The Golem of Hollywood

Chapter forty-four

Charles MacIldowney’s address belonged to a converted row house opposite the river.

The shingle warned that the architect was available Tuesday through Friday, by appointment only; a handwritten note, taped and fluttering in the breeze, instructed deliverymen to ring next door, at number 15.

They did, and an elegant, aquiline man answered. He was around Edwyn Heap’s age, but tan and trim in chinos and a blue twill button-down.

He said, “Please bring it — oh, sorry. I was expecting someone else.”

Norton badged him. “Charles MacIldowney?”

“Yes?”

“May we come in, sir?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not at all, sir. A few questions.”

“It’s not the best time.”

Jacob said, “We’ll be brief.”

MacIldowney started at Jacob’s accent. He ran his fingers through his coiffure, once and then again. “Yes, all right, please.”

A blizzard of pastels softened the living area’s industrial character, tubular steel and vaulted ceilings and exposed ducting. MacIldowney apologized for the mess, shifted straw baskets and packages of tissue paper to allow them to sit.

“We’re hosting our annual garden party this afternoon. I thought you were the florist.”

A voice from above said, “Charles? Is that them? Are they here?”

“Not yet.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody.”

A man two decades MacIldowney’s junior appeared barefoot at the top of the floating staircase. “It doesn’t look like nobody to me.”

He came down. “I’m Des,” he said.

Norton introduced them, and Jacob explained the purpose of their visit. Both men reacted to news of the murder with genuine shock.

“I’m sorry to break it to you like this. Were you close?”

“Close?” MacIldowney said. “Not — I mean, I don’t think so. I never knew Reggie to be close with — I suppose — well, he was—”

“An odd duck,” Des said.

“Without question, but — to be honest, I don’t know what I’m saying. This is awful, just... awful.”

A silence.

“Can I offer anyone some tea?” Des said.

“I’d love that,” Jacob said.

“No, thanks,” Norton said.

Des clapped his hands and strode off to the kitchen, separated by twenty feet of bleached flooring and a stainless-steel peninsula.

“Would you prefer privacy?” MacIldowney asked. “We can go to my office.”

“It’s all right,” Jacob said. “You both knew him?”

Des, filling a speed kettle, nodded.

“He worked for us on occasion,” MacIldowney said. “Though I haven’t seen him in some time.”

“At least a year, I reckon,” Des said.

“His father said you were his tutor at one point,” Jacob said.

“You spoke to his father?”

Jacob nodded.

“Is he — I mean, does he know...”

“He knows.”

“Well — yes. Obviously he would. I apologize. It’s all rather — I’ve never known anyone — it’s a dreadful... yes. I was Reggie’s tutor. Years ago.”

“What was he like in those days?” Jacob asked.

“Painfully shy. He hardly spoke to anyone. I have — well, it’s going to sound callous, out of context, but — I have a distinct memory of thinking he resembled a turtle.” MacIldowney paused. “Is that horrible? I’m sorry. He had this coat he wore every day, regardless of the weather. I don’t think I ever saw him out of it, I reckon it could’ve stood up on its own. It was this hideous murky color, and he would sort of shrink back into the collar, like so... It gave one the impression that he was short, although I don’t believe he was, or no more than average.”

“Edwyn Heap told me he was supposed to study law, but you convinced him to change.”

“Well, that’s — thank you,” MacIldowney said, accepting a cup from Des, who set down a tray with more cups, sugar, and a plate of digestives.

“Thanks,” Jacob said, adding three lumps in an effort to pacify his stomach. His full English breakfast had morphed into a bellowing South American revolutionary. “He — Edwyn — he seemed pretty angry about it.”

“I’m sorry for him, I am, but that’s simply untrue. Reggie had decided to change courses well before I met him. The university doesn’t have a program devoted to practical architecture, per se. I came for my doctorate, after which I lectured in history of design for a brief period. I might’ve attempted to bolster his confidence, but I never told him to do anything. He was quite... needy, I suppose, is the right word. He would bring these massive batches of drawings up to me and thrust them in my face. The moment I showed the slightest approval he cottoned on to me and began asking for help transferring into Ruskin.”

“The drawing school,” Des said.

MacIldowney nodded. “Apparently he had applied there once already and they’d turned him down. He wanted me to throw my weight around.”

“Did you?”

“I had none to throw. But when I tried to explain that to him, he got extremely cross.”

“And then?”

“I left to open my practice, and he drifted out of my life. I didn’t see him for fifteen years or so.”

“He turned up on our doorstep, begging for a job,” Des said.

“He wasn’t begging, Desmond.”

“You must’ve been surprised,” Norton said.

“Oh, I was astonished,” MacIldowney said. “I only just caught myself before shutting the door in his face. I didn’t recognize him — it’d been so long, and he’d lost the coat. Nor did he say hello, introduce himself, ask how I’d been. He said, ‘I need a job,’ as though I would hand him the keys straightaway.”

“Fifteen years is a long time to be out of touch and think that,” Jacob said.

“Yes, well,” MacIldowney said, blowing on his tea, “I gathered from the way he talked that he was hard up.”

“Did he say what he’d done in the meantime?”

“He had a portfolio with him, so I suppose he must have taken some courses or worked elsewhere.”

“His father described him as an office boy.”

“That’s rather uncharitable. He was quite a capable draftsman, especially with pen and ink. I never would have hired him otherwise.”

“We can’t run a business based on pity,” Des said, “though Charles makes every effort to do so.”

“Nowadays everyone uses computers,” MacIldowney said. “We’re no different. But I often prefer to work by hand, as I was taught, and it gratified me to meet a like mind.”

“He was an odd duck,” Des said.

“I’m not going to dispute that he had... tendencies.”

“The house connects to the office via the second floor,” Des said. “I used to come down to the kitchen for a drink of water at midnight and hear him in there, listening to the radio while he worked.”

“He got his assignments done on time,” MacIldowney said.

“You can’t deny it’s out of order, Charles.”

“Did he get along with people?” Jacob asked.

“Well, that was the crux of it,” MacIldowney said. “I always thought that his reason for keeping late hours was to avoid interacting with the rest of the staff, which he couldn’t have done at a larger firm. Aside from Des and me, we employ two architects and an office manager. Reggie would turn up to lend a hand for a few months, around Christmastime. Under any other circumstances I would have insisted on a more stable arrangement, but it so happened he fit the bill precisely. It helped to have someone picking up the slack for the rest of us.”

Des said, “Tell the truth, darling. You felt bad for him.”

“I suppose I did. I couldn’t help it. I looked at him and saw the same confused little boy.”

“He wasn’t a boy when you knew him,” Norton said.

“Yes, but he had a certain quality to him,” MacIldowney said.

“You liked him,” Jacob said.

“I didn’t like him or dislike him,” MacIldowney said. “I thought, ‘Well, this is what fate has ordained.’ He showed up in my life again and it seemed wrong to disregard that.”

“What about when he wasn’t with you? What kind of company did he keep?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Relationships?”

“He was guarded about his personal affairs. I recall something about traveling for continuing education.”

“Did he say where?”

MacIldowney shook his head.

“That didn’t strike you as strange?” Jacob asked. “He works a few months max, but he’s pursuing continuing education?”

“Odd duck,” Des said.

“None of us is without his foibles,” MacIldowney said. “And no, it’s not strange. It can take eons to become certified, and if you’re attempting to do it part-time, all the longer.”

“You let him stay,” Des said.

“Here?” Norton said.

MacIldowney hesitated. “He had no place else to go.”

“It was like having a giant lizard in the house,” Des said.

“Stop it,” MacIldowney said.

Jacob said, “How long was he here?”

“Not long, perhaps—”

“Ten weeks,” Des said.

“It wasn’t that long.”

“I assure you it was. I counted every day.”

“Did he leave clothes?” Jacob asked.

“He lived out of a suitcase,” MacIldowney said. “It was temporary.”

“Allegedly,” Des said.

MacIldowney shook his head. “I asked you to stop, please.”

The architect’s voice had begun to hitch, the burgeoning intuition that he had picked the wrong horse. Jacob unrolled the drawings. “Any idea who this is?”

Des shook his head. MacIldowney studied the page at greater length, but appeared equally at a loss.

“Is he — that’s not the person who, who harmed him?”

“I don’t know. I found it in a bunch of Reggie’s old drawings. It’s dated around the time you knew him. I thought possibly a friend.”

“I don’t remember him having very many friends,” MacIldowney said.

“He wasn’t what you’d call a social butterfly,” Des said.

“Come to think of it,” MacIldowney said, “there was this one fellow, about the only person I remember ever seeing him in the company of. What was his...” He picked up the drawing. “I — no. I mean... I don’t think it’s the same person.”

He frowned. “No. But — well, no, I don’t think it is, though.” He paused. “This fellow, Reggie’s friend — he was American. What was he called? Perry? Bernie? Something like that.”

“Not the person in the drawing.”

“I’m fairly certain it’s not. What was his name.” MacIldowney began raking his scalp.

Des put a hand on MacIldowney’s back. “It’s all right, Charles. It’s been thirty years.”

Jacob said, “Do you remember where in America he was from?”

MacIldowney shook his head.

“But you remember that he was American.”

“Well, I saw them around together — it’s a small town, you know — and I have this idea that I bumped into them in a... restaurant, or — no. It was at the library.”

“Which library?”

“The Bod, I reckon. I suppose I must have exchanged pleasantries with them. I wish to God I could remember his name. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Is it important?”

“Not necessarily,” Jacob said.

At his side, Norton nodded faintly, appreciative of the courtesy.

“I’ll tell you what I do remember: this other chap was quite good-looking. He and Reggie made a rather curious pair.”

“Reggie wasn’t one for the ladies,” Norton said.

“No, but — I mean, he might have had a friend, I suppose. As I said, I saw very little of him after that first year.”

Jacob said, “Let me ask you something else. Was Reggie ever in any sort of trouble?”

“Trouble?”

“Legally,” Norton said.

“Not that I know of,” MacIldowney said.

“Has he done something wrong?” Des asked.

Norton and Jacob looked at him.

Des shrugged. “I don’t otherwise reckon you’d be telling us he’s murdered and showing us pictures and asking questions about him being in trouble with the law.”

A silence.

“Before he was killed, he tried to rape a woman,” Jacob said.

He watched then as MacIldowney’s composure began to flake away; the architect tilted his head back as if to keep bits of it from getting into his eyes. “My God,” he said.

“You sound surprised,” Norton said.

“Well, wouldn’t you be?”

“It depends,” Norton said. “Some people, when you find out they’ve done something horrid, it’s no surprise at all.”

“I never knew him to be involved with anything like... that.”

“Do I get an opinion?” Des asked.

“Sure,” Norton said.

“I wouldn’t think it impossible.”

MacIldowney made a sharply irritated noise. “It’s one thing to resent him because he was a bad houseguest. Quite another to accuse him of rape.”

“I didn’t accuse him of anything. I said it wouldn’t be beyond imagining.”

The doorbell rang.

“That’ll be the florist,” Des said. “Excuse me.”

MacIldowney said, “He really did that?”

“Afraid so,” said Jacob.

There was a silence.

At the door, Des was saying, “We asked for orchids. Those are calla lilies.”

“If you remember anything else,” Jacob said, writing down his number, “you’ll be sure to contact me.”

MacIldowney nodded. “Certainly.”

“Or if you think of someone who might know. I can send you a copy of the drawings. Maybe it’ll come back to you.”

“They are not remotely similar,” Des said.

MacIldowney said, “You don’t suppose there’s anything I could have done differently?”

Jacob shook his head. “Not a thing. Don’t waste time worrying about it.”

“Charles. My love. Do you mind.”

MacIldowney rose. He looked frailer than when he had greeted them. He smiled queasily.

“Well,” he said. “Party time.”

They’d gone half a block when they heard Des calling for them to wait.

“Sorry,” he said, jogging up. “I was dealing with idiots.”

“What’s up?” Jacob asked.

“I thought of something,” Des said. “It slipped my mind before. When Reggie stayed with us, it began with him ringing us from the train station, asking us to come collect him. He’d just returned from Edinburgh and he’d had an accident.”

“What sort of accident?” Norton asked.

“He said a motorcyclist ran over his foot. He was limping and bloody. I told Charles, ‘Don’t bring him here, take him to hospital,’ which I think you’ll agree is the logical response, but Reggie was adamant about not wanting to go. He spent the whole night moaning like a zombie. It was three or four days before he would agree to see a doctor. Charles went with him, and on the way back, they went shopping for a new pair of shoes for when the cast came off. I was furious.”

“I don’t blame you,” Jacob said.

“I wanted him out immediately, but Charles said we couldn’t put him out on the street. Anyway, after he’d finally gone, I went down to the cellar — I drew the line at his sleeping upstairs — I went down there to clean up, and I saw the old pair of shoes. I think he tried to scrub the blood out, but it didn’t work, so he left them behind. I intended to chuck them, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch them. As far as I know, they’re still there.”

An arriving caravan of rental chairs blockaded the front walk. Des led them around to the side of the house via a brick path lined with peonies. Though MacIldowney was out of view, his voice could be heard, cajoling the florist.

Stone steps led down to the cellar, a space as crowded as the house was spare — though Jacob noted that his threshold for clutter had been raised considerably in Prague. Here they met the relatively benign resistance of wine racks and plastic storage bins. A shelf above the basin sink displayed bright bottles containing an array of poisons, from lye to metal polish.

“I kicked them,” Des said.

They looked at him.

“The shoes. I know it’s childish, but I was so cross.”

“Where’d they land?” Norton asked.

Des waved vaguely. “Thereabouts.”

Jacob found them behind the furnace. Crepe-soled loafers, brown suede uppers furred with dust, the right one mottled with stains one shade darker. Norton spitted each on a pen while Des rooted around for a spare bag.

“Can I ask you something without offending you?” Jacob said. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t.”

“I’m not easily offended,” Des said, “but you’re welcome to try.”

“Was there anything between them, ever?”

“Charles and... Reggie?” Des laughed. “No. I asked Charles myself. Reggie wasn’t the comeliest lad, but Charles took such an interest in him, and I wanted to know before I let him in our home. Anyway, Charles swore nothing had ever happened. He’s a hopeless liar, so I tend to believe that’s the truth.”

He came up with a plastic shopping bag from Boots.

“Fitting,” he said, holding it open for Norton. As she placed the shoes inside, he wrinkled his nose at the blood. “You don’t reckon it’s someone else’s, do you?”