The Girl with the Frightened Eyes

by Lawrence Lariar

  I said, “I wouldn’t know. As a matter of fact I can’t be sure it was Paula. I’ve never met the girl.”

  “Let’s call her Paula,” said Bull. “Does that solve your little problem, Mrs. Gant?”

  “I’m not sure. It sounds possible, though, doesn’t it? The kid found out that this man was looking for her and decided to call him before she left town.”

  “Why would she leave town?”

  “For a job, like she said.”

  “Convenient, isn’t it? She’s leaving town suddenly after her boyfriend is butchered.”

  “That’s more cop stuff, Bull. Maybe the kid didn’t even know about Lecotte.”

  “She’s old enough to read the papers.” Bull took his hat and motioned me out of my seat. “However, if you’re perfectly satisfied, we can call off our hunt for her. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  She walked to the door with us. “Of course not. I still want to see the kid, Bull. I want you to keep looking for her.”

  “It should be simple to locate her,” said Bull. “What would it be worth to you?”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  Bull chuckled. “That’s big money for a family reunion with a long lost sister. Anybody would think you two girls loved each other.”

  “I want to see her. After all, she’s my sister.”

  “You’ll see her. I’ll locate her for you by tomorrow morning.”

  She worked her face into an expression of joy mixed with incredulity and surprise and disbelief. “You do that and you’re a wonder boy.”

  “I’m a wonder boy,” said Bull.

  On the way down in the elevator, Bull questioned the operator. He primed him with a five dollar bill and found out that the man came on duty at eight in the evening.

  “How often did you go up to the seventeenth floor tonight?” Bull asked.

  “Not too often.”

  “Who did you take up? Remember?”

  The elevator operator remembered. “I take up her maid first—at a little after eight. Later on, Mrs. Gant comes down with the fat lug. Then Mrs. Gant comes back without him. Next I take up old Doc Tucker, and—”

  “Mrs. Gant’s doctor?”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know if he is her doctor. All I know is I take him up. He goes up there twice while I’m on.”

  “How old a man is he?” Bull winked.

  The operator laughed. “He’s too old for Mrs. Gant, if that’s what you mean. Doc Tucker is maybe seventy years old.”

  “Anybody else go up there tonight?”

  “Nobody but you two.”

  Bull thanked him and we left. We left at great speed. We took a cab downtown add turned through Central Park.

  I said, “I don’t get it, Bull. Where will you dig up Paula Smith by tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “But I’ve got ideas. I wanted to see how anxious she was to see her sister. This mess is beginning to take some logical shape. Paula Smith was an artist. Boucher is an art dealer. Mrs. Preston is an art dilettante. Gregory Yukon is a painting expert. You get the pattern?”

  I shook my head in befuddlement. “All I get is good clean confusion.”

  The cab turned into Fifth Avenue and stopped at Seventy-Ninth Street. We walked up the steps to Mrs. Carruthers’s mansion. A butler answered Bull’s ring.

  Bull said, “Mrs. Carruthers is at home?”

  The butler assumed the injured air of a man accepting a large package of garbage. “And who is calling?”

  Bull said, “The man from Mars.”

  The butler scowled down at Bull along the side of his long nose. “The gentleman wishes something?”

  “The gentleman wishes to know if the painting has been delivered to Mrs. Carruthers yet?”

  “A painting, sir? Which painting?”

  Bull grew impatient. He raised his voice and put a bite in it. “The gentleman is too busy to play cute games with the butler. But if Mrs. Carruthers prefers, the gentleman will, perhaps, write a long story for a periodical like The New York Times. The article will explain the latest purchases of the lady known as Mrs. Shay Carruthers. The readers of The Times would be fascinated by the old bag’s latest activities. Not too long ago everybody who knew anything about art enjoyed many a hearty laugh at Mrs. Carruthers’s expense. You remember the story?”

  The butler was warming rapidly. “I think I know what you mean, sir.”

  “I don’t think you do. This gentleman could write, for instance, about Mrs. Shay Carruthers’s latest ventures into the fine arts field. I could explain to the readers, perhaps how the dear lady was taken for a ride recently.”

  The butler registered amazement. “Again, sir?”

  “Again. Her latest purchases are two extremely delightful frauds!”

  “The gentleman is sure?” said the butler in a hushed gasp.

  “The gentleman is not kidding.”

  “Oh, dear,” sighed the butler and licked at his lower lip with an expression of gastric unbalance. “Mrs. Carruthers would not like that one bit, sir. The good lady is not at home at this moment or I would take you to her immediately. She will be back, however, in about—”

  “The paintings. Has she taken the paintings with her?”

  “I didn’t see her take them, sir. But I couldn’t let you—”

  “The gentleman could do the butler a lot of good,” purred Bull. “Lead the gentleman to the repository for these two dishonest paintings. Perhaps, after the gentleman has taken a long gander at these two miserable masterpieces, he may be able to reach certain conclusions. Such pictures must be studied carefully, so that the foul merchant who sold them to your elegant lady may be apprehended and brought to justice. Thus, it might be possible to return to the good Mrs. Shay Carruthers her investment in the pictures—a healthy investment, I might add. If such a thing came to pass, the butler would undoubtedly earn the lasting gratitude of his employer, do you understand? The old bag might lay a couple of thousand rugs in your lap. Follow me?”

  “Quite, sir. But I—”

  “Christmas is not a long way off—the season during which such wealthy wrens as your Mrs. Shay Carruthers are accustomed to reward all good and faithful servitors with a small token of their regard. Think of how the eminent Mrs. Carruthers will now regard you, sir. Think of that regard translated into good hard coin of the realm. You’ll be loaded with moola!”

  The butler thought it over for a fraction of a second, then waved us inside. “If the gentleman will enter and be quick. I do not know when Mrs. Carruthers will be home, but she must not find you here.”

  We strolled down the hall behind the butler. It was marbled and ebonied and thickly carpeted. We went through the giant living room. A heavy door led into another room, this one long and narrow and loaded with oil paintings hung monotonously against a background of umber sack clothing.

  Beyond this room, the butler paused to open a closet. He disappeared for a moment and then emerged carrying two large paintings, covered with a linen cloth. He lifted the cloth and showed Bull one of the canvases. He held it gingerly away from us so that Bull could view it from the correct distance.

  Bull studied it at six paces first and beckoned the butler to bring it closer. It was a fair sized painting, a landscape, done in the bright and scintillating colors of the Impressionists of France.

  The butler said, “It seems impossible, sir, that this is a fraud. I would call it really charming.”

  “A charming fraud then,” said Bull.

  I looked at the painting over Bull’s shoulder and studied it. It was most certainly a fine job of paint and color and composition. Without bothering with the signature I recognized the master who did it, or was supposed to have.

  I said, “If that job isn’t a natural Corot, it’s the best imitation of Corot in the world.”
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  Bull rubbed his fingers over the canvas. He put his nose down and smelled it. He leaned over it and examined the brushwork, holding the canvas at many angles under the light. He ordered the butler to hand him the second painting and repeated the process. He leaned both paintings against the wall and stepped back to view them again. He said, “Remarkable jobs. I’m a moron so far as these fine art fakes go, but I remember enough about Corot to know a damned good imitation when I see one. These are superb.”

  I said, “How can you be so sure that they’re fakes?”

  “If they’re genuine Corots they’ll be listed somewhere. If they’re newly discovered Corots it’ll take a board of experts to decide for Mrs. Carruthers. She’s been taken for fine art sleigh-rides before, however, and probably would never have reported the purchase of these pretty little numbers. Thereby hangs our tale. If these paintings are good Corots, we’re off on a fluff hunt and will have to start all over again.”

  I leaned over the paintings again. Whoever had done them must have absorbed not only Corot’s system of color and drawing, but also achieved some understanding of his state of mind while painting a picture. The color and the composition were perfect.

  I said, “How can you check on things like these?”

  “We may not have to check,” Bull turned to the butler. “When was the first of these pictures delivered?”

  “I should say about two months ago, sir.”

  “Do you remember who sold it to Mrs. Carruthers?”

  The butler wrestled with his memory, briefly. “I don’t rightly recall his name, sir.”

  Bull began to describe Pierre Lecotte. The butler interrupted him politely. “That would be the man, sir. Now that you mentioned his name, I do recall the trace of a French accent.”

  “Fine,” said Bull. “And who delivered the second picture?”

  “A man. He came here not over two hours ago, sir. He was a foreign looking gentleman.”

  “He’s no gentleman,” said Bull. “He had gray hair and a mustache?”

  “That would be the man.”

  Bull started for the door nimbly. He thanked the butler and instructed him to say nothing to Mrs. Carruthers about our visit.

  CHAPTER 18

  Bull started for Madison Avenue at a fast pace for a fat man. We entered a drug store and he went immediately to the phone booth, dialed a number and waited.

  “Hello?” he said. “Hank? Did Bellick report?” He looked at his wrist watch. “That damned fool will stand out in front of Boucher’s apartment until he corrodes. We’ll leave him there. Listen. I want you to go over to Mrs. Preston’s house and watch it. She should be coming out of there soon. If she does come out, follow her. Take some money with you, she may take you for quite a ride. Phone me as soon as she stops running. I’ll be down at Trum’s office.” He frowned into the mouthpiece. “Not later—now! Right away.”

  He hung up. “Now for the great Trum,” he said. He dropped another nickel and dialed a number. He was put through to the inspector. “Trum? This is Bull. You working overtime tonight?” There was a pause. Bull raised his eyebrows and a small smile curled his lips. “Semple? He murdered who? Oh, fine, fine—you’re moving fast, Inspector, but you’re not getting anywhere. Semple didn’t do the job. He’s fat and he’s tough and foolish, but he isn’t your man. Not this time.” Bull waited while the Inspector barked. He was barking loud enough for me to hear. He was saying, “That’s what you think!”

  Bull said, “I didn’t call you about Semple. I want you to watch all the city exits for a man named Gregory Yukon. He’ll be moving out of town any minute now, if he hasn’t left already. Don’t interrupt. He’s a big man, gray hair, gray mustache, and talks with a bit of a foreign flavor. If you don’t want to snatch an art swindler, let him ride away. You heard me. He’s skipping town with a roll bigger than your head. Do as you like.”

  Bull hung up and we hailed a cab.

  I said, “What does he want with Semple?”

  “Trum says that Semple was seen in the place when Lecotte was murdered,” sighed Bull. “He’s going to hang it on Semple and save the taxpayers’ money. He has a personal interest in Semple. He’s been trying to pin the fat boy down for the past ten years, ever since Semple was the bruiser for the Gant mob.” He laughed quietly.

  We got in the cab and Bull turned to me. “Where do the Yukons live?”

  I gave the cabby the address and we sped downtown.

  I said, “Gregory Yukon was the man who collected from Mrs. Carruthers?”

  “I think so. It was either Yukon or Boucher, but I’ve ruled out Boucher because he couldn’t possibly have gotten past the leech Bellick. Bellick would have phoned in the incident a long time ago if he had tailed Boucher up here. No—it was Yukon—and he’s machining as pretty an art swindle as I’ve seen in many a year. He probably learned the business at Lecotte’s knee. Lecotte would have had many uses for a good picture restorer.”

  A small light lit in my brain, glimmered a weak glow and then expired. The pieces of the puzzle were fitting, suddenly.

  Bull said, “Yukon must be on the way out of town, or I miss my guess. He delivered one of those Corot phonies to Mrs. Carruthers, collected a wad of cash for it and beat it out of town. He’s probably in a plane for Mexico this minute.”

  The cab roared downtown, screamed west into Eighth Street, and slid to the curbing before the incongruous front that was the Yukon ménage.

  Bull ran up the steps and rang the bell. We heard the ring from far inside but there were no footsteps approaching. Bull fingered the doorknob. It turned in his grip and he pushed the door open.

  The vestibule was dark and empty. I walked into the living room and lit the large lamp near the couch. When the light went on I found myself standing only three feet from the body of Gregory Yukon.

  He was as dead as last week’s funny sheets.

  He was sprawled once again on the floor, close to the fireplace. One hand was stretched forward in a macabre gesture, as though he might have been reaching for something in the fireplace when he died. His last live gesture must have been rather rudely interrupted when somebody walked into that room and shot in the side of his head. He wasn’t a pretty sight. It was an effort to look at his head. There was very little left of it to look at.

  Bull hovered over the corpse silently. He kneeled to examine Yukon’s hands. He looked, but he didn’t touch.

  I said, “He went out asking for it.”

  “And I wonder who obliged?” Bull said. He looked at his watch. “Duty commands that I phone our good friend Trum. The body is still warm and the police love to move in when the corpse is fresh. But common sense tells me Trum and his boys would dirty up my thinking if they come. They would swarm all over the place, wake up the neighbors; mess up the furniture and crowd poor little me into a quiet corner where I couldn’t see the show. No—we’ll allow ourselves the luxury of a half hour of silent speculation before I phone Mister Trum.”

  Only a few minutes had elapsed before we heard a hand on the outside door. It was Alice Yukon.

  I rushed into the vestibule and held her away from the living room. She was dressed as I had last seen her and had added only a light topcoat.

  I said, “Better not go inside, sugar. Your brother’s in there and this time he didn’t faint. He’s dead.”

  She took it the hard way, but retained her consciousness. I signaled to Bull and he told me to bring her inside. When I got her a seat I turned it away from the figure on the floor. Bull had covered the head and shoulders of the corpse with the wall hanging.

  We let Alice sob it out for a while.

  Finally, Bull said, “Where was he tonight, sister?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  I said, “You mean you didn’t know where he was going when you pulled the stall on me tonight?”

 
; She sobbed noisily. Then: “I wish I had known! I could have stopped him. I didn’t think he was in danger—”

  “Danger from whom?” Bull asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “Charming,” said Bull. “Fond sister screens brother’s activities. Loyal sister covers trail of wayward brother about to leave town with rich dowager’s money. Or didn’t you know about the picture deal?”

  Alice Yukon didn’t answer. She gave herself up to a fresh outburst of sobs that shook her pretty frame.

  Bull continued: “You must have known what your brother was doing all these months. Maybe you didn’t like it. Maybe you tried to get him to abandon his ideas. But if you expect to protect the fair memory of your brother by refusing to talk, you may be in for a big surprise. The police will begin to suspect a partner in Gregory’s enterprises. That partner might have been you, Alice. To the police it would be an obvious tie-up.”

  Alice raised her head and her eyes were heavy with fear and worry and the promise of fresh tears. She looked at me hopelessly and I felt sorry for her.

  Bull said, “You’d better talk.”

  She said, finally, “I pleaded with Gregory to give up his plan. He just wouldn’t listen to me—he wanted money, lots of money. He wanted money until it became an obsession with him.”

  “He delivered the painting?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “What was the subject?” Bull asked.

  “Gregory told me about it. It was a landscape. A faked Corot.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  Alice shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Who did the painting—Gregory?”

  “Gregory was no painter, but he was a technician,” she said. “He might have done something to the painting. I don’t know. I never actually saw it.”

  “But Gregory might have had it somewhere else. He might have worked the age into it. He did that type of thing occasionally, didn’t he?”

  “It was his work to restore old pictures. I suppose he could have done the opposite to a faked painting. He could have aged it, I guess.”