“He aged it,” said Bull. “But he was doing a job for somebody else, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not very convincing, Alice. You knew all about the picture and yet you didn’t know Gregory’s boss? Why would he have told you about the Corot if he wanted you in the dark? There must have been discussions about that picture. Or has he faked other pictures in the past?”
“So far as I know, the Corot was his first illegal job. If he did others he didn’t tell me about them.”
Bull smiled. She was breaking down slowly. “Who was his boss, Alice?”
She raised her eyes and tried to put the light of truth into them. “I honestly don’t know.”
“We’ll let it pass then. Could his boss have been Lecotte?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
I said, “Maybe Alice will tell us a little more about Paula Smith now, Bull.”
“I’m sure she will,” said Bull. “You know something about Paula, don’t you? Paula is in this deal somewhere. Tell me, did Paula kill Lecotte?”
Her eyes opened in a reflex of surprise and fear. “Paula didn’t kill Lecotte! Paula couldn’t have—she was in love with him.”
“And he?”
“Lecotte wasn’t the type of man to fall in love.”
Bull watched her carefully. “You knew him well?”
“I knew him…but only casually.” She lowered her eyes. “He exhibited some of my paintings.”
“Did he ever exhibit Paula’s?”
“Paula didn’t ever want an exhibit of her work. You’d have to know Paula to understand what I mean. Paula is a serious painter. She’s got much more talent than I.”
She broke into sobs again and Bull waited patiently. She quieted in a little while. I gave her a cigarette and lit it for her.
Bull said, “Tell me all about Paula.”
“All? I met Paula in art school. We were good friends. We used to go up to the Metropolitan on painting expeditions—you know, copying and studying the old masters for color and composition. Paula was a genius at that sort of thing. Her copies were accurate and full of the spirit of the painting she was studying. One day we met Lecotte up there.
“I knew him casually. I had met him at a party in the Village and he seemed to know his way around the art world. He was a great one for criticism and spouted the fancy phrases a young artist likes to hear.”
“You mean that Lecotte just happened to be up at the Metropolitan when you and Paula were there?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What I mean is—did you tell him that you painted up there? Think back—it may be important.”
She shook her head. “It never occurred to me to wonder about how he knew we were up there. I assumed that a man like Lecotte would frequent the important museums often. I don’t remember telling him that we went there.”
“He saw Paula’s work and liked it, of course?”
“He raved about it. After that, he came up there often and spent a lot of time with us. It wasn’t long before Paula became fond of him and looked to him for guidance. He immediately set her to work copying a Cézanne. He told her that he had a customer for it and promised to pay her well. Paula did a beautiful job copying the Cézanne. Lecotte took it away and later paid her $300 for it.” She paused to close her eyes and relive the next incident in her memory. “After that, Paula did two more paintings for him—one was a Monet and the other a Corot.”
“He paid her for these?”
“I don’t know. By that time Paula was in love with him. After the Corot she stopped painting at the Museum and I only met her at Lecotte’s club. She had changed, somehow. She seemed worried about something. I tried to help her, but Lecotte would never leave her alone with me.”
“Was she living at Mrs. Preston’s then?”
“No. She moved out of Mrs. Preston’s during that period. I never did find out where she moved, though I tried to locate her.”
I said, “You saw her Saturday, didn’t you?”
She avoided my eyes. “I should have seen her Saturday. I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to her. I might have helped Paula. But Gregory wouldn’t allow me to stay in Woodstock. We were gone when she arrived.”
“Gregory didn’t like Paula?” Bull asked.
“He was angry with me for inviting her up. He didn’t tell me why.”
Bull rose to end the interview. He paused at the door for one more question. He spoke softly and with sympathy. “Do you want to help me find Paula Smith?”
Her face came alive. “I’ll do anything you say.”
Bull said, “Do you think Paula painted that Corot?”
“She could have.”
On the street, Bull still walked fast, full of a new energy that surprised me. It was two-thirty in the morning, my legs were weary of the long routine. My head still throbbed in the soft spot where my mustachioed antagonist had struck. But the spirit of Bull’s movement and purpose kept me awake.
We took a cab uptown and when we stopped we were on the corner of Eighty-First Street and Central Park West. We entered an apartment and passed the sleeping doorman without waking him.
Bull bounded up a few steps and rang the bell marked: Dr. Archibald Trent Tucker. He rang the bell long and hard.
Dr. Tucker, himself, opened the door and peered out at us. He was an oversized character, pink faced, long nosed and bearded with an overgrown white goatee. He said, “These are not office hours. What do you mean by ringing my bell at this ungodly time in the morning?”
Bull didn’t wilt under the stare. “They’re not my office hours, either, Doctor Tucker. I’m here on police business.”
“Indeed? Then I shall have to ask you to leave, sir. That sort of thing can wait for the morning.”
He made a move to close the door, but Bull leaned against it and smiled up at him. “It would be a pity, Doctor Tucker, if your pigheadedness were the cause of murder—now wouldn’t it?”
“Cheap melodrama will get you nowhere.”
Bull tilted his hat back and smiled coldly. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you stand there and throw your professional weight around. You’re the man with melodramatic ideas. You’re in a position to help the police on a case that may have a disastrous climax. If you’ll stop waving your medical goatee at me, we’ll be out of here in five minutes.”
The doctor smiled faintly. “You have a very direct and pungent delivery, sir. I admire a man who doesn’t bandy words. What do you want of me?”
“The answer to one question. Why did you make so many trips to Mrs. Gant’s today?”
Dr. Tucker coughed gently into his hand. “You are asking me a question concerning one of my patients. It isn’t proper for a doctor to expose a patient to anything, you know.”
“It isn’t proper for a doctor to expose a patient to murder, either. I must know why you visited Mrs. Gant’s place today. You refuse to give me the information, despite the fact that it may involve the murder of one of your patients?”
The doctor fingered his lower lip. “I can give you a crumb, sir. I do this only for your ears and insist that you do not quote me. May I have your word?”
“I didn’t come here to bargain for evidence, Dr. Tucker. Let me put it to you this way—if I told you why you went to Mrs. Gant’s, will you tell me if I’m right?”
“I will.” Doctor Tucker crossed his hands over his chest. “Why did I go up there?”
“You went there to treat a patient, but the patient was not Mrs. Gant.”
Doctor Tucker smiled. “You’ve made a good guess.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.” Bull shook the doctor’s hand. “I won’t bother you again.”
CHAPTER 19
Bull and I walked quickly from Do
ctor Tucker’s to Mrs. Gant’s, a few blocks away.
Mrs. Gant answered her bell, wide awake, fully dressed and carrying a highball glass. Behind her, the apartment was lit and the sound of music filtered into the hall.
She said, “Come in, boys. Glad to see you. You’re just in time for a little nightcap.”
Bull said, “I’d like to see you alone. You’ve got company in there.”
She tugged him into the living room. “Aw, don’t be high hat—it’s only Louis.”
Louis stood at the end of the room, holding a glass to his Latin lips. He put down the glass slowly and started toward us with a crooked smile.
Mrs. Gant said, “Sit down, Louis. Take it easy. Make Mr. Bull and his friend a nice drink. Everybody gets a drink.”
She giggled crazily and dropped into a seat.
Bull took a drink from Louis. He watched the redhead rub her brow. He said, “You’re loaded. I came up here to talk business—I’ve got news about your sister.”
Louis throttled the radio. The silence was sudden and ominous.
Mrs. Gant set her glass down and opened her big eyes. “You got news about Paula? What are you looking at me that way for? Isn’t she all right?”
“I don’t know. She may be in bad trouble.”
She reached for his sleeve and dug in. “What do you mean? What’s wrong? Where is the kid?”
Bull pulled away from her and lowered himself into a soft chair and doubled up, hands on knees, laughing his head off. He leaned back and let the laughter run out of him. Mrs. Gant watched him sharply. Louis cat-footed across the rug and stood alongside her. Bull wiped his eyes and looked from one to the other.
“You’re a wonderful actress—for burlesque, baby. I like to see you dramatize. You’re ham, sister—pure ham.”
Louis muttered, “Lemme take a poke at him. He’s too wise.” He took a step forward. She waved a hand at him.
Mrs. Gant glared at Louis and he retreated to the window. She put her eyes into play again, this time acting the soft and innocent ingénue. “Let’s start all over again, Bull. What was so funny?”
“You. You’re a lot cleverer than I thought a few hours ago. You’ve got a flair for the dramatic—a talent that must have been wasted on the burlesque runways. I took the bait on your sister routine—almost.”
“Almost?” She was hurt now. “It was the truth.”
Bull smiled. “Of course it was the truth—with a thin coat of whitewash.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Suppose I tell you? Suppose I tell you I know where Paula is—that she’s in trouble—desperate trouble? Would you pay me off right now?”
“Of course I’ll pay.” She allowed her voice a tremor of excitement. I leaned forward in my chair, sharing it with her.
“The money. Get it and put it on the table.”
She ran from the room and returned with her bag. Her long fingers counted out a wad of bills. She placed the money on the table and put down her purse. “Now, Bull. Where is she?”
Louis slid away from the window and went to the liquor cabinet. He leaned over it, but kept his eyes on Bull.
Bull said, “Paula is inside—in your bedroom!”
She let her breath out in a sigh that degenerated into a laugh. “Did you hear that, Louis? This guy is nuts!” She backed into a chair and sat down hard.
Louis came closer, his hand in his pocket. “You want me to kick him the hell out of here?”
Bull faced him with a hard, sure smile. “I haven’t time to fool around, Mrs. Gant. Get this straight—I know all about your sister and Lecotte. You’re afraid she might have killed him, aren’t you?”
Mrs. Gant trembled but said nothing.
Bull went on. “You’re afraid she put a knife into Lecotte and then went back to her apartment to commit suicide. She didn’t quite make it, did she? You got there in time to tie a tourniquet and take her out of there. You tied it with the pillowcase in the bedroom, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Gant began to sob. Louis relaxed and padded away to the window.
Bull said, “You left Lecotte’s and took a ride for yourself. You were worried about your sister, so you rode up to her apartment. You found her there, bleeding from a wrist. Semple and Louis carried her downstairs and put her into the car, and when the janitor came out and saw what was going on, Semple bought his silence. It was a neat job—well done. I don’t blame you for trying to cover for your sister. I don’t blame you for sending an actress friend up there to impersonate Mrs. Franklin. I think you were very smart to have Semple return to the place to take out that rug and anything else that might have made the place smell bad to the police. You’re a clever woman. You almost fooled me when you asked my help in finding Paula. It was a perfect pitch—getting a detective up here and selling him your story. It meant that the detective would forget about you. I almost did—but not quite.” He finished his drink in a gulp. “Now let’s play it straight. Your sister didn’t kill Lecotte, I know she didn’t. When she regains consciousness she’ll tell you the story herself.”
Louis said, “I’ll be damned.”
Mrs. Gant wiped her eyes. “Paula is sick as hell. You’re not going to bother her?”
“I don’t want her. She’ll pull out of it with another infusion or so,” said Bull. “What I want is odds and ends.”
“I don’t know anything about Lecotte’s murder. I went down to The Frog hoping to see either Paula or Lecotte. If I had seen Lecotte I would have pleaded with him to leave the kid alone. If I had seen Paula I would have begged her to stay out of there and come home with me.”
“I believe you,” Bull said, giving her a small soft smile. “You’re a rare woman, Mrs. Gant. You’ve got a mind and a heart and an ingenuity that impresses me. You were the lady who called Jeff and said you were Paula?”
She nodded. “I wanted him to give up. I didn’t want him to think of Paula as being in the city.”
“You almost succeeded. But Jeff is a stubborn lad. He had a reason for finding Paula—a reason that wouldn’t be sidetracked.”
I said, “Paula and I corresponded. I wanted to meet her because I liked her. I wanted to tell her about Kip, too—”
Her eyes were full of a new torture when she looked at me. “Kip? Is something wrong with him?”
“He died. He was killed in Normandy.”
She began to sob again, in great gusts of genuine sorrow. We left her alone and walked to the huge window and stared into the darkness across the park. Bull allowed her a full measure of grief. He fiddled with a cigar, lit it, puffed it and said nothing. I filled my glass again and sipped it slowly.
She came to us, finally. She put a hand on my arm. “Paula will be all right soon and then you two kids can meet. You’ll like her, Jeff—she’s a swell kid.”
“If she’s anything like her sister, she’ll do,” said Bull with a smile. “I imagine that you wouldn’t have tried to save Paula if she didn’t ring a bell in your heart, Mrs. Gant.”
“Paula is good,” she said, and turned her wet eyes my way. “I had a feeling that I’d better make a last effort to pull her away from Lecotte. That’s why we were desperate. When I saw Paula run out of the club I decided to follow her. We got going in the car and I saw Jeff start down the street and figured he’d better not catch her. I sent Louis back to stop him. We picked Louis up later and beat it to Paula’s apartment. We got there just in time—she was bleeding badly.”
“How did you know where she lived?”
“I had followed her there before. I mean I had Semple follow Lecotte. That was how I found out they were living together in that hole.”
“Why did they live there? Lecotte had plenty of money—he could have taken her into his own apartment or set her up in a really fine place.”
Mrs. Gant shook her head and her eyes wen
t hard. “That’s the angle I can’t figure, Bull—but I guess it’ll have to wait until Paula can tell her big sister all. She’s a sweet kid, and she’s nobody’s dope. I talked to her before all this happened—maybe six months ago—and I got the idea that Paula made up her mind about something. She was doing something that either she or Lecotte wanted to keep under cover. It must have been Lecotte who wanted the deal covered up. Paula is as straight as I’m curved. If you want the answer you’ll have to ask the kid—or figure it all out in that fat little head of yours.”
Bull said, “I’ve got a good start. Tell me, do you know any of Lecotte’s pals?”
She made a face. “Lecotte was enough for me. I never wanted to warm up to any of his pals. A pity…it might have helped me a lot. I could have—”
“How about Boucher?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Mrs. Preston? Gregory Yukon?”
Mrs. Gant shrugged the questions off. “The only friend of Lecotte’s I ever met was the long-nosed waiter with the kind heart.” She laughed. “And from the way he talked I gathered he was no special friend of Lecotte’s either.”
Bull said, “Has Paula told you anything at all yet?”
“She’s been out cold ever since the boys took her away from that rat nest apartment.” She frowned at her memory. “I’ve been knocking myself out trying to dream up Paula’s story, but I just can’t even get started. I suppose you’ve got to have a certain type of brain for that kind of stuff.”
“I know her story,” said Bull. “Not all of it, but I think I’ve figured out the bare bones of the deal. It started a long time ago when Lecotte visited two girls up at the Metropolitan Museum. Our friend Lecotte was no idle stroller through the galleries. He was on a mission. Somebody had told him that Paula Smith was a talented artist. Somebody had tipped him off about Paula’s great flair for copying the masters.”
Mrs. Gant interrupted. “So that was it? Lecotte bought her paintings? That two-bit heel was always talking big about arty stuff—he pulled the art line with me for a long time. But I didn’t figure him that way with Paula. I thought the kid was in love with him.”
The Girl with the Frightened Eyes Page 18
