I had taken a deep breath, thank God. “Thank you for talking to me, Mr. Fellini. First, I want to say how much I enjoyed reading about you in the
International
Herald
Tribune
.”

“Thank you. I was pleased with the article myself. Was there anything in particular…?”

I could detect an undertone of caution in his voice.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes there is, Mr. Fellini. I was hoping you could do me a huge favor, one that may also be of benefit to you.”

“If it is possible, certainly,” Fellini replied, still cautious.

“Let me explain. I too am very fond of Gypsy art, crystal balls in particular….”

“I’m afraid I must interrupt, Mr. Reiniger. All of the items discussed in the article, including the crystal ball, are part of my private collection. None of them is for sale….”

“Yes, I understood that from the article. I’m not inquiring about buying your crystal ball. I have several of my own, including one that appears virtually identical. I thought perhaps we could compare yours and mine and perhaps pin down their provenance….” I paused, deliberately. Would he take the bait?

“I see. Do you know the origins of your crystal ball?”

“Not precisely. That’s why I’m calling. I was hoping we could compare notes, perhaps even compare the balls side by side—actually, I should say, compare their bases side by side, because crystal balls are pretty much alike, after all. It’s the bases that set them apart. I believe my crystal ball came from Germany, possibly from Hamburg, but I am not certain. My ball appears to be slightly larger than yours, but the base…. Yours is copper, like mine?”

“Yes, it’s copper,” Fellini said.

“I assumed so, from its color. Anyway, your base appears to be identical to mine, except mine is slightly larger in scale.”

“You’re sure you’re not trying to persuade me to sell mine? Because you really must understand that nothing in my personal collection is for sale….”

“You have my assurances, Mr. Fellini. I feel the same way about my collection, particularly about my crystal balls. Because of family, of course.”

“Family?”

“Yes, my family is Roma, you see. I come from a long line of Gypsies. Didn’t your secretary mention that?”

The silence on the line lasted a good fifteen seconds. I was beginning to think I had scared him off and that he had severed the connection, but finally he spoke. “Could you hold just a moment, please?”

I was able to hear just a few words from the muffled conversation in the background. “Well, where is she, Iona?”

“Sorry, Mr. Reiniger…Hans, is it? I would like to talk with you further about all of this, Hans, but I need to confirm something with Jessica, my secretary…er, my assistant I mean, about my schedule. You see, I expect to spend a few days in Zürich in two weeks, perhaps we could arrange to meet in Zürich? Unfortunately, Jessica has stepped away for the moment and I can’t find my schedule. May I call you back shortly?”

“I’ll look forward to that, but perhaps I have an even better idea, Marco. I need to meet some people in upstate New York and Connecticut next week. I’ll be flying into JFK on Sunday. Perhaps I could stop by your home and place of business on Monday—a week from today?”

“Excellent. A fine idea. I will make space on my schedule. Perhaps you can bring your crystal ball and its base along with you and we can compare notes. Are you coming here on business?”

“I’ll make a point to bring the ball with me, and yes, I’ll be there on business, mostly. I have some personal business to take care of in New York, then will be meeting with some aerostiers about next year’s festival at Château-d’Oex…”

“Château-d’Oex! I was there last year. What a tremendous festival! I think it is the most beautiful event anywhere in the world, certainly the most exciting. So you are involved with the balloon festival, Hans? It’s going on right now, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my parents are filling in for me this year. They always help with the show, and our balloons always fly. My wife, too. My Brigitta, is…was…in charge of the Espace Ballons, the museum at Château-d’Oex.”

“That’s incredible. Your wife…. You said she
was
in charge of the museum, is she still…?”

“No, not any longer. She passed away. Just yesterday, in fact.”

“Oh my God. I am so sorry, Hans. My condolences. Yet you are still taking your trip here?”

“Yes. Yes I am. I am fulfilling a promise I made to my Brigitta before she died. She wanted her ashes scattered in New York Harbor, from the Staten Island Ferry. We lived in New York—Greenwich Village, actually—for many years, back when she was a dancer.”

“I see. This will be an emotional trip for you, then. If you have time, you must let me buy you dinner at the National Arts Club while you are in the city. I must say that I am impressed that you are carrying on your work in this difficult time. The balloon festival is underway, your wife dying, and yet you’re off on a trip to line up participants in next year’s show. I suppose it’s good to keep busy, no?”

“It is, Marco. It’s good to focus on the future even as one comes to grips with the past. Of course, you know what we Gypsies say: The show must go on.”

29

At the club, Yoko ran down the steps to the front entrance and put her finger firmly on the bell, leaning on it so that one long, continuous buzz rasped on and on.

“Police, let us in,” she called into the speaker box on the wall, frustrated at the delay. Whoever was at the front desk was on the telephone or helping one of the residents. Yoko knew firsthand how busy the front desk could be––she’d deliberately chosen the night shift when she was working at the club part-time and in college full-time, not quite as many interruptions.

“Here is Dan,” Zoran said in a monotone from where he stood forlornly at the top of the steps. He sounded utterly dispirited and Yoko knew he was beating himself up for Jessica’s escape. Why the hell couldn’t he let it go, every minute was critical, time to focus on the here and now.

Finally the buzz sounded to release the lock and Yoko pushed the door open, holding it for Dan, who’d caught up with her. He tapped her lightly on the shoulder as he stepped inside the club. Zoran trailed a few paces behind, deep in thought, obsessing over the failure of his plan to trap Marco Fellini’s killer. He’d been certain Jessica was the assailant.

Yoko led the way to the room where the Ishi exhibit was displayed, taking the red-carpeted stairs two at a time, Dan on her heels. Zoran lagged behind, walking, not running, up the marble staircase. When he joined Yoko and Dan, they were standing in front of the empty case, staring in dismay at the shattered door.

“Jessica’s taken everything,” Yoko said. “See, the card says ‘Antique Bows and Arrows.’”

“We are too late, too late,” Zoran’s voice was even more forlorn than his body language. Carefully, he straightened the dangling sign over the empty case that read, “Ishi––Father of Modern-day Archery.” Then he reached in his pocket for a wipe. Who knew how many virulent germs had landed on that sign?

“Christ,” Dan said. “Where do we go from here? We didn’t see them on the street.” He stepped back from the case to look around the room and Zoran winced at the crunching of broken glass under Dan’s shoes.

“If we knew where Jessica and Sophia had gone….” Yoko said. “Zoran, why do you think Sophia was with Jessica?”

“It is possible that Sophia Fellini is a hostage,” Zoran said. “I am not certain.” He straightened his shoulders. “However, if they are not still here in the club, I believe I know where they would have gone.”

“Don’t keep us in suspense, partner,” Dan said.

“First, we must find out what the security cameras around the club show,” Zoran said.

“No need to go any further, I can supply the answer.” It was Aldon James, the 13
^th
president of the National Arts Club. “What vandalism. I don’t understand, the Fellinis have been longtime benefactors of the club.”