“That is a long list for a gallery of this size,” he said. “Of course, there are others, occasionally, but they are lesser artists. They must yet develop their talents so that I have more faith in them.” He walked to the wall and pointed out a landscape done in a thick mixture of dead greens and browns and highlighted with a flame of crimson which might have been a barn if the artist had ever seen one. “This is Ormsbee, for example. He is good, yes. But he is still groping for a clear expression. I hang him occasionally, but I do not feature him until I believe in him.”
“I can understand,” said Bull. “His color is fresh from the sludge pots. You may have to wait longer than a year for Ormsbee. I know him well. He would do better if he gave up Benzedrine.” He strolled along the wall, appraising the pictures with a critical eye. He paused before a large canvas, a picture of a black man who kneeled in a field of bright flowers. He studied the painting carefully, stepped away from it, squinted at it, approached it again. “This is your Alice Yukon, a lady with plenty of talent. How long has she been painting?”
Boucher was ecstatic. “Alice will go far. She has not been painting long, but she has direction, no?”
“I like her color.” Bull turned to me. I walked over and examined the painting more closely, as though I had a reason for doing it. I nodded to Bull and made the face of a connoisseur who has tasted fresh art and found it likeable.
I said, “She’s almost as good as Paula Smith.”
We saw Boucher’s eyebrows rise suddenly. Bull said, “You know Paula Smith’s work?”
Boucher couldn’t hide his discomfit. “I have seen it, yes.”
“But you didn’t like it?”
“Not exactly,” said Boucher, with a small grimace. “I would say that she is in the same class with Ormsbee. She is a talented girl, yes—but far too erratic to be displayed now.”
“Erratic? That’s a queer word for art criticism,” said Bull. “You mean that she had no style?”
“Sometimes you do not like an artist for a combination of reasons, isn’t that so?”
I said, “Sometimes you just don’t like the artist?”
He looked at me tolerantly. “I did not say I disliked Paula Smith.”
Bull said, “Come, come, Boucher, I’ve seen the girl’s work and it’s far beyond Mr. Ormsbee and a few years ahead of Alice Yukon.”
A small light of anger shone in Boucher’s eyes, but he dimmed it quickly. “Art is, in the last analysis, a matter of personal opinion. A picture that might please me would perhaps infuriate you—”
“Nonsense,” said Bull, flatly. “I’ve heard many people talk of Paula Smith’s work—people high in the art world. A smart dealer operates on the consensus. You wouldn’t let your own prejudice affect your sales, would you?”
“Prejudice? Why should I be prejudiced?”
“Perhaps you knew Paula personally. Maybe you didn’t like the way she wore her hair. You knew her, of course?”
“I knew her. I met her with Pierre, occasionally.”
“Like her?”
Boucher was annoyed. “That is unimportant. I did not like her painting.”
“But Lecotte liked it.”
“Did he? That does not necessarily mean she had painting talent.”
Bull laughed shortly. “You knew Lecotte well. Was he in love with Paula Smith then?”
“All this is ridiculous,” said Boucher, raising his voice for the first time. “This has become no longer a discussion of art. You will forgive me, gentlemen, if I leave you now. There are things to do today. I have a show—”
“I won’t be a moment, Boucher,” said Bull softly. “But, of course, if you would rather talk with the police—”
Boucher was stopped by the word police as suddenly as though it had been a hand on his arm. He came back, full of alarm, his handsome face clouded with worry. “The police? I do not understand?”
“You were a friend of Pierre Lecotte.”
“I was a friend, yes. But they do not think that I—”
“The police do not respect friendships, Boucher. They are faced with a double mystery. Lecotte was murdered. Paula Smith has disappeared.”
“But why should she disappear?”
“A person may disappear and leave for another city, take up another life and exist under another name for years,” said Bull. On the other hand, another person may disappear and turn up later in a burlap bag somewhere in the Hudson. You follow me?”
Boucher sat down slowly.
Bull said, “When did you see her last?”
“Perhaps two months ago. With Pierre. We had drinks together.”
“Was Lecotte in love with her?”
Boucher stared at a small spot halfway up the wall. “Perhaps. I cannot say—I don’t know, really. Lecotte was not that close to me. I knew his reputation. He had many women. Perhaps this time he really fell in love. It is hard to say.” He lit a cigarette with elaborate care and then studied it. “She is a good looking woman, this Paula Smith. It could have been that he was in love with her.”
Bull changed the subject suddenly. “You were seen in The Frog on the night of Lecotte’s murder. You were talking to Mrs. Preston. Did you leave with her?”
Boucher showed no surprise at the new line of questioning. “I have no recollection of when Mrs. Preston left the club. I had a drink with her and then went out of the place.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went to my apartment, of course.”
“Of course,” said Bull. “Mrs. Preston is just a friend?”
“One of my regular customers,” Boucher smiled. “Although her purchases aren’t very expensive. She usually buys good reproductions.”
“She bought something yesterday afternoon. A reproduction?”
“Yesterday she bought an original. She has wanted to own a certain painting by the Austrian—Verdek. It is a simple thing—a landscape of trees and mountains, not well painted, but done in the Verdek manner, much thick paint and few leaves. She admired this painting for many weeks. Yesterday she bought it.”
“How much did she pay for it?”
“I sold it to her cheap, although she did not bargain with me. She paid $850.”
Bull whistled. “That’s a lot of money for a boarding-house landlady to pay for fine arts.”
“She fancies herself a connoisseur of a sort,” said Boucher, indicating with his smile that he disagreed with her. “I am in business to sell pictures, not to question incomes. She may have saved for years for such a purchase. Some people are that way.”
We started out of the place at last. In the doorway. Bull paused for his last question. “You know Gregory Yukon, of course. What does he do in art?”
Boucher came to the door. “Gregory is my good friend. He is an expert at restoring old pictures. He paints very well himself, but long ago gave it up to do scientific work with paintings. He is at present experimenting with the Black Light. You know of this?”
“A marvelous discovery. It will save art lovers a lot of money.”
On the way to Hank’s studio, Bull explained Black Light to me. Jack DeMent, a young genius in the scientific world; had discovered the light years ago. Art collectors, glass collectors and such used the light to prove their purchases genuine. Paint pigments used today contain elements unknown a century ago. A painting placed under Black Light is analyzed for age of pigment. Occasionally the name of an original artist, even erased can be read under the Black Light, which reveals the traces of paint pigment left in the canvas.
“Gregory Yukon is one of the best restorers in the city,” said Bull. “I know his reputation. I questioned Boucher about him to see whether he would deny knowing him.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Wouldn’t Boucher be rather proud of knowing a man like Yukon? He’s probably hired him on many a job fo
r his gallery.”
“Undoubtedly. You’re forgetting the fact that a man like Yukon might be studying Black Light to discover a way to beat it.”
“You mean that Yukon may be a phony?”
“A man has to eat. There isn’t much stomach fodder in restoring ancient paintings these days.”
CHAPTER 12
“Alice Yukon is your chore, Jeff,” said Bull. “She’s in town.”
We had finished two Scotches each and Bull was comfortably past the middle of his latest cigar.
I said, “What do I do?”
“Pump her! From your description of her emotional breakdown when you last saw her, I’d say that she was ripe for a bigger and better breakdown under the right conditions.”
“Meaning what?”
He shrugged and smiled. “A girl like Alice Yukon will tell us more, much more, under the right set of circumstances. It should be easy for a spry Joe like you to break down her reserve and make her tell us a bit of the background knowledge we lack. She knew Paula Smith—they were good friends. Why did she weep when you questioned her? Was she sorrowing for Paula, worrying about Paula? Was Paula on her conscience in any way? You can find out, if you use the right approach.”
I said, “I begin to see what you’re getting at. Dream boy stuff?”
“Dinner—a few well selected drinks, perhaps?”
“An hour or two on the sofa?”
“You’re an optimist.”
“I’ve met Alice Yukon,” I said.
“I’ll be waiting for you at Hank’s place,” said Bull.
I took a cab to the Village. We wound through the maze of narrow streets and pulled up alongside a low, barn-like structure which housed the Yukon’s city abode.
The windows were oversize and built on a level with the small brick porch. I saw the dull glow of a lit lamp behind heavy curtains. It was almost dark now. The curtain in the window to the left of the front door stirred and I made out the shape of a woman’s head.
A moment later Alice Yukon opened the door for me.
I said, “Hello, Alice. Busy?”
She didn’t seem at all surprised to see me. She said, “It’s the wandering soldier again. Come on in.”
The first floor of the building was all living room. There was profusion of assorted furniture in the place, odd antique pieces, well upholstered and inviting. A huge wall hanging decorated the far wall. On other walls, many good oils added warmth and livability to the room. A small fire burned steadily on the hearth. I saw a cocktail shaker on a little table. One glass sat alongside it.
Alice Yukon brought out the mate for this glass and filled it for me. She said, “Sit down, Jeff. Tell me how you’re getting on with your search for Paula.”
I sat. I watched her cross the room and drape herself on the big red couch near the window. She was wearing slacks again, this time yellow, but cut tightly around the hips. Her yellow blouse did her torso no harm. For a quick instant I thought of Matisse and the painting in the dirty apartment where we had met Mrs. Franklin. But you couldn’t daydream with Alice Yukon in your line of vision. She was a beautiful girl.
I said, “I’m in just the same spot I was in when I met you yesterday. Searching for missing women isn’t my forte.”
“You found me easily enough.”
“You’re in the phone book. Paula isn’t.”
She toyed with her glass. I wondered what had changed her mood so quickly. Yesterday the mere mention of Paula’s name had produced a different effect. Today she was calm, well poised, deliberately talking about Paula. I wondered whether she was half lit. But if she was tight, her control was marvelous. Her eyes held mine steadily, just as steadily as her hand held the fragile little cocktail glass.
I finished my drink and crossed the room for a refill. She watched me closely, then held up her glass for me. I filled it and sat down alongside her.
I said, “You mix a good drink. I’m in the mood for a few hundred of these. They’ll boost my morale, maybe.”
She leaned toward me and it was an attractive pose because of the tilt of her blouse. She said, “Why don’t you give up? Paula probably knows all about her brother, anyhow.”
“Does she?”
“Probably. After all, the army sends telegrams to relatives of all casualties.”
“They do, indeed. But I gathered from Mrs. Preston that Paula had left her place long before Kip died.”
She got up, took the cocktail shaker with her, and disappeared into a room that must have been the kitchen. I heard the sound of ice falling against metal. I meditated for a while upon the correct approach to this new personality.
She returned with a fresh batch of cocktails. She was walking a bit unsteadily now, humming a light tune to herself. Not too well oiled, I figured—but on the way.
We drank and talked about her art. She brought out several of her paintings and held them up for my approval. I approved. We drank some more. We finished the second shaker. She produced a large portfolio of nudes and we discussed them.
I said, “Kip used to say that Paula is a great artist. Do you think so?”
“Paula is tops. I’m just a rank amateur compared to her.”
“She painted a swell picture of you up in Woodstock.”
Alice put down her sketch. “You saw it?”
I nodded. “Fine piece of work.”
She was almost angry with me, but not quite. “You broke into our place last night?”
“Broke in? No—walked in. You should get a better lock for your kitchen door.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry I missed you. Gregory and I left for the city just after you visited us. I wanted to stay, but he had business here in town. If I had known that you were coming back, maybe—”
“I should have warned you. I liked that cottage.”
She came across the room to sit beside me. She sat very close—close enough for all the creature comforts.
I said, “A soldier without a purpose could really settle down in this place and enjoy himself.”
She opened her eyes wide at that one, studying me with the care and purpose of a big sister. When she reached for the cocktail shaker her arm rubbed my cheek and I remembered that my big sister was married and settled down in Akron with a husband and two kids.
Alice said, “Why don’t you give up the hunt for Paula?”
“I don’t give up easily.”
She put down her glass. “Where will it get you? Paula is old enough to know what she’s doing. When she wants to come out, she’ll come out and you’ll meet her and it’ll be nice and natural. Why knock yourself out doing a job a good detective might even bungle?”
“Ever meet a good detective?”
She shook her head. “Don’t tell me you’re a sleuth in disguise?”
I said, “I’ve just met one—without a disguise.”
She sobered a bit. “You mean you’ve called in a detective to find Paula? What is this between you and Paula?”
“A lot of nothing that might amount to something.”
“How jolly,” she pouted. “Maybe I ought to save my cocktails for a rainy Thursday. I’ve been brushed off before, but not on my own couch.”
I took her hand and she didn’t pull it away. She was close enough for kissing now. Paula Smith was Paula Smith but this was Alice Yukon and she was as pretty as I’d ever want a girl to be and the fire in the hearth was doing things to me. I kissed her and she didn’t mind at all. After a while she said, “Then you’ve really called in a detective?”
“I didn’t say that. You did.”
She got up and stretched. “I could go for another shaker full of cocktails. This time I’ll make a specialty of my own, a little concoction that makes soldiers forget their worries.”
I said, “How about some dinner first?”
“How can you think of food at a time like this?”
“Ever since my first taste of army rations I decided that I’d make a pet of my stomach if I ever got far enough away from the shooting. Put on some street duds and we’ll get us a swell feed.”
She leaned over me. She looked not at all like a big sister in that pose. “You military men are wonderful. Orders are orders, soldier.”
I decided that I could risk kissing her again on an empty stomach. She was well worth the effort.
After a while, she said, “Which will it be, soldier, eating or sitting? I’m broadminded. Look, I’ll put something together in the kitchen. I’m a good cook. You curl up with an issue of Esquire and hold yourself together until I come out with the steaming platters. I’ll yell when it’s ready.”
I didn’t ever enjoy the sound of a woman yelling so I followed her into the kitchen and helped her slice a roast chicken for some sandwiches. She went about the business of making coffee with a professional skill.
We ate at a small table in the dining nook. We talked of many things and the talk was good. Alice Yukon excited me. Her conversation was as well formed as her figure and I found myself paying far too much attention to the former as well as the latter.
Throughout our charming tête-à-tête we had run the gamut from modern women to modern art, from modern men to modern warfare. All of this was a perfectly delightful pastime for a returning soldier, talking to a type of girl I hadn’t seen in many moons. But we were only talking and eating, after all. Paula Smith had dropped into the shadows again and I suspected that this had been Alice Yukon’s purpose. I wanted to revive her.
I was about to ask a pointed question when we heard a troubled noise.
Alice put down her coffee cup, suddenly.
“Sit tight,” she said, “that must be Gregory.”
I said, “Must it?” and waited for her in the kitchen until I heard her scream.
I rushed through the living room and when I reached the hall I found her on the floor in a faint on the little red carpet.
Gregory Yukon’s collapse wasn’t quite so pretty. He lay sprawled beside her, a big heap of man; his body half through the door. His shirt front was a blot of crimson, from the left shoulder down to the beltline. He lifted his head feebly in the slow motion gestures of a dipsomaniac. He mouthed a foggy voiced syllable and then his head went down.
The Girl with the Frightened Eyes Page 13
