The Crasher (43 page)

Ginny quickly looked down, too. A guard appeared, then another, followed by a small group in evening dress. People started
to scream. There were yells for help. Both guards looked up to the upper floor.

Fast, she had to get away fast. Ginny ran to the end of the hall, tripping over her torn dress, tearing it more. Any minute
she expected Alex to appear. There was blood on the floor. She started to retch, but fear gave her a manic energy.

Where had he gone… the tall, slim man who moved like Alex? Her question was easily answered. There was a narrow door, slightly
open, otherwise she wouldn’t have seen it, set flush with the wall. Shivering, Ginny opened it farther to see an iron stairwell,
fire-exit steps. Far below she could hear somebody clambering down.

“Alex!” This time her cry came out loud, clear.

The scurrying stopped. Was someone looking up at her? The murderer. Who was it? The cousin she had adored or a dangerous stranger?
He could be one and the same person. She knew her face was clearly illuminated by a single bulb just inside the doorway, but
below, the face that could see hers was obscured in shadow.

She heard a door creak open, then slam shut. Whoever it was had gone. Something familiar she’d just now seen in the shadows
tugged at her memory. What was it? She was too hysterical to think straight.

She hesitated, half in, half out of the doorway, as the whole hall was flooded with light. Arthur Stern was where she’d left
him, slumped against the wall, wiping his mouth free of her lipstick.

To her horror he straightened up, and started to stagger toward her. “Come back here, Madame Designer,” he yelled. “Come back,
you little slut…”

As he approached the end of the hall, he stopped. She saw him bend down. He picked up a gun, the gun which had fired the shot.
Was he going to threaten her with it now?

Terrified, she stepped inside the doorway and shut the door behind her. Immediately the light went out. She ran her hand over
the door. There was a latch. She fastened it. She would wait inside—for hours if she had to—until she was sure Stern had gone,
but even as she cowered in the dark, she heard voices, Arthur Stern’s loudest of all, angry, accusing.

She had to get away before anyone found her and asked her to explain what had happened. How could she explain? Who would believe
that Arthur Stern, such a pillar of American society, and married to one of the richest women in the country, had attempted
to rape her? No one would believe her. How could she explain what she was doing in a darkened corridor with a married man
anyway? She couldn’t explain it to herself. Above all, how could she make Johnny understand, Johnny who already was ashamed
of her? Whatever danger awaited her below was preferable to public exposure now.

Footsteps were getting closer. There was no alternative. She had to go down the stairwell in the dark. She slipped off her
stiletto sandals and, clinging to the wall, began her descent, the rough iron grating of the stairs cutting through her hose.
With every step she expected to hear the door above being broken down, to be hauled back and publicly humiliated, but she
didn’t stop until she reached the bottom. She caught her breath. Silence.

She groped until she found the door that had creaked and slammed to signal the murderer’s getaway. But had he gotten away
or was he waiting there to deal with her, the one person he knew had witnessed his crime? Here came the creak as she carefully
opened the door, holding on to it so it didn’t slam.

Where was she? In the basement of the giant old building, where once upon an innocent time she’d fetched and carried for
Vogue’s
centennial party. A solitary dim lightbulb hung in the corridor stretching ahead. Was anyone waiting for her in the shadows?

* * *

“I regret to inform you that a tragic accident has occurred. One of our guests has been found dead, apparently as a result
of a fall from an upper floor.”

Johnny was looking at his father as the president of the library was making the shocking announcement. Even listening to such
awful news, Johnny noted with irritation that his father, who had joined the table only a few moments before, didn’t seem
at all surprised. It would be just like the old man to know what had happened before, if not as soon as, the president. To
his increasing uneasiness he saw his father whisper in a flirtatious way to the stylish woman on his left, one of the younger
members of the library’s board of trustees.

“Because of the unusual circumstances,” the president continued, “I regret to inform you that we will have to curtail service
of the dinner, and the after-dinner entertainment has, also regrettably, had to be canceled.”

What the hell was going on? How could anyone fall to their death at the library? Had someone dived over the balustrade to
commit suicide? Johnny tried to catch his father’s eye, without success. He was too busy gulping down the salmon in front
of him as if he was never going to be fed again.

“I have to ask you all to remain seated. I will be able to make another announcement shortly.”

The president left the room and everybody began to speak at once. Johnny leaned across the table. “What’s going on, Dad?”

“Perhaps a great story for your gossip column, Johnny, important man falls from balcony and breaks his neck.” Quentin Peet
rolled his eyes in such an exaggerated way, other guests shook their heads, trying not to laugh.

He put up a hand, his face now grave. Everyone, including a fuming Johnny, waited on his words. “In fact, a tragedy has occurred.
I was told about it just seconds before I joined you. I’m afraid we’re not talking about an accident here. It seems a murder
has taken place… a murder of a most distinguished man.”

* * *

“Good evening, sir, I’m Detective Petersh, this is Detective Reever, Manhattan Homicide. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I’ve already answered enough goddamn questions. I want to go home.” From a chair in the library’s Trustees Room, mutinous,
belligerent, his breath belching alcohol fumes, his clothing still untidily buttoned, Arthur Stern growled at the two new
arrivals.

Forty-five minutes had passed since two security guards had found first the bloodied corpse and then a befuddled, apparently
drunk Arthur Stern, unaccountably on the third floor, from where it appeared the victim had been pushed to his death. As the
guards told the first police officer on the scene, Stern had behaved in a threatening manner when they tried to find out what
he was doing there.

When the president of the library was summoned, he hastily identified Stern as a generous benefactor, and took the responsibility
of moving him to the greater comfort of the Trustees Room to await further instructions.

The two detectives, who’d dealt with hundreds of “D’you-know-who-I-am” blustering Stern types in the course of their lengthy
careers, politely and firmly went through what Stern had admitted to the police officer.

“You say you went before dinner to the third floor, because you were looking for somewhere quiet, somewhere away from the
party, where you could discuss some business with a new young designer…”

Stern, staring down at the floor, nodded.

“You chose that particular floor because you knew you would be undisturbed there. You are well acquainted with the area, because
of the rare manuscript your family recently donated to the library. Is that correct?” Petersh sounded pleasant, respectful.

Stern looked up, stopped glowering, and pompously said, “That is correct.”

“The problem is you can’t remember the young woman’s name?”

“Why the hell should I remember every bit of skirt who thinks she’s gonna be the next Donna Karan. I see dozens and dozens
of ’em a week. This girl was wearing something interesting. I’d met her before. She’d been after me to invest. I was bored…
she kept bothering me… throwing herself at me… you know… I thought I’d give her a few minutes.” Stern gave the detectives
a sly look to see if they understood what he was insinuating.

Petersh’s manner remained pleasant, respectful. “When you were discussing business, you both became aware of an altercation,
a disagreement going on at the end of the hall?”

“Yes, yes,” Stern said eagerly. “Two men were fighting, shouting, God knows what about.”

“Can you describe the men?”

“No, the hall was pretty dark. One was tall. Oh, I don’t know. They were at the end—well, you know what one of ’em looks like
now.” Stern tried a sick grin. There was no response. “Who was he, anyway?”

“Confirmation of identification has not yet been made. What happened next?”

“Well, this young chick got nervous… wait a minute.” He frowned. “I seem to remember she called out something… she seemed
to know one of them… no, scratch that. I don’t remember. Anyway, suddenly a gun went off and the next thing we know one guy
is pushing the other over the rails.”

“What did you do?”

“There was nothing I could do. I looked down and saw the body crash on the floor. The other guy disappeared—”

“And the girl?”

“The girl?” Stern repeated listlessly.

“Yes, the girl, Mr. Stern, the young designer, where did she go?”

“I don’t know. She disappeared, too.”

“What did she look like?”

“Dark… she was dark… skinny. No boobs.” Again he shot a sly look at Petersh. “Tall and skinny, not my type.”

“And you don’t remember her name?”

“No, it’s damned stupid, but it’s just slipped my memory.”

“I think we can help you with that. Here’s a list of all the guests attending tonight’s dinner to remind you.”

Stern snatched the list from the detective’s hand. “This is an insult to intelligence. How can I go through all these bloody
names. It’ll take me to doomsday. I’ve got a sick wife at home.”

“Would you like to call her?”

“No, I wouldn’t like to call her,” Stern snarled. “And wake her up? And have to listen to her complaints of selfishness for
the rest of the week?” He fell silent, running his finger down the list from A to Z. “The name’s not here,” he said finally.

“Not there or you can’t remember?”

There was a long pause. “The name’s not on the list. I’d remember it if I saw it, wouldn’t I?” He looked at the list again.
“Either it’s not there or I can’t remember.”

“I understand from the security guards that when they first saw you on the third floor, Mr. Stern, you were attempting to
fasten your fly. Were you making out with somebody’s wife or girlfriend, Mr. Stern? Did her boyfriend or husband catch you?
Did you have to fight for your life?” The respectful note had disappeared from Petersh’s voice.

“How dare you! I’ll get you fired for this… this insolence, you cretin. I’ve had enough. I’m going home but I warn you I’m
going to file a complaint through my lawyer in the morning. You haven’t heard the end of this.” Stern stood up glaring, pushing
the chair away so violently that it rocked back on its legs and banged against the desk.

The two detectives also stood up. “I’m afraid that isn’t going to be possible, Mr. Stern. There’s a lot to be cleared up here.
We are going to have to ask you to accompany us for more questioning.”

Stern paled and wilted. “Why? What can I tell you you don’t already know? This is terrible. I must call my lawyer at once.”

“Certainly, Mr. Stern. I want to advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent and to refuse to answer
questions. Anything that you do say tonight may be used against you later in a court of law, do you understand that?”

Stern closed his eyes. The detective went on, “You have the right to consult with an attorney before you answer our questions
and to have an attorney present during this questioning as well as in the future. Do you understand that?”

Some of his bluster came back. “Damn right I do. Where’s that phone?”

Where was she? Johnny’s stomach was in knots as he searched for Ginny among the hushed crowd lined up in the Celeste Bartos
Forum. His father had already been allowed to leave, but along with most of the other guests, he was still waiting while a
couple of police officers checked everyone’s names against the invitation list.

He could feel sweat forming on his upper lip as he gave his name. If he looked guilty, he sure as hell felt it. About Ginny.
He’d treated her terribly. When his father told him who the victim was, he’d felt worse, terrified that in some way Ginny
may have been involved, because she made clothes for the flashy blonde, but he was being ridiculous. They had a suspect, a
surprising suspect, and as soon as he knew Ginny was safe and sound at home, without any urging from his father, thank you
very much, he would be on his way downtown to get on the case.

At last, he was out in the fresh air. There was a cab. Should he take it and call in on Ginny first? The thought of arriving
and not finding her there was too depressing. On the corner there was a phone in working order.

She answered on the third ring.

“Ginny, thank God you’re there. When did you get home? D’you know what happened? Are you okay?” He sounded like a schoolkid,
one word tripping over another, but he didn’t care. She was safe, that was all that mattered.

“Noooo, what happened? I’ve been home about an hour.” She sounded nervous. No wonder, with his frantic inquiries.

“Svank, your friend the industrialist, was shot, pushed over the library balcony, smashed—”

“What! My God!” It was worse than she could have possibly imagined. “Is he de—?”

“Dead as the dodo, either before or after the two hundred pounds of him smashed all over the library floor. Now I know you’re
okay, I’m going down to the precinct. They’ve taken Muriel Stern’s husband there for questioning. What a night!”

Ginny thought she was going to be sick. “Muriel Stern,” she repeated.

“Yes, she’s the fainting billionairess, the only one with a bodyguard who’s also a cardiac specialist. Her husband’s a jerk,
but according to Dad”—he made a face as he spoke— “he had a major falling-out with Svank some time ago and is well known to
have loathed him…”