Chapter 39

At dinner that night, Bruce was moody. "It just doesn't sit well with me," he brooded." "If Marevna disappeared, as people do, by becoming anonymous, that's one thing. But she bought a house and is living, I assume, comfortably, somewhere. She has given up her chance to see her only child. She seems to have done it voluntarily too. Why would a woman do that?"

I couldn't answer. I suggested. "I think one of these paintings is original. We're on a wild goose chase. Maybe Pablo is playing a little joke on Gertrude to get even."
"Perhaps," was all Bruce said. I could see he was ill at ease.
"Was he the type to 'get even' as you say?"

"Well," I started, "he wasn't happy at first that Gertrude would have his painting copied. He couldn't understand how she could live with a copy. It's almost like buying a poster."
"But he stopped objecting after a while. He accepted it."
"Yes, but a man changes over the years. Maybe he says they are both copies, just to get even. He's an old bitter man."
"Not that old," I corrected.

Taking a Walk along 5th Avenue

After dinner, we walked along 5th Avenue. Bruce was mulling over what had transpired. At the Walforf, we said goodnight. Another day had gone. We were no further ahead.

I awake at 5 AM. I had been dreaming but it was as vivid as truth.

…I was back in my flat on the rue Asseline…I was painting…Diego had just left…He told me he was leaving Paris…I was feeling groggy…asleep, standing up…there was a knock…it was past midnight…the door opens by itself…Caresse and Harry stand before me…he smiles and asks to see my work…I show him everything I have…he asks for more…I look in the closet…he exclaims, "Eureka! I have found it…I turn…Harry is paying for a tiny painting…Caress is gone…Harry lays down on the couch and is smoking an opium pipe…he holds the painting of Gertrude…there is a Satanic look on his face…my dream is floating on the clouds of Harry's pipe…I go to him but he is gone…outside, I see his chauffeur, Goops, coming from Marevna's flat...he is holding a large frame…he bows in my direction…laughs like a madman…circles the car doing a macabre dance…I turn away…Caresse is in her large bathtub with Marevna and Diego…she is beckoning to me…offering me some opium…I puff the hot smoke…Marevna is staring at me…she is holding a small child…there are tears in her eyes…Goops drives away…Harry is in the back seat laughing…Marevna is screaming…don't leave, Diego…please…don't go, she shrieks…

I sat up in bed, not sure where I was. The bed sheets were crumpled under my body which was cold with perspiration. I wrapped myself in the blanket and tried to go over my dream. I thought back at that night years ago. I thought of Harry, laughing in the back of the car. I thought of Goops, after all these years. Suddenly, I understood.

I reached for the telephone and called Bruce. This was no time to be concerned about waking him.

Bruce Is Not Happy

We met in the restaurant. Bruce was not happy.
"It's only a dream," he stated. "It's 6 AM. You called me about a dream?"
"Yes, I replied but it was so real."
"But the events don't match the dream. There are too many inconsistencies. Harry arrived long after Diego left. He didn't know that Marevna was doing the Picasso copy."
"But he did," I whispered. His jaw dropped open. I turned away. "One night in her enormous tub, I told Caresse about Marevna and the painting."

"Before it was delivered?" Bruce asked.
"Yes, before. Caresse might have mentioned it to Harry. It is quite possible that Harry is behind it. I was almost high that night that Harry visited me. Maybe, only now am I seeing it as it really was. He was a gambler, a womanizer, a drinker and an incurable spendthrift."

"But Harry's been dead for years and the Picasso picture, if he indeed had it has never been seen."
I looked up. "But Caresse is still alive. We must find her."

Owens Suggests It's Just Imagination

Later that morning we met with Owens. He suggested that it was just my imagination and to find Caresse would be costly and no mean task.
"We have to follow each lead, each possibility," he suggested.
"But this is hardly a lead," Owens protested. "With all do respect to Dr. Haas, it could be that reliving the events now after all these years is playing on his mind. He could have dreamt something that is only a theory. After all, it doesn't all make sense. I'm sure Marevna, Diego and the baby weren't there. The baby wasn't born until Diego was back in Mexico."

"How then do we proceed?" I asked, tentatively.
Owens lit his pipe. Through the billowing smoke, he said, "Find her."

In a matter of seconds, we were out the door.

Back in his office, Bruce began the work he did best. He instructed his secretary to find the Boston Telephone directory.
"See if you can find any listings for Crosby or Peabody. Give me the ones with the best addresses. I also want the main number for the Morgan Bank. Then call Jean d'Aiguy in Culoz and put him on the line."
He turned to me. "Where did you say Caresse last lived?"
"Just outside Paris at the Chateau d'Ermenonville. But that was over fifteen years ago. Surely…"

Starting from Somewhere

"We have to start somewhere," he responded.
"I think people like Caresse move around a lot. I doubt if she is still in France."
"But we may be able to trace her movements."
I thought. "What if my theory is only a theory: a dream?"
"Nothing ventured…" he suggested. "Besides, I'm running out of ideas."

I looked around the office. The walls were bedecked with framed pictures of Bruce and various personalities. There were also framed clippings written at the close of certain important cases.
"I see you found a missing Matisse," I observed. "Among other things," he replied dryly. Bruce's mind was somewhere else.

Eventually, Miss Stolow returned. She handed Bruce a sheet of paper.
"There were many such names. I took out five and two Peabody numbers. They are all good addresses."
Bruce smiled. "Well done, Miss Stolow. Any luck with Jean d'Aiguy?"
"There's no answer. I left an urgent message."
Bruce reached for the phone before his secretary was out of the room.
I watched him dial.

"Hello. Is this the Peabody residence? I'd like to talk to Mr. B.L. Peabody. This is New York calling…oh really? What time do you expect him?...ah, after banking hours…would you happen to have his number at work…this is very important…you can't…I see…what's that…the Morgan…oh, yes…I understand…Well, I'll call later. Thank you…my name…just tell him Mr. Kellner called…thank you, sir."

He put down the receiver, "I guess all the Morgans and Peabodys are bankers."
I stated. "Harry Crosby worked at the Morgan Bank in Paris. Remember, he was J. P. Morgan's nephew."
"Well, then," said Bruce. Why don't we just call the Morgan Bank? I'll bet there's a Crosby working there now. I assumed Boston was the place to start but one can never assume in this business."

Kellner Calls for Crosby

"…Hello. This is My Kellner, for Mr. Crosby."
"One moment please," said the operator.
Bruce waited and drummed his fingers on the desk. A voice came back.

"Mr. Crosby's office…Can I help you?"
Bruce drew a breath. Yes…Good morning…this is Bruce Kellner speaking…I'm calling on behalf of The Metropolitan Museum…we are conducting an investigation about a painting and My Crosby may be able to help us…Yes, I know Mr. Crosby is a frequent donor…No…it has nothing to do with donations…I'm a private investigator…Kellner…Bruce Kellner…yes…I'll hold."

"It's like trying to get through to Fort Knox," he said, sarcastically.
"…oh, hello. Is that Mr. Crosby…my name is Kellner…Bruce Kellner…oh, she did, did she…no…our investigation has to do with Mrs. Harry Crosby…is she by any chance related to you? ... no…nothing personal…I'm calling from the Met. We require some information…we'd like to talk to her but don't know how to reach her…yes…of course, I understand…no…that will be fine…I appreciate it…Yes…I know she's probably not in New York…yes…thank you, Sir…much appreciated…"
He hung up and turned to me. "Cautious bastards. He probably wants to check me out. He says he'll call back."
We chatted, trying to guess where Caresse might be."

Bruce replied. "The war, chaos, destruction, probably came home before WWII…"
The phone rang again. It was Robert Owns. Bruce motioned for me to pick up the extension.
"We're both on Bob. Still no luck, I'm afraid."
"Well," Owens started, "I just had a call from Benedict Crosby at the Morgan. He was checking you out."
"Any news?"

A Twice-Removed Cousin
"Yes, but not much. He says he's a cousin, twice removed. He knows about Mrs. Crosby by reputation only. To his knowledge she lives or has been living in Virginia. She remarried some years ago. Do you have a pen?"
Bruce wrote the name Caresse Crosby Young on a pad. Then he added, Mrs. Gilbert Young, Fredericksburg, Virginia.
"Thanks, Bob. I'll get on it right away. I'll get back to you."
He pressed the button on the intercom. "Miss Stolow, can you get me Sheriff Alonzo Marsh in Fredericksburg, Virginia. The address is in my address book."

He sat looking into space and continued tapping his pencil. The phone jarred him.

"Kellner here. Alonzo, you old sidewinder. How the hell are you?"
Bruce looked more relaxed now as he talked to his old friend. He joked for a few minutes about old times, then he explained our problem. Alonzo, apparently "had ways" of knowing things. He would try to find Caresse and call back. He typed a note then paced up and down.
He opened he door. "Nothing from d'Aiguy yet?" he asked.

"No sir. It's evening in France now. Perhaps he's out for the evening."
Bruce smiled. Miss Stolow," he said, "when you live in Culoz or nearby in Beon, where Jean lives, the most exciting evening activity is staying home. It's a very small community."
"Perhaps…" she started but Bruce had already closed the door.
He darted for the phone on the first ring. It was Alonzo. Bruce began to write on a pad. "Thanks 'Lonzo," he said. "I owe you one." Then he added, "When are you coming north...yeah…sure…I won't hold my breath. See you buddy."

A Number in Virginia

He turned to me. "Bingo. I have the number in Virginia. There's one small complication. Your friend Caresse is divorced again."
He reached for the phone. "Maybe her ex husband is still there, unless he too committed suicide."
I got on the extension and heard a man answer.
"Good afternoon," said Bruce. "Mr. Gilbert Young, please."
"This is Mr. Young," came the reply.

So much for that theory, I thought.
Bruce continued. "My name is Bruce Kellner. I am in charge of an investigation on behalf of the Metropolitan Museum, here in New York, I wonder if you would answer a few questions."
"I'm not well versed on Art," he replied, "but if I can help you in any way?"

"Well. It's not really about art in general. I got your name from a Mr. Benedict Crosby at the Morgan Bank. He's a cousin, twice removed of your ex wife, Caresse. We are trying to locate her."
"I don't understand."
"Well, Bruce explained. We wanted to talk to Mrs. Young about a painting we are looking for. She may be able to shed some…"
"Yes," said Young, "she certainly does know about painting. She had an art gallery in Washington until a year or two ago. But I'm afraid Polly; I mean Caresse moved back to Europe. She lives in Italy now. She's no longer in business. Mr. Kellner, she's using the name Crosby again, for old time's sake."

"I understand," said Bruce. "I'd like to ask her some questions about art. Do you have a number for her?"
"Yes, I do. One moment please."

Bruce shrugged. Pleasant man. This was easier than I thought."
"Hello, Mr.….what did you say your name was?"
"Kellner. Bruce Kellner, Metropolitan Mus…"
"Oh, I got that part. About my…ex…wife. She can be reached at the following number in the small town of Rocca Sinibalda, Italy. That's about 60 miles east of Rome, somewhere in the Sabine Hills. She is reconstructing a small chateau, I believe."

Bruce Gets the Number

He gave Bruce the number. "The country code is 39," he added.
"Thank you," said Bruce, genuinely, "I truly appreciate your cooperation."
"No problem. She does travel a lot. She's only there at certain times of the year. You might want to call her tomorrow. It's very late in Italy, right now."
"I know," said Bruce. "You've been a great help."
"Then, good day to you," said the Southerner.

Bruce turned to me. "Now to map out the strategy."
We consulted an Atlas and drew a circle that enclosed a 60 mile radius from Rome. We quickly found the town North East of Rome, about 15 miles south of Rieti, in the Sabine Hills.
He called Owens. They discussed the feasibility of returning to Europe and decided to go ahead. But first we had to make certain she was there.
"Bob," he stated, "you knew her well. I suggest you call her. It's about eleven PM there. Do you think that's too late?"
"Late?" I laughed. "You don't know Caresse. She's probably just getting ready for dinner."

It was as though I had spoken her just yesterday. Two old friends reaching out after many years. Her response was natural.
"It's been too long, my love. When will I see you?"
"In a few days," I replied. "I'll be coming through there from Rome, with two friends."
"Bring them along. I have oodles of room." "But how on earth did you find me?"
"That's a long story. I'll tell you when I see you." I'll call ahead from Rome."
"Lovely, Bobby, my lost love. Hurry, and bring your friends."

Off to Italy

I put down the receiver. "It looks like we're off to Italy."
He smiled, and then he turned on the intercom.
"Miss Stolow. Call Pan Am, immediately. Dr. Haas and I must leave for Rome tomorrow. Then call Mr. d'Aiguy and tell him to meet us at the Savoy Hotel on Ludovisi Street, the next day, around one PM, in the bar. Give him the number there. Tell him to call only if he cannot come. Also, reserve a car at the airport. Ask for a Lancia."
Bruce, a big man, always planned for his comfort. It was part of his charm.

"Dinner is on me," he announced.
I was to excited to eat. We settled on a tiny French restaurant, complete with a roving musician and red checkered tablecloths. The atmosphere was perfect right down to the mustachioed waiters and their chic berets. I ordered a red Puy

Fromage. It was the first pressing since the war but it still contained that clarity and special fruity quality I remembered. I listened to Piaf and Chevalier on an ancient record player and I stared into the shimmering wine and thought of Paris and Caresse.
The dinner of Foie Gras and Cuisses de Canard was excellent and more of France came flooding back. My thoughts included Caresse.

She would stay on my mind all that night and the next day.
When had I last seen her? I wasn't certain but it was long ago, in another life.

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