Eric Norden - The Ultimate Solution

“Ugh,” Macri muttered. “Those things really turn me off. You know, before Liberation some people used to think they were human, and to look at ’em you could almost believe it.”

“I’ve always thought they’re kind of cute,” I said absently.

“You want a real pet, Ed, you get an Alsatian. Our Blondi, she’s so great with the kids you wouldn’t believe…”

I was saved any more chit chat by the arrival of a thin, middle-aged man with a Skorzeny haircut, dressed impeccably in a navy blue Farbentile suit, double-breasted white waistcoat and a fastidiously knotted maroon silk cravat. The clerk bobbed obsequiously as a nip mama-san in his wake.

“This is Mr. Pickett,” he whispered reverently.

Pickett’s cold blue eyes glided quickly over Macri and me, neatly digesting the ninety-mark ready-made suits, the scuffed shoes and shiny ties, and then fixed on a neutral point in the airspace halfway between us.

“That will be all, Thayer.” The younger man melted into the opulent shadows. “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

I flipped my wallet open to the badge and he nodded silently, probably relieved we weren’t customers.

“You’ve caught him then?”

“No, I’m afraid not. We’d just like some additional information for our investigation.”

He sighed.

“I’ve already told the police everything I know, Inspector…”

“Lieutenant,” I corrected automatically.

“Lieutenant. I really don’t see how I can be of any further help.”

“We may have a lead,” I lied, “and there are a few things we’d like to double-check. We won’t take much of your time.”

His lips pursed petulantly, but he nodded.

“Very well. Perhaps if you’d come into my office.”

He led us to the back and through heavy brocaded curtains into a small but richly furnished room dominated by a giant naval desk. Several nudes hung on the wall, expensively framed, obviously old and probably valuable. They were all men, and Pickett didn’t believe in fig leaves. He settled into a red leather swivel chair studded with brass nailheads and regarded us without much enthusiasm across the burnished expanse of desk.

“Well?”

He didn’t bother to offer us a seat.

“I’ve taken over this case from the original investigating officer, Mr. Pickett, and I’d just like to familiarize myself with it a bit further. The man who attacked you— could you tell me how he behaved in the store?”

Pickett tapped an ivory letter opener on the desk pad impatiently.

“Precisely as I told your colleague. I’d seen him looking through the window earlier, but I hadn’t given it any thought. Then he entered and wandered over to the back of the window display, which opens directly into the shop, and began studying it from that angle. Finally he reached out and touched one of the items, a skull ashtray, he was stroking it actually, and it was at that point I intervened.”

“You were alone in the shop at the time?”

“Yes, my assistant was down at the docks transhipping a new consignment.”

“What did he say when you approached him?”

“Nothing at first. His back was to me and he didn’t turn around when I requested he refrain from handling the object. I was perfectly gracious about it, even though the fellow was quite shabbily dressed and disheveled. Dress is not a sure guide in my field—some of the most prominent collectors and antiquarians tend to be, shall I say, a bit eccentric in such matters. So I was in no way rude or insulting.”

“Then there was no provocation of any kind?”

“None at all. When he didn’t respond to my initial request, I touched his sleeve very lightly and suggested in a polite tone that he allow me to show him the merchandise.” Pickett shook his head, as if still disbelieving. “It was incredible. He put the skull down, very carefully, and then wheeled on me like a madman, shrieking, and went for my throat with both his hands. He wasn’t particularly strong but sheer shock swept me to the ground. He tried to strangle me.” Pickett looked up querulously, suddenly vulnerable in his bewilderment. “He wanted to kill me, Lieutenant. To kill me.”

“And you have no idea of the motive for the attack?”

Pickett ran a hand over; his forehead. The re-telling of the incident seemed to have rattled him.

“None whatsoever. Oh, in the past we’ve had a few smash and grab incidents, some hoodlum will come in, pretend to browse, then snatch a portable item and make a run for it. That’s why all our smaller pieces are in locked showcases, unless they’re on display. But this item had no commercial value whatsoever; there are thousands of such artifacts around, from fetuses preserved in formaldehyde to actual mummified corpses. The only reason we had these particular bits and pieces in the window is that they dated back to the original camps at Auschwitz and Maidenek, way before Liberation, and could fill specialized niches in collections. Why this lunatic would want that skull, and why he would attack me so brutally to get it, I just don’t know.”

He nervously extracted a slim black panatella from a humidor and snipped the end off with a gold clipper.

“I understand you subsequently found an item of jewelry on the floor that you’d torn off the man. Were you able to identify it?”

He lit the cigar with a jewel-encrusted lighter. The smoke smelled perfumed.

“No, I studied it to see if it was engraved with his name or initials, but it was just an old silver charm or amulet covered with Arabic script.”

“Arabic?”

“Well, I’m not much of a linguist but that’s what it appeared to me.”

Pickett was regaining his composure, and his impatience.

“I see. Just one more thing, Mr. Pickett. You mentioned that when this man attacked you he was screaming. Could you pick out any identifiable words?”

Pickett frowned in concentration.

“Words? Well, not really. I mean, under those circumstances I was more interested in keeping alive than listening to him.” He paused. “I really hadn’t thought about it before, but looking back I do have the vague impression he was. shrieking imprecations in a foreign language. German perhaps.” He looked up abruptly, little pinpoints of red springing into his cheeks. “Not that German is a foreign language. I only meant to say that it was not English.”

I nodded, thinking fast. German. That just added new complications.

“Can you remember any specific word or phrase?”

He spread his hands helplessly.

“No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry. In any case, it couldn’t have been much more than the rantings of a madman.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

I turned to Macri, who was leaning against the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that covered one wall of the room, a slightly baffled expression on his face.

“Mr. Pickett, this is Sergeant Macri. He’s a police artist, and if you could describe this man to the best of your ability he’ll attempt to sketch a likeness. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes, yes of course, anything to help.” Belatedly he waved both of us to chairs, and Macri opened his case and extracted a sketch pad and grease pen.

“If we could start with the hair, Mr. Pickett?”

Forty-five minutes later a small forest of crumpled sketches scattered the floor around Macri’s chair, but he’d finally come up with one that satisfied Pickett. I can’t say it did much for me. It was the face of any of a million elderly men in New York, no unusual features or distinguishing characteristics, just a bland gray face that I passed on the sidewalk a dozen times each day. I’d subtly hammered away at the nose, but Pickett remembered it only as another ordinary, run-of-the-mill proboscis, nothing like the predatory beaks you still saw in Der Sturmer.