THIRTY-ONE

Marc Josephson was not pleased with the way the evening had gone.

After leaving the lobby, he sat alone in his Watergate Hotel room, an assortment of pills prescribed by his London physician for his nervous condition and a glass of water at his side, and pondered what the Smiths had said, particularly Mac.

He’d come to Washington convinced that Smith would eagerly rally to his cause and agree to broker a deal with Pawkins. After all, he’d offered Smith a fee for his services-a hefty one, considering how little he had to do to earn it.

But both Smiths seemed skeptical of what he’d presented. They’d asked so many questions, and he sensed that at times Annabel Lee-Smith found his answers lacking. How dare she? How dare they question his veracity? He’d gone to great expense building a case against Detective Pawkins. It was all there in black-and-white, supported by receipts from airlines and hotels. George Saibrón’s employee had verified that Pawkins had delivered the scores to the Frenchman, and that he had wired money to the bank in the Cayman Islands. Another person with access to bank records had reported to Poindexter that Pawkins had opened an account there, and that Saibrón’s money had been deposited into it.

What further proof could anyone possibly want?

Before placing his call to Smith, he’d considered simply coming to Washington and presenting his findings to the police. He’d quickly abandoned that notion. The minute the police became involved, whatever money that was left would be tied up forever. He was now in his dotage and not well. What good would the money be after he’d been planted in the ground?

Once he’d made the decision to avoid entanglement with the police, Mackensie Smith came to mind. Perfect! They’d been introduced by someone with impeccable credentials, a member of the House of Lords and a respected businessman. Yes! Lawyer-cum-professor Mackensie Smith was the right choice. As a lawyer, he would know how to negotiate with Pawkins. He would be discreet because of that attorney-client privilege Josephson had heard so much about. He’d offer Smith a decent fee for his services. What attorney, American or British, didn’t respond to the lure of easy money?

There were times, although not many, when he wondered whether his decision to go after the money and ignore the fact that Pawkins had killed Aaron Musinski was immoral. Marc Josephson liked to think of himself as a moral man, although he tended to define it in a highly personal way, as most people do. The letters of Leon Blum that Josephson had once purchased and resold from his shop provided one of many rationalizations: “I have often thought morality may perhaps consist solely in the courage of making a choice.”

And I’ve made a choice, Josephson thought, his conscience salved.

Too, there was his relationship with Aaron Musinski to consider. He didn’t wish a premature death for any human being, especially at the hands of a brutal assailant. But he had to admit-to himself only of course-that Aaron Musinski had been a thoroughly despicable man. God, how he disliked him on a personal level, his arrogance and pomposity, his crudeness and insensitivity. There were times when Josephson had secretly wished the famed musicologist dead. He’d suffered Musinski’s insults and bad temper because the man was a genius. Besides, he was someone who had accepted him, Marc Anthony Josephson, into his professional sphere and was willing to share in whatever spoils might come from their explorations into artifacts from years gone by. He had no illusions about the willingness of Musinski to include him. It wasn’t that Aaron had been a generous man. Far from it. But Musinski had been well aware that Josephson had access to many people in the British Isles who might lead them to treasures, particularly the Mozart-Haydn string quartets for which Musinski had been searching for years. How ironic that it took none of his British contacts to ultimately find the scores. There they were on a table with old newspapers and magazines, damp from the morning dew, yellowed, edges curled, on the verge of starting someone’s fireplace to ward off the chill.

He barely slept that night, so consumed was he with the need to right a wrong and to be given what was, after all, his due. He and Musinski had been partners. Without him-he had led them to that London suburb on that fateful weekend and was the first to have spotted the papers on the table-the scores would never have been found. Close friends-he didn’t have many-told him he’d become obsessed with recouping the money. Who were they to analyze his needs? Engaging Poindexter and his agency had cost him his life savings. The shop no longer supported him; his greedy landlord had tripled the rent in recent years. Yes, his dedication-his obsession-to find the scores and the money had diverted much of his attention from the shop and its business. But what was fair was, after all, only fair. That money was rightfully his.

At five the next morning, he again sat at the window, looking out over Washington. He’d made another decision while lying in bed. He had to be more aggressive. Was Smith going to act on his behalf? He needed an answer now.

Waiting until the Smiths might be awake and out of bed seemed an eternity. At seven, he called.

“Hello?” Smith said.

“It’s Marc Josephson, Mac. I trust I didn’t awaken you and your wife.”

“Not at all. We’ve been up for an hour. Sleep well?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I did not.”

“Strange beds. I always have trouble my first night in a hotel.”

“It wasn’t that,” said Josephson. “Have you decided?”

“Decided what?”

“To confront Pawkins about the money.”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought, Marc, and Annabel and I discussed it last night. You’ve asked for my opinion, which I’m happy to give you. You have no option but to contact the local authorities and present your evidence to them. I can give you the name of someone to-”

“I don’t want to go to the police.”

“But you should.”

“I came to you for help,” Josephson said, aware that his voice was getting higher and more strident as his frustration bubbled to the surface.

“I’m aware of that,” said Smith, “but I’m afraid the only help I can offer is to give you my best counsel. What you’re alleging is a police matter. You’re talking about the theft of valuable items, and possibly that the person who took them is a murderer. This isn’t a situation calling for a private negotiation. You have an obligation to see that justice is done. I realize that the money is important to you, but that’s something to be dealt with later.”

Josephson’s voice now became a screech. “What sort of an attorney are you!” he demanded. “What sort of a man are you?”

Smith did not reply.

“I engaged you to handle this for me and-”

“Hold on a second, Marc,” Smith said. “You haven’t engaged me for anything. You called and asked to meet with me. We met. I listened. If what you claim is valid, you have an obligation to-”

The sound of the handset being slammed down reverberated in Smith’s ear.

“I’ll be damned,” he said into the dead phone.

Annabel came from the bathroom. “Who called?” she asked.

“Josephson. I think the man is unbalanced.” He recounted the conversation.

“I’d say you’re right,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s right. Let’s see if Josephson takes my advice and goes to the police.”

“How will we know if he does?”

“I’ll give him a day or two and ask him.”

“What about Ray?”

“We’ll let that play out for a couple of days, too. I’d better shower and get moving.”

She grabbed the sleeve of his robe. “Mac,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m terribly uncomfortable having him working for us at WNO. And you have the tech rehearsal tonight. Frankly, I’m not anxious to be around him.”