I told her that she could at least tell me if Rachel Sokolow had been the lessor—what harm could that do?
She said, “That’s not the point. If your interest was legitimate, you would already know who the lessor was.”
This was not your typical receptionist; if I ever need one of my own, I hope I find one like her.
3
There were half a dozen Sokolows in the phone book, but none was named Rachel. There was a Grace, with the right sort of address for the widow of a wealthy Jewish merchant. The next morning, early, I took my car and did a little discreet trespassing to see if the grounds sported a gazebo; they did.
I got the car washed, polished my serious shoes, and dusted off the shoulders of the one suit I maintain in case of weddings and funerals. Then, to be sure of not running into lunch or tea, I waited until two o’clock to make my appearance.
The Beaux-Arts style isn’t to everyone’s taste, but I happen to like it when it doesn’t confuse itself with a wedding cake. The Sokolow mansion looked cool and majestic yet ever-so-slightly whimsical, like royalty on a picnic. After ringing the bell, I had plenty of time to study the front door, a work of art in its own right, a bronze sculpture depicting the Rape of Europa or the Founding of Rome or some damn thing like that. After a while it was opened by a man I would pick for secretary of state just on the basis of his clothes, his looks, and his bearing. He didn’t have to say, “Yeah?” or “Well?” He asked my business just by twitching an eyebrow. I told him I wanted to see Mrs. Sokolow. He asked if I had an appointment, knowing full well that I didn’t. I knew this was not a guy I could stiff with a statement that it was a personal matter—meaning, none of his business. I decided to open up a little.
“To tell the truth, I’m trying to get in touch with her daughter.”
He gave me a leisurely going-over with his eyes. “You’re not a friend of hers,” he said at last.
“No, frankly, I’m not.”
“If you were, you would know that she died almost three months ago.”
His words went through me like a dose of ice water.
He twitched another eyebrow, meaning, “Anything else?”
I decided to open up a little more.
“Were you with Mr. Sokolow?”
He frowned, letting me know that he doubted the relevance of my inquiry.
“The reason I ask is … may I ask your name?”
He doubted the relevance of this inquiry as well, but he decided to humor me. “My name is Partridge.”
“Well, Mr. Partridge, the reason I ask is, did you know … Ishmael?”
He narrowed his eyes at me.
“To be completely truthful with you, I’m not looking for Rachel, I’m looking for Ishmael. I understand that Rachel more or less took charge of him after her father died.”
“How do you come to understand that?” he asked, giving away nothing.
“Mr. Partridge, if you know the answer to that, you’ll probably help me,” I said, “and if you don’t know the answer to it, you probably won’t.”
It was an elegant point, and he acknowledged it with a nod. Then he asked why I was looking for Ishmael.
“He’s missing from his … usual place. Evidently he was evicted.”
“Someone must have moved him. Helped him.”
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t suppose he walked into Hertz and rented a car.”
Partridge ignored my witticism. “I honestly don’t know anything, I’m afraid.”
“Mrs. Sokolow?”
“If she knew anything, I would know it first.”