“Vance, I’ll go even farther. Let’s say this actually is your wife. What do you think happened?—that Sanderson brought her back from the dead, and that he then gave her some entirely new personality? Look at the clipping, Vance: Elena Cavalieri, of Cattolica, Italy. Whoever wrote this article—I presume it wasn’t Merriwether himself—must have been supplied this information. What reason do you have, aside from some supposed resemblance to your wife, that this woman isn’t who it says she is?”
Vance said nothing.
“How about this?” I suggested. “You say this Gene Merriwether knew your wife, although apparently not well.” I looked up at him to confirm this assumption; when Vance made no remark, I felt I was on safe ground. “Then how well does he know Elena Cavalieri? Did he cover this wedding?”
“No,” Vance said in a small voice.
“Has he ever seen or met Miss Cavalieri—now Mrs. Greenway?”
“I don’t think so.”—even smaller.
“So,” I concluded, with a sigh of impatience, “on the basis of a photograph in a newspaper clipping that someone who doesn’t know your wife very well thinks looks like her, even though she supposedly died a year and a half ago, you’ve come to me to investigate this matter.” It was again a statement, not a question.
Vance was looking down at his plate, with its untouched dessert. “Yes.”
“I think you’re wasting your time and your money.”
He glanced up quickly, simultaneously alarmed and crestfallen. “Does that mean...that you won’t do anything?”
Suddenly I felt an overwhelming pity for the fellow. He really was in a bad way. “Mr. Vance, I think you’ve gone through a horrible experience; I think you’re tormented with guilt at what happened, even though I for one don’t think you’re in any way to blame in all this. And now you’re grabbing at straws. Maybe you should just accept the fact that your wife is dead, and get on with your life.”
Vance sat quiet for a few moments—then exploded with rage. “Who are you to tell me what to do, Scintilla? Don’t you dare preach at me! Whose side are you on, anyway?” He had turned bright red and was breathing heavily and irregularly.
“I’m not on anybody’s side,” I said with all the calmness I could muster. “I don’t know that there are any sides to be on. My feeling is that the matter doesn’t warrant investigation. There’s too little to go on. There are a variety of ways to look into it, and there’s a lot I could do in terms of checking the backgrounds of all these people, but I very much doubt that the end result will be anything you want or hope for.”
“But what about this Removal Company? Don’t you think it’s a fishy operation? And it’s right here in your own back yard....” Vance now seemed more desperate than angry.
“I’m not the police. Even if I find this Sanderson fellow, I can’t make any arrests. Anyway, if I did go to the police, that would get you into a bit of trouble, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Vance rubbed his chin. “But please: could you just look around a bit? Do whatever you can—don’t go to the police, but just report back to me if you come up with anything...peculiar. I just want to set my mind at ease.” Vance leaned back heavily in his chair and closed his eyes.
I put my napkin down on the table and called for the check. “All right, Vance. But I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not likely to use a fraction of that ten thousand dollars you plumped down on my desk. So I’ll get to work, and take whatever fee I think appropriate for my time and expenses, and give back what’s left. And I suspect a lot will be left. Okay?”
“Okay.” Vance paid the check without looking at it.
“I may need your help a bit more,” I said. “In fact, we may have to work in tandem at some points. I don’t do that very often, but this is a special case. Are you prepared for that?” I wasn’t so sure about this, but I felt I had to give Vance some encouragement.
“Yes!” he shot back eagerly—perhaps as eagerly his wife did when she had herself knocked off.
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