Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [104]
“I doubt if they vanished into thin air, as you put it. Whoever killed Dr. Musinski undoubtedly took them,” Pawkins said. “Maybe that’s why he was murdered
“Precisely my thought,” Josephson said. “Well, sir, I’ve already taken too much of your time. Thank you.”
• • •
This second call from Marc Josephson woke Pawkins.
“Mr. Raymond Pawkins?”
“Yeah
He looked over at the clock. Seven thirty. He’d been out late, hadn’t gotten home until three. He’d been at a birthday party at a friend’s apartment off Dupont Circle. His friend, whose birthday it was, had lived with his gay partner for the past twenty years and was part of a small circle of opera-loving friends. They’d consumed large quantities of wine, good wine—his friend had impeccable taste in almost everything, his collection of CDs rivaling Pawkins’. They’d listened to the complete recordings of Alban Berg’s twelve-tone Lulu, with a spectacular performance by Teresa Stratas playing the amoral slut Lulu, who corrupts every man she meets until getting her comeuppance at the end from none other than Jack the Ripper; and to the Angel recording of Jules Massenet’s Werther, with stirring performances by the lyric tenor Alfredo Kraus and the late Tatiana Troyanos, who played the doomed Charlotte. A spirited argument broke out among the fifteen guests about the significance of Werther in today’s society, with no clear-cut winner.
Pawkins’ head throbbed as he pushed himself up in the bed and held the receiver to his ear.
“This is Marc Josephson
“Who?”
“Marc Josephson. You don’t remember me?”
“Obviously I don’t. Oh, wait a minute. Yeah. You were in business with Musinski
“We were colleagues, Mr. Pawkins. I would like to speak with you in person
“About what?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If you want to know how the investigation is going, you can call Detective Berry at MPD
“I’m not here to speak with any detective, Mr. Pawkins,” Josephson said, fighting to keep his voice under control. “I wish to speak with you!”
“Where are you?”
“I am here in Washington
“Yeah, well, I’m really busy and—”
“You remember Mr. Georges Saibrón, of course,” Josephson said.
The mention of the Frenchman’s name caused Pawkins to swing his legs off the side of the bed and to focus more on the call.
“Mr. Pawkins? Are you there?”
“I don’t know anybody named Saibrón
“Oh, yes you do. And you know about your bank account in the islands and—”
“What the hell do you want, Josephson?”
“I want my money, Mr. Pawkins
“What money?”
“Don’t force me to go to the authorities, Mr. Pawkins. I have all the evidence
“Look, Josephson, I…All right, I’ll meet with you. But I’m telling you, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about
“I’m staying at the Watergate Hotel, and will be here for two more days. Come to my room this afternoon
“I can’t today. It’ll have to be tomorrow
Josephson’s voice raised an octave. “Don’t put me off, Pawkins. I want to see you today!”
Pawkins waited a beat before saying, “All right. What time?”
“Four o’clock. Don’t disappoint me
“Don’t worry, I won’t
“And Mr. Pawkins, should Mr. or Mrs. Mackensie Smith call, please inform them that they no longer represent me. Good day
Pawkins slipped the cordless phone back into its bedside cradle and went to his elaborate study, where he turned on the computer. He went to “My Favorites” and clicked on Google. It took only a few minutes to find a photograph of Josephson from one of the interviews he gave to British media. Pawkins studied it, turned off the computer, and put a CD into the changer, Verdi’s Otello, featuring opera’s greatest modern Otello, Plácido Domingo. Music always helped him think.
He sank into a red leather recliner and processed what had just transpired on the phone. Josephson sounded ancient, his voice feeble. He said he had “evidence.