Читать книгу The Removal Company - S. T. Joshi - Страница 9

CHAPTER SEVEN

There were, as I said to Vance, a number of ways to pursue this investigation. I could think of three offhand:

1. Try to learn the whereabouts and true function of the Removal Company. Was this Dr. Sanderson really a noble servant of those people who genuinely wished (for whatever reason) to dispatch themselves, or was he merely a con artist? Was there anything suspicious in the high fee he charged Vance for his “services”? (This may sound naive, but in spite of my coughing fit I later came to the conclusion that, if Sanderson was on the up-and-up, he would require both the large wad of dough and the written guarantees from Vance in order to shield himself from the severest punishment our legal system could inflict.) What of the rigmarole with the blindfolds and mysterious location? This could conceivably be explained the same way—or, conversely, could make it harder for anyone to track the Removal Company’s operations.

2. Get some background on Elena Cavalieri. Was she what she claimed to be? How did she come to marry Harry Greenway? Who, indeed, was Harry Greenway? Frankly, this avenue of investigation seemed to me the least promising—or, at any rate, the most difficult and time-consuming to follow up. Aside from her fancied resemblance to Katharine Vance, there was nothing at all to connect Elena to the case.

3. Do some background checking on Dr. William Grabhorn. It was he, after all, who had given Katharine Vance that card from the Removal Company. Was there anything suspicious about that? Was he a regular “channeler” of clients to Sanderson? Even if that were the case, was there anything intrinsically odd about that? The same things that could be said for (or against) Sanderson could be said for Grabhorn: either he was a self-sacrificing idealist or a crook. The fact that, as a psycho-analyst, he was supposed to help his patients overcome depression, suicidal thoughts, or whatever other problems they may have had was not really to the point: some patients weren’t curable, and that was all there was to it.

The fundamental point was this: I had to find something—anything—that was not quite right, something that would lead me to believe that this whole Removal Company operation was not what it seemed. One item out of place, and possibly the whole thing would unravel.

I am always one to choose the easiest and simplest solution to a problem. Why not call the Removal Company’s number and see what happened? Vance had been spooked almost into a fainting fit when I had first suggested the idea, but that was before he had explained the whole story to me. There couldn’t be any reason not to follow up on this now that I knew the background. If, by some chance, the number was still active, I could simply say that I had a “reference” for the Removal Company’s services—another client who might cough up a hundred grand to be relieved of the burden of living.

Or I could even offer myself up as the next victim.

I didn’t call the number directly, however. Instead, I called Central and asked the switchboard girl to dial it for me.

I could have predicted the outcome.

“The number has been disconnected, sir.” She sounded weirdly cheerful, but I guess they’re trained to sound like that.

“Is there any forwarding number?” I asked.

“No, sir, I’m sorry.”

“Any address given for that number?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. Thanks.”

So much for that. But it was only what I’d expected.

How I could possibly track down the location of the Removal Company—or at least its location when Vance and his wife went there a year and a half ago—was another crux. I knew that New York City had published no city directories since 1926; if they had, it might be possible to find Sanderson’s place of business. Instead, there was a “Residential Directory” for Manhattan and the Bronx, and as I strolled to the 42nd Street library to consult it I found the following:

There were thirteen Sandersons listed as living in Manhattan in the 1931/32 residential directory; eight men, and five women. None of them were in Murray Hill—but then, he could be living somewhere other than his “office.” After a few phone calls, I quickly found that none of them were doctors. Of course, it was highly probable that Sanderson wasn’t even his real name. In that case, the residential directory was useless.

This course of inquiry was rapidly proving fruitless. Sanderson was clearly too clever not to cover his tracks. He could be long gone by now—could be in Boston, or Miami, or Chicago, or anywhere else in the country or the world.

I needed to get in touch with someone who actually knew Sanderson, and knew something about his operation. And the person at the moment who fitted that bill, aside from Vance himself, was William Grabhorn.

I called Vance at his uncle’s apartment.

“Tell me something about Grabhorn. How did he come into the picture?”

I could hear Vance choking or sputtering. I had already gotten the feeling, from his earlier account, that he didn’t care much from Grabhorn—that he perhaps held him directly or indirectly responsible for what happened to his wife. I wasn’t far wrong.

“That two-bit Freud! If I could only get my hands around his neck....” More sputtering.

“Settle down, Vance. This is not helping. Tell me anything you know about him. How long had Katharine been seeing him?”

“God, it must have been about two years before her...you know.... It started just after her father...died. I never met the fellow more than once or twice, but I never liked him.”

“Why?”

He seemed to have difficulty with that question. “I just don’t know—you’ll probably think it’s my imagination, or because of what happened later.... But he—he just seemed—” Vance could say no more.

“A quack?” I supplied.

“No, not exactly that.” Vance was calming down a bit. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t like Katharine seeing him. I didn’t think she really needed it. Or maybe”—his voice suddenly got eager, as if he had come up with an inspiration—“maybe it’s because she actually seemed dependent on him. I remember now once suggesting—just suggesting, mind you!—that she stop seeing him, and she went into such a tantrum.... It was awful....”

“How did she come upon him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess he was pretty well-known as an analyst who specialized in cases of depression. And of course he wasn’t cheap. His clientele was pretty rarefied. He wasn’t going hungry, I can tell you that.” Vance’s tone was getting rather snide.

“Did he seem to be helping Katharine at all?”

“Oh, I guess so”—grudgingly. “It was up and down. I’ll have to confess that he did seem to help her at the beginning—I think she was more suicidal then than she ever had been before...until the end.” A hard swallow. “But after a few months I really couldn’t see much improvement—not consistently, anyway. I think going to him just became kind of a habit for her—almost like a drug.”

“But she liked him—she wanted to keep on seeing him?”

“Yes”—very grudgingly. “Yes, she did.”

After a pause: “Can you take me to him?”

Vance seemed confused for a moment. “What do you mean? Now? You want to see him now?”

Patiently: “Yes, I think it would be a good idea to go to Los Angeles and talk with him. And, if you don’t mind, can we take a plane? It will be a bit faster than the train.”

Vance replied bitterly: “Mr. Scintilla, I don’t think I ever want to ride a Pullman again as long as I live.”

* * * *

The ride on American Airlines from Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn was a three-legged journey, the plane having to refuel in Chicago and Omaha. Landing late in the afternoon at Los Angeles International Airport, we were promptly picked up by the Vances’ chauffeur—a lean young man whom Vance didn’t bother to introduce to me, but whom he addressed as Jackson—and were on our way to the family home in San Marino.

I had never been in L.A., and hadn’t been in California since I’d tagged along with Henry Mencken on his 1920 visit to San Francisco to cover the Democratic National Convention, and to booze it up with that old reprobate George Sterling. As an Easterner, I found the landscape bemusing. Palm trees in the heart of a city are nice if you like that sort of thing; but what struck me most about Los Angeles—aside from the subtropical weather and the architecture it engendered—was, first, its newness compared with the centuries-old East, and, second, its fundamental lack of focus. Maybe I was too used to New York, where development was upward rather than outward; but this grotesque sprawl didn’t seem unified. It didn’t hang together. It was just a sprinkle of juxtaposed communities, each aggressively preserving its own character.

Things changed a bit when we crossed an open patch of ground next to Griffith Park and entered the small, tightly knit community of San Marino. I laughed to myself at the choice of this place for the Vances’ residence. No doubt they chose it because of its exclusivity—only the very rich allowed—but I knew that the town had been established only a few decades ago by Henry E. Huntington, Collis’s nephew, and there was a rich irony in the fact that Henry Vance, who had bamboozled the Huntington heirs over the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, decided to plant his roots right in their back yard. We drove by the stately museum, library, and botanical gardens on Oxford Street that Henry Huntington had endowed, and not long afterward turned into an immense driveway whose curving, tree-lined path nearly concealed the towering mansion resting importantly at the end of it.

More servants greeted us, quietly and efficiently attending to our bags. Arthur Vance walked right in; only a quick turn of the head indicated that I was to follow. Inside was all elegance—a little overdone, perhaps, and a hodgepodge of architecture, furniture, and ornament, but not quite as tasteless as some of the (very few) New York millionaires’ homes I’d been granted the privilege to enter.

I met Mrs. Vance, a very proper, colorless woman who regarded me with a kind of mingled apprehension and distaste, as if it were somehow disreputable for a family of their stature to hire a private detective. Arthur had, of course, notified her of my arrival, and his story was not far from the truth: he claimed that he had found some leads on Katharine’s whereabouts and had called in a professional to help on the job. I couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Vance really wanted her daughter-in-law found or not; perhaps it was also disreputable for a member of her family, even one only connected by marriage, to have disappeared.

Mrs. Hawley, Katharine’s mother, was not present, and somewhat to my surprise I never saw her during my entire stay with the Vances. Arthur explained that her disappointment at not hearing from her daughter had so embittered her that she had lapsed into a kind of depression herself, and was unlikely to be of much help. He had not told her of his suspicions that Katharine might still be alive, lest he get her hopes up only to have them dashed if nothing was found.

Dinner was a quiet, somber affair. Service was only for three: Henry Vance was, inevitably, away on a business trip. Arthur himself seemed to want to get the meal over quickly, and excused us as soon as tact allowed.

“What now, Scintilla?” he asked when we had settled into an upstairs study.

“We should get to work right away. Of course, there’s nothing to be done to-night. But I presume you have a phone number and address for Dr. Grabhorn’s office?”

“Yes, of course.” He had come prepared, and handed me Grabhorn’s business card: 1633 Wilshire Boulevard, EXposition 2171. Vance told me the place was near Beverly Hills. I wasn’t surprised, given what he had told me about the economic status of Grabhorn’s clientele.

“When was the last time you tried to reach him?” I said.

“By telephone?” Vance asked.

“Yes.”

He tousled his hair in thought. “Probably not for a year or more. I didn’t have any reason to call him, really. Katharine just went to see him—twice a week, driven there by Jackson—and came back.”

“Ever been to his office?”

“Yes...but even longer ago than that. I took Katharine there the first time, back in 1929, and then went there maybe once more a little after that. That’s all.”

Next morning, after breakfast, I set to work. Somehow I wasn’t surprised when I learned from the switchboard girl that EXposition 2171 had been disconnected. I asked her how long ago, but she didn’t know.

There needn’t be anything suspicious about that—Grabhorn could just have moved. Nor was it odd that he wasn’t listed in the current Los Angeles white or yellow pages: Vance told me he hadn’t been listed even when Katharine had been going to see him. His referrals came strictly by word of mouth.

“Vance, are you up for a drive to Wilshire Boulevard?” I said.

He almost leaped up from his chair in eagerness. “Let’s go!”

Jackson didn’t like it, but I wanted to be alone for this bit of work, so I had Vance do the driving.

The building labeled 1633 proved to be a compact, three-story office building. We quickly learned from the building management that Grabhorn—who had occupied the entire second story of the place—had left just about a year ago. No forwarding address.

That was a little odd.

Vance jumped on it. “There’s something funny here, Scintilla! What’s going on? Where did he vanish to? And why?”

“Vance, calm down. It could mean anything.”

“But it was just after Katharine’s...you know, her....”

“Well, not exactly. It was a good six months after. If he was wanting for some reason to bolt right afterward, surely he wouldn’t have hung around another half-year. By the way, I presume he did in fact know what Katharine was going to do?”

“Oh, yes.” That bitter sneer again. “She called him just before we left for New York last September. He knew.”

“How did he react to it? Do you know?”

“No, I don’t. According to Katharine, he just wanted her to do what she felt in her heart she had to do. He didn’t try to talk her into it, didn’t try to talk her out of it. I guess it didn’t please him that he was going to lose a rich patient...unless”—the idea seized Vance with a sudden fury—“unless, by God, that vile Sanderson fellow was giving him some sort of fee for his referrals...!”

“Vance, you don’t know that. You have no business saying that.”

“But it stands to reason, Scintilla! God, why didn’t I think of it before? Maybe they had this kind of...of suicide channel going on...Jesus, what fiends!” Vance was fuming with rage.

“Arthur, just quiet down. It needn’t be like that. We still don’t know that there’s anything funny anywhere.”

“But where’s Grabhorn, then? Where is he?” He was shouting now.

“We’ll find him.” I turned away and walked out of the building and back to the car. “We’ll find him, by God.”