The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [101]
“Impressionists,” he sniffed. “What rot! In ten years all of their paintings will be in the trash bin.”
Given what I had heard about Jonas Lachtmann, I was less inclined to discuss art than was Eakins, and marched silently through the house, the mustachioed man walking just behind us. We were directed to an open door, which led to a study in which Lachtmann himself stood rigidly before a set of long, midnight blue draperies at the far end. The room was illuminated only from two low-set wall sconces. The light cast elongating shadows over Lachtmann’s eyes, and the effect was unsettling, almost Satanic. We might easily be standing in the way station to Hell.
Lachtmann stared at us through unblinking eyes, although he seemed to quiver as he struggled to maintain control. I could not be sure from the stolidity whether fury or grief was the emotion he was most forcefully suppressing at that moment.
Even the man with the gun seemed unnerved. He hesitated before padding softly across the room to whisper a few words in Lachtmann’s ear. Lachtmann nodded perfunctorily, then took one step forward, extending his hand toward two armchairs. His hand moved slowly but did not waver. “Come in, gentlemen.” He pronounced each syllable with studied civility. “Please sit.” He perused our dirt-covered clothes. “I see that I will have to have this room cleaned in the morning. Now, where have you two been rummaging about?”
Neither Eakins nor I responded but rather took seats as ordered.
“Ah, yes,” Lachtmann went on, the words studied, his tone almost artificial. “Now I remember. St. Barnabas Cemetery, wasn’t it?” He pressed his lips together and forced himself to continue. “Brandy?” he asked, gesturing toward a decanter and two snifters on a side table. “Keuhn,” he said to our escort, without waiting for an answer, “would you please pour for these gentlemen?” Lachtmann cocked a thumb in the man’s direction. “Keuhn is from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. They offer a remarkable variety of services. They pour brandy, they track the scum who defile other men’s daughters, and they have even been known to use physical force when asked by their employers. Isn’t that right, Keuhn?”
Keuhn, who had finished pouring the brandies and was handing them to Eakins and myself, nodded. His hands were large, with thick knuckles. “Whatever you say, Mr. Lachtmann.” He had a slight western twang to his speech that could have come from Ohio.
“Keuhn is correct,” said Lachtmann, once more directing his comments to us. He was breathing deeply between sentences, gathering himself like a man preparing to undergo a surgical procedure in the days before anesthesia. “It is whatever I say, and at this moment, I am thinking of saying something quite severe.”
I had never in my life been so terrified, but I could not afford to let him speak unchallenged. I wanted to brace myself with a sip of the brandy, but I knew that my hand would shake if I lifted the glass. I forced out the words. “That would be a mistake, Mr. Lachtmann. Whether you choose to believe me or not, I am very, very sorry that my suspicions turned out to be correct.”
Lachtmann did not interrupt, waiting for me to condemn myself. I went on. “I know how much you loved your daughter, but I can assure you that Eakins and I have had precisely the same aims in this matter as have you. If you do not listen to what we have to say, you will likely never find out who was responsible for what happened to her.”
“He was responsible,” Lachtmann hissed, leveling a manicured index finger at Eakins. His eyes had gone wide, his face red, and his hand had moved so fast that it was a blur. Eakins cringed and pushed himself backward, as if he were determined to disappear into the chair back. Eakins might exude animal energy in the studio, but he was