The two masks of vendett.., p.17
The Two Masks of Vendetta, page 17
“Yeah, she’s dead stupid. You just killed her.”
“OK, don’t go starting on me...”
“We gotta get out of here.”
“We can’t leave her here. What if the cops come? Our fingerprints are everywhere.”
“OK, we’ll take her with us. Come on, help me lift her up.”
15
It was just after one in the morning, when Mario came home. He unlocked the apartment door and flicked on the light switch. Still no electricity. Obviously the men hadn’t come to fix it.
Despite the gloomy darkness, Mario instantly knew something was wrong. Through the moonlight streaming through the windows, he could see that the apartment had been ransacked. Chairs were overturned and magazines and newspapers were on the floor. Immediately Mario ran to the kitchen drawer and drew out a knife.
“Rose?” he said. “Rose?”
Mario crept towards the bathroom door and pushed it open. It was empty. There was no one else in the apartment. He lit a candle and placed it on the kitchen table. It was late. Where could Rose be?
For a moment, he wondered if she had packed up and left, but examining the closet, he could see that her things were still there. He had an uneasy feeling that something was terribly wrong.
*
“You took her in?” Catriona exclaimed the next day after Mario had called her over the phone.
“I felt sorry for her. Sherman fired her, she had no place to go.”
“Oh Mario!” said Catriona, exasperated. One time, Mario had taken in a stray dog that he found on the side of the road. They had the dog for two weeks before the landlord found out and threatened to evict them. So Catriona had taken the dog to a kennel. It was typical of Mario’s big-heartedness, but at the same time, of his impulsiveness too.
“What do we do?” Mario said.
“We do nothing,” said Catriona. “There’s no way of linking her disappearance to us. As long as we keep quiet, everything will be fine. For all we know, she could be living happily back in Chicago.”
*
The next day, Catriona was reading the morning newspaper in the library when there was a knock at the door.
“The detective for you,” said Masefield, raising an eyebrow. Catriona was beginning to lose count of how many times she had heard that phrase.
Radcliffe walked in.
“Really, Detective, this is becoming quite a habit,” Catriona said, folding up the newspaper and dropping it onto the coffee table. “Maybe we should make up one of the guest bedrooms so that you have someplace to stay and don’t have to shuttle back and forth from the precinct.” She was feeling flippant this morning, but the detective’s next words drained the smile from her face.
“We’ve found Catriona Benedict…” the detective began.
Catriona gulped. Her ruse was finally up. The detective had traced Catriona to the Kingston house. He knew who she really was.
“She’s dead,” he continued with finality.
Catriona blinked. Had she heard him correctly? She tried to compose herself and mustered the strength for her next words carefully.
“Dead? How—how’s that possible?”.
“Her body was found early this morning in an alley on the upper west side. The coroner is still trying to determine the cause of death. It could be a hit and run. It could be foul play. As of yet, we don’t know.”
“Foul play?” Catriona replied. “Do you mean…?”
He nodded.
“As I said, we suspect your late husband was seeing this woman.” He drew out his notepad and flipped through a couple of pages. “Have you ever heard of a man named Mario Montefiore?”
Hearing Mario’s name struck a chord in her. Catriona shook her head slowly. “No, No, I haven’t. Who is he?”
“A boyfriend of Catriona Benedict. You see the dead woman was wearing a necklace with an inscription on it, which is how we were able to identify her. It read ‘To my Darling Catriona, undying love, Mario’.”
Catriona closed her eyes. Could this be really happening? She felt a mix of emotions, both elation and despair. Elation that the detective’s pursuit of Catriona Benedict might finally be ending, and despair that Mario might be implicated.
“As I said, I don’t know any Mario,” Catriona said evenly. “Do—do you think he might have something to do with this?”
“We don’t know, we’re just trying to find him that’s all. We want to bring him in for questioning.”
“Yes, of course,” Catriona nodded weakly.
“Well, if you think of anything else, you know where to find me.”
When the detective left, Catriona was on the phone.
“Mario, we have to meet now,” she said. “Can you meet me at Tony’s in thirty minutes.”
Tony’s was a speakeasy bar on 42nd East Street. Catriona had chosen it because it was so out of the way, in a dead-end neighborhood that nobody they knew would come across them there.
Mario was running his hands through his thick hair. Catriona had just told him the news.
“I can’t believe it. Rose is dead.”
“Yes—and while wearing my necklace,” said Catriona with a hint of irony. “That’s what happens when you let strange women into the apartment.”
“There must be some explanation. How did she get there?
“I don’t know,” said Catriona. “That detective has been on my trail for weeks. Maybe this will put an end to his snooping.”
“Do you really think that?” Mario said.
“Yes. Don’t you see? I hate to say this, but if we bury Catriona Benedict, then with her, all our problems will be buried too. Then I’ll really be Catherine Kingston. We can start a new life together.”
“You really believe that? You think it will be so easy?
“Yes! That’s why you must arrange a funeral for her, darling, so it looks real to the police.”
“A funeral? You must be kidding.”
“It’s the only way to get the police off my back, don’t you see?”
“What will people say? Your friends, your family?”
“Well, mother’s off to God knows where with that man of hers, so she’s not likely to read about it,” said Catriona. “There’s Lowry, I suppose, and a few friends.” She paused. The reality was that only Mario seemed to really care about her, and she for him.
“Poor Rose,” said Mario. “Why did it have to happen to her?”
“Yes, I’m sorry for her, but look at the situation we’re in. That could have been me or you.”
Mario nodded. “So what do you want me to do?”
“I want the best funeral the Lower East Side has ever seen. Flowers and all. We have to bury Catriona Benedict once and for all.”
*
It was surreal and strange for Catriona to read in the newspapers about her own death. The papers had said that a young woman had died in a hit and run accident on Broadway. Catriona Benedict was a struggling theatre actress off Broadway with a string of flops to her credit. Catriona flinched when she read that line. Even in death, the critics were unkind.
Grace was sitting across the table, biting into a slice of toast and reading the newspaper.
“Max, did you read this?” she said, motioning her buttered toast in the direction of the morning’s headlines. “Some showgirl was killed in a hit and run.”
Showgirl! That made Catriona seethe.
“No, I didn’t. What of it?” asked Max, reading the financial section of the Times. Showgirls were being run over all the time in New York City, it was par for the course.
“Well, this showgirl was called Catriona Benedict,” said Grace.
“Catriona Benedict,” mumbled Max. “The name does ring a bell.”
“You know, it’s the woman who the detective thinks Miles was seeing from the Stork Club.” That part Grace got wrong.
“Yes, I believe you’re right,” Max replied. “Bit of an odd coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Yes, very odd,” Grace nodded. She looked at Catriona, who was sipping her tea silently.
“Did you know about this, Catherine?”
Catriona shook her head. “No, I didn’t.” She didn’t like her name being discussed around the Kingston breakfast table. It made her feel inconsequential to be spoken about by these vain and rich people. She excused herself and went up to her bedroom.
Inside, she shut the door and went to look in the mirror. She really was Mrs. Miles Kingston. Catriona Benedict was gone, and there was no bringing her back.
Suddenly, Miles was standing behind her, his reflection in the mirror.
“You can’t get rid of Catriona that easily,” he chuckled. “She’s really you!”
“No, you’re wrong, Miles,” Catriona said. “I’m Mrs. Kingston now, remember?”
“You’ll always be who you really are. That’s why you couldn’t stay at the breakfast table. You’ll never fit in with those people, their petty arguments and jealousies. The rich are a breed of their own.”
“I can and I will fit in,” said Catriona firmly. “My old life is gone. I will get my inheritance, Miles, even if it’s just to spite you.”
Miles chuckled and gave her one of his devilish grins. “We’ll see,” he said and suddenly his reflection disappeared.
*
“Darling, we have to go along with it,” said Catriona to a very nervous Mario on the day of her funeral. It was a Friday and a beautiful, clear day. It had been strange to wake up on the day of your own funeral, knowing that you were going to attend.
“I don’t know if I can go through with it,” Mario said over the phone. “The police are sure to be there, watching me.”
“You have to. We have to bury Catriona so we can get on with our lives. We had a plan remember? After the funeral, I’ll go to the ticket office to buy our flights to Rome. And then we’ll be free. We’ve come too far now.”
“OK, OK,” said Mario. “But I’m also doing this for Rose. She has to be buried too.”
“Remember, I’ll be at the back giving you moral support.”
“Yes, but I think you’re a little crazy, coming,” Mario replied and hung up the phone.
*
Catriona had spent about an hour in front of the mirror in her bedroom, adjusting her wide brim hat and veil over her eyes. It covered her face completely. She wore a full-length black suit that disguised her figure and gave no clue to the real person underneath. Maybe Mario was right, and it was a little too macabre, wanting to attend your own funeral. Perhaps it was the actress in Catriona, perhaps it was curiosity. She wanted to see who would show up. There would be no other chance to attend your own funeral.
All the while, she tried not to think about Rose LaMotte. For her it was just a name, not a real person. She wasn’t responsible for Rose’s death, and in that respect, her conscience was clear. Catriona put on some dark sunglasses and, with a tug of the veil, pulled it over her face.
The funeral was held in a small church in the East Village. It was near a playground where local children came, and Catriona always liked the community feeling. When she arrived at eleven o’clock in the morning, she was surprised to see that most of the guests had already arrived.
She took her place on one of the back pews, her face disguised by the large hat and veil. She spied Mario at the front, looking dignified in a black suit, a solemn expression on his face. He did look very handsome even in mourning.
In the crowd, she saw Jeremy Lowry, her old theatre manager. He had tears in his eyes and was clutching a bouquet of gardenias, which Catriona found oddly touching. He knew that gardenias had always been her favorite. She remembered her first night performance at the Starlight Theatre, when Lowry had brought flowers to her dressing room. Now sitting in the church, he seemed genuinely sad that she was gone.
Two rows behind Lowry was a neighbor from the tenth floor. It was good of her to come to the funeral, Catriona thought, even though she didn’t know her very well. There were a few other well-wishers, some Catriona didn’t know––maybe friends of Mario’s or workers from the club. She looked around for Detective Radcliffe or someone from the police, but saw no one suspicious.
Catriona glanced at the crowd who had gathered. So this was the sum of her life, she thought. A collection of well-wishers, colleagues and distant acquaintances. By thirty, she had lived and died as a struggling actress––that was the legacy she would leave behind.
With a deep breath, Catriona resolved that her real funeral would be very different. Miles was dead and now she was dead. Only Mrs. Kingston was left.
Once the service had ended, Catriona crept out of the tiny church and hailed a cab. She asked the driver to go to the Air Italia ticket office, located in the shadow of the Empire State Building.
Even though she was thinking about the move to Italy, her mind kept going back to her encounter with Ferrero. She still didn’t know exactly what he wanted. She wondered about Johnny. He seemed very nervous about something, almost frightened. But her mind was too preoccupied with Mario and her travel plans to give it too much attention.
Catriona paid the cab driver and jumped out. She crossed Fifth Avenue and entered the glass revolving doors of the ticket office. A slim Italian man was selling tickets at the desk.
“I’d like to buy two tickets to Rome on the flight tomorrow morning,” she said.
“Buona, Signora,” said the polite Italian ticket salesman, beginning to check availability.
She reached into her purse and drew out money from an envelope. She counted four hundred dollars.
“I’m sorry, but the flight tomorrow is full.”
“Oh,” Catriona said, disappointed.
“But there is availability on the overnight flight tonight and you will be travelling on the new 707 jet airline, very exciting,” he said.
Good, thought Catriona, a fast plane.
“What time is the flight tonight?” she asked.
“It’s at 11:55, signora,” he said. “You must check in two hours before.”
Not too early. It would give her enough time to return to Belvedere, pack a few things, and get both her and Mario’s passport. Mario was working at the Stork Club tonight so she’d have to go and pick him up. They would then take the one-hour cab journey to the airport, which should give them enough time to check in.
As she bought the tickets, she felt like a fugitive from justice. Even though technically she had done nothing wrong, except perhaps flee the scene of a crime investigation. She was relieved when she had bought the tickets and returned to Belvedere by taxi.
“The detective is in the library,” Masefield said after opening the door for her and taking her fur wrap.
It was a phrase that was becoming very familiar for Catriona. “Can you tell him to wait five minutes? I have to change.” She rushed up the stairs to change from her black funeral dress before anyone saw her. Rifling through her wardrobe, she selected a sunny yellow dress with purple print flowers. Quickly, she pulled it on and went downstairs to the library.
The detective was pacing up and down, looking at the fine paintings and marble statues. He stopped when Catriona walked into the room.
“Good afternoon, Detective.”
“Do you know this man?” asked Detective Radcliffe, dispensing with any formalities, and held up a small picture of Leiobesky.
Catriona froze. It hadn’t taken long for the police to trace Leiobesky to her. If she weren’t so anxious she would have admired how fast the police department worked.
“No. Who is he?” Catriona asked, not quite looking at the picture.
“Will you take a good look, please?” He sounded so insistent that Catriona had no choice but to look. It was a picture of the dead man taken at the scene of the crime. His eyes seemed to stare mirthfully at Catriona and he had that same fixed grin.
Catriona shook her head again decisively. “No, I don’t know him. Who is he?”
“Yanus Leiobesky, Polish immigrant who lives in the meatpacking district. His landlady found him yesterday with a knife in his heart.”
“That’s unfortunate, but what has that got to do with me?”
“We have reason to believe he may have known your late husband—and maybe you. When we searched his apartment there were several documents implicating Leiobesky with your husband. Turns out that Leiobesky was involved in all kinds of shady dealings, counterfeit money, stolen checks, forged passports.”
“I know nothing about him,” said Catriona. “And I’m sure my husband never mentioned him to me.”
“We also found this,” said the detective. He opened his briefcase and held up a newspaper of Miles and Catriona in the society column of the New York Daily News. The picture was taken when they were coming out of the 21 Club after a party and was circled with a red marker. “Looks like he was a fan of yours.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Catriona insisted. “Maybe he liked to collect society pictures. Some people do.”
“Yanus Leiobesky doesn’t seem like the society collector type. Our guess is he may have been somehow involved with your husband. Possibly even in his death. But now that he’s dead, we can’t interrogate him.”
“Then you can’t prove anything,” said Catriona.
“No, we can’t; not yet. Dead men can’t talk, Mrs. Kingston,” he said. “My job is to find someone who will.”
“Do you have any witnesses?” asked Catriona. She was thinking anxiously about the landlady that Mario had run into.
“We have a couple of leads that we are investigating.”
The detective started to shut his briefcase. “We’re sweeping the apartment for fingerprints right now. If we find anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Thank you,” said Catriona. “I appreciate everything you’re doing to find my husband’s killer.”
“If you change your mind about Leiobesky, you know where I am,” he said.
Catriona nodded.
The detective started to walk towards the library door, but stopped and turned around. “And Mrs. Kingston, I wouldn’t plan to leave town anytime soon.”
Catriona froze. “That sounds like I’m under suspicion, Detective.”
